nxlozni

[nxlozni]

PARTY 4 U gojo satoru is a man of excess: a name spoken in boardrooms and back alleys alike, a figure built more on whispers than truth. some claim he built his empire overnight. others say he was born untouchable. everyone either fears him, envies him, or desperately wants to be in his good graces. his estate is the center of japan’s underground elite, his parties legendary. but behind the blinding wealth and bravado, there’s a man chasing something quite frankly, out of his reach. ❤︎

WORD COUNT: 4,820

INDULGING: smut! inspired by the great gatsby, modern/no curse, a tragedy, afab & f!reader (she/her), sub to switch!gojo, riding, oral (m + f), pőrn with PLOT, p in v, major character death, manipulation, emphasis on YEARNING, language, side characters like suguru++, two way cheating, ?? to lovers, the story unfolds as you read

ROMY’S NOTE: gojo art is by ndsoda on twitter, animated divider below by cafekitsune, fic title from charli. had to dig deep into my junior year english class brain for this. she’s a long one boys!

playlist: a name that belongs to no one

CONTAINS EXPLICIT NSFW CONTENT, MINORS DNI

the driver doesn’t ask for your name — doesn’t need to. cars line up outside the gates like clockwork, slipping through iron and ivy into the belly of something too bright to be real, too artificial: a set piece waiting for the actors to arrive.

shoko continues the tail end of a conversation you barely caught on the drive over, fingers tracing the rim of her sunglasses before she haphazardly tosses them away. “..business partner ..overseas. you know, business in the loosest sense of the word.”

she shakes her head, heels digging into the weary leather seat conveniently placed right across from her in the limousine. “apparently, they’ve both been spending a lot of time at his penthouse.”

“but everyone here has their skeletons, don’t they?” she glances between you and geto. he’s been quiet so far, squinting at the crumpled map in his palm.

“it’s like watching a bunch of flies in a jar.” he says when he speaks up, irritation present.

shoko shoots him a sideways look. “we all know you wish you had half the attention he has.”

you’ve known your cousin long enough to know he loves the drama, even when he pretends otherwise. subtle amusement tugs at his lips.

it’s all part of the game.

the driver clears his throat, forcing you back to reality with a glove to his mouth. “we’re here,” he announces, stepping out to hold the door open.

shoko moves first and you follow, only to jerk back as her ermine shawl flares with the motion, soft fur grazing your cheek before she adjusts it into place, offering her elbow to you.

you tell yourself you don’t belong here, but your name is already on the guest list. so you take it.

laughter spills from the grand house like champagne, bubbling over, pooling onto the marble steps. jazz sways in the air, occasional chime of crystal glasses accompanying the hollow pop of corks. the estate swallows you whole, as does the people.

you barely step past the threshold until a glass is pressed into your hand: something fizzy, definitely expensive. you don’t remember asking for it.

gojo satoru stands atop the winding staircase, draped in an ivory suit, crisp and tailored, the faintest glimmer of a watch peeking out beneath his cuff. his glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose, blue eyes slicing through the haze of cigar smoke and chandeliers. for a moment, he looks bored. then he spots you.

the subtle tilt of his head — you feel it in your ribs before you even recognize it for what it is.

shoko exhales a puff, squinting over. “well, well, well. look who’s caught the golden boy’s eye.”

you don’t have time to ask what she means, your question is answered as soon as you think it.

“he’s never finished a single glass,” a pink-haired gentleman wipes down the bar, muttering as he does. “he takes one sip and leaves. thinks he’s too good to drink with the rest of us.”

a voice from the corner joins. “did you hear that he’s got properties all over the world?” the woman leans in, pearls dragging against mahogany. “no one’s ever seen him in them. not even for a night.” she fixes up her feathered headband and pulls at the slit in her dress after giving the bartender a once-over.

her friend, a woman with diamond earrings that could feed a family for a year, drums her nails along her cocktail. “you didn’t hear it from me, but people like him? they make the rules. and when they break ‘em? well, they rewrite ‘em, darling! he’s the kind of man who doesn’t need dirty hands to ruin your life.”

you’ve heard it all by now. tidbits and pieces, each one more tantalizing than the last. he’s been everywhere: the army, the navy — some say he served in both, but none can confirm where or what he actually did.

whatever the business, he has a stake in it. and the more you hear, the less you know.

you know he’s chasing something. that he’s looking, searching, scouting out and fishing around for god knows what. but one thing you don’t know, is that the thing he’s been looking for? it’s you.

gojo knows better than to stare, but when has that ever stopped him? across the sea of glittering strangers, suffocated in laughter and gossip, you move like a dream he’s been chasing for a lifetime.

he wonders if you even notice him standing there, or if he’s simply another face in the crowd. it should be enough, seeing you like this. close enough to touch if he really wanted to. nevertheless, always a man, held at the collar by his own greed.

the way he’s standing suggests confidence. the way he’s gripping that goblet suggests he might shatter it from nerves alone.

he watches you tuck your chin when you listen, your lips purse when someone says something amusing but not quite funny, your shoulders stiffening when the wrong name is mentioned, and your fingers subconsciously tracing the mouth of your drink.

so closely that he forgets himself — doesn’t realize he’s already sidled up next to you until he catches his own reflection cradled in your hands, blurring in the ripples of your wine.

shoko, ever the observer, leans against the column, smoke curling from the end of her cigarette. “go on. men lap it up when you play the fool.”

you don’t need her to tell you. your focus is already consumed by the man standing at your side, impossibly tall and impossibly sure.

“you’re staring.”

“can you blame me?” he’s quick to respond, though his charm is quickly dimmed. it’s right then and there that he regrets hiring a live band tonight.

the music swells, a brass heavy number that sends couples twirling across the floor, silk and chiffon making conversation (better ones than the one he’s trying to have with you, that’s for sure).

“do I know you?” you ask — polite curiosity, the kind reserved for strangers at a party. it stings.

there’s a piece of confetti in your hair he wants to reach out and swipe away.

his mouth twitches. “I should hope so.”

your lips part, then close. there’s a familiarity about him you can’t quite place. which should be unnerving, it should. yet it’s even worse. it’s almost sad.

“I think I’d remember someone like you,” you murmur, in small hopes for him to give himself away.

a cratered laugh. “you’d think.”

the band cuts between you again, rude and impolite, drowning out his next words. he exhales sharply, mild exasperation flickering across his face, momentarily cursing the very spectacle he built.

he steps close, lowering his voice, making you lean in, the sly dog. “come upstairs with me?”

an invitation dressed as a suggestion, casual in the way only something desperate can be.

“just for a moment,” he adds, as if that makes a difference. as if he wouldn’t already give you every single moment he has left.

you hesitate.

and he notices, of course.

it’s soft. careful. hardly there. but you hear it.

“please?”

against your better judgment, you let him lead you up the winding staircase, past the tall bedroom doors, hand gently guiding your back.

they swing open with a soft creak, and a cool breeze greets you both — latches onto the hem of your dress, cards through your hair.

you swear you feel him sway closer, just slightly.

gojo traces the books lining his shelves, fingers nosing the leather. “better, isn’t it?”

you fold your arms, careful distance. “I suppose.”

his stance speaks more to exhaustion than elegance. “you were always hard to impress.”

that word. always.

“how do you know that?” you prod.

gojo’s gaze snaps back to you. for a moment, he simply looks — really looks, as if trying to decide how much of the truth you can handle.

then, with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, he says, “lucky guess.”

his bed is a mess — pillows askew and comforter missing. you take a moment to reminisce on earlier comments made about business partners.

you don’t believe him.

“you really don’t remember?” he beats you to it.

a glass of water forms a ring on the wooden nightstand. a brass lamp rests on it, turned off.

“no?”

his composure falters, and you see through it a boy who once believed everything was within reach, yet now knows better. “I see.”

his suit doesn’t look as perfect as it did when you first entered the house. his shirt’s open at the collar, and your gaze drifts lower without meaning to.

“tell me what I’m supposed to remember,” you say, voice hushed, thinking the answer might unmake whatever space exists between you.

gojo studies you, thumb tracing the shape of a thought he can’t seem to say out loud. still, b-

“you wore white in the summer.”

your breath catches. his collarbone flexes as he swallows. his lips are pink.

he continues, lashes dipping. “you’d sit out on the porch when it rained. you hated the smell of cigars, but you let me smoke them anyway.” he laughs, “said it suited me, even if it made you sick.”

his eyes flicker to your mouth, then away.

you pinch the stem of your glass. “when?”

gojo lets his weight shift to one foot, hands in his pockets. “five years ago. in the garden.”

you bite down on your lip, chewing on it, tasting the borrowed lipstick. “what was your name again?”

even sadness, he wears well. “satoru.”

that’s when the memories come flooding in.

the first world war made everyone desperate to live, to dance, to drink while they still could. daughters still came out for their debuts, and sons still waltzed them around like trophies in portable cases.

that night, it was shoko’s turn.

she was debuting at the country club, a gilded event, the sort of thing you read about in society columns. the picture of perfection: poised and polite — the way her mother had drilled into her since childhood.

a uniform made any boy look like a gentleman. a dress made any woman look like a prize. or at least, those were shoko’s words, as manicured fingers bruised your wrist and dragged you out to the garden, elegant gown gathered in her free hand to avoid the damp earth.

the fountain trickled steadily, water getting caught on the glow of string lights looped between trees. the air was thick with summer: honeysuckle and the faintest trace of cologne mingling in it.

“don’t.” she put a hand up while she kicked off her heels and sank onto a bench. “I’m not letting them make me their puppet.”

before you could respond, there was a rustle in the bushes. shoko flinched, backing up into a tree and yanking out the pins from her hair with reckless abandon — as if they would fair as weapons.

a male voice. “now, what’s all this? the princess running away from her ball?”

his eyes were the kind of blue that shouldn’t belong to something as breakable as a man.

shoko scoffed. “don’t you have somewhere to be? another war to fight, another stupid parade?”

he didn’t miss a beat. “I suppose I should, but I’ve never been one for parades, you see.”

