sakurakuna

[sakurakuna]

how street racer! sukuna curbs his road rage

You hear about the ticket before he even tells you.

Something about Sukuna yelling at a traffic officer after nearly sideswiping a sedan and cutting through two lanes without signaling. Classic. The guy’s a menace behind the wheel — fast, reckless, and pissed off 90% of the time.

He doesn’t tell you until a few days later, when you’re over at his place and he casually drops, “Got sent to court-mandated therapy.”

You look up from your phone. “Because of the ticket?”

He shrugs. “Road rage, technically.”

“Jesus, Sukuna. You threatened a cop.”

“Yeah, well. He looked stupid.”

You don’t push it. You know he’s got a short fuse — especially behind the wheel. And you’ve been in that passenger seat long enough to know he doesn’t exactly drive — he dominates.

But later, when you’re both in the car, he mentions it like it’s nothing. Like he’s telling you the weather.

“My therapist said I need a calming visual in the car,” he says, eyes on the road, voice bored.

You don’t think he’ll actually do it — take advice from a therapist, let alone that kind of advice. Not him. Not the guy who thinks calming down is for losers and once told you meditation was “just closing your eyes and lying to yourself.”

So you let it go.

But then, a few nights later during a grocery run — you're craving pad thai, planning to make it just so you can plate it on the vintage dish set he bought you during your last date, the one with the chipped gold trim you’d fawned over at the thrift market — you're wandering past the toy aisle when you say, “God, I love when guys have stupid little trinkets in their cars. It’s dumb, but so cute.”

You’re not even talking about him.

But Sukuna files it away like it’s scripture.

Later that week, when he’s alone and trying to be subtle about caring too much, he scours resell sites until he finds the exact two he wants. Doesn’t bother with the blind boxes — he doesn’t trust chance. Wants what he wants.

The bunny one reminds him of you — all soft eyes and twitchy moods, always flinching when he teases, always curling into him like a sleepy little thing once he’s fucked the fight out of you. You doze off in the passenger seat after, cheeks warm, head bobbing like a bunny nuzzling in for comfort while he drives to pick up your favorite post-sex takeout.

The peach? That one’s his favorite — a subtle reminder of what he likes to see when he’s behind you. The curve of your hips, the way you move when you’re lost in the moment.

He pays the ridiculous resale price and doesn’t even flinch. Rips the adhesive tabs from their packaging and sticks both to the back of his rearview mirror — one on each side — so they’re always in view when he drives.

A stupid little bunny.

A stupid little peach.

Both staring at him with plastic smiles.

You notice immediately, of course.

“You trying to copy me or what?” you tease, shoving your phone case with a cherry sonny angel. “Seriously though, why the hell do you have those?”

“They’re just there,” he mutters, tapping the wheel like it’s no big deal. “Came in a set or something.”

Sukuna isn’t the sentimental type. Not openly.

You narrow your eyes. “Sonny angels come in blind boxes. You sure these came together?”

He doesn’t say a word.

You lean in closer with a pout. “Kuna, did you paid resale prices? I thought you said my sonny angels were stupid.”

“They’re not stupid,” he snaps, before catching himself. “I mean. You said they were cute.”

You blink.

He won’t look at you, won’t explain more. But when you ask again, just to annoy him, he grumbles something about how you’re cute like a bunny and your ass looks like a peach and his therapist can go fuck herself but maybe she was onto something.

You nearly die laughing.

[sakurakuna]

choso and this took so long cause i finally drew my husband so it had to be right and im really happy with it!!!

[sakurakuna]

then i did hiromi higuruma and got shadowbanned on tiktok for it!

[sakurakuna]

lets just get this started,

hi everynyan!!

i’m sorry ive been gone, ive had a really hectic time but always in a good way. so many new opportunities and chances to learn new skills. happy i could take some time to update my blog on here!

i will be spamming your timeline today with all the art ive made after leaving tumblr, tw its juicy as hell 😈

feel free to block me if it becomes oversaturated with bunni content :3!

here’s a yuta spread!

[sakurakuna]

eating wingstop in street racer! sukuna’s car

You’re halfway through your second tender when it hits you — he hasn’t said a word about the crumbs.

The scent of hot honey and voodoo fries fills his GTR, thick and sweet, the kind of smell that would make any car guy lose his mind. But Sukuna just leans back in the driver’s seat like he’s been waiting for this all day.

Maybe he has.

Which is weird, because just last week, you watched him nearly commit a felony when some guy got too close to the rear spoiler. The poor dude barely breathed near it and Sukuna went off — meanwhile, you stood on the sidewalk sipping iced matcha, thoroughly entertained as Sukuna wiped down an invisible fingerprint like it was an insult.

But now he’s focused on the wing in his hand — mostly. His eyes keep flicking to you every few seconds, like he can’t decide what’s messier: the sauce on his fingers or the look on your face while you chew.

“Don’t get sauce on the leather,” he murmurs, almost out of obligation.

There’s no bite to it, though.

You glance at him through your lashes, catching the way his body’s angled toward you. Elbow on the center console. Guarded, maybe — but not from you.

“You let me eat in here,” you tease, waving a greasy fry at him. “This a trap?”

“No.” His voice is quieter now, eyes on the dashboard. “Just… you’re clean.”

You arch a brow. “Wow. Thanks. Romantic.”

He rolls his eyes — a little too hard. “You know what I mean.”

You kind of do.

He’s not cold. Not really. Just hard to read. Always elbows deep in engines, more tuned into the purr of an exhaust than the sound of his own name.

You reach into the paper bag, the grease turning translucent in spots, and offer him your last fry.

He hesitates.

Then he takes it with two fingers, careful not to touch yours, and tosses it into his mouth. He nods, approving.

“I don’t let just anyone in this car, you know.”

You raise an eyebrow, lips twitching. “Clearly. I’ve heard the horror stories.”

But here you are — box in your lap, fingers messy, dipping your tenders into the extra ranch he always orders without you having to ask. The car smells like fried food and leather, two things that should never mix, but somehow feel natural when it’s the two of you.

You glance over at him, chewing thoughtfully. “Well then, who would you let eat in here?”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just finishes off his wing, sucks the bone clean like it’s muscle memory, then tosses it into the bag with a lazy flick of his wrist. He wipes his fingers on a napkin already soaked with grease, then tosses that aside too.

When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. Slower. Measured.

“I don’t let anyone else do a lot of things.”

You pause, fingers frozen over your food. The words hit heavier than they should. He says it like it means something — like it is something. But the moment hangs in the air for just a second too long, so you roll your eyes and reach for another tender.

“Could’ve just said I’m special,” you mutter, half-joking, careful not to drop any crumbs on his pristine interior.

Because even if he won’t say it, you already know. You’ve heard the stories — how Sukuna doesn’t even let people breathe near his car, much less eat in it. Water bottles? Off-limits. Shoes on the seat? Instant death. And yet here you are, mid-bite, elbows up, your takeout box resting comfortably in your lap like you’ve been doing this forever.

And maybe that’s the scariest part.

Because he lets you.

And he never lets anyone.

[sakurakuna]

★ nerd!nanami x popular girl!reader getting dirty in a closet

“we shouldn’t do this,” nanami whispers. 

rolling your eyes, you continue unbuckling his belt. his pants fall down his legs, revealing the Calvin Klein boxers you got him on a day which happened to be his birthday. you rub up on the bulge in his boxers. “you say that but, ken, you’re hard. have some shame, won’t you?”

as the most popular girl on campus, you have a reputation to uphold – no one can see you with the nerdiest guy around. always with a book and those stupid glasses that get in the way, nanami isn’t someone you want people knowing you’re fucking. and honestly, if you had it your way, he’d be thrown in the dust along with all the pathetic idiots you’ve let in your bed, but…nerdy as he is, he’s also really goot at sex. 

he’s got a huge dick too. 

