Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

• oct 1. ryomen sukuna jealous sex and marking
• oct 2. suguru geto public sex and humiliation
• oct 3. toji fushiguro daddy kink and thigh riding
• oct 4. choso kamo period sex and bloodplay
• oct 5. kento nanami bondage and humiliation
• oct 6. naoya zen’in piercings and teasing
• oct 7. satoru gojo squirting, dacryphilia, and overstim
• oct 8. ryomen sukuna monsterfucking and belly bulge
• oct 9. yuji itadori facesitting and cum swallowing
• oct 10. kenjaku sensory deprivation, identity theft, and noncon
• oct 11. toji fushiguro gunplay, fearplay, and chains
• oct 12. yuta okkotsu cock warming, denial, and dacryphilia

• oct 13. naoya zen’in spitplay and hand kink
• oct 14. kento nanami massaging and teasing
• oct 15. ryomen sukuna throatfuck, breath play and hair pulling
• oct 16. megumi fushiguro cock worship and titty fuck
• oct 17. choso kamo breeding and praise kink
• oct 18. yuta okkotsu virginity and handjob
• oct 19. naoya zen’in impact play and hate sex
• oct 20. satoru gojo mirror sex and body worship
• oct 21. yuji itadori just the tip and dubcon 
• oct 22. suguru geto corruption kink and dumbification
• oct 23. toji fushigurosize kink and throat training
• oct 24. naoya zen’in cockring/denial and humiliation
• oct 25. kento nanami hatefucking and degrading
• oct 26. satoru gojo and suguru geto threesome
• oct 27. choso kamo somnophilia and bestfriend trope
• oct 28. kenjaku toys and overstim
• oct 29. satoru gojo lingerie and praise kink
• oct 30. ryomen sukuna denial and vouyerism
• oct 31. satoru gojo & ryomen sukuna double penetration, mask kink, more

Chapter Text

-

You didn’t think laughing at something stupid Gojo said would matter. He always had some dumb joke ready, leaning against the bar with that smug grin of his, white hair falling into his eyes. 

You didn’t even notice Sukuna watching at first, didn’t notice the way his expression shut down as soon as your hand brushed Gojo’s arm in passing.

The ride home was quiet. Too quiet. 

Normally he filled the silence with sharp remarks or lazy teasing, but tonight he just stared out the window, jaw tight, like he was chewing on something poisonous.

You didn’t press, not at first—because Sukuna in a mood was like walking into fire barefoot. But the second you got inside, when he brushed past you without so much as a glance, you couldn’t bite your tongue.

“What’s your problem?” you asked, dropping your bag on the counter.

“Nothing.” He kicked off his shoes, voice flat.

It was a lie, obvious and heavy, and it burned more than you wanted to admit. “Don’t give me that. You’ve been sulking since the bar.”

His laugh was sharp and humorless. “Sulking. Cute.” He turned then, and the weight of his gaze hit you like a shove. “You think I didn’t see the way you were looking at him?”

You blinked. “Gojo? Are you serious? He’s—he’s Gojo. Always jus’ been my friend.”

But the thing about Sukuna is that he never argued like a normal person. He didn’t explain or accuse, not outright. 

He just stepped into your space, close enough that you could smell the smoke on his jacket and the faint trace of whiskey on his breath. 

His silence said everything: he didn’t believe you. Or maybe he did, but it didn’t matter—because the idea of you laughing at someone else’s joke had already sunk its claws into him.

That’s why you weren’t very surprised when you ended up on your hands and knees, cheek pressed against the mattress as Sukuna drove into you like he wanted to fuck the memory of Gojo out of your body. 

The sheets were a mess beneath you, pulled half off the bed from how quickly he’d dragged you down, and your ass already burned from the sting of his handprints—angry red marks blooming across your skin with every smack.

He wasn’t gentle. Not tonight. 

Each thrust was sharp, punishing, his breath rough as it broke over the back of your neck. You could feel the tension he hadn’t bothered to voice, every ounce of it channeled into the way he held you down with one big hand on your spine, forcing your back to arch while the other squeezed hard at your hip.

“Think it’s funny?” he rasped, his voice ragged against your ear. Another slap cracked across your ass, making you jolt. “Flirtin’ with that white-haired prick right in front of me like I wouldn’t notice?”

You tried to answer, but your voice broke into a gasp when he buried himself deeper, hitting the spot that made your vision blur. It didn’t matter what excuse you gave—he wasn’t listening. Not really. 

This wasn’t about Gojo anymore. It was about the gnawing possessiveness burning a hole through Sukuna’s chest, about the need to stamp himself into your skin so completely that no one else could ever come close.

The bruises would bloom tomorrow. You knew it, and you knew he knew it too. That was the point.

And still, despite the sharpness of his grip, despite the ache already starting in your thighs, you didn’t pull away.

Because the truth was, you liked when he got like this.

Through the broken rhythm of your moans you finally managed, “S-Sukuna—I wasn’t—” another gasp tore from your throat when his hips slammed into you, “I wasn’t flirting with him—I only want you—”

The words tumbled out desperate, shaky, almost swallowed by the sound of your body meeting his. For a second you thought maybe it would calm him down. Maybe he’d ease up, believe you.

But Sukuna only laughed. Low, sharp, cruel.

“Only want me, huh?” His fingers dug deeper into your hip until you swore you felt the bruise forming under his grip. “Then why the fuck was he making you smile like that?” He bent low, chest pressing to your back, his teeth grazing your ear. “You think I’m stupid enough to buy that shit?”

“I swear—”

He cut you off with a hand wrapping tight around your throat, pulling your head up so your back arched even further.

“Swear all you want. Doesn’t change the fact that you gave him something that belongs to me.” His voice was a growl, vibrating against your skin. “That laugh, that look—you don’t hand that out like candy. Not unless you’re begging to get fucked like this after.”

The heat in your cheeks flared, humiliation mixing with the pleasure that had your body clenching around him anyway.

Sukuna felt it. Of course he did. His smirk pressed against your ear, merciless. “Pathetic. You get off on it, don’t you? On me fucking you raw just to prove you’re mine.”

His thrusts grew harder, relentless, and you realized there was no convincing him—not tonight. He didn’t want excuses. He wanted to ruin you until all you could think about was him, until your voice broke and your body gave out beneath him.

And despite yourself, you let him.

You barely had time to catch your breath before Sukuna’s grip shifted. In one sharp motion he dragged out of you, hands clamping around your waist as he flipped you onto your back. 

The mattress dipped under his weight as he shoved your legs apart and lined himself up again, forcing his way back inside before you could even gasp.

Missionary wasn’t usually his style, but right now he wanted you open, pinned, with no space to hide from him. 

His hand locked around your thigh, keeping you spread wide, while the other braced beside your head as he slammed into you. The stretch was brutal, every thrust deep enough to make your vision blur.

“Look at me,” he snarled when your eyes fluttered shut. His palm gripped your jaw, forcing your gaze to his. “You laugh for him, but you scream for me. That’s the difference.”

You shook your head, breathless. “I wasn’t—”

“Shut up.” His mouth crashed against your neck, teeth sinking in hard enough to sting. 

You cried out, hands clutching at his shoulders as he bit down again, and again, dragging his mouth along your throat until you knew it would be a mess of bruises tomorrow.

“Gonna paint you up nice,” Sukuna muttered against your skin, his voice a low growl between kisses that were anything but tender. “So every bastard in that bar knows you’re taken. So that smug prick Gojo can choke on the sight of you covered in me.”

Your nails dug into his back, desperation spilling into your words. “I only want you—nobody else, Sukuna—”

His smirk pressed cruel against the fresh mark on your collarbone. “Good. Say it louder. Say it while I’m inside you.”

And he drove into you harder, as if to wring the confession out of your lungs himself.

Your voice broke on a moan, his thrusts stealing the air from your lungs as he pounded into you without mercy. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, obscene and relentless, his pace brutal like he was trying to fuck the fight out of you.

“Look at you,” Sukuna rasped, forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and ragged. “Moaning like a slut after running your mouth at the bar. Thought you could make me jealous, huh? Thought you could play with me?”

“N-no—” you gasped, nails biting into his shoulders, eyes rolling back when his hips snapped harder.

“Don’t lie to me.” His hand slid down to your throat again, squeezing just enough to make your pulse hammer against his palm. His grin was all teeth, vicious and triumphant. “You’ll learn, little whore. You’ll learn who you belong to.”

The words hit you as hard as his thrusts, shame and heat twisting together until your body was clenching around him, pleasure coiling fast and tight.

You tried to hold it back, but Sukuna felt the way you trembled beneath him, and he laughed low in your ear.

“Yeah, that’s it. Cum on my cock. Let him know—let everyone fucking know—you’re mine.”

Your body broke first, the orgasm ripping through you in sharp waves, leaving you gasping his name like a prayer you couldn’t stop. 

Sukuna groaned, deep and guttural, his hips grinding into you until he spilled inside with a final brutal thrust.

For a moment all you could hear was the sound of his breathing, heavy and uneven, before he pulled back just enough to glance at the mess of bruises he’d left on your neck and chest. 

Satisfaction gleamed in his eyes, dark and cruel.

“Perfect,” he muttered, dragging his thumb over the freshest mark and smirking when you shivered. “Now even that smug bastard won’t mistake who you belong to.”

The next day, you almost regretted letting him go that far. Almost. 

Your throat and collarbone were littered with dark bruises and teeth marks, raw reminders of Sukuna’s jealousy. 

You did your best to cover them up, tugging at your neckline in the mirror, but there was no hiding all of it. 

So when the two of you walked into the party that night, you could already feel eyes turning. Sukuna had his arm slung casually across your shoulders, guiding you through the crowd like he owned the place—and in his mind, he probably did.

His grin was slow and infuriating, the kind of smug curve that told you he knew exactly what he’d done and exactly how visible it was. Every mark was a victory, and every glance you caught from strangers was just proof he’d won.

Gojo noticed almost immediately. 

Of course he did. White hair sticking up in messy spikes, sunglasses perched crookedly on his nose, he froze mid-conversation when his gaze landed on your neck. 

His words stuttered for the first time in his life—something about a joke you didn’t catch, because his eyes were still wide as he stared, and then very deliberately looked away.

You could practically feel Sukuna’s satisfaction radiating through him. 

His arm tightened around your shoulders, pulling you closer, and he leaned down just enough to murmur against your ear, “Look at him. Can’t even keep his eyes to himself now. Knows better.”

Gojo avoided you for most of the night after that, though you caught him sneaking glances once or twice, his usual cocky demeanor replaced by something that almost looked like… unease.

 And Sukuna thrived on it. Every time Gojo shifted uncomfortably, Sukuna’s grin widened, his chest puffing with silent pride, like he’d just mounted your bruises on the wall as trophies.

By the time you left, you were half convinced Sukuna hadn’t come to the party for the drinks, or the music, or even for you. 

He’d come for this—for the pleasure of parading you around like his personal warning sign, for the smug thrill of watching the “strongest” falter at the sight of what he’d done to you.

And judging by the way he held you a little tighter as you walked out, head high and smirk cutting sharp, Sukuna considered the night a complete success.

-

Chapter Text

-

You didn’t think he’d actually do it. Not here, not in front of them. But Geto was nothing if not theatrical, and tonight he seemed determined to remind you of your place—not just to you, but to everyone watching.

The room was quiet except for the shuffle of his followers kneeling in a half-circle around the dais, their heads bowed, eyes dutifully averted even though you knew they were listening. Maybe even peeking.

And Geto thrived on that knowledge.

He had you bent over the low altar, palms flat against the cold surface, your clothes already torn away like they were nothing. His hand rested heavy at the back of your neck, pinning you down with casual dominance, and when he leaned close to murmur in your ear, his voice carried just enough for the others to hear.

“Look at them, darling,” he said softly, almost sweetly. “They’re learning a lesson. Learning who owns you.”

Heat burned up your chest and face—half from shame, half from the way your body betrayed you anyway, arching back into him as his hips pressed forward.

And Geto only smiled.

Each snap of his hips echoed obscenely in the chamber, the sound of skin meeting skin amplified in the silence. 

You tried to keep quiet, biting into your lower lip until you tasted copper, but it was useless—every thrust forced a broken moan from your throat, every drag of him inside you sent your body jerking against the altar.

You could feel their presence all around, Geto’s followers kneeling in perfect stillness, their reverence making the humiliation worse.

They weren’t supposed to look. You told yourself they weren’t looking. 

But the thought of their eyes flicking up, catching even a glimpse of you spread and shaking under their leader’s grip, made your stomach twist.

Geto, of course, was unaffected. His hair was still smooth, robes unrumpled, his expression maddeningly calm.

He wasn’t panting or sweating the way you were; he looked every inch the immaculate preacher, even as he drove himself into you with slow, punishing precision.

“Barely holding yourself together, hm?” His voice carried easily through the room, silk-wrapped steel. 

He pushed in deep and stayed there, grinding until your knees buckled, his hand at your nape the only thing keeping you upright. “Messy little thing… trembling in front of my disciples like a common whore.”

Your face burned hot, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as you shook your head, but your body betrayed you. Your thighs quivered, your slick dripping onto the altar, every clench of your cunt around him proof you couldn’t deny.

