nimueshell

[nimueshell]

✶⋆.˚Caught in the Web (Gojo.S)

Summary: Breaking news: Spider-Man has a neighbor problem. By “problem,” we mean YOU. The woman he can’t stop thinking about kissing against walls, rooftops, and kitchen counters….until he does. Oops.

Substance: MDNI!, neigbor!f reader, spiderman!gojo, nerd!gojo, pining, spiderman au, neighbors to lovers, whining, whimpering, semí-public (rooftop), blood mentioned, injuries, dryhumping, cre@mpie’s, making out, reader is suspicious of gojo, gojo is whipped, måsturbation (gojo), thigh-fücking, cosplay (reader), oral fixation (reader receiving), humor, sëx, witty comebacks, gojo will not leave you alone, flirting, fingering (reader receiving), big big DíCK, teasing, reader is just as whipped, happy-ending.

W/C: 13.7k

You’d gotten used to hearing footsteps in the hall late at night, the shuffle of someone coming home just as you were brushing your teeth or scrolling on your phone, and more often than not, those footsteps belonged to Satoru Gojo. 

He lived a few doors down, and you’d fallen into the kind of neighborly routine that never felt forced–small talk by the mailboxes, swapping complaints about the ancient elevator, bumping into each other in the lobby when one of you was juggling grocery bags.

He was the kind of neighbor you couldn’t quite get a read on, somehow both nerdy and charming, always in slightly rumpled clothes, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose whenever he laughed.

He wasn’t what you’d expected when you first met him. With hair so pale it almost glowed and a height that made the hallway lights hit differently when he walked under them, you figured he’d be cold, maybe standoffish. 

But he was the opposite–talkative, a little awkward, always smiling in a way that made you second-guess if it was just friendliness or something else entirely. You told yourself it didn’t matter. He was cute, sure, but he was a neighbor. The kind of guy you traded jokes about bad landlords with, not the kind you let ruin your sheets.

Tonight you found him leaning against the doorframe of his apartment, balancing a grocery bag in one hand as he fiddled with his keys. He looked up as you walked by, adjusting his glasses with a crooked grin.

“Caught you coming home late again,” he teased, his voice light, carrying that warm lilt you’d come to recognize. “You some kind of night owl, or do you just hate the sun?”

You rolled your eyes but smiled, hugging your tote bag closer to your chest. “And you’re out here with groceries at ten o’clock because you love the nightlife?”

“Please,” he said, finally getting the door unlocked but not stepping inside yet. “This is survival. You ever tried to make pancakes at one in the morning and realized you’re out of milk? It’s tragic.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re jealous of my pancake game,” he countered smoothly, pushing his glasses up again with his thumb. “Don’t worry, I’ll invite you over one day. Blow your mind.”

“You say that like you can actually cook,” you shot back, smirking despite yourself.

“Oh, I’m full of surprises,” he said, his grin widening just slightly.

You should’ve kept walking, should’ve just waved and left it at that, but something about the way he lingered there–casual, waiting, like he wanted you to keep talking–made you pause in the hallway instead.

The building was quiet, the hum of the lights above the only sound besides the two of you. His eyes, a sharp and startling blue behind the lenses, held yours longer than they should have, and you felt a faint warmth creep up your neck that had nothing to do with the hallway’s poor ventilation.

“You’re weird, Gojo,” you said finally, trying to break the tension.

“Yeah,” he admitted easily, shifting the grocery bag to his other hand, “but I’m your weird neighbor. You’re stuck with me.”

And before you could think of a comeback, he winked.

The hallway smelled faintly of takeout and old carpet cleaner, that signature scent of a building whose landlord had given up somewhere around the Reagan era, but you didn’t mind. It was home, and your neighbor Gojo was leaning in his doorway with a grocery bag like he always had the worst timing, his grin too easy for someone holding what looked like five cartons of eggs and a gallon of milk in one hand.

“Seriously though,” you said as you shifted your tote higher on your shoulder, “what do you even make with that much food this late at night? You’re not feeding a whole frat in there, are you?”

His smile widened as he jiggled the keys in the lock. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Miss Nosy Neighbor.” He got the door open finally, only for the corner of a cereal box to peek out of the bag, bright and childish. “Spoiler alert: pancakes aren’t the only thing I’m good at.”

“You mean you’re gonna eat half that cereal and pass out watching TV,” you teased, arching a brow.

He laughed, pushing his glasses up again when they slid down the bridge of his nose. “Guilty. You caught me. But hey, at least I’m honest.”

You smirked, shaking your head, and turned toward your own apartment door just a few steps down. But you didn’t make it inside before you heard the sudden racket from Gojo’s place.

At first it was just a cupboard slamming, then another, then another, like someone was playing whack-a-mole with his kitchen. You frowned, halfway tempted to knock and make sure he hadn’t collapsed in there, when the sound cut off abruptly. A beat later, Gojo appeared again in the hallway, empty-handed now, as if nothing had happened.

“Everything okay in there?” you asked, brows raised.

“Yeah,” he said casually, brushing a hand through his pale hair like it had been nothing. “Just, uh, reorganizing. Cabinets are tricky.”

You gave him a skeptical look, lips twitching. “Sounded like you were fighting them.”

“Eh,” he said with a shrug, “we came to an understanding.”

Before you could press him, his eyes flicked to the recliner sitting awkwardly in the hallway just in front of your door–the one you’d been meaning to drag inside but hadn’t managed yet. You’d bought it secondhand off a listing and barely managed to get it delivered, but the idea of actually hauling it through your door by yourself had left you putting it off for days.

Gojo didn’t even ask. He just stepped forward, bent, and hefted the entire thing up in his arms like it weighed nothing.

“Wait–what–” you stammered, eyes wide as you watched him carry it smoothly down the hall.

“You were just gonna leave it out here forever?” he asked over his shoulder, adjusting it easily with one arm before nudging your door open with his hip.

Your mouth fell open. “How the hell are you that strong?”

He smirked, setting the recliner down neatly just inside your living room, then straightened without even the hint of a grunt. “I, uh… lift,” he said, so unconvincingly casual you wanted to laugh.

“You lift?” you repeated, following him in and shutting the door behind you.

“Yeah,” he said, glancing around your apartment as if taking it in. “Groceries. Cereal boxes. You know, heavy stuff.”

You snorted, setting your tote down on the counter. “Uh-huh. Totally believable.”

He ignored your skepticism, wandering a few steps further into your space, eyes scanning the cluttered coffee table and the stack of books on the armchair. He looked too at home for a man who had just barged in with furniture, but you didn’t tell him to stop. You just watched as he shoved his hands in his pockets, still grinning faintly, his glasses slipping again.

“So,” you said after a moment, leaning against the counter, “how’s work going? Still running around for the Bugle?”

He hummed in acknowledgment, finally turning his head back toward you. “Fine. Same as always.”

“Do they even give you a day off?” you asked, arching a brow.

“Eh, not really. Crime doesn’t exactly stick to a nine-to-five schedule.”

The words made you blink, but you brushed it off, tilting your head. “So how do you even get those photos of Spider-Man? Every time I see his face in the paper, it’s one of yours. You must have some crazy connections.”

For a second, Gojo didn’t answer. He just looked at you, his gaze flicking down briefly before meeting your eyes again. It took you a beat to realize why. You’d changed into a thin camisole when you got home earlier, the fabric soft and flimsy, and you hadn’t bothered with a bra. The way you were leaning against the counter wasn’t doing much to hide that fact. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes darting away like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

You smirked faintly, heat rushing up your chest, but didn’t move to cover yourself. “What?” you asked, pretending not to notice the way his ears had turned faintly pink.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, clearing his throat as he pushed his glasses up again. “I just, uh–” He blinked, buying himself a second, then smirked, though it was a little forced. “I just know what spots to go to. He’s a creature of habit.”

“Mm,” you said softly, pretending to accept it even as you noticed the way his gaze flicked down again, just for a second.

He was thinking something. You didn’t need to know what exactly to feel it, the weight of it pressing into the air between you. His smirk lingered, but his eyes were heavier now, sharper, like he was fighting himself not to say more.

Gojo had intended to make a graceful exit after dropping the recliner in your living room, maybe toss in one more teasing remark about pancakes and then disappear into his own apartment before you could notice the way his pulse had been hammering since you leaned against the counter in that thin camisole.

But you didn’t kick him out. You just stood there, arms folded lightly under your chest, the fabric clinging to your skin in a way that made his glasses suddenly feel too tight on his face.

From your side, you couldn’t tell how much restraint he was using. He looked relaxed–hands in his pockets, easy grin, casual posture–but Gojo’s thoughts weren’t casual in the slightest. Every time your nipples shifted against the outline of the fabric, every little bounce when you laughed or tilted your head, he felt his cock stir harder in his slacks. He’d been in dangerous situations before–dangling off skyscrapers, dodging bullets, webbing up guys twice his size–but standing in your apartment while you obliviously arched your back in a paper-thin top? That was the kind of danger he wasn’t sure he could survive.

He shifted his weight slightly, pretending to glance around your bookshelf just so he could adjust himself discreetly. His cock was pressing against the inside of his zipper now, thickening with every subtle inhale of your shampoo. He clenched his jaw, dragging his gaze upward when it wanted to linger lower, forcing himself to focus on anything else before he embarrassed himself in front of you.

“Still doesn’t explain how you manage to get the clearest photos of Spider-Man,” you said, quirking a brow. “Like, what, do you camp out on rooftops waiting for him to swing by?”

Gojo cleared his throat, forcing a smile that felt tighter than he wanted it to. “Something like that. I’m good with patterns. Guess I know his schedule.”

“Schedule,” you repeated, smirking faintly as you reached for a glass of water. “So what, you’ve got him clocked in like a nine-to-five? ‘Oh, there goes Spider-Man, late for his shift again.’”

He chuckled, shifting again, subtly tugging his shirt lower over his lap as you turned toward the sink. He thought he was in the clear–until you sighed dramatically and leaned your hip against the counter again, crossing your arms under your chest so that the camisole pulled tighter.

“Honestly,” you said, a playful twist in your tone, “I don’t get the hype. Spider-Man’s overrated.”

Gojo’s head snapped up so fast you nearly dropped your glass. “Excuse me?”

You blinked at him, lips twitching. “What? He’s messy. You see the photos you take of him–dude looks like a kid with ADHD and a Red Bull problem. Always leaving webs on buildings, climbing around like a freaky cat burglar. Half the time the news makes him sound like a menace anyway.”

Gojo turned fully then, his face animated in mock offense, though under the surface his blood ran hotter. “Menace? He saves lives. You know that, right? He’s out there busting his ass to keep the city from turning into a free-for-all.”

You laughed, tilting your head, enjoying the way he bristled. “Wow, someone’s passionate. What, are you in love with him or something?”

The question hit harder than you expected. Gojo blinked behind his glasses, throat tightening, heat crawling up the back of his neck as he shifted his stance again, desperate to hide the growing tent in his pants. His cock twitched at the thought of you saying the word “love” in the same breath as Spider-Man, the irony almost enough to undo him completely.

“In love?” he echoed, trying to keep his voice light, but the smile tugging at his lips was strained.

“You defend him like you’re his lawyer,” you teased, sipping your water. “What’s next? You got a Spider-Man poster hidden in your closet? Maybe a shrine? I should check your apartment for webs.”

He coughed, forcing a laugh that came out a little rougher than intended. “Cute. Real cute.” He turned back slightly under the guise of adjusting his belt, but really it was to shift himself again, the outline of his cock pressing harder against the fabric than he could manage to ignore. He could feel his palms sweating as his mind betrayed him, slipping into fantasies of bending you over the counter, tugging that flimsy camisole down, finally sucking your nipples the way he’d been imagining since you first walked in.

He dragged his focus back to your smirk, clearing his throat again. “I’m just saying, maybe you don’t give the guy enough credit. He’s out there risking his life while you’re in here shit-talking him like he’s a… what’d you call it? A freaky cat burglar?”

“Uh-huh,” you said, leaning closer with that spark in your eyes that always made him feel like you were testing him. “Sounds like you’ve got a crush. Do I need to worry about competition from a guy in spandex?”

Gojo’s cock pulsed so hard he thought for sure you could see it now. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, biting back the urge to groan, and gave you a crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Trust me,” he said slowly, gaze flicking down one last time before snapping back up to your face, “the only one you need to worry about is yourself.”

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

The city looked different at night. Not just darker, but alive in a way most people never saw. From twelve stories up, the lights blurred into rivers of gold and red, traffic weaving like veins across the concrete, neon buzzing against the low hum of distant sirens. For Satoru Gojo, this wasn’t the hour to sleep. It was the hour to move.

He pulled the mask down over his face with practiced ease, the sharp lines of blue, black, and white snapping into place as the lenses adjusted, tinting the city with a faint glow. He shoved the window open without hesitation, the cool air rushing against his bare arms, and stepped onto the ledge. For a moment, he just stood there, balancing casually on the narrow strip of concrete like it was a sidewalk. Then he leapt.

The web shot out with a sharp thwip, catching the steel edge of a billboard. The line snapped taut, and he swung low, his body carving through the night air with practiced rhythm. It was a dance he could do in his sleep–legs tucked, torso twisting, hand releasing just long enough to fire another line, letting gravity pull him before the next catch. The rush never dulled. The wind whipped against his body, his heart hammering with that mix of thrill and responsibility that kept him out here, night after night.

The call had come from the police scanner he’d hacked weeks ago: an explosion in the warehouse district, reports of armed men in masks scattering through the alleys. Gojo didn’t bother with the details. He knew the type. Gang rats with more firepower than brains, desperate enough to make noise, careless enough to kill civilians without a second thought. He’d been waiting for this kind of break in the lull of small-time robberies.

The first thing he smelled when he swung into the district was smoke. Black and acrid, spilling out of the gutted warehouse like an open wound. Flames licked at the steel supports, casting jagged shadows down the empty streets. He landed on the roof of a van, crouched low, and scanned the scene. Three men in masks were sprinting down the alley, rifles slung, shouting to each other as they carried something bulky between them.

“Idiots,” he muttered, firing a web that yanked the nearest one straight off his feet. The man hit the ground with a yell, the crate tumbling from his arms. Gojo swung down, landing hard enough to dent the asphalt, and swept his leg in a clean arc that knocked another one off balance.

The third raised his rifle. Gojo’s web was faster. It glued the weapon to the wall, and the man’s hands stuck with it before he could fire.

“You boys don’t play well with others, huh?” Gojo taunted, yanking the first one upright by the front of his shirt. “What’s in the box? Please tell me it’s cookies.”

The man tried to headbutt him. Gojo slammed him back into the van hard enough to rattle the metal, his knuckles cracking against the guy’s jaw before webbing him to the hood for good measure.

The second one scrambled for a knife. Gojo grabbed a chunk of debris from the explosion–half a concrete brick–and hurled it just close enough to make the man flinch. Then he swept forward, webbing his legs together and yanking him face-first into the pavement.

The fight should have ended there. But more footsteps echoed down the alley, heavier this time, and a van screeched around the corner with its headlights off. Gunfire split the air, ripping through the brick where Gojo had been perched a moment before. He ducked low, vaulting over the nearest dumpster, webbing the driver’s side window before the shooter could line up again. The bullet grazed his arm as he twisted, hot pain tearing through his bicep, but he didn’t stop. He swung forward, ripped the gun from the man’s hand, and slammed the van door shut on his arm until he screamed.

By the time the smoke thinned, half the crew was glued to the asphalt, the others trussed up along the wall like grotesque marionettes. Gojo stood in the center of the wreckage, panting through the mask, the cut in his arm burning hotter with each pulse of his heartbeat. He wiped blood on the side of his suit and crouched to check the crate. Not cookies. Explosives. Enough to level another block. He hissed through his teeth, fired a quick signal web onto the lid for the police to track, and vaulted back into the night before the sirens grew close.

By the time he landed back on his own building, his arm was screaming. He crawled through the window into his apartment, ripping the mask off with his good hand, glasses forgotten on the nightstand where he’d left them. The adrenaline was wearing off now, replaced with raw, aching pain as he peeled the sleeve back to inspect the graze. Not deep, but messy. He hissed again as he disinfected it, the sound spilling into the quiet room like a groan.

He didn’t realize how loud he was being until the knock came.

“Gojo?”

Your voice.

He froze, the alcohol-soaked rag pressed to his skin.

The knock came again, sharper this time. “Can you–uh–keep it down? Some of us are trying to sleep.”

He blinked, realization dawning a second too late. To anyone else in the hall, his low groans and sharp hisses would sound like exactly one thing: sex. Loud, athletic sex. He bit down on the laugh bubbling in his throat and limped to the door, still clutching his arm.

When he opened it, you were standing there in your sleep shorts and that same thin camisole, brows furrowed, lips pursed like you’d been debating whether to knock again.

“Everything okay?” you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral, though your eyes flicked behind him like you half-expected to see some woman sprawled on his bed.

Gojo leaned casually against the frame despite the sting in his arm, forcing a grin. “Sorry, neighbor. Guess I got a little… carried away.”

You blinked, caught between suspicion and embarrassment. “With what, exactly?”

He smirked faintly, ignoring the blood seeping into the rag at his side. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Gojo leaned against the doorframe like nothing was wrong, like the blood wasn’t sticky and warm down his bicep, like the rag pressed to his arm wasn’t keeping him from dripping on the hardwood. He was good at this–at faking normal, at playing the dumb neighbor with the bad diet and the too-wide grin. Usually, you didn’t look close enough to see through it. But tonight, you weren’t buying it.

Your eyes narrowed immediately, scanning him from his face down to his bare torso. He hadn’t had the sense to throw on a shirt before opening the door, and now you were staring at the faint sheen of sweat on his pecs, the defined slope of his abs, and the arm he was trying so casually to keep angled away from you.

“Gojo,” you said slowly, your voice firm despite the way your gaze lingered, “what the fuck happened to you?”

He blinked behind the messy fringe of his white hair, his grin crooked. “What, this?” He waved the bloody rag as if it were nothing. “Just got into a fight.”

“A fight?” you echoed, your tone sharp. You reached forward without thinking, catching his wrist and tugging his arm gently toward you. He didn’t resist. Your fingers were warm on his skin, and his chest tightened for reasons that had nothing to do with the wound.

You tilted his arm under the hallway light, brows furrowing deeper at the angry scrape. “With who? You look like you got dragged across concrete.”

Gojo swallowed, searching for something harmless, something stupid enough that you’d laugh instead of pressing. “Uh,” he said finally, deadpan, “the raccoons in the alley.”

You blinked. “The what now?”

“Big ones,” he added, fighting the smile tugging at his lips. “Mean as hell. Real claws on ‘em.”

You stared at him like he’d lost it. “You mean Mister Muffins and his husband?”

For a second, Gojo just stared back, completely blindsided. Then the laugh broke out of him, low and loud and genuine, curling up from his chest until his shoulders shook. “You named them?”

“They’ve been living out there since last summer,” you said, still serious as you let go of his arm. “They’re practically our neighbors.”

Gojo grinned down at you, his chest still shaking faintly from the laugh. God, he wanted to kiss you. To grab your face and taste the amusement on your lips, to press you back against the doorframe and forget about the blood drying on his arm. But he swallowed it down, kept his hands at his sides, and rolled his eyes instead. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, chuckling. “Mister Muffins and his husband. Guess they didn’t like me stealing their pizza.”

You hummed, skeptical but letting it drop, stepping back just slightly as his grin softened. The warmth in his chest was dangerous, pulling him toward you, and he knew if he let it go one step further, he’d forget the mask and suit lying crumpled on his floor just a few feet away.

You couldn’t stop staring at him. His glasses were gone, and without them, his eyes were sharper, brighter, like shards of the clearest blue sky. His hair was tousled, falling messily over his forehead, and his body… God. 

His pecs gleamed faintly with sweat, the defined ridges of his abs drawing your gaze lower before you snapped it back up, only to be caught by the flex of his biceps as he shifted the rag against his wound. You rubbed your thighs together unconsciously, trying to ignore the heat crawling higher between your legs, cursing yourself for standing here in a thin camisole with no bra, nipples hard against the flimsy fabric.

“You need to go to the hospital,” you said finally, your voice firmer than you felt.

“I don’t,” he said easily, brushing it off with a casual shrug that only made his muscles flex harder. “I know how to clean myself up.”

“That looks serious,” you argued, taking a step closer. “You can’t just patch something like that with a wet rag and a joke about raccoons, Gojo.”

“Relax,” he said, smirking faintly even as he leaned more weight on the doorframe. “I’ve had worse. Trust me.”

You glared at him, but the concern twisting in your chest wasn’t enough to push you past the thick, embarrassing wave of attraction making your thighs clench tighter. “At least let me help,” you insisted.

“Tempting,” he said smoothly, voice dropping a little lower, “but I’ve got it handled.”

And before you could argue again, he shifted back and pulled the door toward himself.

“Go back to bed, neighbor,” he said, his grin too soft for the words to sound smug. “You’ll thank me in the morning.”

The door clicked shut in your face before you could think of another protest.

You stood there in the hallway, staring at the wood grain, pulse pounding, cheeks burning, your thighs pressed together harder as you tried to ignore the way your body was betraying you. On the other side, you could still hear him moving–too much noise for a man with “just” a scrape, but you didn’t push. You didn’t dare.

Not yet.

The lock clicked softly behind him as the door shut, sealing away the quiet hallway and the sight of you standing there in your thin camisole, your nipples pressing against the fabric, your lips parted like you had a dozen more protests ready to spill out. Gojo leaned back against the door, exhaling hard, the rag still clutched against his arm. For a long moment he just stood there, listening to the faint echo of your retreating footsteps, imagining the sway of your hips, the faint curve of your ass under those sleep shorts.

He dropped the rag finally, letting it fall to the hardwood with a wet slap, and dragged a hand down his face. His cock was already stiffening in his pants, the arousal that had been simmering ever since you leaned against the counter now impossible to ignore. Spidey senses–hell, tonight it felt like nothing but arousal senses. He could still smell you, the faint trace of your shampoo lingering in the air like a ghost. His body was strung too tight to resist anymore.

With a sharp huff, he shoved his sweats down just far enough, his cock springing free against his stomach, long, thick, the mushroomed tip flushed an angry red and already leaking. The sight of it made his breath catch–not because he hadn’t seen it before, but because the thought of you seeing it, of your fingers wrapped around it, had his stomach clenching in need. He curled his hand around the base and groaned low, his head falling back against the door.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, the word breaking on a moan as his fist slid up the thick shaft.

His strokes were slow at first, deliberate, the pad of his thumb dragging over the slit where precome already gathered. The wetness made the glide easier, slick, obscene, his hips twitching up into his grip as his cock throbbed harder. He squeezed, groaned again, and shut his eyes–and there you were.

Your tits in that flimsy camisole, nipples so hard he could see the outline through the fabric. The way your thighs pressed together, subtle but not subtle enough, when you told him to go to the hospital. The concern in your eyes as you grabbed his wrist, your touch softer than he deserved, your mouth tugging into that little frown that made his chest ache.

He stroked himself faster, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he imagined you looking up at him while on your knees, lips stretched around his cock, cheeks flushed from effort. He pictured your thighs spread across his lap, your tits bouncing in his hands as he fucked up into you, the same frown twisting into desperate pleasure as you whimpered his name.

His head rolled back, sweat beading along his temple as his chest rose faster. The sound of slick skin filled the room, obscene and raw, his hand working up and down his length, squeezing just below the head before dragging down again. He could almost hear you–the soft gasp when you realized how big he was, the breathless laugh when he teased you, the moan when he finally pushed inside.

“God, sweetheart,” he groaned, hips thrusting shallowly into his fist, “you’d feel so good around me.”

The image of your thighs wrapped around his waist slammed into his mind, your cunt clenching as he bottomed out, your nails digging into his shoulders as you begged him not to stop. His cock jerked in his grip, precome smearing down the thick vein as he fucked into his hand harder now, faster, chasing the edge of a release that had been gnawing at him since the moment you leaned over the counter earlier.

His abs tightened, his biceps flexing as his strokes grew rougher, breath coming in sharp pants that echoed through the quiet apartment. He imagined your tits bouncing against his chest, your thighs slick against his hips, your voice breaking as you cried out his name – and that was it. His head slammed back against the door with a ragged groan, his cock pulsing as hot ropes of cum spilled over his hand and stomach, thick and messy, his body shuddering with the force of it.

He stayed there, chest heaving, hand still lazily stroking through the aftershocks as his cock twitched against his palm. Cum smeared warm across his skin, sticky on his abs, and the thought of you licking it off made his cock twitch again despite the release.

When his breath finally steadied, he dragged his hand up to his face, smirking faintly even through the haze. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he muttered, imagining the way you’d looked at him tonight, concerned and flushed, completely unaware of how close he was to snapping.

And on the other side of the wall, he had no idea you were lying in bed, thighs pressed tight together, thinking of him in almost the exact same way.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

The city always looked different at night when you weren’t seeing it from behind your apartment window. The neon signs bled against the slick pavement, every puddle on the street reflecting a smear of light like paint dragged too far across a canvas. You hadn’t meant to stay out this late– a work thing that ran longer than expected, a drink with a friend that turned into two–but now it was just you, the click of your heels on uneven concrete, and the distant hum of traffic echoing up from the main avenue.

You tugged the hem of your short black dress down as the breeze caught it, teeth pressing into your lower lip as you thought back to earlier in the evening, when Gojo had leaned in your doorway with that easy grin, glasses slightly crooked, acting like the whole world revolved around his jokes. 

You shouldn’t have been thinking about him, not while walking alone at midnight through streets that weren’t exactly friendly, but your mind kept drifting to the way his chest looked without his shirt, the way his arm had flexed when you grabbed his wrist. You rubbed your thighs together unconsciously as you walked, shaking your head to clear it.

You were halfway down the block when you heard it–footsteps behind you. At first you ignored it, telling yourself it was just another late-night straggler heading in the same direction. But then there was a laugh. Low. Male. And before you could quicken your pace, a voice called out.

“Hey, sweetheart. You lost?”

You turned just enough to see two men falling into step behind you, their grins too wide, their eyes too hungry. You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder, fingers sliding into the pocket where your keys were tucked between your knuckles.

“No, thanks,” you said curtly, facing forward again.

They didn’t take the hint. Their footsteps sped up until they were flanking you, one to the left, one to the right. The taller one leaned closer, his breath sour. “C’mon, don’t be like that. Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be out here alone.”

Your stomach twisted, but you didn’t falter. “Touch me, and I swear to God–”

The one on your right smirked, his hand brushing against your bare thigh. “What, you’ll stab me with those heels?”

You had the keys in your palm already, ready to jam them into his wrist if he tried again, when a sharp thwip split the air. The man’s arm was yanked backward so fast he stumbled, a thick white strand of web pinning his hand to the brick wall.

“What the–”

Another web shot past you, catching the second guy’s jacket and slamming him against a lamppost. They both cursed, thrashing, but it was no use–the webs hardened in seconds, holding them tight.

You blinked, breath caught in your throat, as a figure dropped from the building above with effortless grace.

Spider-Man.

His suit was nothing like the red-and-blue plastered on the city’s billboards. This one was sharper, darker: matte black panels broken by streaks of deep cobalt blue, white lines cutting across the chest in a sleek, angular design. The spider emblem was painted in silver, its legs stretching long down his ribs. His mask was a seamless fit, lenses glowing faintly as they narrowed toward the men he’d just strung up.

“Wow,” he said cheerfully, straightening from his crouch. “Can’t even let a lady walk home without drooling on her shoes? You guys are giving chivalry a really bad name.”

One of the men snarled, jerking against the web. “The fuck are you–”

“Sticky,” Spider-Man interrupted, cocking his head. “Kinda like duct tape, but cooler. You’ll be fine. Unless you sneeze. Then it’s gross.”

You stood there in stunned silence as he dusted off his gloved hands, then sauntered over like this was all part of his nightly routine.

“You okay?” he asked, tilting his head toward you.

You blinked once, unimpressed despite your racing pulse. “I was handling it.”

He let out a laugh that crackled through his mask speaker. “Oh yeah? With what, that little set of house keys? Adorable.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line. “You done?”

“Saving your life?” He pretended to think. “Yeah, I guess.”

You turned to leave, brushing past him with a shake of your head. “Great. Thanks. Bye.”

But before you could take two steps, he moved, a line of web shooting out to block the narrow alley ahead, his tall frame stepping in front of you. He leaned casually against the brick, head tilted, arms crossed.

“No thank you?” he teased. “Not even a little one?”

You sighed, crossing your arms. “Oh my God. You did your job. Congratulations. Do you want a cookie?”

He chuckled, lenses narrowing as he leaned a little closer. “Depends. You baking?”

You stared at him flatly, unimpressed. “You sound like you’re in love with yourself.”

“Someone has to be,” he shot back smoothly.

You huffed, stepping sideways to try to slip past, but his arm shot out, barring your path again. “C’mon,” he said, his tone still playful but softer now, more curious. “Just one thank you. You’ll make my night.”

You looked him up and down, from the glowing eyes of his mask to the sleek, muscle-hugging suit, then back up to meet his gaze. “Fine,” you said dryly. “Thank you for tying up two drunk idiots and interrupting my evening walk.”

He hummed like it was good enough, though you swore you could feel the smirk beneath the mask. “See? Was that so hard?”

You rolled your eyes, heels clicking as you moved past him when he finally dropped his arm. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” he called after you, his tone warm and teasing, “but you’ll remember me.”

And damn it, you already knew he was right.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

You hadn’t planned on staying in Gojo’s apartment that morning. You’d only stopped by to drop off the package the landlord had left at the wrong door, but somehow, twenty minutes later, you were still sitting at the edge of his counter while he moved around the small kitchen, glasses perched on his nose, hair still damp from the shower. He’d thrown on a white button-down that was currently hanging open over a black undershirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the muscle in his forearms, and you were trying very hard not to stare.

Gojo, of course, noticed anyway. He always did. He leaned casually against the fridge, sipping his coffee, his eyes sparkling faintly behind the lenses as you recounted the insane night you’d had.

“…and then he just shows up,” you were saying, gesturing with your hands for emphasis. “Out of nowhere. Webs those guys up like they’re nothing. Doesn’t even break a sweat. And then–” you rolled your eyes dramatically–“he wants me to thank him. Like I owe him or something.”

Gojo hummed softly, biting back the grin tugging at his mouth as he set the mug down. On the surface, he was every inch the attentive neighbor, nodding along, but inside his chest, his heart was thudding. He hadn’t expected you to bring it up so soon–though he should have, knowing you.

He wanted to laugh, to tell you right then that the man in the suit had gone home with your face burned into his mind so vividly he’d had to jerk off against his door to the thought of your tits under that flimsy camisole. But instead, he pushed his glasses up and said lightly, “Sounds like he saved your ass.”

“Please,” you scoffed, crossing your legs. “I could’ve handled it.”

Gojo tilted his head, letting his eyes linger on the smooth stretch of your thigh before forcing them back up. “With what, those heels? Don’t get me wrong, you’d probably make a decent mark with ‘em, but…” He shrugged. “Doesn’t hurt having a little backup.”

You gave him a look, sharp and unimpressed, which only made him want to smirk harder. “You sound like you like him,” you teased. “What, are you secretly a Spider-Man fanboy?”

The comment nearly made him choke on his coffee. He swallowed, masking it with a faint laugh. “Me? Nah. I just think the guy gets a bad rap.”

“Uh-huh,” you said dryly, turning back to the package you’d brought as if to signal the conversation was over. But then you added, far too casually, “He does have a nice body, though. You can see everything in that suit.”

Gojo froze.

You didn’t notice at first, still fiddling with the box, your tone completely nonchalant. “I mean, I get it now. All that swinging around, climbing buildings like a cat–of course he’s built. And the suit? Zero imagination left to the eye. Couldn’t help but notice the… bulge.”

His cock stirred immediately. Heat shot straight through him, so sharp it made his throat tighten. He forced his expression neutral, though his grip on the edge of the counter had whitened his knuckles.

“Damn,” he said finally, his voice lower than he intended. He coughed once, masking it. “You really don’t like the guy, huh?”

You looked up, smirking faintly at his tone. “Didn’t say that. Just said he’s overrated. Doesn’t mean I didn’t notice he fills out that spandex.”

Gojo shifted subtly, turning back toward the counter to pour himself more coffee, mostly so you wouldn’t see the way his cock was already pressing against his slacks. He hummed, feigning casual. “So you were checking him out.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you shot back, swinging your leg idly. “Anyone would notice. Suit like that? It’s practically obscene.”

He almost groaned, biting down on the inside of his cheek. Inside his head, his thoughts weren’t neighborly at all. He was picturing you staring at his cock through the suit, lips parted, thighs rubbing together. He imagined pulling the mask up just enough to kiss you, your tits pressed against the chest of his suit, your nails dragging down his shoulders as you realized how right you’d been about the bulge.

Out loud, he only said, “Guess you’re more observant than you let on.”

You smirked, sipping from the mug he’d slid across the counter for you. “Guess so.”

Gojo watched the way your lips wrapped around the rim, and he nearly had to excuse himself to the bathroom right then.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

It started as a once-in-a-while thing, Spider-Man appearing in your path on your late-night walks, leaning against a lamppost or crouched on a fire escape like he’d been waiting. At first you told yourself it was coincidence. The city was big, but maybe your paths just crossed. Then it was every night. You’d step out of the corner store, the plastic bag in your hand still warm with groceries, and there he’d be, mask gleaming faintly under the lights, waving like you were old friends.

By the third night in a row, you crossed your arms and told him flatly, “You stalking me?”

“Stalking?” he gasped, hand over his chest like you’d wounded him. “I prefer the term dedicated escort service. I only charge in smiles.”

“Overpriced,” you muttered, walking past him.

“Brutal,” he said, falling into step beside you as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “But worth it.”

And that’s how it continued. Every night. Him showing up, you pretending not to be impressed, him cracking jokes while you tried not to stare at the way his suit clung to every line of muscle.

Tonight was no different–except it was.

You’d dressed in a short black skater skirt that swished with every step, thigh-high socks hugging tight against your thighs, and a cropped turtleneck that left a strip of your stomach bare. No bra. You hadn’t expected to run into him–not really–but the way his head snapped toward you when you rounded the corner told you he noticed every detail.

“New outfit?” he said casually, though Gojo behind the mask was already fighting the twitch in his cock. The way the fabric outlined your breasts, the way the socks cut into your soft thighs–it was killing him.

“Don’t get used to it,” you said, brushing past.

“Too late.” His voice carried a grin, but his body was already tense. He followed close, closer than usual, and you could feel the heat of him even through the fabric of his suit.

When you reached the quieter part of the block, he stopped suddenly.

“Come on,” he said, and before you could argue, his arms were around your waist.

“Wait–what the–”

The thwip of his web was the only warning before your feet left the ground. You clutched at his shoulders instinctively as he swung you upward, the city dropping away beneath you, wind whipping your hair back as you gasped. He landed smoothly on a rooftop, setting you down gently but keeping one arm snug around your waist as you staggered.

“See?” he said, his voice smug. “Better than a cab.”

You blinked, still catching your breath, but quickly covered it with a scoff. “You’re insane.”

“You’re welcome,” he countered, still close enough that his chest brushed your back when he leaned forward.

You stepped away, arms crossed, looking out at the skyline. The view was breathtaking–golden lights spilling across the city, the river glimmering like a vein of silver–but you weren’t about to admit that to him.

Instead, you muttered, “How do you even breathe in that mask? Looks suffocating.”

Behind you, Gojo’s cock twitched so hard it hurt. You looked so fucking cute, standing there unimpressed in your little skirt, thighs pressed together like you didn’t realize how much that tiny shift made his brain short-circuit.

“I manage,” he said lightly, though his voice was rougher now.

You turned halfway, catching the subtle way he shifted his stance. “Do you save ‘damsels in distress’ just so you can fuck them after?”

The question was sharp, mocking, but your tone sent a shiver through him. He huffed a laugh, though his cock was already swelling thick and hard, straining against the spandex.

“That’s not true,” he said, too quickly.

You raised a brow, smirking faintly. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He wanted to protest, but then you shifted closer, brushing against him without even realizing it, the swell of your ass grazing the hard outline of his cock. His breath caught behind the mask. You felt it–the heat, the pressure–and your thighs squeezed tighter, a faint tremor betraying you as you shifted again, deliberately this time.

Gojo nearly groaned, his gloved hands curling into fists at his sides. He couldn’t help it when one slid forward, brushing against your hip, and you startled but didn’t move away. Instead, you grabbed his wrist and guided it higher, pressing his palm against the front of your cropped top.

“Over the clothes, Spidey,” you whispered, your breath shaky despite your bravado. “Just this once.”

His cock throbbed, precum already dampening the inside of his suit, but he nodded, his voice cracking slightly. “Yeah… yeah.” He almost said your name–the syllables caught behind his teeth–but he bit it back just in time.

His hand cupped your breast through the thin fabric, squeezing gently, his thumb brushing over the hard peak of your nipple. You gasped softly, arching faintly into the touch, and his cock jerked again against your ass.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing slowly, deliberately, savoring the feel of you even with the fabric between you.

You pressed your thighs tighter, your body trembling as you leaned back against him, your breath catching when his other hand slid down to rest on your hip, holding you steady as you rocked slightly against him.

The heat was unbearable, his cock firm against your ass as you rubbed back, your skirt riding higher with each subtle grind. He let out a shaky groan, his head dropping to your shoulder, and you bit your lip, your hand curling around his wrist to press him harder against your breast.

“Spidey,” you whispered, the word breaking into a gasp as his thumb flicked over your nipple again.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He turned you gently, lowering you onto the rooftop until he was sprawled beneath you, your thighs straddling his hips. His cock pressed hot and heavy against your soaked panties through the spandex, and you ground down instinctively, moaning softly at the friction.

He gripped your waist, guiding your movements as you rocked against him, the sound of your thighs sliding and the faint squeak of fabric mixing with your uneven breaths.

You leaned forward, fingers brushing the edge of his mask, trying to tug it up, but his hand caught yours. “Not that,” he said hoarsely, panic lacing the arousal in his voice.

You smirked faintly, leaning closer anyway, your lips brushing against the fabric over his mouth. “Fine,” you whispered. “This’ll do.”

And you kissed him–through the mask, hot and desperate, your hips grinding harder against his cock as his hands tightened on your waist, pulling you closer, deeper, until the rooftop felt like it might swallow you both whole.

It was maddening, the slick heat of your panties growing wetter with each grind as you swallowed soft, helpless moans against his masked mouth. Gojo’s mind was unraveling beneath the mask. Every whimper you made went straight to his cock, every shift of your hips had him biting down on the inside of his cheek to keep from begging. 

He’d meant to keep it innocent–just teasing, just banter–but the way you looked on top of him, thighs spread, skirt riding higher to bare the tops of your thighs… he was gone.

One of his gloved hands slid down from your waist, fingers brushing the edge of your panties through your skirt. He didn’t even wait for permission this time–you were already grinding so desperately it was answer enough. His palm cupped you firmly, the heat of your cunt soaking through the fabric as he pressed slow, steady circles against your clit.