“i can’t help that,” he grouches. “just leave first and i’ll come out soon; i need to wait for this to go down.”

clearly nervous, you can see, even in the dark, the way his eyes keep darting from your cleavage to the gap in the door. there’s a party happening out there and you have to go on your tiptoes to whisper in his ear just so you can be heard over the heavy bass, obnoxious chattering and whooping.

someone’s closet isn’t even the freakiest place you two have gotten it on – you’ve fucked in your car, in his, in a classroom, in the dean’s office, in a park, in the gym, under the bleachers, in the locker room, and so on and so forth. 

yet he's always just as jittery as all the other times. one would think he's still a virgin if they didn't know all the nasty positions he'd folded you into.

“ngh! s-stop, please.” 

shaky hands try to pull your hands away from his hard and leaking cock. his mouth isn’t very honest but thankfully his body is. already wet, you easily slot his cock in between your thighs, letting it rub on your slit. he moans through gritted teeth. fuck, he’s warm and firm and you can feel every vein on his long length. how unfair that this dick had gone so long without being used. thank god you're here now. he really ought to be more grateful.

“shush, kento. you can leave at any time and you know that, so cut the shit, and move your hips.” his forehead falls on top of your head. you feel his breath fan your face. hands gripping your hips, he keeps you still as he rocks back and forth, coating his cock in your juices. “good boy.” 

he throbs. 

in the cramped space, you two struggle to find a rhythm as you jostle around, trying to make the most of what you have. tightly packed together, you have no choice but to cling to his stupid vest. his heart beats fast under your cheek. cute.

his cock head catches on your clit and the friction is delicious. "hmm, just like that, ken. yeah, that's nice. you know just how i like my clit rubbed, don't you?"

breathless, he replies, "yeah."

annoyingly, his voice drops an octave into something seductive and sinful when he's in deep focus, which happens either when he's studying and scolds you for trying to get in his pants or when he's balls deep in your cunt and he's trying not to cum prematurely.

soon, with the party in full force and the crowd growing thicker and more drunken, he speeds up, unable to help himself. you’ve sprayed more perfume than usual today; it gets him whimpery when he can’t smell anything other than you. it's just one of the ways you like to make sure you're in control at all times.

“keep quiet, ken. you don’t want them to hear you, do you? you don’t want them to see you with your pants down and your pretty cock out, right?”

fingers dig into the fat of your ass cheeks through your skirt. your legs tighten and he groans, all choked up and needy as his pace increases until he’s rutting against your pussy with no rhyme or reason. “n-no. i don’t want them to see you like this either. i don’t want them to see your p-pussy or your pretty face when you orgasm. y-you’re mine.”

you sigh. that would be the sign to leave, to ditch the loser and move on, but ah, fuck, you’re close. any second now you’re going to cum all over his cock and you’ll make him clean you up. 

maybe you’ll give him one more chance. he’s a quick learner after all.

“yeah, ken. i’m yours. now, make me cum.”

he grabs hold of your face and smashes his lips to yours. clumsily and messily, he kisses you, shoving his tongue in just to taste you. you forgot he likes to kiss right before he cums. guess you do too because, at the same time like some shitty cliche, you two shudder against each other, skin slapping and juices flying.

“oh, fudge! t-thank you. thank you so much.” he’s wrapping his arms around you, suffocating you with his chest. good thing he practices good hygiene and actually smell good. much better than some of the other guys around, that’s for sure. another reason why you keep his clingy ass around. 

hot cum floods your panties and you curse the fact that you’ll have to dance with that mess between your legs. 

“yeah, yeah. hurry up and get on your knees. you know i like to cum at least three times before i party.”

nanami also looks good with your juices on those plump lips of his, oh and you do like it when his glasses fog up and he looks dazed with your taste. hmm, for a nerd, he is quite pretty, especially when those blond locks of his get all messy after you’ve had your way with him. if only he'd be better dressed and would pick up a sport or two.

“you have an exam tomorrow – maybe we should -hah- study for that.” not wasting any time in worming his tongue into your hole, he expertly hikes up your thigh over his broad shoulder, pressing his face up tight against your pussy, uncaring of the fact that his cum is mixing on his tongue.

you roll your eyes. “ugh, fine. but we’re fucking in your car before and after, alright?”

he smiles. your heart squeezes.

“good girl.”

“w-whatever.”

[sakurakuna]

You’ve been with Satoru for almost a year now—laughing at his dumb anime references, dodging his wandering hands because fuck he’s just so overwhelmingly clingy, and letting yourself fall into the stupid, soft little rhythms of loving someone who should’ve been your enemy.

And that’s the problem.

Because the whole reason you were ever supposed to get close to him was to kill him.

It’s not like you hadn’t tried before. Sneaking poison in his tea—he spat it out and made you drink it instead, pretending it was some flirty trust game. A cursed blade under the bed, slipped under his ribs during sex—he moaned louder and flipped you over, praising how “kinky” you were getting like it was a joke. He just…never. Dies.

And now you’re sitting on his lap, arms wrapped around his neck, guilt scraping your stomach raw because tonight is supposed to be it.

He’s so warm and soft under you, stupidly shirtless like always, skin golden and freckled from the early summer sun. That dumb blindfold is pushed up into his hair, white lashes low over his eyes so blue that you still can’t believe they’re actually real.

You can feel the edge of the cursed dagger against your thigh under your dress. All you have to do is reach.

“You okay, sweets?” he murmurs, fingers rubbing gentle circles into your lower back. “You’re all tense”.

You look at him—at the little beauty mark under his eye, at the way he’s already fondly smiling at you, like he knows.

“…Yeah. Just thinking”.

“About murdering me again?”

You freeze.

He hums, nuzzling his face into your cheek, his warm breathe giving you goosebumps. “Don’t pout. You get all cute and tragic before every attempt”.

“So you knew?”

“Course I knew”. He laughs boyishly like he’s tired of it but loving it anyway. “Why do you think I’ve been letting you get close? I wanted to see how long it’d take you to catch feelings”.

Your face burns. “I haven’t—!”

“Oh no?” His hand drops low, palm spreading over the curve of your ass, squeezing just hard enough to make you twitch. “Then what was that little speech last night? About how I’m the only one who makes you feel safe?”

“I was drunk”.

“No no, you said it while sober”.

You scowl. “Oh my gosh, you’re so insufferable”.

“And you’re a very bad assassin, angel”.

“Stop calling me that”.

“No,” he says, sweet and final. Then he leans up, brushing his mouth over yours like you’re not seconds from killing him—like you couldn’t, even if you tried. “Do it, then. C’mon”.

You blink. “What?”

He nudges his nose along your jaw. “Go on. Try again. Right now”.

Your fingers tremble where they curl around the handle under your dress. And he knows—he wants you to do it. But not because he’s challenging you.

Because he wants to see what you’ll choose.

And you hate it—hate that your heart clenches instead of your grip. Hate that your thighs press tighter around his hips instead of shoving off him. Hate that it’s already decided, and it’s not him dying tonight.

“…You’re a bastard,” you whisper as the dagger slips from your grip and lands on the floor with a loud, dramatic clatter.

He grins as his lips brushes your ear.

“Mmhm. But I’m your bastard now, huh?”