Geto smiled at the sound you made—high, desperate, cracking apart. He tilted his head, dark eyes gleaming as though he were savoring not just the sight of you, but the weight of every witness behind him.

And he looked perfect. Untouched. The picture of control.

Which only made you feel filthier, ruined in comparison. Exactly the way he wanted.

You tried to stifle another moan, your cheek pressing harder into the cold altar, shame clawing at your chest. Through the blur of tears, your voice cracked out in a pitiful whimper.

“W-why can’t you just—take me to your chambers? Please—”

Geto chuckled, the sound rich and low, vibrating against your spine. His thrusts didn’t falter, still slow, deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world to unravel you. 

“My chambers?” he repeated softly, almost amused. His hand slid from your neck to your jaw, tilting your face up so he could look at you properly.

You hated that he was so composed. Not a hair was out of place—his silky black strands framed his face perfectly, not a single one sticking to his forehead the way sweat glued yours. 

His robes fell flawlessly across his broad shoulders, not a wrinkle or slip to betray what he was doing to you. He looked like a man carved from control, elegant and holy, while you were nothing but his trembling ruin.

Geto’s eyes gleamed down at you, sharp and knowing, his smile maddeningly gentle for words that cut like glass.

“Why would I hide you away, when I can teach them with you?” His thumb stroked over your tear-damp cheek, deceptively tender. “What better lesson than watching their leader use a pretty little disciple until she breaks?”

The humiliation burned hotter than his touch. You squeezed your eyes shut, but he gave your jaw a firmer tilt, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“Keep them open,” he murmured, voice dripping with mock-affection. “Let them see how beautiful you are when you fall apart for me.”

And you couldn’t decide what was worse—the shame of being exposed in front of his followers, or the way your body clenched around him in answer, betraying that a part of you wanted exactly this.

A voice, small and trembling, broke through the stillness. “M-Master Geto, perhaps—”

The words died immediately, cut off by the sound of Geto’s pace stopping. The sudden stillness was almost worse than his thrusts, the heavy weight of his cock still buried deep inside you as he turned his head slowly toward the source of the interruption.

For the first time all night, his composure cracked. Not completely—his hair still fell perfectly into place, his robes still neat—but the warmth drained from his expression, leaving something cold and razor-sharp in its place.

“Perhaps what?” he asked, his voice velvet but dipped in venom.

No one answered. The follower who had spoken had already bowed so low their forehead nearly touched the floor, trembling in their silence. The rest dared not breathe.

Geto’s fingers tightened painfully on your jaw, forcing your face higher, using you like a living prop as his eyes swept over the room. 

“Did I invite your thoughts on how I take what’s mine?” His tone was calm, almost soft, which only made the fury burning beneath it more terrifying. “No? Then don’t mistake my generosity for permission.”

The chamber was silent again. You could feel the tension thrumming through his body, the way he held himself taut—dangerously controlled, ready to snap.

Then, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, he looked back down at you, the sharpness in his gaze lingering.

“Where were we?” he murmured, his composure sliding back into place as smoothly as if it had never left. And with one vicious snap of his hips, he reminded everyone in the room exactly where you were: on display, ruined, and his.

The snap of his hips made you cry out, sharp and unrestrained, the sound echoing far too loud in the chamber. You slapped a hand over your mouth, mortified, but Geto only chuckled darkly.

“Oh, no,” he crooned, grabbing your wrist and yanking it down so your moans spilled into the open air again. His pace picked up, steady and ruthless, every thrust angled to batter against the spot that made your legs shake. “Don’t you dare hide it. Let them hear. Let them learn.”

You shook your head, tears streaking your cheeks as the pleasure built faster than you could control, hot and overwhelming. The more you squirmed, the tighter his grip became—his hand pinning your jaw open, forcing your mouth to stay parted as he pounded into you.

“Good girl,” Geto praised, though the words dripped with condescension. His robes didn’t shift, his breathing barely changed, as if he could keep up this brutal rhythm forever without breaking a sweat. “So eager to put on a show for me. For them.”

“I-I’m not—Geto—!” your protest fractured into a sob when his cock hit deep, making your vision spot with white.

“You are.” His voice sharpened, cutting straight through you. “Look at you, moaning like a whore on my cock while my disciples sit at my feet. Tell me, darling, is this humiliation… or is it exactly what you wanted?”

You whimpered, shaking, but the coil in your belly was already snapping tighter and tighter.

He leaned down close, his silky hair brushing against your temple, his words meant only for you though you knew every single follower could hear them.

“Cum for me. Right here. Let them see how completely I own you.”

And you did—your body broke apart under his command, the orgasm ripping through you so violently you cried out his name, the sound raw and loud and utterly impossible to hide. 

Your legs quaked, your nails clawed at the altar, every nerve sparking with overwhelming heat as you convulsed around him.

Geto’s smile was serene as ever, his thrusts steady until he spilled inside you, burying himself deep and groaning softly into your hair. His release was quieter, controlled, nothing like the mess you’d been reduced to.

When it was over, he smoothed his palm along your cheek, brushing away a tear as if he hadn’t just orchestrated your destruction in front of an audience.

His followers hadn’t moved an inch—still kneeling, still silent—but the heavy air told you they’d all heard. All seen.

And Geto looked down at you like you were his masterpiece.

“Perfect,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Now they’ll never forget what happens to what’s mine.”

-

Chapter Text

-

It wasn’t supposed to be like this with Toji.

He was just the man who showed up around the edges of your life—older, smug, with that scarred smile that made your stomach twist no matter how hard you tried to ignore it.

You told yourself you hated him, that he was nothing but a walking headache with broad shoulders.

And yet, you kept ending up here.

Because Toji didn’t chase. He didn’t need to. He’d lean back, watch you, throw out a cruel comment just to see you bristle. And when you snapped back at him—when you gave him that little glare he loved so much—he’d only smirk wider, like he’d already won.

It drove you insane. It made you feel small. And worse, it made you want him more.

That’s how you ended up on his lap, the thick muscle of his thigh pressed between your legs, your panties already damp against the rough fabric of his jeans. You hated how your body reacted to him—how your breath hitched when he spread his legs wider to adjust you, how the heat in your belly pulsed just from the weight of his hand on your hip.

You told yourself you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction this time. You weren’t going to melt under that lazy stare, weren’t going to let him pull those humiliating words out of you.

But the pressure building between your thighs was unbearable. And Toji knew it.

He always knew.

Your thoughts are quickly shot away—scattered into nothing—when Toji’s big hands grip your hips and grind you down onto his thigh with brutal pressure. 

The thick muscle flexes beneath you, dragging against your clit so perfectly you cry out before you can stop yourself, nails digging into his shoulders.

The sound makes his grin spread slow and sharp.

“Yeah? That’s all it takes?” he drawls, voice low enough to make your stomach flip. He rocks you harder, the friction of his jeans catching just right, and you gasp, your forehead dropping to his collarbone. “Just my thigh and you’re already cryin’ for it?”

Your breath stutters, hips jerking helplessly against the rough fabric. It’s humiliating—how fast you’re coming undone, how good it feels to let him manhandle you like this.

“Toji—” you whimper, but your voice breaks on the syllable when he pushes you down again, grinding you against the hard line of muscle until your thighs tremble.

“C’mon, brat,” he rasps, tilting his head to catch your eye. His smirk is infuriating, all teeth and satisfaction. “You wanted my cock so bad, but look at you—gonna ruin yourself just on Daddy’s thigh instead.”

The word hits like a shock to your system, making your chest seize and your cunt clench around nothing. You shake your head, heat flooding your cheeks, but he only laughs, guiding your hips in slow, merciless circles.

“Don’t tell me you’re too proud,” he says, and his tone dips into something darker—mocking, commanding. “Say it. Call me Daddy, or you don’t get shit else tonight.”

And even though you want to resist, want to keep your pride intact, another sharp drag against your clit tears a sob from your throat, leaving you desperate enough to consider it.

Your whole body burns with humiliation, but the ache between your legs is so sharp you can barely think straight. His thigh is too solid, too thick, pressing against your clit in a way that has your hips moving on their own no matter how much you want to hold out.

When you finally give in, it comes out as a whimper—your face buried in the crook of his neck, your nails digging crescent moons into the solid muscle of his biceps.

“D–Daddy,” you choke, voice muffled against his skin. The word feels foreign on your tongue, but the second you say it, his grip tightens, forcing you down harder until you grind against him with a broken sob.

“That’s it,” Toji growls, smug satisfaction laced through every syllable. His thigh flexes beneath you, and he ruts you against it in cruel, deliberate motions, making your clit throb. “Knew you’d crack. All that attitude, just to end up beggin’ Daddy to help you cum.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, ashamed at how wet you are, how easily the word slipped out once he had you trembling like this. Your hips rock harder, chasing the friction, and your teeth graze his shoulder as you pant.

“Need it—” you manage, gasping when another wave of pressure drags through you. “Need you—please, Daddy, don’t stop.”

He chuckles low in his chest, one hand sliding up to the back of your neck to hold you there, keeping your face pressed to his skin while he watches you rut against him like you’re possessed.

“Good girl,” he mutters, voice dark with approval. “That’s what I wanted to hear. Keep grindin’ for me—make a mess on Daddy’s thigh like the filthy little girl you are.”

The praise tangles with the insult, wrecking you in equal measure, and you can’t stop the way your body shudders against him, your hips grinding faster, harder, desperate for release.

Your hips roll frantically now, chasing every bit of friction his thigh gives you, but it still doesn’t feel like enough—you want more, need more. Each time you grind down, the rough fabric drags against your clit so perfectly you can’t help the broken little cries that slip out of you.

“Daddy—ah, Daddy—” the word rips from you in breathless whimpers, but then his name catches too, tangled in your gasps. “Toji… Toji, f-fuck—”

That gets him. His lips curl into a smirk, slow and razor-sharp, and the faint scar that splits his mouth shifts with it—dangerous and unbearably handsome. His eyes half-lid as he watches you, dark green catching in the low light, gleaming with smug amusement.

“Can’t even pick which one you want, huh?” he teases, voice dipping into a rumble that makes your stomach clench. “Daddy or Toji. You sound so fuckin’ stupid moanin’ both.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, but the humiliation only spurs you to grind harder, clinging to his shoulders, your nails biting into the dense muscle. He doesn’t flinch. If anything, his smirk widens, the scar tugging cruelly as he tilts his head down closer to yours.

“Keep beggin’,” he murmurs, his breath hot at your ear. “Call me whatever you want, long as you remember who’s makin’ you lose it like this.”

And you do—every nerve in your body remembers, your hips jerking helplessly against him as the pressure builds sharp and unbearable, his voice and his smirk burning you up from the inside out.

His hands finally move—big, scarred palms gripping your ass so firmly you gasp. He drags you down against his thigh in sharp, relentless motions, each grind sending sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine. The pressure is brutal, overwhelming, and his low growl curls right in your ear.

“Cum for me,” he orders, voice rough but steady. “Be a good girl for Daddy. Show me how bad you needed it.”

Your body seizes at the command, the last shred of control shattering. With his hands squeezing you tight, forcing you down against the thick muscle of his thigh, the friction is unbearable—perfect. Your climax crashes over you, sharp and messy, your whole body trembling as you cry out, clinging to his shoulders.

“Daddy—ah, Toji—fuck, I’m—” Your words dissolve into broken moans as you ride it out, grinding helplessly through every pulse of your orgasm, your cunt soaking the rough fabric of his jeans.

Toji just watches, lips curled in that infuriating smirk, scar tugging as his teeth flash. His chest rumbles with a laugh as you slump against him, boneless and panting.

“Look at you,” he drawls, patting your ass once, mocking and indulgent. “Made a mess like a bitch in heat. All over Daddy’s pants.”

You groan, burying your face in his neck, the heat of embarrassment creeping into your chest even as your thighs still quiver.

And of course, he doesn’t let it go. His hand slides up your back, casual as ever, while his smirk digs in deeper.

“What’s wrong, princess?” he teases, voice syrupy-sweet. “All shy now?”

You want to shove him, tell him to shut up, but all you can do is hide your face deeper, praying he won’t see how flustered you are.

Toji just laughs again, smug and cruel, and you know he’ll never let you live this down.

-

Chapter Text

-

You were hesitant to tell him.

Most guys flinched when it came up, even the bold ones who swore nothing scared them. But Choso wasn’t most guys. He’d lived a life soaked in blood, controlled it with the kind of precision that made other sorcerers quake. Still—this felt different. This was yours. And the thought of his reaction made your stomach twist.

But Choso had a way of noticing things before you said them. The slight stiffness in your posture. The faintest iron-sweet tang in the air. The way you avoided his eyes when he pulled you close.

“…You’re bleeding,” he murmured, not in judgment, not in disgust, but like it was the most obvious thing in the world. His gaze softened, lips tilting into the smallest curve of a smile. “That’s why you’re tense.”

You froze, embarrassment flooding your face, but he only brushed his thumb over your cheek, tilting your chin up to meet his dark eyes.

“I don’t care,” Choso said simply. And you believed him.

When his hands slid down your waist, tugging you gently into his lap, the hesitation cracked just a little. His mouth pressed to your temple, reverent, while his fingers traced over your hip.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispered, and it didn’t sound like a request. It sounded like a promise.

So you let him.