You gasped, arching into his touch, your nails dragging over his chest through the suit. “Fuck–”

“Shit,” he groaned, his cock twitching violently beneath you. “You’re so wet. I can feel it through the gloves.” His voice was rough, cracking in your ear, but his tone still carried that cocky edge. “I swear, I’m never washing this hand.”

You let out a breathless laugh between moans, smirking faintly even as you ground down harder against him. “That’s fucking disgusting.”

“Hot, though,” he countered immediately, rubbing harder against your clit, the friction making your thighs shake as you bit your lip to hold back another moan.

Your hands slid up his chest, tracing the hard ridges of muscle beneath the suit, down over his abs, and then back up to grip his shoulders. He groaned again, his hips bucking up to meet yours as he muttered, “God, you’re killing me.”

The rooftop was filled with the wet sound of your panties sliding against his suit, your gasps mingling with his rough groans as his cock throbbed, leaking inside the spandex. He was so close–too close–twitching with every grind, his mind spinning with filthy images of tearing that skirt off and burying himself inside you.

“Spidey–” you moaned softly, breathless, your body trembling as his thumb pressed harder against your clit.

He bit back a groan, the words almost slipping–your name on his tongue, his mask nearly lifted–when it hit him. That sharp, electric jolt down his spine.

His Spider-sense.

Gojo froze, the sound of your ragged breaths still in his ears as his body tensed. He knew the feeling too well: danger, close, immediate. His cock throbbed angrily at the interruption, but adrenaline surged hotter, overriding even the need pulsing in his lap.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath, sitting up so fast you fell backward off his lap, your thighs spreading instinctively as you hit the rooftop with a soft gasp.

“Are you kidding me?” you snapped, glaring up at him, your chest heaving. “What the hell, you asshole?”

He was already on his feet, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet with restless energy, scanning the skyline. ADHD energy mixed with the rush of instinct, his body practically vibrating as he muttered, “Shit, I’m sorry–”

“Sorry?” you shot back, pushing your skirt down with a flush. “You don’t just–ugh!”

He glanced back at you, his chest tight at the sight of your legs still open, thighs trembling, your lips flushed and swollen. He wanted nothing more than to drop back down and finish what he’d started. But the distant boom of an explosion cut through the night, orange light flashing against the buildings several blocks away.

His jaw clenched behind the mask. He crouched low in front of you, hands on your waist, and before you could shove him off, you were in his arms again, the world spinning as he leapt to the ground below with one clean swing.

He set you down gently, his voice hurried and hoarse as he backed away. “I’ll make it up to you, I swear–”

“Asshole!” you yelled after him, breathless and flushed, as another thwip launched him back into the night.

Gojo’s cock ached as he swung toward the fire, the memory of your heat grinding against him still burning in his nerves. He muttered under his breath, voice rough inside the mask, “God, you’re gonna fucking kill me.”

And you stood on the sidewalk below, thighs pressed tight together, still trembling from the way his gloved hand had touched you, cursing yourself for wanting him to come back already.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

The storm had rolled in fast. The city’s usual hum was drowned in the crash of rain against the streets, the wind whistling between buildings with enough force to rattle your window frames. You hadn’t seen Gojo since the morning before–a quick exchange at his door, his glasses fogged from the shower steam, his grin lazy as he told you not to work too hard. Then nothing. No sound through the thin walls. No telltale slam of his cabinets. Just silence.

By the time night fell, the storm was in full swing. You tugged on your thin nightgown–the one that barely brushed mid-thigh–and shoved your feet into slippers, grabbing the trash bag before it started to stink up the whole kitchen. The hallway was empty, the air faintly damp from the rain sneaking through the old building.

You shoved the bag into the bin behind the complex, hugging your arms against the chill, and tilted your head at the sound of something above. Not thunder. Not rain. A thud.

Your gaze snapped up, hair plastered against your cheek as the downpour blurred your vision. And there–on the fire escape leading up the side of the building–a figure. Crawling. In the storm.

Your breath caught, heart thudding as the figure moved toward a familiar window. Gojo’s window.

And the suit–black, blue, white–clung tight to every muscle as the man climbed inside.

Spider-Man.

“What the actual fuck,” you hissed, your shock boiling into rage before you could think.

Without hesitation, you bolted back into the building, your bare legs slick from the rain, your nightgown clinging to your body as you pounded up the stairs. Your slippers slapped against the steps, your breath coming fast, fury drowning out the thunder.

By the time you reached Gojo’s door, your pulse was roaring in your ears. You slid in front of it, nearly tripping, and slammed your fist against the wood.

“I know you’re in there!” you shouted, breathless, your hair dripping onto your shoulders. “Don’t you dare ignore me!”

Inside, Gojo cursed under his breath.

He was soaked through, the rain making the spandex cling uncomfortably tight, his muscles burning from the night’s patrol. He’d only just crawled through the window, mask dragged halfway down, sticking to his skin and refusing to come off fully with the water plastering it to his face. His pale hair was plastered to his forehead, dripping into his eyes, and his chest heaved as he tried to pull the fabric off.

Then he heard you.

He froze, eyes darting to the door as your pounding rattled the hinges. “Shit,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Not now.”

The door slammed open before he could bolt the lock.

You stepped in, soaked nightgown clinging to every curve, eyes blazing as you slammed the door behind you. Your chest rose fast, your breaths ragged from the sprint up the stairs. And then you saw him.

White hair plastered to his forehead. The mask dragged past his nose, still covering his eyes. Suit clinging to his chest and arms, droplets of rain dripping down the sharp lines of muscle.

You stopped dead, your whole body going cold despite the storm.

“You have to be fucking kidding me,” you said, your voice low, sharp, deadly serious.

He froze, mask halfway off, lips parted, caught like a kid in headlights.

“Satoru!?”

Gojo swallowed hard, chest still rising fast, every excuse he’d ever crafted evaporating from his mind as your voice cut through the thunder.

“Uh,” he said finally, voice cracking under the weight of the silence. “Surprise?”

You stared at him, fury and disbelief swirling in your chest so fast you could hardly breathe. Your fists clenched at your sides as you took a step closer, the storm hammering against the windows behind you.

“Surprise?” you repeated, your tone rising with every syllable. “That’s what you’ve got? Surprise!?”

He dragged a hand through his soaked hair, grimacing as the mask clung to his cheek. “In my defense,” he muttered, “you weren’t supposed to find out like this.”

You laughed. Sharp. Bitter. “No shit.”

He looked at you then–really looked. Your nightgown clung translucent to your thighs, your hair dripping against your flushed skin, your eyes lit with fire. And despite the mess, despite the panic, his cock twitched against the cling of the spandex.

Gojo’s throat bobbed as he forced a grin, though it was weaker than usual. “So… guess you’re not a Spider-Man fan after all, huh?”

You glared at him, heat rushing up your neck even as your thighs pressed unconsciously together.

“Don’t you dare try to joke your way out of this,” you snapped, your voice trembling with adrenaline.

And behind the mask, Gojo’s mind was a mess of panic, desire, and the quiet, sinking realization that there was no taking this back.

The rain was still pouring when you stepped closer, your bare feet soaking against his floorboards, the thin fabric of your nightgown clinging wetly to your skin. Your pulse was wild in your chest, your anger and adrenaline and the raw shock of what you’d just walked into mixing until your hands were already on him before you realized what you were doing.

“Are you hurt?” you demanded, palms sliding over his soaked chest, down his arms, searching for cuts, bruises, anything. Your fingers skimmed the hard lines of muscle beneath the clinging spandex, water dripping between your knuckles as you shoved at him to turn his body.

“Easy, sweetheart,” Gojo muttered, his grin cocky even as he winced when your thumb brushed a tender spot on his ribs. “You trying to cop a feel, or is this the world’s angriest check-up?”

“Don’t,” you snapped, your hands sliding up to his face, gripping his jaw. His mask was still dragged halfway down, covering his eyes, but you could see his smirk curving beneath it. Your chest heaved as you shook your head. “You left me high and dry yesterday. Do you even–do you even know how humiliating that was?”

He flinched at that, the grin faltering for the first time. “I–yeah. I’m sorry about that.”

“You’re such a prick,” you hissed, your nails curling against his cheek. “Showing up every night, getting under my skin, and then just–”

He cut you off before the words could spiral further. His gloved hands came up, framing your face with a gentleness that didn’t match the pounding storm outside, and then he kissed you.

It wasn’t a soft kiss. It was hot, deep, his tongue sliding into your mouth as his soaked chest pressed hard against yours. You tried to protest, tried to push him back, but your hands betrayed you, clutching at his cheeks, pulling him down as his mouth devoured yours.

You gasped into the kiss, your fingers sliding up into his damp hair, tugging at the white strands as he groaned against your lips. The sound was filthy, desperate, his body thrumming with pent-up hunger as he pressed you backward until your spine hit the wall.

His mouth trailed down your jaw, hot kisses dragging to the base of your throat, and then further, teeth grazing your collarbone as he shoved your nightgown up and over your head. You gasped as the soaked fabric hit the floor, leaving you bare in the storm’s cold air, your nipples tightening instantly in the chill.

Gojo groaned like he was seeing the sun for the first time, lips closing greedily over one hardened peak. “Fuck,” he mumbled against your skin, tongue flicking, teeth nipping just enough to make you arch. “Dreamed about this.”

Your hands clutched at the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in his damp hair as he lavished your breasts with open-mouthed kisses, groaning softly with every taste. He palmed your ass with one large hand, squeezing firmly, grinding his cock against your hips as his other hand shoved between your thighs to feel the heat of your soaked panties.

“Over the clothes,” you gasped, echoing the rooftop, your thighs trembling as he rubbed hard against your clit through the thin fabric.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, groaning again as your body arched into his touch. “God, you’re soaked, baby. You’re gonna ruin this suit.”

“You already ruined it,” you hissed back, moaning as his teeth tugged at your nipple.

“Not ruined enough,” he growled, rutting harder against your hip, the outline of his cock thick and throbbing through the spandex.

The storm cracked outside, thunder shaking the windows, and you nearly cried out as he lifted you suddenly, slamming your back gently against the wall as he held you up effortlessly, your thighs wrapping around his waist. His mouth claimed yours again, desperate and sloppy, as he dry-humped you hard, each thrust rubbing his cock against your soaked panties, the friction maddening.

You gasped against his lips, trying to breathe. “You–you really save damsels in distress just to fuck them, don’t you?”

He pulled back enough to smirk against your mouth, breath hot. “If that’s the job description, I’ll take the overtime.”

You rolled your eyes even as you moaned when his fingers pressed harder against your clit. “You’re disgusting.”

“Yeah,” he groaned, biting your nipple again, “but you love it.”

Your thighs squeezed tighter around his waist as his gloved hand rubbed rough circles against your clit, your wetness soaking through the fabric. You were trembling, your voice breaking as you gasped, “Satoru–”

He kissed you hard again, whispering against your lips, “Say it again.”

“Satoru,” you moaned, hips grinding desperately.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his cock jerking as precum leaked inside the suit.

Without another word, he carried you into his bedroom, dropping you gently onto the bed. The storm raged outside, lightning flashing against the walls, but his attention was only on you. He crawled over you slowly, deliberately, his mask finally tugged off with one hand.

You froze, breath caught.

Satoru.

His face was more beautiful than you’d ever let yourself imagine. Sharp cheekbones, jawline strong and wet with rain, mouth flushed from kissing you raw. But it was his eyes–that impossibly bright, crystalline blue, now bare without his glasses–that made your breath stutter. They were electric, alive, drinking you in like he’d been starved.

You didn’t get a chance to speak. His mouth was back on you, kissing down your neck, biting lightly at your collarbone, trailing lower. He licked and nipped at the curve of your breasts, groaning like a man possessed, before dragging his tongue down your stomach. You whimpered, your thighs pressing together, but he pried them apart, kissing along the soft skin until his mouth was at your hips.

He tore your panties down your legs in one quick motion, groaning when the scent of your arousal hit him. “Fuck, baby,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “I’ve been dreaming about this pussy.”

He pressed his face between your thighs, groaning loudly as his tongue licked a slow stripe over your folds. You gasped, your hands flying into his hair, tugging hard as his mouth latched onto your clit. He moaned like he’d been starved, rutting his hips against the mattress beneath him as he ate you out, tongue sliding deep inside, nose pressed against your clit.

“God–” you moaned, thighs trembling as his gloved fingers gripped your hips, holding you down. “Satoru–”

He groaned into your cunt, rutting harder against the bed, his cock straining as he inhaled the slick heat of you. His hands slid down, pushing your thighs up, locking them against his head until you were practically suffocating him.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he groaned, pulling back only long enough to slide a gloved finger against your entrance. “Gonna finger you open, sweetheart. Wanna feel you come on my hand.”

You whimpered as his finger slid inside, thick and deliberate, curling just right. He added another, stretching you slowly, his tongue circling your clit as your back arched. The storm roared outside, thunder shaking the glass–until a sharp thwip sounded, and the window slammed shut, his web sealing it tight.

“Need to hear you,” he muttered against your clit. “Can’t miss a single sound.”

You moaned louder, your hips rocking helplessly into his mouth as his fingers pumped deep, curling against your sweet spot while his tongue worked your clit mercilessly. Your hands clutched his hair, pulling him deeper, and he groaned against you, rutting harder into the mattress, lost in the taste of you.

“Satoru–” you gasped, thighs squeezing around his head, your body trembling violently as the pressure built.

“That’s it,” he groaned, his voice muffled against your cunt. “Come for me. Wanna drown in it.”

The wave hit you sharp and blinding, your orgasm tearing through you with a cry as your thighs shook around his head, your cunt fluttering around his fingers. He groaned like he was coming with you, his cock rutting desperately into the mattress as he licked you through every spasm, every aftershock, refusing to let you go.

When you finally collapsed back against the sheets, panting, your hands still tangled in his hair, he pulled back just enough to look up at you. His mouth was wet with you, his eyes burning with hunger, and his grin was wicked.

“Not bad for a prick, huh?”

He was still panting against your thigh, lips wet with your release, when he shifted back, fumbling with the edge of his suit. You propped yourself up on your elbows, sweat dampening your flushed chest, your breath uneven as you watched him struggle.

“Fucking–” he muttered, yanking at the fabric. “Piece of shit–sticks like a goddamn–” He growled, tugging harder, the wet spandex clinging stubbornly to his chest and arms. His abs flexed beautifully as he twisted, muscles rippling with every frustrated movement, and you bit your lower lip without meaning to, heat curling in your stomach again as his cock twitched visibly beneath the suit.

“You good over there, hero?” you teased softly, smirking despite your breathlessness.

“Shut up,” he hissed, jerking at the zipper that refused to budge. “I swear this thing’s cursed. Who the hell thought full-body spandex was a good idea?”

You laughed, low and teasing, until his growl deepened and he yanked so hard the seam popped. “Fucking–dammit!” He cursed louder, finally collapsing half-off the bed with a grunt as he fought the top half down.

Your laughter bubbled out before you could stop it, the sound bright in the storm-muted room. But it didn’t last long.

Because when he finally shoved the wet fabric down his hips and his cock sprang free, long and flushed and heavy against his abs, you forgot how to breathe.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, eyes wide, lips parting as heat licked sharp through your veins. “It’s always the nerds.”

Gojo’s grin was feral as he shoved the ruined suit down the rest of the way, kicking it off impatiently. “Yeah? Still laughing?”

You swallowed hard, thighs pressing together instinctively as you shook your head faintly. “Not even a little.”

“Didn’t think so,” he muttered, wrapping his hand around his cock and stroking once, slow, his head tipping back with a low groan. Precum glistened at the tip, sliding down the thick vein as he pumped lazily, his eyes hooded as they fixed on you.

Your thighs clenched tighter, your breath shallow as you watched his hand glide up and down, his cock twitching in his grip. He climbed back onto the bed, his body looming over yours as he captured your mouth in another searing kiss, your moan spilling against his tongue as the blunt head of his cock brushed your soaked entrance.

He groaned your name, broken and needy, his lips trembling against yours. “God, baby–”

You gasped as he pushed in, the stretch sharp and overwhelming, your back arching off the bed as his cock slid deeper, inch by inch. Your nails dug into his shoulders, your mouth falling open as the fullness robbed you of words.

“Fuck–” he whined, the sound raw, his hips trembling as he sank fully inside, buried to the hilt. “You’re so–so tight, I can’t–”

You cried out, your legs bending instinctively as he sat back on his knees, bracing his hands on the tops of your thighs. He pulled back slowly, then slammed forward again, the wet slap of his hips echoing through the room as you arched and moaned.

“God, yes,” he groaned, his head tipping back, his cock driving deep inside you. “So good–so fucking good–”

Your thighs quivered as he pounded into you, the stretch burning, perfect, your walls fluttering helplessly around his thick cock. He was whining now, shameless, his voice breaking as he thrust harder, faster, his hands gripping your thighs tight enough to bruise.

When he leaned forward again, your knees bent up toward your stomach, his thrusts went deeper, sharper, your breath catching with every snap of his hips. He hooked your legs over his shoulders, his chest pressing against your shins as he pounded harder, his lips dragging against your neck.

“Fuck–I can’t stop–” he groaned, teeth grazing your skin as he kissed hard against your throat. “You don’t know–don’t know how many times I–fuck–fucked my fist thinking about you in those little tops. Couldn’t get you out of my head.”

You gasped, nails raking down his back. “You–you perv–”

He laughed breathlessly against your skin, the sound breaking into a moan as your cunt clenched tight around him. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. And you love it. Don’t even try to lie, baby.”

Your body betrayed you, your hips lifting to meet his thrusts, your moans spilling shamelessly as his cock dragged against every sensitive spot inside you.

“God, you feel–so good,” he whined, his thrusts growing erratic as his body trembled. “So fucking perfect–I’m not gonna last–”

You gasped, the tension coiling tight in your belly as his pace quickened, his cock slamming deeper with every thrust, the sound of your wetness filling the room.

“Come with me,” he begged against your mouth, his tongue tangling with yours as he pounded harder. “Please, baby–want to feel you–fuck–want to feel you break on me.”

Your orgasm tore through you with a cry, your body arching violently, your walls clenching tight around his cock as you shook beneath him. He groaned loud, desperate, his hips slamming forward one last time as he spilled inside you, hot and messy, filling you until it leaked around his cock.

He collapsed against you, chest heaving, his lips brushing your ear as he muttered, breathless and grinning, “Guess that’s not the only thing white that shoots outta me.”

You smacked his shoulder weakly, still trembling. “Shut the fuck up.”

He laughed against your neck, his still cock twitching inside you even as he kissed your jaw, grinning like the menace he was.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

It didn’t take long for “neighbors” to stop being the right word.

Every time Gojo saw you now, he couldn’t resist. In the hallway, he’d press you against the wall, kissing you so hard your knees went weak before you could even fumble for your keys. On rooftops, after swinging you breathless above the city, he’d land with you straddling his lap, your thighs squeezing against his hips as his mouth devoured yours, his cock straining inside the suit until he had to pull away before he ruined it. Even in his apartment, when you came over under the flimsiest excuse, he’d corner you in the kitchen, lifting you onto the counter just to kiss you until you forgot why you’d come in the first place.

It wasn’t casual anymore. It wasn’t just banter. Every time, it was hungrier, filthier, his lips tasting of desperation as if every kiss was the last he’d ever get. And every time, you let him. You wanted him. You needed him.

So by the time Halloween rolled around, you decided to test him.  It was a perfect mimicry of his – the same sleek black, blue, and white design, the same silver spider emblem across the chest. Only yours was paper-thin, clinging to every curve, the high cut of the legs revealing the swell of your thighs, the zipper undone just enough to frame the valley of your breasts.

The second his door swung open, you knew you’d nailed it.

Satoru stood there barefoot in pajama pants and a loose tee, his glasses perched low on his nose. He was mid-yawn, hair sticking out in messy tufts, looking every inch the lazy neighbor you’d always pretended he was. But then his gaze landed on you, and the yawn died in his throat.

His jaw went slack. His glasses slid further down the bridge of his nose as his eyes widened, and you saw it–that split-second flash of hunger that told you he wasn’t seeing just a Halloween costume.

You tugged the flimsy hood back, letting your damp hair spill out as you smirked faintly. The black, blue, and white spandex clung skin-tight to every curve, the silver spider stretched taut across your chest, the thin material leaving little to the imagination. The zipper dipped just enough between your breasts to make your nipples push faintly against the suit.

“Trick or treat,” you said softly, trying for smug, but your voice came out a little breathless.

Gojo didn’t answer. He grabbed your wrist and yanked you inside, slamming the door behind you so hard the frame rattled.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, his voice low and rough. He crowded you against the counter, eyes raking over your body in the clinging fabric, and his cock was already swelling against his pajama pants. “You–fuck. You’re in my suit.”

You arched a brow, feigning nonchalance even as your pulse stuttered. “Relax. It’s Halloween. Last-minute costume.”

“Uh-huh.” His grin was feral now, wicked and knowing, his hand already tugging his pajama pants down just enough to free his cock. It sprang heavy and flushed against his stomach, the blunt head glistening as precum smeared over the soft fabric of your suit when he pressed forward. “Last minute, huh? Then why’s it so… fucking accurate?”

“Coincidence,” you muttered, bracing your hands on the counter as he slid between your thighs, his cock gliding over the thin spandex covering you. The heat of him seared through the fabric, the pressure of his thickness undeniable, and your breath hitched despite yourself.

Gojo groaned, his head tipping forward to rest briefly against your shoulder as he thrust again, rutting slow and heavy between your thighs. “God–this suit’s so thin I can feel everything. You’re not wearing a damn thing under it, are you?”

You bit back a whimper, pressing your thighs tighter together as his cock dragged with delicious friction over your covered cunt. “Maybe I like the breeze,” you whispered.

He groaned loudly, grinding harder, his cock smearing precum into the flimsy fabric. “You’re fucking soaked,” he muttered, his voice hoarse with disbelief. He rocked his hips again, faster now, every thrust sliding his cock perfectly between the squeeze of your thighs, the heat of your pussy beneath the suit. “Gonna ruin this suit before the night’s over.”

You gasped, bracing yourself against the counter as your legs trembled. “You’re–unbelievable.”

“You’re a fan,” he groaned in your ear, biting lightly at your neck as he rutted harder, his cock twitching violently with each pass. “Don’t even try to deny it. You came here dressed as me, sweetheart. That’s obsession.”

You rolled your eyes even as a soft moan broke free. “You’re delusional.”

“Delusional and about to make a mess all over your thighs,” he shot back, his breath hot as his hips snapped faster, rutting between your covered legs like a man possessed. His cock slid against the damp patch spreading between your thighs, his precum soaking through until the spandex clung wetter, tighter.

“God, you feel–so good,” he groaned, his hand sliding to your hip to hold you still as his cock fucked harder between your thighs. “So soft–even through this fucking suit–fuck, I can’t stop.”

Your breath stuttered, your thighs squeezing tighter as the friction built, your body trembling as he groaned in your ear.

“Tell me you’re not a fan,” he muttered, his cock jerking against you as his pace grew ragged. “Say it. Say you don’t think about me when you wear this.”

You gasped, head tipping back against his shoulder, and whispered, “You’re insane.”

“And you’re dripping through this fucking suit,” he countered, rutting harder, groaning when your thighs clenched helplessly tighter around him.

The room was filled with the wet, obscene sound of his cock sliding through the soaked fabric, his breath hot against your ear as you moaned softly despite yourself. He smirked, teeth grazing your jaw as he thrust faster.

“Yeah,” he panted, “you’re a fan.”

Gojo’s cock was still sliding between your thighs through the damp fabric when his restraint finally snapped. His groans were ragged, his hips snapping harder against you, but the suit was too thin, too teasing. He needed you–bare, wet, wrapped tight around him.

His gloved hands slid up your ass, squeezing hard before dipping between your thighs. You gasped when his fingers pressed against the slick heat beneath the spandex, his breath hot in your ear as he growled, “Fuck this.”

The sound of fabric tearing split the air, sharp and obscene, as his fingers ripped through the seam between your thighs. The flimsy material gave way easily, splitting wide to reveal the wet heat he’d been rutting against.

“Toru–” you gasped, your hands clutching the counter, your back arching as his cock brushed bare against your folds.

“Couldn’t wait another second,” he groaned, lining himself up and thrusting inside with one hard, desperate push. You cried out, your back bowing as the stretch filled you, his cock sliding deep, thick, splitting you open as your body clenched around him.

“God,” he panted, his hair sticking damp to his forehead, the nape of his neck tingling as his whole body trembled. “So tight–fuck, baby, you’re perfect.”

His hand slid up your body, gripping your jaw to tilt your face back. You gasped as his mouth claimed yours from behind, his kiss deep and messy, his tongue sliding into your mouth as his hips slammed forward. The sound of his balls slapping against your ass filled the kitchen, wet and sinful, mixing with your moans as he fucked you harder.

“I’m so–fuck–I’m so in love with you,” he groaned against your lips, his words broken by the force of his thrusts. His other hand slid up to squeeze your breast, his thumb flicking over your nipple through the stretched suit as you whimpered against his mouth.

“Ah, hnngh Toru–” you moaned, your body trembling with every deep stroke.

He growled low, kissing you harder, rutting into you like he couldn’t get close enough. “You drive me insane–every little thing you wear, I can’t stop–fuck–I can’t stop thinking about you.”

The noise was obscene, the wet slap of his hips, your slick dripping down your thighs, his grunts and your breathless moans echoing in the storm-muted apartment. Your knees buckled, but his arm wrapped firm around your waist, holding you steady as he pounded deeper, each thrust rougher, needier, his cock twitching violently inside you.

“Shit–” he gasped, teeth grazing your neck as he kissed down hard, leaving marks against your skin. “I’m not gonna last–”

You gasped his name, your nails clawing at the counter as your walls fluttered around him, the pressure coiling tight in your belly. His hips snapped faster, desperate, his cock slamming deep as his hand clutched your breast tighter.

The orgasm hit you hard, your body arching violently as you cried out, your pussy clenching down around him. Gojo groaned loud in your ear, his hips jerking as he pressed deep, his cock pulsing hot inside you as he spilled, pressing his seed as far as he could with each ragged thrust.

He nearly tore the whole suit off you in the frenzy, his fingers clawing at the spandex, but stopped himself, panting, before tugging you around. His lips found yours again, swollen and desperate, kissing you harder, deeper, like he couldn’t let you breathe without him.

When he finally pulled back, both of you panting, sweat and rain dampening your skin, you glared weakly. “That was a fifty-five-dollar suit.”

Gojo smirked, still catching his breath, brushing his thumb along your swollen lower lip. “I’ll make you a new one. One that doesn’t tear.”

You scoffed, still trembling, cum dripping down your thighs. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, kissing you again with a grin. “We’ll cosplay. Take some cute couple photos.” His grin widened, wicked and smug. “Next Bugle headline: Spider-Man Has a Spider-Woman?”

You smacked his shoulder, still panting. “You’re ridiculous.”

He only laughed, kissing you again, his cock still twitching inside you.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆

Daily Bugle – Special Halloween Edition “SPIDER-MAN: HERO OF THE CITY… OR JUST WHIPPED?”

The grainy-but-clear front-page photo said it all.

Spider-Man, clad in his sleek black, blue, and white suit, hung upside down from a thick strand of webbing, his mask tugged down just past his lips. His body was taut, muscles visible even through the spandex, his arm bent to steady himself as he dangled with the effortless balance only he could manage.

Below him, standing firmly on the slick pavement of the city street, was you–in a sapphire-blue dress that clung to every curve like it had been painted on. The plunging neckline drew the eye, but it was the way you cupped Spider-Man’s face, tilting him toward you for a kiss, that had every reader double-taking.

Your lips met his with shocking tenderness for such a scandalous scene, the city lights glowing off the sheen of rain on your dress. His hand gripped your waist through the webbing’s swing, his cocky posture only half-masking the intensity of the kiss.

The caption beneath the photo read:

'Caught in the web of romance? Spider-Man spotted locking lips with mystery woman in midnight sapphire. Sources say the hero’s heart might finally be as captured as the criminals he webs up.'

And in smaller print at the bottom, a snide add-on from Masamichi himself:

'Is Spider-Man putting his love life before saving lives? Find out on page 3.'

A/N: okay who the hell REPORTED this post :(

Do not plagiarize my work. Do not translate or reupload on any other sites. Reblog. Follow. Like. Support your local writers.

[nimueshell]

↟ The Forest Took Me (C.K)

Summary: You came to Point Pleasant chasing legends, but when the Devil’s Hour fell silent in the Appalachian woods, you didn’t just find the Mothman….he found you.

Substance: fem!reader, mothman!choso, gojo x geto(?), shoko, choso longs for you, it’s mating season, oral fixation (f! receiving), choso has a BIG dick, cave sex, cumplay, motorboating, dry humping, fingering, whimpering, crying literal tears (feat. Choso SOBBING), monster-fucking, overstimulation, creampies, fucking against a wall, mating, cervix kissing, tummy bulge, first time kissing, he wants you as his MATE, antenna play, slight flight sex, begging, rutting, stomach bulges, unprotected sex.

Word Count: 12.8k

A/N: this took me so long to write so I'm hoping it doesn't flop, ik its long but that's how fics are supposed to be. I hope u enjoy, please follow, like, reblog if you want more content or I'll abandon this blog. I have other smut on my blog, plsss check it out :(

The rental van smelled faintly of stale fries, wet hoodies, and Gojo’s cologne–a scent you’d begged him to tone down since Ohio, but of course, he hadn’t. The rain-slicked roads leading into Point Pleasant were narrow and hemmed by bare trees, their twisted branches clawing at the misty sky like the town itself had something to hide. Perfect for a cryptid vlog. Horrible for your nerves.

Gojo, naturally, was loving it. He leaned over the back seat with his camera, grinning like a kid at Halloween.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the internet,” he announced, his voice pitched into a mock-dramatic echo. “Welcome to the world-famous home of the Mothman, Point Pleasant, West Virginia! Where the only thing scarier than the cryptid is probably the plumbing.”

Geto, driving like he regretted every life decision that led him here, rolled his eyes. “You sound like a Travel Channel reject.”

“Oh, shut up, you love it,” Gojo shot back, flipping the camera around to catch Geto’s unimpressed expression. “Smile for our ten subscribers, Suguru.”

Shoko, sprawled in the passenger seat with a vape she wasn’t supposed to be using in the rental, exhaled a curl of smoke and deadpanned, “Eight. You’re forgetting we lost two after your ghost-moaning ASMR stunt.”

You snorted from the back, attempting to keep your own camera steady as the van hit another pothole. “Yeah, pretty sure ‘unholy goat sex noises in the Eastern State Penitentiary’ wasn’t what they signed up for.”

Gojo clutched his chest in mock agony. “You wound me.”

Geto didn’t even glance at him, muttering, “Good. Maybe you’ll finally shut up.”

The banter eased the tension, but you couldn’t ignore the way the woods outside seemed to press closer the deeper you drove. The mist clung low, curling around the wheels like it wanted to follow.

You’d read all the stories–sightings since the sixties, couples chased by red eyes glowing in the dark, bridges collapsing after warnings. Every documentary treated it as a joke, but what about now? The air was heavy, charged, as if something was waiting.

Gojo swung the camera back toward you, catching you off guard. “And here we have our resident skeptic slash bait–”

“Fuck off,” you muttered, shoving the lens away with your palm. “If anything happens to me, I’m haunting your ass.”

“Promises, promises,” he sing-songed.

Shoko finally cracked a faint smile, flicking ash out the cracked window. “Better than me. If I go down, I’m just gonna watch you idiots trip over yourselves from beyond.”

“Cheerful as always,” Geto muttered.

The van rolled into the town proper, the streets lined with brick storefronts that looked straight out of the 1960s, faded murals of wings painted on the sides of buildings, and Mothman souvenirs glowing faintly through shop windows. A giant metallic statue stood in the square, silver wings gleaming even under the gray sky. Gojo nearly squealed as he shoved his camera against the glass.

“There he is, boys and girls!” he crowed. “The sexiest cryptid in Appalachia. Look at those pecs! Damn, moth daddy.”

Shoko didn’t even blink. “You need therapy.”

Geto muttered, “You need an exorcism.”

You shook your head, laughing despite yourself, and directed your own lens at the looming statue. It was ridiculous–over-muscled, bug-eyed, with wings like jagged blades–and yet, standing in front of it, a shiver ran down your spine. Something about those blank, exaggerated eyes felt less like a caricature and more like a warning.

“Alright,” Gojo announced, kicking his long legs dramatically into the aisle. “First stop: the TNT area. The bunkers. Where the OG sightings went down. Are you ready to get murdered on camera?”

“Only if you’re first,” you muttered.

“Rude.”

But as the van rolled past the statue, you could’ve sworn the air shifted–heavier, darker, as if something had just noticed you. 

ᨒ↟ 𖠰𖥧˚

The town disappeared behind you in the mist as Shoko guided the van back onto the highway. The heater hummed faintly, fighting the damp chill that clung to the air. Outside, the Appalachian hills rose like black silhouettes against the storm‑heavy sky, their ridges blurred by fog that curled low over the pavement.

The kind of silence that surrounded the van felt older than the road itself, older than the town you'd just left–as if the mountains had seen too much and wanted to keep their secrets.

You sat in the front passenger seat, scrolling through your phone as the van hummed along the slick two‑lane stretch. 

Every article you found on Point Pleasant’s infamous cryptid said the same thing:

Red eyes glowing in the dark, jagged wings stretching ten feet wide, sightings tied to tragedy. The Silver Bridge collapsed in ’67. Car crashes on Route 62. People claimed to have seen him in the treeline before something terrible occurred.

The more you read, the heavier your chest felt, as if the fog outside had seeped through the windows.

Gojo, of course, had no intention of letting the mood settle.

“Holy shit!” he shouted suddenly, slamming his phone against the window so hard Shoko hissed and swerved slightly.

"For fuck's sake, Gojo," she snapped, her voice flat but strained from exhaustion.

“There!” He zoomed in with his camera, his grin wicked. The headlights had caught a deer frozen on the side of the road, its eyes shining unnaturally bright in the beams. Gojo whispered in mock‑terror, “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve spotted our first Appalachian skinwalker. Note the soulless eyes. Note the sinister stance. Definitely waiting to eat our faces.”

Geto sighed from the back, calm as always but with that edge in his tone that said he was two seconds from snapping. “You can’t say that out loud in Appalachia. People will take you seriously.”

Gojo gasped dramatically, turning the lens to catch Geto’s sharp profile. “Oh, listen to Mister Responsible. Suguru Geto, everyone–part‑time cryptid debunker, full‑time ruiner of fun.”

Geto didn’t even look up from the map app on his phone. He reached out casually, caught Gojo’s wrist mid-gesture, and held it firm against the seat.

“Hey,” Gojo chirped, though his grin widened like he was enjoying the restraint. “You can’t just grab me like that in front of the fans.”

“You were about to poke me in the eye with your phone,” Geto said evenly, tightening his grip when Gojo tried to squirm away.

Gojo smirked, lowering his camera to capture the scene, his long legs sprawled across the seat until his socked feet pressed against Geto’s thigh. “Get a load of him, folks. Broody. Gorgeous. Holding me down against my will. Honestly? Kind of hot.”

Without missing a beat, Geto murmured, “You’re lucky I don’t gag you.”

Gojo made a strangled laugh, eyes glittering. “Say that again, slower.”

From the driver’s seat, Shoko exhaled through her nose like she was contemplating pulling the wheel hard left into the Ohio River. “I swear to God, if you two start fucking back there, I’m leaving you in the woods.”

You snorted quietly, still scrolling through articles but unable to resist chiming in. “I’d help her hide the bodies.”

Gojo clutched his chest in mock agony, turning the camera on you now. “The betrayal. My beloved co‑star, ready to cast me aside. For shame.”

“Keep it up and you’ll be cryptid bait,” you muttered, flicking to a blurry photo of two glowing red dots above a treeline.

The van rattled around a bend, the fog thickening until the headlights could barely cut through. Occasionally, the trees parted to reveal wide valleys where faint farmhouse lights glimmered like dying stars in the mist. The Appalachians stretched endlessly, their ridges sharp and black against the low clouds. Every so often you swore the fog itself shifted, like something vast moved just beyond the range of the beams.

“Hey,” you said finally, your voice low. “It says the first reported sighting was a couple driving through the TNT area. Said Mothman flew right over their car.”

Shoko hummed faintly, unimpressed, her eyes half‑lidded but sharp as she kept the van steady. "If he chases us, I'll floor it and use Gojo as a distraction."

Gojo gasped again, throwing his head back like he’d been stabbed. “Unbelievable. My charm, my wit, my devastating good looks–and still you’d feed me to the Mothman.”

“Charm?” Shoko muttered. “Where?”

Geto sipped from his water bottle calmly, his hand resting casually on Gojo's thigh, as if daring him to continue running his mouth.

The fog parted briefly, revealing a rusted green sign in the headlights: Gallipolis–12 miles.

“Gallipolis?” you asked, tilting your phone down.

Geto nodded without looking up. “Closest decent motel. Right across the river from Point Pleasant. Thirty minutes, give or take.”

Gojo perked up, angling the camera at himself again. “Gallipolis. Sounds like a fancy STD. Tonight, folks, we’ll be braving the legendary Gallipolis Inn. Known for–” He leaned closer to Geto. “Suguru, quick, give me one fun fact.”

“Not you,” Geto said flatly.

Shoko let out a bark of dry laughter, gripping the wheel. “If I wasn’t so tired, I’d clap.”

Gojo pouted, then immediately brightened, turning the lens on Geto again. “Ladies and gentlemen, Suguru Geto: heartbreaker, Mothman denier, and the only reason I’m not already live‑streaming us ghost‑summoning in the TNT bunkers.”

Geto calmly slid his hand higher on Gojo’s thigh, his voice silky. “Say one more word about skinwalkers, and I’ll make you walk to Gallipolis barefoot.”

Gojo’s grin widened shamelessly. “Kinky.”

You groaned, sinking lower into your seat as the headlights reflected off the black glass of the Ohio River to your right. The water rippled faintly under the mist, stretching wide under the looming silhouettes of the hills. For a moment, you thought you saw something move against the fog above the river–vast, winged, and gone too quickly to be real.

You blinked hard, heart thudding, but when you looked again, there was only mist.

ᨒ↟ 𖠰𖥧˚

The Travelodge sat just off the highway, its faded blue sign glowing faintly against the fog that had only thickened since you’d left Point Pleasant. The parking lot was nearly empty, the glow of the sodium lamps struggling against the heavy mist curling low to the asphalt. The building itself was a long, two‑story stretch of weathered stucco and peeling paint, the kind of place that promised thin walls, scratchy sheets, and questionable plumbing.

Gojo was the first out of the van, stretching his long arms over his head like he’d just finished a marathon instead of a half‑hour drive. 

“Ugh,” he groaned, yawning obnoxiously. “Finally. I thought we were going to die of boredom before Mothman got to us.”

“God, I wish,” Shoko muttered, dragging herself out of the driver’s seat, her hoodie hood tugged up against the drizzle starting to fall.

