wickedusername
wickedusername
in my jjk phase
138 posts
Percy, he/they. I write thirst that would cause my gran a heart attack. MDNI 🔞
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wickedusername · 9 days ago
Text
JUST THIS ONCE | JJK
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summary. when you complain to jungkook about your lack of action in the past year, you're not really asking for a solution. but when he casually offers to help, you just can't seem to bring yourself to say no.
after all, what's the worst that could happen in hooking up just this once?
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pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader
genre: friends to lovers, smut, fluff (?)
word count: 5.1k
warnings: you’re gonna get sick of the title loll, brief alcohol consumption, this is lowkey pwp (there will be more plot soon i promise) swearing, explicit sexual content, kissing, making out, fingering, oral (m. receiving), he’s very cocky but also pathetic, multiple orgasms, lots of banter and teasing as dirty talk, petnames (baby), jk calls oc a brat x2, multiple positions, insinuated aftercare, let me know if i missed anything!
notes: you guys built this fic!! this was supposed to be out on thursday but i realised i was being wayy to ambitious cuz i definitely needed more than two days to write this loll. but alas, it’s here :3 as always, likes, comments, reblogs, feedback and asks are very appreciated! enjoy reading angels <33
ps. THERE WILL BE A PART TWO!!
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⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback
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You fumble with your keys, swaying just slightly as you try to jab the right one into the lock. Behind you, Jungkook’s laughing under his breath, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath on the back of your neck.
“Need help?” he asks, the amusement in his voice unmistakable.
“I’ve got it,” you say, jabbing the key with exaggerated precision. The door finally clicks open, and you push it in with a triumphant, “Ha!”
“You’re so competent,” he deadpans, clapping a mock applause as he follows you in. His shoulder bumps yours as he passes. “It’s honestly inspiring.”
You kick off your shoes, tossing your keys into the bowl by the door. “And you’re so annoying,” you mutter, but there’s no heat in it.
Jungkook drops onto your couch like it’s his own, sprawling out like he owns the place. Which, in some ways, he kind of does.
A hoodie of his is already slung over the back of a kitchen chair, from some night two weeks ago when he stayed too late and decided not to drive home. There’s an energy drink in your fridge with his name written on the lid in Sharpie. The blanket he’s tugging over his lap? That’s the one he gifted you for Christmas, mostly so he could use it whenever he came over.
It’s always been like this.
He tosses his denim jacket on the couch as you grab two bottles of water from the fridge, chucking one to him without warning. He catches it with the ease.
“You were definitely flirting with that bartender,” he says, unscrewing the cap and looking at you with that maddeningly smug smile.
You scoff. “He had a mullet and called me ‘miss.’ It wasn’t flirting— it was survival.”
“Sure,” he says, nodding like he totally believes you. “That’s why you laughed at everything he said, even when he asked if you liked your tequila neat.”
“It was neat!” you say, defensive and laughing at the same time. “And besides, you flirted with the girl in the fishnets for, like, an hour.”
He shrugs. “Guilty. She had good taste in music. And thighs.”
You groan and flop down beside him on the couch, letting your head fall back against the cushion. Your thigh brushes his, but you don’t move. Neither does he. The buzz from the party is still warm in your blood, and the apartment feels too quiet now — too intimate without the noise and lights and other bodies.
“You ever think we’re just... really bad at dating?” you ask, staring at the ceiling.
“Constantly,” Jungkook says, without hesitation.
You glance at him. “Like, maybe we peaked in college.”
He makes a face. “Don’t say that. I refuse to believe my best years happened while I was still eating instant ramen and failing comp sci.”
You laugh, and he turns his head toward you, watching you with that soft-eyed expression you know too well. There’s something about Jungkook when he’s like this — no bravado, no teasing smirk, just... present. His hair is a mess from the wind, and a dark tank top hugs his figure.
He’s too comfortable here. Too familiar.
“I genuinely think I’ve forgotten what a good kiss feels like,” you say, mostly to the ceiling, like it’s a throwaway thought.
Jungkook hums. “That bad, huh?”
“It’s not even bad, it’s just...” You trail off, searching for the word. “Empty. Mechanical. Like everyone’s going through the motions, but nobody’s actually there.”
He shifts slightly, angling his body more toward you. “So no decent kissers at all lately?”
You shake your head. “No decent anything, if I’m honest.”
He raises an eyebrow, curious.
You hesitate, but the alcohol in your system makes it easier to say what you probably wouldn’t sober. “I haven’t slept with anyone in like... almost a year.”
Jungkook blinks, not in judgment, just surprised. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.” You rub at your temple with a laugh. “I didn’t plan it or anything. It just kind of... kept not happening. And then it became this weird streak, and now here we are.”
He’s quiet for a moment.
“Well,” he says eventually, “maybe your standards are just too high.”
“Or maybe men are just mid,” you shoot back.
That gets a laugh out of him, loud and bright. He tips his head back, and you watch his throat move as he laughs. Too long. Too hard. When he calms down, he gives you a look — something mischievous that you've grown to know too well over the years.
"What?" you ask, narrowing your eyes at him with a smile.
He shrugs. “I mean... I could help."
“With my standards?”
“With the streak.”
You snort. “What, you offering?”
“Maybe.”
You tilt your head. “So what? You wanna bang it out?”
It’s meant to be funny. You’re grinning when you say it. But when you look at him — really look — he’s not laughing.
His gaze lingers on your mouth for a beat too long. Then his eyes flick up to yours.
“Just this once?” he asks, voice low. Careful. Like he’s giving you an out.
You don’t answer right away. The room goes still. The hum of the fridge feels too loud. His eyes are still on you, and it’s not a look you’ve ever seen from him before.
Your heart stutters in your chest.
You swallow. “Wouldn't it be weird?”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away.
“Only if we let it be.”
You sit there for a second, the weight of it all hitting a little too fast. Your brain’s still catching up to your mouth, to the way your body’s buzzing — not from the alcohol anymore, but from him. From the heat in his eyes, the way he said it — almost like a dare.
And then his expression shifts.
His eyes flick away, and his tongue runs over the silver ring on his bottom lip, like he’s pulling it back, reeling it in.
“Only if you want to, obviously,” he says, quieter this time. “We don’t have to.”
He starts to lean back like he's resetting the mood — like this moment can still be folded back into the safety of your usual teasing — but you stop him.
You move first.
You grab the front of his tank top — not hard, not dramatic, just enough — and you pull him in.
You kiss him.
It’s abrupt. Heat over hesitation. A split-second decision that tastes like tequila and impulse, like comfort and fuck it all wrapped up in the same breath.
At first, he doesn’t move, frozen in surprise. But then he kisses you back — really kisses you back — and suddenly you're not thinking anymore.
His hand slides to your thigh, just enough pressure to ground you, and you shift toward him instinctively, knees brushing his. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of focused laziness, like he’s savouring it. Like he’s trying to figure out exactly how you taste.
You pull back half a second, just to breathe, lips brushing his as you mutter, “Took you long enough.”
He laughs into your mouth, low and smug. “You kissed me.”
“Yeah, well. You looked like you were gonna bail.”
“I was being respectful,” he says, voice muffled against your jaw as he starts kissing along it. “But sure, let’s call it bailing.”
You gasp a little when he nips at your neck, just enough pressure to make you arch toward him. Your hands slide under his top, fingers skimming the warm skin of his back, and he shivers under your touch.
“Jesus,” you murmur. “How are you this built? You eat, like, gas station snacks and leftover noodles.”
“I work out,” he mutters between kisses, grinning as he drags his mouth back to yours. “Also, you’ve seen me shirtless.”
“Yeah, but not like this.”
“Like what?”
You tug him closer until your chest presses to his. “Like I get to touch.”
That shuts him up real quick.
He kisses you again, this time more urgently, and you feel the change in the air — less teasing, more want. Your legs shift to straddle his lap without thinking, your hands sliding up into his hair, tugging just a little.
He groans, deep and rough, biting down on your bottom lip before kissing it better. You rock your hips forward slightly and he bucks up into you with a hiss.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.
You smirk against his mouth. “You offered, remember?”
“Yeah, and I’m rapidly realising that was a dangerous choice.”
You laugh, breathless, before kissing him again. He tastes like beer and something sweeter — probably the gum he always chews. You bite his lip and feel him groan into your mouth, hips jerking beneath you.
His fingers slip under your shirt, warm on your skin. Not rushed, just exploring — like he’s been curious for a while and is finally allowed to look.
You roll your hips again, slower this time, and his head drops back against the cushion with a low fuck that makes your stomach flip.
“You still sure about this?” you ask, teasing, as your hands drag down his chest, fingers playing with the hem of his shirt.
His eyes open — dark, focused, amused.
“You gonna stop me if I say no?”
You shake your head. “Nope.”
“Then yeah,” he says, breath hitching as your fingers reach his abdomen. “I’m very sure.”
He catches your fingers before you can finish unbuttoning his jeans.
You raise a brow, breath still uneven. “Seriously?”
He nods, steady, calm in a way that only makes your pulse pound harder. “I said I was helping you, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, but I thought that was like... a mutual helping situation.”
His mouth twitches. “You always gotta argue when I’m trying to do something nice?”
You open your mouth to throw something back — something biting, something stupid — but he leans in and kisses you before you can get the words out. One hand still wrapped around your wrist, the other cupping your jaw.
He pulls back just enough to speak.
“Let me take care of you.”
You stare at him for a beat, heart kicking hard in your chest.
“Fine,” you mutter, trying to sound unbothered. “But don't expect any thank yous or shit.”
“I’ll survive,” he says, already smirking as his fingers work at your jeans. “Though, for the record, I think you’re gonna want to.”
You snort — right before he pops the button of your jeans and drags the zipper down, knuckles brushing your skin. You shiver.
“God, you’re cocky.”
He glances up, eyes flicking to yours. “You saying I haven’t earned it?”
You don’t answer. Your breath stutters when his hand slips beneath the waistband of your panties, palm flush against you.
He stills.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice dropping. “You’re wet already?”
“Shut up.”
He smiles cockily.
You roll your eyes — try to, anyway — but your thighs are already parting, your body moving without conscious thought. His fingers slide into you, testing the waters, and your head tips back with a soft sigh.
He watches your face like he’s waiting for something. When your mouth parts, when your hips twitch toward his hand, that’s when he moves.
His thumb finds your bud and he's gentle at first. Circling, then rubbing just a little firmer. You bite your lip hard, trying not to give him the satisfaction of the noises building in your throat.
“Still not thanking you,” you say through clenched teeth.
“Oh, you will,” he says, low. “Eventually.”
You glare at him. He grins back, fingers dragging lower, slipping in without resistance. You suck in a breath, and he laughs softly under it.
“Okay?” he asks, suddenly serious again.
You nod, maybe too quickly. “Yeah. More than okay.”
He starts moving his fingers — slow at first, too slow. Like he’s enjoying making you wait. You squirm, trying to rock your hips into his hand, but he tightens his grip on your thigh.
“Nuh-uh,” he says, eyes gleaming. “You’re letting me do the work, remember?”
“I hate you.”
“You’re literally grinding on my hand right now.”
You reach out blindly and smack his chest. He doesn’t even flinch — just slips another finger in, and your breath catches so hard it punches the air from your lungs.
“There it is,” he murmurs.
His thumb picks up a rhythm again, and the pressure starts to build fast. He knows it, too. His free hand slides around your waist, steadying you as your body starts to shake. Your fist curls into the soft fabric of his top, needing something to hold onto.
“Still hate me?” he asks, voice rougher now, his breath tickling the shell of your ear.
“Don’t flatter yourself— fuck—”
“Yeah?” His fingers curl just right, and your whole body tenses. “Right there?”
You nod, desperate, eyes squeezed shut. Your thighs are shaking. You’re so close you can’t even keep up the bit.
“Say it,” he says.
“Say what?”
“Tell me how good I make you feel.”
You groan. “Jesus, Jungkook—”
He slows down suddenly, barely moving his hand.
You whine. Actually whine.
“That’s not what I asked for.”
“God, you’re annoying,” you say, breathless.
He grins. “You're the one being the brat here.”
You drag your eyes open and glare at him, but it’s all heat now. All want. You lean in close, lips pressing against his.
"Fuck— fine. You feel so fucking good, Kook. Please, just don't stop."
He doesn’t.
He kisses you hard and fast, and his fingers start again, slick and firm and relentless. Your body clenches around him and this time, you don’t even try to hold the sounds back. His name leaves your mouth like muscle memory, and he groans into your kiss, like he’s the one coming undone.
When you break the kiss to suck in air, he presses his forehead to yours, voice rough in your ear.
“That’s it. Let go for me.”
You do.
Your body arches, thighs trembling as the orgasm washes over you sharp and fast. Your fingers dig into his back, into his top, into anything that keeps you tethered.
He doesn’t stop until you’re gasping, twitching, pushing his hand away because you’re too sensitive now.
He pulls back finally, breath warm against your skin, his fingers wet. He looks at you, gaze heavy, lips parted.
Then, without a word, he brings his fingers to your mouth.
“Open,” he says, low and steady.
You blink at him, your body still humming, brain half-melted. “What—?”
He brushes two slick fingers against your bottom lip, and your mouth parts on instinct.