You had to convince yourself he wouldn’t care—blood was his whole life, after all. But what you hadn’t expected was just how much he’d care.

Choso’s gaze stayed locked on you as he eased you open, every shift of his hips smearing warmth between your thighs. 

His pupils were blown wide, his mouth parted, like the sight of you slick and messy beneath him had dragged him under. 

Every drop seemed to pull him deeper, every gasp you gave making him grip you tighter, as if he couldn’t stand the thought of letting you slip away.

Heat bloomed across your cheeks. You couldn’t ignore how his breathing hitched when he caught the sight of red on his skin, how his thumb smeared it idly along your hip as though testing the texture, the color. He wasn’t disgusted—he was entranced.

And that was what made your chest twist.

“Choso,” you whispered, embarrassed by how wrecked you sounded, by the flush burning your skin. But the moment your voice reached him, his eyes lifted from between your thighs to meet yours, pupils dark and consuming.

The wet drag of his cock through your blood made your face burn hotter than the fever of arousal crawling up your spine. Choso didn’t falter, didn’t hesitate—he just rutted against you slow and steady, dark eyes fixed where your bodies met. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing the warm brown until his gaze looked almost black, glazed with hunger.

You whimpered, covering your face with your hands, as if that could blot out the sight of him so openly savoring it. 

“What?” His voice was low, even, confused more than anything. His big hands pinned your hips down, grinding you against the thick length of him until you gasped. 

You shook your head, too mortified to explain, but the wet sound of him dragging through your slickness and blood filled the silence anyway. He groaned at it, deep and throaty, his thumb pressing into your hip hard enough to bruise.

His lips parted, eyes never leaving the mess between your thighs as he rocked forward again, smearing himself in you without pause. 

The blunt honesty of it made you whimper again, thighs trembling as heat pooled sharp and unbearable low in your belly. Your embarrassment was swallowed by his focus, by how undone he looked, like there was nothing in the world more beautiful than the mess you were making together.

The embarrassment didn’t last. Not when he suddenly pulled out, the stretch disappearing so quick you gasped, only for him to slam right back in—blood slicking his cock and his eyes locked on the way it coated him. His pupils were blown, black swallowing the warm brown of his irises, but there wasn’t anything shameful in the way he looked at you. Just hungry. Intent.

“Choso—” your voice cracked as his hips pressed flush against yours, his cock seated deep.

He leaned down, lips brushing your temple, breath shaky. “What’re you hiding your face for?” His voice was low, steady, almost confused. Like the thought of you being embarrassed didn’t even make sense.

You turned away, but he caught your chin, dragging you back to meet those blown pupils. “Don’t… it’s—”

“Beautiful.” His hand slipped down, slow, fingers finding your clit. The slick mess made every rub filthy, wet sounds mixing with your whimpers. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

You gasped, hips jerking as he pushed deeper, cock dragging through blood and slick, fingers circling until you couldn’t do anything but nod.

He smirked faintly, thumb pressing harder, hips grinding slow and steady, almost savoring the mess. “That’s it. Let me see you fall apart like this.”

Your whole body arched into him, no more room for shame when every thrust dragged him so deep you could only moan. His pace was steady but heavy, each push and pull grinding against the ache in your walls until your thighs trembled.

His thumb circled your clit, pressure perfect, and just when you thought you’d break he pulled his hand away. You whined at the loss—until you saw him bring his fingers to his mouth. 

He sucked one into his lips, tongue curling around it, savoring the blood-slick taste. His pupils blew wider, jaw tightening like he couldn’t get enough.

“Fuck,” he muttered against his own knuckle, low and wrecked, before dragging his gaze back down to you.

Your cunt clenched around him hard, body betraying how much that sight did to you.

Your head tipped back, mouth open on a ragged moan as his pace deepened. He never looked away from where you were joined, eyes so wide and dark they looked almost feverish. Not wild—never that—but intent, reverent, like the sight of you was something sacred.

He pressed in hard, hips grinding to make you take every inch, and then his voice cut through the haze.

Your breath caught. The blood between you was warm, slick, painting his cock, your thighs, the sheets beneath. It should have made you curl up with shame, but the way he said it—like it was devotion, not dirt—had you clinging tighter to his shoulders.

His hand slid back down, thumb finding your clit again with precision that made you gasp. You whimpered, pressing up to meet his thrusts, clit throbbing under his touch. 

Then his mouth brushed your ear, low and honest. “Give it to me. Show me how good it feels.”

And you did—you couldn’t help it. Your body clenched down around him, orgasm crashing through you, messy and hot. 

Your cry tangled with his groan, his hand gripping your hip tight as he pushed you through it, watching every second like he couldn’t believe it belonged to him.

Your climax wracked through you, body tightening around him in a way that had his rhythm faltering, his breath catching sharp against your throat. He kept fucking into you anyway, chasing deeper, harder thrusts that had you trembling under him.

“Shit—” his voice cracked, low and strained, forehead pressing into the crook of your neck. His hips snapped forward, fast and unrelenting, his cock dragging through the blood-slick heat like it was built for it.

You could feel the tremor in his muscles, how close he was. He muttered curses under his breath—ragged, half-swallowed. “Fuck—so tight…can’t—” His teeth scraped your shoulder as though he needed to ground himself.

Your body, already undone, still shuddered with aftershocks. You moaned his name, a soft, broken plea, and that was all it took.

With a guttural groan, Choso buried himself to the hilt, hips grinding against yours as he came. His cock pulsed inside you, hot release spilling thick into the mess between your thighs. He held himself there, deep, trembling with the force of it, muttering low against your skin.

For a moment he just stayed pressed against you, sweat-damp hair sticking to his face, his chest rising and falling against yours.

Then, finally, he lifted his head, eyes still heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide as they dragged over your marked-up body—red, wet, and wholly his.

A low, hoarse chuckle left him, raw in his throat. One of his big hands slid down, thumb dragging lazily through the slick. 

“Look at that,” he rasped, smearing it across your inner thigh. “White and red… mixed together. Made pink.” His tone was almost reverent, though his smile carried a wicked edge.

Your face burned, your body aching and sated, but he only leaned closer, pressing his lips to your damp temple. “Beautiful,” he murmured, as if the mess was proof—proof of you, proof of him, proof that you were his.

And when he finally pulled back to look at you again, pupils still blown wide, the sight of that quiet, satisfied pride in his expression was somehow more dangerous than all his hunger put together.

His words hung heavy in the air, the kind that made your stomach flip even as your body softened beneath him. You wanted to shrink from the rawness of it, from the way he looked at you like every drop of blood and seed was sacred, but there was nowhere to hide—not from him.

Choso stayed deep inside you, thumb still idly smearing the mess across your skin as though he couldn’t stop himself. That hoarse little chuckle left him again, quieter this time, and he kissed your temple once more.

“No one else gets to see you like this,” he murmured, almost to himself.

And you realized, with a shiver, that he wasn’t talking about the sex at all. He meant the whole of it—the intimacy, the ruin, the way you let him see everything you thought you should be ashamed of.

That was where it ended: you pinned beneath him, marked in red and white, and Choso’s eyes still fixed on you like he’d never look away.

-

Chapter Text

-

Nobody would expect it out of Nanami.

That was the first thought that slipped in when you found yourself bound beneath him—ropes biting into your wrists, your legs spread open, his voice smooth and level as if this were just another business meeting.

Because on the surface, Nanami Kento was a gentleman. He carried himself with quiet dignity, polite restraint. 

A man who gave you his coat when it rained, who never raised his voice unless it truly mattered, who made you feel like he was steady even when the world tilted. Nobody would ever guess he was a freak behind closed doors.

Nobody would imagine the meticulous way he tied knots, the patience in his hands as he tightened restraints just enough to sting, or the way his golden eyes darkened when he stepped back to admire his work—your work. 

You, laid out for him. You, his canvas.

You tried not to squirm, the ropes creaking faintly as you shifted, but he noticed. Nanami always noticed. His gaze tracked the twitch of your thighs, the shallow pull of your breath, and when he spoke, it was maddeningly calm.

“Impatient already?” he asked, head tilting slightly, as though disappointed in a junior who had rushed a presentation. 

His sleeves were rolled neatly to his elbows, his tie discarded onto the nightstand, and somehow that made it worse—that he still looked so composed, while you were trembling under him.

Your lips parted, a protest, a plea—something—but he stepped closer, slipping a finger beneath the ropes on your wrist to test the tension. His mouth curved, the faintest smirk, his voice dropping smooth and deliberate:

“You can’t even sit still, and I haven’t done anything yet. How pitiful.”

The mockery was quiet, but it seared all the same, cutting sharper than if he’d raised his voice. 

And when his hand smoothed down your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly against flushed skin, it was almost worse—the contradiction of it, the way he held you with such care while degrading you with words that left your stomach fluttering.

Nobody would expect it out of Nanami.

But you knew better.

Your voice cracked before you could steady it. “K-Ken…” The name slipped out soft and trembling, tangled between a plea and a whimper. You hated how desperate it sounded, how raw it made you feel under his patient stare.

Nanami’s hand stilled on your cheek, thumb dragging just a little lower to rest against your jaw. His brow quirked, and though his mouth barely shifted, you knew the subtle curve meant he was entertained.

“Yes?” he prompted, tone maddeningly polite—as though you weren’t bound and spread open, trembling against the ropes he’d tied.

“I—I need it,” you whispered, heat rushing up your face as the words tumbled out. You shifted again, hips pressing upward without your permission, rope biting deeper into your skin. “You’re being mean…”

The faintest huff of breath escaped him, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. He leaned down, slow and unhurried, until his lips hovered just at your ear. “Mean?” he repeated, his voice silk over steel. “I’ve barely touched you.”

You shivered when he brushed his nose against your temple, his breath warm against your skin. He sounded almost amused—almost indulgent—but his eyes stayed sharp, calculating every reaction. His fingers trailed down from your jaw to your collarbone, tracing the rope pressed into your skin.

“You beg so prettily,” he murmured, tone shifting, mock praise dripping from every word. “But you’ll have to do better than that. I don’t reward whining.”

Your lips parted, but the words tangled in your throat. He caught the hesitation instantly, leaning back just enough to look at you properly, golden eyes unwavering.

“You want me to ruin you?” he asked, and though his tone remained calm, controlled, the question was dangerous. You swallowed hard, the sound embarrassingly loud in the stillness, and nodded.

His lips curved again, just barely. “Then ask nicely.”

The ropes creaked when you pulled against them, your body aching with the tension. And still, Nanami waited—patient, precise, like he had all the time in the world to make you fall apart.

Nobody would expect this.

Not the classmates you passed on campus, not the coworkers who nodded politely in meetings, not the strangers who gave him second glances because of how sharp and self-contained he looked. 

And yet here you were—

Even the way he slid inside you at first had been deliberate, measured strokes that forced you to feel every inch, every stretch, until your moans turned embarrassingly high.

But then he shifted. His large hands slid down, gripping the knots tied at your waist. You barely had time to catch your breath before he gave the ropes a sharp tug, dragging your bound body down onto him as he thrust up.

You cried out, the sound shattering into the dim air as your back arched against the mattress. 

Nanami’s composure only seemed to sharpen—jaw set, golden eyes fixed on you with clinical precision, like he was studying the exact point where your sanity began to fray.

Nobody would expect him to fuck you like this.

Nobody would imagine the ropes straining under his grip, bouncing you on his cock in deep, ruthless strokes that stole your voice.

“You see?” he said, tone maddeningly even despite the strain in his body. Each word punctuated with the wet slap of his hips meeting yours. “You call me mean, but look at yourself—writhing like this, tied up and dripping. Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“Nanami—ah, f-fuck—” you sobbed, the ropes pulling at your waist with every thrust, the pressure biting and burning. You could barely hold onto the words, let alone an answer.

Nanami’s lips curved—mockery, satisfaction, both. “Pathetic,” he murmured, tugging harder on the knots, his cock driving into you so deep you could only scream. “You should thank me for being so mean.”

Your hands clenched uselessly against the restraints above your head, body jerking with every bounce he forced from you. 

His chest glistened faintly with sweat, strands of blond hair sticking to his forehead, but his composure never faltered—he looked devastatingly in control, as though even this was calculated.

Your whole body trembled, straining against the binds, breath breaking into uneven gasps. You wanted to hold on, wanted to prove that you could take his composure without crumbling—but the tone of his voice ruined you.

“Come,” Nanami murmured, the command precise, spoken like a man stating fact, not offering choice. His thrusts hit deep, unrelenting, the ropes digging into your waist until you thought you might bruise.

You whined, the sound spilling high and broken. He didn’t falter.

“Don’t hold it,” he said, voice low but steady, as if it were perfectly reasonable for him to demand your surrender. “Be a good girl. Come for me now.”

That was all it took—the sweet edge under the cruelty, the way he made obedience sound inevitable. 

Your body tightened hard around him, climax ripping through you like fire, every muscle trembling, every sound torn from your throat without control.

Nanami grunted softly at the way you clenched down, but his rhythm never slipped. He rode you through it, guiding you with his grip on the ropes until you were nothing but wrecked sobs and aftershocks. 

And even then, his gaze stayed fixed on you—sharp, unwavering, as though watching you unravel was the only thing that mattered.

Nobody would expect this out of Nanami.