[sakurakuna]

"choso, did you just... cum?" ☆

you don't mean to sound accusatory but you're so caught off-guard that you can't help but ask. your not-yet boyfriend is sat beneath you with his eyes screwed shut and bottom lip still caught between his teeth.

he shakes his head no in such a quick manner that one of his hairties come loose. a rosy pink blushes his nose and cheeks and you can’t quite tell if it’s from embarrassment or the fact that he literally just came in his pants from kissing you.

you weren’t even grinding on him. sure, you were sat in his lap and were more than aware of the hardening bulge beneath you—but you’re so early in this relationship that you’re not even sure you can call him your boyfriend just yet, so you obviously weren’t going to address his boner regardless of how badly you wanted to feel his dick pulse against you.

okay so maybe you were grinding on him a little. chasing just enough friction to remind yourself of all the good things in life, like choso and his abnormally large cock that you hope to one day soon feel so deep it's practically in your stomach.

"i didn't," he lies poorly. "i just... sneezed."

"you didn't sneeze."

"i did, it was a silent one."

"like a silent fart?"

"no! god, just... i need a minute, okay? to clean up."

you sit down a little more firmly against choso's cock, which is still so rock hard that you almost wonder if he didn't actually cum in his pants. you know an orgasm when you see it, though, and the way choso basically moaned like a whore once he got a taste of your lips left nothing to the imagination. he came alright.

"you need to clean up your silent sneeze?" you tease him, pressing another kiss to the corner of his lips. "are you lying to me, cho?"

"will you break up with me if i say yes? i'm embarrassed." god he looks gorgeous with this hazy post-orgasm gloss to his eyes. his lips look swollen from your kisses, and you decide you want to keep him like this until he's old and grey and too fucked dumb to ever move.

"can we even break up? are we dating?" you ask, and drag your clothed cunt along the length of his sensitive cock for good measure. "you never asked to be my boyfriend."

choso looks offended. "but- but you just..."

"what, made you cum with a kiss? i've about earned the right to call you my boyfriend, right?"

he nods frantically and, without meaning to, bucks his hips up to meet yours a little better. you can feel all of him now, rock hard against your most sensitive spots even with a few layers of fabric between you. you wonder if lust-induced hypnosis is real and whether or not you're a victim of his wiles.

"it's settled then," you nod. "you want help cleaning up?"

"uhh..." choso hesitates. he didn't think becoming partnered meant sponge baths, though he doesnt think he'd deny you the opportunity, or himself the experience.

"a blowjob, choso. i want to clean you up. with my mouth. this is dirty talk."

choso blinks. "oh," he says. "then yes please."

[sakurakuna]

I need you

Synopsis: Choso needs to fuck you despite the fact that you are Yuuji's babysitter.

Warnings: Desperate sex, rough sex

Visual link: xxxxx

Choso thinks you are an angel.

Honestly.

He marvels at how you always help his family out by babysitting his little brother Yuji, even if it's late at night. Your kindness shines through in every action, and he can't help but notice how your eyes glow like an angel's, your skin seems so soft, and your voice carries a soothing, gentle tone. It's not just what you do; it's the way you do it, with such grace and beauty, that makes him believe you truly are a blessing to his family.

So that is why he must do this.

His touches are relentless, drawing you into his room the moment Yuuji is asleep. You can barely even get a word in before his bigger hands are under your shirt, exploring the warmth of your skin, a desperate longing evident in each caress. You want to tell him to slow down, to truly connect beyond the frantic urgency. But your words dissolve into breathless whispers as you meet his dark tired eyes that are practically begging for you, begging to be with you, begging to feel you.

"I like kissing you." He murmurs against your lips. "I like you. I like you so much, you are so pretty. I like and love you."

You let yourself fall into his touch and Choso captures your mouth with his, a deep, enveloping kiss that makes you moan and whine for more. As he gently removes your tank top and shorts, leaving you in your bra and underwear and he devotes attention to every inch of your skin, delivering tender nips, soft sucks, and gentle bites.

"Perfect." He mumbles under his breath, burying his nose into the crook of your neck to pepper the delicate skin with soft kisses. "Fuck, you are so perfect, baby."

Your mind grows fuzzy at his words and you let out a sharp gasp when you feel him pull the hem of your underwear down your legs.

"Jump," he commands softly, his voice a low rumble that reverberates through you. Without hesitation, you leap up and in one fluid motion, he lifts you up. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, securing you against him as he presses you against the wall. Your fingers find their way into his black hair tied up in buns long, tugging gently at the strands, anchoring yourself to him as his kisses deepen. You don't even notice that he has lowered his pants until you feel the hard pressure against your tight hole, making you instinctively squirm away.

"Stay still f'me ok baby?" Choso groans, peppering kisses along your jaw while he aligns himself with you. Without warning, he thrusts into you, the sudden friction and collision with your G-spot knocking the wind out of your lungs. It's as if every fiber of your being is tuned to this moment, each caress and sensation amplifying the pleasure that surges through you. You feel a soft shiver start at the base of your spine, traveling upward, making your skin tingle with exquisite delight. Ticklish pleasure courses through your veins and you immediately throw your head back against the wall as Choso thrusts into you.

"Hnghh, s-so good~~" You whine. It was dizzying, the grith of his dick digging itself against your g-spot, the euphoria of him fitting snuggly against walls with every thrust. The friction is incredible and it made pain quickly turn into pleasure. The tightness of your cunt has Choso gasping for breath, the grip on your hips almost bruising as he tries to keep himself from spilling inside of you right here and now.

"I can feel you baby, sh-shit, I can feel you doing it to me." Choso is not a whining man but here he is falling apart at the warmth of your cunt. God you were heaven, he thinks he would be eternally happy if he could just spend all his time inside of you, feeling you squeeze around him, smelling the intoxicating scent of your shampoo. He uses you like his personal cock sleeve, thrusting up into your warm cunt with such vigor that it shapes your insides and bruises your cervix until your entire body jolts with sensitivity.

For a moment, he slows down, leaning down to the space between you and letting a glob of thick spit drop onto your clit. He moves side to side, opening up your folds and rubbing your clit. You cry from the pleasure and Choso's Adam apple bobs as he groans as well.

He's close, and he knows you are too.

He is glaring at you with hooded eyes, watching the expressions of pleasure you make intently. Choso is caught in some sort of trance, like even though he is fucking you, he is powerless to you.

Your mind begins to drift, losing itself in the intensity of the experience of Choso fucking you. Time seems to blur, and the world around you fades, leaving only the profound connection between you and the pleasure you're immersed in. Each moment stretches and deepens, and you're carried away by the ebb and flow of sensations. Your body responds instinctively, arching off the wall and lifting your hips to meet Choso's thrusts, seeking more, craving the next wave of ecstasy. The pleasure builds and builds, a crescendo that fills you to the brim. It's a symphony of sensation, a dance of pure, unadulterated joy that leaves you breathless and yearning.

And then, in a glorious, breathtaking instant, it peaks. The world seems to explode in a kaleidoscope of bliss, and you are utterly consumed by it. Your heart races, your breath catches, and for a moment, you are weightless, suspended in a universe of pure pleasure.

Luckily for you, Choso is right there with you. His mind dips into a ocean of pleasure and before he can put a stop to it, he is spilling load upon loads of himself in you.

Damn it, he should've done this sooner.

[sakurakuna]

Zendaya for Louis Vuitton

[sakurakuna]

pairing: hooker Toji Fushiguro x you | warnings: paid sex

summary; you’re a shy sweet girl until you book Toji one day for an hour and he ruins you completely

ೃ⁀➷ Break For The Man You Paid For

“You sure about this, sweetheart?” His voice is low, rough. And worse, almost bored. Like he’s just confirming an order at a takeout window. He’s leaning against your doorframe in a dark jacket, arms crossed, eyes dragging over your body like you’re a price tag.

You nod barely. You can’t even look him in the eyes. “Y-Yes. I… I want to.”

He smirks. “Alright. Let’s see the money.”

Your hands tremble slightly as you hand him the envelope. He takes it without a word, flips through the bills, and raises a brow when he sees the tip tucked in. “Didn’t say you had to pay me extra.”