“You said no thank yous,” he says, smirking. “So this’ll do.”
You glare at him, but your lips close around his fingers anyway. He watches every second — the way your mouth wraps around them, the way your tongue slides against the pads. His expression flickers from cocky to wrecked.
“Shit,” he mutters, voice rough now, the smugness cracking around the edges.
You suck once, slow and purposeful, eyes locked on his, and he jerks slightly under you — hips twitching like your mouth is on him instead. When you pull off with a soft pop, your lips are swollen and wet.
“You said mutual help,” you murmur, breath still catching on the end of every word. “It’s your turn.”
He blinks, like he’s short-circuiting.
You slide off his lap slowly, hands dragging down his chest, and his breath catches when you settle between his legs on your knees. You palm him over his jeans, and he hisses, already hard under your touch.
“Fuck,” he mutters, head tipping back.
“You okay there?” you ask, voice sweet, taunting. “Or do you need me to go slower?”
He looks down at you, pupils blown, jaw clenched. “Don’t be a brat.”
You unbutton his jeans, real slow, enjoying the way he twitches under your hands. “No promises.”
You drag the zipper down, tugging his jeans and boxers low enough to free him. He’s flushed and heavy, tip already glistening, and you swear you see his hips flex at just the sight of your mouth this close.
“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You look way too good down there.”
You wrap your hand around his cock, giving one slow stroke, and he groans like it surprises him.
You start slow. Just your hand. Thumb brushing over the sensitive ridge under the head, watching his thighs tense beneath your touch. His head drops back against the couch cushion, and you feel the way his hips subtly shift toward you, like his body’s trying to chase more without him even realising it.
You lean in and lick a slow stripe from base to tip, tongue flat, deliberate. His breath catches — then shudders out of him like you’ve knocked the air from his lungs.
“Shit,” he mutters again, voice strained.
You hum like you agree, and wrap your lips around the head, just barely. You suck, not hard — just enough to make him twitch. Your hand works in tandem, slow, steady strokes, and your mouth follows, inching lower until the tip presses against the back of your throat.
He moans, raw and wrecked. “Fuck, baby—”
The pet name is barely more than a gasp, almost like it slipped out without permission. Your stomach flips at the sound it.
His voice borders on the line of sounding pathetic, and it makes you want to press your thighs together.
You fall into rhythm — your lips sliding over him, tongue pressed firm underneath, hand twisting where your mouth leaves off. Every now and then, you let yourself get sloppy. Let the sound of it echo between you, let him hear what he’s doing to you.
He’s falling apart above you. You can tell by the way his hand flexes and releases in your hair, the way his thighs tremble every time you sink a little deeper. He’s breathing hard now, jaw slack, eyes barely open. Watching you. Like he still can’t believe this is real.
“God, your mouth—” His voice cuts off into a moan when you swallow around him, deep and slow. "You're gonna be the death of me."
You pull off just long enough to breathe, lips slick, chin wet. “You deserve it.”
He laughs, but it breaks halfway through. Your hand doesn’t stop moving.
“You like watching me fall apart, huh?”
You look up through your lashes, tongue flicking over the head. “More than a little.”
You go back down — deeper this time — and he chokes on a groan. His hips jerk up too sharply and he curses, hands fisting hard in your hair.
“Shit— I’m—” He’s panting now, thighs shaking. “I’m not gonna last if you keep— fuck, don’t—”
You suck harder, then moan around him just to hear the sound he makes. It’s almost a whimper.
“Baby, stop— wait— fuck— please—”
You pull off with a wet pop just before he tips over the edge, lips red and swollen, saliva clinging to your chin. He’s barely keeping it together. Chest heaving, flushed to the neck, cock twitching where it rests against his stomach.
“You were right there,” you say, feigning innocence, voice soft and ruined.
“Exactly," he says, sitting up. "I'm not done with you yet."
He drags the fabric of his top over his head, tossing it aside without a second thought. The moment it’s off, your breath catches.
Fuck.
He’s all golden skin and sharp lines, chest heaving, abs flexing with every breath. His tattoos curl over his shoulder and down his arm, black ink stark against flushed skin. His cock’s still hard, flushed dark, resting against his stomach, twitching when he sees the way you’re looking at him.
And you — still kneeling between his legs — can’t look away.
Then you rise, shaky but determined, and pull your top over your head, letting it fall. His eyes snap to your chest, lips parting like he’s just been punched in the gut. You're movements are purposefully slow as you pull down your jeans, then your panties.
“Jesus,” he mutters, eyes dragging down your body. “You’re a fucking dream.”
You crawl back into his lap, your bare skin meeting his, and the contact makes both of you gasp. You straddle him, knees on either side of his thighs, and he groans the moment your heat presses against his cock.
He fumbles for a condom, pulling it out from an inner pocket in the jacket he’d draped onto the couch earlier.
You watch as he tears it open and rolls it on, fingers practiced but tense. You reach between your bodies, guiding him to your entrance, and the second his tip slides against your soaked folds, his grip tightens on your hips.
“Fuck,” he mutters, voice shaking.
You sink down slowly, inch by thick inch, and your nails bite into his shoulders as you stretch around him. He’s big — your pussy gripping him tight, wet and pulsing as he fills you up. Every nerve lights up, every breath gets harder to catch.
“Holy fuck—” His head drops to your chest, groaning against your skin. “You’re so tight. So fucking warm. Gonna make me lose it.”
You whimper as you bottom out, walls fluttering around him. You can feel every vein, every twitch. It’s almost too much. Almost.
But not enough.
You start to move — slow, dragging lifts of your hips, circling them on the way back down. He watches, hands clamped on your ass, guiding the grind of your body like he already knows how to make you fall apart again.
You ride him, pace picking up fast, desperate. Every time your hips drop, the base of his cock grinds against your clit, slick sounds filling the room with every slap of skin against skin. His cock hits deep, stretching you wide, and a moan passes your lips.
He groans are low and guttural, eyes locked to where your bodies meet. “Goddamn, baby. Watching you fuck yourself on my cock— shit— never gonna forget this.”
You’re panting now, thighs burning, rhythm faltering. You try to keep going, but your legs are shaking.
He notices.
Without a word, he shifts under you, plants his feet flat on the floor, and grabs your hips tight.
“Let me help you, yeah?”
You nod. “Please.”
He starts thrusting up into you.
You cry out, spine arching, hands flying to his shoulders to hold on as he fucks you from underneath, sharp and deep. His hips snap up into you, cock pressing into your sweet spot over and over again.
The new angle is obscene. Filthy.
“Fuck, Jungkook— holy shit—”
He smirks up at you, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead. “That’s it. Take it, baby. Look at you— so cockdrunk already.”
Your pussy clenches around him, soaked and messy, and the sound of it is downright pornographic. His balls slap against your ass with every brutal thrust, and you can’t even think anymore. Just feel.
Your head falls back, hips rocking with his. “W-we’re still best friends, right, Kook?”
His rhythm stutters, hips slamming up too hard, too deep, and his jaw drops slightly like he’s not sure if he actually heard you right. His pupils are blown, face flushed, and he stares at you like you just kicked the last brain cell out of his skull.
“What the fuck,” he pants. “You can’t say that. Not when I’m— fuck— inside you.”
You whimper, walls clenching around him like your body’s reacting to how wrecked he sounds.
“That’s so fucked up,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Say it again and I might actually come on the spot.”
You huff out a weak laugh at that, hands tangling in his hair, and he groans, fucking you harder, deeper — like he needs to wipe the thought of friendship off your brain with every snap of his hips.
“Y-Yeah,” you gasp. “So close, fuck— don’t stop—”
He doesn’t. One hand slips between your bodies, fingers rubbing tight, fast circles over your clit while he pounds into you. You sob his name, hips stuttering, body locking up.
“Come on,” he grits out. “Wanna feel you squeeze me.”
That’s all it takes.
You break with a cry, body clamping down around him as your orgasm hits like a fucking freight train. Your pussy pulses around his cock, milking him, soaking him, your whole body shuddering with the force of it.
He slows just a little — just enough to let you ride it out — but he doesn’t pull out. He’s still hard inside you, jaw tight, eyes blown wide.
You collapse forward, panting into his neck, spent.
His hands slide down your spine, warm and possessive. “You good?”
You nod, still breathless. “Yeah. Jesus.”
"Good." He swiftly lifts you off him just enough to slip out, and you whimper at the sudden emptiness. But he doesn’t give you time to think.
He shifts, guiding you onto your back, his body following yours down to the couch. His hands frame your face as he settles between your legs, and when he presses back into you — thick and hard.
His eyes roam over you like he’s never seen anything more obscene or more beautiful. Your lips are swollen, parted in a messy moan. There’s a faint smudge of mascara under one eye from when you’d cried out his name, and your skin’s glowing — sweaty, flushed, wrecked.
“You’re so pretty like this,” he says, voice gone rough. “All fucked out for me.”
You pull him down into a kiss before you can think. It’s open-mouthed, greedy, teeth clashing a little. His hips start to move again, slow at first — long, deep thrusts that make your breath catch every time he bottoms out.
You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his back to pull him deeper. His chest brushes yours, sticky skin against sticky skin, and your nails rake down his back.
He gasps into your mouth. “Fuck—”
“More,” you breathe, nails dragging again, leaving angry red lines down the muscle of his back. “Please.”
His hips snap harder, pace picking up again. He braces one hand beside your head and the other slides up your thigh, gripping tight enough to bruise. Your body rocks with every thrust, his cock slamming into you, the slap of his hips against yours louder now.
“You feel that?” he grits out, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping down his temple. “How tight you are around me? Fuck— I’m so deep, baby, you’re taking me so fucking good.”
You moan loud at his words, head falling back against the cushions.
He kisses down your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breast — open-mouthed, wet kisses that make your skin burn. Then he’s back at your mouth, kissing you like it’s the only way he knows how to breathe.
He watches you with the kind of hunger that makes your stomach flip, watching how your brows pinch, how your mouth trembles, how you twitch around him with every stroke like you’re on the edge all over again.
And fuck, you are.
“Touch me,” you gasp, voice raw. “Kook, please—”
His fingers snake down your stomach, rubbing tight, perfect circles against your clit, synced with the rhythm of his thrusts. You cry out, thighs shaking around his waist, and he just watches — eyes dark and wild, like he can’t believe what he’s doing to you.
You clench hard around him, and he curses, slamming into you deeper, grinding at the end of each stroke.
“Gonna come again?” he pants. “Wanna come on my cock like that, baby? Let me feel you soak me?”
You’re nodding before he finishes, tears prickling in your eyes from how fucking intense it is. “Yes— yes, fuck, don’t stop—”
He kisses you as you fall apart — moaning into your mouth, swallowing every sound. You come again, whole body seizing around him. Your nails dig in, and he hisses at the pain, thrusting through it, fucking you right through the high.
When it ebbs, your body goes limp under him, chest heaving, lips swollen, slick dripping between your thighs.
Jungkook fucks into you again — slow, deep, like he’s trying to memorise the feel of you pulsing around him. His breath stutters, muscles drawn tight, every thrust rougher than the last.
“I’m not gonna last,” he pants, voice wrecked.
You bring your hands up to his hair, lightly tugging at his locks as you whisper, “Wanna feel you.”
He chokes on a moan, slamming into you one final time as he comes hard, cock twitching deep inside as he fills the condom.
His arms shake, muscles locked tight, and his face is buried in your neck as he rides it out, breath ragged, skin flushed and burning. You feel every pulse of it, every tremble in his frame, and all you can do is hold him there — legs wrapped tight around his waist, arms tangled around his shoulders, your nails still leaving stinging trails across his skin.
He presses kisses against your neck and jaw, eventually trailing up to your lips before pulling back to just look at you.
"I— you're perfect."
You smile, a familiar warmth enveloping your cheeks. "Yeah, yeah, you can stop with the flattery."
But he doesn’t smile back right away. He just watches you, quiet. Like he’s still catching up to the weight of what just happened. What’s still happening.
His hand drifts to your waist, thumb brushing lazily over your damp skin. “Let me run you a bath.”
You blink. “A bath?”
He nods, lips brushing your temple. “Yeah. You’re shaky. And I kinda wrecked you.”
You snort, catching the smugness in his voice. “What happened to, ‘Shit, baby, if you don’t stop I’m gonna come down your throat’?”
He groans, laughing. “Okay, first of all— rude. Second, I don’t sound like that.”
“Mm, you definitely do.”
He pinches your side lightly. “Keep talking, I’ll re-enact it right now.”
You shut up. But you’re smiling.
He stands a moment later, disappearing into the bathroom. You hear the water running, the soft clatter of bottles, his voice humming something low and familiar.
When he comes back, he tosses you a towel and holds out a hand, that same easy smile on his face. The one you’ve known forever. The one that makes everything feel… normal.
Even now.
You lace your fingers with his, let him pull you up.
Your legs are jelly. His hand doesn’t let go.
And as you follow him into the bathroom, skin still marked by his touch, lips still swollen from his kiss, a quiet thought flickers at the edge of your mind.
You guys were still best friends.
Right?