But that was the cruelest secret of all: that behind the gentlemanly exterior, behind the soft words and steady presence, was the man who tied you up and demanded you fall apart on command—who made you come simply because he said so.

-

Chapter Text

-

Naoya was insufferable.

He’d always been that way—sharp-tongued, smug, too pleased with himself for even the smallest of victories. But lately, he’d found a new favorite weapon against you. 

It wasn’t just his smirk, his cruel little quips, or even the way he carried himself like he was untouchable. No, what made him truly unbearable were the piercings.

You tried not to look at them. You tried. The gleam of silver when he licked his lips, the faint jingle when he moved too quickly, the glint of metal decorating his chest when his shirt was unbuttoned lower than necessary—he knew exactly what he was doing. Every time your eyes lingered, even for a second, his grin widened.

“You’re staring again,” he drawled one evening, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, the thin gold bar through his brow catching the light. “What’s the matter? Jealous? Or just curious?”

Heat climbed your face immediately, and you tore your gaze away, refusing to answer. Which, of course, only made it worse.

Naoya shifted forward, elbows braced on his knees, voice dropping lower. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it. The way they’d feel against your skin. Against your tongue.” He tilted his head, and the chain that connected the cuff on his ear to a stud in his lobe swayed faintly, drawing your attention whether you wanted it to or not.

You swallowed hard, every bit of denial sticking in your throat.

He chuckled, dark and low, and sat back again, smug as ever. “I knew it,” he said simply, the words curling with victory.

Later, when his shirt was open and his piercings gleamed under the dim light, your willpower finally cracked. Your fingers hovered uncertainly over the silver stud in his chest, the cool metal catching against your skin, and Naoya smirked down at you like a cat with a cornered mouse.

“What’s the verdict?” he asked, voice lazy but edged with amusement. “Hotter than you expected?”

You tried to roll your eyes, to scoff, but your breath betrayed you—shaky, uneven—as your thumb brushed over the metal again. He caught your chin in his hand, tilting your face up to his, and the smirk grew sharper.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, bending low enough that the barbell in his tongue clicked faintly against his teeth. “I’ll give you a proper demonstration. Then you can decide if you like them… or love them.”

And oh fuck, did he show you a demonstration.

It started with that goddamn smirk, the one that made your stomach flip even before he touched you. 

But soon enough, you weren’t thinking about his grin—you were gasping, thighs trembling, hand tangled tight in his slicked-back blond hair as his mouth worked you over like he had something to prove.

The sharp edge of cool metal pressed against your clit, sending jolts of sensation through you each time his tongue rolled or flicked.

The piercing made everything harsher, sharper—you couldn’t bite back the sobs that slipped out, couldn’t hold back the way your hips bucked against his face no matter how hard you tried.

“God, Naoya—” your voice broke, half-whine, half-cry, your grip tightening desperately. 

The chain at his ear brushed against your inner thigh, dragging lightly as his head moved, adding another unbearable tease to the mix.

He chuckled against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. You felt the metal rub harder against your swollen clit as his tongue pressed flat, deliberate, merciless. He pulled back just far enough to speak, lips wet and glistening.

“Sounding real sweet for someone who acts like she hates me.” His golden eyes gleamed, amused, wicked. He licked a slow stripe, piercing dragging cold over heat, before sinking back in. “Admit it. You fucking love this.”

You couldn’t form words, not when every flick of his tongue had you seeing stars, not when the piercing was grinding against the most sensitive part of you until you were moaning openly, shamelessly.

Naoya just smirked wider, like every sound you made was another tally mark in his victory column.

You tried—tried so hard—to bite your tongue, to choke down the sounds, to keep some shred of dignity while his mouth ruined you. But it was useless. Every time the piercing pressed just right against your clit, you cried out, your thighs tightening uselessly against his shoulders.

Your fingers tugged his blond hair hard, more in frustration than anything else. “Y-you’re so—fucking—annoying,” you gasped, breath shuddering as your body twisted against the ropes of pleasure winding tighter and tighter inside you.

Naoya only laughed into you, a low, smug vibration that made you whimper despite yourself. He pulled back, lips glistening, chin wet, and looked up at you like he’d just caught you red-handed. 

“Annoying?” he repeated, brow cocking. The piercing on his tongue gleamed when he rolled it across his teeth. “That’s funny—‘cause you’re dripping all over my face.”

“Shut up!” you snapped, though the way your voice cracked completely undercut the command. You tried to glare at him, but the heat in your cheeks and the tears pricking the corners of your eyes betrayed you.

Naoya grinned, sharp and merciless, before leaning back in without warning. The sudden drag of cold metal against your clit made you yelp, your hips jerking up involuntarily. His hands pinned your thighs wide with ease, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

“Don’t act like you don’t love it,” he murmured against your folds, tongue flicking fast, piercing catching with every motion. He smirked when you bucked into him again, unable to stop yourself. “Knew you’d be a slut for a little bit of silver.”

Your breath hitched, fury and pleasure mixing until you thought you might actually scream. “Naoya, I swear—”

“What?” he cut in, cruel and amused, not stopping for a second. “You’ll what? Keep moaning for me? Keep yanking my hair while you grind against my face?” His voice dipped into a mockery of sweetness, each word punctuated by a slow, deliberate flick of his tongue. “You’re embarrassing yourself, sweetheart.”

The worst part was that he was right. Your body was shaking, your thighs quivering against his hold, your hand still fisted in his hair as though dragging him closer might save you from the spiral he was pushing you into.

And the entire time, Naoya looked like he was enjoying a private joke at your expense—like your unraveling was nothing more than proof that he’d been right about you all along.

You couldn’t stop it. No matter how hard you tried to twist away from his mouth, no matter how many broken curses spilled out, Naoya didn’t relent—not until the pressure snapped white-hot inside you. 

Your back arched, head tipping back as a sob ripped from your throat, and you came hard against his tongue, shuddering and twitching as he lapped you through it.

He didn’t move until your body sagged back into the mattress, boneless and weak. Only then did he drag his tongue slow across your overstimulated clit one last time, deliberately pressing the cold stud there as if to remind you who’d done this to you.

When he finally pulled back, his chin was wet, lips shiny, golden eyes gleaming with smug satisfaction. He crawled up your body with infuriating calm, settling above you with that same sharp grin tugging at his mouth.

“Thought you hated me,” he murmured, voice mocking, his breath hot against your lips. “Didn’t sound like it just now.”

You glared weakly at him, still panting, but your anger fizzled when he leaned down and kissed you.

It was messy—his lips wet from you, his tongue sliding into your mouth without hesitation. You moaned into him before you could stop yourself, and then you felt it: the smooth press of metal against your tongue, the cold weight of his piercing brushing yours.

Your whole body shivered. The taste of yourself was sharp and heady on his tongue, the silver cool in contrast to his heat, and Naoya swallowed every little sound you made as though they were the victory he’d been chasing all along.

When he finally pulled back, a string of spit lingered between you. His grin widened, lips pulling, golden eyes alight with triumph.

“Knew you’d love it,” he murmured, dragging the tip of his pierced tongue over his teeth so you could see it glint. “Now every time you think about kissing me, you’ll remember how you taste on my tongue.”

He leaned closer, voice dropping to a low drawl. “And if you like this one…” his smirk curved slow, deliberate, “…you’ll lose your mind when you find out where the other is.”

Judging by the way your breath hitched, he knew you would.

-

Chapter Text

-

You knew Gojo was too much. Always had been. Always so extra, so dramatic, like he couldn’t breathe unless he was putting on a show. 

He carried himself like he was the funniest guy in the room, the most charming, the most everything—and maybe he was. But underneath all that, there was a streak of something else, something that came out when he had you spread open beneath him.

Because even here, even when you were already trembling, thighs locked against his shoulders, he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t just take the win of making you fall apart once—no, that wasn’t his style. Gojo wanted more. He wanted everything.

“Don’t give me that look,” he teased, lips brushing against your inner thigh before dipping back down, tongue gliding over your swollen clit. “You knew what you were signing up for.”

Your head fell back against the pillow, hands fisting the sheets as another wave of sensation rolled through you. “I—Gojo, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he interrupted smoothly, his voice cocky but soft at the edges, like he was coaxing you. “You always can when it’s me.”

His fingers were already inside you, slow and deliberate, curling just right before he slid them back out and pressed his tongue flat against you. It was maddening, the push and pull of his pace, the way he acted like he had all the time in the world.

And maybe he did.

That was the worst part—you knew he wouldn’t stop until he got exactly what he wanted, until he dragged every last drop of pleasure out of you, even if it left you ruined in the process.

His grip was iron. That long, lean frame might look lazy when he was slouched in a classroom chair or sauntering through campus, but when he had you pinned to the mattress, there was nothing lax about him.

One arm hooked under your thigh and pressed your knee up toward your chest, keeping you spread wide, helpless against the steady rhythm of his fingers working you open. The other hand pinned your wrist down by your head, useless no matter how you twisted.

Your body betrayed you—every time you thought you were wrung dry, another orgasm tore through you, your walls fluttering around his knuckles. 

He didn’t even pause, just pressed in deeper, curling in that maddening spot until your stomach clenched and you were crying out again, broken little sounds spilling from your throat.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear as he shifted, fingers slipping free only to be replaced by the blunt stretch of his cock. He pushed in slow, savoring the way you gasped, the way your nails clawed at his shoulder when you realized he wasn’t giving you any reprieve. “Still got more in you, don’t you?”

You tried to shake your head, words lost under the slap of his hips driving home again and again. But your body gave you away—another tremor, another gush of slick that soaked his thighs.

It was too much. Too much and still not enough. Tears blurred your vision, hot trails spilling down your temples as he fucked you through another peak.

Gojo pulled back just enough to look at you, sweat-damp bangs falling into his eyes, a grin tugging at his mouth as his thrusts barely faltered. He caught sight of the wetness on your cheeks and let out a soft, amused chuckle.

“You cryin’?” he drawled, voice thick with amusement and hunger both, like he’d never seen anything more beautiful.

His hips slowed, not to spare you, but so he could drink in the sight of you properly. 

He adjusted the blindfold with a tug of his fingers, pulling it up just high enough that those impossible, glacial eyes were revealed. 

They locked onto yours, and the room seemed to tilt—like suddenly there was no air, no ground beneath you, only that gaze pinning you down harder than his body ever could.

You shivered, every nerve in your body tightening under the weight of his stare. His eyes moved leisurely, scanning the flushed mess of your face—the tears clinging to your lashes, the bitten-red of your lips, the way your chest heaved like you’d run yourself ragged. 

He looked hungry for it. 

Not just the sex, not just your body—but the whole picture of you undone, ruined beneath him, given over completely.

And god, the way his cock twitched inside you at the sight made your stomach flip.

“Ahh,” he hummed, leaning down, his nose brushing your cheek as if he couldn’t help but close the distance.

He tilted his head and licked the salt of a tear straight off your skin, his lips warm and unbearably soft against your cheekbone. 

“Does it feel that good, baby?” A small chuckle leaves his lips as he murmurs against your cheek. 

You whimpered, turning your face, trying to hide, but he caught your chin with his long fingers and forced you back into his line of sight. 

His mouth moved lower, kissing along the wet trails, slow and mocking. He lapped at the dampness like he was tasting proof of his own handiwork, then pressed a sloppy kiss to the corner of your trembling mouth.

Every kiss came with a grind of his hips, his cock dragging deep through your raw, swollen walls, making your body jolt. You didn’t know if you wanted to cry harder or melt into him.

“Don’t go shy on me now,” Gojo murmured against your lips, smirk curling as his tongue flicked teasingly over the damp skin. 

“I wanted to see your face better. Don’t hide it.” His eyes glittered under the lifted fabric, ice-blue and greedy, like he wanted to carve every second of this into his memory.

Then, with another deep thrust that made you arch off the bed, he kissed you full on the mouth—your tears smeared between your lips, your broken moans swallowed into his chest-rumbling laugh as he fucked you harder.

“You’re prettier like this,” he whispered against your teeth, his grin maddening. “Messy. Mine.”

Your throat burned from how wrecked your voice already was, but the pressure building low in your belly wouldn’t let you stay quiet. Your lips stumbled around the words, broken and blubbery, “G-Gojo, I—I’m—gonna—c-cum—”

The sentence crumbled into a sob when his hips snapped forward, cock grinding against that tender spot inside you. 

His laugh was immediate—low, infuriatingly amused, the kind that curled warm and humiliating at the base of your spine.

“Yeah, I know,” he said, like it was the simplest truth in the world. He said it through a grin, voice airy and smug, but the weight of his thrusts only grew heavier, deeper, shaking you with each one. “I can feel it. You don’t have to tell me, baby. Your body’s screaming it for you.”

And he was right. Every time he drove into you, your walls clenched around him like they were desperate to wring him dry, a hot, slippery pull that gave you away.

You wanted to be angry at his cocky tone, the way he dismissed your stammering pleas, but it was impossible to hold onto anything except the frantic need inside you. It burned too hot. 

Your nails dug into his shoulders as if to anchor yourself, but all you found was solid muscle under his shirt, flexing as he pushed into you harder.

“Gojo—” you tried again, but your voice cracked in half, breaking into a sob.