She slung her bag over one shoulder and shuffled toward the lobby doors with all the energy of someone being marched to their execution.

Geto stepped out behind Gojo, calmly adjusting the strap of his duffel bag as his gaze flickered across the lot. “Travelodge,” he said evenly. “Not exactly a four‑star.”

“Excuse you,” Gojo cut in, already peering suspiciously at the faded curtains in the first‑floor windows. “I’ve seen documentaries. Places like this are crawling with bedbugs and roaches. We’re all going to wake up covered in bites. It’ll be tragic. Horrifying. The worst clickbait thumbnail ever.”

Geto gave him a slow side‑eye, his lips twitching faintly in the kind of expression that wasn’t quite a smile. “That’s what you’re afraid of? Not cryptids? Not death? Not me smothering you in your sleep? Bugs.”

“Don’t mock me,” Gojo said primly, tugging his jacket closer like it would shield him from imaginary pests. “Roaches are basically nature’s jump scares.”

You caught yourself smirking despite the heaviness in your chest. “This from the guy who was ready to French-kiss a Mothman waffle.”

Gojo gasped dramatically, pressing a hand over his heart. “That was different. That waffle wanted me.”

Shoko groaned softly from the entrance. “I’m begging you all to shut up.”

The lobby was lit by harsh fluorescent lights that hummed faintly against the ceiling tiles. The woman behind the counter looked about one argument away from quitting, her eyes dull as she slid the keycards across the laminate desk without preamble. Shoko grabbed hers and yours in one hand, muttered a half‑hearted thanks, and shoved them at you.

“Room 211,” she said flatly, already turning toward the stairs.

“Sharing?” you asked, hefting your bag.

“Unless you want Gojo,” she said dryly, her tired eyes half‑lidded as she trudged toward the second floor.

You shuddered theatrically. “Pass.”

Behind you, Gojo whined, “Rude!” before Geto calmly hooked two fingers through the strap of his backpack and tugged him toward the other set of stairs.

“We’re in 210,” he said simply, ignoring Gojo’s loud protests about being treated like a dog.

The hallway upstairs smelled faintly of bleach and mildew, the kind of scent that tried very hard to convince you the place was clean without succeeding. The carpet was threadbare in patches, patterned in an outdated swirl of brown and gold that only made the shadows stretch darker in the flickering light.

You slid your keycard into the lock, the little green light blinking sluggishly before the door gave way. The room beyond was exactly what you’d expected: two double beds with stiff floral spreads, a dresser with a bolted‑down TV, and curtains that had seen better decades.

Shoko didn’t even hesitate–she tossed her bag onto the bed closest to the bathroom and collapsed face‑first onto the mattress without bothering to pull the comforter back.

“Shotgun coma,” she mumbled into the pillow.

You dropped your bag onto the other bed, shaking your head fondly as you flicked on the lamp by the nightstand. The yellow glow pushed the shadows back, but not enough. The window rattled faintly in its frame as the fog pressed against it, heavy and thick.

As you looked through the sheer curtains, you thought you saw something move at the far edge of the lot–tall, darker than the mist, possibly wings, or simply a trick of the light. Your chest tightened, your breath caught before you blinked, and it was gone.

You dragged the curtain shut quickly, forcing your shoulders to relax. It was just the fog, only your imagination.

Through the thin wall, you could already hear Gojo whining about the sheets.

“Ugh, Suguru, they’re crunchy. Crunchy! That’s how you know we’re sleeping in a bug nest.”

Geto’s voice was calm and patient in a way that suggested he’d reached nirvana. “Lay down and stop talking.”

“Lay down? On this?” Gojo huffed dramatically. “I’m going to wake up with a rash. You’ll have to take care of me. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

The muffled thump that followed could’ve been Geto shoving him into the mattress. You couldn’t help but smile faintly, even as unease curled in your stomach.

Shoko cracked one eye open from her bed, her voice muffled but dry. "Five bucks says Gojo is dead by morning, not from Mothman. From Geto.”

You smirked slightly as you took off your shoes and stretched out on your own bed. “Honestly, I wouldn’t blame him.”

The lamp flickered faintly, the hum of the heater loud in the silence that followed. Outside, the mist pressed harder against the window, the night thick and strange, as if the air was holding its breath.

And as you lay back, scrolling through one last article before trying to sleep, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching.

Not just the fog, not just the shadowy figure with glowing red eyes, waiting.

ᨒ↟ 𖠰𖥧˚

The motel was too quiet.

You woke in the dark with your skin clammy and your chest tight, your sheets tangled in a damp mess around your legs. The air was colder than when you’d fallen asleep, so cold it raised goosebumps along your arms. The cheap digital clock on the nightstand glared 3:04 a.m. in angry red numbers. 

The Devil’s Hour.

You'd spent years joking about it on camera, huddled in graveyards or abandoned asylums, whispering about spirits and demons for attention. But lying here in Gallipolis, with the fog pressing so hard against the Travelodge window that it rattled faintly in its frame, nothing seemed funny.

Shoko was dead asleep in the other bed, one arm flung out from under the covers, her breathing deep and even. The faint smell of her vape clung to the air, grounding you for half a second before the silence pressed harder.

You pushed the covers back slowly, wincing at the scratch of the carpet under your bare feet. The heater rattled and wheezed, but the room still felt damp and chilled, as if the fog outside had seeped through the thin walls. You padded quietly to the bathroom, flicking on the light above the mirror.

The reflection that stared back looked pale and wired, your hair plastered damply to your forehead with sweat. You cupped cold water into your hands, splashing it over your face, watching it drip down your neck and soak into your collar. 

Your knuckles gripped the sink hard enough to ache as you whispered, “Get a grip. It’s just a motel. Just nerves.”

The mirror behind you caught something–a flicker of movement in the room.

You froze, water still dripping from your chin. Slowly, your eyes shifted, tracking toward the bathroom doorway. The room beyond was dim, with only the faint glow of the cheap nightstand lamp against the wall. But near the window, just beyond the curtain’s edge, something moved.

Your pulse thundered in your ears as you stepped back into the room. The curtain wasn’t fully shut, just a narrow sliver open to the outside fog.

You swore you saw a shadow shift behind it–tall, too tall for the frame, and broad. You wanted to tell yourself it was just the reflection of a tree, but the air in the room had changed. Heavy. Expectant.

You moved toward the window like someone else was controlling your feet, each step slower than the last. The curtain trembled faintly under your hand when you reached for it, your breath hitching painfully in your chest.

And then you peeled it back.

At first, it was only a shadow. But then the fog seemed to glow faintly red, and two burning eyes locked with yours through the glass.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

The figure outside towered over the window frame, half-shrouded in mist but undeniably there. Black, jagged wings twitched faintly, the edges like torn velvet catching the faint motel light. Antennae shifted and curled above his head, catching every tremor in the night air, quivering like they were sensing you.

And those eyes–glowing, impossible, red like embers in the fog–held you pinned in place.

Your hand shook against the curtain. Your throat tried to form a scream, but nothing came until you realized the eyes weren’t cruel.

They looked afraid.

The sound ripped out of you before you could stop it, sharp and raw, breaking the still motel air.

Shoko bolted upright instantly, hair sticking in every direction, her arm swinging wildly for the lamp. “What the–?”

You stumbled back from the window, pointing with a trembling hand. “He–he’s–”

The figure outside flinched, wings snapping wide with a sound that thudded in your chest. In a rush of black, he launched upward, the fog swirling violently around him.

For a brief moment, you thought you saw his face in the parking lot light–pale, sharp, almost human–before he vanished into the mist with a single powerful beat of wings.

The room fell silent except for your ragged breathing and Shoko cursing softly as she swung her legs out of bed. “What the actual fuck?”

Before you could answer, the room next door erupted. A door slammed, footsteps pounded, and then Gojo burst into your room holding a frying pan in one hand and his camera in the other, white hair sticking out wildly.

His shirt was so baggy that it slipped off one shoulder, his boxers were wrinkled and crooked, and his long legs were bare and clumsy as he almost tripped on the threshold.

“I HEARD SCREAMING–WHERE IS HE–DID WE GET HIM ON CAMERA–”

Geto followed, much calmer but no less disheveled. He rubbed absently at his stomach under his loose t‑shirt, his long hair messy and unbound, framing his face in tangled strands.

His sharp eyes swept the room once, catching the curtains as they swayed from your grip, before settling on you. You were shaking, your eyes wide, still trying to process what you’d seen.

But Shoko wasn’t looking at you.

Her gaze had dropped to the faint red bite marks along Geto’s neck. Then back to Gojo, with his camera, frying pan, flushed cheeks, and wet hair. Slowly, deliberately, she raised one unimpressed brow.

“How,” she asked flatly, her voice slicing through the tension, “did you two fuck so quietly?”

The silence shattered.

Gojo froze, frying pan still raised as a shield, before breaking into a wide, almost guilty grin. “It’s called skill, Shoko.”

Geto sighed softly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re unbearable.”

Your breath stuttered as you gripped the back of the chair for balance. “I swear–I swear there was something–”

“You screamed like you saw the devil,” Shoko muttered, finally dragging her gaze from Geto’s neck to you. “And honestly? You might have.”

The words sent shivers down your spine.

Even as the room fell apart–Gojo waving his camera around, Geto attempting to pry the frying pan from his grasp, and Shoko lighting a cigarette she swore she didn't have–you couldn't shake the memory of those glowing red eyes.

They hadn’t been hunting you; they’d been watching, and when you’d screamed, they’d looked just as afraid out in the mist beyond the Travelodge; wings twitched again.

ᨒ↟ 𖠰𖥧˚

The fog had started to lift by the time you reached the trailhead, but the mountains still held tight to the morning mist like they were reluctant to give up their secrets.

The sky above was pale and low, veiled in thin clouds that bled light without warmth. Tall oaks and hickories lined the foot of the hills, their trunks damp and dark from the night’s rain, bark glistening faintly where beams of light broke through the trees.

You paused near a wooden sign marked “Moonshine Hollow Trail,” its letters faded with time, the edges of the board covered in lichen. The dirt path beyond wound through the forest like a vein, slick with wet leaves and roots that threatened to trip you.

Shoko adjusted her backpack with a grunt, pulling the straps tighter over her shoulders. “God, I hate morning.” She shoved her cigarette pack into her jacket pocket and looked up the trail like it had personally insulted her.

“We could’ve let you sleep in,” you offered, not looking away from the map in your hand.

“No. If I miss Mothman while you clowns scream into the woods, I’ll never forgive myself.”

Gojo approached from behind, a camera mounted on his chest harness and a boom mic wobbling slightly above his shoulder. His beanie was too big, slipping over one eye, and his hiking boots were still suspiciously clean. He twirled dramatically before striking a pose.

“Day two of the Cryptid Chronicles, baby. In the heart of the Appalachians, on the trail of the legendary, sexy, possibly hung, potentially emotionally available Mothman."

Geto, trailing behind with a pack that looked twice as heavy as anyone else’s, didn’t slow his step. “I will throw you off the ridge.”

“You’ll miss me when I’m gone,” Gojo replied cheerfully, turning to walk backwards up the trail. But not in a sad way. In an oh no, we never got to try polyamory kind of way.”

Shoko flipped him off without looking.

The trail narrowed as you hiked higher, weaving along the edge of a slope lined with mossy stones and thick brush. The air smelled of damp earth and wet bark, clean but sharp, and the only sounds were the soft squelch of boots in mud, the occasional birdcall, and Gojo narrating every five minutes like a knockoff Discovery Channel host.

"We are now approaching ground zero of the 1975 Mothman sightings," he said into his microphone, exaggeratedly low. "A local hunter reported seeing a winged figure perched in a tree, staring straight into his soul. In his words, ‘I ain’t never felt so judged by a bug before.’”

"You sound like if a podcast host and a cult leader had a child," you muttered, your gaze fixed on the map as the path curved around a tight bend.

He grinned. “Thank you. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Geto grunted as he adjusted his pack. “Can we not get lost this time?”

“I have a map,” you said, holding it up like proof of your responsibility.

“That’s what you said last time,” Geto muttered, brushing a branch out of his way. “Then we ended up in someone’s goat field.”

“One time,” you said, stepping over a root. “And the goats were very welcoming.”

Gojo suddenly cupped his hands around his mouth and let out a sound that could only be described as a moaning screech. A bird startled from the trees above.

“Stop that,” Geto snapped.

“That’s my Mothman mating call,” Gojo said brightly, already doing it again. “I’m letting him know we’re open to communication. And possibly tongue stuff.”

Shoko turned slowly, eyes flat. "Do it one more time, and I will pour trail mix into your mouth until you choke."

Gojo shrugged. "You're just pressed that he might respond to me."

The trail leveled off slightly, leading to a clearing where the canopy parted enough to let light spill across the damp forest floor. The space was littered with old stumps, the remains of long-felled trees, and low stone foundations that had been partially buried by earth and moss.

“This used to be a mining site, right?” You inquired, checking the map again.

“Yeah,” Geto said, kneeling to open his pack. "Closed down in the 1960s because it was allegedly the site of the first red-eye sightings."

“I don’t see any eyes,” Gojo muttered, panning the camera slowly. “Just trees. And disappointment.”

Shoko sat on a log and dug out a protein bar. "I swear to God, I will eat this entire forest just to avoid hearing the word mothussy' again."

“I was gonna say ‘bugussy,’ actually.”

“Worse,” Geto muttered.

You tuned them out after that, your gaze drifting toward the far edge of the clearing. The trees thickened quickly past the site, rising in jagged clusters up the ridge. The shadows there felt deeper than they should, like the fog hadn’t fully lifted. Something about it gnawed at you.

You took a step toward the tree line, then another. Behind you, Shoko and Gojo were arguing over whether cryptids could legally vote, and Geto was too busy reorganizing supplies to notice you slipping ahead.

The ground softened under your boots as you stepped past the last ring of stumps. Moss grew thick over the stones here, and the trail disappeared into a slope of brush. You paused, ears straining.

There was silence, no rustle of leaves, no breeze, and the birds had ceased their singing.

That wasn’t right.

You slowly rotated your head, looking at the trees; it seemed as though the forest was holding its breath.

Then you heard it. Not a snap, not a growl–something gentle. The brushing of branches by wings.

Something moved above you.

You looked up just in time to see the shadow vanish between the trunks–massive and black, with edges too jagged to be a bird. The red glint of something watching flickered for a split second before disappearing. Your heart skipped a beat, and you took a slow step back, mouth dry behind you; the others continued to talk, unaware.

But something had found you.

The longer you stood at the edge of the clearing, the more wrong the silence felt. Your skin prickled, sweat cooling along the back of your neck even though the air had turned heavy and damp.

The birds that had been calling overhead a few minutes ago were gone, their songs cut short so abruptly that the absence of them rang louder than any sound could. You swallowed hard, your fingers twitching against the folded map in your hand as you took another small step toward the tree line, straining to hear anything that would make sense of the feeling gnawing in your chest.

Behind you, Gojo’s voice carried on easily, still filming as though the woods themselves were his audience. 

“Daylight sighting potential is high, folks, because Mothman, like me, is probably not a morning person but can’t resist some hot action. Science.” Shoko muttered something that sounded like a threat involving duct tape, and Geto’s low, even tone cut in to redirect them, but their voices felt too far away. 

You glanced back, just enough to see them still gathered around the packs in the clearing, and realized with a start that you had drifted several yards away without noticing.

Your boots sank softly into the moss as you took one more step closer to the trees. That was when you heard it. Not a snap of a branch or a scurry of a squirrel, but a soft, deliberate sweep of air, like wings brushing the treetops. It was too heavy for a bird and too precise for the random flutter of leaves. The sound seemed to vibrate low in your chest, almost like it was inside you instead of outside.

Your head tilted up before you could stop yourself, your eyes catching movement between the higher branches. The fog clung thick there, weaving between trunks, but you caught it–a vast, black shape slipping silently from one shadow to another. 

The outline was jagged, the wings broad and angular, catching faint shafts of pale light before melting back into darkness. And then, for the briefest second, you saw them again. Two points of glowing red, as bright as embers in the darkness, stare directly at you.

Your breath hitched sharply. The map trembled in your grip. You blinked hard, and the shape vanished, swallowed back into the fog as if it had never been there.

“Hey!” Gojo's voice was suddenly too close, breaking the spell as he bounded up behind you, camera aimed directly at your face. "Did you find him yet?" Because I swear I just did the mating call of champions.” He launched into another warbling screech that made you flinch, his grin wide and unbothered.

You turned sharply to glare at him, your pulse still thundering. “Shut up, Gojo.”

That got Geto’s attention immediately. He straightened from where he’d been kneeling to adjust his pack and came over, his gaze narrowing as he studied your face. “What happened?” His tone was calm, but you could tell by the slight edge in his voice that he didn’t believe it was nothing.

Shoko dragged herself up from her log, brushing crumbs from her hands, her expression as flat as ever. “Don’t tell me you actually saw something.”

“I–” You swallowed hard, glancing back at the tree line. The shadows looked empty now, harmless even, but your skin still crawled. “I think I did.”

Gojo’s grin widened, his camera zooming dramatically on your face. “Ooooh. Spicy. Tell us, dear viewer, what did you see? Was he tall, dark, and handsome? Or more like a giant moth with daddy issues?”

Geto’s hand came up, pushing the camera down firmly, his sharp eyes not leaving yours. “Describe it.”

You hesitated, your throat tight, before you managed to murmur, “Wings. And… eyes.”

That got them quiet. Even Gojo, whose grin remained unwavering, shifted slightly, his focus sharper. Shoko exhaled through her nose, her expression unreadable as she muttered, “Fantastic. We’re about to get murdered by a bug with an ego.”

The silence pressed heavier again, as though the forest was leaning closer to hear.

You shivered, gripping the map tighter. “The birds stopped singing.”

Geto’s brow furrowed slightly at that, his hand dropping from Gojo’s camera. Shoko turned her head toward the trees, her shoulders tightening despite her casual stance.

Gojo, for once, didn’t crack a joke right away. He panned the camera toward the tree line, his voice lower as he said, “Guess the mating call worked.”

“Or pissed him off,” Shoko muttered.

You stared into the treeline, the shadows shifting in ways you didn’t want to believe were natural. Every instinct screamed at you to keep watching, because you were certain if you looked away, whatever was there would move closer.

ᨒ↟ 𖠰𖥧˚

By the time the second hour of hiking dragged on, your body felt wrung out. The trail snaked endlessly along the ridges, weaving through the trees in a narrow ribbon of mud and slick leaves. The Appalachian morning was beautiful in its own severe way: tall trunks wrapped in moss, ferns glistening with dew, and stretches of mountain laurel blooming faintly along the slopes.

But the beauty was layered with something heavier, something pressing close. The deeper you went, the more the forest seemed to close in, the silence between birdcalls growing longer.

Gojo was still talking, though his usual bravado had dulled with the steady climb. He narrated into his chest-mounted camera as if millions were watching, his voice rising in mock suspense. “Two hours in, no sightings yet, but the vibes are immaculate. If we don’t see him soon, I’ll start stripping to increase the bait factor.”

Shoko groaned without slowing, her backpack bobbing with each step. “You’d scare him off.”

Geto, steady as always, didn’t even turn his head. “That implies Mothman has taste.”

You smiled faintly but didn’t join in. The map in your hand had blurred with sweat, and when you slipped your phone from your pocket to check for signal, your stomach sank. No service. The little bars were gone, the screen as empty as the stretch of trail behind you.

You slowed, tilting the phone in your hand as if that would make a difference. The others’ voices grew fainter, their figures blending into the shadowed green ahead.

The forest around you shifted.

The birds went quiet all at once. The air thickened, heavy and damp, pressing close around your chest. You stilled, the hair on the back of your neck prickling as though unseen eyes had locked onto you.

Your boots scraped softly as you looked up–and froze.

Something massive stood in the path ahead, so close you almost collided with it.

Your breath caught, your body locking in place. He was taller than any man you’d ever seen, his frame towering, broad shoulders casting shadows even in the dim light. Black, jagged wings spread slightly behind him, their edges ragged like torn silk and twitching faintly as if tasting the air. Two black antennae curved delicately above his head, trembling in the stillness, and his eyes glowed deep red in the fog, twin embers burning straight through you.

You stumbled back a half step, your lips parting in a sharp inhale. The scream clawing up your throat faltered when the glow in his eyes flickered, softened, and dimmed into something human. His face came into focus through the mist–sharp cheekbones, a straight nose, lips slightly parted as though he was breathing you in. His short black hair was mussed and damp, framing his face in uneven strands. Dirt smudged along the hard lines of his jaw and the slope of his chest.

Your voice broke the silence in a whisper. “Oh my God.”

He didn’t move at first, just watched you with a stillness that felt ancient. Your gaze flicked lower, despite the trembling in your hands. The only thing covering him was a crude, rough piece of the fabric was tied low around his hips and hung unevenly, like a makeshift garment. The rest of his body was bare, with pale skin streaked with dirt and faint scratches, and long black nails glinting faintly as his hands flexed at his sides.

Your mouth went dry, your head tilting slightly without your permission as your eyes dragged back up his body. “Oh,” you breathed again, softer this time, your chest rising in shallow bursts. “My God.”

As if the words pulled him closer, he moved. Slowly, carefully, his hands lifted from his sides, long fingers trembling slightly as they reached for you. Instinct told you to back away, to call out for the others, but you couldn’t. Your body wouldn’t obey.

When his fingers brushed your cheek, your heart skipped painfully. His touch was surprisingly gentle, the long nails grazing lightly against your skin without cutting. His hand cupped your face completely, the roughness of dirt and calluses against your cheek a stark contrast to his careful movement.

Your breath shuddered out as he leaned closer, the faint heat of him surrounding you. The smell of earth and rain clung to him, heavy and raw, mixed with something that made your chest ache. His antennae twitched forward, brushing faintly above your hairline, and then he inhaled.

The sound that left him was low, guttural, almost a growl–but threaded with something softer, something dangerously close to a moan. The vibration of it seemed to hum through your bones, your body tensing and flushing all at once.

His forehead lowered just enough that his breath ghosted against your temple. You could feel the tremor in his hand as he held you, his thumb brushing faintly along your cheekbone, as though he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

Your voice trembled when you finally whispered, “What are you?”

His red eyes glowed faintly again in the dim light, locking onto yours with an intensity that made your stomach twist. His lips parted as if he wanted to answer, but no sound came, only another low, breathless growl that broke halfway into something almost human.

The forest was silent, so quiet that your own heartbeat sounded too loud in your ears. His hand cupped your cheek as though it had always belonged there, long black nails grazing your skin without breaking it, dirt smudging faint streaks along your face where his touch lingered.

His antennae trembled faintly above his forehead as he leaned closer, his breath damp and warm against your skin, carrying the scent of rain-soaked earth. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, caught between terror and something far more dangerous.

When he inhaled deeply, the sound that left him was low, guttural, and almost animal. It vibrated through you, setting your chest alight with a heat you hadn’t expected. And then, without warning, his mouth pressed against the side of your face, lips hot and rough as his tongue dragged slowly up the line of your cheek.

Your breath caught sharply, your entire body jolting with the intimacy of it. Heat spread across your skin where he'd licked, your stomach flipping violently, and the only words you could manage were a broken whisper that you barely recognized as your own. “What the–”

His grip on you tightened as if the sound threatened to push him away, his other hand sliding to your hip, long nails grazing the fabric of your hiking pants. His wings shifted, folding close against his back with a whisper of sound, and his forehead pressed briefly to your temple as a low grunt rumbled in your ear.

The sound wasn’t threatening, not exactly–but it was heavy with need, an almost desperate cadence that left you frozen.

And then you felt it.

The rough press of his hips against yours, his weight pushing you back a half step into the damp moss of the trail. He was rutting against you in short, trembling motions, the crude sack around his hips shifting against the fabric of your clothes. Each push was accompanied by another low, breathless grunt, his body hot and unyielding as he held himself flush to you.

Your face burned, and your pulse was stuttering so quickly that you thought you'd collapse. The realization hit you hard and fast, knocking the air from your lungs. Mothman–the cryptid you’d spent the last two days joking about–was trying to mate with you.

You should have screamed, shoved him back, and run, but your body refused to cooperate. You stood trembling under his weight, your cheek damp from his tongue, your head tilting faintly toward his mouth as if drawn there by instinct. The forest pressed heavier around you, fog curling thicker through the branches, as though the world itself was closing in on this moment.

His breath shuddered against your ear as his hips ground harder, a soft, strangled sound breaking from his throat that sent heat rushing low in your stomach. Your fingers twitched against his chest before you even realized you’d lifted them, the heat of his skin shocking under the thin layer of dirt smeared across him.

The silence was broken by a voice as sharp as a blade.

“Hey! You good back there?”

Gojo’s call rang sharp across the trees, distant but growing closer.

The creature tensed instantly. His wings flared wide with a sudden snap of movement, their edges catching the dim light as he pulled back from you, red eyes locking onto yours with a sharpness that made your chest ache. For a split second, you thought he'd stay and speak, but then the fog swirled violently around him.

In the blink of an eye, he was gone.

The forest was empty again, the silence pressing heavier than before.

You staggered a step back, your chest heaving as if you’d been holding your breath for hours. Your cheek still burned where his tongue had dragged across your skin, your hips still aching faintly where his weight had pressed.

Your hand came up slowly, trembling as you touched the damp heat left behind on your face.

“Oh God,” you whispered, the words barely audible. “Oh my God.”

Branches snapped as Gojo’s voice rang closer, cheerful and oblivious. “Hey, slowpoke! You taking a nap back there, or did Moth Daddy finally sweep you off your feet?”

You swallowed hard, dragging your shaking hands down the front of your shirt as you turned toward the trail. The forest looked normal again, the birds still gone but the shadows empty, as though nothing had happened. And yet your body told you otherwise, every nerve still lit from the heat of him, every breath trembling with the memory of his weight.

For the first time since you’d arrived in Point Pleasant, you didn’t feel like you were hunting the Mothman.

You felt like he had chosen you.

ᨒ↟ 𖠰𖥧˚

The Travelodge lot was almost silent at three in the morning. The only sound came from the humming fluorescent sign out front and the faint buzz of insects crowding the orange glow of the lamps.

You padded across the damp pavement in your thin nightgown, the hem brushing against your thighs as you tugged your sweater tighter over your shoulders. The air was cool, fog curling in from the trees beyond the lot, and the silence of it set your skin prickling.

The vending machine at the far corner flickered with a half-dead light. You pressed the buttons for the soda you’d been craving all night, the old machine groaning and clunking without delivering anything. You muttered under your breath, pressing the button again, then again, slapping the side of the machine until finally a can rattled loose and dropped into the slot with a metallic clang.

The sound echoed far too loudly in the stillness.

You bent to grab it, the cold metal damp with condensation. As you straightened, that prickle ran down your spine again, so sharp this time that you froze mid-motion. The air behind you felt charged, thick, as though someone–no, something–stood so close you should have already felt their breath on your neck.

Your hand tightened on the soda can. Without turning, you snapped, “Whoever’s back there is getting this to the face.”

You spun around, cocked your arm, and came to a complete stop.

He stood just feet away, tall enough that his head nearly brushed the overhang above the vending machine. His black wings curved slightly around his frame, twitching faintly in the mist. The short black hair at his nape was mussed and damp as though he’d flown through fog, framing his pale face. His antennae bent forward toward you, trembling as if straining to catch every beat of your pulse. And his eyes, which flashed red before flickering to a deep, unnatural purple, locked on you with a hunger that turned your stomach inside out.

Your breath shuddered out, your body locking in place as his arms stretched toward you.

You stammered, “I–I don’t…” But your words cut off when his face lowered into the curve of your neck.

The sound he made against your skin wasn’t a growl this time. It was a low, vibrating purr, resonant and warm, the kind of sound that made your knees weaken. His mouth brushed against the sensitive skin at the base of your throat as he inhaled deeply, the faint scrape of his nails sliding around your waist to pull you flush against him. His hips pressed into yours, rutting slowly, deliberately, the crude fabric around his waist doing nothing to hide the heavy, hard length straining beneath it.

Your breath caught, your body trembling as heat flooded your chest and face. A shocked, nervous laugh broke from you, weak and breathless. 

“Well,” you whispered, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as you tried to ground yourself, “I guess Gojo isn’t the one fucking Mothman after all.”

At that, his head tilted back slightly, his glowing eyes meeting yours. They glinted red, then flickered dark purple again, more human, his expression unreadable. His nails tightened slightly against your waist, and then, with no warning, his arms swept you fully into his chest.

You gasped, the soda can clattering to the pavement as the world lurched. His wings snapped wide, powerful enough to stir the mist around you into spirals as he bent his legs and launched upward.

The ground fell away in an instant. Your scream ripped out of you, raw and sharp, but his large hand came up to press your face into the heat of his chest, muffling the sound. The steady thud of his heart beat through your cheek as the cold night air whipped around you, the wind roaring, your stomach dropping with every powerful beat of his wings. You clung to him without meaning to, nails digging into the dirt-streaked skin of his chest as he carried you higher, deeper into the dark ridges of the Appalachians.

By the time he slowed, your throat was hoarse from the muffled cries, your body shaking from the cold and fear and adrenaline. He descended into a narrow crevice in the mountain, his wings folding as he ducked inside, and you found yourself being carried into a cave that smelled of damp stone and earth.

The space was larger than you expected, hollowed deep into the ridge. Water dripped faintly somewhere in the shadows, the sound echoing softly. The floor was layered with rough blankets and furs, human-made fabrics scavenged from God knows where, some torn, some stained. Old trinkets and items littered the edges of the cave: a cracked lantern, a child’s stuffed bear half-rotted with age, a tin plate, and an empty bottle. He set you gently on the pile of blankets as though you might break, his wings folding tight against his back as he crouched over you.

The heat of his body crowded the space, and even in the dim light you could see the crude fabric stretched taut over the massive shape pressing against it. Your eyes darted lower before you could stop yourself, and your chest went tight. He was enormous, straining against the sack with obscene weight, his erection heavy and obvious as his antennae twitched wildly above his head.

You licked your lips, your pulse racing as you tried to speak, your voice shaking. “I… I don’t even know if you understand me.”

His glowing eyes dropped to the hem of your nightgown, his nails sliding along the fabric as he tugged it higher over your thighs. Your breath stuttered, your body frozen as his gaze burned hotter, his antennae twitching so close you could feel the faint brush of them over your skin. Slowly, he lifted the thin material higher, his eyes dropping between your thighs with blunt, startling curiosity.

He pointed.

Your cheeks burned so hot you thought you might combust. You swallowed hard, your voice breaking into a whisper. “Yeah. That’s… that’s a vagina.”

For a moment, he stilled. Then he leaned closer, the heat of his breath ghosting over the bare skin of your inner thigh as his nails dragged the hem higher. His eyes glinted, red flaring in the dim light as his lips brushed against the soft skin above your knee. The sound that came from him then–low, hungry, a cross between a growl and a moan–vibrated so deeply in your bones that you thought your heart would stop.

And as his mouth pressed higher, leaving damp heat along your skin, you realized you weren’t afraid anymore. Not exactly. You were trembling, yes, but not with fear. The cave, the nest, the dark–all of it fell away under the press of his lips against your thighs, under the weight of the knowledge that Mothman hadn’t just taken you.

The cave was alive with the sound of your shallow breathing and the quiet, constant drip of water echoing somewhere deep inside. He had not spoken, not even attempted words, but his intent was carved in every twitch of his wings, every tremble of his antennae, and every press of heat radiating from his body. You sat back on the nest of furs and scavenged blankets, your nightgown clinging damply to your skin from the mist outside, your chest rising quickly as you watched him with wide, startled eyes.

He crouched between your legs, broad shoulders hunched, his wings twitching faintly in the dim light. His eyes glowed faint red as he bent lower, the rough fabric around his hips straining obscenely with his arousal. You felt his breath ghost hot against your thighs as he slid his long, dirt-smudged hands crawled up your legs, nails glinting dangerously as they curled to grip the soft flesh around your knees. The careful control in his touch made your pulse stumble–he could have shredded you open in a heartbeat, but instead he was trembling, careful, and reverent.

When his face disappeared under the thin hem of your nightgown, your breath hitched sharply. The brush of his antennae against your stomach made your skin erupt in goosebumps, and your thighs twitched involuntarily as his nose pressed to the damp heat between your legs. His inhale was long and heavy, dragging the scent of you deep into his lungs. The sound he let out then–a low, guttural growl that slid into a moan–made your head fall back against the stone wall behind you.

You swallowed, your voice breaking to a whisper. “You… you’re…” You couldn’t finish, too caught in the shiver that ran through you when his breath fanned over the wet fabric of your panties.

Your hands moved without thought, sliding down to press against the top of his head. Your fingers brushed through his short, damp hair and accidentally caught one of his antennae between them. The reaction was instant.

He moaned, sharp and needy, the sound vibrating directly against your clit through the soaked fabric. His whole body shuddered, one powerful leg kicking out against the stone floor as though you’d struck something deep in him. The noise pulled a desperate moan from your throat before you could stop it, your hips jerking against his face.

His mouth pressed harder, lips dragging against your clit through the wet fabric, as if the contact was compelled. You gasped, your fingers curling tighter around his antennae as heat flooded your chest and belly. He whimpered softly, rutting his face against you like he couldn’t get enough, the flutter of his wings sending a faint gust of air that chilled your sweat-slicked skin.

When his teeth closed around the edge of your panties, your eyes flew open. You felt the sharp scrape, terrifyingly close to dangerous, but then with startling control he bit down, the fabric tearing cleanly away. He pulled back with the ruined scraps dangling from his mouth before tossing them aside, his glowing eyes already fixed hungrily on the slick heat he’d uncovered.

“Fuck,” you gasped, your body arching involuntarily as the cool air hit your bare skin.

He didn’t wait. His mouth descended in one fluid, desperate motion, his tongue–far longer than you expected, hot and slick–dragging from the base of your slit up to your clit in one devastating stroke.

You cried out, your hips jerking, your fingers yanking hard at his antennae. The reaction was immediate. He moaned again, the sound raw and broken, the vibration pulsing straight into your cunt. His tongue pushed deeper, curling inside you with greedy, desperate strokes as his nose pressed against your clit. His antennae twitched wildly under your touch, and the more you As you tugged, his noises became louder, with whimpers breaking between growls as if he were unraveling in your hands.

The wet heat of his mouth was overwhelming, every lap of his tongue dragging slick arousal out of you, every flick of his nose against your clit drawing another shuddering gasp from your lips. You clutched him closer without meaning to, your thighs trembling as you pressed your heels into the furs beneath you.

He was shameless, licking deeper, harder, his tongue curling and stroking inside you like he was trying to taste every inch. Saliva and slick coated your thighs as he pulled back only to lap messily at your clit, his groan muffled against your cunt when you tugged sharply at both antennae. His hips shifted against the cave floor, rutting unconsciously, his crude covering doing nothing to hide the obscene size of him straining against it.

“God–oh my God,” you gasped, half-laughing, half-crying as pleasure twisted hot in your stomach. Your back arched as you tugged again, harder this time, and his entire body convulsed with the sound that tore out of him–a moan so broken it bordered on a sob.

His nails scraped against the stone as he dug his fingers into the furs beside your hips. You saw the panic in his glowing eyes then, a faint red flare as he looked down at his own hands, sharp claws trembling dangerously close to your thighs. He let out a frustrated whimper, his lips still pressed to your clit, before doing something unexpected even through the haze of pleasure: biting down on his own nails. Hard.

The sound of them snapping echoed faintly in the cave as he broke the sharp tips away, leaving his fingers blunt enough to touch you safely. His hand slid up immediately after, two long fingers pressing against your soaked folds as his tongue still worked your clit. You gasped again, clutching his head tighter, your body rocking helplessly against his mouth as he pushed a finger inside you.

The stretch was perfect, blunt, and hot, his tongue flicking rapidly over your clit as he moaned into you. Then the second finger pressed in, his whimper muffled by the slick heat of your cunt as he curled them deep inside, stroking with a desperation that made your thighs clamp around his head.

You could barely breathe, the orgasm building sharp and hot, your voice breaking as you moaned his name without even knowing it yet. His antennae twitched wildly under your grip, his tongue pressing harder, his fingers working faster as he whined against your clit like he couldn’t stand the idea of you not breaking apart for him.

Your stomach tightened all at once, and your orgasm slammed into you so hard that your back arched away from the furs. You cried out, trembling as waves of heat pulsed through you, your thighs locked around his head. He groaned against you, drinking in every sound, his tongue and fingers unrelenting as he pulled every drop of pleasure out of you, refusing to stop even as you gasped and shook.

When you finally collapsed back into the nest, your chest heaving, his face was still buried between your thighs, his mouth wet and messy against your cunt, his moans vibrating against you like he had no intention of letting you go.

The cave was thick with the smell of damp stone, earth, and the raw musk of him, the air heavy with the sounds of your ragged breathing and his low, desperate noises. He hadn’t left you alone for a moment, his long fingers still trembling as they searched your body, tugging softly at your nightgown as if trying to memorize every part of you. 

When his hands slid higher, slipping under the hem of your bra, your breath caught. His glowing red eyes flicked up to yours, wide and wild, his brows furrowing as he fumbled clumsily at the clasp. The long claws he’d left intact scraped lightly against the fabric, dangerous but careful, his frustration evident when it wouldn’t give.

You exhaled softly, almost a laugh, and reached down yourself. In one motion you pulled your nightgown over your head, your bra slipping free with it, baring yourself completely under the flickering glow of his eyes.

His breath stuttered, the heat of it rolling over your chest as his trembling hands cupped your breasts. He let out a sound between a whimper and a moan, his thumbs brushing across your nipples as if the sensation alone might undo him.

His antennae quivered wildly, his wings fluttering faintly against the stone as he leaned forward to mouth at the soft flesh, his tongue dragging hot and sloppy across your skin.

“Do you… do you have a name?” You whispered, your chest rising under the weight of his hands.

His eyes shot up to yours, still glowing faint red, the intensity in them almost painful. He froze for a moment, as if trying to parse the question. Then his lips parted, his breath shaky as his hand slid up to press against the side of your throat.

You pointed to yourself softly, still flushed from his touch. “I’m…” You spoke your name clearly, letting the sound fill the damp air. His lips moved around the syllables clumsily as he repeated it, his voice low and gravelly, the sound broken but real.

Your stomach flipped at the sound of it, his tongue wrapping around the letters with shaky reverence. You gave him a small, encouraging smile, tilting your head. “Now you. What is your name?”

He blinked, the glow in his eyes softening as he pointed slowly at himself. His lips shaped the word with difficulty, as if it had been a long time since he’d said it aloud. “Cho… so.”

You whispered it back, tasting it on your tongue. “Choso.”

The sound of it drew a low, vibrating noise from his chest, his grip on your hips tightening. You tilted your head faintly, a little smile tugging at your lips despite your trembling. “Not Mothman.”

The way his face shifted at the nickname startled you–the glow of his eyes sharpening with something dangerously close to disgust. He shook his head once, sharply, his expression almost wounded, as if the word betrayed something deeper in him.

“Not Mothman,” you repeated softly, brushing your fingers against the side of his face.