“I quite like them.” you said, words escaping on their own. “and parties, too. it’s all the people.”

those eyes again. they softened when he looked at you, crinkled at the corners. “..the people?”

“they’re wonderful,” you smiled at him, and his legs just about gave out. “don’t you think?”

he tugged at his collar, the camouflage rumpling with the action. a uniform makes any man seem like a gentleman. “depends on the crowd.”

“I like large parties, they’re so intimate. at small parties there isn’t any privacy.” you walked over, delighted by the conversation — much to your wary friend’s dismay. “do you prefer large or small parties?”

“well, I think th-”

“did they send you?” shoko interrupted.

“send me?” he repeated, jarred. “no, I’m not here for anyone but myself. perhaps, a little for you two.”

“we weren’t leaving.” she lied.

he tilted his head. “weren’t you?” a pause, then a grin. “that’s alright. I hate these things too.”

“we don’t need help,” she said, chin lifted. you didn’t know it then, but she could feel her heartbeat through her palm, quick and birdlike. he smiled.

“sure you don’t. but if you did, I’d say the side gate is unlatched. third stone from the right is loose — step over it. security doesn’t check perimeters ‘till three.”

“why would you do that?” you asked, and the question came out smaller than you meant it to. suspicious.

“I’ve done worse for people I cared about less,” he said. “but if it provides any reassurance at all,”

“gojo.” he stepped forward, hands outstretched like you were wild things that might bolt. “gojo satoru.”

his name stuck to the roof of your mouth, honeyed and heavy. you said nothing.

“if you still believe I’ll blow your cover,” he took his cap to his chest. “now you know what name to curse.”

and what better place to curse him than some sprawling estate’s third-floor wing, tucked into a linen closet with one hand clamped over your mouth, other shoved under your skirt?

some gentleman he was.

between clumsy kisses, he told you he came from money. from somewhere out west, and you believed him. or you wanted to. because back then, love was measured in family trees and bank accounts.

this is where the memories start to blur — thanking him for the day before, the wine spill on his collar, the knock on the door that cut everything short.

quiet, he told you. though he didn’t want you to be.

he mouthed your name into the hollow of your throat, rendering you helpless to do anything else.

that night was the last time you saw him. with your very own eyes, at least. you saw him in the papers: next to flashing headlines about hope and peace and cutout letters to families, with numbers not so hopeful.

he went to war. and you… well.

“my hair was shorter then,” he smiles in the present, sensing the recognition he’s been waiting on. “a little less meat on my bones.”

you feel your breaths getting shorter. his expression melts into something more akin to concern, tilting his head and asking you something you don’t hear. he waves a hand in front of your face.

“you okay?”

you nod too quickly. then shake your head.

“I- I think so. I just,” not only the face in the newsprint, or the dream version your memory offered up in lonelier hours. something in your chest just caves in.

“can I kiss you?”

his turn to stop breathing. “what?”

“sorry.” the word skids out of you like a car on wet pavement. you drag in a breath that tastes of whatever limited‑edition bottle he hoards, immediately hating how small it sounds.

gojo’s shoulders drop a fraction. “don’t be.”

his fingers skim the back of your left hand. he freezes at the feel of metal against skin.

nanami kento. your husband. the ring.

it’s not like he isn’t good to you. he’s a good man, a good spouse, a good father. not so much as a lover.

late nights. perfume that wasn’t yours. careless slips of a name you didn’t recognize. a receipt in his coat pocket a few weeks ago from a restaurant in kyoto when he told you he had meetings in osaka that day.

so would it really be wrong? if you—

“this is nice.”

the sharp turn of his voice startles you back into your body. his eyes lilt downwards — not at your mouth, for once, but lower. your dress.

midnight blue, cut cleverly low, with silk panels that catch the lamplight and make it ripple like water.

you recover faster than you expect. chin up, a flicker of the woman you used to be catching light. “you like?”

his gaze drags up slowly, indulging you. “I do.”

you smooth your palms over your hips, “it’s by this stuck-up designer in paris,” you say, trying for breezy. “borrowed from my sister-in-law. told me if I so much as breathed on it wrong, she’d have my head.”

“oh,” he grins, in that sideways, disarming way. “was I supposed to be looking at the clothes?”

you laughed, and then he did too and it was all drunk and hollow, which for some reason made you angry.

you slide a heel forward, crossing over to him like it’s nothing. like you haven’t spent days tracing the edges of that receipt, burning holes into your thoughts with it. kyoto. a place you weren’t.

“I was going to behave,” you murmur, brushing past him. your fingertips ghost along the line of his shoulder. “but you’re right. this is nice.”

you don’t look back when you hear the breath catch in his throat. instead you drop into the plush armchair near the bed, letting your knees part enough to make tell him you’re done being sweet. done waiting.

“take it off,” you say, and his brow lifts — just for a second — before he obeys.

his hands move to his collar. you wonder if nanami feels it, too: the balance tipping. the scales you’ve let him load for months finally swinging back your way.

you lean your head against the velvet wing of the chair. “I’m tired, satoru. so get on your knees.”

he does, without hesitation. pale lashes flicker up at you like moonlight through snow. and when he settles between your legs, you realize he’s already hard.

“poor thing,” you murmur, gathering the silk of your skirt in one hand. “that all it takes?”

he groans when you let him see it — the glint of you under lace. he leans in, mouth open like a prayer, but you tug on his hair. “not yet. just look.”

his lips part. still he listens, watching you, as if it hurts to be this close and not do anything. you trail two fingers lower, damp with want and power both, and offer them to him.

“suck.”

eager and grateful, his tongue flicks over and does exactly as he’s told. you smile, pleased. “good boy.”

only then do you let him taste you, pulling his head in until he moans into you like it’s the only thing he knows how to do. he’s messy with it, lips slick, chin soaked, and you ride his mouth slowly, letting him feel how deep you go. how ruined you want him.

and when you’ve had enough — when your legs tremble and you see stars — you pull him back by the hair, spit-slick and glassy-eyed.

you stand. he blinks up at you like he’s still underwater, but when you straddle his lap, bare and flushed, he shudders beneath you. “gonna be good for me?”

“yes,” he breathes. “yes—fuck, please-”

you sink down onto him with no warning, and he gasps because it knocks the wind out of him. hands grip your thighs hard. he can’t help it.

it’s slow at first, just to feel the way he twitches inside you, then harder — deeper — until he’s panting against your throat and whispering your name like an apology he’ll never mean. one for someone else.

“you don’t get to finish,” you whisper, biting his ear. “not until I say.”

he whines. loud.

you rock your hips faster, nails dragging down his chest. and when you finally take him in your mouth — after he’s begged and gasped and promised things you don’t believe anymore — it’s just to prove that you are the one who gets to decide what he deserves.

“you’re gonna ride me all night, huh?” his voice is a little frayed now, the grin still there. “greedy girl.”

you don’t bother responding. just roll your hips in a tight circle that makes his breath hitch and his fingers dig in harder.

“god—” he laughs, sharp and breathless. “you know I like it like this, right? you fucking me like I’m nothing. like you don’t even care if I come.”

you lean forward, palms bracing against his chest. he groans like it hurts.

then, low — teeth grazing your throat — “wanna act all cocky but you still need me inside you, huh?”

you slam your hips down in response, hard enough to knock the wind out of both of you. he chokes on a moan, eyes squeezing shut. “fuck, fuck baby—”

“that shut you up,” you say, dragging your nails down his chest. you don’t remember taking the clothes off.

he laughs again, voice exhausted and crackly. “thought you liked it when I talked.”

“I like it better when you whimper, satoru.”

and he does, when you clench around him — a high, guttural sound, like he’s right on the edge. he’s trying to hold on, watching you through heavy lids, memorizing every second of this.

“are you gonna let me come?” he pants. “be sweet to me again after this is all over?”

“you don’t deserve sweet,” you whisper against his mouth, nipping at his bottom lip. “you deserve used.”

“then fucking use me.” the growl in his voice sends warmth down your entire spine. “come on. make me beg. make me cry for it.”

you kiss him, messy and deep, and grind down until he’s cursing into your mouth, hips jerking up helplessly. he’s so close, you can feel it — every trembling muscle, every choked exhale.

“you’re not gonna last,” you hum against his cheek. “you’re already losing it.”

“then ride it out, baby,” he groans. “hurry.”

and when you come, when you finally let yourself fall apart over him — head thrown back, voice wrecked, only then do you let him finish.

a man brought to his knees by his own desire.

and still, with his voice raw and lips bitten-red, he smiles at you. dopey and tired, hair pointing in a thousand directions. “feel better now?”

you nod, sheepish, somehow.

your breath is still uneven when the weight of him pulls away, leaving behind a warm imprint where his body had blanketed yours.

at some point he helps you stand, hands warm against your ribs. you feel him tug the straps of your dress back over your shoulders, and there’s something in the way he moves that’s slower now. gentler.

he zips up the back of your dress with one hand, holds it at the bottom with the other — carefully, as if sealing a letter he shouldn’t have read.

gojo doesn’t move away after the zipper’s drawn, hands lingering at the base of your spine, the warmth of his palms bleeding through the thin fabric like ink through parchment. your dress is wrinkled now, creased at the waist where he held you, hem dusty where it brushed the floor. one of the pearl buttons at your wrist hangs by a thread.

you feel him exhale behind you, breath skimming the shell of your ear before he steps back, knuckles brushing yours like an apology or maybe a promise.

you turn, brushing a finger over the swell of your lip where his stubble had scraped it raw. “sorry I didn’t remember you the first time.”

his expression softens, barely perceptible but there — eyes easing and head tilting like he’s making room for your regret. “we knew each other for barely a week,” he says, tone gentler than the words are. “it’s okay.”