“Shhh,” he cooed mockingly, blue eyes bright and cruelly tender. He pressed a sloppy kiss against your tear-wet cheek and rutted into you faster, the bed creaking with every sharp thrust. 

“Don’t cry about it. Just let go. You think I’m gonna stop now?”

Your mind was a blur, half begging him for mercy, half clutching desperately for the edge he was dragging you toward. 

You hated how much his laughter turned you on, how the smugness in his voice made the heat in your belly twist tighter. 

He was too much, always, but god, that was exactly why you couldn’t stop falling apart under him.

Your body snapped before your voice could, every muscle pulling tight as the pleasure crashed over you like a wave you couldn’t ride out, couldn’t control. 

You cried out his name—high and desperate—and then you were gone, undone, heat flooding from your core in a messy gush that sprayed against his abdomen with every jerking thrust.

Gojo’s breath hitched, laughter breaking into something closer to a moan. “Holy—fuck, look at that,” he gasped, hips stuttering as your slick drenched his skin, running hot down the lines of his abs. 

He slowed only enough to watch it spill, his hands locking tight on your hips like he’d never let you go. His eyes were wide, brilliant, drunk on the sight of you squirting all over him.

The sound of his cock driving through you was wetter, filthier now, each sharp slap echoing with the sticky mess you’d made. Your face burned, your whole body trembling, tears blurring your vision—but he was beaming, almost giddy, leaning over you so you couldn’t turn away.

“God, you’re incredible,” he said, voice breathless but still tinged with that maddening smugness. He pressed his forehead to yours, grinning like he’d just uncovered the world’s greatest secret. “You feel that? You did that all over me.”

You tried to catch your breath, tried to tell him you couldn’t anymore, but all that came out was a broken sob. Your thighs shook violently, overstimulation clawing at every nerve.

Gojo just chuckled, kissing your cheek like you weren’t falling apart beneath him. “Uh-uh. Don’t look at me like that,” he teased, pulling back to flash you that devastating smile. 

His hips rolled again, deliberately slow, grinding his cock deep through the overstretched, soaked clutch of your walls. The movement made you jolt, a strangled cry tearing out of you.

“That was too good,” he muttered, eyes shining as he rutted into you again, wetter, harder. “We’re not stopping till you do that again. You hear me?”

The words landed with the weight of a promise, and the gleam in his half-lidded blue eyes told you he meant every bit of it. 

To him, this wasn’t the finish. It was just the beginning.

-

Chapter Text

-

Your back hit the cold stone hard enough to knock the breath out of you, and before you could even gasp it back in, Sukuna was on you. 

Not the smug grin and sharp tongue you’d grown begrudgingly used to—no, he was towering and terrifying, every line of his body carved to overwhelm. 

Four eyes burned down into you, unblinking, hungering, while his massive hands pinned your wrists above your head like you were nothing.

And his cocks—both of them, thick and heavy, flushed dark with need—pressed hot against your thighs as he ground into you, spreading you open with the sheer weight of him. 

It was obscene, how much of him there was, how impossible it felt to even think about taking him inside, and yet your body trembled with anticipation instead of fear.

Sukuna smirked, the expression stretching across his inhumanly wide mouth. “You’re staring, girl,” he rumbled, voice low enough to vibrate through your bones. 

He rolled his hips again, dragging the blunt, leaking heads over your slick folds until you jolted, helpless against the strength holding you down. “Worried your pretty little cunt can’t handle me?”

One of his hands left your wrists only to splay across your stomach, massive fingers spanning nearly the whole width of your torso. 

He pressed down deliberately, right where you clenched and ached for him, as though mapping out the path he was about to carve into your body.

“Don’t worry,” he purred, leaning close enough that his teeth scraped your ear. “I’ll make sure you feel me here.” His palm pressed harder into your belly, cruel and possessive, before he pushed his cockhead against your entrance, stretching you obscenely slow.

Your back arched, a choked cry ripping out of you as your walls strained around the thick intrusion. 

The pressure was dizzying—painful, perfect—every inch stealing your breath, until you could already feel the bulge rising under his hand with the force of him inside you.

“Ahh,” Sukuna groaned, watching your stomach twitch under his palm as more of him slid in. 

His other cock slapped wetly against your thigh with every push, reminding you of the hunger he hadn’t even unleashed yet. “Look at that. Taking me so deep you can see it. That’s mine now.”

Your head tipped back against the stone, eyes squeezing shut as your body strained around him, every nerve alight with too much. 

And through the haze, the thought hit you hard: this was what you’d begged for.

All those nights spent whispering to him, pushing at his pride, telling him you could take it—that you wanted him, not just the sharp tongue—but all of him. 

And now, with your belly rising under his palm from the sheer stretch of his cock, the irony bit almost as sharp as his teeth. 

This was what you’d asked for. The predicament you’d put yourself in.

Your voice cracked when you forced words past your gasps. “S-Sukuna—” His name came out like a plea, high and thin. Your nails scraped at the stone beneath you, desperate for something to hold onto. “It’s… it’s too much—”

He laughed, deep and mocking, the sound vibrating against your throat as he leaned down to mouth at your neck. 

“Too much? You’re the one who begged for this, little fool.” His tongue dragged over your pulse, sharp teeth grazing but not biting. “Night after night, you begged me to stop treating you like you’d break.”

“I… I meant it,” you gasped, shuddering as another inch forced its way inside you, the bulge under his hand growing more obvious. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away, desperate not to give him the satisfaction. “I want you—”

His eyes—four of them, glowing and merciless—burned into your face. For a moment, just a fleeting one, you thought you saw something soften in the way he looked at you. But then his grin spread wider, feral and triumphant.

“Then you’ll take me,” he growled, shoving his hips forward, forcing you open until your body bowed under him. His hand pressed harder into your belly, feeling himself inside you, making you feel impossibly full. “Every inch. You’ll take it, and you’ll thank me for it.”

The slam of his hips rattled through your bones—sudden, brutal, leaving no mercy between one moment and the next. The first cock bottomed out inside you with a wet, obscene sound, your body screaming at the intrusion, stretched so full you thought you might split apart. 

A strangled moan tore out of your throat, somewhere between pain and rapture, as your walls fluttered around the thickness buried to the hilt.

You barely had time to adjust, to drag in a shaky breath, before the hot weight of his second cock pressed insistently at your entrance.

“W-wait—” The protest dissolved into a whimper when his other tip nudged against your already-stuffed cunt, the pressure dizzying, impossible.

Sukuna only chuckled, a rumble that came not just from his chest but from deep inside his monstrous frame, even the mouth splitting his stomach curling into a wide, ghastly grin. 

“No waiting,” he said, voice thick with satisfaction, his four eyes drinking in the sight of your trembling body. “You wanted me, woman. You’ll take all of me.”

His four arms worked you like a puppet—two pinning your wrists above your head with bruising force, one splayed possessively across your stomach to watch the obscene bulge swell under his palm, and the last braced your thigh open, holding you wide for his second cock to force its way in.

You cried out when he pushed harder, your body convulsing as your walls struggled around both lengths. 

The stretch was unbearable, and yet every nerve sparked, heat pooling deep in your core as he shoved deeper, inch by inch, until both cocks were seated inside you. 

Your belly rose high under his hand, a grotesque, breathtaking display of how much of him you were taking.

“Look at you,” Sukuna rasped, his tongue darting out to lick a stripe up your tear-damp cheek. 

His grin was savage, split-mouths and sharp teeth all bared as his eyes greedily scanned the obscene sight of your body straining to accommodate him. 

“So full you’re practically breaking. And still—” his hips rolled, making the bulge in your stomach shift under his palm, “—your cunt clings to me like it wants more.”

The sound of your own moan startled you, raw and needy, and his stomach-mouth’s chuckle joined his own, the layered noise grotesque and unbearably erotic. 

Every pair of eyes he had tracked your ruined body like prey, hungry and unsparing, and you realized with a shudder there was no part of you he wasn’t devouring.

You were already gone, body thrumming with too much stretch, too much fullness, your stomach visibly rising and falling under the weight of him inside you. You didn’t think it could get worse—until the lips on his stomach split wider, and the long, obscene tongue lolled free, slick and hungry.

It dragged hot across your swollen clit, the pressure so sharp and sudden that your back arched off the stone. A strangled cry ripped out of you, your thighs jerking against the arm that held them wide. 

The sensation was unbearable—your clit licked raw while both cocks stretched you past sanity—and the shock of it had you gushing around him, your cunt squeezing tight as you came hard, creaming all over his lengths.

“F-fuck—Ku—‘kuna—” you sobbed, words breaking apart, voice wrecked as your body convulsed around him. You couldn’t even form his name properly; it slipped from your lips in shattered syllables, pathetic and pleading.

Sukuna’s laugh was deep and cruel, vibrating through every inch of him that was inside you. All four eyes narrowed with amusement, devouring the sight of you undone beneath him. 

“Listen to you,” he sneered, his tongue curling against your throat as the maw below slathered your clit with wet, greedy licks. “How desperate.”

He thrust his hips forward, deliberately slow, making the bulge in your stomach shift and roll under his hand. You moaned again, body twitching helplessly, every nerve raw from overstimulation.

“Pathetic little thing,” he murmured, watching your face twist in pleasure you couldn’t fight. “Clenching around me like you’ll die if I pull out. And that mouth—” he leaned closer, his breath hot against your cheek as his tongue licked at the corner of your lips, “—all it can do now is drool and cry for me. That what you wanted? To be nothing but my cocksleeve?”

The stomach tongue lashed faster, flicking your clit with obscene wet sounds, and your whole body jolted, another broken wail spilling from your lips.

Sukuna’s grin widened, wicked and merciless. “That’s it. Cum again. Make a mess for me. Show me just how badly you needed this monster to ruin you.”

And as his hips slammed forward again, the brutal rhythm shaking through your bones, you realized with a shiver of fear and ecstasy that he wouldn’t stop until you did.

_

Chapter Text

-

Your thighs trembled over his shoulders, the hesitation in your body louder than any words. You had him pinned beneath you, Yuji flat on his back, hair already messy from your fidgeting. 

His big brown eyes blinked up at you, wide and earnest, so open it almost made your chest ache.

“Y-you’re sure?” you whispered, hovering just above his face, fingers twisting in his shirt. “I don’t want to—like—hurt you or smother you or—”

Yuji groaned, exasperated, grabbing at your hips with calloused hands. “That’s the point!” he blurted, cheeks flaming red but his voice so damn sincere. “C’mon, please. Just sit down already. I want it—I need it.”

The desperation in his tone cracked through your nerves. You barely had time to argue before he yanked, dragging you down onto his face with surprising strength. The sudden wet heat of his tongue made you gasp, thighs clamping tight around his head on instinct.

“Yuji—!” you whined, mortified at how quickly your body responded, grinding down despite yourself. He moaned against you, the vibration shooting up your spine, and you felt him nod like he was encouraging you, begging you, urging you to move.

He was the one doing the begging, but suddenly you were the one breaking.

The wet, greedy sounds filled the room, obscene and messy, and Yuji didn’t even try to hide how much he loved it. His tongue moved in hungry circles, then flattened to lap at you like he’d been starved for this. 

When you whimpered and tried to lift your hips—terrified you’d crush him—he growled into you and pulled harder, nails digging into your thighs.

“Don’t,” he gasped against your skin when he caught a breath, pupils blown wide. “Don’t you dare—don’t take it away.”

Your hand flew to his hair, tugging, the other reaching behind to brace yourself—but the second you got even an inch higher, Yuji chased you, craning up, messy and desperate. 

You almost cried at the sight—this sweet boy beneath you, mouth glossy, chin soaked, moaning just from tasting you.

“Yuji—fuck, you’re—” Your words broke into a moan, fingers curling into his hair as you gave in, dragging his face back against you. 

He groaned like you’d just given him water after years in a desert, tongue thrusting, lips sucking, every breath swallowed by you.

You could feel him swallowing, drinking down every drop, his chest rising and falling fast. His hips shifted restlessly beneath you, like pleas building in his body, but he never pulled his mouth away.

The more you trembled above him, the sloppier he got—moaning into your folds, eyes rolling back, like he wasn’t just eating you out, he was worshipping, drowning, consuming.

Your head tipped back, throat straining with the sounds tearing out of you, and for a moment you risked a glance down your body, over your shoulder.

What you saw nearly stole your breath—Yuji’s hips bucking up into nothing, a thick tent straining against his sweats. He wasn’t even touching himself, just rutting helplessly like he couldn’t take it, like getting to taste you was enough to ruin him.

The sight hit you hard, flooding you with heat. God, he looks so—

Your thought splintered with a sharp cry when his hand left your thigh, two thick fingers pressing into your soaked heat without warning. The stretch made you jolt, knees threatening to give, but Yuji groaned low in his chest, shoving deeper, curling them like he already knew every spot to hit.

“Fuck—!!” Your voice cracked, both hands fisting in his hair now, grinding down on his mouth without even meaning to. 

His tongue never relented, swirling relentless circles over your clit while his fingers pumped faster, harder, the wet squelch of it obscene in the quiet room.

Every nerve lit up, pleasure crashing into you in jagged waves, and you couldn’t think—couldn’t breathe—couldn’t do anything except hang on and let him use his mouth and fingers like he’d been born for it.