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→ read part two here
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wickedusername · 10 days ago
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wickedusername · 13 days ago
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GLOAMING — NANAMI KENTO
↳ Summary: Post-Shibuya, Nanami Kento needs to be reminded that he's still beautiful and you still love him.
↳ CW: smut, vaginal sex, mirror sex, hurt/comfort, optimistic ending, body worship, burn scars, established relationship
↳ WC: 7.5k
↳ AN: My contribution to Nanami Week's day 6 prompt: Scars / Body Worship!
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“Kento, I’m home! And I’ve got goodies…!” 
The day had been long, but not nearly as long as it ought to have been. By some twist of cosmic pity or karmic reimbursement — the universe tossing you a bone for services rendered — you’d been spat out of work two hours early, blinking and disbelieving in the late afternoon sun. A rare mercy, considering your two-man team had become a one-man operation, and your off hours were more theoretical than real.
You didn’t ask questions. You just ran.
Your keys clattered into the wicker bowl on the foyer table. Coat off, boots toed loose, you shelved a crinkly paper bag on one hip, grinning like a bandit. Inside: the spoils of a quick but completely necessary pit-stop to the local patisserie for the modest luxuries of a still-warm baguette, a wedge of gruyere, folded slices of ham sweating through its wax paper and a dark, sticky fig jam you used to love. All things you hoped would make for a nice early dinner to polish off the bottle of wine gathering dust in the rack.
All it needed now was him.
You hadn’t seen much of each other that morning. You’d woken up to the back of Kento’s head, blonde hair flattened and smushed to one side across the pillow. He’d hardly roused at all when you squirmed up against his back to press a soft kiss the pale pink, glass-smooth, no longer freckled skin behind his ear. 
Just a grunt, and the sluggish lift of his shoulder, edging you out of his warmth with a half-hearted shrug. Once, he might’ve rolled to face you and hauled you against his chest, trapping you in an affectionate chokehold until his sloppy sleep-misaligned kisses across your face made you laugh him awake.
But you didn’t mind. He hadn't slept well… had accidentally kicked you more often than usual. He was probably exhausted.
You rounded the corner into the living room, your mood still lifted, buoyed by the scent of warm bread and the delight of sharing your foraging finds. Once, you would’ve heard the wordless groan from deep in his chest when you flopped onto the sofa beside him, and felt the way his arm would lift loose and heavy and waiting for you to worm your way underneath. Your knees would’ve puzzle-locked over and under his to tangle in those soft, lived-in heather sweatpants. He’d have smiled, pressed a kiss to your brow, then your cheek, then your mouth — Act Two of the ones he didn’t quite manage in the morning.
‘Welcome home’ and ‘I missed you’ rumbled between pecks to your lips, with nothing to do but bask in each others company and let your hands wander wherever they may after a glass of Shiraz, there was always a surplus of stolen time to make up for, and you were always keen to play the part of the debt collector—
But your husband wasn’t there. 
A glass of water sweats a dark ring into the cork coaster on the coffee table, and the TV crackles dully on the wall and Kento’s latest read lay flat out on the cushion like he intended to return for it, but nothing of the man himself. 
“Kento…?” You called again, a little less certain this time. 
Maybe he’d gone out with the same hankering as you, heart set on a fresh and indulgent dinner of things not kept readily in the pantry. He did do that more often these days — the disappearing. Aimless but equally determined, suddenly running odd errands at odder hours only because he could. Freedom, once tasted, was hard to give up.
He could’ve texted you, or left a note, or waited for you. 
You sucked your lip between your teeth and swallowed your disappointment — you’d survive being left alone. It wasn’t the end of the world, but you hadn’t expected to spend your unexpected afternoon of freedom alone. 
Ssssskkkkkkkkkk-splsh. 
The sound startled you. Porcelain on wet skin, squeaky movement further down the hall.
You didn’t mean to rise to the balls of your feet, or to avoid the floorboards you knew by heart — three and seven always creaked. 
Your hand curled around the frame of the ajar door, and you eased it wider with the softest nudge of your fingers, sheepish as you leaned your head into the narrow gap.
He hadn’t heard you come in. 
The door hadn’t creaked, and your footsteps stayed soft. 
Months later you still weren’t sure where you were allowed to stand.
Kento lay reclined in the tub, his long legs bent at an angle to fit, arms resting along the smooth edges. His head was tipped back on a rolled towel, jaw slack, the slow rise and fall of his chest syncing with the rhythmic plink… plink… plink of the dripping iron faucet. It rippled the water which lapped at his ribs, his collarbone, it kissed the pale maps of old healing, and one hand — scarred but whole with all five fingers — twitched with a sleepy spasm. 
He was peaceful. More peaceful than he ever looked when awake or even in your bed. 
And on the sink, closer to you than to him, was his eyepatch. 
You stared into the hollow where his eye used to be and even after all this time, you were distantly befuddled that it didn’t stare back. It fascinated you — the pitted, rough skin of his left side. His lashes were gone. His brow, gone. What remained of his hairline stopped in a sharp crescent across his scalp, knotted and textured like old oak bark. You wanted to touch him, to reacquaint yourself what it felt like under your fingertips. 
You’d seen it all before in the earlier days following Shibuya, back when you weren’t even sure Kento would ever come home again, and when sleep was a fickle thing that only came in collapsed increments in uncomfortable chairs. 
‘He shouldn’t make it’, Shoko told you outside the infirmary. Her voice was blunt as ever, but her hands shook as she lit a cigarette. ‘But then, he’s Nanami, so… he shouldn’t do a lot of things. Bet he’ll live.’ 
And when he finally squeezed your hand, hours or days later you didn’t know nor did you care, you’d cried so violently Shoko thought you were seizing. You’d vomited in the biohazard bin. You still hadn’t cared, because Kento was alive and nothing could ever matter more than that. 
He tried to smile with nothing but teeth and gauze. He said he couldn’t leave you. 
Those early days, despite the way Kento’s body would shudder and twitch with the burning pain of dying nerves, and your own chest would seize when his rose too shallowly for comfort, there was hope. He had lived and he was free, because nobody in their right mind would ever ask Nanami Kento to return to Jujutsu after what he’d suffered; and if they’d tried, you’d have risen and raged and crusaded to prevent it from being so. 
So you shouldered his work load and marched like a mule to prove they didn’t need him more than you did, and they would not steal him from you.
He was lighter, even bound in heavy bandages. There was peace in freedom, if only he could heal and get there.
But healing, you both learned quickly and Kento struggled to reckon with, was not the same thing as coming back whole.
Recovery was excruciating, for him and for you. He followed orders grim and obedient as a pit dog. He set alarms for pills on a new watch bought specifically for that purpose. He charted ointments and attended every physical therapy session even when his hands shook from exhaustion and agony. He was as meticulous in his pain as he was furiously dignified in his destruction. 
But his fingers didn’t curl the way they used to. Sometimes his grip failed him entirely. He dropped dishes and mugs, ceramic shattered across the kitchen tile like little glass bombs. He spit and snarled and cursed, raging against his new shortcomings while you stood silently with the dustpan. 
His depth perception was a bastard thing — you learned to keep the cabinets half-empty and the corners always padded. You drove him to every appointment and took notes. You asked the questions when after a year he didn’t have the energy left to care. 
And as soon as he was able, barely able, he pushed you away. 
He started locking the bathroom door to bathe and change his dressings alone. He took the train into the city for his appointments without ever telling you he had one. He began cooking again — and you felt that spark of hope ignite deep in your heart again. It would be good for him to return to old passions, you thought. But he refused anything you made from that point on. He would make it himself, or not eat at all. 
It was grief, you thought, denying and justifying the decay of your living man. Then it was guilt. Or pride. Or maybe all of them wound tight and festering under his skin that healed over a wound you couldn’t get close enough to fix. You understood as best you could, and you waited. 
But it was getting harder. The space between you no longer felt temporary, but structural, with foundations and beams and skeletons in the closet.
You loved him. And you knew he loved you in the good times. He still opened doors, carried your bags, and held you so long as you faced away. 
His body was still perfect to you too. Slightly tanned and pink with the water's heat, freckles on his right shoulder with soft hair dusting his arm and leg. The burn only cut him into halves… the merciless split cleaved between your husband and the man he treated himself as now.
You hadn’t meant to enter the bathroom, but you only wanted a closer look. Old habits die hard, and you’d come far too close to losing him once that the deathly stillness that cradled him in slumber rattled your nerves too close for comfort. You felt sick with it. You would just listen to him breathe for a moment, you compromised with yourself. Then you’d go, he’d never even know you were there— 
You sank to your knees beside the tub. 
Ribs cut hard lines under his skin, and his chest rose, fell, rose again like reliable forge bellows. Beneath the water, a pale ghost of his old body haunted the new one, all lean muscle and purple memory. You thought, somewhat stupidly, about how he used to fold you in half and still have breath left over, and how your bath bombs used to amuse him with their soothing-lavender-scented-pseudoscience, but the bubbles that thinned near the waters center were distinctly purple hued now, and the balmy bathroom air smelled like flowers. 
There were still parts of him your eyes remembered better than your hands. The seam along his neck where new skin met old, and the small twitch in his shoulder that never went away, not even when he slept. He was leaner in a way that didn’t quite make sense — his wrist was too narrow, like something essential had been siphoned out and never replaced. And there were hollows you didn’t remember being there, faded pink and stark whites of injury shimmering beneath the bathwater like some prehistoric reef, rough and raw and no less beautiful for its distress. 
Your palm itched to drag over his sternum and trace the place where he was split in two. You wanted to memorize him as he was now because how else were you supposed to hold him? You sat greedily still, a silent supplicant at the altar of the man you still loved so wholly it killed you. 
You stayed there, hands clenched in your lap so they wouldn’t do something stupid like reach for him. You’d walked in on him naked a hundred times before, but this time you didn’t feel entitled to look, a veritable voyeur in your own home, with a man to whom you should’ve had every right and reason to see. 
You swallowed hard, valiantly blinking back the sting rising behind your eyes. Time to go. You’d seen enough — stolen enough — and you would carry it like contraband tucked deep beside your heart.
He would wake up eventually and offer you something smaller, safer: the distant affection he rationed out in careful portions, a kiss to your cheek that you knew he still meant with all of his heart but delivered with only the right half of his mouth. It would be enough and you would smile and kiss his right cheek when he offered it. 
You shifted to stand, but your foot clipped a trip-wire bottle of lotion by the tub. It skidded across the tile with a damning clack. 
Kento stirred and you locked up. 
His good eye blinked open — slow and still groggy.
For a moment, before the waking world caught up to him and he shrugged off that liminal space between conscious and not, he smiled. 
The smile you used to see in cobalt blue mornings, limbs tangled under the duvet while you whispered conspiracies against the alarm clock into his collarbone, seducing a sleepy Kento back down with kisses and half-threats of ten more minutes; the same as the one he gave you in the hush after he’d throughly made love to you, when his weight pressed you into the mattress just right and he nosed lazy affection into your jaw, murmuring I love you. 
He was soft, half-drunk from sleep, his adoration backlit with the bright affection that still burned for you. His body remembered you before his brain did. Like loving you was mere muscle memory. 
It was stupid how much of him poured into one look. Stupid, and gut-wrenchingly painful how his whole face melted like sugar and his breath sighed blissfully from his lips, and how that stupid stubborn tremor in his shoulder paused for just one moment. 
The water sloshed as he reached for you, sluggish, uncoordinated, unthinking… until his gaze caught on the burn-scored arm breaking the surface. The ruined skin, puckered and red, warped the motion into something monstrous. And your heart cracked with the force of his recoil, because you saw it all. You saw him forget, and then you saw him remember. 
The mask snapped back in place like a bear trap. The walls slammed up. That same arm jerked up to shield the left side of his face with his hand too late. He lurched upright, water thrashing around him, breath shallow and eye wide, rigid and rageful as a wounded animal tense with shame. 
“Sorry—I didn’t mean to wake you—“ you started, stumbling back a step.
“What are you doing?” He snarled. You flinched. 
And just like that, the version of him who smiled at you was gone. 
“I got home early,” you hedged. “You didn’t answer so I was just checking on you—“
He sneered, bitter and nasty and turned from you. His dripping hand curled around the marbled skin of his face and he hunched toward the wall of the tub. “I think I’m capable of bathing myself. I’m not a child.” 
Your eyes widened and you scurried closer, hands splayed forward now. “I know you can, I wasn’t implying—“ 
“—get out.” 
“No, Kento, come on—“ Your words died with a squeak as Kento abruptly swung his hand away from his face to ward you off, water and suds doused the tile floor, soaked your socks and sprayed your shirt. 
“I asked you to get out.” 
Your mouth twisted and you ground your teeth, trying your hardest to ward off the prickling tears in your eyes and your burning nose. He glowered at you, fire in his eye and dead black coal in the other socket, but you didn’t turn away. You clenched your hands into fists, your shoulders trembling with indignant fury. “We’re married, Kento! You don’t need to be like this with me.” 
Kento laughed — but it was nothing like he used to, full-bodied, warm, that made you feel like you’d earned it. He was as cold as the drops of water that dripped from the flattened tips of his hair and carved their way down the divots of his healed skin. 
“Is it too much to ask that I want my wife to see me when I’m…” he scowled, his mouth twitched and stretched before settling, “—decent?” 