He let out a sound that was almost a sigh before lowering his head to bury his face between your breasts. The sudden, messy heat of his mouth dragging across your skin made you gasp, your laugh breaking through the sound as he motorboated you with a fervor so desperate it almost toppled you backward into the pile of furs.

His antennae twitched wildly against your chest, every brush of them sending sparks of heat through your skin.

“Choso,” you gasped, your fingers curling into his short black hair as he whined against your cleavage.

His hands slid lower, tugging the crude sack at his hips until it slipped free. The sight made your mouth fall open, your breath stuttering as your gaze dragged down. His chest was broad and chiseled, the lines of his muscles catching the dim light. His stomach tapered into sharp V-lines that drew your eyes downward, down to the thick patch of black hair framing the sheer size of him.

Jesus Christ.

Your body flushed hot all over. He was enormous–long, thick, and flushed an angry pink at the swollen head, with slick pre-cum already dripping down the length of him.

It slapped hard against his abs, brushing past his belly button with its weight as he whimpered, his hand curling around the base to massage himself. The wet sounds filled the cave as he jerked himself slowly, his head falling back as his chest rose and fell hard, his wings trembling faintly in rhythm.

Your breath hitched again as he leaned back over you, his free hand squeezing one of your breasts, his mouth latching onto your nipple. His tongue flicked hot against the sensitive peak as he stroked himself harder, his hips shifting with each rutting motion of his fist. You gasped, your hands gripping his head, your eyes half-lidded as the wet heat of his mouth spread sparks down your spine.

When he lifted your legs over his hips, your body arched reflexively, the swollen head of him dragging against your slick folds as he whined softly into your chest. His mouth was messy and desperate against your breasts, saliva shining in the low light as he nipped and sucked.

Then he leaned up, his glowing eyes flicking between your face and your lips, uncertain. He kissed you.

It was clumsy, hot, and too wet–his teeth catching awkwardly against your lip as his tongue pushed into your mouth. You laughed breathlessly against him, pulling back just enough to whisper, “You’re terrible at this.”

He let out a low, almost hurt whimper, your name breaking shakily from his mouth.

“Like this,” you murmured, guiding his face back to yours. 

You kissed him slowly, showing him how to move, how to press his lips softer, and how to slide his tongue against yours in rhythm. He groaned deep in his chest when he caught on, pressing harder into you, his hand still working between your thighs. Your body shivered when his wings spread wide before folding around you both, cocooning you in the cave’s damp darkness.

The heat of his wings wrapped you in shadow as he shifted, the damp furs beneath you rustling with every tremor of his massive frame. His eyes glowed faintly purple now, more human than before, but the wild hunger in them hadn’t dulled. You felt him guide himself lower, the thick head of his cock dragging wetly through your folds, the sheer size of him pressing against you and making your chest heave.

Your breath caught when he nudged at your entrance, the stretch already overwhelming. He hesitated, his brows furrowed, his breath rough as he bent down to kiss you. The kiss was messy, desperate, his tongue sliding against yours as he pushed slowly inside.

The intrusion stole the air from your lungs. You gasped against his mouth, your nails digging into his shoulders as your body clenched around the obscene stretch. He whined, the sound broken and raw, his voice scraping low as he whispered, “Sorry…”

His hips pressed forward inch by inch, his cock splitting you open in a way that felt unbearable and intoxicating all at once. You moaned, the sound high and needy, your back arching as the stretch sent sparks shooting down your spine. His hands clutched at your ass, pulling you closer, desperate to bury himself deeper even as he trembled.

When he bottomed out, the blunt head of him pressed against your cervix, and your stomach tightened sharply. You looked down through the haze of pleasure and shock–there it was, a faint bulge rising against your lower belly, proof of how deep he was inside you. The sight made your head fall back with a gasp, your body arching involuntarily against him.

His wings spread wide, shuddering as if attempting to contain the sound that had escaped him. He buried his face against your neck, slobbering kisses and licks over the sensitive skin, his voice breaking into a chant of, “Please… please…” His cock twitched deep inside you, his hips rutting shallowly as though he couldn’t stand being still, every movement pulling another breathless moan from you.

“Mate,” he groaned against your skin, the word raw and desperate. “You… my mate.”

Your nails clawed down his back, leaving faint red streaks through the dirt as you pulled at him. His antennae brushed against your temples, and when you gripped them, he let out a guttural growl, his hips slamming harder into yours.

You arched off the nest, crying out as his hand slid down to your clit. The pad of his thumb rubbed circles over the sensitive nub, messy and unpracticed but devastating in its intensity. He held you up with one strong arm, his mouth hot against your ear as he whispered in a language you couldn’t understand. The words vibrated against your skin, low and rhythmic, broken by gasps and groans as his cock pulsed inside you.

Every thrust drove the bulge higher, your body squeezing around him as your own voice broke into helpless whimpers. His breath was hot and frantic, his antennae twitching wildly under your grip, his wings flaring with every deep grind of his hips.

Your nails dug into his back as his thrusts deepened, every motion dragging a shocked cry from your throat. The bulge in your stomach rose with every drive of his cock; your body stretched so full you thought you might shatter around him. Your voice broke as you gasped his name, desperate and raw.

“Choso–”

The sound of it on your lips ripped something loose in him. He groaned, deep and ragged, his teeth sinking into the tender curve of your shoulder, as if he needed to mark or claim you.

His hips stuttered, pulling out of you so suddenly you whined at the loss before he slammed back in, hard enough to make the nest beneath you creak and your breath explode in a sob. The heavy slap of his balls against your skin echoed through the damp cave, obscene and wet as his cock twitched violently inside you.

His wings curled around you, coiling close like a shield as he let out a high, broken cry–not just a moan, but a sob of need, his glowing eyes squeezed shut as tears streaked faintly down his dirt-smudged cheeks. He whimpered your name again, his voice so hoarse it broke your chest, and then with a trembling strength he pulled you up onto his lap, never letting his cock leave you.

He leaned back against the stone, his body shaking as he guided you to straddle him. His hands gripped your hips hard, holding you in place as you sank down onto him, the stretch searing all over again. You gasped, your hands braced against his chest as his lips found yours in another desperate kiss.

He was messy and unpracticed, his tongue clumsy against yours, but you kissed him back, teaching him through the feverish press of your mouth.

You rolled your hips down against him, and the groan that tore from his chest vibrated into your mouth. His tears dampened your cheek as his cock drove deep, twitching violently inside you as your walls clenched around him.

The heat building in your belly broke again, your second orgasm crashing over you hard enough to make you cry out against his lips. Your body convulsed, your nails raking down his shoulders as your cunt squeezed tight around his length.

He broke apart with you, his voice shattering as he came with a guttural cry. Hot, thick spurts of cum filled you in waves, pouring so deep inside you that you felt it spill when he ground deeper, desperate to stay buried in you. It leaked around him, sputtering out of you with every twitch of his cock, hot and endless, marking you in the deepest way possible.

But he didn’t stop. Even as you gasped through the aftershocks, trembling against his chest, his wings snapped wide. He rose, still clutching you, his cock buried, his hips rocking shallowly as he reached his full height. The wind from his wings filled the cave as he took you higher, still holding you on his lap as he thrust into you, desperate and broken, his forehead pressed to yours.

“Mate,” he sobbed, rutting into you even as he carried you upward, his wings trembling with every beat. “My mate.”

The cave walls were slick with condensation, the air heavy with the scent of sex and damp earth, and every sound of your body against his echoed faintly off the stone.

His wings flared wide before curling close as he pinned you to the wall, your back pressed hard against the cool rock while his hips slammed forward with relentless force. The weight of his cock repeatedly split you open, leaving you clawing at his arms and dragging red streaks down his dirt-smudged skin as he drove into you.

He gave you no room to breathe, no reprieve from the intensity of his need. His glowing eyes were wet with tears, his pupils blown wide as they rolled back with each thrust.

He bent low, his mouth closing greedily around your breasts, sucking and licking as though he couldn’t decide which to worship more, your cunt or the soft swell of your chest. His tongue dragged hot across your nipple, his teeth scraping lightly before he groaned your name, the sound broken and frantic against your skin.

“Mate,” he whined, his voice muffled as he sucked harder, his hips jerking roughly. His cock pulsed deep inside you, spilling more heat as he came again, the warmth spilling down your thighs before he thrust harder, rutting his seed deeper. His body shook with it, his breath ragged as though he was tearing himself apart just to stay inside you.

When he pulled back, you thought for a fleeting second he might relent–but instead his massive hands slid lower, hooking under your thighs as if you weighed nothing. He lifted you high against the wall, his wings twitching wildly with the strain as he draped your legs over his shoulders. The sudden shift had you gasping, your cunt exposed to him completely, your walls fluttering with overstimulation.

He didn’t wait. His mouth latched onto you again, his tongue pushing inside with greedy insistence. You cried out, your nails scrambling against the stone behind you as the wet heat of his tongue thrust deep, curling and stroking to keep his seed from spilling out.

He groaned into you, his nose pressed against your clit as his antennae twitched wildly against your trembling thighs. The vibration of his moans sent shockwaves through your body, blurring your vision and threatening to unravel.

“Choso,” you gasped, your head falling back against the wall. Your body shook violently as his tongue thrust deeper, his arms holding you steady like steel bands. He whimpered against you, the sound desperate, his glowing eyes fluttering shut as he devoured you like he’d die without the taste.

When you thought you couldn’t take any more, he pulled back only long enough to adjust you–his cock pressed hard and wet against your entrance again as he lifted you effortlessly from his mouth. He positioned himself with your legs still trembling over his shoulders, and with one powerful thrust, he buried himself back inside you to the hilt.

You sobbed, your body arching violently as his cock slammed home, the bulge in your stomach rising again as he drove deeper than before. His wings flared, his forehead pressing to your chest as he groaned your name over and over, the sound guttural and reverent.

The world narrowed to the feel of him–his cock filling you to the point of delirium, his mouth still hot against your breasts, his tears damp on your skin as he rutted with desperate abandon.

You felt yourself spiraling, the edges of your vision blurring, your voice breaking into gasps as he whispered low, incomprehensible words into your skin, his hips slamming harder until you were sure you’d pass out from the intensity.

The cave smelled of sweat and stone and the heavy sweetness of release, the air thick with the echo of your breathing and his desperate whimpers. Your body was wrecked, trembling where you lay sprawled across the damp nest of blankets, your thighs sticky with the mess of both your orgasms. You could barely keep your eyes open, your chest heaving as you watched him through the haze of exhaustion.

Choso kissed you softly, his mouth messy and trembling against yours, his tongue sliding over your lips as though he didn’t want to stop. His tears streaked down his dirt-smudged cheeks, dampening your skin as he bent lower, his antennae twitching weakly with every shuddered breath.

When he finally pulled back, his glowing eyes were dim with exhaustion and something like grief. He tugged a rough scrap of fabric–a potato sack salvaged from his nest–over your bare body, covering you clumsily but with reverence, as if ashamed to let the cold air touch your skin after what he had done. His hands lingered, smoothing it over your shoulders and chest, and then he crumpled forward, collapsing onto his knees beside you.

He buried his face against your stomach, his arms wrapping around your waist, his body shaking with quiet sobs. His voice was rough and broken, the words half-mumbled in a language you couldn’t fully understand, but the desperation in them was clear.

“Don’t… don’t want to take you back. Mate. Mine.”

You wanted to reach for him, to tell him something, anything, but your body was too spent. You lay slack beneath his trembling weight, your fingers barely twitching in his hair as your vision blurred into black.

When you opened your eyes again, the world was gray with the first hint of dawn. You were back outside, the damp air of the Appalachians curling cold against your skin. The motel came into focus in the distance, its faded sign glowing faintly against the fog.

Choso carried you in his arms, his massive frame hunched to shield you, his wings folded tight around you both. Your nightgown–or what was left of it–clung torn and damp to your body beneath the rough sack he had wrapped you in.

Bruises bloomed faint along your thighs and shoulders where his grip had held you, your hair tangled and messy, your lips swollen from his desperate kisses.

Ahead of you, voices cut through the fog.

“Where the hell is she?” Gojo’s voice was sharp with panic, uncharacteristically loud. “It’s been hours–Shoko, check again. Suguru–”

“Gojo, calm down,” Geto’s low voice rumbled, though it carried the same edge of unease.

Shoko muttered something under her breath, the glow of her cigarette sparking in the dim light as she scanned the lot. “If she wandered into the woods alone, she’s either dead or… worse.”

The sound of wings cut through their voices like a blade. They turned sharply, eyes widening as Choso stepped out of the mist, his massive form dark against the pale dawn. His glowing eyes flared once, the purple gleam sharp as he held you tighter to his chest.

Gojo froze, his camera raised instinctively, his wide eyes darting between you and the towering creature clutching you. He took a cautious step closer, his mouth open to say something, but Choso's low, guttural growl cut him off dead. The sound was primal, vibrating low in his chest, his antennae twitching wildly as he glared down at the white-haired man.

You shifted faintly in his arms, your body too heavy to stand on its own, your lips cracked but still curved into a faint, wry smile. Your voice was hoarse but clear enough as you rasped, “So… I found him.”

Their eyes snapped to you, disbelief etched into their faces.

You tilted your head faintly against Choso’s chest, your voice barely stronger than a whisper as you added, “Anyway… guess we’re mates.”

Gojo’s jaw dropped, his camera slipping in his grip as he blurted, voice echoing across the empty lot, “WHAT–”

All credits to @nimueshell. DO NOT plagiarize my works. If you want to support pls reblog/like/follow.

[nimueshell]

۶•ৎ Redline Brat T.F

Summary: You swear you’re just there to watch him win dirty and lose worse, but you keep ending up sprawled over the hood of his beat-up car, gasping out apologies you don’t mean while the engine’s still ticking hot.

Substance: Street racer!toji fushiguro, afab brat!reader,public,size kink, rough, brat taming,swearing,fingering,oral(m!receiving),pussydrunk toji, degrading,hair-pulling, name calling,unprotected,marathon,overstimulation.

Word Count: 8.1k

The engines growl in the distance, lights bleeding through the cigarette smoke and half-broken street lamps. Toji stands a few feet away from his half-built monster of a car, hood popped, one hand resting on the metal like it might bite if he lets go. His shirt clings to him in the humid night air, sweat darkening the collar, black hair slicked back and eyes cutting through the chaos like he owns every heartbeat on this busted asphalt.

You stand off to the side, sucking slow on a cherry sucker, tongue rolling over the candy while you stare up at him with wide eyes that don’t fool anyone. The other drivers throw glances your way but none of them are dumb enough to say a word when Toji’s there, broad shoulders flexing every time he checks under the hood.

He catches your stare, smirks like he already knows what you want before you do. The cars rumble behind him, headlights strobing across his grin.

He steps closer until the metal smell of oil and burnt rubber is all you breathe.

“If I win tonight” he says low, the words dropping like hot ash between you “you let me fuck that pretty mouth of yours. Right here when I get back.”

You pop the sucker out with a wet little smack, roll your eyes slow, bite down on the candy stick just to be a brat about it. “And if you lose” you say sweet as poison “you’re paying my cousin’s debt. All of it.”

Toji laughs under his breath, rough and low, a sound that makes your thighs press together before you can stop yourself. He flicks the end of the sucker stick with a dirty finger and leans down just enough for you to taste the promise in his grin.

“Better hope I lose then, sweetheart” he says as he wipes his hand on a rag, tossing it into the backseat. The roar of the other engines builds up behind him like a threat.

He steps around you without another word, slides behind the wheel and cranks the ignition. The whole car shudders, growling alive like it’s ready to tear the street in half.

You stand there on the sidelines, heart knocking at your ribs, candy melting slow on your tongue while you watch him pull up to the line. You know damn well Toji Fushiguro doesn’t lose. He only collects. And tonight he’s collecting you.

You stand at the edge of the makeshift line, arms crossed under your chest, nails tapping at your elbow like you’ve got any patience left. Your hair’s twisted up in two messy buns, cheap little butterfly clips barely holding the flyaways in check.

The PU leather dress hugs your body mean and tight, sleeveless and short enough that every time you shift your weight, someone behind you gets an eyeful they didn’t earn.

Toji’s car crawls up to the line, engine purring like a pissed-off cat, hood still trembling from the last run. He cracks his window just enough to shout through the roar, voice slicing through bass thumps and catcalls around you.

“Hope you wore the red ones, brat” he hollers, grin wide enough to split that scar above his lip. “I’m gonna rip ‘em with my teeth when I win.”

You flick your tongue at him, roll your eyes so far back your lashes kiss your temples. You raise your middle finger slowly, make sure he sees it before you step back into the press of bodies lining the strip. Some drunk kid whistles when you back into him but you don’t even flinch, eyes locked on Toji like he’s the only thing worth watching tonight.

The half-dressed flagger, some girl in a bikini top and cutoff shorts, steps right between the cars, her ass brushing up against Toji’s bumper when she raises the flag. She looks back once, gives you a wink like she knows who’s really gonna get wrecked tonight.

One sharp wave and she’s off the line, so is Toji, the tires screaming murder as he eats the pavement alive. The street lights catch the oil streak on the hood as he fishtails past the first marker, exhaust spitting flame like he’s carving a signature just for you.

Your arms tighten under your chest, grin pulling at your mouth while your heart thrums hot in your throat. If he loses, you’re rich. If he wins, you’re fucked. Either way, you’re about to get exactly what you wanted.

 ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆ��� ˚⋅

Of course he won. Of course the second that flagger’s ass bounced off the street, Toji’s battered matte-black Nissan Silvia tore down the line like it owed him rent money. By the time you realized your bet had backfired, he was already whipping the Silvia back around, engine snarling as he drifted past the row of drunks and idiots cheering him on.

The street’s lit up in flickering yellows and brake lights. Beer cans rattle on the asphalt, someone’s yelling about running it back for double or nothing but Toji doesn’t even spare them a glance. He sees you. That’s all he needs.

You’re halfway through a fake little smirk, pretending you’re gonna play it cute, when he kills the engine in front of you. Door slams, boots hit the street, and then he’s stomping right up.

Before you can say a word he’s got his hands at your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing, a sharp yelp slipping out before you slam a fist against his back.

“Toji! Put me down!” You kick your feet but all it does is make him snort a laugh that rattles your bones.

He doesn’t say a thing at first, just flips open the passenger door with one big hand, flips you off his shoulder like you’re a duffel bag and tosses you right into the cracked leather seat. Your thighs squeak against it, dress riding high up your hips as he leans down to growl near your ear.

“Sit there. Look pretty. Don’t open that bratty mouth till I tell you to.”

You open your mouth anyway but he’s already slammed the door, the whole car shuddering under the force. He rounds the hood slow, grin pulling wide enough you catch it through the windshield, eyes glinting under the streetlight haze. He drops into the driver’s seat, heavy hand twisting the key before you can even spit out your next complaint.

The Silvia growls alive, tailpipes coughing smoke while he throws it into gear. The other racers blur past your window as he revs hard enough to make your pulse skip.

The whole lot fades behind you in seconds, neon streaks and half-finished beer cans disappearing in the side mirrors. He doesn’t say where you’re going. Doesn’t care that your thighs are sticking to the seat or that your mouth is open, ready to cuss him out.

All you know is the road’s empty ahead and the grin on his face says your mouth’s about to be put to better use. Somewhere dark. Somewhere private. Somewhere only he gets to wreck you.

You side-eye him so hard you almost hope he’ll jerk the wheel just to prove a point. Toji doesn’t bother looking at you. His eyes stay locked on the stretch of black road ahead, that predator grin tugging at the corner of his mouth while one big, rough hand slides off the wheel and drops to your bare thigh.

His palm is so hot it feels like it brands you through the tight PU leather. You jolt in your seat, breath catching when his fingers squeeze.

“Put your seat belt on.” His voice is lazy, like he’s asking you to pass the salt instead of creeping his knuckles closer to the heat between your thighs.

You huff through your nose, snap the buckle around your waist just to shut him up. “If you crash, that just proves you’re a shit driver.”

Toji laughs low, thumb stroking the soft skin above your knee. “If I crash, that just proves how much of a fucking distraction you are.”

The Silvia hums under you both, road stripes flicking by in the dark like a heartbeat on the verge of something bad. Your thighs press together, trying to hide the way your panties stick to you under the short hem of your dress. Toji feels it. Of course he does. His hand drags higher, palm rough on your inner thigh, fingertips brushing over the damp front of your lace. He lets out a low whistle that makes your toes curl in your boots.

“You’re already wet?” He says it like he’s amused, like he didn’t know damn well what he was doing the second he pulled you off that street.

You roll your eyes at the window, but your legs clamp around his wrist like you want to keep him there. One of his hands stays on the wheel, easy and steady while the other dips right where you’re hot and sticky. His fingers ghost over your folds, rubbing slow, teasing circles that make you suck in a ragged breath.

You shift in the seat when he finds your clit, trying to muffle the needy little moan that slips out by pressing your palm to your mouth. Toji snickers, eyes cutting to the side mirror just to catch your reflection, your back arching off the seat, your dress bunched up so high he can see how your panties cling to you.

“Let it out. No one can hear us. That pretty mouth’s gonna be busy tonight anyway.” His voice is gravel and sin, fingers sliding the soaked lace aside without missing a beat.

You gasp when one thick finger pushes in slow, knuckle-deep on the first thrust. The slick sound of it makes him groan, his jaw tightening as he feels you clench around him.

“You’re such a brat, y’know that? Always mouthing off, but this pussy purrs louder than my engine.”

“Focus on driving,” you spit out, trying to sound tough, but your hips jerk down to meet his hand anyway.

Toji laughs rough, steering the Silvia over a slope without even a flicker of hesitation. He curls his finger deeper, feeling you spasm around him like a pretty promise.

“I can multitask, sweetheart.” He plunges deeper, knuckle grinding your soft walls while his thumb circles your clit, slow and cruel.

“You’re such a dick, Toj’.” The words come out half a moan, half a whimper that makes him grin so wide you swear you’ll feel it for days.

He’s not gonna stop. Not until you beg. Not until you scream for him like you never wanted him to win in the first place.

Toji keeps driving like the road belongs to him, the Silvia purring loud enough to hide the filthy sound of your soaked pussy swallowing his fingers. He curls them slow at first, working your soft walls apart while your thighs twitch against the seatbelt cutting into your hip.

You swear at him under your breath, hissing through clenched teeth when his thumb drags over your clit in lazy circles that make your eyes flutter.

“Fuck you,” you snap, voice cracking as your hips roll into his palm like you’re starved for it.

He chuckles, gravel-deep, steering one-handed like he’s got nowhere better to be than knuckle-deep inside you. “You say that like it’s not exactly what you want,” he says, his thumb pressing down harder until your breath hitches sharp in your throat.

Your nails dig into the cracked leather seat. “Maybe I’ll bite your fucking fingers off,” you spit, hips jerking when he crooks them just right.

He laughs again, meaner this time, and the car drifts over the yellow line before he flicks the wheel back straight. His thumb rolls over your swollen clit, slow and punishing, while he slides another thick finger inside.

The stretch makes your thighs clamp shut around his wrist but you’re too far gone to push him away.

“Keep yappin’, brat,” Toji growls, voice low as he leans closer, breath ghosting your ear. “Mouth runs hot but your pussy begs louder every time.”

You gasp out something that’s supposed to be an insult but all that comes is a soft, broken moan that you bite down on too late. His fingers work deep, knuckles pressing against the slick mess inside you, thumb smearing tight little circles over your clit until your stomach knots.

You swear again, voice hitching every other word as you rock your hips forward, chasing it like you hate yourself for needing him this much.

“Fuck… Toji, shit.. I’m gonna…”

Your words die in your throat when your belly seizes, pleasure curling your toes in your boots. Right when it hits that sweet edge he feels it, the way your cunt tightens up, the way your thighs shudder like you’re about to melt. And he pulls out. Just like that.

A sharp whine claws out of your throat, your thighs snapping closed on nothing as he lifts his wet fingers to his mouth, tongue sliding slow between them as he sucks every drop off. His grin is filthy, eyes flicking from the road to your ruined pout.

“Sweeter than you act, huh?” Toji’s voice is all smoke and mean laughter, words muffled around his slick fingers before he pops them free with a wet smack.

You glare at him like you’d murder him if your legs would work. “You’re a piece of shit,” you spit, voice hoarse, hips rolling useless against the seat as you try to squeeze your thighs together for any relief.

He just snorts, drags his clean hand through his hair, the other one back on the wheel like nothing happened. The car hums on, neon signs dying behind you as he pulls off the main road, cutting through the dark until the only light left is the flickering overhead bulb behind a half-shut gas station in the middle of butt fuck nowhere.

He kills the engine, the Silvia sighing into silence while you’re still catching your breath, panties clinging soaked between your thighs. His grin splits wide in the glow of the streetlight, eyes dragging over you like you’re dinner.

“Get out,” he says, voice a rumble that makes your pussy clench on nothing all over again. “Time to finish what you started.”

You unbuckle the seat belt slow, metal clicking free, but you don’t move an inch. Toji watches you for half a second before that grin twitches mean across his scarred mouth. He shakes his head, tongue pressing into his cheek like he’s holding back a laugh.

He swings the driver’s door open so hard it rattles on its hinges, then slams it shut with a sharp crack that makes you jump in the passenger seat. Before you can swallow your hissed curse, he’s already stalking around the hood, boots crunching over the oil-stained gravel.

When you turn to face him through the open window, his bulge is right there. Thick and heavy, straining against the dark denim so close you feel the heat radiate off it. He plants his big hands on the hood, the car creaking under his weight as he leans over, that stupid smirk carved deep into the shadows under the buzzing gas station light. The scar across his mouth stretches when he tilts his head at you.

You tilt yours too, eyes narrowing like you’re about to spit something venomous. Instead, you lean forward, pressing your mouth over the shape of him through his jeans.

Your breath spills hot through the denim, tongue sneaking out to wet the fabric while your hand slides up to palm him through it.

Toji’s groan rolls straight through his chest, gravel-deep. “Don’t tease me, brat.” His voice drips warning but the shiver in it makes your smirk sharpen.

You part your lips slow, letting the damp heat of your breath soak him as your fingers work the button open, then drag the zipper down inch by inch. The waistband pops free under your touch, his boxers tugged low until the whole thick length of him bounces out.

He’s big. Stupid big. Pretty too, veins thick under pale skin, head flushed dark pink and already beading at the tip.

You press your face against him like you’re drunk on it, nose and lips dragging along the velvet skin. His hips twitch, a quiet shudder working through his thighs while he keeps his hands braced on the hood. You kiss the side of his shaft, your tongue teasing the vein that runs along it.

He grunts, one big hand sliding rough into your hair, fist tightening until your scalp prickles. He pulls your head back, his cock bobbing close enough to smear against your parted lips. You hum, eyes half-lidded, hands wrapping around the base as you guide him right back to you.

The weight of him pushes over your mouth, your lips parting wider to suck just the head. Warm salt, soft skin, heavy against your tongue. He rumbles a low “Good girl,” voice rough as his other hand drops from the hood to your cheek.

Your lashes flutter up at him, your tongue flicking the underside of his tip. Toji’s feet shift on the gravel, boots scuffing as he leans forward, feeding more of himself into the heat of your mouth. You feel him pulse under your tongue, thick and hot, his hand in your hair keeping you steady as he lets out another groan that shakes through his chest and into the dark gas station lot around you.

Toji pulls your head back with a sharp tug to your hair, your lips popping off his tip with a wet sound that makes your cheeks burn. He clicks his tongue low, glancing down at the mess of spit stringing from your mouth to his cock. He reaches down to the door handle, pops the passenger door open wide so you’re half spilled out into the humid night, knees directed outward, nudging his shins while you clutch the seat for balance.

His big hand plants on the roof, palm spread wide, muscles in his arm flexing under the dim yellow light. The other hand fists your hair again, dragging you back down until your lips kiss the thick base of him. You moan, mouth stretching wide as the heavy weight of him drags across your tongue.

“Look at you,” he rumbles, hips rolling forward slow at first just to watch you flinch. “Slobberin’ all over it like a fuckin’ mutt.”

Your lips part further, spit sliding from the corners of your mouth to your chin as you hollow your cheeks around him. His cock throbs, the salty taste filling your mouth as he rocks in deeper, the head hitting the back of your throat. You gag, whine against him, hands clutching his hips when he doesn’t pull back.

“C’mon, brat, open up,” he growls, his voice breaking on a ragged laugh as he thrusts in again, harder this time. The sloppy wet sound echoes off the metal car door. You choke around him, eyes squeezing shut as tears well up, rolling hot down your cheeks.

He grins down at you, dark and filthy, thumb reaching to smear the tears away with rough strokes while you fight to breathe through your nose.

“God, look at those eyes,” he says, voice almost soft if not for the way he drags your mouth deeper, his hips punching up into your throat. “So fuckin’ pretty when you cry all over my cock.”

You gag again, throat spasming around the thickness as he pulls back just enough for you to suck in a quick breath before he pushes back in, tip pressing deep where you can’t help but swallow around him. Your nails dig into his thighs, your lips and chin slick with spit and pre-cum.

He rocks his hips faster now, fucking your mouth with slow, punishing rolls that knock little desperate noises out of you. Every time you try to pull back his grip tightens, shoving you right back down until your lips smear messy kisses at the base of him.

Your cheeks hollow, throat working for him like you’re starved for every drop he’ll give you. Tears streak hot down your face, glinting in the yellow light as he brushes them away with a rough thumb.

“Such a sexy little mess,” Toji grunts, hips jerking as he shoves in deep again. He holds you there, his cock throbbing against your tongue, spit bubbling around your lips as you gag softly, lashes fluttering wet up at him like you’d thank him for it if you could speak.

He groans, breath catching, his head tipping back as he watches you drool all over his cock right there in the shadows behind some half-dead gas station where no one but him gets to see you ruin yourself like this.

You’re a mess, half hanging out of the passenger seat, ass sliding lower with every wet bob of your head until the backs of your thighs brush the edge of the doorframe. Toji’s grip on your hair is the only thing keeping you up, the sharp tug burning your scalp every time he jerks your mouth back down on him.

Your feet slide from the running board onto the gravel below, toes digging in for balance as you plant your feet right in front of his boots, your body bent at the perfect angle for him to ruin you under the hum of the flickering gas station light.

Your hands scrabble up his thick thighs, nails dragging over the muscle that jumps under your touch. You suck him deeper, tongue flattening along the underside, spit sliding down your chin and dripping onto your chest. You pull your lips back just enough to lick at his balls, soft and warm and pulled tight from how worked up he is.

“Shit, fuck--don’t you dare stop,” Toji grunts, voice raw, fingers twisting tighter in your hair as he rocks his hips forward harder. His cock pushes deep, the head brushing the back of your throat with every rough snap of his hips. You choke, drool bubbling out past your lips, eyes squeezed shut as more tears spill hot down your cheeks.

Your thighs rub together like you can squeeze the ache away, the heat between your legs pulsing so sweet you almost forget you’re about to suffocate on his cock.

Toji feels you gag, hears the broken moan that leaks around him when your tongue flicks under the crown. He growls something low and filthy, free hand slipping off the car to swipe your tears with the pad of his thumb.

He’s breathing heavy now, big chest rising and falling while he watches you ruin yourself on him. Your stupid space buns slip free when he fists his hand deeper in your hair, tugging them loose so he can get a better grip.

Strands stick to your damp cheeks as he sets a faster pace, hips thrusting up as your mouth stretches wide, lips swollen and shiny under the yellow light.

You moan around him, needy and desperate, spit slipping down your chin and dripping onto the gravel. Your hands tighten around his thighs, nails digging in as he drags your mouth down until your nose bumps the base of him, the coarse hair there scratching your upper lip.

“F..Fuk, such a good little slut...take it, yeah? Look at you, bein' all pretty for my cock.” His voice shudders on a laugh that sounds more like a growl, his thighs flexing under your fingers as he ruts forward.

The taste of him burns at the back of your throat, salt and sweat and the heat of him so deep you swear you’re gonna pass out from the stretch.

Your jaw aches but you push forward anyway, hollowing your cheeks to pull him deeper, tongue flattening under the weight as you lap at every inch you can reach.

Toji’s eyes burn down at you, pupils blown wide under the flickering light. His hips jerk harder, cock throbbing between your lips as he rocks faster, sloppy now, breath ragged when he feels his balls tighten against your chin.

You gag again but it just makes him grunt rougher, the sound vibrating through your skull as he mutters a filthy string of praise and curses.

“Shit, that mouth.. gonna fuckin’ fill you up… don’t waste a drop, you hear me?” He growls the words through clenched teeth, fingers fisted so tight in your hair they burn your scalp raw.

Your eyes blur more, tears slipping hot over your cheeks while your lips slide wet and shiny up and down his shaft. The sloppy suck, the slick pop when your mouth pulls back just to swallow him again.

He feels it hit the back of your throat and that’s it, his hips stutter, the muscles in his stomach tightening under your palms.

A low snarl rips from his chest as he shoves deep, his tip hitting your throat in a way that makes your eyes roll back. He holds you there, one hand spread over the back of your head, forcing you to take every pulse of his cock while hot salt floods your tongue.

Toji shudders above you, boots planted wide on the gravel as his cock throbs between your lips, thick spurts spilling straight down your throat while you moan around him, swallowing everything he gives you like you’d starve without it.

His hand loosens in your hair, thumb brushing your wet cheek with something almost gentle while he watches you choke and swallow, tears glinting under the shitty gas station light.

You gasp the second your lips pop free, tongue numb and jaw sore as you wipe the mess from your mouth with the back of your hand. Toji stands there in the piss-yellow light, big hand wrapped lazy around his cock that still glistens with your spit.

He doesn’t even give you time to catch your breath before he grabs your arm, grip iron-tight as he yanks you out of the car. Your legs stumble on the gravel, shoes skidding as you hiss his name through your teeth.

He kicks the door shut behind you, the slam echoing into the nothing around the shitty gas station. He doesn’t bother saying a word, just drags you straight to the hood of his car, your thighs bumping the warm metal as he shoves you forward.

The engine’s heat seeps into your belly through the tight fake leather of your dress, making your skin prickle while your hands brace against the edge of the hood.

“Such a fucking brute,” you spit, turning your head just enough to glare at him over your shoulder.

Toji laughs, voice dripping amusement as he hikes your dress up around your hips. The air hits your soaked thighs, the night biting at the slick sheen already running down between them. He palms your ass, spreads you open enough to see everything, his hungry eyes locked on the mess you’re dripping all over his front bumper.

“Act tough all you want,” he rumbles, dragging his cock up between your thighs until the heavy shaft slaps against your slick folds, the sound filthy under the buzz of the streetlight. “Hear that? She’s begging for me.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes just to keep your mouth working. “Yeah right. Maybe she’s begging for someone else.”

Before you can throw another barb, his hands rip the side of your panties clean apart, the elastic snapping against your thigh. He drops the scraps to the dirt like they never mattered and brings his cock down again, smacking the head against your ass so it jiggles.

The sight makes his grin stretch, scar pulling wide as he lifts his hips to do it again, each wet slap ringing through the empty lot.

You gasp when his hard v-line smacks your skin, sharp bone against the plush bounce of your ass. He steps in closer, boots planted so wide your shoes skid uselessly between his feet. His big hands slide over your hips, fingers sinking into the softness as he tugs you back against him.

“Ready for me?” Toji’s voice is so low it scrapes your ear raw when he leans down, mouth hot on your skin.

You bite your lower lip so hard it almost splits, but you don’t say a word. You don’t need to. Your hips tilt back on instinct, greedy cunt pulling his thick tip in before your brain even catches up.

He groans behind you, the sound rolling into your hair as his cock sinks halfway in, the stretch making your thighs tremble against the metal.

You groan, cheek pressed to the warm hood, breath fogging the paint as your hips rock back, hungry for more. Toji’s mouth is all over your neck, teeth scraping, lips sucking bruises that bloom under the yellow streetlight. He thrusts deeper, hips pushing forward slow at first, savoring the way your walls flutter around him.

“Halfway there,” he rasps against your skin, his teeth nipping at the hollow of your throat as he rolls his hips deeper, slow enough to make you whine. Your thighs tremble as the thick base of him grinds against your ass, the wet squelch of your cunt filling the silence around the two of you.

When you shudder under him, Toji huffs a laugh against your neck. He drags his hips back, then slams forward harder, the slap of your ass against his dark hair echoing off the metal hood. Your hands scrabble uselessly against the warm car as you moan, voice muffled by the vibration of the engine.

One of his hands slips down your belly, slides between your thighs until his rough fingers find your swollen clit. He rubs you in tight, filthy circles that make your knees buckle. The heat from the hood scorches your tits through your dress as your whole body arches into his touch.

Your panties are gone somewhere behind you, torn lace forgotten in the gravel. You don’t even bother asking. You don’t care. Not when Toji’s cock drags out slow and punches back in with a wet slap that sends sparks straight up your spine.

“Such a fucking good girl,” he groans, voice hitching when you clench tight around him. “Mouthy brat but this pussy knows who owns it.”

You try to spit something back but it dissolves into a broken whimper when his fingers press harder on your clit, rubbing messy, sloppy circles that match the brutal pace of his hips. He keeps driving into you, the slap of your skin against his pelvis so loud it drowns out the hum of the gas station light.

Your thighs rub slick together, the filthy squelch of your cunt and the grind of your clit making your breath stutter. Toji growls low, teeth scraping your shoulder as he fucks you harder, his abs brushing your ass every time his hips slam forward.

“Gonna cum for me?” he rasps, breath hot against your ear, fingers digging into your hip so hard you know you’ll see bruises tomorrow. “C’mon, brat. Make a mess all over my cock.”

Your voice catches in your throat as the tight coil snaps, your hips jerking back as your pussy milks him, clit throbbing under the rough rub of his thumb. A ragged moan rips out of you, forehead pressed to the warm hood, legs shaking so bad your shoes slip in the gravel.

Toji doesn’t slow down. He just laughs, low and mean, hips pounding faster as your orgasm floods around him. He fucks you through it, grunting at the way you tighten up, the wet slap of your bodies echoing under the wide sky.

When he feels you twitch, whimpering raw, he pulls out just enough to flip you over like you weigh nothing. Your ass hits the hood, back flat against the warm metal as he shoves your knees up, his broad shoulders wedged between your thighs.

“Not done with you yet,” he growls, lining his cock back up with your swollen slit. He pushes in deep, the new angle making your back arch off the hood, tits bouncing under the stretched neckline of your dress.

He grinds his hips forward, the thick weight of him dragging over your sensitive walls. One hand hooks under your knee, pushing it up by your ear as he thrusts deeper, the tip punching against your sweet spot over and over until your mouth falls open on a broken cry.

Your hands grab at his arms, nails digging into the tight skin over his biceps as he drives in harder. The hood rocks under you both, the metal creaking with every slam of his hips.

He leans over you, mouth crashing to your throat, teeth biting hard enough to make your breath catch. You feel him twitch inside you, the hot weight of him stretching you so wide you swear you can feel him in your gut.

“Gonna cum in you, brat,” Toji growls, his voice ragged and wild in your ear. “Gonna stuff you so full you drip all the way home.”