“I… I just thought, um, you should have it,” you mumble. “Since… you’re doing this.”

Toji lets out a quiet, humorless chuckle. “Doing you, you mean.”

You freeze. He sees it. Sees the flush rise in your cheeks, the way your thighs press together a little.

He jerks his chin. “Lead the way, then. Time’s ticking.”

You nod again, turning to walk toward your bedroom, and he follows, his eyes locked on the sway of your hips in your too-soft, too-cute little dress.

You sit on the edge of the bed, hands folded in your lap. Toji shrugs off his jacket and sets it on your chair like this is any other job.

“You ever done this before?” he asks, voice low as he kicks off his boots.

Your eyes flick to his and then back to your lap. “No. I’ve never…”

“Figured.” He pauses, gaze dark. “You nervous?”

You nod. “Y-Yeah.”

He hums. “You should be.”

And then he steps between your knees, tilts your chin up with a single finger. “You paid me to fuck you, sweetheart,” he says, voice calm and heavy. “So unless you’ve changed your mind, I’m gonna give you what you paid for.”

Your breath catches. And god, that look in his eyes like he doesn’t care, like you’re just another client, but there’s a flicker, just a flicker, of something sharper. Like he’s already guessing how you’ll sound when you break.

He steps back then and already stripping in a slow, methodical way. Shirt off, scars on display, pants dropping low on his hips before he slides them off. You can’t help but stare. His body is… terrifying. Thick muscle. Power. And that heavy cock he rolls the condom onto without ceremony.

You undress then too, hands shaking, the urge to hide thickens. God, this is a mistake, you think over and over again when you sit back down. And it only gets worse.

He doesn’t ask what you like. Doesn’t touch you first. He just kneels on the bed, grips your hips, and pulls you toward the center like you’re nothing more than a pillow to fuck.

You gasp, arms fluttering a little as you adjust. “W-Wait… just, um-”

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he mutters. “Unless you want me to.”

Your face burns. He leans over you, knee spreading your thighs apart, positioning himself with practiced ease. You feel the thick press of him, blunt and unrelenting, against your entrance.

“Try to relax,” he says, flat. “Won’t take long.”

He pushes in. Your breath stutters, more from the stretch than the pain. He’s big. So much bigger than you expected. And he’s not slow about it either, just steady, deep, filling.

You grip the sheets. He watches your face as you squirm. Not out of concern, but curiosity. Like he’s trying to decide if you’re enjoying it or regretting everything.

“You’re tight,” he mutters. “Thought you said you wanted this.”

“I- I do,” you whisper. “It’s just-”

He stills. There’s a second. Just one. Where something shifts in his eyes. A flicker of… not tenderness, but awareness. Maybe even guilt. He exhales, low.

Then, he says softer. “You ever had a guy inside you before?”

You hesitate. Then nod. “Only once. It was years ago.”

That explains it. Toji braces himself on one arm and slowly rocks his hips, less force this time, more glide. Watching your lashes flutter, the way your lips part in surprise.

“Feels good?” he asks, voice still flat, but quieter now.

You nod. You’re trying. So hard to enjoy it. But your face is flushed, lips bitten pink, thighs trembling like you’re trying not to embarrass yourself.

And Toji, bored, cold Toji, watches it all.

“…You’re cute,” he mutters, almost to himself.

You blink up at him.

“I mean,” he continues, fucking you with lazy, deep strokes, “for a shy little thing who paid for dick like it’s takeout.”

Your face burns. But your body clenches, just a little, and he feels it.

He smirks. “Oh. So that does do something for you.”

His hips roll slow, deep. Not lazy now, intentional.

Your hands clutch the sheets, chest heaving, mouth parted in the softest moan. He can feel you pulsing around him, every little squeeze sending heat right to his spine.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice darker now, no longer bored. “You’re soaked.”

You whimper, turning your face away in embarrassment.

“Don’t hide,” he growls, hand catching your chin and turning you back. “I wanna see.”

Your lip trembles. And it shouldn’t affect him. You’re a client. This is a job. But the way you look at him like he’s something more, like he’s the first man who’s ever really touched you… fuck, it does something to him.

“You want me to make you feel good?” he asks, voice low and rough against your cheek.

You nod.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

“…Yes. Please.”

His hand slides down between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rough and warm, not gentle, but good. Your body jolts, breath catching.

“You this sensitive from just a few strokes?” he murmurs. “Fuckin’ hell, baby. You were made to be fucked.”

You choke on a moan. He thrusts deeper now, fingers circling your clit, watching your expression twist with pleasure you’re too shy to admit.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say you like it.”

“I… I like it.”

“Say you like being used.”

Your breath hitches. You hesitate. “I like being used.”

And that’s it. Toji’s control starts to crack. His rhythm picks up, harder now, more intense. Your body bounces beneath him, thighs shaking, eyes glossy with overwhelmed pleasure.

He leans down, mouth hot at your ear. “Still shy, princess?” he taunts. “Even while you’re clenching around me like you’re about to cum?”

You let out a soft, desperate noise. So close you’re shaking. And that makes him grin.

“You gonna cum for the cock you paid for?” he growls. “Gonna soak it like a good little client?”

Toji can feel the way your walls flutter, the way your legs tighten, your hips bucking just slightly against the force of his thrusts. You’re panting now, clutching the sheets like they’ll save you, like if you just focus hard enough, you won’t cum. But that’s not gonna fly.

“Uh-uh,” he growls, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head with one hand. “Don’t you fucking dare hold back on me.”

Your eyes go wide. “I…I can’t… Toji!”

“You will.” His hips slam into yours harder, deeper. “You think I came all this way for you to hold that pretty little orgasm in?”

You shake your head, trembling.

“Paid good money, didn’t you?” His voice is hot against your ear. “So cum, sweetheart. Soak my cock. Make it worth my time.”

Your back arches, the force of him, his filthy voice, his control. All of it tears through you.

You break. You cry out, legs locking around his waist, body spasming under him as the orgasm crashes through you so hard it nearly knocks the air from your lungs. It’s loud. It’s messy. And worst of all, it’s so much better than you ever expected.

Toji watches you fall apart with a dark, satisfied grin.

“Fuck,” he mutters, thrusting through the aftershocks as your pussy clenches helplessly around him. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

You whimper, tears at the corners of your eyes, face hot and flushed. And he’s still hard. Still moving. Still inside you, deep and full and relentless.

“Cute thing like you should get used to cumming for me,” he murmurs, dragging his lips across your jaw. “You think this is over?”

You blink up at him, dazed. He gives your thighs a squeeze, grinding his hips just right.

“It’s a flat rate, sweetheart,” he smirks. “I don’t stop till the hour’s up.”

Your eyes widen. You’re still shaking. Still dazed from your first orgasm, thighs sticky and trembling, lips parted in soft, shattered whimpers.

Toji doesn’t give her a break. He grabs her waist, flips her like she weighs nothing, and drags her up onto all fours. Her body is limp, pliant, already wrecked.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he grunts, kneeling behind her, cock still thick and hard, glistening with her slick. “You wanted the full hour, right?”

You try to protest, whimpering. “I…I need a second.”

But his chest is suddenly pressed to your back, hot and heavy, making you arch. His hand slides around your front, palm wide against your belly, holding you in place.

“You’ll be fine,” he breathes against your ear. “Just keep that pretty little pussy open for me.”

And then he slams into you again. You cry out, voice raw, high-pitched, barely human. The angle is deeper. Devastating. Like he’s reshaping you from the inside out.

His hand moves. Rough fingers sliding up, curling under your jaw and suddenly he’s got you by the throat. Not choking. Not cruel. Just holding. Like he owns you now.

You whimper, hips rocking back into him without thinking.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, voice a dark growl. “Look at you.”