“Kento,” you said, willing yourself to stay calm. You wanted to touch him, but didn’t. Wanted to sob, but didn’t do that either. “You always look like this.” 
He scowled, the warped thin skin of his lip peeled back from his teeth in disgust. “I’m half a fucking corpse, darling.”
“Don’t say that!” You choked, feeling that awful clog in your throat damming your voice, turning your nose red with tears you knew were imminent, fight as you might against them. 
But Kento continued as if your heart weren’t mid messy detonation. 
“It’s a wonder you’re even here,” he seethed, “you nursed me back to health, you can go off and find somebody better now, free of guilt. You’ve done your charity—“ 
“Don’t you dare,” you hissed, voice shaking now — not only with tears, but with fury. “Don’t you fucking dare reduce what we have to charity. You know better.” 
Kento stilled uncomfortably. He didn’t apologize nor did he flinch, but you could see the tension taut just beneath his shimmering skin, the fight-or-flight of a man who would rather die on the battlefield than be pitied in the field tent. His jaw locked, and his breath burst through his nose like he fought it as much as he was fighting you. 
“You think I stay because I have to?” You marched closer and Kento recoiled, but there was nowhere to go in the tub, no doors to put between you and latch the lock. He would hear you. 
Your wet socks squelched on the bathmat. “You think this is guilt? That I—what—get off on the martyrdom of it all?” 
Kento scoffed. “At least you’d have an incentive.” 
You reeled back. You blinked, stunned, your mouth twitching. And then your throat went hot, and your hand came up fast to smash the tears away as quickly as they burned past your lashes. 
“Do you honestly think I’m so shallow, Kento?” 
The room was silent save for the dripping of the faucet, but you couldn’t even hear that over the roaring in your ears. 
The briefest flicker of shame crossed his half-scarred face. He wavered and clenched his jaw like he’d swallowed glass and now it was trying to climb back out.
Your tears always gutted him. He used to scoop them up with his thumbs, gentle as pearls. Used to whisper soft apologies into your skin and kiss away the tracks, warm and pleading, all while plotting to look for the source like it was something he could kill. 
And now he was the source. He loathed that he was the type of man to make his wife cry. Something in his chest collapsed inward, tectonic. A man used to fixing things now realizing he was the broken pipe flooding the whole house. 
He raked a hand through his hair and turned from you, muttering your name in warning. 
But you were incensed, righteously enraged, and Kento jumped as you roughly clambered into the tub, socks and clothes and all. The water soaked through denim and cotton in an instant, clinging to your boiling skin. Kento scooted back and tried to twist away, but you sloshed after him. 
“What are you—“ You didn’t let him finish. 
You dropped to your knees and charged between his, your clothes heavy and dripping with bathwater, you flung your arms around his neck so hard he grunted. You dragged him down into the wreckage of you. 
“God, you arrogant, idiotic man! Do you even realize how much I miss you?” You buried your face into the left side of his neck and choked against the burned skin. 
He struggled, tried to pry your arms off of him, wedging his fingers between your ribs and his chest like he could dislodge your love with leverage but you only gripped him tighter, not caring how your nails dug into his shoulders you clung as aggressively as you could. He had to listen to you this time, you couldn’t bear any more of this. 
“You need to let go—“ 
“No!” 
“I loved you before, Kento,” you spat, “and now, I love you so much it makes me sick.” Your voice cracked on the last word, and you hated it as much as the taste of the salt on your lips and the sting on your cheeks and the awful distance he kept between you like he was still burning. “And I can never—never—love you enough! There isn’t enough!” 
You felt the artery against your cheek jump and squirm when he swallowed, and the riot beneath his ribs locked against yours, but he still clung to his resolute silence like a shield. 
You jerked back, just enough to see his face and for him to see yours. You gripped his head tightly between your palms, and he didn’t blink. “You think this is pity?” you demanded. “You think I’m staying because I feel sorry for you?” 
Still, he didn’t answer — a statue carved out of ash and arrogance. But you saw the tic of his jaw and the slow flare of his nostrils when he exhaled. He wasn’t unmoved by your fury, he was enduring. He accepted the flames whipped from your tongue as readily as he had the ones that scorched his body. 
“Well, I am sorry,” you said to the brick wall. “I’m sorry that you don’t love yourself, and I’m sorry that things are hard for you, but I’m not sorry that you lived. Maybe I’m selfish—I’d rather you be miserable and alive—but you are alive, and I am not sorry for you.” 
You pulled back more and sat on your knees in the lap of the man you married. You wanted to shake him, to rattle out this wretched silence and shake into place anything. Let him yell, or rage, or cry, anything— 
And so you said it. You said it without thinking, weaponized and guttural and sharp as a slap: 
“Dammit, Nanami—!”
He stared at you blankly. 
Then he seemed to realize… oh, right, that’s his name but coming out of your mouth.
He buffered, and you watched his brow finally furrow when he shook his head, appalled. 
“…What?” 
You blinked back, shoulders shaking. 
“Yeah. Nanami. I called you Nanami.” 
He stared at you like you’d just smacked him with a sandal. 
He was silent again, but his eye was on you.
“You haven’t called me that in years,” he said finally, sounding satisfyingly perplexed. 
“Well maybe I should! Maybe I should start again! Would you like that? You like the formality? The distance? Huh, Nanami?”
There was a beat of silence, and then another where you both stared each other down.
You punctuated your petulant tirade with a shove to his chest, watery and weak but defiant all the same.
Something shuddered in Kento’s cheek. 
Then — he laughed. Or close enough to it, more like a disbelieving chuckle-huff, or a tire deflating. 
“You sound like my old boss,” he said, half-dazed. “Or like my doctor… Nanami-san.” 
You tried to stay angry, you really did. But a helpless, startled laugh sobbed out of you instead. 
“Oh, screw you,” you snapped, but a watery half-smile still wobbled onto your face.
He gave a soft, wrecked little sigh, lips curling with bitter melancholy. “There she is.” 
The atmosphere shifted, if only by one blessed fraction. You hadn’t escaped the violence of guilt, and grief and unsaid things left to fester — the wound didn’t vanish. But the ache softened, just a bit, and that was enough to make your shoulders slump and your hands to weakly drop from his face to his chest instead. 
You were still in his lap, soaked through and shivering, and Kento finally lifted a hand. It hovered at first, and you could’ve wept at the tentative contact of his palm between your shoulder blades, gently guiding you to lay against him. 
“I didn’t go anywhere,” you mumbled into his neck.
Kento nodded. He rubbed your back, up and down, your soaked shirt dragging over your skin with each pass. He hummed his acknowledgment — wordless, but he knew. You’d always been there, and he’d been hurting you. 
He lifted his burned arm and hesitated again, but that too ended up wound around your waist, crushing you to his body. You heard his wet intake of breath above the crown of your head, and you knew better than to mention it. The bubble was fragile, and you were terrified to pop it, so you just let him hold you again.
You clamped your arms around his neck and tangled your fingers in his hair, holding him to your shoulder. “I know,” you whispered. “That’s okay. I can feel you enough for us both.” 
His fingers curled into your shirt, and his left arm cinched tighter. He scoffed, that familiar bitterness creeping into his tone when he growled: “I can’t even feel you.” 
Kento shuddered, goosebumps prickling down his nape and raising the hairs on his arms as your nails circled his scalp. He groaned, but did not object. 
“Can I?” You murmured hopefully. Your heart galloped in your chest, adrenaline and feverish hope burning bright in the long darkened corners of your heart. “Can I…can we try?” 
Kento didn’t answer you, nor did he stop touching you. His calloused fingertips caught on your shirt, his nails skated over the exposed small of your back like skate blades, light and precise and beautifully spiraled as he indulged in the feel of your flesh with his good hand. You let him, you wouldn’t push, he could say no and you would still be thrilled for having had this. 
The water had gone tepid around you both, bath bombs long dissolved into faint lilac ghosts. You were shivering and weighed heavy with your water-logged clothes, but you refused to move if it meant letting go. 
When his mouth brushed your temple you froze, and shook under the warm exhale blown against your skin. His arms loosened, then drew tight again, drawing you closer into his lap. His mouth dipped, his lips brushed the corner of your mouth, hesitant and light as a feather, and then again — firmer. 
“We’ll catch colds like this,” he murmured. 
You nodded. You were already stiff, your toes numb and scrunching against the porcelain floor to coax blood back to your feet. “Then take me to bed,” you said simply.
Kento leaned back slowly to look at you and his eye flicked between both of yours. Sharp. Anticipating and bracing for the disgust he expected to find there so he could be the first to turn away from this fragile bridge.
Sincerity shone in your gaze, firm and convicted and about as loving as the day he’d married you.
You toweled each other off in the warm yellow light, you didn’t dare speak — just watched the water run from each other's skin, and the way he avoided the mirror and the left side of his face. You didn’t rush him. You let him flinch, and then let him find his stillness again. 
He shifted beneath you then. His joints creaked and cracked, old aches and new ones alike surfacing as he stood, dripping and unsteady, his arms looped around your back — aiding you as well as allowing you to support him. 
You kissed the hollow beneath his ear, and he followed when you whispered, “Come.”
The bedroom was dim, the dipping afternoon sun barely cresting the slatted blinds sealed stubbornly shut. But you could see enough. If the darkness was of any comfort to Kento, you would afford him that much. 
The mirror still stood against the far wall, full-length and framed in soft walnut. He’d ignored it for months now, it existed draped under a spare blanket more often than not. But tonight you crossed the room with purpose and yanked the quilt away and let the reflection breathe again.
Kento loitered in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest and with his hip cocked against the wood trim. He glowered at you, looking every bit as skeptical as he did mouth-watering. 
“Come sit,” you insisted, dragging him by the hand to the bed and pressing a hand to his sternum until he sat on the edge, just how you imagined. The mirror caught his shape in crystal clarity, and you saw the tension that rolled through his shoulders the first time he caught his own gaze around your waist. 
Before he could retreat back into himself you took his face in your hands. “Just look at me,” you said. “Please. I just want to show you what I see when I look at you, if that’s okay.”
You stood between his knees, still damp and rosy, your towel soft but loosening and drinking the racing droplets of water that plinked from your hair and got lost in the swell of your cleavage. Kento’s lips parted and his mouth went dry, yearning to chase that water and quench his suddenly parched tongue. 
You reached for his hand and placed it flat against your waist. “You remember how to touch me,” you teased.
His fingers curled instinctively into your towel, pulling you closer until your knees brushed his groin. He inhaled, and his palm slid up, over your ribs, thumbing the indent just beneath your breast. 
You smiled, and untucked your towel and let it fall to your feet. Kento froze. 
His eye ravaged your form like he was memorizing it, starved for every soft slope of skin he hadn’t let himself reach for in months. He hadn’t estranged himself from your body in that time, he had never let you go without or become frustrated — he made do with his hands and his mouth on the evenings where you needed him — but he never let himself indulge. It was never for him. 
You reached for the knot on his towel and undid it slowly. You gave every opportunity for him to still your hand — and with how it flexed against his thigh, you almost thought he would. 
But Kento didn’t stop you. His thighs parted to make room as the fabric dropped, baring him fully to you and to himself. His cock was half-hard already and flexed against his thigh. 
Hearing your swallow and seeing the obvious wanting ignite in your eyes made Kento burn with pride he hadn’t felt in ages. He could almost forget — almost. He felt you quiver between his legs as you slowed yourself, you kept your movements controlled and predictable when your hands framed his face.
He knew from before what a ravenous little thing you could be, how such slowness was how he had to approach you when all you wanted was to eat him alive. This was taking effort, and you were doing it for him.
He could still see it in you, and could feel the trembling of your fingertips as your thumb swept just beneath his eye… maybe both of them, if only he could feel it. One enormous hand moved to the small of your back, pulling you in so that your knees were forced to the mattress on either side of his hips. He tilted his head back and smiled. 
Seeing the change in him was enough encouragement for you. You leaned in, nosing along his throat and dragging kisses along the smooth skin of his right side. “Can you feel this?” you asked as you kissed the hinge of his jaw, just beneath his ear. 
You grinned when Kento groaned, shifting beneath you with an involuntary flex of his hips. He exhaled shakily, and you gripped his shoulders tighter.
“Yes.” 
You drifted back down to his right shoulder, your tongue flicking and tracing the sun-spotted freckles still scattered like constellations on his skin. You sucked his skin, desperate to taste him after so long, and shuddered in delight when his fingers curled into your spine, banding you to his broad chest with an arm that still boasted such brutal strength. 
“Here?” you whispered. 
“Yes.” He groaned, his left arm which had hung limp and curled in the bedsheet beneath him suddenly wrapping around your hips, crushing you against the length of his body and sandwiching his now fully-hard cock between your bellies, and you could’ve burst with pride at how his thighs flexed and lifted to grind up against you, panting and shivering against your hair. 
You shuddered, angling your hips to sweep your pussy up the length of his cock and choked at the sensation — homecoming. Your hand slid to the left and you pressed your palm flat against the ruined skin, high on his chest, just under the hollow of his collarbone. The scar tissue there was glossy, raised and stretched tight over his chest. He stilled beneath your hand. 
“What about here?” you asked quietly. 