Your hips roll up into him, pussy clenching around his cock, milking him for everything he’s worth. He snarls your name, one hand gripping your jaw to make you look him dead in the eye while he fucks every filthy promise into your bones.

You feel the heat rush up your spine again, clit throbbing where his pelvis grinds against it. You choke out a sob, thighs trembling as he drags you over the edge a second time, the wet slap of his cock hitting home sending sparks across your vision.

He fucks you through it, hips jerking as his own climax breaks loose. A raw groan splits his throat, cock buried to the hilt as he pumps you full, his seed flooding so deep you swear you can taste it on your tongue.

You lay there pinned to the hood, chest heaving, thighs still twitching while his breath rattles rough against your cheek. Toji pulls back just far enough to see the slick mess leaking from your cunt, a sharp grin splitting his scarred mouth.

He shifts, the sticky slide of him dragging across your folds as he thrusts once more for good measure, making you gasp when your overstimulated pussy clenches again.

He holds you there, pinned between the hot hood and his big frame, cock still heavy inside you as the gas station buzzes above like the whole world is holding its breath just to watch you come undone under him all over again.

Your chest heaves under him, sweat cooling fast in the stale night air while you catch your breath. You lick your swollen lips, eyes half-lidded as you look up at him, voice cutting through the heavy silence like a blade.

“You fuck like you’re scared I’ll find someone better.”

Toji’s eyes flash that wild glint you know too well. His big hand lifts, and before you can suck in your next breath his palm smacks down on your soaked pussy, a sharp wet slap that echoes across the empty lot. The sting slices through your core, sharp enough to make you flinch and bark out a strangled laugh all at once.

“Brat,” he growls low, leaning down before you can spit another word. His mouth crashes to yours, heat rolling through you when your tongues tangle, teeth clicking hard enough to hurt.

You kiss him back like you hate him, nails scratching down the thick bands of muscle along his sides. He swallows every noise you make, tongue claiming your mouth until you’re gasping against his lips.

When he pulls back you’re dizzy, lips swollen and shiny, and he doesn’t give you a chance to come back down. He drags your legs up, tossing them over his shoulders like they’re nothing, knees pressing against your chest as your back arches along the warm metal hood.

The scrape of it burns your spine but you don’t care, not with how thick and heavy he feels when he sinks back inside you, cock pushing so deep you swear you feel him carve a space in your gut.

“Damn, listen to her,” Toji rasps, his voice dark with that grin you want to slap off his face and swallow down your throat all at once. “She’s so fuckin’ talkative tonight. Chatty little thing.”

The slap of skin on skin drowns out the shrill night chorus of cicadas and crickets. He pistons his hips harder, the sound wet and filthy in the stale air. Every thrust shoves you a little higher up the hood, your ass squeaking against the warm paint as your hands scramble for purchase along the edge.

Toji’s eyes flick down, watching your tits bounce under the stretched neckline of your ruined dress, the tremor of your stomach with every punch of his hips. His jaw flexes tight when he drags halfway out just to slam back in so hard you bite your lip to keep from screaming.

“Fuck, you hear that?” he pants, voice splintering around the words. “She’s so wet for me. So wet. So fuckin’ warm-”

You feel his cock throb deep inside, the sloppy drag making your toes curl as you spit a breathless laugh. “M' I think your pussy drunk, Toji,” you gasp, words cracking when he thrusts up so sharp you choke on the last syllable.

“Shut up,” he hisses, hips jerking faster as his eyes flutter half-shut. His hand slips down, thick fingers sliding over your clit in fast circles that make your back bow right off the hood.

The rough drag of his thumb matches the deep grind of his cock, every movement scraping your sweet spot so perfectly it makes your breath catch.

Your laugh warps into a whining moan, fingers clawing at the car under you as your thighs tremble against his shoulders. Your head tips back, mouth dropping open as the coil inside you snaps so fast it knocks the air out of your lungs.

“Fuck, fuck- Toji-”

You try to shove at his shoulder but he just grins wider, mouth dropping to your throat where he nips your skin hard enough to bruise. Your words dissolve into broken whimpers, every push of his hips drawing another desperate noise out of you. Your body goes limp under the relentless pace, your mind a blank white haze.

“That’s what I thought, sweetheart,” Toji groans, voice rough as he grinds deep and feels you clamp down again, your pussy sucking him in so tight it makes him swear. “Mouthy little brat’s cock drunk now, huh?”

Your lashes flutter, mouth parting on a high, helpless sound that you can’t even swallow down. You feel the sticky heat of him press deeper, his cock so thick and heavy inside you that the world fades to the sloppy pulse of slick skin and the sharp slap of your ass hitting his hips.

He shifts his weight, boots scraping the gravel as he digs in harder, fucking you down into the hood so rough the whole car rocks under you both. You think you hear him talking, half-lost words muttered against your ear.

“Always so tight for me. Fuck- can’t get enough. Gonna split you open, brat. Gonna make you remember exactly who fucks you this good.”

You try to say something smart but it’s just a mess of syllables and soft cries that get eaten by his mouth when he kisses you again. His tongue slides deep, licking into the helpless noises he drags out of you with every brutal thrust.

His thumb keeps rolling over your clit, the sticky friction making your hips buck as you spasm around him all over again.

Your legs twitch on his shoulders, boots slipping uselessly against the metal as your orgasm slams through you hard enough your vision goes blurry.

The world shrinks to the slick sound of him pounding you into the hood, the heat of his breath in your hair, the low, raw growl of his voice breaking on curses as he fucks you through every spasm.

He doesn’t slow down. He just keeps rutting forward, sloppy and desperate now, his own breath catching in his throat when your walls milk him tighter. You feel him pulse deep, the hard twitch of him stretching you even more as he slams in so deep your hips lift off the car.

“Toji- Toji please-”

Your voice is a ruined little cry against his shoulder, your thighs trembling so bad you can’t stop them. His grin is all teeth and sweat when he lifts his head to look at you, that damn scar slicing his lip wide as he pants into your ear.

“Gonna take it all, aren't ya? M'Gonna fill you up again. Gonna - fuck-”

His hips jerk hard, his whole body tensing as the heat spills out, thick and hot, flooding so deep inside you it makes your toes curl. He rides you through it, pushing every drop as far as it’ll go while you whimper under him, brain gone soft and useless.

Toji stays buried inside you, one big hand pressed firm over your thigh like he owns it, thumb sweeping lazy circles on your skin while the sweat cools sticky between your bodies. Your breath comes in tiny, ragged gasps, your chest rising and falling under your ruined dress.

Every now and then, he rolls his hips slow, just enough to feel your pussy flutter around him, clenching like you’re still greedy for more even though your thighs twitch with every aftershock.

The night hums all around you, the chorus of crickets and distant cars on the highway trying and failing to drown out the wet sounds when he grinds deeper. You swear under your breath, a tired half-laugh that dies when he nips at your throat again, teeth dragging over a fresh bruise blooming just under your jaw.

“Fuck,” you whisper, voice hoarse and cracked from all the crying and moaning. “Aren’t you done yet?”

Toji huffs a laugh into your neck, warm breath teasing your ear as he pulls back just enough to look at your face. He brushes the sweaty hair off your cheek with two fingers, smearing the mess he made without an ounce of shame.

“You look so fucked out, brat.” He says it soft but his smirk is sharp, all teeth and that stupid scar slicing his grin wide open. “I’d say you’ve had enough but…”

He shifts his hips, pulling out slow so you feel every inch drag along your swollen walls before he pushes right back in, a little sharper than you expect. You gasp, hands flying up to his shoulders for something to hold.

“…she keeps sucking me back in like she’s starving.”

You shoot him a half-hearted glare but the roll of your hips gives you away. His cock slides through the mess he’s stuffed inside you, the wet slick noise filling the empty gas station lot. The hood under your back groans with every small push of his hips, still warm enough to sting the skin behind your shoulder blades.

“Flip over,” Toji murmurs, voice low and rough, that tone that always means you’ll do it even if you pretend to argue. He doesn’t wait for you to obey. He lifts your legs off his shoulders and grabs your hips, hauling you up so fast your squeal breaks off in a breathless giggle.

He flips you over like you weigh nothing, your stomach pressed to the still-warm metal again, tits squished against the hood as he drags your ass back until you’re bent right where he wants you. You push up on your elbows, gasping when the night air hits the slick mess dripping down your inner thighs.

“You’re so full of yourself,” you bite out, voice muffled by the metal under your cheek.

Toji snorts behind you, one big hand smoothing over your ass before he palms the curve of your hip, squeezing hard enough to bruise. His other hand wraps around the base of his cock, still thick, still heavy, still hard enough to make your mouth water even when you can’t see it.

“And you're not full enough...yet,” he rasps, guiding his tip right to your entrance. He nudges forward slow, letting the swollen head pop inside before he drags it back out, teasing you just enough to feel your hips push back against him on instinct.

Your breath hitches. “Toji-”

He cuts you off with a sharp slap to your ass, the crack echoing under the busted gas station lights. The sting spreads across your skin, makes you arch your back just the way he likes.

“Shut up. Gonna stuff you again,” he grunts, voice slipping ragged when he slides in deep with one sharp thrust that rocks your body forward on the hood. Your mouth falls open, no sound coming out for half a heartbeat while your walls flutter around him, slick and tight and so goddamn warm.

He doesn’t hold back this time. Toji sets a punishing rhythm, hips snapping forward hard enough to shove you up the hood inch by inch. You brace your palms flat against the metal, feet scrambling to find a grip on the gravel as his cock drags through your overstretched cunt.

The slick slap of him pounding you drowns out the night, smothering the cicadas, the crickets, everything except your broken moans and his low curses.

“Listen to her,” Toji pants, his breath a growl as he watches you bounce under him. “So fuckin’ loud. Brat mouth, brat pussy. All mine.”

Your knees buckle when he hits that spot deep inside that makes you see stars. Your moan rips out of your throat, half-choked on the hood as your toes curl in your boots. He leans over you, chest pressed to your back, his bigger frame boxing you in while his hips grind so deep your belly flips.

“That’s it. Take it. Take every fucking inch.” His teeth find your shoulder, biting down just hard enough to make you yelp and clench around him all at once. His hand slips under your hips, rough fingers zeroing in on your clit again.

He rubs tight, filthy circles that match the brutal snap of his hips, dragging you closer to the edge you thought you’d already fallen over twice tonight.

“Toji- I can’t-” Your voice splinters when he presses harder, the rough pad of his thumb rolling over your swollen clit until your thighs quake.

“Yeah you can. You can. Look at you,” he pants, voice shredded from how deep he’s lost now. “Cock drunk little brat. Gonna cum again for me, huh?”

You shake your head weakly but your pussy betrays you, pulsing so tight around him you feel him twitch back. His groan rumbles through your spine, hips stuttering for a split second before he drives back in harder, harder, pushing you flat against the hood until your cheek squeaks along the warm metal.

Your eyes roll up, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth as your body gives in. The coil snaps so violently you almost scream, the sound muffled by your own arm as your thighs seize. Heat floods your belly, every nerve burning white while your pussy milks him through it, walls clamping tight, pulling him deeper.

“That’s it. That’s my pretty fuckin' girl,” Toji growls into your neck, his voice thick and filthy. He doesn’t slow, fucking you through every shudder, every twitch, his thumb rubbing your clit until your legs give out.

He snarls your name, hips jerking one last time before he buries himself so deep you swear you feel him in your throat. Heat spills inside you again, thick and hot, mixing with the mess you’re already leaking down your thighs.

His hand fists in your hair, dragging your head up just so he can press his mouth to your ear, teeth scraping your lobe while he groans through every throb of his cock pulsing inside you.

You lay there, pinned, ruined, belly pressed to the warm hood and the stink of sex hanging heavy under the pale moon and flickering streetlight. Toji doesn’t move at first, just breathes heavy against your hair, hand smoothing down your spine while his other thumb drags lazy circles over your hip, like he’s tracing his name into your skin for later.

“Good girl,” he mutters, voice raw and hoarse, a smug grin in every syllable. “Bratty, but you know who owns you now.”

You try to spit something back but your throat’s shot, mind soft and floating while the cicadas buzz on. All you can do is whimper when he finally pulls out slow, your pussy fluttering empty around the sticky mess he leaves dripping down your thighs.

Toji laughs under his breath, tucks himself back in with that same careless swagger that makes your stomach flip even now. He plants a rough kiss on your shoulder, his hand sliding up your thigh just to feel how wet you still are.

“Next time,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear, “we’re doing this somewhere with a bed.”

And with your face stuck to the warm metal, the night heavy with sweat and bruises and the quiet thrum of your heartbeat in your ears, all you can do is nod like you’ll let him ruin you anywhere he wants.

Please do not plagiarize.

[nimueshell]

Hiii Nimue can I request for husband sukuna killing a guy because he was perving on us at the beach bc we love a crazy man☺️

ooooo, I love how you think. Lemme write up a quick little drabble for you my lil demon.

Substance: violence, blood mentioned, mentions of sukuna's double dicks, sukuna loves his wife, reader is over his shit

The sun was merciless that afternoon, a molten disc hanging high above the shoreline, its glare bouncing off the glittering surface of the ocean. The waves rolled in slow and steady, hissing softly as they curled over the sand, the air thick with the sharp scent of salt and sunscreen.

Children shrieked in the distance as they darted in and out of the water, their laughter cutting through the steady hum of seagulls. Yet all of it felt muffled from where you sat, the whole world shrinking down to the chair beside yours and the man who occupied it.

Sukuna leaned back in his seat like a king watching over his domain, every line of his body coiled with authority. His chest was bare, the sun glinting off the black tattoos that twisted and curled over his skin, making them look like they were alive.

His swim shorts were black, simple but stretched tight across his thick thighs, a careless contrast to the intensity that simmered in his face. His eyes, blood-red and gleaming even brighter under the sunlight, carried the kind of sharpness that made it hard to breathe if you were the one caught in their path.

You tugged lightly at the strap of your red bikini, a shade that matched his eyes almost perfectly. The fabric hugged you like a second skin, smooth and scarlet against your pale shoulders, the sun catching the sheen of the sunscreen that lingered across your curves.

He had been the one to pick it out, muttering something about how no other color suited you, and the way he had looked at you when you’d tried it on had made it clear you weren’t meant to argue.

It wasn’t until you bent forward to shake the sand from your towel that you felt it, that prickling sense of being watched. The gaze was heavy, blatant, lingering far too long on the swell of your breasts and the curve of your hips. You didn’t need to look to know exactly where it was coming from.

Sukuna’s chair creaked under the sudden shift of his weight. He leaned forward slowly, forearms resting against his knees, his chest rising and falling in steady, controlled breaths that did nothing to soften the tension in his jaw. The tattoos across his chest seemed to ripple with each inhale, as though his rage lived within them, ready to be unleashed.

“You see him, don’t you,” he said at last, his voice low and dangerous, every word vibrating with restrained fury.

The man a few feet away hadn’t even bothered to look away yet, oblivious or perhaps too stupid to realize he was staring into the territory of someone who would carve him into the sand without hesitation.

And as the salt-heavy breeze tugged strands of hair against your face, you knew there was no question of if Sukuna would act, only when.

The salty wind tugged at your hair as you leaned over in your chair, brushing your lips softly against Sukuna’s cheek. The warmth of his skin was like holding your hand too close to a flame, dangerous but intoxicating, and you whispered a quiet plea in his ear.

“Baby, don’t. Just ignore him.”

Your hand rested on his chest, your fingers brushing over the black tattoos that rippled faintly under his steady breathing. You kissed him again, just under his jaw this time, hoping to pull his gaze back to you. But his blood-red eyes had already gone razor-sharp, fixed on the bastard across the sand who was still staring at your breasts like he had a death wish.

“Too late for that,” Sukuna muttered, his voice like gravel.

Before you could say another word, he was already up, the chair groaning as it flipped back from the force of his movement. Sand kicked up in his wake as he strode across the beach, and your heart sank as you watched him close the distance. The man barely had a second to flinch before Sukuna’s hand clamped onto the front of his shirt, dragging him from the chair like a ragdoll.

You let out a long sigh, settling back against your towel as the first scream split through the warm summer air. The sound didn’t even make Sukuna pause.

“You like staring at my wife’s tits, huh?” Sukuna snarled, his voice carrying easily over the crashing waves. The man choked out a panicked plea, but Sukuna’s words cut through it, low and vicious. “Thought you could sit there and drool like a mutt? I’ll show you what happens to dogs without leashes.”

The thud of flesh meeting flesh echoed across the sand. Sukuna’s fist slammed into the man’s ribs with a crack, followed by another scream, then another punch, until the sound was less human and more a wet, broken sob. He threw him down into the sand, straddling him like prey beneath a predator.

Fingers dug into the man’s chest and ripped, the sound of tearing muscle mingling with the gulls overhead. Blood sprayed hot against the beach, staining the golden grains dark red.

Sukuna’s laugh was low, menacing, as he stomped down hard, the crunch of bone under his heel sharp and final. The head caved in with a sickening noise, the body twitching before falling still.

When he finally stalked back toward you, his torso splattered with blood, he looked more alive than he had all day. His tattoos gleamed under the mess, his smile sharp, dangerous, and almost satisfied.

You tilted your head, unbothered by the carnage, though your tone carried more exasperation than shock. “Did you really have to do that?”

Sukuna shrugged like you’d asked if he wanted another drink. “Needed a swim anyway.”

And before you could protest, his massive hand slid across the curve of your ass, squeezing possessively as he hauled you up and over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. Your squeal was muffled by the firm smack of his palm against your bikini-clad skin as he carried you straight toward the waves, his laughter mixing with the crash of the tide as though this was all part of the afternoon plan.

The waves were cooler the deeper Sukuna waded, the water slapping against his thighs before it crept higher, finally brushing his waist.

Salt clung to your skin, the breeze sticking your hair to your damp shoulders, but you didn’t even flinch when his palm smacked your ass again. You were used to this. Used to the screaming. Used to the way people scattered like flies when Sukuna’s temper snapped. It was just… Tuesday.

You shifted against him until he loosened his grip enough for you to wrap your legs snugly around his waist. The ocean rocked around you both, the current tugging lightly as if daring you to let go.

You rested your chin against his inked shoulder, glaring at him even as your fingers moved to smear seawater across the streaks of blood splattered on his chest.

“You know you can’t just rip open every guy that looks at me,” you nagged, your voice steady despite the warmth of your thighs pressed to his hips.

Sukuna tilted his head back, red eyes narrowing with exaggerated patience. “Sure I can. Might cook him up for dinner later. See if you taste better after.”

You gagged audibly, pulling back just enough to scowl at him. “That’s disgusting.”

He rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Relax. I’m joking. Mostly.”

You groaned, dragging your wet palm across the slope of his chest, washing away blood with the brine of the sea. The ink etched across his skin glistened, the tattoos flexing as his muscles shifted beneath your touch.

He watched you intently, his gaze heavy enough to make your stomach twist, until he leaned forward and caught your lips in a kiss. The taste of salt mixed with something darker, and his hum of satisfaction rumbled against your mouth.

When he pulled back, his voice was low, husky, almost smug. “You know, the blood got me a little turned on.”

Your eyes dropped instinctively, and sure enough, not one but two distinct bulges pressed against the fabric of his swim trunks, thick and impossible to ignore with your legs wrapped so tightly around him.

You groaned again, this time with a laugh, shaking your head. “You’re so fucking weird.”

Sukuna smirked, squeezing the underside of your ass with both hands as the waves lapped higher around you. “Yeah, but you love it. And you’re stuck with me.”

The ocean roared behind him, but the real storm was in his eyes, and you knew damn well there was no escaping either.

[nimueshell]

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅ Petals & Gunpowder (S.R)

Summary: You’re just a florist with trembling hands and a quiet life, until Sukuna, the city's most feared mafia boss showed up inside your shop with blood on his skin and that crooked, carnivorous smile.

Substance: florist!fem reader, mafia boss!Sukuna, floweshop au, size kink, rough sex, mafia au, praise kink, blood mentioned, thigh riding degradation, Sukuna is WHIPPED, possessive behavior, car sex, semi-public sex (car), multiple orgasms,  hands on the wheel n ur ridin’ that dick, Sukuna wants you BAD, hurt/comfort, pet names, cockwarming, creampie, fingering (in a fucking resturaunt), blow job, man-handling, happy ending.

W/C: 12.6k

The bell above the door chimed softly, the delicate little ding you'd chosen to fit the mood of your flower shop–a gentle sound, unobtrusive and sweet, meant to welcome grandmothers and bridesmaids and flustered men looking for apology bouquets.

It wasn’t meant to herald him. It wasn’t made for the slam that followed it, loud and jarring and swift enough to make the door rattle on its hinges, sending a sharp gust of wind through the open entryway and blowing dried petals off the counter.

You didn’t look up right away. You were bent over your arrangement table, scissors in hand, carefully trimming stems and sorting through a bundle of soft blush roses and pale white freesia.

Your dress swayed gently with your movements, the lightweight cotton clinging to your thighs and catching at the curves of your hips every time you leaned in, and your apron–cream-colored with a faded floral print, tied with a wide ribbon at your back–was already stained with green and pollen.

 You had your hair pulled back in a loose braid, secured with a ribbon the color of rosewater, and the backroom was warm with sunlight, the scent of baby’s breath and eucalyptus clinging thick in the air. The world smelled like morning. Just like a garden. Like safety.

But that door slam–that shift in the air–sent a tremor of dread down your spine, enough to make your fingers falter on the stem you were trimming.

You looked up slowly, scissors still in your hand, and when your eyes landed on him, your breath caught mid-inhale.

He stood just inside the doorway, half-shadowed in the filtered sunlight, a towering figure of violence in repose. His black button-up clung to him like a second skin, thin enough to reveal the hard planes of his chest and the strain on his shoulders at the seams. 

The sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing veined, muscled forearms slick with blood, the kind that had already dried at the creases of his wrists but still shone wet across the curve of one bicep. His black jeans were torn at the knee and dark at the thigh, but not from fashion–they were soaked through with blood, and there was something thick and sticky on the toe of his boot that smeared against the white tile as he stepped inside.

And his face–his face was a masterpiece of chaos. Sharp and cruel, strikingly symmetrical in an off-putting way, with a jaw that could cut through glass and lips curled into something other than a smirk. His peach-pink hair was swept back with one lock falling loose across his forehead, wild and stained at the ends with a darker red that wasn’t dye. 

His eyes were alive–burning with a kind of cruel, amused glow that made you feel like prey even before he said a single word.

You hadn’t even realized you were holding your breath until he tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.

“Well,” he said, voice low and amused, “you gonna scream, or are you just gonna stare at me all day, sweetheart?”

Your mouth opened slightly, but the only sound that came out was a quiet, breathy “Oh.”

The scissors slipped from your hand and clattered to the floor.

He chuckled at that–an honest sound, deep in his chest, like he wasn’t just covered in someone else’s blood and bleeding from a gash near his collarbone. He stepped forward, not hurried but deliberate, his boots echoing across your tile like thunder in a church.

“I need a place to sit for a bit,” he said, his eyes flicking lazily to the nearest surface–your worktable, crowded with roses and buckets of floral foam. “You don’t mind, do you, flower girl?”

You blinked, the words struggling to form in your throat because he looked like he belonged in a back alley with a cigarette and a gun, not between bundles of baby’s breath and pastel carnations.

“I…this is a flower shop,” you said, your voice barely steady. “You can’t just–”

But he was already moving, brushing past you with a heat that made your skin flush despite the tension in your spine, his bloodied fingers catching lightly on the ribbon at your waist like it was just something in the way. He didn’t pull. He didn’t tug. He just let the pad of his thumb drag across it like he wanted you to know he could.

“I know what it is,” he said, settling himself into your work stool like he’d been invited, legs spread, one elbow draped over the edge of the table while the other hand reached up to run through his hair. His eyes never left you. “You sell flowers. You arrange them. You smell like sugar and wet leaves. It’s adorable.”

You should’ve run. You knew that. You’d seen the reports, the warnings on the news, and the grainy black-and-white footage of crime scenes left behind like art installations in red. The King of Curses, they called him. Not officially–there were no official records. Just whispers. Just the name Sukuna bleeding into every darkened corner of the city like smoke.

And he was here, in your shop, bleeding across your floor, sitting on your stool like he hadn’t just left a body cooling outside in the alley.

“You’re Sukuna,” you said, almost stupidly, like you needed to hear it out loud to make it real.

His grin sharpened.

“Ding ding,” he murmured, lifting one bloody finger like a buzzer. “I guess flower girls can be smart too.”

You flinched. Not visibly, but you felt it, like your nerves were raw beneath your skin. Still, you didn’t step back. You didn’t run. You weren’t even sure why. Maybe it was the way his voice settled low in your stomach, like heat curling around your spine. Maybe it was the blood. 

Maybe it was the fact that something about him didn’t just frighten you; it intrigued you. Like a match held too long between your fingers, burning and beautiful and impossible to let go.

“You need stitches,” you said instead, voice quiet.

He shrugged, the movement languid and uncaring. “I need a cigarette and some whiskey, too. But I’m not asking.”

You stared at him for a moment, your heart still pounding like a drumbeat in your ears. Then you moved–slowly, carefully–toward the back of the shop, your bare feet silent against the tile. 

You grabbed the small first aid kit from the drawer near the back sink and returned with it clutched in both hands, your fingers shaking slightly around the edges of the box.

He watched you the whole time.

You set the kit on the edge of the table and hesitated. “Can I…?”

His eyes dropped to the space between you, then flicked back up.

“You can touch me,” he said, voice suddenly quieter. “If your hands don’t shake too much.”

You hated how your cheeks warmed at that.

You stepped closer, reaching for the ruined buttons of his shirt, your fingers brushing lightly over his chest as you peeled the sticky fabric back. The gash was just beneath his collarbone, shallow but angry, and it oozed fresh blood when you pressed the gauze to it. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink.

You tried not to stare at the ink that coiled down his chest and ribs, intricate lines of black etched into skin that felt too warm under your palms.

“You’re not afraid,” he said suddenly, voice close.

You didn’t look up. “I am.”

He smiled again. This one was smaller. Fewer teeth.

“But you’re still touching me,” he murmured. “That’s brave, flower girl.”

Your lips parted slightly, and for a moment, neither of you moved. The sunlight caught in his hair, casting a peach-gold halo around the sharp planes of his face, and you thought–not for the first time–that nothing about him should’ve been beautiful, and yet everything was.

He smelled like blood and cigarettes and something ancient beneath it all, and your fingers trembled only slightly as you reached for more gauze.

“You’ve ruined my floor,” you said, finally.

He laughed.

“I’ll buy you a new one.”

“You’ll buy me a new one,” you repeated, your voice flat as your fingers pressed fresh gauze to his bleeding chest. 

His skin was hot beneath your hand, firm and unyielding under the pads of your fingers, but the blood oozing between your knuckles was real, and sticky, and too thick for you to pretend any of this was normal.

“Mm.” Sukuna tilted his head back lazily, resting one elbow on the table behind him, his body was stretched and relaxed like he hadn’t just threatened to ruin your entire world a moment ago. “Tile’s ugly anyway. Might as well let me give the place a facelift.”

Your jaw tightened, not because you disagreed–truthfully, you’d been saving for months to replace the worn tile–but because the way he said it grated against something inside you. 

He talked like he could buy anything. Like nothing he touched mattered unless he could break it, bleed on it, or fully own it. And maybe he could.

“You bleed on everything you want to fix?” you muttered.

He cracked an eye open and smiled again, slow and lazy and wolfish.

“Only when I’m being polite.”

You didn’t answer that. You weren’t sure you could. His presence made you feel like you were constantly walking across thin ice layered over something hot and hungry and pulling you downward with every step.

He wasn’t even trying to be intimidating anymore–not really–but there was something in the weight of his gaze, the low heat in his voice, and the way he took up space in your shop without apology that made it clear he didn’t just expect to be obeyed. He expected you to want to.

You grabbed a bottle of antiseptic and dabbed some onto a clean cloth, gently pressing it to the wound. He didn’t flinch, didn’t hiss, and didn’t curse–just watched you, his eyes half-lidded and lips parted slightly as if amused by your attempt at carefulness.

“You’ve done this before,” you said softly. It wasn’t really a question.

"Had it done to me before," he said, his voice like whiskey filtered through a low growl. “Usually not this gently, though. You’re a sweet little thing, aren’t you?”

You didn’t respond, because you knew better than to give men like him anything too easy. Instead, you reached for the gauze again, winding it tight across his chest and securing it in place with a piece of medical tape.

The angle brought you closer to him than you’d intended, your face just inches from his throat, and you could smell the sweat on his skin, the faint hint of cologne beneath the iron-heavy scent of blood, and something darker–like scorched leather and the memory of fire.

You should have stepped back the moment you finished. You knew that. But you didn’t. Not immediately. Not until you realized he wasn’t breathing evenly anymore, that he was watching you with that same slow-burning intensity he’d worn the moment he walked in.

“You’re trembling,” he said, voice lower now, rougher. Not cruel, not mocking–just observant. Your fingers shivered as they touched his collarbone, as if he could read the movement of your lungs beneath your ribs.

“I should be,” you whispered. “You’re a killer.”

Sukuna didn’t laugh this time. He just looked at you–looked through you.

“And you’re a florist,” he said after a long pause. “What a pair.”

You swallowed thickly and finally took a step back, your knees stiff and awkward as your body remembered how to move. You dropped the bloodied cloth into the waste bin near the door and turned toward the sink to wash your hands, trying to ignore how the air behind you felt heavier now. You could hear him shifting on the stool again, the creak of the wood under his weight, and the low scrape of his boot against the tile, and then he was behind you.

You didn’t need to turn to know… You could feel him.

“You got a bathroom in here?” he asked, his voice closer than it had any right to be.

You nodded, staring at the porcelain sink. “Left of the backroom.”

He didn’t move right away, just stood behind you, so close you could feel the heat rolling off of him, the quiet hum of something volatile just beneath the surface of his stillness. And then he leaned in, just a little, just enough that his breath brushed the shell of your ear.

“You always help bleeding strangers, flower girl?”

Your eyes fluttered shut. Your fingers dug into the edge of the sink.

“No,” you breathed.

“But you helped me.”

You didn’t answer.

He moved away, finally, his footsteps slow and echoing as he wandered toward the back hallway. You heard the door creak open, then close with a soft click, and suddenly the shop was too quiet. Too still. You realized you were shaking, really shaking now, and you gripped the sink tighter just to feel something solid under your palms.

What the hell were you doing?

Why were your thighs clenched under your dress?

Why hadn’t you called the police?

The questions echoed and tangled in your chest, and none of the answers made sense. Because yes, he was terrifying. Yes, he was a killer. But he was also magnetic–dangerous and beautiful and burning so hot you could still feel the imprint of his presence on your skin, like he’d reached out and branded you with his gaze alone.

You detested how alive you felt in his shadow and how thrilled you were by it.

You turned the water on, scrubbing your hands clean, watching the blood swirl down the drain in pale pink ribbons. You rinsed your arms, your wrists, and your fingertips until they stung with cold, and the faint floral scent returned.

When you turned around again, he was back.

He stood in the doorway, half-shirtless, the ruined black button-up clinging loosely to his arms now, his broad chest still wrapped in your gauze. He had splashed water on his face, rubbing away most of the dried blood, but the angry gash on his temple still stood out, raw and red.

“You got anything to eat in here?” he asked, like this was the most normal visit in the world.

You blinked at him, incredulous.

“Do I–what?”

“Food, princess. Something soft. Bread. Pastries. Whatever you people keep next to tea.”

You stared at him. “I’m a florist. Not a bakery.”

He sighed, long-suffering, and flopped back onto the stool like he was exhausted. “Should’ve shot the guy faster. Wouldn’t have had to run if I hadn’t taken my time.”

You opened your mouth to ask if he was serious–but stopped. Of course he was. He wasn’t trying to impress you. He was just existing, comfortable in the mess he made. And you–like an idiot–were still standing there, heart hammering and cheeks flushed and thighs still too warm beneath your cotton skirt.

You walked toward the mini fridge at the back of the shop, still on autopilot, and pulled out a wrapped scone from a glass container. You’d made them the night before, made of lavender and lemon. You didn’t even think as you offered it to him, like you weren’t standing in front of a war criminal in pastel gingham and floral print, offering him pastries.

He took it without a word; he peeled back the wrap and took a bite.

And then, shockingly–he moaned.

“Oh, fuck me,” he groaned. “That’s good.”

You blinked, stunned.

“Didn’t expect that.”

“I bake,” you said automatically. “For customers. Sometimes for me.”

He took another bite and gestured with his free hand. “You got a man?”

You stared at him.

“What?”

“You heard me.” He licked a bit of sugar off his thumb. “Someone who’d be pissed that I’m sitting here bleeding all over your floor and making you blush.”

You felt your face heat.

“I don’t–” you started, then shook your head. “It’s not your business.”

He smiled, slow and knowing. “That’s a no.”

You bristled, annoyed by his smug tone and by how easily he read you. “Why do you care?”

Sukuna stood then, stretching tall, the muscles in his abdomen flexing under the soft gauze. His jeans still rode low on his hips, and you hated the way your eyes dipped down. Hated more that he noticed.

“I don’t,” he said, stepping toward you. “Not in the way you think.”

You held your ground.

He stopped in front of you, barely a breath between your bodies.

“But if you’re gonna feed me, fix me up, and look at me like that?” His voice dropped, low and thick with heat. “Then you better start thinking about what you want from me, flower girl.”

You opened your mouth, but no words came.

He leaned in, just close enough for his breath to brush your lips, and whispered, “Because I take what’s mine. And if you don’t stop looking at me like that, I’m going to find out what kind of sounds you make when I bend you over that bouquet table.”

You gasped–sharp and involuntary–and he grinned.

Then he stepped back, licking the last of the scone crumbs from his fingers.

“Thanks for the snack,” he said, strolling toward the front door like he hadn’t just turned your knees into jelly. “I’ll be back.”

You watched him leave in stunned silence, the bell above the door chiming once as it shut behind him.

⋆˚✿˖°

The front of the flower shop was unusually quiet that afternoon, save for the crinkle of a chip bag and the occasional hum of a pop song leaking out from a half-broken speaker near the register. The bell above the entrance was still, the breeze outside warm and lazy, sunlight spilling in over rows of freshly misted peonies and wildflower bundles. 

Nobara Kugisaki had one leg hooked over the other, her foot tapping the air in a rhythm that matched the beat of the song she wasn’t really listening to. Her stool teetered slightly as she leaned back on it, completely at ease, a half-eaten bag of spicy chips in her lap and a soda can sweating beside the register.

Her feet were up on the counter, a sight that would’ve made you groan if you’d seen her, and there were definitely a few crumbs in the petal tray beside the register. But you were in the back–fussing with a bridal arrangement, hands elbow-deep in blush garden roses and baby’s breath–so Nobara took full advantage of the peace.

That is, until the bell above the door suddenly chimed with a sharp ding, followed by the low creak of the door swinging open and a gust of wind heavy with exhaust fumes.

She didn’t look up right away.

“Hey,” she said through a mouthful of chips. “We close at–”

Then she looked.

And choked.

She spluttered violently, chips flying from her lips as she tried to sit up straight, but the stool betrayed her, its back legs kicking out as she tipped, flailing, and fell ass-first behind the counter with a crash and a loud, undignified “Fuck!”

With the late afternoon sunlight behind him creating long shadows on the floor, Sukuna Ryomen appeared more like a monster than a human as he stood in the doorway. His peach-pink hair was swept back in clean waves today, a few lazy strands hanging in his face, and he wore a black double-breasted jacket over a black silk shirt, open halfway down his chest to reveal the ink curling around his collarbones.

 His matching slacks were tailored to perfection, and his boots, polished to a lethal shine, thudded once against the floor as he stepped in fully. Three other men followed behind him–two flanking him like bodyguards, one lagging just a little, chewing gum and looking distinctly uncomfortable surrounded by so many daffodils.

“Fucking hell,” Nobara muttered from behind the counter, scrambling to her feet with wide eyes as she slapped chip dust off her pants and tried to look like a functional employee.

Sukuna surveyed the shop in one long, slow sweep, his brow ticking slightly as his eyes landed on the counter display–soft plush teddy bears arranged among lilacs and hydrangeas–and he made a sound in his throat that might’ve been a scoff or a sigh or some terrible combination of both.

He stepped toward the counter, slow and deliberate, the sharp click of his boots echoing with a predator’s rhythm.

Nobara straightened so fast she cracked her back. “Can I help you?” she asked, voice too high.

Sukuna didn’t answer at first. He stopped in front of the register, leaned forward slightly, one hand braced on the counter as his height brought him down to eye level with her, and tucked his other hand into his coat pocket. He tilted his head, eyes heavy-lidded, and said her name like it was a question he already knew the answer to.

“You’re not her.”

“Nope,” Nobara said, popping the ‘p’ as she pushed her sleeves up to her elbows. “She’s in the back. You want me to–?”

“Where is she?” he asked, his voice smooth but laced with the kind of danger that made her stomach do a weird little drop.

Nobara blinked, her eyes narrowing in suspicion, because there's no way he was asking for you like that, “Wait, who?”

He smiled, slow and cold, and said your name. Without hesitation or preamble, he acted as though it tasted good.

Nobara blinked again. Oh, she was wrong he was in fact looking for you. Without a moment notice, she screamed for you while turning around.

From the back room, your hands were wrist-deep in a bouquet of white roses and forget-me-nots when you heard her. 

“What?!” You shouted back, fingers still weaving wire through the stems.

“Uh,” she called again, her voice breaking slightly, “you’ve got a... visitor?”

You frowned, your brow pinching, and stepped back from the bouquet to wipe your hands on the towel tied around your waist. Your dress fluttered with the motion–a handmade thing you’d sewn from soft ivory fabric patterned with tiny blue flowers, cut to flatter your frame in the way you liked. 

The bodice was corseted just enough to push your breasts up high and firm, the neckline a soft scoop that left your collarbones exposed and dusted with shimmer. The waist was cinched tight with a sash in the back, making the gentle swell of your hips all the more pronounced. The skirt fanned out in soft layers, grazing your knees with every step.

You didn’t think much of it as you stepped through the curtain, pushing your braid over your shoulder, your hands brushing at the wrinkles in the skirt as you emerged.

And immediately froze.

Sukuna Ryomen turned toward you with a gaze that burned.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

Didn’t even breathe.

The rest of the shop seemed to vanish behind the thrum of your heartbeat pounding in your ears. His eyes dragged down your body, slow and unapologetic, tracing the curve of your breasts in that tight floral bodice, the slope of your waist, and the gentle bounce of your hips as you stood in the doorway, blinking at him with wide, unsure eyes.

And then, out of nowhere, he said:

“You’ve got birthing hips.”

The air went dead silent.

One of his men coughed so violently he nearly choked. Another let out a quiet “Jesus Christ” and turned toward the succulent shelf to busy himself. The third made a noise like he was stifling a laugh and promptly bumped into a display of tulips trying to cover it up.