And when his hips jerked up again under you, you realized with a dizzy twist of heat that this wasn’t just for you—he was getting off on this just as much.

His muffled moan vibrated right against your clit, a raw, needy sound that went straight through you. The shiver that tore down your spine had you grinding down harder, chasing that ripple of pleasure like instinct, like you couldn’t stop yourself even if you tried.

And Yuji didn’t stop you. He didn’t flinch, didn’t try to ease the pressure—his big hands only locked tighter around your hips, dragging you down harder, keeping you flush against his mouth. His tongue flattened and pressed, relentless, like he wanted every ounce of you smeared across his lips.

“Yuji—fuck, I can’t—” your voice broke, whiny, almost apologetic, but he only moaned again, deeper this time. The sound rattled through you, your thighs clamping around his head, body shaking like it didn’t know which way to go.

Every thrust of your hips sent a wet, messy grind over his tongue and fingers, slick running down his chin, and he ate it up like a man starved, like he’d begged for this and now that he had it, he was never going to let go.

Your hands twisted in his pink hair, tugging without control, but the harder you pulled, the rougher he groaned against you, the more his fingers curled inside you until your whole body was bucking in time with him.

It was messy, desperate—less like you were riding his face and more like he was using your body to drown himself in you, dragging you over the edge with him.

The wave hit so suddenly you almost didn’t believe it was happening—your hips jerking, thighs trembling around his head, broken moans spilling from your mouth as your orgasm ripped through you. 

His fingers curled just right, tongue flicking over your clit as if he’d been built for this exact purpose, and then it all poured out of you, hot and messy against his tongue.

Yuji groaned like he’d just been handed the best meal of his life. He didn’t let you lift away, didn’t let you shy back, just held you firm against his mouth as he swallowed everything. 

His tongue lapped greedily, circling, dragging up every last drop, sucking like he was desperate not to waste even a taste. 

The sheer mess of it had you whimpering through aftershocks, twitching with each stroke of his tongue, until you finally slumped forward, chest heaving, arms shaking where they braced against the couch.

He didn’t stop until you were whimpering for mercy, licking one last stripe between your folds, nose nudging against your clit, and then finally letting you up—his lips glistening, chin wet, eyes blown wide and satisfied. 

You could barely breathe, barely process, your thighs sticky and trembling as you slid weakly down his chest, collapsing beside him.

For a long moment, the room was quiet except for the sound of your ragged breaths. Yuji stared at the ceiling, chest rising and falling, his face still damp with you. Then he let out a sharp little laugh, almost sheepish, and scrubbed a hand over his face.

“…I think I came in my pants,” he admitted, voice low and almost boyish, like the words had just slipped out.

Your head snapped toward him, jaw dropping, and he had the audacity to grin at you through the flush on his cheeks.

-

Chapter Text

-

The blindfold cuts you off from everything—no light, no shapes, not even the comfort of knowing who’s in front of you. Rope digs into your wrists where they’repulled behind your back, every twitch sending sharp little reminders that you aren’t in control.

Then comes his voice, low and steady, the one you’d recognize anywhere. “Relax. Don’t fight it.”

Something in you loosens at the sound. You try to steady your breathing, even as your chest hitches from nerves. “I’m trying,” you murmur, the words catching.

A hand drags down your side, slow at first, then suddenly harsh as fingers clamp into your hip. You gasp, body jerking, but the grip doesn’t ease. If anything, it tightens, bruising. His thumb presses into the soft of your stomach like he’s testing how much give you have.

“You always tremble so easily,” he says, voice almost affectionate. Almost. “It’s cute.”

Heat climbs your neck at the words. You can’t see him, can’t read his expression, and that only makes your body spark hotter under his touch.

But behind that steady tone is something sharper, something that lingers too long in the pauses, a weight that makes your skin crawl even as you press closer, aching for him to keep touching you.

You’d told yourself not to stare the first time you saw the change on his forehead—ugly stitches like some crude repair job, a scar that hadn’t been there before. He said it was an injury, something not worth worrying about, and you believed him. You had to.

You told yourself it was still him. That his hands were the same, his voice still wrapped in that low velvet that steadied you when the world felt like too much. 

That he was still the man you’d whispered secrets to in the quiet, still the one who made you feel wanted.

So you don’t question it now, even though his grip on you feels harsher than usual, clinical in the way it measures every part of you. 

You don’t question the way his words sink into your ears, heavier, darker, almost coaxing and cruel in the same breath.

“Don’t squirm,” he murmurs, thumb dragging over your stomach, then lower, skating over the waistband of your underwear. “You trust me, don’t you?”

You nod, a quick desperate motion under the blindfold. “Of course,” you whisper, throat tight. “I… I trust you.”

The silence that follows stretches long, almost amused, before he chuckles low under his breath. It doesn’t quite sound right, but your mind doesn’t cling to it—you’re too busy straining toward the heat of his touch, clinging to the illusion you’ve already convinced yourself of.

When his mouth presses to your ear, the words hum against your skin, careful and deliberate. “Good girl.”

Your chest flutters with pride and relief at the praise, never noticing how the smile against your skin is sharp, nothing like the man you thought you knew.

The ropes bite deeper as you flex against them, blindfold pressing harder against your eyes when you tilt your head, searching. 

His hands leave you for a moment, and the absence is worse than anything—like the air itself grows too heavy without the weight of him anchoring you.

Then you hear it. The slow rasp of fabric shifting. The soft, unmistakable sound of him stroking himself. Your lips part on instinct, a breathless sound spilling out before you can stop it.

“Do you want it?” His voice is close, almost at your ear, and the heat of his body ghosts over yours without touching.

“Yes,” you breathe, shame coating the word. “Please.”

A low hum, darkly amused. Then the blunt press of his cockhead brushes against your inner thigh, just shy of where you need him most. Your hips jerk, chasing the contact, but he pulls away instantly.

“Tch,” he clicks his tongue, as though disappointed. “You don’t sound very convincing.”

Your throat tightens. “I do—”

“Beg.” The single word cuts you off, crisp, merciless.

Heat burns through your body, humiliated need clawing up your chest. “Please,” you whisper, then louder when his silence stretches: “Please, I need you inside. I need—”

The head of his cock slides against your slit, slow and deliberate, smearing wetness over your clit before dragging back down. The sensation makes your back arch, a strangled cry escaping.

But he doesn’t push in. He just toys with you, rubbing himself against you again and again, never giving you more than the barest edge of relief.

“Pathetic,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “You’d open your legs this easily for anyone if they spoke to you soft enough.”

Your chest lurches. “No—only for you—”

He cuts you off with a sharp thrust forward, but still doesn’t sink inside—just parts your folds with his cock, wet heat sliding cruelly against where you ache most. You can’t stop the sob that tears from your throat, trembling as the blindfold seals you off from even a glance of mercy.

The ropes creak as you strain against them, wrists burning as you try to twist your hands free—not to escape, but to reach for him. Your fingers curl, grasping at air, desperate to feel something solid to cling to.

For a moment, you catch his wrist. His skin shocks you with how cold it feels, icy against your overheated palms. You whimper, lacing your trembling fingers with his as best you can, needing that connection.

His body stills, just for a beat. The tension in him is palpable, like he wasn’t expecting you to reach for him at all. 

Then, with an almost hesitant shift, he threads his fingers through yours. Not tender, not loving—just enough to keep you tied to him, to remind you who holds all the power here.

“Suguru…” you moan, the name spilling out broken and sweet, as if saying it aloud could anchor you.

The laugh that answers you is low and sharp, nothing like what you expect. His grip on your hands tightens suddenly, painfully, until your knuckles ache. 

“You’re so fucking gullible,” he breathes against your ear. “Do you have any idea what kind of monster you’re begging for?”

Your heart kicks hard in your chest, confusion warring with the ache between your thighs as he drags the blunt head of his cock over you again, sliding wet through your folds but still refusing to give you what you need.

He squeezes your bound hands cruelly, forcing you to feel the cold bite of his strength. 

“Keep saying my name like that,” he growls, thrusting against your clit until your back bows. “I want to hear you worship something that doesn’t even exist anymore.”

“Huh?” The small, breathless sound slips past your lips before you can stop it, confusion cutting through the haze. Your brows knit beneath the blindfold, and you shift your head as if you could see his face if you just tried hard enough. “W-what do you mean—”

The question barely leaves your mouth before he drives into you, burying himself to the hilt in one merciless thrust. Your body jolts, strangled cries spilling out as the ropes bite into your wrists, holding you in place.

“Shut up.” His voice is sharp, guttural, nothing like the low velvet you thought you knew. His hips slam forward again, setting a brutal rhythm, every thrust dragging a whimper from your throat.

You try to twist your head toward him, words stumbling out between broken moans. “Suguru, you’re—ah—y-you’re scaring—”

Another thrust, harder this time, has your body arching off the bed. His breath hisses against your ear, cruel and deliberate. “You wanted me inside you,” he snarls. “So take it. Don’t think. Don’t speak. Just take it like the little plaything you begged to be.”

Every snap of his hips steals the air from your lungs, shoving your confusion down, burying it under the sheer violence of the way he uses you. 

And even through the fog of pain and pleasure, a sliver of doubt claws at your chest—why doesn’t he sound like him? Why does his touch feel so foreign, so cold?

But you can’t form the words. Not when every thrust rips another sob from your lips. Not when he hammers into you like he owns every trembling part of your body.

His thrusts stay brutal, unrelenting, each one knocking the breath from your lungs. 

You keep waiting for the rhythm to soften, for his touch to drift lower, to circle your clit like it always does—like he always does. But it never comes.

Instead, his hands are merciless. One clamps on your breast, fingers cold as iron, pinching your nipple until you cry out. 

The other tangles in your hair, yanking your head back so the blindfold strains against your temples, cutting you off from even the safety of darkness.

“Louder,” he demands, voice rough, a command more than a plea. “If you want it so badly, prove it.”

Your body twists under him, the rope cutting deeper into your wrists as you arch, desperate for something, anything that feels like the man you love. 

But there’s no tenderness in the way he uses you—just a calculated cruelty, every movement designed to reduce you to nothing but sound and sweat.

“Please—ah, Suguru—”

The name falls from your lips, strangled and hoarse, but it earns you nothing except another savage tug of your hair and a sharp bite of pain as his thrusts grow even harsher, punishing.

It builds to a breaking point, pleasure tearing through you in a jagged, terrifying rush, your climax ripped out by force. 

And all the while, he moves above you, not easing, not holding you, not whispering comfort in your ear. 

Only that cruel rhythm, that icy grip, that suffocating sense of wrongness.

And maybe—just maybe—if you could claw one hand free, if you could tear the blindfold from your eyes, you’d finally see what your body already knows: that the gaze fixed on you is not your lover’s at all.

It isn’t him. It never was. The man you love is gone, his warmth carved out, his life hollowed until nothing remained but a body worn like a mask.

And now that theft stretches to you, your trust and your trembling devotion folded neatly into Kenjaku’s hands as though they were always his to take.

Every thrust, every cruel squeeze of your body, it’s all a projection—a shadow of the life Geto might have given you, twisted into something cold and merciless. 

You begged for your lover, but what you got was the parasite that wears his skin. 

And he intends to keep you exactly where he wants you: blind, bound, and broken open beneath a ghost that will never love you back.

-

Chapter Text

-

The chains rattle every time you so much as twitch. They’re bolted into the headboard, thick iron links snaking down to your wrists, keeping your arms spread wide no matter how desperately you strain. 

You can feel the bite of the cuffs in your skin, the faint burn from struggling too much, and Toji only watches—like a man enjoying the show.

He doesn’t move at first. Just leans his massive frame against the edge of the mattress, the gun in his hand angled loose and lazy, but always pointed somewhere it shouldn’t be. 

The sight of it makes your chest clench, and he notices, because that sharp grin cuts across his mouth.

“Relax,” he drawls, and the mockery in his tone makes it anything but reassuring. “If I wanted to put a hole in you, I would’ve already.”

The muzzle presses to your collarbone before you can answer, cold enough to make you jerk back against the chains. 

He follows the twitch of your body easily, dragging the gun down in a slow line over your sternum, the barrel an icy kiss that makes goosebumps race across your skin. 

He stops just above your breasts, circling lazily as if he’s deciding where to aim, and your breath comes shallow, ragged. He nudges the gun lower, hovering just at the valley of your ribs, and then lower still, until it rests over your stomach. 

The click of the safety going off echoes in the room, loud enough to set your pulse racing to a painful tempo.

You try to turn your head, to hide the sound of the whimper that slips out—but his free hand is already fisting in your hair, dragging it back cruelly so you’re forced to meet his eyes.

“Look at me.” His voice is gravel, rough command. “If you’re gonna beg, beg while staring down the barrel.”

The muzzle drifts down again, slipping between your thighs, nudging at the thin fabric stretched tight over your heat. 

It’s obscene, the way he moves it against you, like it’s just another part of him he’s free to use. The chains clink as you writhe, hips jerking involuntarily, trying to find relief even with terror coursing through your veins. 

Toji chuckles low in his throat, the sound curling around you like smoke.

“Scared, aren’t you? Scared I’ll pull the trigger.” His mouth dips close to your ear, hot breath brushing the shell. “Scared you’ll make a mess all over the same steel that could end you.”