He stared over your head and into the mirror. His face, half recognizable and flushed pink, his arms wound tight around your body which folded neatly around him, and yet, it was like seeing a different man entirely in the mirror; the hands of a different man touching and holding his wife so intimately. 
“No,” he grunted. 
You nodded, teeth nipping at his tilted throat as you sucked your way back up towards his ear. “That’s okay,” you murmured, your fingers pressing more firmly over the same spot, feeling the staccato hammering of his heart beneath your palm. “I’ll feel it for you. I still feel you. You’re still here.” 
Kento’s frustrated growl fizzled into a surprised groan when your hand snuck down between you, a thief, and your deft fingers curled around the thick, scalding base of him. You choked the uncertainty from his brain which fled like static in his ears, his eyelid fluttered with bliss as you stroked him once, twice, feeling the oozing perfection of him in its entirety as you positioned his cockhead at your entrance.
You kissed your way back to his mouth, hands cupping his cheeks to tip his chin back and allow you inside. “I love you,” you whispered fiercely. “I love you,” you kissed him again. “I love you, I—aah!” 
Kento rumbled an all-encompassing sound as he rolled his hips up, just once, and just about choked on his own tongue as he pressed inside you. You folds parted for him as if no time had passed at all, welcoming him home into the deep embrace of your body. You broke off with a whimper and circled your hips, sliding further down Kento’s length.
Every nerve in your body was alight. You glowed as you sank down one inch at a time, the muscles in your back tense and quivering handholds for Kento to grab and grip with his nails. He watched you in the mirror until your ass squished against his thighs; you gave all of you and took all of him. 
His left hand raked up your back, tangling in your hair and held you to his neck. You panted and gasped, your body galvanized by the jump-wire only Kento possessed, and he stared at your connection in the mirror. He spread his knees and you wider, his other hand groping from your hip to your waist, down to your ass to knead and spread your cheek, and rocked you against him, watching the way you stretched around the thick base of his cock and your arousal oozed down his balls. 
Like nothing had changed for you. You were still driven as mad for him as you’d always been, always hungry and wanting for him, his body. 
“So good,” he prayed and praised. “Always—always so good…I’ve missed you, such a good girl…nice and slow, slow—mmph—wait—“ 
You held him tighter, tears twinkling in your eyes as Kento’s throat turned red and humid with your gasping breaths and greedy teeth. You felt Kento tense beneath you and inside you, his whole body gone rigid as he railed against the orgasm so quickly knocking through his body — he resisted, held you still until he settled, and you shivered in his lap until he squeezed your hip again. 
You slid against him, massaging him with your cunt as you rocked up and down, and finally you did sob at the enormity of your relief of being so utterly and completely filled. 
Feeling the way his cock kicked inside of you, the helpless twitch of his skin gripped tightly in your hands as he watched the play of muscle and sinew in your back in the mirror, had you moving just a little faster. Kento growled, rumbling approvingly against your flushed skin, and his hand — burned and numb — reached up to cup your breast in his large palm. 
Feeling your overwhelm Kento soothed you, combing his fingers through your hair and mumbling into your temple. His hips flexed up to meet each slow descent of your own, his hand guided you to keep sliding your pussy up his throbbing cock and then ground up hard against you until you gasped against his neck. 
He couldn’t feel it, but he could’ve burst then and there when he heard you gasp. 
“Yours,” you promised. “Every part of me.” 
He’d only needed to hear it. 
He locked his arms around you and fucked up into your cunt with sudden, ruinous purpose. The air was driven clean from your lungs. Not greedy — grateful. Hungry like a starved man knelt before a banquet laid out solely for him, and only ever for him. He had gone without this. He had let you go without this, the greatest injustice of all. He was sorry, and broken, and wanted to get better, and so very grateful. 
You gasped like you were drowning in him; his cock so deep it tilted everything inside you, your stomach cramping with the pressure of it, your pussy clenching like it couldn’t possibly take more and wanted to draw him deeper anyway. 
Kento gathered you in with trembling arms and rutted up into you again, this time faster and harder, chasing something far beyond orgasm. His hips snapped up again, again, again, splitting you apart on the thick base of his cock. 
Your cunt squelched with each stroke, every drag of his cockhead bullying your walls apart, and the obscene slick sounds of your arousal echoed in tandem with the rumbling, wrecked groans slipping through his clenched teeth. 
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he hissed, pressing his head hard into the hollow of your neck, sweat dripping from his brow into the curve of your collarbone. “You feel—ahh—fucking exquisite—“ 
You sobbed against his temple, doe-eyes wide and watery and lips moist and wordless with the overwhelming swell of sensation as Kento fucked you in earnest, every inch of him hot and hard and home as he punched up like he needed to re-brand his shape into the softest parts of you. 
He buried himself to the hilt and held, his shaft flexing into the spongy spot along your frontal wall in a way that had your thighs spasming around his waist and your voice broken into sporadic little mewls. You felt full to bursting, your cunt spasming as you tried to meet his thrusts with your own broken, shaky rhythm. He shushed you, gentling you with his hands and mumbling sweet reassurances into your hair. 
“Oh—God—it’s been so long…Kento, I can’t—“ 
“You can.” He whispered at you fiercely. “You’re taking me so well, baby—look at you…fucking look at you—“ 
You turned over your shoulder, eyes watery and flicked to the mirror and you nearly came on the spot. 
Your body bouncing in his lap, your breasts flushed and heaving, his arms caging you in like steel but with such certainty they were the safest place in the world to be, his burned hand fisting in your hair while the good one dragged down your back to grip your ass and slam you down on him again. He looked enormous like this. Like he could destroy you, and you would absolutely let him. 
He angled his hips and found your g-spot again. And again. Old muscle memory returned so easily, and now he sought to unravel you like he’d neglected to until now. Again and again and again. 
His brow furrowed with focus, so thoroughly consumed by his devoted possession of you, that old competitiveness of his reared its head. Kento grunted, locked your hips down on his cock with his brutal hands and ground deep into your dripping core. 
“Come for me,” he murmured. “Let me feel it.” 
You shattered in his arms. A year of wanting, of yearning, of desperate grinding into his fingers and wishing with violent desperation that he would give you the rest of him, all unraveled with a jolted cry.
Hearing your gorgeous gasps and moans spurred him on. His hands gripped your waist, his pounding erratic now, furious and feral and so overwhelmed he couldn’t speak. You felt his chest heave and then catch, his breath held and his hips rammed up once more with the frantic throb of him thick and ready inside you— 
Your back arched and your breasts crammed against Kento’s chest. Your pussy spasmed and milked him in wet, clutching waves as your orgasm consumed you. Your hands scrabbled at his shoulders, holding on for dear life when he started to move again, dragging you fractious and feral through the first of the many orgasms he owed you. 
“Kento—inside, please…!” you begged. 
Kento came with a deep, barked “Fuck!” 
He pressed his forehead to yours, his orgasm contracting his balls in heavy, hot spurts, his cock pulsing thick inside your still-quivering and tender cunt. You felt the first dreg coat your insides, the second flood them, the third overflow. 
He kept rutting through it, slow, helpless, desperate thrusts that dragged his cum deeper inside you, like he couldn’t bear to leave your body empty again. He would imprint himself there, he would stay, nothing would ever drag him from you again. 
You kissed him. Sloppy, gasping and open-mouthed, cum-spilled and half-delirious with pleasure and joy. Your body shook with the echo of it, your pussy still fluttering around the fullness inside you with his spilled seed now dripping all over your folds. 
Neither of you moved for some time. 
The room swam in the scent of sex, skin, and lavender, and the slanting afternoon light in the blinds changed places and burned gold stripes across your bed. Kento’s breath slowed and his shoulders rose and fell with a serenity you weren’t used to seeing anymore. His arms looped loosely around your waist now — protective, not possessive, but trembling with the cold, ice-bucket fear of knowing this would only last if he let it, if he allowed himself to have you again.
Nanami didn’t say anything when he finally pulled out. Just held you fast as his cum began to drip free, sticky and white between your thighs. He chuckled at the way you whined your displeasure into his ear.
He kissed your temple and made you sit, reluctantly, while he gathered your discarded towel from the floor to clean you. 
Eventually you curled into the pillows, and Kento pulled you into his chest, face buried in your hair, one arm curved instinctively around your hips like a gate that he would never open again. 
You both fumbled in the murky dusk-dark with tired hands. Neither of you quite brave enough to break the silence yet, and both of you content to simply let it sit and have its space. This silence was not the same as before when the mirror was draped and your bed was quiet and his warmth was rationed out like wartime sugar. 
His eyepatch still lay on the sink. And the mirror, still uncovered, reflected back two who sat quietly in the golden spill of bedroom light. Naked and imperfect, both slightly ruined in a way that didn’t feel quite as tragic anymore. 
There were still cracks. Of course there were. 
But tonight, they let the light in.
Kento drew one of your hands up to caress his face, turning to exhale a kiss into your palm. Your fingers folded around it, only for him to move your fist down his sternum — left side, smooth and finally available to you — where the living rhythm inside beat softly in your grasp.
Smiling, you kissed the skin beside your knuckles, and Kento let his eye close, sweetened by you. You feel the rumble in his chest before he speaks.
“Feel you.”
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wickedusername · 29 days ago
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not now kitten, daddy has to write strange self indulgent fan fiction.
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wickedusername · 1 month ago
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Grabbing a fist full of hair and growling “let’s satisfy that oral fixation” while unbuckling my belt.
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wickedusername · 2 months ago
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from this tweet
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wickedusername · 3 months ago
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Safe With Halsin
soft Halsin request from @optimisticgrey!
this wound up being 1,400 words oops.
NSFW Below
Halsin’s quarters smell of wild sage and soft earth, a mingling of dried herbs and sun-warmed wood. Lanternlight glows low and amber along the curved walls, casting golden halos on stone and fur-lined floor. The grove breathes gently beyond the door, crickets humming, the occasional rustle of leaves slipping into the hush between heartbeats. It's only been a few days since you arrived with the last refugee train, but you already feel at home amongst the Druids.
You stand at the center of it all, bare feet brushing against woven reeds and cool painted stone, watching Halsin unlace his tunic. His eyes hold yours, steady and warm. He strips with the patience of one who knows there is no rush, no pressure. Only trust. When he approaches you, it is without pretense or performance. He touches you like he already knows your body, not from having claimed it, but from having imagined it with reverence.
His fingers graze your shoulders first, brushing the straps of your garment away, letting it fall. The fabric slips down your body and pools at your feet. His hands are gentle on your skin, but hardened with callouses. Halsin slowly leans in, his mouth at your collarbone, breath curling into your skin. He kisses you there, slow and sure, then presses another kiss just below your jaw.
His hands cup your face, warm and strong, thumbs brushing your cheeks as if you are something fragile. Halsin's eyes meet yours and you hear his sharp intake of breath-- he wants this too. You lean into his touch, and his lips find yours, soft and coaxing. He kisses you with care, drawing out each breath, each sigh, until you feel yourself tilting into him, anchored only by his arms around you.
He guides you to the low bed tucked against the stone wall, layered with fur and thick woven blankets. You sink into them, watching him through your lashes as he joins you. He crawls toward you with the quiet grace of a bear through the woods, large and grounded and focused entirely on you. When he lies beside you, he doesn’t reach for anything but your hand.
You lace your fingers with his. Halsin smiles.
He leans in again, his mouth brushing the corner of yours, then your cheek, then your temple. His free hand drifts across your waist, curving around your hip. He pulls you closer, your thighs meeting, his warmth folding around you until the outside world disappears. You rest your palm against his chest, over the steady beat of his heart and the course hair .
His kisses deepen gradually. He lets you set the pace. His hand trails down to your thigh, resting there until you shift, canting your hips towards his hand and inviting him in. His fingers slide between your legs, gliding through slick heat. He hums against your lips, his pleasure threaded with awe. He murmurs to you, voice low, each word spoken like a gift.
He strokes you gently, never hurrying. The rhythm he finds is easy, meant to soothe, to open. Your legs fall further apart for him, hips rising to meet his touch, your breath catching on every slow, deliberate movement. When he slips a finger inside you, the stretch is perfect. Halsin's fingers are short but thick, the nails well trimmed and clean. His finger crooks perfectly inside of you to hit the spot that makes you see stars and you gasp, one hand flying to grip his forearm. You can feel his muscles under your hand as his moves, flexing and relaxing with each slow pump of his finger inside of you. The Druid's thumb finds your clit, circling, coaxing. You gasp into his mouth and he drinks it in, his own breath growing shallower.
Another finger joins the first, and still his hand remains gentle, reverent. He watches you, every twitch of your brow, every press of your lips, every gasp that leaves your throat. Halsin's eyes sweep up and down your body, hovering at the spot where you and he are joined. You feel completely seen, laid bare in a way that leaves no room for shame.
You whisper his name and he answers with a kiss, tongue parting your lips with ease as he redoubles his efforts between your legs.
When he finally withdraws his hand, it’s only to push himself up slightly, adjusting his body so that he can slide between the apex of your thighs. You part them further for him willingly, arms wrapping around his broad back as he lowers himself over you. He pauses, forehead resting against yours. His hand moves between you, guiding himself to your entrance. The back of Halsin's hand bumps your clit and you gasp, arms tightening around him briefly.