“but you remembered?”

gojo’s eyes are on you again — steady, unsparing, as if remembering had never been a choice. his voice drops, velvet and quiet and so sure it stings.

“only a fool would ever forget you, sweetheart.”

-

morning bleeds in slowly, gray and grainy. rain needles the windows in thin, cold streaks. downstairs, the party is a ghost — empty glasses, curled cocktail napkins, someone’s glove left hanging from the stair banister like a forgotten question.

you’re still asleep. the sheets are wrinkled and smell faintly of cedar and cigarette smoke and him.

the doorbell rings.

once. then again — firmer.

the bed creaks when he lifts himself off it, and you stir. he pretends he doesn’t notice.

gojo answers it barefoot, sleeves rolled past his elbows, white shirt clinging to his arms. he doesn’t flinch when he opens the door. he knows.

nanami stands on the steps, umbrella still dripping, coat dry except for the shoulders. he looks like he hasn’t slept. a taste of his own medicine.

gojo shifts his weight. decides not to invite him in. “she’s still asleep.”

nanami’s eyes flick up the stairs behind him, and then back to him. gojo’s hand braces the doorframe.

“she wasn’t feeling well. I tucked her in and gave her a place to stay? if that’s alright with you?”

there’s a pause long enough to feel the rain more than hear it — a pause that says they both know.

“that’s fine,” nanami answers. his voice doesn’t crack. his jaw ticks once.

gojo nods, slow. doesn’t move from the door.

nanami clears his throat. “why do I feel like I just missed out on an important opportunity?”

because you did. now get lost, she’s mine.

“you’re late,” gojo says simply, and it’s the nicest version of you lost he can offer.

nanami exhales through his nose. “I’ll wait in the car.”

and he turns without another word, the soles of his shoes clicking against wet stone. his umbrella flares open, swallowing him up as he disappears down the drive.

gojo closes the door when the hum of his engine fades. softly this time — like he’s afraid you’ll wake even though he knows you already are.

the rain had stopped by noon that next day.

you’d woken in gojo’s bed with your thigh flung over his hip and your dress in a crumple at the foot of the comforter. you could hear the other two downstairs.

that was the beginning.

the beginning of champagne brunches, evenings on the roof, records spinning so loudly the floor thumped.

you started leaving a pair of heels at gojo’s house, then a comb, then a tube of lipstick in the second drawer. shoko taught you how to cheat at cards and roll cigarettes. geto would sit with you both on the edge of the pool and make up stories for everyone who walked by. you laughed more in those weeks than you had in years. you felt young again — not in body, but in possibility.

ans gojo — he kept you close. always.

his hand on your waist at parties, eyes never leaving yours, constantly fighting the fear that you’d dissolve into the air again.

it became twice a week.

sometimes three, if nanami worked late. sometimes more, if he didn’t ask. gojo would open the door like you were sunlight itself, spinning you inside and kissing all over you.

his place always smelled like clove cigarettes and something faintly floral — from the old perfume bottle you’d left, maybe, or all the fresh flowers he started buying after the second week.

nanami stopped asking when you’d be back. the letters from home went unanswered. he knew. he had to. and he hated that he couldn’t hate you for it.

it made him bitter in private. pride chewed through him like acid. he never accused you outright, never even raised his voice. but his anger slipped out sideways: slammed doors, a question asked too many times, silence left to rot. hypocrite.

he knew he had no moral claim on you. but moral clarity doesn’t make you less alone in your own home.

he sleeps in the guest room now. says it’s temporary. you never ask when that ends.

and then: august. the city holds its breath. the parties slow. geto disappears for two days without a word. shoko starts drinking before noon.

you were supposed to see gojo that night.

you put on the red dress. the one he likes. the one he bought you. the one you only wear for him.

you told yourself he was out of town. or sleeping off something. or planning something grand.

you didn’t expect to read it in the paper:

SATORU GOJO FOUND DEAD IN HOTEL. PROMINENT DIPLOMATIC FIGURE. INVESTIGATION ONGOING.

the article doesn’t say much. just that he was alone. just that it was instant. just that he’s gone.

your hands shake so badly you can’t finish it. the words blur, and not from tears. you sit on the staircase in the robe he bought you, phone pressed to your cheek, willing it to ring with something else. something better.

it rings. but it’s worse.

“mrs. nanami,” says the voice. “your husband’s in custody. we need you to come down to the station.”

@silkloom @tojicide @eaatmyheaart it’s finally here oh my god

two months of my blood sweat and tears to make less than 5k words but hey we made it after all

consider reblogging, commenting, or sending an ask if you enjoyed. thank you for reading ! ❤︎ do not copy, edit, or repost, any of my content on any platforms.

[nxlozni]

There's something about teasing Choso that feels borderline cruel. His brows furrow in offense and his nose wrinkles and you sort of really need to kiss the affronted jut of his lower lip back into place and smooth over whatever you've done to upset him.

It's ridiculous really—he's a grown man who's palm practically engulfs your entire face, he doesn't need you to baby him.

Besides, he certainly doesn't seem to share your guilt when he's cooing at you, a hint of mocking in his voice because "you can handle it, s'okay", pressing a fraction of his weight against the distention below your navel and hissing at the sensation, low and pleased despite the way you writhe under him.

[nxlozni]

caleb and zayne are cut from the same panty sniffing cloth its why they won't get along

[nxlozni]

Caleb's ability to recognize fantasy from fact imploded on itself years ago, specifically where you become involved.

His imagination gets away from him sometimes, conjures up visions of you tucked up under him, lashes sharp and wet with tears, kiss bruised bottom lip tucked behind the top row of your teeth.

Realistically, he knows there's no possible way the body straddling his lap could be you—you're back at the house and he's away at the academy—it can't be your fingers in his hair or you mouthing at his neck sloppy enough to give him a headache, but it feels like you, smells like only you can smell, so he's inclined to ignore the obvious impossibility.

Ignores the faint nagging in the back of his mind in favor of focusing on the feeling of the hand in his hair pulling his head back to grant you more access, zeroes in on the sensation of your nails dragging down his chest��the pause to tug at his dogtag—over the planes of his stomach to dip into the loosened waist of his sweats at your leisure.

it feels like the favor of a diety long forgotten, specially bestowed upon him—

knock knock

"Caleb ! You in there ? Early training today, dont forget !"

He's going to wring Gideon's neck and go to space prison.

[nxlozni]

'shame how you walk around as if youre so misunderstood,'

Caleb stands in the kitchen's entry way, unmoving as his eyes track your movements through your space, the key you'd given him feeling like lead in his grip.

He'd meant to surprise you like he used to back when he was still at the academy and he'd pop home unannounced—you'd always enjoyed that back then. Not to say you wouldn't enjoy it now—all he'd have to do is make his presence known. Make a noise, toss out a needling remark and startle you, anything.

He can't make himself do it because he can barely look away from you. You're not doing anything special, bustling around your kitchen in the late afternoon light and singing along even if the song doesn't match the unshakably gentle tone of your voice—hair pinned away from your neck in the wake of a pre-summer heatwave and he sort of really wants to press a kiss against the skin there. brush his lips against your nape in greeting and let them linger. sink his teeth—

'and though i try try try to get you out of my mind you just find another way back in way back in'

He recognizes the song as one from a playlist he'd shared with you years ago—some old dance rock band from before either of you were born, and the lyrics irony aren't lost on him, even in his haze.

'still you end up underneath my skin.'

[nxlozni]

Best Friend's Brother ! Suguru who you know you shouldn't be attracted to. It's a train wreck waiting to happen if you've ever seen one.

it'd be weird, is what you tell yourself. his sister is your best friend ! you've known her for years ! she's practically your sister ! you feel terrible for even entertaining the idea.

it's hard to remember all that with your face pressed deep into sheets that reek of him, his big body draped over yours, a warm hand pressed flat against the delicate dip of your spine as his hips snap against the curve of your ass—a heady mix of hair product and that expensive cologne that has your head spinning and your cunt clamping off just a whiff.

faintly, you can hear him talking, lips moving against the nape of your neck as if he isn't repositioning your insides to his liking, teeth nipping as if he expects an answer.

it's cruel mockery to fuel his own satisfaction watching you struggle, and if you could grasp cognizance long enough to focus, you'd catch the self satisfied little smirk that flits across his pretty face.

[nxlozni]

dc vs vampires!dick grayson x reader

sort of a part two to this drabble, but can be read as a standalone!

warnings — mentions of death, blood, injuries, manipulation? i guess. unedited! a/n; i couldn't help myself writing this, it's kinda longer than i thought it would be. and now it's taken over my brain for good. drabble series anyone...?

dc vs vampires!DICK GRAYSON who comes to you when he’s in need.

you fear every day that he’s going to come and visit you at night and when he does, your apprehension isn’t for the reasons one would think. you’re part of the resistance against vampires for goodness’ sake, so when their leader is so obsessed with you, it’s hard to maintain the image of hatred towards his kind when he has the face of your caring, loving ex-boyfriend.

it’s gotten worse since the last time he visited you — there’s no point in moving to a different shelter or safe house, because he’ll find you either way. at least if you don’t run, there’ll be less casualties along the way from his wrath. you expect the deaths at this point.

what you don’t expect, is dick coming to see you in the early hours of the morning when the sun has yet to rise and everyone else is fast asleep as usual.

there’s a sudden weight against the rusted door, followed by a weak, but insistent knock. your heart seizes. you know it’s him before you even stand, but something feels off — he never usually has enough manners to knock.

when you tug the door open, trying not to wince when it squeaks, your breath catches.

dick grayson, self-proclaimed ruler of the night and all things undead, stands before you, swaying on his feet. his normally pristine suit is torn, dark with blood — you assume it’s not his own at first. but then he lifts his head and you see it. his eyes are dimmer than usual, instead of the vibrant red that you’re now accustomed to seeing. his skin, usually ice-pale, is almost… grey.

he’s hurt. badly.

and yet, he still smiles at you.