His pace is filthy. Brutal. Skin slapping. Your body jerking forward with every thrust, eyes rolling.

“Your sweet little act’s slipping, baby,” he snarls, lips brushing your temple. “Didn’t think you’d beg for it like this.”

You try to form words, but they melt on your tongue.

“Thought you’d be quiet. Thought you’d be polite.” His grip on your throat tightens, just enough to make your heart stutter. “But now you’re moaning like a goddamn porn star.”

“Toji, pl-please.”

“Yeah?” he snarls. “Beg again. Beg like you’re gonna pay me to own you.”

Your body convulses. Another orgasm crashing through you before you even realize it’s coming. Your legs collapse. He holds you up, still thrusting, not letting you fall, not letting you hide.

“You gonna remember this?” he growls. “Next time you’re wet and lonely and thinkin’ about booking a nice, quiet boy to fuck you gentle?”His hand curls tighter around your neck. “You’ll think about me.”

Your body’s gone limp beneath him. Eyes glassy, lips trembling, drool at the corner of your mouth. You’re barely upright, shaking with every thrust, every drag of his cock splitting you wide open from behind.

But Toji isn’t done. Not even close. He fists your hair and pulls you up against his chest, dragging your back flush to his soaked torso, your knees barely supporting you. Your breath stutters, weak and ragged.

“That’s it,” he breathes at your ear, voice low, dangerous, almost giddy in its cruelty. “That’s the face I wanted.”

You can’t speak. You just moan, open-mouthed and broken. His hand catches your jaw, turns your face toward the mirror across the room.

“Look at you,” he growls. “Fucked stupid. Paid me to break you, and now you don’t even know what day it is.”

You stare. You see yourself. Red faced, hair a mess, mouth hanging open, tits bouncing with every hard, punishing thrust. Your thighs are glistening, your eyes wet, your body marked where his hands gripped too tight.

And Toji behind you looks feral. Chest heaving. Muscles flexed. That usual bored smirk nowhere to be found. He looks hungry.

“See what you do to me?” he hisses, snapping his hips hard. “You see what you fucking unlocked, sweetheart?”

You whimper, nodding helplessly.

“You thought this was just business,” he growls. “But look at me. Look at how fuckin’ hard I still am after making you cum twice. Look at how I can’t stop.”

You let out a strangled moan as another orgasm builds, your body clenching down on him involuntarily.

“That’s it,” he breathes, voice dark and reverent. “Let it hit you. Fall apart. I want you gone, baby. I want you wrecked. Ruined. Cryin’.”

He grips your throat again, thumb brushing your spit-slick lips.

“Cum,” he growls, voice low and guttural, hips pounding into you so deep you feel it in your ribs. “Fucking cum for me.”

And you do. It hits you so hard you scream. Legs give out. Vision goes white. Your body folds in on itself and he catches you. Hand in your hair, cock still inside you, eyes locked on your twitching reflection like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

And all he can say, voice wrecked and chest heaving, “Fuck.” And then he comes, hard. His groan long and croaked as he fills the condom.

The shower’s warm. Steam curling around you, hands braced to the tile, trying to keep from sliding down. Toji’s behind you, his massive palm gently guiding water down your back. It should feel awkward. Transactional.

But instead, it feels… safe. And quiet.

You’re trembling, flushed from heat and adrenaline, and the only thing you can whisper, soft and confused, “…But the hour’s up?”

He goes still behind you. Then a low, short laugh like you just asked if the sky is blue.

“The fuck’s your point?”

You glance over your shoulder. He’s not even looking at you. He just grabs the body wash and starts rubbing it into his chest like he belongs there, like this is nothing.

“I just…” You blink. “I thought you’d leave.”

He snorts. “What, you got somewhere to be?”

You flush deeper. “No…”

“Good.” He reaches around you, hand brushing your waist not sexual, just familiar. Steady. “Me neither.”

Your heart thuds painfully. Then quieter, almost shy, you murmur, “You didn’t have to stay…”

And his eyes finally meet yours. There’s no grin now. No smirk. Just a slow blink, a shrug of his broad shoulders.

“I wanted to.”

That’s it. No flirt. No seduction. Just truth.

And suddenly, you’re really trembling. Not from the sex, not from the heat, but from how seen you feel. How safe. How real this moment has become. Toji notices.

“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping close, crowding you into the warm tile with his chest. “I’m not goin’ anywhere yet. So relax.”

His hand curls gently under your jaw, tilts your face up to him. “You’re not just another lay,” he mutters, eyes softer now. “I don’t do this. I don’t stay. So don’t look at me like that.”

You whisper. “Like what?”

“…Like I’m something good.”

You smile anyway.

And even though he curses under his breath, even though he turns away and grabs the shampoo like it never happened his hand stays on your waist.

She falls asleep on his chest after the shower. Just like that. Naked, boneless, her cheek smushed into his pec like it’s her damn pillow. Her fingers curl softly against his ribs. Her breath is warm. Even in sleep, she clings.

Toji’s staring at the ceiling like it personally offended him. He should leave. He should have left hours ago. Fuck, he should’ve never stayed in the first place.

But here he is. Flat on his back. Smelling like her shampoo. Spent. With a soft little thing drooling on his chest and wearing his damn heart like it’s hers now.

The room is quiet. Too quiet. He should move. Should shove her off. Should say something. But all he can do is stare at the ceiling fan spinning above them and think, ‘fuck. I’m so screwed’.

Because he’s been with women. Dozens. All shapes, all types. Loud ones. Wild ones. Girls who knew what they wanted and weren’t shy about it.

But this one? She was quiet. Sweet. Nervous. She whispered, not moaned. She looked at him like he mattered.

And now after he fucked her out so hard she could barely stand, she just… trusted him. Fell asleep like he wasn’t the coldest, meanest son of a bitch alive.

His arm moves before he can stop it, sliding around her waist, holding her a little closer. His fingers press against her soft hip, just to feel her warmth. Her realness. She sighs, content in her sleep, and burrows in deeper.

And Toji, the fucker who’s broken bones and walked away from love like it was nothing, feels something shift behind his ribs.

His heart stutters. Catches. And for the first time in a long, long time… he whispers something soft, like it hurts.

“…What the hell are you doing to me, sweetheart.”

No answer. Just the hum of the fan, the warmth of her breath, and the quiet ache of something he might not survive. But he stays.

And when morning comes he’ll still be there.

[sakurakuna]

phlebotomist choso doodles

[sakurakuna]

loveee thisss

Let's go milf huntin' ˳ᐟ ˳ᐟ

Desc | Choso has always had an immense thing for milfs, but his obsession gets a whole lot worse when he moves next door to his ridiculously hot, newly-divorced neighbor. Lucky for him? Things start falling into place.

Cw | Age gap (Choso is in his mid twenties/reader is in her early forties,) milf! Reader, dry h*mping, crėampīe, mommy kīnk, soft! Dom choso, marking, mild begging, + Choso is yuuji’s legal guardian, reader has two children (only briefly mentioned,) divorcee! Reader, & not proofread. + ML

Milf hunter! Choso doesn’t do women his age at all, at first his standard was at least a year or two older than him, but then he realized each time his actual needs in a relationship were left completely unsatisfied.

Milf hunter! Choso noticed he desired older women, not even just for their beauty, but for their emotional stability and overall maturity. He values the way older women are confident, composed, often avoid drama, and take no nonsense from others.

Milf hunter! Choso who’s starved for nurturing energy, especially since he hadn’t got much of it himself, spending more time caring for his little brother Yuuji, so a woman who’s caring, gentle, warm, yet also knows what she wants hits him right in his weak spot.