He pushes in slowly. The first inch is nothing but pressure and warmth. He groans softly, a sound full of restraint and reverence. You wrap your legs around his hips and he sinks deeper, filling you in long, careful strokes until he’s buried to the hilt. He stills, letting you both adjust. Your fingers flex against his back.
He begins to move with unhurried precision, hips rocking in a rhythm meant for connection, not conquest. Each thrust sends a new wave of sensation through you, soft and consuming. The friction builds gradually, tempered by the way his hands cradle your face, the way his lips return again and again to yours. He kisses you like he’s trying to etch the shape of your mouth into memory.
You whisper to him.
Praise, need, love.
Whatever slips free from your lips, he answers it in kind — with his mouth, with his body, with his hands. He never looks away. Not once.
Your climax builds without force, a warm tide that rises and spreads, tightening your thighs around him, stealing your breath. He feels the shift in you, adjusts his angle slightly, and your moan is immediate, raw. He whispers your name, then again, then again. The tension coils. Then breaks, and you come with a cry muffled against his neck. He holds you through it, moving just enough to carry you through the tremors, his own breath labored, his arms around you like sanctuary.
He follows moments later, hips stuttering, voice catching. His release is quiet but devastating, the sound of it carving through the silence like devotion. He stays inside you as he softens, breath mingling with yours, lips pressing lazy kisses along your shoulder. The last few pulses of his thick cock make your own hips jolt under his, drawing slight hisses of overstimulation from the both of you.
Afterwards, you lie tangled together, bodies still humming with the afterglow, heat softening into comfort. Halsin's hand moves in slow circles along your spine, a steady, grounding rhythm that lulls you into stillness. Your cheek rests against the curve of his shoulder, his heartbeat slow and strong beneath your ear.
He does not speak. Neither do you. The quiet is full of understanding, of gratitude, of something deeper that you do not dare name. He shifts only to pull the blanket higher over your bodies, then settles again, curling his arm tighter around your waist.
His nose brushes the crown of your head. A kiss follows, light and lingering. His hand slips down your back to the curve of your hip, not to tease, only to hold. You press closer, letting your leg slide between his, your fingers stroking the short hair at the nape of his neck.
You feel safe. Sheltered. Cherished.
His breath deepens, and yours soon matches it. Sleep doesn’t take you all at once. It comes slowly, cradled between his warmth and the quiet symphony of the grove outside. The room seems to breathe with you, the stone feeling safer than the camp ever could. Here, with his body wound around yours, with his scent in your lungs and his heart beating against your skin, the world is as it should be.
Eventually, Halsin shifts to pull a thick woolen blanket over both your bodies. He curls his large body around you, shielding you from the cool night air that blows through the cracks in the stones, pressing one last kiss to the back of your neck.
Sleep comes easily in his arms. The grove outside continues its gentle song, but here, within these stone walls and warm blanket, the world has narrowed to the steady rhythm of Halsin’s breath and the memory of his hands on your skin.
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wickedusername · 3 months ago
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“Smile for the camera, sweetheart” while my cock is balls deep down your throat as you drool and tear up for me 💜
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wickedusername · 3 months ago
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wickedusername · 3 months ago
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Your best friend's dad Toji headcanons
Pairings: Toji Fushiguro x fem reader
Content warnings- ABSOLUTELY NO MINORS interacting with this, heavy NSFW! Big age gap (Toji late 30s, reader is 21) some manipulation (both of em lol) masturbation (toji) and oral sex (both recieving) obsessed Toji, the oneshot will be much more in detail lol. If you don't like Toji being called 'daddy' don't read lmao, taboo ass themes.
Full oneshot now- Daddy Likes Crazy Girls
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Your best friend's dad Toji who used to be so affectionate, but the past couple years he's been... closed off, indifferent to you? He had Megumi so young, it was more like he played a big brother role, really, you used to talk to him about anything. But lately he just grumbles a hello and pats your head, much to your dismay.
Your best friend's dad Toji is so hot you've had this crush on him forever, but of course you try to hide it, and eventually you have it under wraps- when you're about nineteen or twenty you start catching his looks, the ones he doesn't think you see, and you may or may not wear next to nothing when you stay the night, just to sleepily smile at him in the morning, watching dark green eyes dilate.
Your best friend's dad Toji can't stop thinking of all the ways he'd treat you so good, when he listens to you crying about a break up, thinking these pathetic dudes probably couldn't even get you off, in fact he's sure that they haven't. You don't look well fucked, like you should, with your shy little smile and the way your tits just sway in those tank tops with no bras, driving him insane to no end, so that now he just avoids you.
Your best friend's dad Toji has lost how many times he's stroked his cock to the thought of you, especially when you sleep on the couch, you spend all kinds of time here instead of your dorm with your roommate who apparently always has guys over. More peaceful for you here, and instead of tucking you in he openly stares at your parted lips, at how your tank top twisted and your tit is almost out. He'd throw a blanket over you and head to his bed, stroking himself and trying to stifle the moans, picturing how he'd make you cum over and over again.
Your best friend's dad Toji has girls over at times, and you can't help but feel upset when you see them, which is so stupid, but here it is, these feelings that arise, knowing they're going on dates with him, wondering if he'll see you any other way. One day after a particular date he comes in the dark kitchen, startled to see you sitting in one of the seats, sipping on a beer. 'The fuck, doll do you ever go home? And are you old enough to drink this shit?' you uncross your legs, and damned if your shorts aren't loose enough that he sees a hint of your pussy. 'I'm more than old enough, you know, I'm Gumi's age' Toji scoffs, cracking open a beer and leaning against the counter 'yeah, a fuckin kiddo still'
Your best friend's dad Toji pauses with his lips almost to the bottle when you step closer, fingers trailing up his dress shirt, his dark hair falling over his brow as you tilt your head, looking at him for the first time how you've wanted to. You've lost count how many times you have played with your pussy, how many times under boys you pictured Toji instead. 'Did you get off, Mr. Fushiguro?' Toji sputters now, how you make a man like him speechless is diabolical. 'the fuck you say, doll?' Toji manages, and you smile as your hand trails lower. 'You've helped me so much, I could help you cum if you want' he scoffs, gripping your wrist then 'don't fuckin' tease me, won't end well for you'
Your best friend's dad Toji shows you just how well it ends, when you're on your knees in the kitchen, and he's shoving his cock deep in your eager mouth, fucking your throat so good tears prick your eyes. 'F-fuck... s-so good I.... shit...' he's stuttering, as you take his cock down your throat, your nails gripping at his thighs, looking up at him then. 'Gonna cum if you- stop, shit you-' you keep sucking his veiny length, throbbing and twitching as he yanks on your hair, pulling you off before he busts, just in time for the door to click, and you both seperate before a sleepy Megumi finds you.
Your best friend's dad Toji doesn't come to you like you'd expect, no he avoids the shit out of you even more, and soon you're imagining this was all some odd dream. He doesn't even acknowledge it, so you go back to dating your ex, and try not to come over anymore, Toji misses you, fuck he does, but he's trying to not engage with whatever demon mouth his kids bestie posesses. Toji even sees you out while he's on a date, his jaw locking when you're at the other table, young and seemingly in puppy love, your eyes lock when you see him, and Toji's date is fading into the background just a bit. When you get up to go to the bathroom, Toji excuses himself, just to come behind you and press you against the counter, barring you with his strong arms, as you murmur- 'Mr. Fushiguro..."
Your best friend's dad Toji mutters 'so did you get off on your lil date, doll? with the kid?' you hear it, the tenseness, the jealousy, as his huge, strong hands slip up your little black dress, and you whine out just a bit, before glaring. 'What if he did? what if he gets me off so good, Mr. Fushiguro- ah!' Toji's done with you then, he's got you turned so you see your own blush and glittering eyes in the mirror, slipping his hand down between your thighs and rolling rough fingertips on your clit, towering over you, taking over your senses in this bathroom. 'Bet he ain't got shit on me' he murmurs, before rolling your clit in circles and hearing you hiccup, whimper, head falling back as his other hand grips a breath 'tired of ya fucking teasing me' he then leaves you there, gasping and needy, sucking on his fingers and moaning about your taste.
Your best friend's dad Toji does not like it when you bring your boyfriend over, even if it is Megumi's other friend, not when you're sitting on his lap and kissing him while the three of you game, all giggling. He scowls right at you, only for you to give him a knowing little smile, one he thinks about fucking right off you, until you're just open mouthed and drooling. He's jerking his dick right off in the bathroom while the three of you spend time, endlessly thinking of positions he'd put his kid's best friend in, bend you over, drink your pretty pussy up, make you call him daddy. As his cum squirts out of his reddened, drooly tip, he exhales, trying to pull himself together, surely two can play at your stupid little game.
Your best friend's dad Toji starts to go to every one of Megumi's games now, he used to catch a few, but he loves to go every time because he knows you cheer for the team. You kiss your little boyfriend's cheek and bounce around in your cheerleading skirt, all while you see him with a new girl in the stand all the time, acting so unbothered by you. When you're asking Megumi about it, he shrugs muttering 'they don't come home after the games, maybe he's trying to look hot to the PTA moms? he's weird' huh you think to yourself, seeing his glint in narrowed eyes, which only makes you want him more, the shithead that he is.
Your best friend's dad Toji watches as you 'drop something' just to bend over in your cheer skirt, with nothing under it like it should be, making him lose his mind when you smile brightly at him, talking about a party all of you are going to after. Toji can't stand it when he's at home, waiting, imagining everything you're doing, fucking dying to have you, he jerks off so much it starts to hurt, and it's all your fault, which you would delight in knowing truly. When you come back over in the damn cheer outfit the next day, and Megumi isn't home yet, you sigh. 'Oh, then I'll come back later-' Toji stops you then, locking the door with a click. 'Oh you'll cum alright'
Your best friend's dad Toji has you up on his kitchen counter, thighs spread, pulling your panties up so that your wet spot darkens them, and he sees the plump lips of your pussy. 'real slutty, where's your shorts huh?' you smile at him, then gasp as he grips your chin, and your head falls back against the wall. 'I want you to see' you finally admit, and he glares at you. 'and why the fuck you torturing me!?' you gasp at him. 'it's you who torture me!' 'nah, doll, you know what you're doing, and I'm tired of it, gonna shut you the fuck up' Toji yanks your panties off as you gasp. 'gonna make you forget any dumb college boy has ever touched you' he says, before he sinks two thick digits, moaning as he watches your pretty face get fucked out.
Your best friend's dad Toji laps at your little clit, as your hands entwine in his inky hair, and he feels like it's so wrong, you're like at least sixteen years younger, your his kids best friend. Shit you practically lived here, but once he gets a taste of your slick pussy, he's done for. He's got you cumming all over his fingers in minutes, and you're drunk off it, as he keeps licking, scar brushing your inner lips as you pull him closer. "Mr. Fushiguro..." You're whining out, and he smirks, pulling back and spitting right on your pussy, watching it drip from your twitchy clit to your soppy little hole. 'don't call me that right now, not when you're about to cum all over my face again, huh?' you eagerly obey, earning his chuckle 'guess this is how I get you to listen'
Your best friend's dad Toji slurps up more of your cum, obscene in the little kitchen, and you're fucking his face, his fingers, all while his cock his throbbing in his sweats, and you're whispering 'Toji!' he slaps your pussy then, loud in the room, with wet sticky fingers, you scream out at it, cunt throbbing around nothing, ready to be filled by him. 'Please, please...' he chuckles again- 'please what, doll?' you're shattering as he scissors his fingers in and out of your soppy hole 'please fuck mee, please!' he moans against your cunt, rubbing himself where the precum has leaked out past his boxers and even to his sweats, nipping at your clit as you cum again. 'want me to actually fuck you, huh? show you how a man does it?' 'please Toji...'
Your best friend's dad Toji carries you to his bed, the place he so frequently pumps his cock to the thought of you, eyeing your already fucked out face, smirking down at you as he spreads your thighs. 'then need to ask me properly, huh doll?' you blink in confusion, as he leans over you, cock still under his clothes, gripping your wrists as you wriggle, aching for him. 'I said please though!' he presses a kiss to your lips, and you taste yourself on him, moaning into his mouth. 'say please 'daddy''
Permatags- @alt--er--love @seeing-stars-alt @indiewritesxoxo @nanasukii28 @makingtimemine @cuntphoric @loafteaw @aldebrana @n1vi @miizuzu @beachaddict48 @labelt-san @honeybunnnnie @re-tired-succubus @gojosukuna2268 @waterfal-ling @1brii @wise-fangirl @moncher-ire @orikixx @uhnosav @baepsays @designerpvssy @orixxxana @airandyeah @nina-from-317 @evelynxxo @naammiii @soyokosuguru @espresso1patronum @tomboy-disaster
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wickedusername · 4 months ago
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wickedusername · 4 months ago
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まひとにおもちゃにされる絵です。
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wickedusername · 4 months ago
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yowchhh
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wickedusername · 4 months ago
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wickedusername · 4 months ago
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Kinktober Day 8 - Threesome with Satoru Gojo & Ryomen Sukuna
contains: nsfw content: (mdni), fempov, pnv/a (unprotected), creampie, threesome, double penetration, multiple orgasms, fingering, oral (reader receiving/giving)
˚₊‧ for more kinktober here - wc: 5.2k
a/n: next few days are gonna have to be short because i'm tired :')
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You lay in bed, fixed on the ceiling, as your mind whirred through a million things. These past weeks had been intolerable: deadlines at work piling up, personal obligations weighing down on your shoulders, and stress overwhelming everything else.