“hey, sweetheart,” he whispers into the charged silence. his voice is rougher, weaker than usual, lacking the smirking lilt and arrogance that only comes with the power he possesses.

dick coughs, sounding almost winded. a wave of pain and exhaustion seems to hit him as he stumbles forward. you don’t back away fast enough because he collapses against you, cold and heavy.

his body is unnervingly still, no heartbeat or warmth, and yet his breath shudders against your neck and it takes you an embarrassingly long time to speak. your hands hover at his sides, unsure if you should push him off or — god help you — hold him up.

“what the hell happened to you?” you grit out, well aware of the lack of distance between you.

he’s trembling. you can’t tell if it’s due to exhaustion, hunger or blood loss. and then he speaks.

“someone got a little ambitious,” he mumbles, lips moving against the neckline of your shirt.

you furrow your brows, unsure what to make of this. “you mean, someone tried to kill you? what, your loyal band of followers did nothing?”

a weak chuckle escapes him and you finally give in, holding him up as much as you physically can by his arms. he lets up slightly when you make a noise of effort, leaning more on the wall beside the two of you instead.

“key word there is ‘tried’,” he says drily. “he was dead before my guards got into the room, but i wasn’t… careful enough.”

you feel a sudden wetness at your collarbone and when you look down, your shirt is now stained a startling red. it’s not the first time this has happened, and your mind goes back to the countless times dick would get hurt during patrol and you’d have to patch him up. back then, you would use antiseptic wipes and band-aids from the kids section to make him laugh. you’d kiss his wounds after you patched him up.

now, you simply scowl at him. “you need to go,” you snap, wiping his blood off your skin like it burns. “find one of your followers to feed from. that’s what you need, isn’t it? to feed?”

dick looks up at you through long lashes, the darkness of the bunker making his eyes look nearly black. but you know better. his fangs are retracted, but know exactly what he needs. you know what he’s going to ask you.

“no.” you say it before he can, and then you shove him off of you.

he stumbles, one hand catching himself with the wall and the other at his ribs where the blood is sluggishly seeping from.

his gaze snaps back to you and there’s something desperate there, vulnerable. “i don’t want them…” he whispers, voice barely audible. “i need you, sweetheart. please…”

his face, while deathly pale, is still devastatingly beautiful as he begs you. it’s so unfair that you want to cry. he’s just as gorgeous as he was when he was yours, making it so much harder to refuse him.

you still try, stubbornly balling your hands into fists. “you could go and feed from twenty people if you wanted to.”

“i can’t,” he says, frustration bleeding into his tone. “you know i can’t. they won’t be enough.”

your chest tightens painfully.

“you’re lying.”

“i’m not,” he insists, stepping forward and wincing with each step so that there’s barely an inch between you. “you know i’m not… don’t you.”

it isn’t really a question, but you still find yourself shaking your head, bile rising in your throat at the impossible situation. he’s not human, but you know how this works. he doesn’t function the same as an injured human, he won’t starve in the typical sense, but he doesn’t have long left in this state. your eyes prick with tears. “i don’t want to let you do this to me.”

“i won’t take too much,” he swears, voice dropping even lower as he leans forward to rest his forehead against yours like you’re still lovers and he’s promising you something sweet and innocent. “just enough.”

you should just let him starve. you should break the wooden leg of your bed frame off and strike him in the heart.

but you never were strong when it came to dick and instead you take a slow, unsteady breath. then, against every ounce of self-preservation left in your body, you tilt your head to the side.

his breath hitches.

“don’t make me regret this,” you whisper, but you know you will anyway.

dick doesn’t answer.

his hand rises, trembling slightly as he cups your jaw, fingers brushing against your throat. his touch is cold, light as a feather as though he’s afraid you’re going to change your mind. he leans in, eyes hooded and breath uneven. his lips ghost over your pulse and for a moment you wonder why he’s not just doing it. you realise when you look at his slightly pained expression, that he’s trying to exercise restraint.

dick swallows, closing his eyes and then—

a sharp, searing pain as his fangs sink in.

a gasp tears from your lips as heat blooms under your skin, spreading through your veins like a wildfire. your fingers tighten in his torn uniform, gripping him like your life depends on it (and it kind of does).

dick begins to drink deeply from your throat and before you know it, the pain is dulling into something else. something closer to pleasure.

a choked sound escapes you and your vision swims, body swaying as your mind fills with a fog and is emptied of anything else but the thought of the vampire feeding on you like a man starved. and for one horrifying moment, you understand.

you finally understand why people willingly give themselves to vampires.

it’s like a drug, the high is something you want to chase forever, despite the initial sting. you never want to come down from the euphoria.

and dick…

dick groans against your skin, a deep sound being wrenched from him like he’s the one floating with you. it’s close to obscene and his grip on your waist tightens as he holds you impossibly close, face buried in the crook of your neck.

with every little noise you make, dick presses his lips deeper into your skin, his fangs driving in just a little further as his hunger curls into something other than necessity — something darker, more desperate. greedy.

his hands fist carelessly in your hair as he tilts your head further, giving himself more access as he drinks like he’s intoxicated. like he never wants to stop. but then you whimper. it’s the faintest, breathy little noise, but it makes something in him snap awake.

his grip on your hair loosens and his fangs retract from your skin with a slow and deliberate care. he licks over the punctures, his tongue soothing the wounds like an apology.

you’re too high out of your mind on the sensation to wonder if he really is sorry, and you can’t give it much further thought because you’re sagging against him, knees weak and breathing shallow.

you lift your head as much as you can while you’re flush against his chest and you see that his eyes are brighter now. they’re glowing red again, but his pupils are still blown.

his lips part slightly as he takes in your fluttered lashes and dazed expression, and there’s a sliver of crimson lingering there. his breath — unnecessary, but still present — shakes as it fans your skin.

dick licks his lips slowly, savouring the lingering taste before pressing his mouth against your jaw, soft and lazy and indulgent.

“you taste so sweet,” he murmurs, voice thick with something dark and satisfied. “so much better than i could have imagined.”

his nose brushes your pulse point where his fangs had just been. you whimper again, the area still tender. you feel dick smiling against your skin.

“you did so good for me, sweetheart,” he continues, voice soothing and praising as you cling to him in a post blood loss haze. you find yourself nodding at his words, like you need to hear them. “stayed so still… let me take what i needed. i told you, didn’t i? i’ll never do anything you don’t want…”

a shaky exhale escapes you as dick traces his fingers up your spine to start stroking your hair. something in the back of your mind wants to protest at his words, to tell him that this was a one time thing. that you’ll never give into his wish to turn you fully.

the words don’t come and dick chuckles lowly, sensing your helplessness, the way your body slumps against his — weak, pliant.

“so good for me,” he murmurs, repeating his words like a mantra as he presses another kiss to your temple, lingering there. “just for me…”

you’ll regret it in the morning, you think. when you wake up and he’s not there and you catch sight of yourself in the mirror, at the two little marks on your neck… you’ll regret it then.

for now, you allow yourself to breathe him in, imagining dick as still yours as he holds you close. just the two of you.

a/n cont.; i would personally allow him whatever he wanted, but that's just me. like i'm following him home. i need to be institutionalised probably

[nxlozni]

letting gojo fuck you raw might have been a mistake, especially now that he wants kids..☆

(part 1 here)

yes—it felt good. heavenly, even. feeling him fill you up without a contraceptive barrier between you might overlap an ego death on the life-altering-experiences venn diagram.

but now your boyfriend throws a tantrum whenever you tell him to wrap it. he pouts and whines and stamps his fucking feet like a child at your child-preventative measures. he’s too tall to act like a toddler—if you didn’t secretly enjoy the pining you’d hit him upside the back of his head and tell him to stop sulking.

“we’re too young to be parents,” you’d tell him as he rubs his uncovered cock through your folds, from your entrance up to your sensitive clit and back down.

his counter? “the earlier we start, the longer we have to try for more.”

“maybe youre forgetting the whole ‘jujutsu sorcerer, could-die-at-any-moment' thing?”

“are you forgetting that i’m the strongest? plus, i think i’d look hot saving the world wearing a baby carrier… not that i would endanger our kid like that. bad point, ask me a new one.”

“we aren’t playing trivia.”

“cmon,” a tap of the head of his cock to your clit. “humour me.”

“alright, children are fucking expensive.”

“babe, you’re not serious—you do know i’m filthy rich, right? capitalism fears me. i’m like that rich disney duck with the top hat and—”

you point a finger in his face. “put a goddamn condom on or you’re banned from sex for a month, scrooge.”

and he blinks, pretends to be offended at how responsible you are, and then falls into an easy smile because sex with you is more than enough for him. when he sinks into you, condom-covered or not, he falls a little bit more in love each time.

but it is not the same and you know it.

the weight of him on top of you is the same. as is the snapping thrusts of his hips into yours and the gentle circles he traces over your clit and the way he moans your name once he’s sheathed fully inside of you. it’s the same.

but it’s not the same as taking him raw. it’s not the bulge of his veins against your velvet walls. nor is it the beading precum at his tip dripping inside of you, or the filthy fucking drawling moans he lets out when he fills you to the brim.

“you’re so beautiful,” he's moaning like he's in heat. completely enthralled with every aspect of your being, satoru groans and moans and snaps forward into you like he's trying to breed you regardless.

and you're so full, stretched to your limits with his cock pulsing inside of you, but you don't feel satiated like you could. you've tasted it once, the feel of his cum spilling into you, the knowledge of what it could do to you. to him. he would look good as a dad. god, him holding a baby in his arms...

"pull out."

gojo stops immediately at your words, blinking the lust from his eyes in an immediate shock change of expression. he's looking you over, making sure you're not in any pain, before pulling out of you completely with no questions asked. he's always been good like that—sure, he'll whine about wearing latex but he'd never push you past your spoken limits.