Milf hunter! Choso who happens to find his exact type when he moves next door to you, knowing just by a glance you check off a few boxes in his head, but he already knows he craves more interaction to get to know you first.

Milf hunter! Choso who uses Yuuji as an excuse to continuously see you, scheduling for playdates always meant it’d be just you and Choso chatting about everything, while Yuuji and your two kids would play with each other.

Milf hunter! Choso who’s shocked, yet so turned on the second you two are chatting and he learns you’re in your early forties.

Milf hunter! Choso found himself unfortunately thrilled when finding out you’re a divorcee, taking that as his big opportunity to get closer.

Milf hunter! Choso adores every single time you invite him over, he already knows you’ll provide him with a large feast even if he declines, trying his best not to eat so much, feeling guilty about how badly he wants to return the favor.

Milf hunter! Choso is always at your house more than his own, he starts getting so close, you begin to let him in about the drama of why you divorced your ex-husband. It shatters his spirit, yet warms his heart that you’re able to be vulnerable with him.

Milf hunter! Choso’s favorite moments are when he’s all alone with you, specifically when his brother is at school and your children are spending time with your ex husband…

Milf hunter! Choso who’s always there rubbing your back when you vent about how terrible your ex-husband treated you. It only upsets him when you ask if you’re talking too much, he wishes to hold that weight for you.

Milf hunter! Choso acts on autopilot when you begin to cry about any stress breaking you apart. It’s only instinct when he brushes any hair away from your face, kissing your tears solely to comfort you.

Milf hunter! Choso apologizes profusely when your eyebrows are raised along with your jaw dropped at his actions.

Milf hunter! Choso who’s now deeply perplexed, feeling your soft lips on his mumbling “It’s okay you didn’t have to apologize.”

Milf hunter! Choso swears his heart is hammering so loud, he’s convinced you hear it. Mind going completely numb when you straddle his lap, guiding his hands to your hips.

Milf hunter! Choso hates how easy it is to make him hard, but can’t help it when you’re in a pretty little pink robe that has your initial imprinted on the chest. Just subtle grinding on top of him through his jeans has his veins aching for more.

Milf hunter! Choso who starts to go feral hearing your sultry moans against his red-tinted ears, he can’t help but to suck at the tender skin on your neck leaving marks purposefully to jab at your ex.

Milf hunter! Choso whimpers embarrassingly loud once you move your hips back and forth whispering sweet nothings into his ear. His breathing became shaky when you pressed your forehead on his, accidentally coming too quick leaving a dark wet patch through his pants.

Milf hunter! Choso suddenly has something unlock in him once you tease him for it, whispering “You must really needed that, huh?”

Milf hunter! Choso who has you gasping, as he pushes you down in front of him, ordering you to untie your robe, while he unzips his jeans, sliding down his boxers.

Milf hunter! Choso nearly rolls his eyes back easing into you, knowing his fleshlights at home would be collecting dust after this.

Milf hunter! Choso who gently smiles when you use your french tips to rub your sensitive bundle of nerves, as cream starts to collect on his pelvis. He plants little kisses all over your face whispering “Fuck, does that feel good mommy?”

Milf hunter! Choso who’s subtly proud when you can only nod, throat too focused on crying out his name rather than forming a sentence to answer him. He purposefully raises your legs over his broad shoulder pounding deep, just to bully that a-spot, hearing your pretty mewls echo around the living room.

Milf hunter! Choso who talks you through your orgasm before his own, murmuring things like “It’s okay just relax, you can let go for me.” And when you finally do? He lets you hold his hand, even if he feels like his bones might crack.

Milf hunter! Choso still tries to be respectful although he was just fucking your pussy like an animal a moment ago, with a trembling voice he asks “Can I cum inside you mommy? Please..?”

Milf hunter! Choso who stuffs you so deep with his thick semen, your poor tummy feels overly bloated. 

Milf hunter! Choso had such a memorable time with you that he almost forgets to pick his brother up from school. Nevertheless he manages to grab a rag in your bathroom nearby to clean you up, fixing your hair as he peppers your face with kisses, and making tea, before he grabs his car keys to leave.

Milf hunter! Choso who has your ex husband’s panties in a twist once he drops your children off, fuming at the marks on your neck learning you’ve moved onto someone younger.

Divider/Boarders produced by icheries & diviniyae.

Song written by Koi'lani/@aquasoftware.

<3 Masterlist!!

REBLOGS, COMMENTS, AND LIKES ARE HEAVILY APPRECIATED!! THANK YOU < 3

A/n : Happy belated mother’s day 🤫

[sakurakuna]

Milkman Toji giving you uhhh milk (heavy dub-con + degradation)

You opened the door in your nightie, rubbing sleep away from your tired eyes and expecting the usual clink of glass bottles. But instead of settling the milk down in your porch as always, Toji stepped into your apartment uninvited, tall and broad in his white uniform, his smirk already curling in something wicked.

“Morning, doll,” he muttered, kicking the door shut behind him, heavy boots thudding against your floor as he walked towards you. “No milk today. Got something even better”.

Before you could ask your valid questions, his large hand was wrapped around your throat, the other forcing your jaw open with ease. He hastily unzipped his pants, tugging out his cock—already half-hard and heavy, veins thick and fucking cruel in its weight. You whimpered at the size, but he just clicked his tongue like he didn't care.

“Come on—open up, breakfast is served, sweet thing,” he chuckled, forcing you on your knees and slapping it across your lips, leaving a sticky smear of pre-cum before stuffing it into your mouth until your nose was smashing against coarse hair. The scent of him filled your senses—sweat, musk, and man. You gagged instantly, tears already brimming in your eyes but he didn’t pull back. Just held you there, throbbing thick against your tongue, watching with that feral grin as you struggled to breathe.

“Yeahhh, Choke on it. That’s what you’re good for, baby. Just a warm hole for my cock,” he snarled, holding your head still as he jerked forward, fucking your throat like he hated it. Saliva gushed from the ends of your glossy lips, drooling down your chin and pooling at your collar. “You like this, huh? No manners, no shame. Just daddy’s little cocksucker, how adorable”.

You could barely breathe, his angry tip battering the back of your throat until your eyes crossed.

He didn’t care. He just kept going, groaning low like it got him off watching you choke and struggle, watching your pretty face break down in tears. Each thrust is punctuated by the slick squelch of spit pooling and dripping from your chin.

“Shit, you’re pathetic,” he spat, dragging you off his cock with a wet pop. You gasped, coughing and desperate for air, your spit stringing between his tip and your ruined lips before he gave a light slap on your cheek. “Look at that dumb fucking face. Drooling everywhere like a lil slut in heat”.

He grabbed you up by the waist and manhandled you on top of the counter. Your nightie rode up instantly, your panties were practically soaked and clingy humiliatingly to your folds. Toji didn’t hesitate to rip them down your wobbling thighs and toss them aside. “Cute” he murmured, voice dripping with condescension. “You’ve been waiting for milk right? Here’s your fuckin’ delivery”.

And with that he hammered himself in raw—one brutal stroke and you screamed, fingers quickly scrabbling for something to hold onto. He split you open with no warning, thick and merciless, his fat tip punching uncontrollable moans from your lips as he pounded into you.

“That’s right, cry about it. Cry with my cock in your guts,” he growled into your ear, pistoning his hips with disgusting force, hips slamming against yours loud enough to echo through your small kitchen. “You just wanted a good morning fuck, huh? Didn’t care how. Stupid slut”.

Your cunt clenched despite the filth, stretched wide open around his dick and throbbing as he fucked you through it. The slap of skin filled the air, your legs hooked over his thick forearms as he pounded you open on the kitchen counter like a toy. He picked up the pace, teeth grazing the curve of your throat as he bottomed out, pelvis grinding against your swollen clit.