And even with such deep exhaustion, you just couldn't have a simple nap. Your body was tense; muscles were tight from the constant pressure that was hoarding onto your being, yearning for some relief and peace.
You could hear footsteps down the hall, but you ignored it. Satoru and Sukuna were probably just enjoying their day off; you knew they'd likely end up arguing over something stupid anyway. You let out a light sigh and closed your eyes, desperate to will yourself to sleep.
Your bedroom door burst open and your two roommates charged into your room, the air in the room instantly thickening with electric tension. You groaned, throwing an arm over your eyes. "God- can't you guys give me just one minute of alone time?
"We've given you enough peace," Satoru said, his voice laced with playful mockery. His tall frame leant casually against the doorframe, gleaming blue eyes taking in the image of your exhausted self. "You've been cooped in here for hours. Thought we'd check on you.
"You look like shit," Sukuna said bluntly from behind him, his deep voice carrying that ever-present arrogance. He stepped into the room, completely unapologetic as his crimson gaze swept over you. His eyes lingered a moment longer than usual, something dark and possessive flashing in them. "You're overworked."
You peeked out from beneath your arm and sighed. "I'm fine. Just tired."
Satoru's lips now had a teasing grin on them as he walked over to the bed, sat down at the edge near your feet. "No, you're not fine. You're stressing yourself out, and it's kind of difficult to watch.
Before you could even respond, Sukuna closed the space between you both, towering over the opposite edge of the bed. You felt the mattress dip just a little under his weight while he sat down. His gaze posed no different from a predator's glare, staring down on its prey. "When's the last time you even relaxed?"
"I don't have the time-" you sighed frustratingly, rubbing your temples.
Satoru clicked his tongue in disapproval, looking at you with concern in his eyes. "That's where you're wrong.”.
You shot him an irritated glance, but the intensity of their combined focus made your heart race. Sukuna’s hand suddenly reached out, moving your arm away from your face and tracing circles along your hand, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone so harsh. “You need to stop pretending you’ve got everything under control.”
“I do,” you argued weakly, even though you knew they could see right through you. “I’m just—”
Sukuna cut you off with a low chuckle, his fingers curling around your wrist, firm but not forceful as he had you sit up beside him, “You’re exhausted. You need to let go.”
Satoru’s hand joined Sukuna’s, but instead sliding up your leg in a slow, deliberate motion. His touch was light, teasing, but it sent a spark of electricity through your skin. “Let us help you unwind.”
You felt your breath catch as they both closed in, their hands moving with an unspoken understanding. Sukuna’s fingers grazed your bare skin, his touch rougher but skilled as they pressed into your tight muscles, working at the tension in your arm and shoulder. The contrast between the two of them—Satoru’s playful teasing and Sukuna’s more intense approach—made your body react in ways you hadn’t anticipated.
“I don’t know if this is…” Your voice faltered, but even as you protested, your body was already responding. The tension in your shoulders started to melt away under Sukuna’s firm massage, while Satoru’s fingers traced lazy patterns up your leg, drawing out soft gasps from your lips.
Satoru’s smirk widened as he leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. “You don’t need to think right now, sweetheart. Just relax. Let us take care of you.”
Your heart raced in your chest, you sat there, torn between wanting to push them away and this undeniable need for someone to touch you-to forget it all for just a little while. Sukuna's hands were unyielding, touching firmly, knowing just where you wanted it, without asking. He leaned in closer to you, his lips barely caressing the skin of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. "You're too tense," he said huskily against your skin, the tone low and dangerous. “Relax.”
Satoru’s hand moved higher up your thigh, his touch maddeningly slow as he whispered against your other ear, “You’re safe with us. Just let us help you forget everything.”
Your mind was racing, but your body was quickly surrendering to the sensations. The stress that had weighed so heavily on you was slipping away, replaced by the heat of their combined attention. Sukuna’s hand slid up your back, fingers pressing into the sore muscles, and you couldn’t hold back the small moan that escaped your lips. The sound only seemed to encourage them.
Satoru chuckled softly, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “That’s better. Stop pretending everything’s perfect, we’ve got you.”
Sukuna’s hand gently tugged your head back as he leaned over you, his breath hot against your neck. “Let us help our precious roommate.”
The two of them overwhelmed you, their touch pulling you deeper into a haze of pleasure and comfort. They worked in perfect sync, Satoru’s fingers sliding up to caress your inner thigh, while Sukuna’s lips finally pressed against the sensitive skin of your neck. His kisses were rough, possessive, while Satoru’s touch remained light and teasing, making your entire body tingle with anticipation.
You melted beneath their hands, all the stress and worries that had plagued you beginning to melt, replaced by their touch, their presence. They were grounding you, pulling you back from the edge of exhaustion and frustration, making sure that for tonight, you would forget everything but them.
Sukuna's hands moved with certainty, sliding under your arms as he shifted, pulling you up and against him. With minimal effort, he repositioned himself so that his broad back rested against the headboard, and you found yourself nestled between his strong legs. Your head lay against his firm chest, his heartbeat regular against your ear. The warmth of his body surrounded you, grounding you in a way.
He massaged your scalp with gentle motions that had your eyelids fluttering shut. A soft sigh escaped your lips as the tension in your shoulders dissipated completely as Sukuna's steady presence wrapped around you. "There you go," he murmured low, his voice reverberating through his chest. "Just like that. Let it all go.
Satoru was still seated at the edge of the bed, a devilish grin spreading across his face as you melted into Sukuna's arms. His fingers trailed up your legs, teasing the sensitive skin just below the knee before finally coming to rest on your thighs. He scooted closer, closing the space between the three of you, and leaned forward until his face was mere inches from yours.
“You’re looking better already,” he teased, one hand slipping up to trace along the waistband of your shorts, his fingers warm against your skin. His other hand found the curve of your jaw, his thumb brushing gently across your lips. “Isn’t this much better than stressing about things that you can’t change?”
You blinked slowly, overwhelmed by the sensations—the firm hold of Sukuna’s arms around you, the way Satoru’s hands explored your body with an infuriating mix of tenderness and teasing. A soft whimper escaped your lips, your body betraying how much you needed this, how desperately you wanted to forget everything except them.
Sukuna’s lips brushed against the crown of your head, his breath warm as he leaned down slightly to murmur in your ear, “You’re always so tense. Let us look after you for once.”
His hands moved from your scalp, trailing down the sides of your body, firm yet deliberate as they worked at the tight muscles. Every touch from him was purposeful, pushing you deeper into a relaxed haze. Each knot in your muscles unravelled beneath his skilled hands, and with every stroke, you felt yourself sinking further into his warmth, your body pliant against him.
Meanwhile, Satoru’s fingers brushed along your thighs, making their way with painfully slow movements; his eyes never once leaving yours as he watched intently for your response. He leaned his head to the side, the ever-present smirk on his lips as he leaned in closer-his warm breath fanning over your cheek until a soft whisper escaped him, "Tell me, sweetheart, what do you need right now?
Your lips parted, but words seemed impossible to form. All you could manage was to breathe out shakily as you felt the overwhelming presence of both of them. Sukuna's chest rumbled in a low growl of approval as he continued his methodical ministrations, his hands slipping lower, caressing your sides and stomach, while Satoru's lips brushed up dangerously close to your ear.
“Sshh, don’t worry,” Satoru murmured, his tone soft but edged with promise. His fingers slipped beneath the fabric of your shorts, grazing the sensitive skin beneath. “We know.”
Sukuna shifted slightly behind you, pulling you closer against his chest, his legs bracketing yours, effectively trapping you between the two of them. His large hands slid beneath your shirt, splaying across your stomach as he bent down, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear. “Just feel,” he growled, his voice dark and commanding.
His hands moved with purpose, sliding further up your torso, his thumbs brushing dangerously close to the edges of your bra. The sensation sent your heart racing, your pulse pounding in your ears as the walls of resistance inside of you crumbled. Sukuna's lips continued their lazy, possessive way down your neck while Satoru's hand slipped further beneath your shorts, his fingers ghosting over your panties to tease but not quite give you what you needed.
Sukuna's lips curled into a smirk against your skin as he felt you shudder beneath his touch. His hands slid higher, palming your breasts through the delicate fabric of your bra, before lowering it slightly, thumbs circling around your nipples and coaxing them to hardness. "You're so responsive," he purred, voice low and rumbling through your body. "So eager for our touch.
Satoru's teasing fingers continued their exploration, slipping lower to outline your slit through the dampening fabric. "What's wrong, sweetheart?" he teased, his lips brushing tantalisingly close to the corner of your mouth. "Too much to handle?
You bit your lip, a whimper escaping as Sukuna pinched your nipples roughly, sending jolts of pleasure-pain straight to your core. His teeth grazed your earlobe. "Don't hold back," he said as his other hand slid downwards,, fingers also dipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. "We want to hear you.”
His touch sent shivers rippling through your body, and the heat of his breath made your pulse quicken. You felt his control, the dark possessiveness in every move he made, while Satoru’s lips lingered dangerously close, teasing you with what you craved but never quite giving enough. The tension was electric, a heady mixture of pleasure and restraint. And your body responded-arching into their touch, begging for more. The room felt smaller, the air thicker, and you were completely at their mercy.
Satoru's hand joined Sukuna's as they pushed your shorts and panties down your legs, baring you to their hungry gazes. “Fuck, look at you,” Satoru breathed, his eyes dark with desire as he took in the sight of your glistening folds. “So wet already.”
Sukuna’s fingers trailed through your slick heat, teasing your entrance before sliding higher to circle your clit. “Is this what you need?” he purred, his touch maddeningly light. “To be touched by us?”
You couldn’t suppress the moan that spilled from your lips as your hips bucked into their touch. Satoru’s fingers joined Sukuna’s, spreading your folds wide and exposing you fully to their ministrations. “That’s it,” Satoru encouraged, his thumb swirling around your clit while Sukuna’s fingers sank deep inside you. “Let us take care of you.”
The dual sensations were overwhelming—Sukuna’s thick fingers stretching you, curling inside you, while Satoru’s skilled thumb worked your clit, sending sparks of pleasure racing through your body. 
Sukuna’s fingers plunged deep into your tight heat, curling and scissoring, stretching you open. The wet squelch of his digits pumping in and out of your dripping cunt filled the air, obscene and erotic. He spat into his palm, slicking his fingers further, the sound making you shudder and clench around him.
“Fuck, you’re gripping me so tightly,” Sukuna groaned, his crimson eyes blazing with lust as he drank in the sight of you writhing on his fingers. “Such a greedy little pussy, desperate to be filled.”
Satoru captured your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your moans as Sukuna’s fingers pistoned in and out of your dripping heat. His tongue delved into your mouth, tangling with yours and dominating you completely. He nipped at your bottom lip, tugging it gently between his teeth before soothing the sting with a swipe of his tongue.
Satoru settled between your thighs, his eyes dark with longing as he took in the vision of your glistening pussy. He dips his head down, revelling in your intoxicating scent. "You look so beautiful like this," he murmurs, his hot breath tickling sensitive flesh. "I can't wait to taste you."
Without any more hesitation, Satoru dove in, his tongue breaking between your slick folds and lapping at your essence. He growled low at the taste of you, his tongue diving deeper, searching for more of what he could get, greedily wanting everything. His hands locked onto your thighs, holding them open as he continued. 
Every flick, every swirl, courses fire through you, threatening to consume your very being. It was as though the world had shrunk to just him and the sensations he was creating, the movements sending ripples of pleasure coursing through you.
Sukuna watches intently, his cock straining against his pants, aching to be buried inside you. "Fuck, look at him," he growls, palming himself through the fabric. "He can't get enough of your sweet cunt."
As Satoru's tongue continued its relentless assault, licking and sucking at your sensitive flesh, you felt your mind begin to cloud with pleasure. The sensations were overwhelming; each stroke sending shockwaves of ecstasy through your body, building you higher and higher. When he lapped at your clit, the flat of his tongue providing broad, delicious pressure, you found yourself gasping, seeing stars with every pass. Your hands instinctively tangle in his hair, urging him on, urging him to take you higher, to push you over that delicious edge.
With every bump of his nose against the sensitive bundle of nerves, you felt your resolve slipping. All thoughts of the outside world fading away; nothing but the heat, the pressure, the sweet tension that was building with each flick of his tongue. You’re lost in the moment, teetering on the brink of something profound, desperate for more, craving the release that feels tantalisingly close yet maddeningly out of reach.
Sukuna's hand joins Satoru's, gripping your thigh firmly to hold you steady as your legs tremble from the mounting pleasure. "That's it, baby," he coaxes, his voice rough with desire, urging you to surrender. "Let him make you feel good. Let him bring you to the edge again."