"you wanna stop?" he asks gently, already reaching for a washcloth to wipe you down with. his eyes watch you carefully, obsessed with your interest and comfort: you have to stop yourself from laughing at his panic. "we can watch some TV or go to bed or i could make you—"

his words die in his mouth when you reach down to his still-hard cock and slowly pull the condom that covers it from the top. it slides from his length with a little resistance before finally pulling over the head and snapping back at your hand with a subtle sting.

"fuck me," you meet his eyes.

"what? you said—"

"satoru. fuck me. breed me, even. how many other ways do i have to put it? i want you to fuck a baby into me."

he blinks again. no witty comment, no awful smirk or joke about being a dilf. you've gone and rendered satoru speechless. when he does finally move his lips, it's not to dirty talk you like expected.

"we aren't married."

you can't help but laugh. "what?"

"i'm going to marry you first, and then you are going to make me a dad. i have it all planned out, babe, we can't have drunk honeymoon sex if you're pregnant. though you would look fucking beautiful on a beach somewhere with a baby bump. god now i'm conflicted."

"you have it planned?"

the thought of satoru planning this out hits you, him thinking about a future with you, a ring on your finger, embracing the stress of parenthood together so well that when the kids move out and you're old and grey, you abhor having a silent home.

"so are you going to propose or not?" you look at him.

again, he blinks. "right now?"

"why not? do you have a ring?"

satoru looks at you, smiles, and slips off the bed—still naked—to reach into the bedside drawer. a small black box sits in his top drawer, ironically under a pile of condoms. he holds it in his hand and returns to you with a kiss to your knee, and then one to your inner thigh, and another just above your clit. he works his way up your stomach, of course stopping to bite at your nipples when he reaches your chest, and then presses himself fully against you once his lips find yours.

when he pulls away, you're met with the sight of a ring you had pointed out to him months ago. had he really been planning this long? "i knew i was going to marry you on our first date," he says, but then counters, "actually, that's a lie. it was when i tasted that sweet pussy of yours for the first time, but that's not as romantic."

you smile, bracing yourself for a long-winded speech when satoru suddenly pushes the tip of his now-uncovered cock inside of you. you gasp, and he swallows it with a kiss before taking your hand in his and slipping the ring down your finger with a breathy; "will you marry me?"

"yes," of course, is your answer. which warrants a sudden deep thrust from your now-fiancé as he bottoms out inside of you.

"yeah?" he nips at your neck. "you'll marry me? gonna make me a dad too, huh? gonna fill you up, baby, gonna breed you out and—"

"i thought you said—"

"changed my mind. now, lift your legs up: you're not leaving this bed until i've knocked you up, pretty."

[nxlozni]

logged out for a few days there's no way that toji drabble captivated over a hundred of you where'd you all come from

[nxlozni]

CRASH COURSE ﾉ xia caleb x female reader ៹ explicit content, unprotected sex, virginity loss, mentions of cheating (none actually happens), pet names (pipsqueak (sorry but i have to be accurate) gege, good girl), instructional sex, blowjobs, creampie, idk what this is i wrote it in 5 seconds i just needed an excuse to write caleb, not proofread :( ˓˓ WORD COUNT ᨀ 4.9k !

asking the boy you’ve known nearly your entire life to teach you how to have sex isn’t weird, right...? right?

caleb has taught you a lot of things over the years.

he taught you how to drive a car in the shopping mall’s parking lot, how to cheat at card games, how to avoid burning the house down by letting him cook for you instead, how to sneak underneath the turnstiles on the subway to avoid fees.

he’s reliable and sturdy and a little reckless, but also patient and nonjudgmental— creating the idea in your idea that he’s kind of all-knowing, that whenever you don’t know something caleb does, that whenever you need help, you turn to no one else but him. which is precisely why you’re standing outside the door of his bedroom right now, hand lifted to knock on it.

because surely, asking caleb to teach you how to give a blowjob falls somewhere underneath that category too, right?

it’s one of those rare moments when the two of you are off work at the same time. caleb, on annual leave for the next two weeks and you, taking out a handful of unused vacation days to spend time with your favorite person in the world. it’s like old times again, when you can simply walk down the hall and hear his laugh drifting from underneath the door as he plays some stupid video game with college buddies.

thinking of the old days is exactly why you’re hesitating at the door. there’s too much shared history between the two of you, too much to lose if this goes badly, if you’ve been reading him wrong all along and he doesn’t want the same thing. there’s no way you can march in there and ask the boy you were raised with teach you how to—

“door’s open, pipsqueak,” caleb calls, somehow knowing you’re there because of course he does. you used to complain that he must’ve secretly implanted a tracker in your arm because he always knows your whereabouts, which made games like hide and seek with him impossible.

knowing it’s too late to play it off, you walk inside his room, greeted by his devastatingly gorgeous grin. “hey, you. lemme guess— the fridge is empty? no? lightbulb in your room need changing again? huh… or did you just miss me?”

“uh,” you mumble, shifting your toes in the soft carpet of the rug in the middle of his room. “not exactly. i was just wondering if you had time to talk and— … you’re not wearing a shirt.”

you realize how dumb you sound as you point it out, it’s just that your brain short-circuits, turning into a syrupy mess at the sight of caleb without a shirt on, his dog tags resting against bare skin. you’ve seen him like this before, of course— but not since he up and left, gallivanting off into the world to become a hotshot military pilot.

he’s always been nice to look at when you think he isn’t paying attention, but god he’s pretty. your eyes blink almost in disbelief as you take in his broad, muscular form that did not exist while he was a cadet in basic training. your gaze can’t help but snag on the ripple of his abs, or the thatch of brown hair trailing from his navel to disappear beneath his gray sweats. he swivels in his stupid gaming chair, smiling at you with his stupid face—

“uh, yeah?” caleb laughs, forehead creasing in confusion like you shouldn’t be surprised and really, you shouldn’t. caleb is like a furnace, blood running hot even in the middle of winter. “gran’s got the heat turned up to max again. it’s like she wants to kill me.”

“yeah, right,” you shake your head, laughing skittishly. “sorry. i’ve got a fan you can borrow, if you want.”

“thanks,” he says, magenta eyes dragging over your form suspiciously, taking in the way you’re standing in the middle of his room fidgeting like a leaf in the wind, hands white-knuckling the hem of the oversized shirt you’re wearing, knees knocking together all nervous and cute. he frowns, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees to give you his full attention in that heart-stuttering way he often does.

“what’s with you? not that i’m not glad to see you, but… did something happen? did someone do something to you?”

“no, no— nothing like that,” you hurry to reassure, voice cracking on the last word as your cheeks begin to burn in embarrassment, trying to find the words to say what you need to without crashing and burning. swallowing around a lump in your throat, you glance at the paused screen of caleb’s game before blurting out—

“can you teach me how to give a blowjob?”

caleb immediately chokes.

a lesson on what not to do.

the overclocked fans on caleb’s gaming rig whirs in a soft hum, the neon lights in his room flickering crimson streaks over his handsome face in the dark. he wonders if it’s post traumatic stress or prolonged exposure to cosmic radiation in the sky forcing him to hallucinate. obviously, he’s got too many marbles in one jar and not enough in the other because there is no way he’s heard you correctly.

slowly, he removes his headset. “come again?”

“i’m awful at it, ge,” you exclaim, throwing your hands up in exasperation. in fact, you don’t know if you’re awful at it or not because you’ve never tried. you’ve been too busy waiting on the man in front of you to stop torturing you both, but caleb doesn’t need to know that. “you see, i’m dating this guy, right? and we’ve been hitting it off well. i can tell he wants to take it to the next level, but i’ve never… and you— you’re good at everything, so i just thought…”

“thought i would give you lessons,” he finishes for you, his voice deepening to a rougher edge that makes you shiver. “so you can suck your boyfriend better. do i have it right?”

“y-yeah…”

“since when do you even have a boyfriend? you didn’t tell me anything,” he says, doing nothing to mask the disappointment in his voice.

“uh, we’ve… been seeing each other for a couple of weeks?” you fumble, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably. “i didn’t want to say anything yet. in case it didn’t work out.”

“so you want to learn how to suck dick for a guy you’ve known for a couple of weeks?” he counters, a muscle in his jaw twitching. he’s got no right to feel jealousy, not when he’s wasted so much time attempting to be one thing in your life when you clearly wanted something else. he’s got no right, but the thought of you on your knees for someone else, someone that isn’t him, makes his blood boil enough that he already knows what his answer will be.

however, you’re already backing up towards the door, about to make a quick retreat. your plan was horrible, shame burning your skin like a brand. “what am i saying? oh my god, you’re right it’s stupid and wrong and gross. can we please just forget i even came in here—”

he lets you ramble for an excruciatingly long time, then he pushes out of his gaming chair and grins down at you like you just asked him to make a quick run to the convenience store. he stretches his arms above his head. “let’s do it.”

“w-what?”

you didn’t expect to get this far, honestly. you expected caleb to laugh at you, ruffle your hair, and call you ridiculous. but instead, he’s already striding to his door, thumb flicking the lock with a decisive click. when he turns, his expression makes your breath hitch— those unusual purple eyes molten, staring straight through you.

“first thing’s first, we need to lay down some ground rules, soldier,” caleb tells you playfully, stepping closer until your breasts brush against his midsection. his hand lifts, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. “if you need to back out at any moment, you say so. no guy’s pleasure is worth your discomfort. and if i hear his name, whatever it is…” he pauses, eyes narrowing. “this stops. understood?”

you nod eagerly, fighting your smile as his scent envelopes you. he smells like spearmint gum, your shampoo that he’s been stealing since the two of you have been back at the house, and a hint of sweat from the stifling air in the room.

“use your words, pipsqueak.”

“y-yeah, i get it.”

his smirk is all teeth. “good girl.”

caleb guides you over to his bed, sitting down on the edge. his big hands reach for you, circling your hips and pulling you towards him until you’re standing in between his spread thighs.