You stood frozen in place, your jaw slightly slack, your cheeks burning like hellfire had crawled under your skin. Nobara was making strangled wheezing noises behind the counter, her face buried in her arm.

Sukuna stepped forward, slow and measured, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Did you make that dress?” He asked, his voice low and rough and entirely inappropriate given the context.

You swallowed. “Yes.”

“It suits you.”

You wanted to smack him. You also wanted to die. You also wanted to turn and run into the walk-in cooler and never come out again. But you stood your ground, even as your thighs clenched and your palms grew sweaty against your skirt.

“What do you want, Sukuna?” You asked, finally, carefully.

He smiled at the sound of his name in your mouth.

“You,” he said.

One of his men made a quietly horrified noise.

Nobara whispered, “I’m gonna kill myself,” behind her hands.

Sukuna’s gaze didn’t waver. “Relax, flower girl. Not like that.” Then, smirking wider, “Unless you’re offering.”

Your eyes narrowed, and he held up a hand, palms out in mock surrender.

“I came to place an order.”

You stared at him. “You’re a mafia boss. What the hell do you need flowers for?”

He tilted his head, watching you like a tiger watching a fawn.

“Maybe I’m sending a message,” he said. “Maybe I just want to see what you’ll make when I don’t give you any rules.”

You blinked.

“...What?”

“You heard me.” He nodded toward the counter. “Write down whatever you think fits me. I want it in three days. Wrap it nicely. I’ll pick it up myself.”

You stared at him, mouth slightly parted, struggling to decide if he was serious or fucking with you.

“Fine,” you said after a beat, voice tight. “But it’s gonna be expensive.”

His grin was molten. “Baby, I hope so.”

The men behind him groaned like they were in actual pain.

“Let’s go,” Sukuna said, turning to them, his coat flaring behind him. “We’re done here.”

As he walked past you, he leaned in, low enough that only you could hear him, and said,

“Don’t wear anything less flattering next time. I’d hate to be distracted when I bend you over that counter.”

You gasped audibly, and he laughed–full and delighted–before the bell chimed again and he disappeared out into the sunlight like a fucking fever dream.

You stood there in stunned silence, your breath shaky and your heart clawing at your ribs, your body buzzing with adrenaline and embarrassment and a molten throb deep in your gut that you absolutely refused to name.

Nobara popped her head up from behind the counter.

“I hate you,” she said. “But also... that was hot.”

You closed your eyes and exhaled.

⋆˚✿˖°

Three days passed in a syrupy kind of haze, stretched out and too full of thoughts you didn’t want to have. You kept your hands busy in the shop–wiring stems, fluffing petals, cataloging new shipments–but nothing dulled the way your mind kept circling back to the sound of your name on Sukuna Ryomen’s tongue. 

You tried to ignore the way you caught yourself glancing at the door, half-expecting the bell to chime before the clock struck noon, or the way your fingers tapped the counter with impatient energy as you worked on wedding arrangements you could no longer focus on. 

Every time you looked at the cooler, you saw the bouquet waiting for him, and it made your stomach twist in a way that was neither fear nor excitement but something filthier–something dangerous and far too alive.

The bouquet wasn’t a peace offering. It was a weapon, disguised in velvet and lace. You started with datura–delicate, curling white blossoms that looked like soft trumpets but reeked of poison beneath the perfume. You handled them with gloves, snipping their stems and setting them high in the arrangement like a crown. 

Beneath them, you layered monkshood, its rich, deep violet flowers peeking through the foliage like secrets, followed by glossy black berries from a branch of belladonna nestled between curling ferns. 

You added a bleeding heart for irony, then snapdragons and strands of hemlock that brushed the bottom edge of the bouquet like teeth. Every bloom was soft. Every one of them could kill you.

You didn’t explain it to anyone. Nobara had peeked into the cooler once, lips twisted in awe and mild concern. 

“You made that for him?” she asked, sucking powdered sugar off her thumb, her brow quirked as she stared at the bouquet like it might whisper curses. 

You had only nodded, peeling off your gloves and rinsing your hands at the sink.

 “It’s a gorgeous fucking arrangement,” she said. “But it looks like it wants to hurt someone.” 

You simply replied, “That’s the point,” and went back to work. 

You didn’t mention how your hands had trembled a little while tying the black silk ribbon, or how you couldn’t stop picturing his face when you slipped the finished bouquet into the cooler like a caged predator.

By the time Friday rolled around, you were restless, your skin too sensitive beneath your dress, your nerves electric. The flower shop was quiet around three in the afternoon, and you were alone at the register, legs curled under you in the cushioned stool, flipping through invoices with half your attention.

Your dress was soft again today–another handmade piece of cotton muslin, this one ivory with gold thread embroidery along the bust and waist, cinched tight with a floral sash at the back. It hugged your chest just enough to leave your shoulders bare and your breasts slightly lifted, the neckline dipping low, your collarbones catching the late sunlight spilling through the windows. 

Your hair was loosely curled and pinned back, soft strands framing your face, your lips tinged faintly with berry gloss. You weren’t going to admit, even to yourself, that you’d dressed like this because part of you wanted him to see it.

The bell chimed once, clean and clear.

You didn’t look up immediately, but you didn’t need to. His presence hit you first–the sudden change in the air, the way it pulled tighter, heavier, and more intimate. The first crack of thunder before a downpour was how it felt. You looked up, breath catching in your throat as Sukuna stepped inside like he had every right to be there, which he did, in that sharp black coat left open to reveal a silk shirt beneath, loose at the collar, chest half-exposed and inked with swirling black lines.

His slacks were tailored perfectly, his boots clicking neatly against the tile, and his peach-pink hair was styled with deliberate mess, a single loose strand hanging down over one glowing eye. He looked less like a man and more like something carved out of want, out of violence and desire and dry humor–all confidence and dangerous charm, like the moment between a match strike and a fire.

“You always smell like this,” he said, his voice low, smooth, and warm like sin slipping behind your ear. “Or is it just for me?”

“Sure,” he said, stepping forward slowly, his eyes flicking over your body without shame, the way a man looks at something he’s already claimed. “But it clings to you. You smell like sugar and cut stems. It’s a problem.”

You closed the folder in your lap and set it aside before standing, straightening your skirt with one hand as your gaze met his.

“It’s a flower shop,” you answered, your voice calm even as your pulse started racing. “It smells like flowers.”

“Not for me,” you said, holding your ground as he neared.

“No,” he said, stopping in front of the counter. “But it will be for me if I can’t stop thinking about it later.”

You ignored the way that made your stomach tighten and moved to the cooler, reaching inside with slow, deliberate care as you lifted the bouquet from its glass shelf. You held it between both hands, cradled against your chest like a gift or a curse, the dark blooms dripping elegance and quiet threat beneath their polished silk ribbon. When you turned back to face him, Sukuna’s mouth twitched faintly into something unreadable.

“That’s for me?” he asked, voice suddenly quieter.

You nodded once. “Every flower in here is poisonous. Most of them could kill you if you ate them. Or touched them the wrong way.”

His lips parted just enough to show the edge of his teeth. “That a warning?”

“No,” you said, voice steady. “It’s a reflection.”

You set the bouquet down gently on the tissue-lined surface and leaned over to untie the envelope, glancing inside only briefly. It was at least double what you’d normally charge.

For a moment, he just looked at you–no grin, no smartass reply–just eyes locked to yours like he was trying to feel every word from your mouth through the space between you. Then he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a thick black envelope. He dropped it on the counter without counting it.

“Keep the change,” he said, his voice low and almost distracted, his gaze still fixed on your lips.

“Excessive,” you murmured.

“Your work’s worth it,” he said, stepping closer. His fingers brushed the ribbon on the bouquet absently, dragging down the silk until it pooled slightly against the counter. “You always put this much effort into your arrangements?”

“Only when I don’t want to be forgotten.”

He grinned at that. “Not a fucking chance.”

You opened your mouth to answer, but then he did something that caught you completely off guard. He reached into his coat again and pulled out a second bouquet. Smaller. Wrapped carefully. Delicate, yet strong in its colors–burgundy ranunculus, midnight cornflowers, ivory anemones, and little strings of clematis winding around the base, all tied with a soft red velvet ribbon.

You stared at it for a full five seconds.

“You brought me flowers,” you said finally, your voice flatter than you meant.

“Don’t read into it,” he said, watching your face. “I didn’t pick ‘em. I had someone put it together. Just told them what I wanted it to look like.”

You reached for it slowly, your fingers brushing his as you took the stems, and for the first time since he’d walked in, you couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

“They’re beautiful,” you said softly, almost shyly. “I didn’t expect…”

“I don’t give gifts,” he said. “But I give back.”

You swallowed, nodding, the velvet ribbon brushing your wrist like a second pulse.

Sukuna looked at you for a long moment, then tilted his head slightly, his voice lower now. “Go out with me.”

Your eyes flicked to his. “What?”

“I want to take you somewhere. Nothing fancy. No setup. Just dinner. Somewhere I can see you in this dress under different lights.”

You stared at him, chest tight with nerves you hadn’t felt in years. “Why?”

"Because I want to know how you speak when you aren't behind the counter. I want to know what you order. I want to know what makes you laugh. I want to see how far down that ribbon goes when you sit down in a booth.”

You should have slapped him. You should have turned him down on principle. But you didn’t. Your fingers were still curled around the stems of the bouquet he brought you, and your heart was thudding somewhere under the corset of your dress like it was trying to claw its way out.

“Yes,” you said, your voice soft and serious.

He smiled slowly and broadly, and for once, it wasn't cruel. It wasn’t dangerous. It was simply pleased.

“I’ll pick you up at eight.”

And with that, he turned and walked out, the bell chiming softly behind him as he left you standing there in your best dress, holding flowers you hadn’t made, your whole chest buzzing like someone had cut open your ribs and whispered something obscene into the center of your heart.

⋆˚✿˖°

The ride had been quiet, not out of discomfort, but tension. That humming silence in which there was too much going on beneath the surface to be disturbed by small talk. He’d picked you up in a sleek black car with windows tinted so dark they may as well have been mirrors. 

The driver didn’t say a word. Sukuna hadn’t either, not until you slid into the seat beside him and the door closed with a soft finality.

He didn’t compliment you, didn’t react overtly to the way the fabric of your dress pulled tight across your thighs when you crossed your legs, or how your perfume clung like a promise in the narrow space between you, but the way he looked at you for those first three seconds had been enough.

Slowly and deliberately, his gaze lowered to the low neckline that scooped just above your breasts. Then, as if he were memorizing every curve, he dragged it down your body before turning to face the front with one hand resting idly against his thigh. 

That silent decision not to say anything had set your skin on fire.

You were now sitting across from him in a private room of a restaurant with no outside signage, one of those word-of-mouth establishments that only the wealthy, violent, or terrifyingly connected seemed to frequent. 

The room was dim, intimate, and rich in detail, with mahogany-paneled walls, gold-dusted sconces that burned low like candlelight, velvet drapes drawn back from tall, soundproof windows, and a ceiling fan turning slowly overhead to circulate the faint scent of saffron, smoke, and honeyed wine. 

You sat in a curved booth made of deep red leather, polished so smooth it barely creaked beneath you, and the table between you was set with silver cutlery, a half-finished bottle of wine, and a floral centerpiece that looked tame and fragile compared to what you could have made yourself. You wondered if Sukuna noticed that.

Your dress clung like sin–midnight blue satin that hugged your hips and cinched your waist, sliding down your body like it had been sewn in place. 

The fabric shimmered faintly with each breath you took, each tiny movement of your thigh beneath the table. It dipped low across your chest, leaving the tops of your breasts perfectly framed, flushed from heat and the two glasses of wine you'd nervously sipped before he even ordered anything. 

Your shoulders were bare, skin brushed with highlighter, your collarbones catching the light like an invitation. Your hair was pinned up in a loose, romantic twist, a few strands falling on purpose to frame your face, and your lips were painted just slightly darker than your natural tone–enough to make them look bitten, but not enough to look desperate.

Sukuna sat across from you with his legs spread slightly under the table, one arm draped along the backrest of the booth, his posture casual in the way men are only when they know they control the room. 

He wore black again, naturally, but tonight it was more decadent–slim tailored pants and a button-up shirt left open at the collar to expose the top of his chest and the thick black ink that curled along his skin. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, exposing the sharp veining in his forearms, and there was a lazy confidence to the way his fingers traced the edge of his wine glass. 

His peach-pink hair was pushed back away from his face with a slight wave, one piece falling forward just above his brow, and the candlelight flickered faintly against his cheekbones and jaw like even the fire knew better than to burn too close.

He hadn’t said much since you sat down, only giving the waiter a nod before requesting privacy, but that didn’t mean the room lacked communication. 

His eyes did all the talking. They stayed on you–hovering shamelessly at your chest, dropping to the curve of your hips when you shifted your weight, then returning to your face like he wanted to see if you’d noticed how thoroughly he was undressing you. 

You didn’t speak either, not at first. 

There was nothing to say that wouldn't sound like stalling, and you had the strange feeling that if you opened your mouth, you'd either laugh nervously or beg for something you couldn’t name yet.

“Eat,” he said finally, his voice low and thick with restraint. He tilted his head toward the untouched plate in front of you, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t bring you here to starve.”

You glanced at the dish, realized you didn’t even remember the waiter bringing it, and picked up your fork with a slightly unsteady hand. The food was expensive, probably perfect, but you couldn’t taste it–not with the way his eyes followed the movement of your lips every time you raised your glass to drink or pushed a bite past your mouth. 

He hadn’t touched his food either. His wine, yes. His silverware, no. It became apparent after five minutes that he hadn’t brought you here to eat either.

“I wasn’t sure you’d say yes,” he said after a pause, his voice quieter now but no less intense.

You lifted your gaze from your plate, your throat tightening slightly. “Why?”

He shrugged, swirling the wine in his glass lazily. 

“You’re careful. You act like you’re not scared of me, but your hands shake when I touch you.” He took a sip. “Women like you don’t usually say yes to men like me unless they’re running from something worse.”

You didn’t flinch, but you didn’t answer either. Instead, you held his gaze, not challenging, not cowering–just steady. And for a brief moment, you shared something other than flirtation, danger, or tension. It was understanding. 

An acknowledgement that this wasn’t a first date. That none of this had ever been innocent.

Then he reached into the side of the booth and pulled something from the interior pocket of his jacket. He didn’t make a show of it. 

Didn’t speak. Simply place it on the table between your wine glasses with the same ease that you would set down a napkin or phone. You recognized it right away, the matte-black finish, the light weight, and the subtle glint of the safety catch. A pistol.

Your body went still.

He watched your face closely as your eyes dropped to it. There was no real fear, but there was caution. Tension. Your fingers froze around the stem of your glass, and your breath came a little shallower.

“I’m not going to use it on you,” he said after a beat, his voice softer than before. “I don’t even want you to be scared of it. I just don’t hide shit from people I want to keep around.”

You blinked slowly, processing the weight of that statement–people I want to keep around. You didn’t ask what that meant. You didn’t ask who else had seen his weapons, or what kind of promises he made with his hands that weren’t verbal. 

You just nodded faintly and took another sip of wine, your hand finally steadying.

A silence stretched between you again, but this time, it didn’t hum with nerves.

 It was weighted with something else entirely–desire thickened by awareness, the kind that made your thighs press together beneath the table, your dress tightening slightly at your waist as your spine straightened under his gaze.

Then he spoke again, quieter than before, and the change in tone sent a shiver down your back.

“Come here.”

You blinked, the words taking a moment to land.

“I said come here,” he repeated, nodding toward the seat beside him. “Sit on my lap.”

You opened your mouth to answer, unsure if you meant to protest or breathe his name, but your legs were already moving. You slipped from your side of the booth with care, smoothing your skirt down with one hand as you rounded the table.

Your heels clicked softly on the floor, muffled by the heavy carpet, and as you approached him, he watched every movement–his eyes flicking from your knees to your hips to the slight sway of your chest and finally to your face, his lips parting just slightly as you stepped into his shadow.

His hands reached for your waist as you stood beside him, the pads of his fingers dragging over the fabric of your dress like he was already imagining what it would feel like without the barrier of silk. 

He guided you down slowly, one hand on your hip and the other sliding to the small of your back, and you settled onto his thigh, your legs draped to one side, your hand braced on the top of his chest to steady yourself. 

The position forced you close–closer than you’d ever dared to be–and you could feel the hard muscle of his leg beneath you, the warmth of his skin under the fabric, and the slow, dangerous pace of his breath brushing your throat.

“You always sit this pretty,” he murmured, dragging his fingers down the curve of your waist, “or just for me?”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. He could feel the way your breath hitched, the way your hand curled tighter into his shirt, and the way your body softened against his hold.

His hand slid to your hip again, gripping tighter now, not enough to hurt but enough to claim. His nose brushed your jaw, and he inhaled once, deeply, like he was memorizing the scent of your perfume, the warmth of your skin, and the tension in your spine. 

His lips never quite touched you, but they hovered–dangerously close–just over the shell of your ear as he murmured, “I’ve thought about this since the moment you walked out in that fucking dress.”

You turned your face slightly, not daring to look him in the eyes, and he responded by tightening his grip again, dragging you half an inch closer, enough that you could feel the heat from the place his thigh pressed between your legs.

Your breath caught audibly, and he smirked, his voice dipping into something darker.

“You gonna let me touch you, flower girl,” he asked, “or are you gonna keep pretending you didn’t come here hoping for exactly this?”

Your lips parted, but the words didn’t come. Maybe they were never meant to. The room felt warmer now, thicker, like the air itself had grown heavy with want, with the kind of lust that made your skin buzz and your chest rise too fast.

Sukuna’s hand, still anchored firmly to your waist, moved slowly downward until the heel of his palm pressed against the flare of your hip, fingers flexing against the silk of your dress like he could feel the heat of your skin underneath. 

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t–not with how dizzy you felt from his scent alone, how close his breath was as it fanned across your throat.

Then, deliberately, he brought his other hand up, sliding it along the length of your thigh where your dress clung the tightest.

He dragged his palm up slowly, fingers spread, thumb pressing into the soft curve of your inner thigh until you shifted without meaning to, hips tipping forward and body arching faintly into the pressure. 

He exhaled a quiet, almost amused breath against your skin, and you shivered when his nose brushed just under your jaw.

“So soft,” he murmured, voice hoarse with restraint. “You really wore this for me, didn’t you?” He kissed you then–not on the lips, but lower, right beneath your ear, where your pulse fluttered like a bird’s wings. 

His mouth was warm and smooth, lips firm, tongue flicking out to taste you as if he already knew you’d be sweet, as if he was right and he just wanted you to feel how thoroughly he planned to prove it. 

He didn’t ask permission when he dragged that same hand further up your thigh, palm cupping the heat between your legs through your dress, his grip steady, possessive, his fingers pressing into the soaked satin stretched tight over your cunt.

You gasped, the sound soft and shocked and completely involuntary, and Sukuna’s mouth curved into a grin against your skin.

 “That wet already?” He whispered, dragging his hand slowly, rhythmically over your core. 

“Didn’t even touch you properly, and you’re already fucking soaked.” He raised his head just enough to look at you, and the heat in his eyes was enough to knock the breath out of your lungs.

 “You want to ride my thigh like some desperate little thing?” he asked. “Or are you gonna sit still and pretend you don’t want me to ruin this pretty dress?”

You didn’t answer with words. You couldn’t. Your hips moved on instinct, the drag of satin against your clit making your eyes flutter, your fingers tightening around the front of his shirt as you ground down against the thick muscle of his thigh. 

The pressure was just enough to send a sharp pulse of pleasure up your spine, and you let out a shaky breath that could have easily been a whimper. Sukuna growled low in his throat and slid his hand up your back, pulling you closer, chest to chest, so close you could feel his heartbeat where it pressed against your ribs. 

He kissed you then–hard and filthy and without warning, mouth slanting over yours with heat and hunger, his tongue pushing past your lips as his fingers dug into your hip to grind you harder down against his thigh.

The kiss was messy, open-mouthed, teeth clashing for a second before he sucked on your tongue like he wanted to devour you whole. 

Your lips parted in a gasp when he broke away, only to kiss you again, slower this time, his mouth hot and slick and possessive as he stole every breath you tried to take.

 His hand moved back between your thighs, rubbing slow, firm circles over your clit through the fabric while you rocked against him, the friction of satin and strength and heat making your whole body ache with want.

“Fuck,” he muttered, biting your bottom lip just enough to make you gasp. “You’re fuckin’ trembling. You really gonna come just from this?” 

You moaned softly against his mouth, your hips moving more desperately now, chasing every stroke of pressure as your clit throbbed under his hand. 

He caught your chin in his fingers and tilted your face up, forcing your eyes to meet his even as your hips moved faster, thighs shaking.

“Look at me,” he said, voice thick and dark. “I wanna see your face when you come.”

You tried to keep your eyes on his, but it was too much–the way he touched you like he already owned every inch of you, the way he watched every twitch and shiver like he was memorizing how to break you open with nothing but his hands and his mouth and that fucking voice. 

His thigh flexed beneath you, solid and strong, and your cunt clenched hard around nothing as the heat in your stomach coiled tight, tighter, your movements frantic now, too slick, too fucking close.

Then his hand slipped lower, fingers dragging the fabric of your dress to the side until the thin scrap of your panties was the only thing between his touch and your soaked pussy. 

He groaned at the sight, thumb pressing hard against your clit as his other fingers dipped beneath the fabric and found your slit, soaked and throbbing, lips already spread from how much you'd been grinding.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t wait. He just pushed two fingers inside you, slow and deep, his thumb still circling your clit as he curled them up to find that spot that made you cry out loud, your hand flying to his shoulder for balance.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he hissed against your neck, pumping his fingers deep inside you, fucking you on his lap like he couldn’t wait to see how your cunt would feel around his cock instead. 

“Tight and wet and fucking greedy. You’re sucking me in like you’ve needed this all fucking week.”

Your moans spilled out of you now, breathless and broken, your hips jerking with every thrust of his fingers, every drag of your clit against his palm and thigh, your muscles coiled so tight you felt like you were going to shatter.

You reached for his face, kissing him hard, messy, teeth and tongue and desperation as your orgasm started to build too fast, too sharp, everything hot and wet and perfect.

“Come on,” Sukuna growled, voice rough in your ear. “Come for me, flower girl. Let me feel how wet you get when you break.” 

His fingers fucked you faster, harder, the wet sounds of your cunt obscene in the quiet room, his thumb pressing mercilessly against your clit until your legs gave out and you came with a cry muffled into his shoulder, your entire body tensing as the orgasm tore through you.

You shook against him, your cunt fluttering around his fingers, soaking his palm and the silk of your dress, your face buried against his throat as your breathing came ragged and fast. 

He didn’t stop until you were limp, until the aftershocks made you twitch, until he was sure you couldn’t take anymore. 

Then, finally, he pulled his fingers from you, lifting them slowly to his mouth and sucking them clean like he didn’t care how filthy he looked, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Tastes like heaven,” he murmured, and you were already sinking against him again, thighs slick and trembling, dress wrinkled and bunched around your waist.

Your lipstick was smudged, mouth open in disbelief at what just happened in a restaurant booth where someone could walk in at any moment.

One second you were still collecting yourself, the next you were on unsteady legs and flushed skin clinging to Sukuna's arm as he walked you out of the restaurant’s back hallway. The scent of him clinging to your skin like the ghost of what he’d just done to you. 

Your panties were still soaked beneath your dress, clinging uncomfortably between your thighs, and every step made the aftershocks of your orgasm pulse quietly in your core. 

The hall was dim and empty, the luxury restaurant already halfway closed to the public at this hour, and the silence between you wasn’t awkward but thick with heat, like the night itself was holding its breath.

He kept a hand on your waist as you exited through a private back entrance, one he’d arranged without you even realizing it, and the heavy door clicked shut behind you with a finality that made your breath catch. 

The parking lot was nearly empty, all but one sleek black car pulled up against the far end, tinted windows and matte paint that gleamed like oil under the streetlamp. 

"Wait what happened to the driver?" you asked, looking up at him as he stared ahead.

When he opened the car door, the interior light flickered on to reveal the wide, leather backseat already pulled forward, the cabin practically humming with warmth. You hesitated for a half-second, unsure if he meant for you to slide in first or–

"Told him to leave the car to me," he muttered briskly, walking you across the pavement slowly, his hand never leaving your body. His thumb was rubbing gentle circles against your hip like he hadn’t just fucked you on his thigh minutes ago.

His hand dropped to the small of your back and pressed you in, not roughly, but with purpose, guiding you as you slipped into the backseat and settled into the leather with your thighs still pressed tight and your dress bunched slightly at your hips.

The door shut behind you with a soft click, and then he was there, stepping in after you, stretching his long body across the width of the seat like the space was made for him. His knees bracketed yours as he adjusted, slouching slightly with his legs open, eyes raking over you with a hunger that hadn’t dulled in the slightest.

Your breath trembled when his hand came up again, this time resting on your thigh, fingers spread wide over the still-warm silk of your dress. 

He didn’t speak–just looked at you, his face cast half in shadow from the faint streetlamp outside, and there was something about the way he sat there, so composed, so calm, with his hand gripping your thigh and his breathing thick and low, that made you shift closer without thinking.

You weren’t thinking, not really, as your hand found the front of his slacks. He was already hard. Not just firm or thick–massive. You could feel the sheer size of him through the fabric, and your fingers curled slightly, the outline of his cock making your throat go dry. 

You glanced up at him once, but he didn’t stop you and didn’t even flinch. He just watched as you moved, as you slid your hand along the length of him, as your mouth parted with the realization that you weren’t sure you’d even be able to fit him in your mouth, let alone take him fully.

But you still tried.

Your fingers worked at his belt, slow but clumsy, the tension making it nearly impossible to focus. You got it undone, finally, then unzipped his slacks with trembling hands, the sound of the zipper loud in the quiet car. 

He shifted slightly to help you, and your breath caught when his cock sprang free–long, thick, flushed deep with arousal, the tip already glistening. He was fucking huge. 

Huge enough to make your thighs clench in unspoken fear and desire, and big enough to make your heart race with heat and nerves.

You leaned down slowly, your hair falling over your shoulder as you curled your fingers around the base of him. He was heavy in your hand, hot and pulsing against your palm, and you licked your lips once before lowering your mouth. 

Your lips wrapped around the tip, tongue sliding against the head as you sucked gently, uncertain, trying to mimic what you’d seen in porn and what felt right. 

You hollowed your cheeks slightly, sliding down as far as you could, but it wasn’t far–your jaw stretched uncomfortably wide, and you could feel yourself gag slightly when you hit the midpoint.

Sukuna groaned low in his chest, his hand sliding into your hair to cradle–not guide, not force, just hold–and the warmth of his palm made your stomach tighten. 

You sucked him slowly, clumsily, your tongue dragging along the underside as you moved your head, your hand working what your mouth couldn’t reach. You tried to breathe through your nose, your eyes beginning to sting as the pressure built, but you didn’t stop. 

You wanted to do it right. You wanted to please him.

“You’re not good at this,” he muttered, voice rough and full of restraint, “but fuck, you’re trying.”

You whimpered around him, your cheeks heating in shame, but he didn’t push you away. 

He stroked your hair again, gentler this time, and you felt him twitch in your mouth. “Pretty mouth. Gonna make me come if you keep sucking me like that, messy and desperate.” 

You moaned softly around him, your tongue swirling, mouth wet and noisy now, saliva dripping down your chin as you pumped his cock with both hands and lips, letting the tip drag against the roof of your mouth before pulling off with a gasp.

“Fuck,” you breathed, wiping your chin with the back of your hand. “You’re too big–”

He cut you off by grabbing you under the arms and dragging you onto his lap with a low growl, your dress riding up to your waist as he settled you across his thighs.

“Good thing I’m not asking for your mouth anymore,” he said, voice thick with hunger, one hand wrapping around the back of your neck as the other pushed your soaked panties to the side.

You were wet. Still. Your folds slipped easily under his fingers, slick with arousal and need, your cunt pulsing at the thought of him inside you. He lined himself up without ceremony, and before you could say a word, the thick head of his cock was pushing between your lips, stretching you wide as he sank into you slowly. 

Your mouth fell open, eyes fluttering shut as the pressure built–tight and hot and overwhelming. He was huge and too thick, the stretch almost unbearable, and your fingers dug into his shoulders as you gasped. 

“Fuck–Sukuna, you’re–”

He kissed you with such force to shut you up, tongue sweeping into your mouth as he bottomed out, your body trembling around him as your cunt spasmed at the fullness, the pain mingling with the sharp edge of pleasure. 

He didn’t move at first, letting you adjust, your breath panting into his mouth, your nails scratching down his chest as you tried to relax.

Then he rolled his hips once, slow and brutal, and your eyes snapped open.

He fucked you slow at first–deep thrusts that dragged every inch of his cock through your slick walls, his hands gripping your ass as he pulled you down hard to meet every thrust. 

The sound of wet skin filled the car, obscene and filthy, your cries muffled against his neck as he whispered filth into your ear.

“You’re taking it so fucking well,” he groaned. “This tight little cunt’s made for me. I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t think.”

You could barely breathe, let alone think. Each stroke hit deep, grinding against that spot that made your vision blur, and your hips rocked to meet him, desperate for more, for faster, for harder. He gave it to you.

He lifted your hips and slammed you down on his cock again and again and again, his pace brutal now, his breath ragged in your ear as your walls clamped down around him.

You were close again–too close–your thighs shaking, your nails leaving half-moons in his skin. Your orgasm ripped through you fast and sharp, your scream caught in your throat as your cunt fluttered wildly, gripping him hard, soaking his lap as you came with a sob.

He didn’t stop.

He pulled you closer, held you tighter, and kept fucking you through it with the kind of punishing rhythm that triggered shock waves throughout your entire body. His cock swelled inside you, and his pace stuttered.

Then he growled in your ear, “I’m gonna fill you up.”

You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t breathe. You just nodded, clinging to him as he buried himself deep one final time and came with a deep, guttural groan, his cock pulsing as he spilled hot inside you, the pressure of it so intense you whimpered again, cunt still fluttering from aftershocks.

You stayed there like that–panting, wrecked, full–with your forehead pressed to his collarbone and his hands stroking your back, slow and soothing, as if he hadn’t just fucked you within an inch of your sanity in the backseat of a goddamn car.

Once again your body was limp in his lap, your dress still bunched at your waist, your breath sticky against his throat, and the next his hands were under your thighs, lifting you with ease, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist like you were afraid the contact might break if you let go. 

He carried you to the drivers car door like you weighed nothing, opened it with one hand, and dropped into the driver’s seat with you still fully seated on him, facing forward, your slick thighs spread over his lap as he adjusted the mirror like this was the most natural way to operate a vehicle.

“I’m not getting out,” you murmured as he reached past you to buckle the seatbelt around both your bodies, his hand grazing the side of your breast as he clicked it into place.

“Didn’t ask you to,” he said, voice thick with arousal and amusement, his mouth brushing your jaw as he started the car. “You’re staying here until I say otherwise.”

The engine purred under you, and so did he. You could feel the swell of his cock beneath you again, not fully hard yet but thick and alive under your soaked panties, still twitching occasionally inside the confines of his slacks. 

Your dress was a mess around your hips, barely covering anything, and your skin felt raw in the best way, every bump in the road sending a new jolt of overstimulation through your core. 

His hand gripped the wheel, casual and possessive, while the other rested low on your thigh, his thumb brushing slow, hypnotic circles into your skin as the city lights passed in smears of gold and red.

The car smelled like sex and heat and expensive cologne, and you couldn’t stop shifting on his lap, your cunt still leaking from earlier, sensitive and needy, like your body didn’t realize he hadn’t finished with you yet. 

You weren’t sure what possessed you–maybe the wine, maybe the high from your orgasm, maybe just the knowledge that this man could ruin you and would happily do so again–but you rolled your hips against him, slow and deliberate, your head resting against his shoulder as you pressed down on his cock through his pants.

“You’re insatiable,” he muttered, glancing down at you with a grin that bordered on feral.

“You made me this way,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper as your hand slid between your bodies to unfasten his belt again.

His breath hitched as he drove one-handed through a red light, not even flinching when someone honked in the distance. You pulled his cock free again, thick and flushed and heavy in your hand, and shifted your hips until he was pressed directly between your soaked folds.

It wasn’t inside, just nestled there, warm and slick, the head dragging through your dripping cunt as you rocked forward.

“You better not make me crash,” he growled.

“Then drive faster,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

The next ten minutes were a blur of traffic lights, you grinding down against him while he cursed under his breath, his hips lifting off the seat every time your clit caught the ridge of his cock. 

By the time the building came into view–tall, modern, the kind of tower that screamed power and privacy–you were dizzy with need, and he was fully hard again, cock throbbing against your swollen pussy as you whimpered into his throat.

He parked in a private underground spot, shut off the engine, and had you out of the car in seconds. Your legs wrapped around him again without hesitation, arms clinging to his neck as he carried you to the private elevator, tapping a key card to a panel with the same hand gripping your ass. 

The moment the doors closed, his mouth was on yours again–hot, devouring, impatient–his tongue thrusting between your lips as he ground you against the bulge in his slacks.

“I should fuck you right here,” he growled against your mouth, biting your lower lip until you gasped. “You’re dripping all over my fucking clothes.”

You could barely answer, barely breathe. Your whole body felt like an extension of his grip, and every drag of his hands made you twitch with want. But he didn’t fuck you in the elevator. 

He waited until the doors opened directly into his penthouse–a massive, open space with black marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, dark furnishings, and the scent of leather and money everywhere. He didn’t flick a single light on. The city lit the entire room in blue and gold.

He kicked the door shut behind him and didn’t stop walking until he hit the center of the living room. He didn’t set you down. He adjusted his grip and slid your body down just enough to press the head of his cock against your soaked entrance, your panties shoved aside, your thighs barely hanging onto his hips.

“I need to taste you screaming again,” he muttered against your neck.

And then he pushed inside–slow, thick, all of him at once.

You gasped, tightening your arms around his shoulders as he filled you to the brim. There was no easing in this time. There was no time to breathe, adjust, or plead. 

He fucked you standing with brutal strokes, your dress bunched around your waist, your breasts pressed against his chest, your mouth falling open with every thrust as your back scraped faintly against the smooth front of his shirt.

 The sound of your cunt squelching around him echoed in the open space, lewd and shameless, and he grunted with every movement, his hands gripping your ass as he bounced you on his cock like you weighed nothing.

“So fucking tight,” he groaned. “I’ll never stop thinking about this pussy.”

You moaned louder, unable to hold it in, your face buried in his neck as he fucked you harder, faster, the slap of skin against skin almost drowned out by your cries. 

He didn’t pause. Didn’t falter. He simply held you there, cock pistoning into you with obscene force as he shifted slightly, adjusting his angle until you were clawing at his back, your voice catching in your throat.

When he finally dropped onto the massive couch behind him, he never let you go. He landed with you still on his cock, the shift in angle making you arch like you’d been electrocuted, and his hands gripped your hips so tight you knew you’d bruise. 

He thrust up into you, lifting you slightly only to slam you back down, again and again, the entire couch shifting beneath you.

“That’s it,” he panted, mouth against your throat, “take it, baby. Take all of it. You’re fucking made for this.”

You could barely answer. Could barely think. You were already so close again, cunt fluttering with every thrust, your clit dragging against the edge of his pelvis until the pleasure built sharp and cruel and blinding. 

You cried out as your orgasm slammed through you, cunt spasming around him, and he cursed low in your ear, groaning as he slowed just enough to let you feel every inch as he fucked you through it.

When your body went limp, shivering in his lap, he didn’t stop. He leaned forward, mouth catching yours again in a deep, slow kiss, and thrust up one final time–deep, hard, buried to the root–and came with a ragged groan, his cock twitching as he filled you again, his breath hot against your lips.

His hands stroked your back, your hips, and your thighs as you came down from the high, your chest heaving against his, and after a long, quiet beat, he exhaled and leaned his head back against the couch.

“This place could be yours too,” he said, voice thick, almost lazy, as if the offer had always been there, just waiting for the right moment to be said aloud.

You whimpered softly in response, too wrecked to form words, but the way your nails curled against his chest made it clear you heard him–and that some part of you wanted to believe it.

⋆˚✿˖°

The room was quiet, lit only by the faint blue wash of early morning threading through the sheer curtains. The penthouse was still, the city below distant and muffled, its sounds too far away to touch the silence curling in the air. 

The bed beneath you was massive–king-sized, maybe bigger–draped in dark linen that smelled like him, warm and thick and masculine, laced with the tang of sweat and sex. 

Your body ached in a way that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the way Sukuna had fucked you like he was trying to bury himself into your skin and never come back out.

You tried to shift, just slightly, but the arm around your waist tightened instantly. His body was flush against yours, bare and solid behind you, chest to your back, one leg slotted between yours to keep them spread even in sleep. 

His cock was still inside you–soft now, but thick enough that your cunt clenched involuntarily at the stretch. You were sore, used, leaking his cum down the inside of your thigh, your pussy still swollen and raw from how many times he’d taken you last night, and yet–he hadn’t let you move. 

Not when he slipped into you again late at night, not when he mumbled something possessive against your shoulder and wrapped his arms around you like a temptation, and not even now, as your body squirmed faintly from the dull, needy ache that was beginning to build again.

“Sukuna,” you whispered, voice dry and hoarse, but your hips betrayed you, rocking ever so slightly against the cock nestled deep inside you.

He groaned low behind you, his voice still heavy with sleep, his lips dragging against your nape. “You awake now?” he murmured, the rumble of his voice vibrating against your spine. “Good. Stay still.”

You let out a breathless sound, something between a whimper and a plea, but you didn’t move away. His hand slid up your body, over your ribcage and beneath your breast, cupping it lazily as he pulled you tighter against him. 

His thumb brushed over your nipple slowly and deliberately, and your cunt clenched around him instinctively, wetness gathering despite the soreness.

“You feel that?” he said, voice rasping against your ear. “You’re already fuckin’ wet again, and I haven’t even moved.”

Your hand reached behind you, weakly pressing at his hip in protest, but he just chuckled, biting down on your shoulder, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make you gasp.

“Let me warm up inside you,” he whispered. “Just for a bit. I wanna feel you wrapped around me while I wake up.”

You trembled under the weight of his body and the heat of his cock inside you, unable to fight the slow, creeping pleasure curling back into your belly. 

He wasn’t moving–just staying buried inside you, full and heavy, his hands smoothing over your waist and stomach like he was mapping out all the ways you’d already given in to him. 

His mouth returned to your neck, kissing the bruises he’d left the night before, lips dragging over each one like a signature.

“You look pretty like this,” he said, voice thick with fondness and filth. “Fucked out. Full of my cum. You can't even think clearly, can you?

You whimpered, your head lolling back against his chest. “Hurts,” you whispered. “I’m sore.”

He hummed in mock sympathy, but his hand was already sliding down between your legs, fingers brushing your clit with a featherlight touch.

 “I know, baby. That’s how it should be.” He kissed your temple, his cock twitching faintly inside you. “You’ll get used to it.”