“Fucked full’a my cock before breakfast. You’re lucky if I don't make you crawl out on the porch like this, stuffed and wrecked with my seed leaking out of your cute cunt,” he hissed, teeth sinking into your delicate neck as he pounded deeper.

He rutted harder, breath getting messy against your cheek, before snarling, “Gonna give you your milk now, baby. Nice and deep in this warm pussy”.

You gasped as his thrusts turned sloppy, balls slapping against your ass one last time before he buried himself with a broken grunt and spilled into your womb. Hot, thick ropes flooded your insides with his warmth, filling you up to the brim.

You twitched around him, eyes glazed and mind shattered, reduced to nothing but the feel of him pulsing inside you. Toji stayed there for a moment, just watching, heavy hands pinning your hips down as if daring you to move.

When he finally pulled out, your breath hitched at the feeling of him slipping free—gooey cum immediately leaking from your stretched, swollen entrance, and dripping down your thighs. Toji watched it with a satisfied grin, wiping his hands on his uniform like he’d just finished a job well done.

“See?” he muttered, zipping up with a smirk. “Didn’t lie. I brought milk, also feel free to let me know if you want some in your cereal too”.

[sakurakuna]

continuation of this post ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ

“y/n, ah!” nerdyclassmate!choso moaned as his head lolled back, fingers digging into your plush thighs as you bounce on his dick like you needed it. his mouth hung open, pretty moans spilling out as his thick shaft disappeared into your soaked pussy, over and over again. "bet you’ve jerked off to this, you dork.” you snapped at him, rolling your hips slow and deep, grinning your clit right against his pelvis. "nerdy little virgin, dreaming about fucking the class slut." the only thing the poor guy was capable of was whimpering, the sound cracking in his throat as your gummy walls nearly sucked the lingering consciousness out of him through his leaking tip.

"i—i can't—g-gonna cum—" choso whined, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip as he writhed beneath you. he couldn't handle the way your tight pussy gripped his shaft and tried to suck his cock deeper, the way your walls molded to his thick shaft. you—trying to keep yourself together as his thick tip bruises your cervix—looks down at his flustered face, skin red, black hair sticking to his forehead as beads of sweat adorned his forehead. you could tell he was close, you could feel it in the way his cock twitches violently inside of you, like he wanted to burst a load shamelessly into you.

"k-keep it inside," you managed to bite out, bouncing on his cock as the sound of your ass slapping against his thighs filled the room, "—better not cum." what would everyone think if they found out a guy like choso fucked you? that you let the kid wjth fogged-up glasses fuck you dumb? they'd think you're an easy, cheap fuck. or maybe you took needed him for the homework answers and took advantage of it, maybe. but none of them knew what it felt like to be split open on a cock this big.

choso whimpered as he looked up at you, you looked down, his pink cheeks flushed, his glasses with the lenses fogged sitting on the bedside table from him probably knocking them off. "y-you, you look beautiful..." he huffs, squeezing the fat of your hip as you continue riding his dick. the softness in his voice is genuine. "s-shut up..." you hissed, feeling your walls flutter around his twitching cock.

he moaned, high and desperate, then his cock jerked violent inside of you, thick ropes spilling deep into your cunt as he came with a choked sob.

[sakurakuna]

ZENDAYA Met Gala 2025

[sakurakuna]

01 | kill switch

pairing — target!satoru x assasin!reader

synopsis : a professional assassin accepts a job to eliminate an ordinary high school teacher—only to find her target is gojo satoru, a man who eats gas station sushi with religious devotion and nearly dies walking to work. as days pass, she finds herself less concerned with completing the job and more preoccupied with why someone would want this disastrous man dead. or: when your target's worst enemy is himself and your professional detachment keeps slipping every time he almost gets hit by a bus.

tags — no curses au, crack treated seriously, dark humor, fluff for all the wrong reasons, assassin & target dynamic, self-destructive disaster man, implied nerdjo, satoru is a great teacher, moral ambiguity, reluctant caretaking, food aggression (affectionate), chaotic neighbors, near-death hijinks, emotional constipation, eventual smut, happy ending. art by @Leimiruu.

a/n : reposting this officially as a series now because im too lazy to edit the original and tumblr mobile is shit <3

series masterlist. | next.

you’ve killed men for less.

and yet, something about this one already irritates you before you've even scoped him out. the client was anonymous, the job listed in the familiar red-font message board you frequent, tucked beneath a refreshingly high bounty. no attached reasons, no requests for theatrics, just the face of a pretty man with white hair and an offer large enough to retire your gear for a year—maybe even two.

your first thought when you read the numbers is that this man is either an international war criminal, an ex-boyfriend who slept with someone’s sister, or a cheating piece of shit whose dick broke a heart so bad it now wants revenge and closure via sniper rifle. all fine reasons to die. you accept it out of habit, maybe greed.

you regret it by day three.

day one.

you stake out his apartment the way you always do. quiet, efficient, professional.

the blonde wig itches against your neck, but you’ve worn worse disguises. the oversized sunglasses and loose blouse make you blend in with the other young professionals in this upscale neighborhood. you look like any other woman waiting for a rideshare, scrolling mindlessly through your phone—except your phone is transmitting thermal readings from his apartment and the binoculars disguised as a compact mirror in your hand are military-grade.

and then he stumbles into frame through your binoculars in a stained hoodie and mismatched socks, trying to unlock his front door with a banana. not a burner phone, not even keys. a banana.

your lips part slightly in disbelief.

it takes him five minutes to realize it, and another two to drop his bag and just sit on the hallway floor, staring at the wall like it just told him bad news. his shoulders droop forward, his expression blank. he eventually eats the banana, chewing mechanically, gaze fixed on nothing.

you lower your binoculars and blink.

“the fuck?” you whisper to yourself, the words escaping between barely parted lips.

day two.

you follow him to work. he’s a high school teacher, apparently.

your outfit today is casual—light summer dress, different wig (auburn this time), sensible shoes. you’ve prepared a story about being a substitute at the neighboring elementary school if anyone asks. no one does. you trail him discreetly, prepared for a twist—maybe a shady meeting, some dark past, some slip.

instead, he offers a student his umbrella when the sky cracks open unexpectedly, rain pouring down in sheets. you duck under a shop awning, watching him through the downpour.

“take it,” he says to the wide-eyed student, voice carrying just enough for you to hear. “i’m already soaked anyway.”

he walks in the rain with a box of graded papers under his arm, making a half-hearted attempt to shield them with his body. you note the detail, even as you wince watching him step into a deep puddle with sneakers and just sigh, like he expected it. water soaks his pants up to mid-calf. he doesn't even attempt to avoid the next puddle.

his students like him, and worse, he’s good at what he does. you observe his class from the courtyard, pretending to read. through the window, you watch him explain complex concepts with surprising clarity, his hands gesturing expressively, occasionally running through that shock of white hair when students ask good questions.

“he’s a teacher,” you mutter to yourself, perched on the rooftop across his school during lunch break, scanning through the lens. your fingers tap an agitated rhythm against the concrete ledge. “he’s a good teacher. the hell did you do, gojo satoru?”

day three.

you almost blow your cover today.

he’s at a convenience store, standing in front of the refrigerated section. you’re pretending to browse magazines, peeking over the top of some celebrity gossip rag. he stares at the drinks for seventeen minutes—you counted—before selecting what appears to be the most sugary, caffeinated option available.

then he walks to the counter, places his energy drink down, and adds three packages of aspirin.

your stomach drops.

the cashier doesn't even look up, just scans everything with bored efficiency.

you abandon your post, slipping out the door and around the corner, heart hammering uncomfortably against your ribs. you’ve seen enough suicides to recognize the signs. but when he emerges five minutes later, he's downing the energy drink and the aspirin is nowhere to be seen.

it’s only when you follow him to his next stop—a pharmacy—that you realize he's delivering medication to an elderly neighbor. she greets him with a trembling smile, patting his cheek with paper-thin hands. he stays for twenty minutes, fixing a loose cabinet door before leaving.

you lean against the building across the street, exhaling slowly through your nose, suddenly aware of how tightly you've been gripping your fake shopping bag.