“alright, my little student,” he jokes. “you wanna get him all riled up before the main event so start with something small like… a kiss,” he murmurs, eyes lifting to glance at your mouth as his finger traces the hinge of your jaw. “you do know how to kiss, don’t you?”

“of course i know how to kiss,” you grumble.

caleb nods and then curls his hand around the nape of your neck, pulling you down to his level. you lean with the pressure, slotting your hands in the junction between his neck and shoulder, sliding them up until you cup the underside of his jaw. then, you’re kissing him— kissing caleb, the boy who used to patch up your scraped knees with cute band-aids, who let you crawl into his bed after nightmares, who pretends he hasn’t thought about kissing you, about making you his, for years.

the kiss is messy, desperate and hungry, decades of pent up feelings behind it. a string of saliva keeps your mouths linked together whenever you pull back for air and when caleb’s tongue swipes across your bottom lip, you whimper and part your lips to let him in, body melting against his front until your weight’s toppling him back onto his elbows, hitching your leg over his waist to crawl on top of him.

his grip on your waist tightens, gently pushing you to stand once more. “this is feeling less like a lesson, and more like you just wanting to do this with me,” he teases, making heat flare across your cheeks.

caleb guides your hand to the waistband of his sweatpants, the heat radiating through the fabric searing your palm. breath hitching, you begin to sink to the floor in front of him but his hand shoots out to stop your descent with a breathy laugh. “no no no, c’mere. you’re gonna hurt your knees down there.”

backing up, he moves until he’s lounging against the headboard, impossibly long legs stretched out on either side of your sweet figure.

“still wanna do this?” he asks, lifting a brow. when you nod, he continues to speak, voice gravelly, “take it out then.”

your fingers fumble with the drawstring a bit, struggling to undo the military knot caleb’s tied there, but you manage eventually. peeling back the waistband of his sweatpants to free his cock.

you should’ve known it would be just as pretty as the rest of him— it’s the biggest one (the only one) you’ve seen in person. he’s thicker than he is long, flushed dusky pink with veins that make your cunt clench with the desperate need to feel them dragging along your inner walls. his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, watching you reach for it, nearly sobbing when your hand wraps around him.

“fuck—!” his hips jerk and stutter in shock, hand shoving yours away with a quickness. you frown and bite your lip, retracting your grip as if you’ve been burned.

“oh no,” you rush out, moving back to sit on top of your hands like a scolded kindergartener. “did i do something bad? did i hurt you, cal?”

caleb’s chest heaves, breath punching out of his lungs rapidly, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to slow the speed of his heart down. he’s dreamt about you touching him like this for ages, and the image of your dainty hand nervously wrapping around his cock will be seared into his brain for the rest of his life. you crawl back towards him slowly, seriously worried. “caleb?”

“i’m fine, pip,” he sucks in another breath, then opens his eyes to look at you. “didn’t mean to scare you. you didn’t do anything bad, you just surprised me. go ahead, touch me again.”

“if you’re sure,” you mumble, then hesitantly circle your fingers around caleb’s shaft again. he’s ready for it this time, hot against your palm when you give him an experimental squeeze, making caleb hiss through clenched teeth. “how’s that?”

“a bit tighter,” he instructs, palm closing over yours to adjust your grip. you squeeze him tight, and the hitch of his breath makes you squirm, stickiness gathering between your thighs at the sound. “don’t just squeeze, guys like it when you stroke. base to tip— no, don’t yank it like a fucking joystick, pip. god.”

his protest makes you burst out in giggles before caleb is shushing you with a severe look, his purple eyes narrowed. sucking your plump lower lip in between your teeth to keep from smiling, you nod at him with an exaggeratedly focused look.

“wet your palm,” he tells you, rolling his eyes at your wrinkled nose. “getting a handjob from a dry hand hurts, it’s like sandpaper.”

“are you saying i have dry hands, caleb? i moisturize daily, unlike you,” you whine out, but you listen to him anyway— you’re a good student, after all, and you don’t want to do anything that’ll make caleb want to stop. you lick your palm a few times, eyes on caleb the entire time.

the next time you touch him is with a spit-slicked grip, dragging your hand up and down his cock in an inexperienced, sloppy rub that should feel uncomfortable, but caleb eats it up— hips jerking involuntarily, pearls of watery precum already beginning to leak from the slit of his cock. your gaze is transfixed on it, a little greedy too, watching it stain your knuckles with each stroke.

it’s that same greediness that makes you lean down and brush your lips against the head of his cock, cherry tongue lolling out to tentatively taste the salt-bitter precum beading there. caleb’s hips immediately kick upward in a desperate twitch, but he forces them still, knuckles ashen where they reach down to grip the sheets.

“easy,” he rasps, voice fraying at the edges. his thumb strokes your cheek briefly. “just the tip first, okay? don’t go trying to swallow me down or anything.”

you do what he’s taught you so far; flatten your tongue, swirl it around the head— like that, fuck— press it hard against the thick, sensitive vein running along caleb’s underside, then repeat. every time, you’re rewarded with caleb brushing your hair back, murmuring soft praises, or your personal favorite— his deep, almost nasal groan, the hard planes of his abdomen flexing underneath the heady heat of your tongue.

it’s intoxicating, watching him fall apart like this— exactly what you wanted when you walked into his room. you want to pass his class with honors, please him even more, so you drop your mouth open a little more and suck him in deeper.

too deep.

the thick ridge of his head nudges against your uvula, tears springing to your eyes almost immediately. little startled chokes cough from your throat as you pull off caleb’s cock, bands of saliva stringing from his tip to your mouth in a way that should be gross, but you don’t care one bit, too busy trying to catch your breath.

“shh, shh— breathe,” caleb soothes, eyes darkening with something perilously close to reverence and pride. “through your nose, slowly. you can’t force it, that’s why you keep choking. when you’re ready, try again.”

you let caleb thumb away your tears like he’s done countless times before and when you’re ready, when you’ve had enough air to breathe, you let him guide you back onto his damp cock. eager, swollen lips bringing him in against your cheeks in a hot, branding suction that twists his insides up.

he’s supposed to be teaching you, showing you the ropes so you can please your stupid boyfriend, but you barely even need it— god, you’re so good at this without even trying. how can he focus on teaching when he’s got all of his focus pointed towards trying not to shoot his load down the back of your throat like some inconsiderate asshole?

he can barely look down at you because every time he does, your teary eyes glance up at him through thick lashes with an expression that begs for praise. he knows if you didn’t have a mouth stuffed full of his cock, you’d be asking him am i doing it right, ge?

his thighs tremble, eyes lidded as you finally find a steady pace— mouth bobbing up and down, spit bubbling at the base of his cock where you’re starting to make a mess on him.

and when your hands dip down into his sweatpants, cupping his balls in your soft hand, caleb’s vision whites out, his climax rushing to the front at a rapid pace. before he can cum, though, he takes two fingers and pushes at your forehead, hauling you off his cock with a wet slurp. his chest heaves, dripping beads of sweat that glow in the haze of the neon lighting in his room.

he looks wrecked, and you fight your triumphant smile, schooling it into something unsure and pliant, batting your eyelashes. “did i… did i do it wrong?”

“fuck, no,” his chuckle is hoarse and ruined, calloused thumbs swiping spit from your chin as he gazes up at you meaningfully with those hooded eyes. “just don’t wanna cum down your throat.”

“o-oh.”

the implication makes arousal bubble low in your belly, thighs squeezing together in need. caleb tracks the movement, nostrils flaring as he grins knowingly. “yeah, you don’t want that either, do you, pipsqueak?”

for a while, the two of you just stare at each other in disbelief. you don’t know how to tell caleb that you’d take him in any form he’s offering himself in, pining after him long enough that it’s painful. nothing you ever did got his attention, not in the way you truly wanted. he’s protective and possessive in all the right ways, but he’d never make the first move.

he’ll never come out and admit that he wants to spread you out on his bed and fuck you dumb, mark you as his so nobody else can have you. it took you coming to him to even get this far, so you might as well take matters into your own hands once more.

“teach me the rest, ge?”

the rest.

caleb releases a pained groan at your words and you think he’s going to refuse you, but then he’s flipping your positions, pushing you down onto the mattress with ease. he makes quick work of his sweatpants, shoving them down the rest of the way. then, he wrestles your panties off your hips and tosses them somewhere across the room.

“look at you,” he whispers, pushing your shirt up— his cock leaking a bead of precum at the sight of your pretty tits. he reaches forward, toying with your puffy nipples, grinning at the sound of your soft whimper.

“c-caleb.”

“you drive me fuckin’ crazy, you get that?” the confession comes out sounding suspiciously like a whine. he gazes down at you like you’re water and he’s a man lost deep in the desert, dying of thirst. “you’re the prettiest girl in the whole wide world. look at these cute tits, just begging for me to touch them. and—”

his big hands sink into the fleshy part of your upper thighs, opening them to get his first exclusive look at your pussy. his thumb parts your folds, spreading one side apart to watch the way your entrance twitches. caleb dips one finger into your cunt and could fucking cry at how warm and tight you feel. “fuck, you’re so wet. is this all ’cause of me?”

“d-don’t look at it so shamelessly, you pervert,” you scold him, squirming back and forth in his hold as you try to snap your thighs shut. “stop teasing me or i’ll hit you. this is embarrassing!”

“why not?” he tilts his head, giving you that boyish grin that makes your heart stop. “after i’m done with you, it’ll be mine anyway. my pretty pussy. my girl.”

you huff and drive your fist into his shoulder before folding your arms over your breasts, lower lip stuck out in an unhappy pout. caleb winces, though mirth still shines amongst the nebulas in his eyes. he leans down to kiss your pout away, chuckling in amusement. “okay, okay, don’t hurt me. i’ll give you what you want.”

and then, he’s wrapping a hand around the base of himself, kissing your clit with the leaking tip of his cock before rubbing it up and down your slit. he coats himself in your wetness before he finally notches against your entrance and slowly pushes.

the pressure makes air stutter out of your chest, blunt and unyielding. he immediately notices your struggle and drops forward on his elbows, caging you safely in his embrace. he kisses the corners of your eyelids, licking away stray tears.