You didn’t try to fight it. You were too far gone. Too warm. Too full. He pressed his palm flat against your stomach and kissed your neck again, this time slower and softer, and the way he held you made your chest ache.

“I’m gonna build you a garden,” he muttered against your skin. “Right outside the city. Something huge. Roses, nightshade, all that shit you like. You’ll have a whole fucking glasshouse if you want it.”

You let out a faint laugh, breath hitching as his fingers moved more firmly over your clit. “You don’t know how to garden.”

“I don’t need to,” he said, smirking. “I’ll buy a mansion with one. Or shoot some fucker who already has it.” He kissed the side of your throat again. “Some rich asshole with a pretty Alice in Wonderland spread. I’ll hand you the deed with blood on it.”

Your cunt clenched again, and he groaned deep in his throat. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he whispered. “Waking up in a bed like this, my cock still inside you, a dead man’s garden waiting outside.”

You could barely answer. You were already grinding down again, slowly, your body ignoring the soreness as slick began to drip once more from your cunt, your clit brushing the curve of his palm with every desperate shift.

He laughed again, low and pleased. “Good girl. Now let’s see if I can make you come without even pulling out.”

A/N: I got a job at a cafe :3 anyway pls like, follow & reblog or imma give this blog up lmfaooo ALSO PLS GO CHECK OUT MY OTHER WORKS

[nimueshell]

ﮩ٨ـﮩPatient Confidentiality(T.F)

Summary: You’re a nurse for Toji Fushigoru. He’s injured, impossible, and way too good at making you forget the rules.

Substance: age gap, silver fox!Toji, nurse!fem reader, rough sex, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), face sitting (implied), thigh riding, dirty talk, spit kink, hand over mouth, creampie, breeding talk, possessive Toji, Toji, praise kink, aftercare, smoking after sex, mildly emotional intimacy, accidental feelings, power imbalance, work relationship, unprofessional behavior, dom!Toji, submissive!reader, body worship, dry humping, semi-public sex.

W/C: 11.4k

The first thing you noticed when the door opened was that Toji Fushigoru did not look like a man in recovery.

He looked like a walking bad decision.

Broad as a refrigerator, shirtless despite the November air, and sporting a bandaged shoulder that was probably supposed to be in a sling (spoiler: it wasn't), he stood in the doorway like you were the inconvenience. His hair was tousled dark silver, short on the sides and messy on top, the kind of mess that made your fingers twitch. His eyes? That bored, shark-like green with a glint that said he either wanted to fuck you or kill you, and honestly, with that face, you weren't sure which would be worse.

"You’re the nurse?" he asked, voice low, a little rough, like gravel rolled in whiskey. He gave you a once-over so slow it should’ve come with a warning label. "Didn’t know they sent escorts with first aid kits now."

You blinked, heels clicking once as you stepped inside, brushing past him. “And you’re the patient with the attitude problem. Guess we’re both disappointed.”

He let out a short, low laugh that vibrated somewhere deep in your core. God, he was too much. His torso was all muscle and old scars, veins mapping down thick arms that looked like they hadn’t lifted anything lighter than a bodybag in years. His gray sweatpants sat low on his hips, teasing a defined V-line that absolutely should not have existed on a man who claimed to be injured.

You didn’t need to check his chart to know the damage wasn’t just physical.

"You're limping," you said, tossing your bag onto the couch as you surveyed the living room, messy, dark, smelled faintly of eucalyptus and bourbon. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

He gave a slow shrug. “Bed’s boring.” A pause. “Unless you’re getting in it too.”

You turned to glare at him. “You know I’m a medical professional, right?”

He grinned, the corner of his mouth curling like the devil just told him a dirty joke. “Sweetheart, I used to be a hitman. I’ve had bullets taken out by guys named Vito behind strip clubs. If you’re professional, I’m a fuckin’ choirboy.”

God help you. This was going to be a long month.

He limped after you as you made your way toward the hallway, clearly enjoying the way your nurse outfit hugged your hips. You regretted wearing the tight scrubs, but it was laundry day and you didn’t expect him to ogle you like you were the last warm body on earth.

"You always wear stuff like that?" he asked behind you, his voice lowering a note. “Tight little pants and nothin’ underneath?”

“Why?” you shot back over your shoulder. “Need something to fantasize about while I ice your shoulder?”

“Among other things,” he muttered, already imagining you bent over the kitchen counter with a thermometer still in your mouth.

You didn’t see the way his eyes dropped again, focused entirely on the sway of your ass as you walked ahead. But you felt it. That heat. That gaze. The kind of attention that made your skin prickle and your thighs tense.

Professional boundaries? Sure. You had them. You wanted to keep them.

But with Toji fucking Fushigoru watching you like a starving man eyes a buffet? Yeah. You were already fucked.

Toji followed you like a shadow with bad intentions, limping just enough to remind you of his injury, but not enough to sell the whole frail and helpless thing. No, this man was still all menace and mass, like someone duct-taped a grenade to a bodybuilder and said, walk it off.

You stopped in the middle of the living room and turned, clipboard already in hand like a holy relic against temptation.

“Alright,” you said, flipping through the pages. “I have a checklist for your care. We’re going to do this by the book - daily PT, meals with low sodium, dressing changes, sleep monitoring, and mobility supervision. I’ll be living here for the next few weeks while you recover, so we’re gonna need to establish some ground rules.”

“Rules,” he repeated, clearly offended. “I didn’t realize I was at fuckin’ summer camp.”

You didn’t flinch. “If you want to be sent back to the hospital with a nurse who has less patience and more testosterone, I’m sure we can arrange it.”

Toji smirked, licking his bottom lip slowly. “Nah. I like mine soft around the edges.” His eyes dropped down your body again, shameless. “You got any more of those tight uniforms, or am I stuck with this same one every day?”

You sighed, dragging a hand down your face. “This is not how this works.”

He sat on the arm of the couch, legs spread like a man who had absolutely no respect for personal space or air circulation. His biceps flexed lazily as he stretched, making a low noise in his throat as he adjusted the bandage on his shoulder.

“Relax, sweetheart. I’ll be good,” he said, voice syrupy and fake. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout.”

“Nope. I was too busy fucking their moms.”

You stared at him, unamused. “Great. Now, as I was saying…wound care is daily. I’ll need to remove the bandages and clean them. Which means no flexing while I’ve got alcohol near your skin.”

He raised a brow, voice dropping. “You’re gonna undress me?”

“Technically, yes.”

Toji let out a filthy little laugh that made your stomach twist. “Try not to moan when you see me naked. Bad for your reputation.”

“I will sedate you,” you threatened flatly. “Right in your dick.”

He grinned, slow and wolfish. “Kinky.”

God, he was exhausting already.

You scribbled something aggressively on the clipboard just to keep your hands busy. “Also, three meals a day. No junk food. No red meat. No smoking. And you cannot drink while you're on meds.”

He made a face like you'd just told him his dick had been revoked. “You’re worse than my ex-wife.”

“I’m worse than all your exes combined,” you muttered, scanning the next item. “Which brings me to the bathroom - shower assistance is available if you need it.”

Toji blinked. Then grinned. “Oh, I need it.”

You looked up at him sharply. “Don’t even-"

“I’m serious. Leg’s stiff. Can’t bend it right. You might need to get in close, y’know? Scrub all the hard-to-reach places.”

“Like your mouth?”

“Exactly. You volunteering, Nurse?”

You wrote psychopath in the margins next to “mobility check-in.”

He leaned back slightly, eyes half-lidded. “You ever play doctor when you were a kid? Like, the dirty kind?”

You deadpanned, “Did you?”

“Hell no. I lived it.”

You closed your eyes and counted to five. “My room is at the end of the hall. You do not knock unless you are bleeding or unconscious. If I catch you jerking off within earshot, I’m charging overtime.”

“You think I’d do it where you could hear?” he asked, leaning forward like he was about to confess a crime. “Sweetheart, if I’m jerking off, it’s because I want you to hear.”

There was no God. Only Toji, and the cruel smirk on his face.

You inhaled sharply, turned on your heel, and marched toward the hallway. “Fine. Six a.m. tomorrow. PT starts then. Wear something that doesn’t reek of sin and nicotine.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he called after you, voice smug as hell.

“I swear to Christ I will euthanize you.”

Toji just chuckled, leaning back with a satisfied grunt, and watched your hips as you stormed away, clipboard clutched tight, your ass doing God’s work in those pants. So far, post-op life was looking real good.

-

The next morning came too fast, dragging its heels like a hangover. You were already regretting this assignment as you tied your hair back in the kitchen, sipping lukewarm coffee and mentally preparing for battle. You wore a new set of scrubs - looser, less inviting - but something told you Toji Fushigoru didn’t give a damn about fit. He was the type to undress people with his eyes no matter what they were wearing, and probably expected you to say thank you after.

When you knocked on his bedroom door at 6:02 AM sharp, he didn’t answer.

You knocked again, harder. “Toji. Physical therapy. Now.”

A low groan came from the other side of the door, gravel-thick, drawn out, entirely not medical in nature.

“Fuck... this early?” he mumbled. “You tryna kill me or get me hard?”

You opened the door. He was shirtless, again. The comforter was kicked down to his waist, exposing the lean, scarred torso of a man who didn’t know how to die properly. His hair was a wild mess of dark silver against the pillow, his arm tossed up over his forehead in lazy defiance. His bandaged shoulder peeked out beneath the covers, looking slightly swollen but manageable. He smelled like expensive body soap and sin.

You sighed and walked in, setting your clipboard down with a dramatic thud. “I’m starting to think you like playing helpless.”

He cracked one eye open and grinned like he was about to make things significantly worse. “What can I say? I love being taken care of.”

“I’m not here to coddle you.”

“You sure?” he muttered, propping himself up slowly on one elbow. His abs flexed. Of course they fucking flexed. “I was thinking maybe you’d sit on my face and call it therapeutic.”

You didn’t even blink. “Up. Now. Stretching first.”

Toji groaned again, deep and throaty as he dragged himself upright, the blanket sliding down to reveal a dangerous amount of hip. Sweatpants. No underwear. You turned away, immediately pretending the clipboard was fascinating.

“You know,” he drawled as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, “I think I pulled something in my groin last night. Might need you to take a closer look.”

“I will euthanize you with a smile.”

“God, you’re hot when you’re threatening me.”

You ignored him and handed him a resistance band. “Sit on the edge of the bed. One leg out, one bent. You’re going to stretch that thigh. Pull the band slowly.”

He took the band, raising a brow. “You sure you don’t want to pull it for me?”

“You have two working hands.”

“Not for long if you keep walking around like that.” His eyes dropped again - neck, chest, hips, legs, the full tour with VIP access. He shifted his legs apart just slightly, the movement subtle but intentional, like he wanted you to see the outline of his cock through his sweats.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking. “You have five minutes to do these reps or I’m pouring your protein shake down the drain.”

Toji groaned dramatically, grabbing the band with exaggerated effort like he was 85 and on his deathbed. He pulled the band, his bicep tensing, his expression twisting into something dark and smug. Then, he hissed.

“Fuck. That burns.”

“Good. Means it’s working.”

“I was talking about my dick.”

You almost dropped your clipboard.

“I will document this,” you said tightly.

He smirked through the next few reps, every one of his grunts increasingly obscene. “You like that? The noises I make?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

You stepped closer, crouching slightly to correct his posture, two fingers brushing under his knee to adjust the angle. You didn’t realize how close you were until you looked up and saw him staring down at you, mouth parted, his gaze low and hungry.

“Damn,” he murmured. “You look good on your knees.”

Your fingers dug into his thigh without warning, hard enough to bruise.

“Okay, okay,” he hissed, laughing breathlessly. “Shit. I’m just sayin’- you got a very specific energy right now. Makes a man think things.”

“Think quieter,” you snapped, standing.

Toji grinned, rotating his shoulder with a low groan, sweat already starting to bead at his collarbone. “You gonna do this with me every morning?”

“Until your body stops trying to fall apart, yes.”

He leaned back on his hands, chest rising with every breath, his abs tightening with the stretch. “Mm. Guess I should give you a tip, then. Show my appreciation.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“Who said anything about money?”

You pointed toward the yoga mat on the floor. “Down. We’re doing hip bridges next.”

His smirk widened like it was Christmas. “You just wanna watch my hips move, don’t you?”

“Down, Fushigoru. Or I swear to God I will taser your nuts.”

Toji chuckled darkly, dragging himself down to the mat with a dramatic sigh. “You’re lucky I’m into that.”

The mat creaked beneath him as he lifted his hips on your command, slow, deliberate thrusts into the air, his sweatpants clinging to every inch of him. He grunted on every lift, exaggerated as hell, until your face was burning and your clipboard had a death grip in your hands.

“Tell me how I’m doin’, Nurse,” he purred. “Am I tight? Am I strong?”

You stared down at him, jaw locked, breath shallow.

This man was going to kill you.

Toji was halfway through his third set of hip bridges when he did something you hadn’t expected, he groaned again, but this time, it wasn’t performative filth.

It was sharp. Real. And laced with a very distinct, very masculine fuck.

“Shit…cramp,” he hissed, dropping his hips too fast, wincing as he twisted to the side.

You were by his side in an instant, clipboard forgotten, heart slamming against your ribs.

“Where?” you asked, crouching next to him.

“Back of the thigh,” he grunted, already trying to roll onto his side, his face tight with discomfort. “Fuck. It locked up, don’t touch it, I swear to god, I’ll-”

You touched it anyway.

He growled through clenched teeth. “Woman, you got a death wish?”

You pressed your palm gently into the thick muscle of his thigh, warm and rock-solid even in pain, and started kneading with practiced precision. His groan turned guttural. Louder. Less pain, more oh fuck that feels good.

“Breathe through it,” you ordered.

“Oh, I am,” he rasped, tipping his head back. His teeth grit, a vein in his neck standing out as your fingers worked the cramp free. “Jesus Christ, your hands-”

“Try flexing the foot,” you said, ignoring the heat pooling between your own legs.

He did as told, thigh twitching under your hand. “Holy fuck, if this is what hell feels like, keep goin’.”

You pressed firmer. His leg jerked. And suddenly-

You slipped.

It was stupid, really. Your hand slid off the sweat-slick muscle, your balance already compromised from the weird angle, and in one very undignified, gravity-fueled motion - you ended up toppling directly onto him.

“Shit-!”

You braced a hand on his chest, eyes wide, your thighs now straddling one of his. Your other knee wedged between his legs, and you could feel it, how hot and hard he was beneath the fabric of his sweats, even in the middle of a supposed “medical emergency.”

Toji blinked. Slowly.

His smirk was criminal.

“Well, well,” he said, voice dropping an octave, all rough smoke and pure sin. “Looks like Nurse finally fell for me.”

You glared at him, still panting, your hands now awkwardly pressed to his sweat-slick skin. “I swear to God-”

“Hey,” he rasped, the mischief giving way to something deeper. His hand found your waist firmly, deliberate. His thumb stroked your hip, slow, almost comforting. “Not movin’ unless you do. Cramp’s still there. Guess we’re stuck like this.”

You tried to shift back, but his grip tightened. Just slightly. Just enough. His cock twitched against your thigh.

“Don’t,” he murmured. “Feels good.”

You stared at him. His hair was mussed, his eyes half-lidded, his lips parted, still damp with exertion. His pulse throbbed under the hand you had braced on his neck. And underneath you? That cock - thick, heavy, begging to be acknowledged.

“Your leg’s going to cramp worse if you keep tensing like that,” you muttered, breathless.

“I ain’t tensing ‘cause of the leg, sweetheart.”

Your face burned. “This is wildly inappropriate.”

He smiled, all teeth. “Then get off me.”

You didn’t.

Seconds dragged between you. One of his fingers traced the waistband of your scrubs, slowly, like a man testing how much sin he could get away with before you slapped him or begged him to keep going.

“You got somethin’ to say to me, Nurse?” he asked, voice low.

You licked your lips, barely realizing you were leaning down closer. “Yeah,” you whispered, your voice tight and trembling. “You’re an asshole.”

He laughed. “And yet you’re still on top of me.”

You pulled back, tried to, only for his other hand to slide to your lower back, keeping you in place with alarming ease. His palm spanned the dip of your spine, fingers teasing the hem of your shirt.

“Let me guess,” he murmured. “You’re gonna add this to the report?”

“Shut up.”

“Toji.” His voice was lower now, almost teasing. “Say it.”

“Toji.”

“Again.”

“Toji.”

“Fuck, that sounds good,” he muttered, cock straining beneath you, the friction undeniable now. “Bet you sound even better moaning it.”

You gasped when his hips rocked just slightly. Barely a grind. Just enough to feel the throb. You shoved at his chest and finally rolled off, stumbling to your feet like you hadn’t just been five seconds away from dry-humping your patient into the fucking floor.

Toji stayed on the mat, arms behind his head now, staring up at you with a look that said he’d be jerking off to this later, and loudly.

You snatched the clipboard up. “PT’s over for today. Try not to hump the yoga mat.”

He grinned like he’d already won. “Only if you agree to sit on my face tomorrow.”

You stormed off without another word. Behind you, his laugh followed like smoke.

–

You shouldn’t have straddled him. You knew you shouldn’t have straddled him.

It was supposed to be simple: post-PT bandage check, quick disinfectant swipe, new gauze. Five minutes of contact, maybe ten if he moaned just to be annoying. And yet here you were again, knee on the couch, one leg on either side of him, thighs hugging his hips, your scrub top brushing his bare chest as you leaned forward to tend to the injury. His skin was warm beneath your gloved hands, muscles twitching slightly under the alcohol’s sting.

And then he started bouncing his thigh.

You didn’t notice it at first. Just a little shift, a soft rock beneath you that made your balance dip forward. You adjusted, not thinking, not suspecting. Until the rhythm stayed. Until it deepened. Until the bounce synced with the tiny aching throb between your legs and your breath hitched without your permission.

“You alright up there, Nurse?” he asked, voice lazy, low.

Your hands froze, still mid-wrap around his bandaged shoulder. “You’re bouncing your leg.”

“Am I?” he murmured, looking up at you through those thick lashes and smug green eyes. “Huh. Thought you were the one squirming.”

His thigh bounced again, deliberate this time. Your pussy landed right against the swell of it, hard muscle, warm and unforgiving, and the pressure hit exactly where your clit sat tucked beneath your panties.

You tensed.

“Oh,” he said, grinning now. “There it is.”

“Toji—”

“Fuck,” he whispered, hands gripping your hips now, not forcing but guiding. “You’re so fuckin’ wet already. I can feel it through your pants. You leaking for me, sweetheart?”

Your whole body flushed, heat rushing to your face, to your chest, to the aching pulse between your thighs. You tried to move, to lift yourself off his leg, but his fingers tightened just enough to keep you grounded.

“No, no,” he chuckled, bouncing his leg again. “You started this. Might as well get somethin’ out of it.”

The friction was obscene. Every bounce dragged your clothed pussy along the ridge of his thigh. Your panties clung to you, soaked and slick, the thin cotton doing nothing to hide how swollen your folds had become. The seam caught on your clit with every grind, and it made your hips jerk without thinking.

“Goddamn,” he rasped, mouth curling into something darker. “You’re grinding on me now. Shit, look at you.”

You tried to look away, to pretend like you had the upper hand, but your hands were trembling, your fingers curling into his shoulder as your knees tightened around his hips. Your pussy throbbed, drenched, the fabric sticking between your lips now. Every bounce rubbed the soft, soaked folds of your cunt directly along his leg, the pressure maddening, almost too much.

“Fuck, feel that?” he whispered, voice hot against your ear. “You're makin’ a mess on me. Soakin’ through those pants. Bet if I touched you right now, I’d feel that pussy drippin.”

Your clit caught again, just right. Your jaw dropped, a soft gasp escaping as your hips bucked forward involuntarily.

“Ohhh yeah,” he groaned, his voice wrecked, low and filthy. “Right there, huh? That’s the spot, ain’t it?”

You tried to tell him to shut up, to say anything, but your voice failed you. You were grinding harder now, driven by need, hips rolling as your soaked panties dragged across the muscle of his thigh again and again. The friction was dirty and perfect and torturous - every bounce, every rub, making you unravel.

Your clit throbbed, catching every few seconds against the seam until the pleasure grew sharp and desperate. Your hands slipped on his shoulder, nails digging in for balance, for sanity. But there was none left. Not when your pussy was grinding helplessly on the same man who had made it his mission to undo you.

“Come on, baby,” he rasped, bouncing his leg harder now, holding you tight. “Make a mess on me. I know you’re close. Can feel you twitchin’. You’re gonna cum just from grindin’ your pussy on my thigh like a fuckin’ needy little girl, huh?”

You whimpered. Loud. Your hips bucked again, your folds so soaked now the fabric barely separated you from him. Slick coated your inner thighs, your panties drenched, the heat building fast, tighter, tighter-

You broke.

You came with a gasp, body trembling, grinding down against him as the orgasm slammed into you like a goddamn wave. You could feel it soak through your pants, leaking onto his thigh in thick heat, your clit pulsing as the friction dragged it over and over again. You buried your face in his neck, hips stuttering with aftershocks, shame and relief mixing into a breathless, broken moan.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Toji groaned, not even pretending to hide how hard he was now beneath you. “You soaked me.”

You stayed there, limp and shaking, thighs still clenching around his. His fingers were still on your hips, less teasing now, grounding.

After a long pause, he laughed, low and smug, “Damn. And I didn’t even have to take your clothes off.”

You shoved your forehead harder against his shoulder. “I hate you.”

“Nah,” he grinned, bouncing his leg once more for good measure. “You love this dick. And I ain’t even pulled it out yet.”

You groaned into his neck. And you hated that he wasn’t wrong.

-

The next morning was nothing short of a psychological warzone dressed up in coffee breath and regret.

You woke up drenched in the stickiness of shame and leftover arousal, your thighs still tacky with memories you hadn’t asked for. Your sheets - clean, crisp, aggressively tucked - felt like a lie. The ghost of your moans lingered in the air, echoing faintly every time your hand brushed between your legs. 

You hated that you could still feel the muscles in his thigh, the taut warmth, the subtle curve that pressed so perfectly against the desperate ache between your legs. It wasn’t supposed to go like that. Not on a fucking couch. Not still clothed. Not with a man who smiled through pain and moaned through power.

You dressed in the baggiest scrubs you had, loose around the hips, practically shapeless. You tied your hair up like you were about to scrub into surgery. There was no perfume, no makeup, no lotion. You wouldn’t give him anything to look at. You wouldn’t let him see you like that again, wanting, messy, aching through fabric and pride.

The house was quiet, too quiet, and every creak in the floorboards made your stomach twist. You made your way to the kitchen with your clipboard hugged tight to your chest, eyes flicking toward the hallway, toward his door. 

You should’ve skipped this part. Should’ve texted. Should’ve let him rot in bed and get his own damn meds. But professionalism was the last thread you were hanging by, and you were too stubborn to let it snap first.

So, you knocked. Light. Barely more than a tap.

The door creaked open with that same slow, sleep-heavy groan it always had.

And there he was.

Toji.

Sitting on the edge of the bed. Shirtless, of course. Grey sweatpants pushed down just enough to expose the thick trail of hair leading to what his large, veined hand was lazily wrapped around. His cock was already hard, flushed at the tip, slick with precum. The movement of his hand was slow, deliberate, utterly unbothered by your presence.

 His other arm draped casually over his bent knee, posture relaxed like he hadn’t been caught doing something he clearly wanted you to see.

“Morning,” he rasped, voice thick, jaw unshaven, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips like he hadn’t stopped thinking about your body since you last left his lap.

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. The breath caught at the base of your throat. You didn’t look away, not immediately.

 You couldn’t. It was like your eyes betrayed you, locking on the obscene slide of his hand, the soft huff of his breathing, the way his thighs flexed as he shifted ever so slightly to give you a better view. You were supposed to be above this. You were the caregiver, the one in control, the one with the clipboard and the schedule and the rules.

But the rules felt far away, hazy, waterlogged. His sweatpants were darkening with slick, the way he dragged his palm up his cock slow and tight like he wanted you to see the tension in his knuckles, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“I knocked,” you managed, the words strained and clipped, falling out more like a warning than a greeting.

“You did,” he replied smoothly, not stopping, not even pretending to hide himself. “Didn’t say come in, though.” He chuckled low in his chest, the sound filthy, casual, so deeply self-satisfied it made your stomach flip. “Guess you’re just gettin’ comfortable around me.”

Your hand clenched around the clipboard, nails digging into the edge as heat crawled up your spine and bloomed somewhere between your thighs again, traitorous and alive. 

You should’ve turned around. Should’ve walked away, slammed the door, reported him to whoever the hell monitored this situation. But your feet didn’t move. Your eyes stayed. And worst of all, he noticed.

“Still wet?” he asked, voice low and syrupy with sin, his eyes dragging down the length of your body slowly. “Bet you are. Bet you went to bed last night and didn’t even touch yourself, huh? Just laid there, feelin’ how sore that pretty little cunt was from rubbin’ all over me.”

You nearly choked on your own breath, face heating so fast it made you dizzy. You gritted your teeth, forcing yourself to glance away, grabbing the doorknob like it was the only thing tethering you to reality.

“I just came to tell you your meds are at twelve,” you muttered, voice cracking like it didn’t belong to you.

He let out a quiet groan, not from pleasure this time, but from the ache in his voice, the frustration, the heat, the sheer enjoyment he was taking in your unraveling. “Might need ‘em early,” he muttered, stroking himself once more, his gaze locked on your face like he was trying to burn the image of you into his memory. “Especially if you keep lookin’ at me like that.”

The door shut behind you faster than your brain could process what had just happened. You stood in the hallway, back against the wall, chest heaving like you’d just sprinted three blocks. 

You stared at the floor, the wall, the clipboard shaking in your hands. Your thighs were pressed together like your body remembered every inch of his voice. You hated it. You hated how good it felt to want.

The rest of the day passed in pieces. You avoided him like your life depended on it. You stayed out of shared rooms, kept the TV off, wore earbuds when you made his food. You left his prescriptions on the kitchen counter with a note.

 You even faked a phone call just to have an excuse not to speak to him. And the whole time, you felt him watching. Not in the obvious way, not loudly, but quietly. Patiently. Waiting like a hunter who’d already laid the perfect trap and knew you’d walk right into it eventually.

You thought maybe you could make it through the night untouched. Thought you’d earned that much, that maybe if you played it cold enough, firm enough, he’d let it slide. But at 9:13 PM, you were at your desk in the hallway office, going over his chart, finalizing the notes, typing up some bullshit update for the agency, and you heard it.

Not a knock. Not a word.

Just the sound of his breathing as he stood in the doorway.

You looked up and there he was, Toji, in a black t-shirt that clung to the bulk of his chest like it wanted to be peeled off, the towel from his shower still draped over his shoulder. His expression wasn’t smug this time. There was no grin, no raised brow, no joke waiting to be dropped like a bomb. He just looked at you. Quiet. Studying. Waiting.

“I didn’t come to bother you,” he said after a beat, voice rough but low. “Just… figured you might want to yell at me. Get it outta your system.”

You swallowed, eyes narrowing as you leaned back in your chair. “What would be the point?”

“I don’t know,” he murmured, eyes dropping for a second before meeting yours again. “Maybe it’d help you stop runnin’ away from me.”

You hated that the words landed. You hated the way his voice went soft around the edges when he said it. Hated that under all the bravado, there was something quiet in him that was waiting for your answer, like he didn’t want to hurt you, like he wasn’t sure if he already had.

You looked at him, jaw tight, heart clenched, your body still aching in places you wished he didn’t know about. You were tired of the game, tired of the act, tired of pretending that you didn’t feel every inch of his gaze like a hand on your skin. You didn’t yell. You didn’t scream. You didn’t run.

You just looked at him across the room, breath caught behind your ribs, and let the silence stretch as far as it wanted.

Because even now, with your body still humming from yesterday, with his voice still echoing between your legs, you didn’t know if you wanted him to leave… or come closer.

“It's your bath time.”

–

You told yourself it was routine. That it was your job. That the bath was part of the schedule, written, sanctioned, expected. That his mobility was limited and he’d just “had a flare-up,” and that the water would help his muscles relax. You told yourself all these things, over and over, as you filled the claw-foot tub in the master bathroom, testing the water temperature like you weren’t about to kneel between the spread legs of the man who had watched you come on his thigh less than forty-eight hours ago.

Toji had been quiet since last night. That unnerved you more than anything. No teasing. No comments. Just that low, thoughtful silence, like he was holding back something heavy. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was more need. You didn’t ask. You just waited, clipboard resting on the counter, gloved hands discarded, sleeves rolled.

And now here you were, sleeves soaked anyway, hair falling from its bun, chest rising and falling too fast as warm water lapped at the sides of the tub and Toji leaned back against the porcelain like sin incarnate.

His body was wet, glistening, steam curling off his broad chest and down the ridges of his scarred abdomen. The bruising on his ribs had faded into a dull yellow now, a shadow of what it once was. Your fingers had ghosted over the worst of it, gently at first, then with more pressure once he’d hissed out that it didn’t hurt anymore.

His arms draped over the sides of the tub, chest rising slow, lips parted slightly. His eyes were half-lidded as he watched you kneel beside him, sponge in hand, dragging soft circles down the slope of his chest to the ridge of his stomach. You’d been avoiding his gaze all night, focusing on the curve of his muscle, the scar that ran beneath his left pec, the one near his collarbone that had to be bullet-deep.

“You always touch this soft?” he asked, voice heavy with steam and hunger.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

His wet hair clung to his forehead, black with threads of silver near the temples, strands curling around the sharp line of his jaw. You poured another cupful of warm water over his head, watching the rivulets glide down his neck, over his chest, between the lines of his abs. He didn’t flinch. Just leaned into it. Letting you wash him like he was something sacred instead of something dangerous.

When your hand paused on his chest, sponge dripping, his hand rose from the water, slow, deliberate. He took your wrist in his palm, eyes finally meeting yours, and guided your hand down.

Lower.

Down the slope of his stomach, over the groove that cut just above his hips, and then - down, beneath the water, to where his cock throbbed against his thigh, already hard.

Your breath caught.

Your hand trembled slightly as your fingers wrapped around him. He was thick. Hot. Heavy in your palm, veins bulging under the skin, the head flushed and slick. Your fingers didn’t quite meet around the shaft, and when you curled them tighter, he groaned - low, broken, like it hurt to hold it in.

“Go on,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “Be a good girl and help me.”

You moved your hand slowly at first. Long, steady pumps beneath the surface, water sloshing with each pull. The pressure made your fingers ache. You squeezed tighter, watching his jaw tense, his head falling back slightly as he breathed through it.

“That’s it,” he groaned, hips shifting under the water, his abdomen flexing with every stroke. “Fuck, your hands…your hands feel so good.”

You could barely breathe. Your chest was rising faster now, soft wet sounds filling the steamy room as your hand pumped him, twisting slightly on the upstroke, thumb brushing over the head just to hear him moan. His cock jerked in your grip, precum spilling over your fingers and clouding the water around your knuckles.

“You’re fuckin’ filthy,” he muttered, eyes half-lidded as he looked down at you. “You came on my thigh and now you’re jerking me off in the fuckin’ bath. What would they say if they knew?”

Your eyes met his. Your mouth opened. But nothing came. You leaned in closer, the top of your scrub top damp now, your knees aching from the tile, your hand still wrapped around him like you couldn’t bear to stop.

Then he grabbed your hair.

His hand twisted in the knot at the back of your head, pulling just enough to make your neck arch, to bring your mouth dangerously close to his. And when he kissed you, it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.

It was filthy.

It was teeth and tongue and desperation, his mouth hot against yours, the taste of water and need bleeding together as your hand jerked him faster. He groaned into your mouth, biting your bottom lip, dragging your tongue between his teeth as he fucked up into your palm like he couldn’t help himself.

You whimpered, breathless, your lips parting wider to take him deeper, the kiss turning hotter, messier, wetter. His hand yanked your hair back harder, tilting your head so he could take more from you, lips dragging along your jaw, biting down gently on your neck as your hand twisted, your fingers slipping over the swollen head of his cock again.

“Don’t stop,” he growled, voice thick and guttural, hips bucking up into your fist. “Fuck, don’t you dare stop.”

Water sloshed higher. Your scrub top was soaked. His cock pulsed violently in your hand, and when your thumb pressed against the tip again, hard, dragging slow and tight across the slit - he gasped, loud, broken.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder. His breath was hot and ragged against your skin, his body shuddering as your hand didn’t stop moving, didn’t slow, didn’t ease up - not even when his hips jerked under the water and you felt him throb.

Thick warmth spilled into your hand, ribbons of cum curling in the bathwater as his groan tore itself from his chest and his fingers clenched in your hair like he didn’t know where to put the ache.

And still, you didn’t stop kissing him.

You stayed there, breathing each other in, lips swollen and messy, your forehead pressed to his, his cock twitching in your grip, your knuckles wet with more than just water.

He didn’t thank you. He didn’t apologize.

He just looked at you, eyes hooded and heavy, and whispered, “Goddamn, Nurse. You’re better than morphine.”

-

Morning TV droned in the background, all sun-bleached talk-show smiles and neckline-plunging cocktail dresses that had no business airing before noon.

 Toji lounged on the sofa with one elbow hooked over the backrest, damp hair curling at his temples, eyes tracking every silky-legged host who crossed the screen like he’d never seen a woman before. 

His injured shoulder was bare, gauze half-peeled where you were mid-change, antiseptic still cooling on his skin while he hummed appreciatively at the weather girl’s cleavage forecast.

“You think she does squats?” he asked, voice gravel-warm, gaze never leaving the TV. “Bet her ass could crack a walnut.”

Your jaw clenched so tight it clicked. You pressed a fresh pad over the sutures with a little more force than necessary, earning a hiss you didn’t bother to apologize for. 

“Maybe focus on healing instead of objectifying strangers,” you snapped, taping the edge down with clinical precision that felt dangerously close to vengeance.

Toji chuckled, deep and sinful, as if the sting only amused him. “Relax, Nurse. Gotta keep the heart rate up somehow. Doctor said cardio’s good for recovery, and ogling’s the safest exercise I’ve got right now.” His hand drifted lazily to the remote, thumb grazing the volume button to make the TV’s laughter swell around you like an audience for his misbehavior.

The next hostess strutted onstage in a scarlet sheath, hips swaying in slow motion courtesy of a gratuitous replay. 

Toji whistled low, the sound curling around your spine like smoke. “Now that’s a walk,” he murmured, ignoring the way your grip tightened on the bandage roll. “If my nurse had a strut like that, I’d never get outta bed.”

Your temper snapped like a suture under strain. “Maybe if you kept your dick in your pants for five minutes, you could stand long enough to practice walking instead of fantasizing about women who wouldn’t give you the time of day,” you shot back, voice a razor wrapped in velvet. 

The tape tasted of adhesive and fury as you smoothed the last strip down with a firm swipe across his ribs.

Toji’s eyes finally left the screen, a slow, predatory slide up your torso that landed on your flushed face. The corner of his mouth curled, equal parts challenge and delight. “There she is,” he rumbled, the timbre thickening with something dark. “Thought I’d lost my favorite fire for a second.”

You busied yourself packing the gauze wrappers, but the tidy clatter couldn’t drown out the thud of your pulse. He watched every stiff gesture, pupils dilating the way a wolf’s do at the scent of fresh blood. “You enjoy pissing me off?” you asked, trying to sound clinical, not breathless.

“Gets you talking,” he said, voice dropping to that dangerous hush that vibrated low in his chest. “And every time you talk back, you breathe harder, your cheeks go pink, and your hands-”” he lifted the fresh bandage, rolling his shoulder to flex under your palm-”get rougher. Turns me on more than those TV girls ever could.”

Heat flared in your stomach at the confession, unwanted and instantaneous. The tape crinkled under your trembling touch; his skin felt hotter than the bathwater from the night before, the pulse beneath your fingertips galloping faster as silence thickened. 

The show’s canned laughter burst again, but neither of you looked away this time.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, pulling your gloves off with a snap, the latex pinging off his thigh.

“Maybe,” he conceded, eyes holding yours like a grip around the throat, “but you like me impossible. Easy men don’t keep you up at night replaying how they taste.” His words landed with the force of a fist, reminding you of your own soft gasp echoing off tiled walls, your hand pumping him while his lips devoured yours.

Your breath hitched, traitorous lungs feeding the embers he stoked with every syllable. 

Toji’s gaze dipped to the hollow of your throat, tracking the frantic flutter there, and a low sound slipped from him, half groan, half laugh, because he could read your body better than you could write your notes.

“Bandage is secure,” you said, meaning to retreat, but your voice quavered and doomed the pretense. You shifted backward, yet his good hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist with a steel gentleness that sent a ripple straight to your core.

“Stay a minute,” he murmured, thumb stroking the inside of your wrist where your pulse thrashed. “Tell me again how I should behave, Nurse. I promise to listen… while I imagine you demonstrating.” 

The threat in the words was all hunger, no malice, like a beast promising not to bite unless invited.

You swallowed, every nerve ending tuned to the rough pads of his fingers sliding higher toward your racing heartbeat. The TV hosts kept selling desire in bright studio lights, but the real heat was here, simmering under clinical tape and steely gazes. 

You could feel him getting hard even without looking, could practically hear the rustle of sweats tightening over growing thickness as his body reacted to the tension he’d orchestrated like a maestro.

“I’m not your entertainment,” you said, though it came out frail beneath the clang of your own pulse.

“No,” he agreed, pulling you a fraction closer until your thighs brushed. “You’re the main event.” His eyes glinted, daring you to deny the electricity crackling between you, daring you to step back and leave him aching or step forward and pay for it with your sanity.

The room shrank around the impossible choice, every breath laced with steam that hadn’t come from the bath. 

Each second stretched long and taut like a drawn bow, threatening to snap into something louder, wetter, and far more dangerous if you moved even an inch closer. 

You should’ve pulled away. Should’ve turned on your heel, left the room, written him up, iced yourself down like you were training for sainthood. But his fingers on your wrist were too warm. Too firm. Too possessive in a way that made your stomach clench and your legs feel stupid for holding you up.

Before you could say a word, Toji shifted forward. His hands slid from your wrist to your waist with easy, devastating confidence - gripping, lifting, and pulling you into his lap like you weighed nothing. 

His thighs spread beneath you as he adjusted his seat, broad and sturdy, cock already stiff beneath his sweats and pressed right up against the heat between your thighs.

“Fuck, there you go,” he groaned, head tipping back as your hips landed heavy over his. “That’s more like it.”

You gasped, hands catching his shoulders to steady yourself as your core pressed flush against him. His cock pulsed under the thin cotton, dragging against the seam of your pants, the pressure right where you were still soaked from the memory of his bathwater and tongue.

You shifted without thinking, hips grinding down in a slow, unconscious roll.

Toji growled, the sound guttural and low, his grip on your hips tightening as he rocked up to meet your movement. His cock rubbed against your clothed pussy in a rhythm that was already driving you insane, your thighs straining to hold still even as your walls fluttered helplessly, clenching around nothing.

“You’re wet again,” he muttered darkly, hands sliding to your waistband, knuckles brushing the edge of your scrub pants. “Jesus fuck, you’re always wet when you’re on me. What the fuck am I gonna do with you?”