Satoru intensified his efforts, his tongue plunging deep, fucking your entrance as his nose grinds against your clit. The sensation sends shockwaves through your body, and he can feel you tightening around him, your thighs trembling as he pushes you closer to another peak. He relishes the way your legs clamp around his head, holding him in place as you lose yourself in the pleasure.
With a renewed determination, Satoru flicked his tongue rapidly over your clit, his movements relentless and precise. Each stroke sending jolts of ecstasy coursing through you, pulling you closer to that sweet release.
Sukuna watched with ravenous intent, his hand moving to palm your breast, kneading the soft flesh and rolling your nipple between his fingers. "That's it, baby," he encourages, his voice low and husky, filled with lust. "Let him make you come." The vibrations of his words resonate through you, amplifying the pleasure building within.
Sukuna's eyes darkened with lust as he watched you come undone, writhing in ecstasy beneath Satoru's ministrations. He feels his own desire pulse, his cock straining against the confines of his pants, aching to be buried deep inside your heat.
With a final, hard suck on your clit, Satoru sent you spiralling over the edge once more. Your vision whites out, your back arching off the bed as the wave of ecstasy washes over you. Him, eagerly lapping up at your release, savouring every drop as his tongue took as much as he could get.
Sukuna moves you from his chest so he can kneel beside you. He leans in, capturing your lips in a searing kiss as he swallows cries of rapture. His tongue delves into your mouth, tangling with yours, tasting your arousal on his tongue.
As you're slowly coming down from your high, Satoru softens his touch to a gentle lapping with his tongue, savouring you with a satisfied hum. Pulling back, his face glistened with your arousal, as a triumphant grin spread across his lips at the sight of you.
"Fuck, you're so beautiful when you come," Sukuna growls against your lips, his hand sliding down your body, dipping between your thighs to feel your slick heat. "I could watch you fall apart like this for hours."
Satoru's fingers, slick with your juices, trail down to your asshole, circling the tight ring of muscle teasingly. He presses the tip of his thumb against the entrance, feeling it flutter and clench at the unfamiliar sensation. "Shh, relax," Satoru coos, his other hand stroking your inner thigh soothingly. "Let me in, baby. Let me make you feel good." 
After waiting for a moment, he slowly, carefully, he slowly pushes his thumb in, feeling a slight tense in you.
Sukuna watched, his eyes dark with lust as Satoru began to prep you. He could feel his own arousal grow, his cock straining against his pants desperately now. "Look at you-you're gonna take us so well, aren't ya?" he purrs, his hand reaching down to free his cock.
Satoru's thumb slid in and out of your ass, stretching you gently. The new sensation had you gasping, your body arching into his touch. "Fuck-" he groaned, his voice thick with arousal. "Might be a bit of a stretch baby.”
Sukuna's eyes are consumed with hunger as he drinks in the sight of you, stretched and ready for them. His cock pulses in his hand, pre-cum seeping from the head as he strokes himself leisurely, working out tension. "Such a good girl, taking Satoru's thumb so well," he praises low and gravelly, rough with need. "I bet you can't wait to feel my cock splitting you open, can you?"
As Satoru added a second finger, scissoring them to stretch you further, your breath catches in your throat. "That's it, baby, relax for me," he coos sweetly, his free hand soothing along your inner thigh. "I know it's new, but you're doing so well." The dual sensations of Satoru's fingers probing you and Sukuna's heated gaze consuming you had you trembling, core clenching around nothing.The desperate need to be filled, to be completely claimed by them, pulsing through you.
To distract you, Sukuna sat up and guided your head downwards towards him, "Open up, baby," he commanded, his voice husky with lust. "Take me in your pretty mouth." Your lips parted obediently, as he slid his thick length past them, groaning at the sensation of your warm, wet mouth enveloping him. The overwhelming taste of him sent a thrill of excitement coursing through you, and you couldn’t help but moan softly by the way you were pleasing him.
"Fuck, that's it," he growled, his hips rocking forward slightly, pushing more of his cock into your mouth. "Such a good girl, taking me so well." You moan around him, the vibrations adding to his pleasure and feeding your own insatiable desire.
Meanwhile, Satoru continued to work your ass with his fingers, adding a third digit to stretch you further. "Mmm, look at you, so desperate for our cocks," he purrs, watching intently as you take Sukuna deeper. The heat pooling in your belly intensifies, and the sound of his voice filled you with a mixture of excitement and need.
Sukuna's grip tightens in your hair as he guides your head, establishing a steady rhythm as he fucks your mouth. "That's it, baby, take it all," he groans, his eyes rolling in pleasure as your tongue swirls around his thick length. "You look so fucking hot with your lips wrapped around my cock." 
The sensation of being so full, both in mouth and ass, sends you spiralling into a fog of ecstasy, your mind racing with the overarching pleasure and that intoxicating sense of complete and utter helplessness.
Satoru's fingers worked relentlessly, twisting and scissoring, preparing you expertly for the stretch that would be Sukuna’s cock. "Fuck, I think she's definitely ready," he growled, his fingers finally sliding free from your tight hole.
Sukuna pulled his cock from your mouth with a wet pop, smearing his pre-cum across your cheek, marking you as his. He guided you back onto his lap, his thick cock pressing against your ass. Wrapping one arm around your waist to hold you close, his free hand grips his length, positioning himself at your prepared entrance.
"Ready for me, baby?" he asked, his voice dripping with desire. "Ready to feel me split you open?" The thought sent a thrill down your spine, as you nodded eagerly, heart racing in anticipation.
As Satoru settled between your thighs, his impressive length bobs against your stomach, heightening the tension. He leans in, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss just as Sukuna begins to push forward. The head of his cock breaches your tight ring of muscle, and a mix of pleasure and pain rushes through you as you can’t help but to gasp again.
"Fuck, you're so tight," Sukuna groans, his hips pressing forward steadily, inch by inch, until he’s fully sheathed inside you. You can hardly breathe, your body feeling deliciously stretched as he fills you completely. The sensation is overwhelming, leaving you reeling, caught between the pleasure of being claimed and the slight ache of fullness.
Satoru breaks the kiss, his dark eyes filled with lust as he takes in the sight of you impaled on Sukuna's thick cock. He strokes your cheek tenderly, his thumb brushing over your kiss-swollen lips. "You okay, baby?" he murmured, his voice low and concerned. "Tell us if it's too much." You appreciate his concern, but you can only manage a breathless nod, yearning for more.
Sukuna held you close, his chest pressed against your back, arms wrapped securely around your waist. He nuzzled into your neck, his hot breath dancing across your skin. "Just breathe, baby," he coaxes, keeping his hips still for now, giving you time to adjust to the stretch. "Fuck, you fit so nicely around me. So perfect." His body heat pressed against yours is intoxicating-a stark reminder of what the two of you share.
After a moment, Sukuna started to move, his hips rocking in shallow thrusts as he worked you open and got you used to the feel of him inside you. "That's it, good girl" he murmured, hands gripping your hips possessively. "Take my cock. Take it all." The pleasure built with each thrust, a delicious stretching sensation that has your heart racing.
Sukuna’s steady rhythm continued, his thick cock stretching you delightfully as he filled you again and again. "Shit, you're so tight," he groans, fingers digging into your hips as he pulls you back onto him, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body.
Meanwhile, Satoru positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging your slick folds. "Ready for me, baby?" he asks, his voice husky with desire. "To take both of us?" Your heart raced at the thought, and you nodded vigorously, yearning for the fullness.
With your confirmation, Satoru pushed forward, his length sliding into your heat along with Sukuna’s measured thrusts. "Oh fuck," he gasps, his eyes rolling back in pleasure as he joins the rhythm. "You feel incredible." The dual penetration is overwhelming, stretching you to your limits, a delicious mix of pain and pleasure that sends your mind spinning.
As they began to move together, their hips rocking in sync, you could feel the intensity building. "Fuck, baby, you're taking us so well," Sukuna growls, his fingers digging deeper into your hips. "Such a good girl, letting us fill you up like this." Your body responds eagerly to their words, the pleasure coursing through you in waves.
Satoru leaned in, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss, pouring all his longing into the moment. "We want you to take care of yourself, baby," he murmurs against your mouth, concern lacing his tone. "Don't let work consume you. You're too important to us." You feel the weight of his words, knowing how much they care for you, and it infuses you with warmth.
Sukuna nods, hands roaming over your body, caressing your curves as he continues to thrust into you. "That's right, baby, you need to put yourself first." Their dual focus on your pleasure and well-being wrap around you like a blanket, encouraging yourself to let go completely.
Sukuna's and Satoru's hips began to pound deeper into you; the rhythm urgent, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. The dual penetration was an overwhelming sensation-the stretch bordering on painful yet edged with undeniable pleasure that had you gasping for more. You felt your orgasm rise, a tight coil of desire building within you as they pushed you closer to the edge.
“Fuck, I can feel you tightening up," Sukuna groaned, his fingers digging into your hips, anchoring you to him. "You gonna come for us, baby? Gonna let us feel you come undone?" The need in his voice fired up something in the pit of your stomach.
“Gonna come," you gasp out strained with pleasure. "Don't stop, please- don't stop-" Your heart was racing, desperation fueling the need as Sukuna and Satoru redoubled their efforts, hips pounding into you with ruthless abandon. You felt Sukuna’s fingers find your clit, rubbing circles around the sensitive nub, while Satoru captured your lips in another searing kiss.
The combined stimulation was too much, and you came undone, crying aloud as their names both spilled from your lips. Your body convulsed as waves of bliss washed over you. Your pussy clamped down around their cocks, and a whine escaped your lips as you gushed around Satoru’s cock, the sensation overwhelming.
Sukuna and Satoru continued their merciless rhythm, their thrusts becoming erratic as they neared their own release. “Fuck, she’s milking our cocks,” Sukuna groans, fingers digging into your hips. “Gonna fill her up so good.”
Satoru leans in towards Sukuna, stealing a passionate kiss from him, their desire palpable in the air. “She’s perfect,” he murmurs against Sukuna’s mouth, his eyes dark with lust. “Takes us so well. Like she was made for this.”
The intensity of their connection sent shivers down your spine as they kiss again, their tongues tangling in a dance of raw hunger while they fuck you in tandem. “Gonna mark her inside and out,” Sukuna growls, breaking the kiss, determination etched on his features. “Make sure she knows she’s ours.”
They moved at a brutal pace, their hips slamming into you with brute force, skin slapping against skin, as they claimed you. Satoru held tightly onto your hips, bruising you, his fingers digging deeper into your flesh at every thrust. Sukuna bit down on your shoulder, teeth sinking deep into soft, supple skin, marking you for himself.
Overwhelmed with sensation, you felt your mind spiral into overstimulation. Incoherent babbles spill from your lips: a jumbled mess of moans, pleas, and garbled encouragement. You thrash your head from side to side, lost in the pleasure radiating from your core, your body no longer your own.
The two didn't relent, their thrusts becoming more erratic as they approached their peaks, focused solely on their pleasure, determined to fill you with their release. You’re aware of the urgency in their movements, and a thrill runs through you, knowing you’re the source of their desire.
With a final, powerful thrust, Sukuna and Satoru bury themselves deep inside you, their cocks pulsing as they release their hot load. Sukuna’s lips curl into a snarl, his teeth still embedded in your shoulder as he empties himself within you. “Fuck, yes!” he roars, hips jerking as he fills you with his thick cum.
Satoru threw his head back, a guttural moan escaping his lips as he followed suit, his cock twitching as he pumped you full of his own release. “God, you’re perfect,” he gasps, grinding against you, ensuring every last drop stayed inside. The sensation of their warmth filling you was intoxicating, your body trembling as you felt it seeping around where their cocks were still connected to you.
They remain buried deep inside you, bodies pressed against yours as they catch their breath, savouring the aftermath of their combined pleasure. Sukuna’s teeth finally release your shoulder, leaving a mark—a symbol of his claim on you. You bask in the warmth of their presence, a blissful afterglow enveloping you as you lie there, feeling cherished and completely consumed by their desire.
“Fuck, that was incredible,” Satoru pants, resting his forehead against yours as your breathing slowly returns to normal.
The two men withdraw from you, their cocks glistening with your combined arousal. They help you stand, their arms steadying you as your legs wobble beneath you. 
“Let’s clean up,” Satoru suggests, his eyes sparkling with lingering desire. “Then we can cuddle, yeah?”
Sukuna scoops you up into his strong arms, cradling you against his chest as he carries you toward the shower. “You did so well, baby,” he praises, his tone low and soothing. “You took us perfectly.”
Satoru walks beside you both, his gaze filled with warmth. “We want you to relax and let us take care of you. You deserve it,” he murmurs, his voice a gentle caress. “And we mean it when we say we won’t let you overwork yourself anymore.”
You nod, your body still humming from the intense encounter. Sukuna’s and Satoru’s possessive claims, their marks on you, only deepen the bond you share, leaving you feeling cherished and desired.
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wickedusername · 5 months ago
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ARE YOU TELLING ME ONE OF THE SMUT FICS I AM MOST PROUD OF WRITING FOLLOWS A PREMISE CALLED
Goon-Baiting????
Did you know that in WWII, British POWs would annoy their captors as a form of resistance
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wickedusername · 5 months ago
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with a slight delay... anyway, happy Valentine's Day💗
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