“i hate hurting you like this,” he whispers in your ear, hips drawing back and crawling forward again. you gasp, eyes falling shut, and he shushes you once more. slides a hand down to play with your clit to distract you, which only makes you clench up around him. his jaw is clenched tight enough to shatter the bone, hand fisted in the sheets next to your head. “shh— relax and let me in. it’ll feel good in a second.”

“i-i don’t know if i can,” you say, trying to force your body to accept him, but when he sinks in those first few inches, you whimper and dig your nails into his biceps. “y-you’re so big, gege.”

“f-fuck, don’t—” caleb grunts and his fingers grip the soft sides of your belly, holding your body to his like a lifeline. “don’t call me that right now. i might cum. i’m gonna put the rest in, okay? be a good girl for me and take it. i-i can’t wait any longer.”

he draws out and presses forward all the way in, burying himself to the hilt inside your sweet pussy. his gaze drops to where you’re split obscenely around him, cunt fluttering in protest at the stretch and a ragged groan tears from his throat. it takes every ounce of willpower the military beat into him not to cream himself right then and there.

“c-caleb!”

you whine as caleb retreats slightly, only to surge back in, fucking a little deeper this time. the weight of his cock stretching you out borders on cruel, but you would die before you ask him to stop, your walls squeezing him in a vice grip. it takes a few trials and errors (“keep your hips down, pipsqueak” and “i don't know, maybe a little to the l— fuck, right there oh my god”) but eventually, caleb builds up a good rhythm, the cool metal of his dog tags pooling in the valley of your breasts as he fucks you with deep, steady strokes; bottoming out each time with a guttural groan.

“fuck— stop clenching so much i’m gonna lose my mind,” his breath scalds your neck, teeth grazing your pulse as he fucks a little faster. “so fucking good. that’s it, baby. you’re doing so good. taking every inch of me like this.”

he’s right, it is so fucking good— no, it’s better. your nails scrape against caleb’s back. shivering at the hot pleasure singeing your nerve endings each time he fucks into you. it doesn’t take long for pressure to gather in your lower belly, a band waiting to snap.

you can’t help but wriggle a hand between the two of your bodies and circle a trembling middle finger around your swollen clit. “nngh, you feel so fucking good, cal.”

“a-are you- god, that’s so hot,” he grunts, glancing down at the way you’re toying with your clit and it turns him on so much he’s speeding up, cock pistoning in and out of you, his thrusts deepening until he’s nearly kissing your cervix, he’s in so deep, your thighs slamming against his hips as you try to close your legs when the head of his cock brushes right up against your sweet spot, creating starbursts behind your eyelids.

“oh god, cal— i-i can’t!”

caleb’s grin is feral, grinding deep to press into that swollen spot inside you relentlessly. “knew i’d find it,” then his fingers joining yours and it’s so much better than your own, two digits rubbing quick circles into your sensitive clit. you’re a babbling mess at this point, the pleasure too much to keep up with. “can you cum for me? can you let me feel it? please? i’ll never ask you for another thing if you give me one right here, right now.”

what are you supposed to do, deny him? you couldn’t even if you tried, not with the heat in your belly full to bursting, needing an escape.

“’m gonna c-cum for you, ge, just for you,” you sob.

caleb has seen many versions of you over the years— grumpy and pillow-marked in the morning with syrup stains on your shirt at the breakfast table, covered in sand and sun-kissed at the beach, screaming at him to do something about the jellyfish sting on your leg, in sleek black dresses at the military balls you attended as his plus one that made all his comrades stop and stare. but you’ve never looked prettier than you do right now. his dog tags between your breasts, your creamy pussy fluttering around his cock, and your pretty face twisted in pleasure as you’re about to cum for him.

he hopes that when he dies, he’ll go out with this image in his brain.

those big doe eyes of yours roll back into your head, hands frantically pushing at his abdomen as if he’s trying to escape the overwhelming friction of his cock. you cum hard, thighs trembling, vision winking out. wet droplets of tears stream down your cheeks as white heat washes over your body, the pleasure bleeding through your limbs like wildfire.

seeing you like this, what is caleb supposed to do? not follow you? he’s been holding his own orgasm back since you barged into his room in one of his shirts, begging to be taught how to suck a cock. there’s no way he can last through seeing— through feeling— you cum around him. his rhythm fractures almost immediately and he knows he’s on thin ice, fraying at the edges.

“gonna cum,” he grits out, voice mangled. “fuck, i’m gonna cum. where do you want it?”

you don’t waste a second, babbling out the answer desperately, “i-inside, ge, cum inside me. give it to me please i want it so bad i’ll do anything!”

that’s all it takes.

one more sloppy thrust and he cums right after you, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you still. he breathes choppy, ruined moans into your neck as he pumps his release deep inside your cunt before he collapses against you, damp chest heaving against yours, giving a few more weak thrusts of his hips as his climax ebbs.

you don’t know how long the two of you lay there, struggling to catch your breaths. you’re satisfied and pliant as putty underneath caleb, unable to move from his heavy embrace. he’s a wall of solid muscle, one that is pressing you into the mattress. “caleb, you’re heavy.”

“gimme a minute here, pipsqueak,” caleb chuckles breathlessly against your sweaty skin, pressing a wet kiss to your neck. “i just had the best sex of my life and can’t catch my breath.”

you begin to smile in pride, but then your eyes narrow as his words register through the fucked out haze clouding your brain. “wait, you were having sex before this?” you ask, jealousy bubbling up in your chest. “was it that one sergeant? the one who kept giving you lovey dovey eyes at the DAA gala?”

“mmm, nope,” he answers almost immediately, kissing your lips quickly to placate you, making your heart swell big and bright for the boy on top of you. “chill. saved myself all this time for you.”

your heart begins racing stupidly fast at that. “sap,” you tease, before an idea pops in your head and you reach for your phone tossed haphazardly on caleb’s bedside table.

caleb’s grip on you tightens as he notices you reach for it, a dark cloud shuttering his loving expression. “what are you doing?” he demands, the venom in his tone startling you a bit. “texting him already? that eager to try out what i just taught you?”

you frown in confusion until you remember the excuse you used upon coming into caleb’s room. wow, the boy you’re in love with is an idiot. giggling, you lean up and press a sweet kiss to his cheek before opening the camera on your phone and snapping a quick selfie of the two of you.

“no, you big dummy, i’m taking a pic of us losing our virginities together so i can add it to our photo album,” you explain simply, grinning. “and there was never any boyfriend, i made him up.”

[nxlozni]

(Strawberry Parasite) Strawberry Nights

wc: 1693

content: nsfw, 18+ mdni, Geto Suguru x fem!reader, cursed spirit!reader, bunny hybrid!reader (tail + ears mentioned), light pet play, "Master" used, "good girl" used, bathroom sex, oral sex (f!receiving), reader has pubic hair, vaginal fingering, overstimulation, light choking, reader spits in his mouth, p in v mention, unprotected, AU where Suguru is teacher (let me know if I missed anything)

note: this takes place in the same AU as my work Strawberry Dreams but both are standalone.

Saturday nights were your favorite nights. (Well, when Suguru didn't have to work late, when he wasn't held up with pointless paperwork or his annoying starry-eyed students.) Even coming back late from a mission was nice. Especially coming back late from those nasty ones, tired and dirty and his heartbeat so loud. It was pleasant.

Because it meant another night in the small bathroom of Suguru's apartment. Clean white tiles and the fogged-up mirror, his reflection blurred as he managed the hot bath. His various hair products lined up neatly next to the bath stool, your designated hairbrush next to his. Steam and the familiar scent of your favorite strawberry bath oil wafting up. Another night pressed together in the warmth of the small bathtub, skin on cold skin, your wet hair against his large chest, caged between his large legs, followed by a cozy night on the sofa or whatever else Suguru deemed correct. Not having to worry about what Sunday would bring, a little break.

Your nails, your fingertips, stained that dark, dark color. The color that you knew Suguru disliked the most, especially on you. A reminder of what you were beneath your doe eyes and pouty smiles, the cute twitch of your soft bunny ears, your unreserved affection. Not quite black, or blue, or purple. Unfortunately not red. Too thick and putrid, and so hard to scrub off your deceptively soft skin.

Oh, sometimes fighting those other curses was such a pain. You hated when they bled too much as you clawed into them, the wrinkle of his brow, the cold curve of Suguru's eyes as they traced over your sharp fingers, the dark substance dripping from them. A visible twinge of disappointment, firm scoldings ready on his tongue.

But at least it always led to this reward.

Your favorite type of bath.

The expectant gleam of Suguru's eyes, the cold gentleness of his curved lips as you undress for him, no more scoldings about how dirty and disobedient you were. After all, you were always a good girl for your master in the end, you would do what he wanted without being asked. Wasn't he so lucky to have you? You were so, so good for him. You were so lucky to have him, so lucky that he had deemed your vile orb as worthy all those years ago. You were meant for him, weren't you? He was so clearly meant for you.

How easily you spread yourself for him, your hands on the rectangular edge of the slippery bathtub, knees on the moist white tiles. Your head tilted to look back at him, blinking slowly and lips pouted in that soft way your Suguru loved. Your fluffy bunny tail twitching in anticipation.

"Good girl."

A sneer, disguised as a coo. Thick fingers trailing down your spine before meeting that tender ball of fluff, a sweet gasp from your lips as he tugged on it. Gently, cruelly. Before his fingers continued down on their journey, dipping into the plush line of your ass, before palming the damp cluster of hair that hid your sweet, slick folds.