His teeth catch your earlobe, biting sharp, and you can’t tell if the gasp that rips out of you is from the pain, the gun, or the chain digging deeper into your wrists. 

The gun tilts, presses firmer against you, and he grinds it just enough to make your vision blur at the edges.

Toji laughs when he feels the heat of your body betraying you, chains rattling as your arms strain against the restraints. “Pathetic little thing,” he sneers, dragging the gun away just when your hips buck forward.

He taps the muzzle against your lips instead, the taste of gunmetal sharp when he presses it in, forcing you to take it into your mouth like something holy.

“Open up. Suck.”

The steel rests heavy on your tongue, his hand firm at the back of your head, holding you in place. He watches, green eyes glinting, every inch of him taut with cruel amusement as you gag lightly around the cold barrel. 

When he finally pulls it out, saliva slicks the steel, glimmering in the dim light, and he uses the wet smear to trace down your chest, over the curve of your breast, until he circles your nipple with it.

The chains jangle violently when you arch into it, body moving without permission. Toji just shakes his head, pushing the muzzle flat against you until you gasp from the mixture of pain and need.

You have no idea how the fuck you ended up like this. Chains biting into your wrists, blinders on your eyes, heart hammering like it’s trying to escape your chest. 

Every nerve in your body is screaming, every inch of you straining toward the warmth of him—but your brain keeps whispering, he’s unpredictable, he could hurt you.

“Y-you don’t have to,” you murmur, voice shaky, hesitant. “I… I don’t know if I—”

Toji doesn’t answer with words. Instead, the cold muzzle of the gun drags down over your stomach, slow, deliberate, brushing along the curve of your hip and over the waistband of your panties. 

You shiver, caught somewhere between fear and need, the chains rattling as your hips jerk toward the contact despite your rational brain screaming no.

“Don’t think,” he says low, voice like gravel, warm and dangerous against your ear. “You’re mine to touch, mine to take. If you want it, you’ll feel it whether you’re ready or not.”

You nod, gulping hard, trying to steady yourself. “I… I want it,” you whisper, voice cracking as your fingers strain uselessly against the cuffs. “I want you, Toji… I just—please be careful.”

A low chuckle vibrates through him, and he presses the muzzle flatter against you, teasing at the slick seam of your panties, nudging just shy of where you ache most. “Careful?” he echoes, amused—as if he doesn’t have a gun aimed at your cunt. 

Your thighs part instinctively, hips lifting against the chains and his teasing, and you whimper, words tumbling out, “I… I just don’t want… I don’t want to get hurt.”

“Mm.” The click of the safety echoes as the gun presses firmly against your slit through fabric, heat radiating from him. “Then don’t think. Let me guide you. I’ll keep you on the edge, and you’ll do exactly what I want.”

You nod again, body tightening, pulse hammering, desperate to obey but still caught in the sharp spike of fear that he could change his mind at any moment. “Okay… okay, Toji… I trust you.”

His grin brushes over your neck, warm breath against your skin as his other hand tangles in your hair, tugging gently—then not so gently—forcing your head to tilt back, exposing your throat. The gun teases, nudging lower, brushing against the damp fabric that has pooled from your need. Every inch of contact drags a moan from you, half fear, half surrender.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, pressing the cold metal flat against your heat again, rocking his hips slightly to make you grind against it. “See? You’re made for this. Made for me.”

And somewhere deep down, you know he’s right. You’ve given yourself over to him, body and mind, even as that sharp prickle of caution claws at your chest. You’re hesitant, but you want it. You want him.

Chains clinking, muzzle pressing, heart racing—you’re caught in that dangerous, electric space between fear and desire, completely at his mercy.

The air feels too thin. Each second the muzzle hovers there, your lungs strain harder to keep up, as if the very thought of what he’s about to do is enough to make you dizzy. 

Chains bite into your wrists when you try tugging against them, an instinctive need to push him away even as your hips roll forward, desperate for him to close that gap.

“Toji…” Your voice cracks, shame and hunger wrapped together. “Please, just… don’t tease me anymore.”

His teeth flash in a grin you can’t see, but feel against your skin as he mouths at your throat. “Don’t tease you?” The gun nudges harder against your soaked panties, pressing directly into your clit until your back arches, trembling. “You begged me not to hurt you a minute ago, and now you’re begging me to fuck you with it. You’re all over the place, sweetheart.”

“I’m not—” you try to protest, but the words melt into a moan when he shifts, dragging the muzzle down until it’s pressing right against the damp fabric at your entrance.

“You’re soaked.” His voice lowers, dangerous, satisfied. “Dripping for it. Don’t tell me this doesn’t turn you on.”

Your eyes squeeze. You want to say it doesn’t, but you’re too far gone, your hips betraying you, rocking shamelessly against the cold press of steel. “I… I can’t—”

“You can,” Toji interrupts, and suddenly your panties are tugged aside, the gun angled cruelly at your entrance. You gasp, chains rattling, chest heaving as he slowly pushes the muzzle in—just the edge of it first, the cool metal parting your folds, making your body jolt with shock.

A cry rips out of you, raw and startled. “T-Toji! Oh my god—”

“Relax,” he orders, one large hand pressing flat against your lower belly, pinning you to the mattress as if your squirming could do anything to stop him. “You said you trusted me. Prove it.”

The barrel pushes deeper, slow, unyielding, until your walls clench desperately around it. The sheer wrongness of it—the danger, the shame, the thrill—makes your head spin, a broken moan tumbling from your lips.

“You’re taking it,” he mutters darkly, sounding almost proud. “So tight around the barrel I can barely move it.” He draws it out an inch, then thrusts it back in, sharper, and you cry out, the chains clattering above you.

“F-fuck! Toji, it’s—ahh—”

His hand slides up, fingers wrapping loosely around your throat, not squeezing, just anchoring you there. “It’s what? Too much? Too good? You don’t even know, do you?”

You shake your head wildly, hips rolling helplessly to meet each push of the muzzle. “I—I don’t, I just—please, Toji, please don’t stop.”

That earns a low chuckle, rough and pleased. “Now that’s the first honest thing out of your mouth all night.”

He fucks you with the gun harder now, deliberate thrusts that make your whole body shake against the chains. The obscene wet sound of your arousal fills the room, every movement louder, dirtier, and you can’t bite back your moans anymore. 

They spill out freely, ragged and desperate, as your walls flutter around cold steel instead of flesh.

“Pathetic,” Toji rasps, thumb brushing over your spit-slick lips, shoving between them when you try to cry out again. “Getting close from this? My cock’s still in my pants and you’re falling apart for a gun.”

Your muffled moan vibrates against his thumb, tears spilling hot as your hips buck harder, chasing each sharp thrust. 

You don’t even care anymore about how shameful it is, how insane it feels—your body’s beyond reason, desperate for the edge he’s pushing you to.

“Say it,” Toji orders, voice sharp as the barrel slams deeper. “Say what’s fucking you right now.”

Your face burns, throat closing around the words, but his thumb pushes deeper into your mouth, forcing your moan into speech. “I-it’s the gun! Oh god—it’s the gun, Toji!”

He groans low, dark satisfaction spilling through the sound. “That’s right. Good girl. Fuckin’ say it while you cum on it.”

And you do—chains rattling, body convulsing, shame and ecstasy blurring into a wave that crashes so hard it knocks the breath out of you. 

Your orgasm tears through you like lightning, and Toji keeps fucking you with the gun until you collapse back, trembling, throat raw from screaming his name.

Your chest heaves, body still jerking with aftershocks, the barrel buried inside you like it owns you.  Toji finally slows, his movements lazy now, almost indulgent, as if he’s just toying with the idea of pulling it out. 

You blink, vision hazy, and catch the faintest glimpse of him above you—sweat slicking the scar that cuts through his lip, the flex of muscle in his biceps as he keeps you pinned down, the merciless gleam of those sharp green eyes watching every twitch of your body.

And then it hits you. A thought sharp enough to pierce through the haze.

Fuck… he’s probably killed people with this gun.

The realization should make you sick. Should make you recoil, thrash against the chains, beg him to get it out of you. But the words never come. Instead, a whimper slips past your lips as your hips roll again, chasing the metal like you’re addicted, your body clenching down in defiance of sense.

He smirks, scar pulling cruelly as if he already knows what you’re thinking.

And god help you, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

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Chapter Text

-

Yuta’s breath is already shaky beneath you, chest rising and falling against yours, as if he can’t decide whether to cling to the comfort of your weight or cry out at the ache of being trapped inside you. 

You’ve got him pinned perfectly—straddling his hips, buried down on his cock to the hilt, your body flush against his like you’re settling in for a long night’s sleep instead of cruelly keeping him on edge.

His hands twitch at your sides, unsure of where to rest, before they finally come to clutch at the sheets instead. 

He doesn’t dare move—he knows better than that. Knows that if he even tried to thrust up into you, to chase the heat you’re suffocating him with, you’d only punish him longer. 

So he lies there, trembling, with you warm and snug around him, your head tucked beneath his chin like you’re the one seeking comfort.

“Please,” he breathes, voice already breaking, the syllable catching on his throat. 

His cock throbs inside you, twitching helplessly at the squeeze of your walls, and he lets out a choked whine when you shift just slightly, just enough to remind him how impossibly deep he is without giving him the friction he craves.

You hum, feigning sleepiness, and press a soft kiss to the hollow of his throat. “Relax, Yuta. I just wanna keep you here for a little while longer.”

The sound he makes is pitiful, something between a gasp and a sob, his hands finally rising only to fist the sheets tighter. His eyes flutter shut, lashes trembling, the tips of his ears red hot. 

He wants to beg, to tell you he’s not going to last like this, that he can feel the pressure winding tighter and tighter with nowhere to go. 

But your weight, your warmth, the steady beat of your heart against his chest—it keeps him trapped in the most unbearable kind of heaven.

It doesn’t take long before his composure shatters completely. The stillness you force on him makes every second drag, every tiny flutter of your walls around him feel like a cruel kind of bliss, and his body betrays him with shallow, desperate little thrusts that don’t move you an inch.

“I–I can’t, please, I can’t,” Yuta stammers, his voice breaking on a sob. His eyes squeeze shut as hot tears bead at the corners, slipping down his flushed cheeks.

 He looks wrecked already, and you haven’t even let him move. 

“I’ll be good, I swear, I’ll do whatever you want—just let me, please, just let me cum.”

Your chest tightens at how raw he sounds, how completely undone, and you almost feel sorry for him. Almost. 

Instead, you shift slightly, making him whimper at the way your warmth clenches around his cock, then bring your hand up to brush his damp hair back from his forehead. 

His eyes flutter open, glassy and red, and you offer him a soft smile that only makes his face burn hotter.

“Shhh,” you murmur sweetly, thumb sweeping his temple. “Don’t cry, baby. You’re so cute like this.”

The words only make him whine louder, his lips trembling as he tries to turn his face away from you. 

Embarrassment radiates from him, his ears crimson, but he doesn’t pull away from your touch—he leans into it, ashamed of how badly he wants the comfort even as you’re the one tormenting him.

“I–I’m not cute,” he blurts out, his voice raw. “I’m pathetic. I can’t… I can’t take it anymore. Please, I’ll give you anything.” 

His hands finally lift from the sheets, reaching shakily for your waist, but he doesn’t dare pull you down—he just holds you like he’ll fall apart without it.

And all you do is hush him again, stroking his hair back with a tender touch that contrasts the merciless way you keep him buried, cock throbbing helplessly inside you with no relief in sight.

You shift against him, just a slow, testing grind of your hips, and Yuta gasps like you’ve stolen the air from his lungs. His hands snap to your waist immediately, fingers digging in like he’s terrified you’ll stop.

“Ah—fuck, please, oh god,” he babbles, already trembling as you roll down again. His hips jerk up without permission, chasing the heat, but he catches himself and clamps down, holding his breath like he’s afraid of being punished. “Feels so good, I can’t—I can’t take it, please don’t stop, baby.”

The endearment slips out of him unbidden, choked on a sob, and his eyes squeeze shut as if saying it makes him weak. 

You take pity on him, bouncing just a little, enough to make his cock slide through your wet heat, and his mouth falls open. His head tips back against the pillow, tears streaking down his temples, his hair sticking damply to his flushed face.

“Please, mama—” his voice cracks, and he scrambles to correct himself, shame painting his cheeks even darker. “I-I mean—fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

You swallow the slip with another deliberate grind, and he whimpers brokenly, his words spilling out unchecked. 

“So good, so warm, I’m gonna—I’m gonna cum, please let me cum, please, please, I’ve been so good for you, I swear, I’ll be better, anything you want, just don’t stop—”

His hips twitch wildly beneath you, his whole body taut and trembling like a bowstring pulled too tight, and his fingers clamp around your hips as if holding you there could save him.

You feel him unraveling, every muscle in his body seizing under you, his cock twitching so desperately inside you it’s almost painful. 

He’s right there—seconds from release—when you suddenly stop. You sink down, keep him buried deep, but you go utterly still.

Yuta lets out a broken whine that rips straight from his chest, tears streaking hot down his cheeks. His fingers spasm against your hips, squeezing hard enough to bruise as if he can force you to move. 

“N-No, please—please don’t stop, I was so close, I—” His voice cracks into a sob, his chest heaving under yours. “Please, mommy, please, I need it so bad.”