“what the hell am i missing?” you whisper to yourself.

day four.

by day four, he has become your most infuriating subject to date.

he lives like a man who lost a bet with life and is now doing his best to make death easier.

your perch today is a cafe across from his apartment. you've rotated through three different outfits already, your current disguise featuring dark hair cropped short, glasses, and a conservative button-up. you look like an accountant on lunch break, nibbling at a sandwich that tastes like cardboard in your mouth as you watch his apartment through the window.

through your high-powered lens, you witness him eat an entire strawberry shortcake for dinner and wash it down with a can of expired soda—you can see the bloated sides of the can from here, for god's sake. your fork pauses halfway to your mouth, appetite suddenly gone.

“that can’t be your dinner,” you murmur, annoyed, brow furrowing. “where's the protein? vegetables? anything?”

later, you trail him to the grocery store, hoping—praying—he’ll buy something resembling actual nutrition. instead, he fills his basket with instant ramen, more energy drinks, and another cake. you find yourself in the produce section, hand tightening around an innocent apple as you watch him bypass every single vegetable without a glance.

on his walk home, he crosses the street disassociating, eyes unfocused, headphones in, not even looking both ways. your heart leaps into your throat as a car swerves toward him, horn blaring. he barely dodges, the vehicle missing him by inches.

you almost scream when the car swerves and he barely dodges. instead of panic, he just offers the driver a lazy two–fingered salute and keeps walking, shoulders relaxed as if he hadn't nearly become roadkill.

“what the fuck is wrong with you,” you hiss into your sleeve, nails digging half–moons into your palms. “do you have a death wish or are you just naturally stupid?”

your fingers are trembling slightly when you lower your hand. professionals don’t get emotional about targets. professionals don’t care if their target eats cake for dinner. professionals don’t feel this strange, twisting sensation in their gut when they watch someone court death so casually.

you are a professional. you remind yourself of this fact three times before continuing your surveillance.

day five.

by day five, you realize you are stalking a man trying to die before you can kill him.

he has no sense of self-preservation. none.

you’re positioned in the building opposite his apartment again, this time with a camera set up to look like you're a photographer working on a project. your hair is tucked under a cap, face partially obscured by the equipment.

through your lens, you watch him microwave aluminum foil and then eat the food anyway when it doesn't immediately burst into flames. sparks fly inside the microwave; he doesn't even flinch, just waits for it to finish with dead eyes.

“are you kidding me right now?” you whisper, fingers tightening on your camera. “that could have electrocuted you or started a fire!”

he leaves his door unlocked when he goes for a run. he clicks on pop-up ads on his laptop without hesitation. he buys sushi from a gas station—the one with the flickering lights and questionable health rating that you'd never even walk into—and winces mid-bite but finishes it anyway.

you almost cry when you see him with it again the next day.

“that’s food poisoning waiting to happen,” you mutter with a grimace, stomach churning in sympathetic nausea as you watch him poke at the discolored fish. “please, please don't eat that.”

he eats it.

you’ve planned this assassination like a professional—timed his routes, noted his blind spots, patterned his movements—and he’s just... walking into open traffic without looking. staying up until 3 AM watching what appears to be Digimon marathon reruns, blue light washing over his exhausted face. drinking straight from a milk carton that expired last week.

you start tailing him less like a killer and more like a babysitter. every time he trips over nothing, you flinch, body instinctively moving forward before you catch yourself. every time he shrugs off something dangerous, you scribble angrily in your notes, pressing so hard the pen nearly tears through the paper.

“at this rate,” you mutter through gritted teeth, crouched behind a newspaper stand, watching him nearly walk into a construction pit while texting, “i won’t get paid because he’s going to accidentally electrocute himself trying to toast frozen pizza.”

your hand tightens around your pen until your knuckles turn white.

day six.

you break protocol on day six.

it’s raining again, a miserable drizzle that seeps into bones. you’re in a dark peacoat, hair hidden under a fashionable hat, makeup subtle but effective in changing the structure of your face. anyone looking would see just another commuter hurrying through the weather.

he’s at the park, sitting on a bench, getting soaked. just... sitting there. not reading, not on his phone. sitting and staring at nothing, letting the rain plaster his white hair to his forehead, droplets running down his face like tears—or hiding them.

thirty minutes pass. he doesn't move.

forty–five minutes.

an hour.

your fingers are numb around your umbrella handle. you shouldn’t care. you should be calculating the perfect moment to complete your job, not wondering if he’s going to catch pneumonia.

when his shoulders start to shake—from cold or something else, you can’t tell—something in you snaps. you approach from behind, making your footsteps deliberately loud on the wet pavement.

you hold your umbrella over his head, not saying a word.

he looks up at you, startled, blue eyes wide and rimmed with red. for a split second, his expression is so vulnerable it makes your chest ache.

“you’re getting soaked,” you say, voice carefully neutral, face deliberately unremarkable. forgettable. “take it.”

you place the umbrella in his unresisting hand and walk away before he can respond, rain immediately soaking through your coat. you don't look back, even when you feel his eyes following you.

that night, in your temporary apartment, you stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, water dripping from your real hair after a hot shower that couldn't seem to warm you.

“what the hell are you doing?” you ask yourself angrily, voice echoing against the tile. “this isn’t the job. this isn’t who you are.”

but even as you say it, you’re already planning tomorrow's surveillance route, already wondering if he'll eat a proper breakfast.

day seven.

day seven is a monday. it starts, as many do, with him almost getting hit by a bus.

you’re across the street, dark sunglasses shielding your eyes despite the overcast sky, a fitted blazer and pencil skirt making you look like any other office worker heading to their cubicle. your hair is your natural color today, styled differently than you’d normally wear it—a calculated risk to blend in better with the morning crowd.

he doesn’t even flinch as the bus screeches to a halt inches from him. just raises a hand in apology, earbuds in, music blasting, hoodie hoodied. he smells like gas station teriyaki sticks and failure, you can tell from the crumpled wrapper sticking out of his pocket. your nose wrinkles involuntarily.

you’re watching from the shadows again, jaw clenched, heart tight for reasons you refuse to name. one hand grips the strap of your messenger bag so tightly the leather creaks. it’s the bento in your bag that does it. you made it without thinking last night, slapping it together like some fevered instinct. rice, miso, actual vegetables. protein. things humans need to survive.

he's digging into his hoodie pocket for change when you stomp across the street, dodging morning traffic with the precision you usually reserve for more lethal tasks.

“what the—” he starts, blue eyes widening behind those ridiculous glasses he sometimes wears.

you shove the warm box into his chest, the heat of it burning through your gloves. your expression is murderous, brows drawn together, lips pressed into a thin line.

“eat it.” you snap, each syllable sharp and distinct.

he stares at you. your face is neutral except for the slight flush of exertion climbing your neck. he doesn’t recognize you. of course he doesn't. you’re a professional. the wind rustles his hair, the corner of his lips twitch like he’s about to laugh, revealing a dimple you hadn't noticed before.

you turn on your heel and storm away, shoulders stiff, steps measured despite the urge to run.

he watches you go. the box in his hands is still warm.

he blinks once. twice. looks down at it. looks back at your retreating form.

“huh,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, voice rough from too many sleepless nights. “figures. i fall in love at first sight with a pretty girl the same week i hire someone to kill me.”

he looks down at the warm bento like it personally insulted him.

“timing really is a bitch.”