That wicked, doting smile as he crowded against you, abs and firm chest against your back, that thick, leaky cock against your plush ass, the angry tip nudging and rubbing against your sensitive round tail, now slicked and sticky. A large, frigid hand on one of your breasts, twisting and pinching and swirling a pebbled nipple. His other hand delved between the softness of your thighs. Two thick fingers stuffed inside that tight, greedy hole of yours, curling and pressing against that little mushy part, your eyes crinkled in bliss. A thumb on your puffy pearl, rubbing and swirling through your whines and shameless moans, the desperate humping of your hips against that beefy thumb, the squelching of those fingers in and out of your cunt, your core so hot and clenched. That sweet, addicting delicious buzz, the closest you would ever get to feeling alive. More, more.

Oh, what a wanton little creature you were.

Your Suguru adored it.

Lashes fluttering rapidly and mouth open, the corners of your lips curved upwards in pleasure, in hunger. Eagerly leaning further against the edge of the bathtub, hands gripping tight, your chin above the warm steam of the bath that patiently waited for you both.

That sweet cry, the drool that dribbled down your bottom lip as Suguru finally sunk down, elbows on the white tile, hands easily keeping you spread, nose nestled against that honeyed, sticky hair, his red tongue licking and prodding, his saliva smattered against your cunt, mixing with your sweet juices, dripping down his chin. Mouth sealing against your folds, insatiable. His eyes dark and glazed, head only full of your pathetic little sobs, your dripping, quivering body in his hands, his name spilling so devoutly from your wet mouth. More, more, more. A need so intense. Was it yours? Or was it his?

"Parasite."

That was what Satoru often called you, wrapped up in the bright bluntness of a joke, or a teasing pout as Suguru indulged you. An extra large slice of strawberry shortcake on your plate. Your cheek pressed against Suguru's shoulder, finding warmth in the silky black fabric of his jacket, his large hand encompassing yours so easily as he soothed you.

The piercing gaze of lustrous blue eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses or black cloth. Always watching. The constant reminder of what you were, of how easily you could splatter into putrid nothingness if you weren't tethered to your precious Suguru. If he ever deemed you useless.

Parasite.

But silly Satoru didn't know. He didn't know about those lonely rainy days, where only your silly giggles, your carefree pouts were company to Suguru. The soft fur of your fluffy ears the only comfort to his hands when everything else felt so dreary. Your body snug against his under the warm covers. The press of your cold skin against his, your soft cheek on his as he has to swallow down another rancid orb, a gentle sweet kiss to his bitter lips.

Would your lovely Suguru everyone's beloved, heroic Suguru be who he was without your perpetual presence? Your name carved into his soul, seeping into his bones and flesh? Your soft arms around his?

Mmm…you didn't think so~

Your hands on his neck, dainty fingertips against the soft skin, the firm muscle and nerves and cartilage beneath, the thickness of his adam's apple. Oh how it thrummed under your touch, a loving sweet squeeze, as if to recapture that day you had been nothing but a putrid little dark orb. Forced down that firm, thick neck into his very essence, his soul.

You pout at the thought of ever being seen as disgusting in the eyes of your precious Suguru. Fingertips moving up to his lips, soft under your touch until they open to reveal his mouth. A glob of your saliva against his tongue, moving down his throat. A little apology, a little greedy wish to overwrite that nasty stench that resided in his soul.

Surely you were so much sweeter now, right?

You hoped you were sweet like your favorite strawberry ice cream, like the candies Suguru kept in his pocket for you. A gentle sweetness to seep into that part of his soul where you resided. You must be so nice and sweet. Delicious. Since your Suguru always opened his mouth so eagerly for you, his dark eyes glinting needily, adam's apple bobbing steadily to swallow. Your spit, your tongue, your slick.

The little spasm of his hips, locked against your damp legs, your hot, gummy cunt eagerly, greedily squeezing to accept your master's cum. Your tongue swallowing up his low groans, his lashes on the soft curve of your cheek, his long silken hair against the bathroom tiles, tangled in your hands.

He always had a part of you inside of him, so it only made sense for you to hold his hot seed in your tight, velvet walls. His long index finger trailing down, rubbing against your syrupy mess until dipping back into your puffy cunt, squelching.

You wouldn't make a mess in the nice bath your Suguru prepared for the two of you, right?

The bath the perfect temperature, as always, when you finally settled in, sloshing gently as it welcomed your bodies. Giggling and pouting sweetly, maybe a little tease or a murmur of affection on your lips as you happily leaned against your beloved Suguru, his mouth curved into that adoring scoff, that gentle grin. His heartbeat so loud, so soothing, your favorite sound (if only you had one too..). A hand encompassing your chin, large thumb carefully wiping your sticky spit, your puffy lips. Just you and Suguru. If only the whole world could be contained to this lovely little bathroom.

And then after?

Soft pink pajamas, selected for you by Suguru. Always his choice in the end. You had so many types of clothes, a plethora of pajamas and lingerie, cozy sweaters, and whatever else was normal for humans to wear (was it so bad to be nude?). He always bought them in-store, never online. The sales associates always welcoming with a friendly smile, eyes crinkling in recognition since he frequented the same stores. Buying clothes that were very obviously not for him, carrying large pink or glittery bags in his muscular arms, a stark contrast against the dark shade of his sweater, and the blackness of his pants.

So that everyone could make the assumption, even if not everyone could see you glued to his side (always glued to his side). So that his neighbors, everyone could picture the sweet, spoiled girl that Suguru must keep at his side, dressed in fluffy, strawberry-print pajamas. His elusive lover that he always bought strawberry ice cream for or silly little knick-knacks. His lover that picked out the cute bunny keychain that always jingled in his pocket. The one that always left noticeable little love bites on his neck, scratches on his unyielding back. That left that sweet strawberry scent on his skin.

You (Forever) .

[nxlozni]

Older!bf Kento who's more than content to go along with your every whim and fancy. He's a busy man with real adult responsibilities but you're just ? such a darling ? how is he to refuse you ?

He lets you drag him around without complaint, listening intently and mentally cataloguing everything as you chatter on about something or another because he loves you and loves seeing you happy.

Showers you in compliments and gives you his card without so much as blinking. What's his money good for if not to spoil his pretty baby rotten ??

All he ever asks is that you keep him company. Nap quietly while he reads next to you. Be his pretty arm candy for the few company events he unwillingly attends. Hold your legs up and out of his way while he eats. Easy enough, no ?

[nxlozni]

"No, get away—"

"I'll be quick, please ? Won't make you late, promise,"

Your lips part to deliver another refusal, but Choso is looking at you with those hopeful eyes, hands lightly grasping your hips and ok. maybe a quickie won't hurt.

"..you've got 20 minutes."

You try to keep your voice firm even as you let him herd you back towards the bedroom with his body, but the insistent press of his mouth against your throat and the hands pulling impatiently at your clothes is enough to make your head swim.

His lips worship every inch of skin as its exposed—early stage mottled bruises blooming under the press of his teeth—down your throat, the expanse of your sternum and your stomach till he's on his knees, pupils blown wide and his breathing out of sorts.

The pressure between his own legs is rendered obsolete at the first taste he gets of your cunt, humming in content at the gooey fluid that spreads across his tongue and nosing at your clit like he cant get close enough. You taste like everything he's ever loved all at once, he can't help the displeased noise that builds in his chest or the vice grip he's got on your thighs to hold you still when you start trying to squirm.

Do you really even need to go in today ? They can definitely manage without you, just this once.

[nxlozni]

Roll me up, smoke me like—

—Im the last backwood youll have in your life.

Gigi Perez (2021.)

JJK

Toji Fushiguro

too much

Naoya Zenin

smug

trap

Ryomen Sukuna

Satoru Gojo

Suguru Geto

kiss

out of bounds

Kento Nanami

attitude adjustment

pampered

Choso Kamo

call out

DC

Jason Todd

Dick Grayson

Bruce Wayne

L&DS

Caleb

gawker

dreamer

Xavier

Sylus

Zayne

Rafayel

[nxlozni]

"Id appreciate a proper kiss, baby,"

Despite the grip he's got your face in so he can guide you to look at him, Suguru's voice remains gentle.

It doesn't match the quick snap of his hips mixing your guts, and all you manage to do is whine at him, cockdrunk and dizzy off him.

You couldn't kiss him if you wanted to, and he knows as much, sighing like he's been inconvenienced even if his pace doesn't slow.

His grip shifts, fingers pressing into the soft give of your cheeks hard to force a pout he can plant gentle kisses against.

"Don't tell me i've broken you already.."

[nxlozni]

Naoya Zenin is not a man known for his patience. Marriage does not change him—if any, it only makes him worse. Cuts his temper in half when his darling isn't entirely devoted to him.

How dare you deprive him due to your own obligations ? Running off with excuses of work and maintaining a social life ? You agreed to marry him, therefore you should live for him. He is supposed to be your sole obligation.

He tells you as much when he's got you writhing under him, your cheeks wet and your eyes screwed shut as you drag your nails further down his back with every thrust. His every move feels like a reprimand and you cant figure out what you've done wrong to warrant such violent rebuke.

"Gonna put him right here."

You barely register what he's saying, and maybe that's for the best—he's not talking to you anyway, voice even as his gaze falls to where he can see your skin distending to fit him, fingers flexing on your hips.

"I'll fuck you everyday till it takes. Can't leave me then."

[nxlozni]

"I thought you were above this ?"

Normally, the velvet tones of Naoya Zenin's voice would grate on your nerves like nothing else. He sounds endlessly smug, like he'd expected you to cave, and if you had the capacity for it, you'd swat at him.

"You're so pretty when you shut up and submit like you should."

God he's insufferable, but the steady rhythm his hips keep is enough to send any thoughts of revulsion skittering as your nails dig into his bicep, sparks shooting up your nerves from where you're connected.

You can see exactly how he disappears inside you, with the way he's got you folded up its not as if you have much other choice—legs pressed up against your chest and your ankles by his ears with a big hand knotted in your hair forcing you to look as he fucks you sloppy and ruins you for anyone else.

"—Much prettier when you let this do the talking."