The sound of him begging like that, raw and ruined, only makes you laugh. A soft, lilting giggle that cuts through his misery like a knife. You lean down, lips brushing his ear, and whisper, “Oh, Yuta. We’re not done. We’re gonna keep going until I’m satisfied.”

His whole body shudders at your words, cock throbbing helplessly inside you, and another sob breaks from his throat.

His face is a mess—flushed, damp with tears, lips bitten red—but he doesn’t argue. He can’t.

He just looks up at you through wet lashes, shame burning bright in his eyes, and nods, small and pitiful, like he’d let you wring him dry a hundred times if that’s what it takes.

And when you start to move again, slow and deliberate, he cries out, clinging to you as though the promise of your satisfaction is the only thing tethering him to the earth.

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Chapter Text

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Naoya Zenin was the kind of man you were supposed to hate. Every word that left his mouth dripped with contempt for women, every smug smirk an unspoken reminder that he didn’t think you, or anyone like you, were worth more than decoration. 

He wore his misogyny like a badge of honor, casual in the way he dismissed your strength, your intelligence, your presence—as if you were just lucky he bothered to notice you at all.

And you did hate him. Or at least, you told yourself you did. 

The arrogance. The way he leaned back in his chair during clan meetings like the room revolved around him. The way he always had a cutting comment ready, soft enough to be denied if you tried to call him out, but sharp enough to sting.

But then there were his hands.

You’d catch yourself staring when you shouldn’t. When he brushed his hair back with a flick of his fingers, when he drummed them lazily against the arm of a chair, when he adjusted the cuff of his shirt like he was aware of how the veins stood out against his skin. 

His hands ruined everything—they made it hard to focus, hard to breathe sometimes, because as much as you hated him, the image of those same hands wrapped tight around your throat, or sliding between your thighs, was a thought you couldn’t shake.

You tried not to give him the satisfaction. But Naoya noticed things. He noticed the way your eyes dipped when his fingers tapped against the table. The way your throat worked when he gestured too close to your face. The way you stiffened whenever he leaned in, knowing full well he was crowding you on purpose.

And that was the worst part—because with Naoya, there was no such thing as mercy. If he sensed weakness, he didn’t let it go.

Maybe that’s why you shouldn’t have been surprised when you ended up like this—your back pressed into the mattress, his weight bracketing you in, one of his hands wrapped tight around your throat while the other shoved two thick fingers past your lips.

His smirk hovered just above you, smug as your gag muffled against his knuckles. The pressure at your throat wasn’t enough to cut off your air, not yet, but it was enough to remind you who was holding it in his palm. His thumb brushed lazily over your pulse point, feeling every panicked flutter, every humiliating rush of heat.

“Figures,” Naoya drawled, watching you choke down spit around his fingers. “All that attitude, and you melt the second a man puts his hands on you.” He pushed deeper, until your jaw ached. “Pathetic.”

The worst part was how your body betrayed you, your hips twitching as he ground his clothed cock against the soaked patch of your panties. 

The drag of it was maddening, friction dulled by fabric, cruelly precise. He moved slow, deliberate, rubbing himself right where you wanted it most, never giving you enough.

Saliva slicked his fingers, threatening to drip down your chin. He leaned in closer, watching your eyes glaze, his gaze lit with something dark and ugly. 

“Bet you’ve been thinking about this, huh? My hands. Don’t bother denying it—I’ve seen the way you look.”

He curled his fingers just enough to press against your tongue, smearing spit across your teeth before pulling back slightly, only to shove them in again, cruel and unrelenting.

“You should be grateful,” he sneered, grinding his cock harder against you now, enough to make you jolt. “A woman like you, getting touched by me? You’ll never do better.”

Your jaw ached around the stretch of his fingers, spit pooling and sliding down the corners of your mouth. You should’ve just taken it, let him use you how he wanted. That would’ve been easier. Safer.

But some part of you—the same part of you that bristled every time he opened his mouth, every time he reminded you what he thought of women—rose up stubbornly. You didn’t bite down fully, didn’t risk the pain that would follow, but you let your canines graze his knuckles as his fingers pressed against your tongue. Just enough pressure to sting. Just enough to show him you weren’t broken yet.

Naoya froze for a beat, his eyes narrowing, before he gave a low, humorless laugh. “Tch. Look at you. Think you’re clever, huh?” His hand yanked back, spit stringing between your lips and his fingers before it broke. 

And then—sharp and humiliating—he pat your cheek with his wet hand.

“You little brat.” His sneer twisted cruel. “Do you really think biting me’s gonna help you? Hah. All you’re doing is proving how much you like having me in your mouth.” He grabbed your jaw, forcing it open with his wet fingers digging into your cheeks.

“Fuck you,” you spat, voice hoarse, though your glare faltered when his grip tightened.

“Already am,” he shot back, grinding his cock harder against your clothed cunt, making you gasp. His tone dripped with venom, but he was smirking now, lips curled in triumph. “And don’t pretend you’re not dripping for it. I can feel how wet you are through your panties.”

He leaned down, mouth brushing your ear, his voice dropping to a mocking whisper. “You want to act tough, bite down, talk back? Fine. But we both know where this ends. With you choking on my fingers again, begging me to let you cum.”

“You think you’re so much better than everyone else—so much better than me—” The words snapped out, sharp with venom, but you didn’t even get to finish your next thought.

Naoya’s hand clamped around your cheeks, forcing your jaw open with a bruising squeeze. Before you could jerk away, before you could twist your face out of his grip—he spat, a sharp, wet string landing heavy on your tongue.

The shock punched the breath from you. Your eyes went wide, throat working instinctively as you tried not to choke. His fingers dug harder into your cheeks, keeping your mouth open as he tilted your head back a fraction.

“Ah, there we go,” Naoya laughed, the sound ugly and triumphant. “So much attitude a second ago—where’d it go now, hm?” He gave your face a cruel shake, spit dripping across your tongue, threatening to spill out of the corners of your lips. “C’mon, don’t be shy. Swallow it.”

Your chest heaved, a muffled sound catching in your throat, and his grin only widened. 

He leaned down until his nose nearly brushed yours, voice dropping low and mocking. “Knew you’d take it. Mouthy little brat, but you’ll always take it.”

Your throat bobbed before you could stop it, the warmth sliding down, humiliation burning hotter than the sting of his grip. He let go just as you swallowed, the pad of his thumb dragging messily across your wet cheek.

“There she is,” Naoya drawled, like he’d tamed something wild instead of broken you down to this. “Knew you couldn’t help yourself.”

You wanted to spit the words back at him, to claw that smug look off his face—but your tongue felt heavy, coated in the taste of him. Your jaw ached where he’d held it, and it only made his laughter echo louder in your head.

Maybe that was the worst part—not the spit, not the way he smirked when you swallowed—but the tiny, traitorous pulse between your legs that answered to his cruelty. 

The part of you that hated how much space his hands took up, how easily he bent you into silence.

And maybe, just maybe, that was why you couldn’t bring yourself to move away when his fingers hooked your chin again and his hips grinded back against yours—why you stayed there, glaring, even as the thought bit at the back of your mind: god help you, but you wanted more.

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Chapter Text

-

Nanami had always carried himself like a man made of restraint—pressed shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, gold watch glinting faintly, the quiet cadence of his voice never straying from polite. 

That’s what made it worse, really. 

The way he coaxed you onto your stomach with a quiet, “Relax. You’re tense,” like this was nothing more than a favor.

But his hands betrayed him. Broad palms sliding slow over your back, the heel of his hand digging just enough into the knots of your shoulders to make you shiver. His thumbs pressed into the dip of your spine, careful, steady—and then lower.

You tried to hide the sharp inhale when his hands slipped down over your hips, kneading into the soft give of them. 

He hummed as though he hadn’t noticed, as though he wasn’t deliberately brushing the pads of his thumbs closer, closer—until you were biting your lip into the pillow.

“You’re wound up everywhere,” Nanami murmured, voice low and unhurried, as though he was simply stating a fact. “Shouldn’t be surprising. You work too hard.”

And yet, the way his fingers lingered just shy of the waistband of your shorts, circling in lazy patterns against your lower back, made it very clear: this wasn’t just about knots in your muscles. It was about unraveling you entirely.

You couldn’t help it—the sound slipped out of you when his thumbs pressed deep into the base of your spine, right over that one spot that made heat crawl up your neck. A tiny whimper, quick and high, gone almost as soon as it left your mouth. But it was enough.

Nanami chuckled under his breath, the sound low and warm, vibrating right against your ear. “Sensitive, hm?”

Mortification flushed through you, and you tried to push yourself up, elbows digging into the mattress. “You really don’t have to—Nanami, this is—”

But his hand pressed firmly between your shoulder blades, coaxing you back down with practiced ease. Not forceful, not rough—just inevitable, the weight of him impossible to argue with.

“You’re too stubborn to take care of yourself,” he said mildly, as though this was about work and tension and nothing else. “Let me.”

The mattress dipped as he shifted closer, his knee brushing against your hip, and suddenly the room felt smaller, warmer. 

His fingers smoothed over your back again, deceptively gentle, before digging into that same spot, deliberately. 

And when you let out another quiet moan—half protest, half need—he didn’t chuckle this time. He only hummed, pleased, as if committing every sound to memory.

His palms slid higher, the firm glide of his knuckles leaving a trail of warmth as they moved from your spine to your ribs. 

For a moment it felt safe, ordinary, just a continuation of his careful work. Then his fingers dipped in, curving beneath the line of your arms, grazing so close to the underside of your chest that your breath caught in your throat.

“Fuuuck—,” you hissed, the words barely a whisper, more curse than protest, your cheeks going hot at the way it sounded.

He didn’t pull away. Instead, his thumbs pressed just under the swell of your breasts, not quite touching, but enough to make your skin prickle with awareness.

“Language,” he said smoothly, voice deep and amused, almost scolding, as if you’d done something indecent by reacting at all.

His tone was maddeningly calm, the same voice he used when correcting sloppy work, but there was no missing the deliberate tease in the way his fingers flexed against your sides.

And then he chuckled, quiet but warm, the sound sinking into your bones. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you wanted me to keep going.”

You felt him shift behind you, his weight dipping the mattress as his hands trailed down your sides, slow and purposeful. The air left your lungs when his fingers finally pressed against the front of your shorts, right where the heat pooled thickest.

“Nanami—” Your voice cracked into a moan when he rubbed, firm and deliberate, the fabric dragging over your clit.

“Kento,” he corrected softly, leaning over you, his breath ghosting over the back of your neck. The weight of his palm settled more fully between your thighs, his middle finger dragging in unhurried circles that made your whole body shiver. “If I’m going to touch you like this, you’ll call me Kento.”

You whimpered, face buried in your folded arms, and tried to wriggle away from how raw the contact felt. But your hips betrayed you, tilting back, grinding up against the heel of his hand like you couldn’t stop yourself.

“There we are,” he murmured, satisfaction curling through his voice as his fingers pressed harder against your clit. He gave you a slow stroke, then another, the rhythm steady, relentless, each pass pulling another broken sound from your throat. “That’s it, sweetheart. Don’t hold back now.”

The petname made your face burn, shame and desire crashing in equal measure as your moans spilled free. His other hand splayed flat between your shoulder blades, keeping you pressed down, forcing you to take it.

And when your hips jerked again, chasing the friction, he chuckled low in his throat. “Look at you,” he drawled, his tone dark with amusement. “So eager you can’t even pretend otherwise.”

His hand shifted lower with an easy confidence, slipping past the waistband of your shorts like it belonged there. 

The brush of his knuckles against bare skin made you gasp, your body tensing under him, but he didn’t give you a chance to pull away. Two fingers slid down, parting your slick folds, teasing you with the barest stroke along your slit.

“Mm,” he hummed, the sound thoughtful, almost clinical, though the heat beneath it betrayed him. His fingertips circled lazily at your entrance, collecting wetness before dragging back up to flick against your clit. “Already soaked for me, sweetheart.”

Your hips twitched back into him before you could stop yourself, grinding down against his touch, needy and desperate.

His other hand, the one pinning you down, softened unexpectedly—sliding from the sharp hold on your shoulders into a slow massage, kneading the knots along your shoulder blade, thumb pressing into the base of your neck. 

It was disarming, the mix of roughness and care, like he wanted you pliant even as he unraveled you.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said again, voice low, coaxing, like you were skittish prey. His fingers slipped lower, parting you and circling your clit with more purpose now, patient but cruel in how controlled he kept the rhythm.

Your cheek pressed harder into the sheets, eyes squeezing shut against the rush of sensation—until something in you snapped, and you lifted your head, looking back over your shoulder.

And there he was.

Nanami’s hazel eyes locked onto yours, steady and unflinching. The sight made your breath catch, a soft whimper spilling from your lips. 

His gaze was molten, half-lidded but sharp, drinking you in like a man who already knew he had you exactly where he wanted you. 

His tie had slipped loose, his blond hair fallen over his forehead, but none of it softened him. If anything, the disarray only made him look hungrier, more intent.

The corner of his mouth twitched as he caught the way you trembled beneath him. 

“Beautiful,” he said quietly, almost reverent, though the curl of his lips betrayed the smug satisfaction underneath. 

And his fingers didn’t stop moving for a second.

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