His voice was smoke curling in your spine, and then his hands moved, sliding under the waistband, palms calloused and rough as they dragged down the soft curve of your ass. 

His fingers squeezed hard, kneading the fat, spreading you wider in his lap with a hiss of satisfaction. You could feel his cock grind up harder now, thick and perfectly placed, the friction maddening.

“I can feel your pussy twitchin’, baby,” he groaned against your ear, grinding up into you again, slow and dirty. “You want it so fuckin’ bad. You’d ride this cock right now if I let you, wouldn’t you?”

You huffed out a breath, teeth biting your lip to keep from moaning. He was relentless, every shift of his hips driving his cock harder against your soaked folds, the seam of your panties pulled so tight that your clit throbbed with every grind.

Your top clung to your body, too warm, too much. Toji must’ve felt it too, because suddenly his hands moved from your ass to your hemline, yanking the fabric up with surprising carelessness.

“Take it off,” he grunted, helping you peel it up over your arms. His eyes locked on your chest, pupils blown wide when he saw the bra beneath - lace, snug, stupidly delicate compared to the tension crackling around you.

He didn’t waste time. One thick hand reached around, the snap of the clasp quick and practiced. He yanked the cups down, baring your breasts to the open air, and let out a low, reverent groan.

“Fuck, look at these,” he murmured, ducking his head to your chest. His mouth latched onto one nipple, sucking deep and hard without a shred of gentleness. 

His teeth grazed your skin, tongue circling as he bit down just enough to make you gasp.

You arched forward, hands gripping his bare shoulders for balance as his mouth worked your tits like he was starved. His hand slid over your hip, fingers trailing down again, only this time, they didn’t go for your waistband. 

They slid under it, thick fingers slipping past your panties, diving down between your legs until he was cupping your drenched folds from the front.

He groaned into your breast, sucking harder as his fingers spread you open.

“Fucking soaked,” he whispered, lips wet against your skin. “Messy little pussy just beggin’ to be played with.”

His index and middle fingers dragged through your slit, parting your folds as his thumb rolled slow, tight circles over your clit. You cried out softly, hips jerking, but he held you down, trapping you there, grinding your pussy against his hand and cock like you were made to be in his lap.

“Yeah,” he hissed, biting down on your nipple again. “Just like that. Let me feel it. Let me fuckin’ feel you.”

Your thighs trembled, clit swollen and slick under his thumb, his fingers teasing at your entrance without slipping in, just enough to make your body quake. 

Your forehead dropped to his shoulder, breath ragged against his neck, your hips rolling uncontrollably now as your folds dragged against his hand.

The sounds in the room were wet, mouth on nipple, fingers in cunt, soft whines caught between clenched teeth. Your scrub pants were pulled halfway down your thighs now, bunched under your ass in the most compromising way possible. 

One of Toji’s hands remained buried beneath the band of your panties, fingers thrusting slow, curling with an obscene, calculated rhythm while his other hand cupped your breast, thumb teasing your spit-slick nipple.

Your thighs trembled on either side of his lap, hips bucking with every thrust of his fingers. His hand was so big, so warm and solid against your soaked folds, his thumb smearing your slick along your clit each time he pulled back.

 Your walls clenched around his fingers like your body already knew the shape of him, already desperate to keep him inside.

“God,” he rasped, mouth trailing down your chest, breath hot over your sternum. “This pussy’s fuckin’ greedy… suckin’ me in like it’s starving.”

You bit your lip hard, but a moan still escaped as he curled his fingers just right. Your nails dug into his shoulders, desperate for leverage, balance, reality. 

His thumb pressed harder on your clit, working tight circles as his fingers spread inside you, moving with the precision of a man who knew exactly how to fuck with his hands.

Then, suddenly, his voice dropped lower. Graveled. Filthy.

“Spit in my mouth.”

You froze, eyes shooting down to meet his. “W-What?”

He looked up at you through dark lashes, eyes heavy, lips slightly parted. “I said spit in my fuckin’ mouth.”

Your thighs tightened around his hips, a breath catching in your throat at the sheer vulgarity of it. But you didn’t stop grinding into his hand. You didn’t pull away. He opened his mouth wide, tongue out slightly, chin tilted back like he was waiting – like he needed it.

You stared at him, disbelief and heat warring inside you, until his fingers twisted deep and dragged a moan from your throat. Your mouth fell open as your orgasm crawled closer again, your body arching into his grip, and with a breathless whimper, you leaned forward.

You spit into his mouth.

He groaned like it wrecked him. Lips closing around it, swallowing it, his fingers plunging deeper as if your taste on his tongue pushed him into another gear. 

His free hand gripped your hip, dragging you harder down into his lap while the fingers inside you fucked up, forward, curling right against that sensitive spot that had your walls fluttering violently.

“Ohhh, that’s it,” he growled, his lips brushing your jaw now, voice wild. “Goddamn, you’re filthy. This pussy–fuck..this pussy needs my face, not just my hands.”

You gasped as he shifted beneath you, his fingers slipping free from your soaked cunt. He licked them, loud and slow, before gripping your waistband again.

“Toji, wait–” you panted, the loss of contact making your thighs tremble.

But he was already moving, pulling your pants and panties all the way down in one rough motion, baring your slick folds to the open air. His eyes dropped to your pussy, and he groaned, deep and heavy like it physically hurt to be this close without tasting.

“You’re dripping,” he muttered like it was holy, gripping your thighs with both hands now, his fingers kneading into the softness there. “Spreadin’ open for me and I haven’t even kissed it yet.”

“Toji, your shoulder–” you warned again, breathless, legs trying to clamp shut as he moved downward. “You’re hurt, you can’t–”

But he didn’t listen.

He never fucking listened.

He ducked under your thighs, dragging your ass forward until your legs lifted, draped over his broad, bruised shoulders, his bandaged arm flexing as he settled between your legs like a man who had nowhere else to be. The second you opened your mouth to protest again, he buried his face in your pussy.

“Toji–” you cried out, voice strangled, but he was already chin-deep, nose smashed into your clit, tongue dragging slow and thick through your folds like he wanted to map your pussy with his mouth.

Your entire body jolted, spine arching as a sob ripped from your chest. His hands gripped your thighs hard, holding you open, keeping you still, letting his mouth devour you like he hadn’t eaten in days.

He licked everything – long, flat strokes through your slit, tongue curling around your clit, dipping into your entrance before sliding back up to suck, hard. His groans vibrated right into your cunt, making your hips jolt and your fingers clutch the couch cushions for dear life.

Your thighs trembled on his shoulders, your feet curling behind him as your body tried to both flee and press closer, his tongue unrelenting as he circled your clit over and over again.

“Toji! f-fuck–” you moaned, eyes rolling back as his mouth latched tighter, tongue flicking your clit now, faster, filthier.

He moaned against you again, moaned, his voice muffled into your pussy like he was talking to it, whispering sins directly into your folds while his nose rubbed and bumped against your swollen clit in time with every slow, deep drag of his tongue.

Your hands flew to his hair, gripping it tight, yanking without meaning to as he sucked your clit harder, then flicked his tongue again, rough and fast, over and over, until your thighs started to shake uncontrollably.

“Fucking… Toji – I’m–”

He didn’t stop.

Not even when you cried out, not when your pussy clamped around nothing, not when you came so hard your vision blurred. Your slick gushed against his mouth, soaking his chin, his stubble, his bandage. He kept sucking, licking, moaning into you like he was drinking it down.

You collapsed back on the couch, gasping, twitching, legs limp across his injured shoulders as he licked you clean like a man possessed. When he finally pulled away, his face was wrecked–lips slick, chin dripping, eyes blown wide and dark with something too filthy to name.

“Fuck,” he said again, voice hoarse, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he looked up at you. “You taste like trouble.”

Your brain hadn’t even finished rebooting from the orgasm he ripped out of you when he hooked his arms under your knees and moved.

“Toji–hey–hey!” you yelped, hands scrambling for purchase on his shoulders as he stood, rising to his full, towering height with your limp, post-orgasmic body still draped over him.

Your thighs were still slick and twitching, and your heart launched straight into your throat when he turned and dropped to his knees on the living room floor, bringing you down with him. The carpet pressed to your spine, rough and warm, your legs now spread wide over his lap.

“Toji–Jesus, your shoulder–”

“Shut up,” he muttered gruffly.

His lips crashed into yours, messy and hot, silencing the concern right out of your throat. His mouth was soaked with your slick, stubble scratchy against your chin, and you tasted yourself on his tongue as he kissed you like he meant to leave a scar.

When he finally pulled back, breath heaving, he shoved his sweatpants down past his hips in one rough motion. His cock sprang free with a slap against his lower abs–thick, flushed, already leaking. 

He gave it a pump, slow and deliberate, hand dragging down the full length as your eyes locked on it with a mix of awe and how the fuck is that going inside me.

“I should be in traction,” he grunted, jerking himself harder now. “But fuck it. You’re worth the injury.”

Your hands braced on his biceps as your back arched off the floor, thighs trembling. He didn’t waste time. He reached for you, gripping your hips, moving you like a doll beneath him, shifting your legs higher, pushing one back, bending you open with a familiarity that made your breath catch.

His cockhead brushed your slit–wet, swollen, dragging slow through your folds. You whimpered, body twitching with every teasing pass.

“This one,” he muttered under his breath, “this position? Fucked a girl just like this in a public bathroom back in ’99. What was her name…”

You blinked. “I – what the fuck – Toji?”

He just smirked, eyes glued to where his tip pressed against your entrance. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’re the only pussy I’m focused on now.”

You didn’t have time to reply. He nudged forward - just an inch, just enough to stretch you wide, and you gasped, eyes flying open, the thick head of his cock forcing you to feel every goddamn inch.

His hand slapped gently over your mouth. “Bite down,” he whispered, voice strained, guttural. “Right here.” His fingers slid between your teeth, resting against his palm like a gag. “Might help with the stretch.”

You whimpered against his hand, jaw tight as he sank deeper. Your pussy stretched slow around him, so much, too much, the burn hot and overwhelming in a way that made your toes curl and your nails sink into his arms.

“Shhh,” he breathed, hips grinding forward. “You’re takin’ it so good. So fuckin’ good, Nurse.”

He bottomed out with a broken growl, his cock pulsing inside you, your walls fluttering around him like your body didn’t know whether to run or keep him inside forever.

Your head lolled back, a choked sound muffled under his palm.

“Best pussy I’ve ever had,” he groaned, starting to move, slow at first. “Tightest little cunt – fuck, you were made for this.”

He dragged back, hips snapping forward again, filling you to the hilt. The rhythm built fast, his strokes deep and filthy, his cock dragging against your walls like he wanted to ruin you from the inside out. His hand stayed over your mouth, but his eyes were locked on yours, watching your every twitch, every tremble.

“You need a raise,” he grunted between thrusts, hips pounding now. “Best fuck I’ve had in my whole goddamn life, and they’re payin’ you minimum wage? Nah. Not good enough.”

Your body rocked with every thrust, wet smacks echoing in the room as your slick dripped down his length, soaking his thighs. 

Your eyes rolled back, hands scrambling against his chest now, his muscles flexing under your fingertips as he held you down and fucked you like you were the reward for surviving death.

“Good girl,” he rasped, hand slipping from your mouth to grip your jaw, thumb dragging down your cheek as his pace turned brutal. “Good fuckin’ nurse. Keeping me alive just so you can ride my cock into the fuckin’ carpet.”

You gasped, moaned, sobbed into his neck, and he kissed you again, hot, filthy, tongue dragging into your mouth as his cock hit a spot that made you break apart with a cry.

You were a mess underneath him – mouth kiss-bruised, eyes glassy, your soaked cunt taking every inch of him while your legs trembled around his hips. 

Toji was panting like a man possessed, sweat dripping from his temples, the muscles in his arms trembling from holding himself up.

His pace had slowed into something deeper, filthier, as if he wanted to savor every twitch of your pussy, every breathless whimper you made as he kept grinding his cock into your sore, fluttering walls.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he muttered, head dropping to your neck, his voice breaking with every thrust. “Pussy so tight I feel like I’m fuckin’ twenty again.”

You whimpered under him, your nails clawing at his shoulders, his hips rutting deeper into you like he needed to make a home inside you. 

The stretch still burned, but the ache was sweet now, raw and full, each stroke pulling another moan from your lips. Your clit throbbed between you, slick and swollen, your body begging for release again.

Toji slowed, his cock pulsing deep inside you. His voice brushed your ear, low and ragged. “Get on top.”

You blinked up at him, dazed and sweat-soaked. “What?”

He pulled back just enough to flip you both – his back hitting the floor with a grunt, one hand still gripping your thigh as you landed astride him, straddling his hips with his cock still buried deep inside.

His eyes burned up at you, half-lidded and ravenous. “Ride it, Nurse. Show me how you wanna take it.”

You rolled your hips once – slow and careful– and both of you moaned. His cock was thicker at this angle, dragging against every sensitive inch inside you, the head of it nudging against that sweet spot that made your stomach tighten. 

His hands found your hips, guiding your rhythm, grinding you down into him as his eyes dragged over your tits, your throat, your flushed, ruined face.

“You look so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he rasped, voice dark, hands sliding from your waist to your ass, squeezing hard. “Stuffed full’a cock, so full your pussy’s twitchin’ around me.”

You cried out, leaning forward, hands braced on his chest, your hips bouncing harder now, chasing the pressure, the friction, the spark crawling up your spine with every movement. His cock slid deeper with each grind, hitting that spot again and again, and your moans grew louder, higher, needier.

“Fuck, that’s it…ride me, ride me like you fuckin’ mean it–”

Toji’s head fell back against the floor, his teeth grit, jaw clenched as he bucked up into you. His hands gripped your ass, spreading your cheeks apart, pushing you down onto his cock until your clit ground hard against the base of him.

You were sobbing now, the tension in your gut winding tight, heat licking up your thighs as you slammed down into his lap, pace messy and desperate, your tits bouncing with each slap of your bodies. 

Your orgasm was right there, building like fire in your veins, your vision going white around the edges.

Toji’s eyes opened again, glazed but focused, watching your face like he wanted to memorize the way you looked the second you came. His voice went low, thick, ruined.

“You gonna cum for me again?” he asked, breath hot against your chest. “You gonna fuckin’ soak me like before?”

Your walls fluttered around him in answer.

“Shit,” he groaned. “You keep squeezin’ me like that–I’m gonna fuckin’ lose it. Gonna cum so deep you’ll feel it for days.”

You collapsed into his chest, hips still rocking, your face buried in his neck. “Toji…Toji–fuck–”

He fucked up into you, once, twice – deep, brutal thrusts – and your orgasm snapped. You came with a cry, pussy clenching around him like a vice, wetness gushing out of you, your whole body shaking as he held you down.

And then he followed.

His breath hitched, then caught – his arms locking around your back as his hips stuttered up into yours, cock twitching violently as he spilled inside you. Warmth flooded your cunt, thick and hot, and you could feel every pulse of it as he groaned through clenched teeth, face buried in your neck.

“Fuck –fuck, baby – I’m fuckin’ fillin’ you–”

You gasped, still twitching on top of him, his cock buried deep, cum leaking around the base of him.

He was breathing hard now, chest rising under you like he’d just run ten miles. You barely had strength to move. He rubbed his hands down your back, holding you close, quiet for a moment as your breathing began to settle together.

Then, with that familiar cocky rasp:

“Too old to have kids, they said. But who knows…” His hand slid to your stomach, palm splayed. “Maybe I just gave you a fuckin’ retirement plan.”

You groaned into his neck, half-horrified, half-delirious. “Toji, what the fu–”

He chuckled, low and wrecked. “Don’t worry. I’ll change diapers if you keep ridin’ me like that.”

—

It was dark outside when you finally made it to the bed – late, late, the kind of hour where the world went quiet and only breathing and skin and sheets spoke.

Toji was stretched across the mattress like sin on vacation, naked except for the shadows clinging to the cuts of his body, one arm tucked under his head, the other draped lazily across your lower back with his hand full of your ass.

His cock, still faintly twitching against his thigh, was slick with the ghosts of everything you'd done over the last few hours – couch, floor, wall, again in the hallway when you tried to walk away and he dragged you back just to eat your pussy like dinner was late.

Now he was still, mostly, except for the slow drag of smoke curling from his lips as he sucked lazily on the cigarette pinched between his fingers. 

The cherry glowed in the dark, then faded, then flared again. His chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, sticky with sweat and sex and the smell of you both.

Your fingers pressed along his shoulder carefully, tracing the angry swell of the wound. The bandage had been replaced. The area still inflamed, slightly warm, and if he wasn’t Toji, he should’ve been in agony right now. Instead, he exhaled smoke through his nose like a dragon at peace.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” you whispered, pressing gently above the bruising.

“I’m a satisfied idiot,” he said back, voice rough from groaning your name into every piece of furniture. “Couldn’t feel my arm earlier, but I definitely felt that pussy.”

You groaned, slapping his good shoulder, which only made him laugh – deep and low, like thunder rolling through the hollow of his chest.

“You shouldn’t have been on top that long. You strained the whole –”

He cut you off by tugging you higher up his body, your bare chest now pressed against his side. His hand gripped your ass again, squeezing, slow and intentional, like he could still feel the last few times you bounced on his cock.

“Didn’t hear you complaining when I was fuckin’ you into the floor,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded as he stared up at the ceiling. “When you were screamin’ into the pillow tellin’ me to go harder – fuck, you came so hard I thought I was gonna have to resuscitate you.”

“You’re insufferable,” you mumbled, but you didn’t move off him. If anything, you pressed your cheek closer to his skin, arm curled under his ribs, your leg resting over one of his thick thighs.

Toji hummed low in his throat, the hand on your ass sliding down just a little, fingertips dragging across the curve of your hip.

His voice dipped even lower, quieter now – still smug, but something else layered under it. “You can’t leave me now, y’know.”

Your heart gave a soft stutter. You glanced up at him, but he didn’t look at you. Just took another drag from the cigarette, eyes still locked on the ceiling like he was speaking to the cracks above.

“You’ve seen me cry out your name, beg for your cunt, blow a load so hard I couldn’t walk straight.” His lips curved slightly. “A man can’t come back from that. Not with dignity.”

You blinked. “You don’t have dignity.”

“Nope.” He turned to look at you finally, eyes darker, gentler beneath the sleep-hazed mischief. “But I got you. And now I’m greedy.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment, your fingers still gently pressing along his shoulder, checking for tension, for strain, for damage. But all you could feel was heat.

All you could hear was his heart, steady beneath your palm, steady like it hadn’t been hours ago when he’d come inside you for the third time with your name on his breath.

Toji shifted, flicking the cigarette into the tray on the nightstand, smoke curling like a final exhale. Then both arms wrapped around you – one careful, one possessive. His face pressed into your hair. His mouth brushed your ear.

“You’re not just my nurse anymore,” he murmured, voice heavy with something raw. “You’re mine.”

And even though you should’ve corrected him – should’ve reminded him this was wildly unprofessional, temporary, messy – you didn’t.

Because part of you knew you weren’t leaving. Not now. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You just laid there, dripping full of him, his cock still twitching inside you, and knew your career was fucked… and maybe, just maybe, so were you.

[nimueshell]

༒︎ Last Diner on Dead Highway (S.R)

Summary: When the world ends, Sukuna’s Diner stays open. You crawl in starving. He makes sure you leave full - or never leave at all.

Substance: f!reader, sukuna ryomen, apocalypse au, no protection, found family (rotten version), derogatory language, dubious morals, aftercare? what's that?, oral (male receiving), diner au, rough sex, breeding kink, size kink, wall sex, oral sex, overstimulation, praise, power play, gojo & geto cameo, degradation

Word Count: 8.5k

The wind hits you like a mouthful of grit when you shove the door open. Neon flickers overhead, a broken sign that buzzes out DINER in sickly green before coughing into darkness. Somewhere underneath the crackle of old neon, the part of the sign that still half-works spells out FLESH. Maybe you’d laugh if your tongue weren’t so dry.

Inside, the air tastes like grease and something thicker. The smell of meat you haven’t seen in years curls through your nose and roots itself in your gut, twisting you tight with a hunger that borders on agony.

You stand there for a heartbeat, just inside the threshold. Dust slides off your boots, clumps onto the tile floor that’s cracked like the skin on your lips. It’s warmer in here than it has any right to be. The overhead bulbs swing slow in their fixtures, humming a lullaby of old pipes and buzzing wires.

He’s there, behind the counter. Leaning against the chrome like he’s been waiting for a ghost to drag itself out of the dark just to stand in front of him and beg. Sukuna. Rumor said the Devil ran the only kitchen that never shut its doors. You figured the Devil would look older. Instead he looks carved from something meaner than bone, broad shoulders in a grease-spattered white tee, arms sleeved in dark ink that coils up his throat. There’s another set of arms, slack and folded until they twitch open like an afterthought when he shifts to flip the battered sign on the counter that says OPEN .

He doesn’t speak right away. Just flicks his eyes up from the chipped mug in his hand to drag a slow look over your sorry state. The corner of his mouth twitches like he wants to laugh but can’t be bothered to spend that much breath on you yet.

You drag yourself to the counter. Elbows scrape on chrome when you lean in too close, knees weak from miles of bad road and worse thoughts. The gun in your boot presses cold against your ankle. You don’t pull it yet. Maybe you’re saving it for dessert.

Sukuna doesn’t ask what you want. He jerks his chin at the cracked stool. “Sit.”

Your throat works around a laugh that tastes like rust. “What’s on the menu?”

He grins, all teeth, all promise of something you won’t survive but might thank him for. “Whatever you can swallow, sweetheart.”

The flicker of neon outside hums brighter. The hunger in your belly howls. His hand drags the plate closer, palm wide enough to cover half the counter when he leans over, close enough you can smell the ghost of iron and old smoke on his breath.

“Come on then,” he murmurs, voice dark as the highway behind you. “Let’s feed that filthy little mouth. I’ll see if you’re worth the meat first.”

You sink down onto the stool, vinyl cracked and warm from the heat that leaks through the diner’s rotting walls. The edge of your thigh sticks to it, bare where your jeans gave up weeks back, torn wide at the knees and frayed along the seam. There’s dried salt crusted on your skin where sweat turned to dust and settled in every fold the desert could find. Your tank top is worse - threadbare, once black but sun-bleached at the shoulders, neckline pulled so wide it slips when you lean too far forward.

Your boots thud against the chrome rung of the stool, scuffed leather scarred white at the toe. The old revolver presses cold at your ankle, tucked just inside where the boot bites your skin. It’s heavy enough to remind you that you didn’t come here to beg, but you can taste the truth in your mouth anyway.

He watches you settle. Sukuna, behind the counter, leaning on one big elbow like the linoleum was built to hold up the weight of him alone. His eyes drag down your arms, linger at your collar where the shirt gapes open like a torn curtain, drift backup slow to your mouth. His grin twitches when he catches the shape your lips make when you swallow, dry and cracked and raw.

You feel it all the way down. The way he holds you in that stare, slow as a butcher’s blade. His voice cuts the hum of the busted sign outside.

“That’s it?” he drawls, thumb flicking along the rim of his mug. “All that dust in your throat and nothing left to spit at me?”

You shift, boots scraping the metal rung. Your knee bumps the counter, close enough to catch the sharp scent of old oil, something sweet under it that doesn’t belong in any kitchen. The corner of your mouth twitches.

“Got nothing worth spitting,” you say. Your voice scratches its way out, rough from days without water that wasn’t stale enough to taste like rust.

He laughs, a sound low in his chest that scrapes warm over your ribs. The extra pair of arms unfold at his sides like he’s stretching just for you. His palm plants wide on the counter, close enough that you see the old grease ground into the lines of his skin, black ink curling around the tendons like a binding rope.

“You stink of roadkill and you sit yourself here like you’ve got something worth trading.” He leans in, slow enough you don’t flinch when his face tips close to yours. His nose brushes a stray bit of hair off your cheek. His breath smells like cheap coffee and something that’s been dead a long time but cooked fresh.

“You hungry enough to lie about it?”

Your eyes flick to the cracked mirror behind him, the one that throws your ragged shape back at you in ghost-light neon. You see your shoulders. The skin at your collar. The faint line of your throat when you swallow around nothing.

“Depends,” you rasp, the corner of your lip hitching just enough to mock the grin he wears. “What’s worth lying for around here?”

His laugh hits the soft place under your ear, close enough you feel the rough drag of it against your shoulder where the shirt slips. His thumb brushes the edge of the counter, tapping twice near your elbow like he might reach for you but doesn’t bother yet.

“Stick around,” Sukuna murmurs, voice like a flicked match in a dry field. “See if you find out.”

Your fingers twitch at the edge of the counter. The smell of whatever he’s cooking drifts out of the back kitchen, warm and greasy, thick enough that it hits something low in your gut and twists it cruel. You shift your weight, boots grinding on the tile that’s cracked wide enough to swallow your heel if you’re not careful. The revolver presses at your ankle again. Heavy but not enough to feel like real power when your belly’s growling like this.

Sukuna watches your mouth. You know it without looking. His eyes slip there every time your tongue flicks over your dry lip, every time your breath shivers out past your teeth. He waits for you to say it. Beg for it. You’d burn before you do that.

Your hand slides into your pocket instead. The denim scrapes against raw knuckles as you fish around for what you’d half-buried in there days ago. Your fingers close around it. A scrap of metal, small enough to fit in your palm. You slap it down on the counter in front of his smirk.

“Here,” you rasp. Your voice comes out rough but steady enough to coat it in contempt. “Good steel. Pulled it off a rig near Burned Creek. Can flip it for parts if you’re clever.”

He doesn’t even bother to glance at the thing. Just lets his gaze drag up from your wrist to your collarbone, the slip of your ruined shirt still wide at one shoulder. His mouth curls half-open, teeth catching his lower lip before they bare again. The low laugh he gives you scrapes hot against your ribs.

“Cute,” he says. His thumb flicks the scrap of metal once. It spins across the counter and clinks against the edge. He doesn’t even watch it fall. “You think I’m running a charity table? Scrap metal. I got half this kitchen made of scrap metal, sweetheart.”

Your jaw ticks. You curl your fingers, plant your palm flat on the counter so you don’t slap him across that grin. The hunger in your belly snaps mean enough to flush your cheeks, embarrassment coiled up tight with it.

“You think your meat’s worth that much?” you snap. Your voice cracks halfway through, raw from the thirst and the bite of his eyes on your throat. “You’re frying up the same shit I’ve smelled rotting in backlots for a week. Ain’t worth the stink, let alone my good steel.”

He tilts his head at you, slow, deliberate, like a dog sniffing a carcass it’s already decided to drag back into its hole. One of his extra arms unfolds, palm bracing beside your elbow so close your sleeve brushes the inside of his wrist. The heat of him soaks into the thin fabric, sweat-slick skin prickling under the weight of that grin.

“Then walk,” he murmurs. His voice hums low enough to turn your bones soft in your spine. “Door’s right there. Plenty of dirt out there to chew on. Or maybe you like the taste of rust. Lick the revolver in your boot if you get real desperate.”

Your nails dig into the counter. You feel it give just slightly under your palm, cracked laminate pressed hard enough to leave a faint imprint in your skin. You drag in a breath that tastes like oil and meat and the ghost of something sweet enough to make your ribs ache.

“I’ve eaten worse,” you spit. The lie slides out so bitter you can barely swallow it. The look in his eyes says he knows it. He knows it when your stomach gives itself away with a soft, traitorous growl you wish you could drown in your own spit.

You shove back from the stool so fast it screeches across the cracked tile. The scrape echoes through the empty diner, sharp enough to make your eyes water for reasons you’ll never say out loud. You brace a hand on the counter just long enough to push yourself up. The revolver shifts in your boot, cold weight thudding your ankle like an insult.

“Keep your shit meat,” you hiss. Your shoulders square as you pull your ragged shirt higher on your collarbone. “I’ll find a rat on the road, same thing anyway.”

He lets you go. At first. His grin doesn’t shift. His eyes slip down your side, catching where the thin cotton sticks to the sweat on your ribs. He watches you step back, watches the way your shoulders stiffen like you’re bracing for another mile of dry wind and empty road.

You’ve almost reached the door. Your fingers curl around the metal handle, cool against your palm. The cracked neon sign flickers outside, buzzing the word EAT into the darkness like it knows how hollow you really are.

You don’t get to pull it open. His voice rolls across the space between your shoulder blades, lazy as poison poured in a sweet cup.

“Tell you what,” he calls out. His tone drips warm and mocking, soft enough that it prickles the back of your neck. “Come back here. Get on your knees. I’ll feed you better than any rat could. Real meat that hadn't already been picked on by vultures, even cooked ontop of a stove.”

You freeze. The metal handle creaks under your grip when your knuckles go white. The soft hiss of the wind outside slips through the crack in the doorframe, dry and hollow and sharp enough to bite at your heel.

You turn your head just enough to catch him in the corner of your eye. He hasn’t moved an inch. One arm braced on the counter, the other pair folded loose against his chest like a king bored by the prayers spilling out of your throat. His grin carves deep enough to show the sharp edge of his teeth in the flickering neon glow.

“Or go on,” he says. He lifts one hand, thumb flicking toward the dark stretch of road behind you. “Back to sucking ditchwater and licking the rust off old cans. Plenty of ghosts out there dying to keep you company while your belly turns inside out.”

Your lip curls. You hate him for how your knees threaten to soften. Hate the heat that sparks behind your ribs when his eyes slip down your front again, slow enough to taste. You hate that your stomach growls again, louder now, a low keen that betrays you before your mouth can spit another lie.

You could draw the revolver. Put a round in his skull. Take what you want. But you know how that would end. The stories you heard whispered around half-dead campfires, about what happens to folks who think they can take from Sukuna without giving him something he wants first.

Your fingers slip from the door. The metal handle rattles soft when it snaps shut behind you. Your boots drag you back two steps, the sound of your soles scraping the tile drowned by the hum of the sign that still flickers EAT, EAT, EAT.

His grin splits wider when you stand there, shoulders hunched like the road’s weight hasn’t quite slipped off yet. He tips his chin at the empty stool you left spinning on its rusty base.

“Come on then,” Sukuna murmurs. He drags his thumb over the edge of the counter, slow enough to make the pulse in your throat kick. “Show me how hungry you really are. Maybe I’ll decide you’re worth the trouble.”

Your breath shudders out. The revolver in your boot presses heavy. You don’t reach for it. Your fingers twitch at your side once, then still. The hum of the neon sign above the door keeps buzzing the same promise into your bones. EAT. EAT. EAT.

Your tongue drags over your cracked lips. You take one step. Another. Your knees hit the cracked tile floor just beside the stool you abandoned. The metal creaks when you brace your hand on the counter, steadying yourself under the weight of his stare.

Sukuna’s grin softens at the edges but never fades. He leans forward, close enough you feel the ghost of heat where his breath drifts across the soft slope of your throat. His fingers tap the chrome once, twice, the echo of it sharp enough to pin you in place.

“That’s better,” he says. His voice hums warm where it curls under your ribs, soft as old sin. “Now open that pretty mouth. Let’s see how much meat you can really take.”

Your knees ache on the cracked tile. The hum of the neon sign buzzes somewhere behind your ears, a dull chorus that blends with the pounding of your pulse when you narrow your eyes at him. Sukuna’s grin holds steady, sharp as a butcher’s blade, while you push your chin forward just enough to show you’re not some starving pup begging for scraps.

You squint at him, voice scraping out rough but steady. “Gonna stand there and smirk all night, or you planning on working for your applause?”

His laugh rumbles low in his chest, a sound that makes the shadows behind him seem to shiver. He tips his head just enough to glance over your shoulder, eyes flicking to the door as if he’s checking to see if the ghosts of the highway have stumbled in to watch you on your knees. Finding the room empty except for the two of you, he drags his gaze back down.

His tongue flicks over one canine as he pushes away from the counter. He steps in closer, boots creaking on the old tile until his hips hover inches from your face. He leans his back to the counter, arms folding across that broad chest like he’s settling in for a private show.

You catch it when you look up. The thick swell in his pants, the bulge pressing hard against cheap fabric that strains around the shape of him. Even half-caged he looks heavy, long, thick enough your throat tightens with the memory of what he promised.

You wrinkle your nose, the soft huff of your breath ghosting over the bulge before you glare up at him. “When’s the last time you showered, huh? Or do you think the rotting smell is part of your charm?”

He rolls his eyes, one hand drifting down to thumb at the waistband of his pants like he’s trying not to laugh too loud at your poor insult. “Mouth on you,” he drawls, voice dripping with that nasty sweetness that makes your teeth ache. “You must taste so much better when you shut up.”

Your fingers twitch near your boot, the cold weight of the revolver digging at your ankle like a reminder that you could ruin him with a single pull. One bullet. Right through that smug grin. Or lower. You imagine it for half a heartbeat, the phantom of the barrel pressed to his zipper.

But you don’t. You stay where you are, knees pressed to cracked tile that bites at your bones. He’s the first man you’ve laid eyes on in months who doesn’t smell like rot or look half-shriveled under the sun. The last one with a face you might hate but a body you can’t help but want pressed up against you, filthy and alive in all the ways the dead men on the road never were.

He sees it too. The flicker of your thoughts across your eyes. The way your tongue drags over your cracked bottom lip again, your throat working to swallow down the sting of dry air. Sukuna hums low, his hand dropping behind the counter. He rummages for a second, metal clinking, before he pulls up an old glass bottle half full of water that gleams under the flickering light.

You don’t dare move when he cracks the cap open with one thick thumb. The smell of it - clean, cold, so real you could weep. His grin softens to something crueler, more patient. He crouches just a little, one hand slipping under your chin. The warmth of his skin presses there, thumb brushing the grime along your jaw.

“Open up,” he murmurs. His voice drips low enough you could drown in it.

Your lips part before you can stop them. His fingers tilt the bottle slow, water sliding out in a cold trickle that drips right into your waiting mouth. It hits your tongue and your throat clenches around it, the relief so sudden it makes your eyes sting. You swallow, mouth open wider, wanting more than you can beg for with your pride hanging tattered around your shoulders.

He tips the bottle back before you’ve had half. Your tongue catches the last drop as it falls from your lip, the taste gone too quick.

“That’s it,” he purrs. The hand at your chin slides up, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth where the last drop hangs. He wipes it off with a rough drag, smearing it along your lip before he lets his hand drop to his zipper. “You want more, earn it.”

The sound of the zipper dragging down cuts through the hush. The fabric parts and you see him bare, his cock springing out heavy and flushed dark at the tip, veins ridged thick along the shaft. His thighs flex when he shifts, fabric of his pants bunching low where his hips roll slow, just to watch your eyes drop to the size of him.

You draw back half an inch, your shoulders pressing to the stool you abandoned, breath caught halfway between your lungs and your dry laugh. Your voice cracks out, hoarse but sharp. “Shit. This thing could be used as a weapon.”

He snorts, the corner of his mouth twitching as he lifts one brow. “Could be. Should be. Maybe tonight it will be.”

The grin that slips over his teeth is pure cruelty, dripping honeyed promise you can feel pooling warm in your belly despite every thought in your head that tells you to run. His hand wraps around the thick base, thumb stroking slow over the flushed tip like he’s showing off a prize you’re not quite allowed to taste yet.

Your lips part again, cracked and dry and waiting for the rest of that water he’s locked behind a promise you’ll hate yourself for keeping. His hips tilt closer, shadow falling over your face when he lifts the bottle just out of reach, his other hand pressing at your hair, rough enough to push your head back where you kneel hungry at his feet.

Your lips hover over the head of it, your breath hitting the flushed tip in small, shaky puffs that do nothing to cool you down. Your voice cracks when you manage to rasp something out, muffled by the heat of his skin brushing your mouth.

“I can’t put that fuckin’ thing in my mouth.”

Your words don’t match what your body’s doing. Your lips already press soft kisses along the crown, tasting the salt and something faintly bitter. One hand slides to the thick base, your fingers barely wrapping halfway before the other joins in, palms squeezing warm around the hard weight of him.

Sukuna watches from above, one arm braced back on the counter while the other tangles rough in your hair. His jaw twitches when you flatten your tongue to the tip, giving it a wet, lazy lick just to spite him. Your eyes flick up to see the way his mouth twitches at the corner, a muscle in his neck jumping like he wants to say something sharp but holds it for a second longer.

The moment doesn’t last. His hips buck up once, pressing the blunt head right against your lips until they part without your permission. Warm spit and that leftover water slip from your mouth, slicking him up enough that when he pushes in, your cheeks puff wide around the stretch.

He drags in a breath through his teeth, eyes narrowed down at you like he’s daring you to bite just to see if you’re dumb enough to test him. Your hands keep working the base, both wrapped tight as you pump him unhurried, the soft slick noise of your palms rubbing up the length swallowed by the low curse that breaks out of his throat.

“Pathetic,” he grunts, voice sharp enough to crack your pride in half if you let it. “All that mouth and you can’t even open it wide enough for me.”

You scoff around him, cheeks hollowing just enough to suck in a lungful of air around the stretch. Your teeth catch the underside for a split second, not enough to really bite but enough to feel the sharp hiss that rips out of him when his fingers tighten at your scalp.

“Watch it,” Sukuna snaps, the words dragging low from the pit of his chest. His hand shoves your head forward, the next thrust pushing him deeper, hot weight sliding over your tongue until you feel it press at the back of your throat. “Try that again and I’ll fuck your skull open so wide they’ll use you for a roadside caution sign.”

Your laugh cracks around the fullness, muffled and ugly but there anyway. You can’t say anything back, not when he’s pushing your head down farther, thick length forcing your mouth wide enough to make your jaw ache. Spit dribbles from the corners of your lips, slipping down your chin to smear into the grime already stuck to your neck.

Your hands never stop moving, sliding up and down what you can’t swallow yet. He grunts low when your tongue flicks against the thick vein pulsing along the underside. Each shallow thrust of his hips pushes him deeper, your nose pressed to the sharp edge of his stomach where the hem of his shirt hangs open just enough to show that deep cut of his v-line disappearing into your lips.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You try to blink them away but the heat of him inside you and the taste coating your tongue make it impossible to keep them from falling. One fat drop breaks loose, rolling down to catch on your wrist where your knuckles press to his thigh for balance. You wipe it away with the back of your hand, but another slips free before you can stop it. The salt mixes with the taste of him, drowning out the stale water you’d swallowed moments before.

“Look at you,” he growls, voice cracked open by a raw laugh that sounds like it should scare you more than it does. “Crying for it. Gutter slut on her knees, tears in her mouth while she tries to choke down a meal too big to swallow.”

You try to glare up at him but your vision’s too blurry to hold his eyes for long. Your cheeks hollow again when you drag your head back just enough to suck a breath. He doesn’t let you get far. His hand twists tight in your hair, pulling you back down so the head hits your throat again, forcing that half-retch you can’t hide.

“Take it,” Sukuna snaps. His hips roll slow at first, then snap harder when you try to lean back again. “Eat it all. You wanna fill that belly, you start here. This is real meat. Fresh. Hot. Better than anything you’ll find rusting on the road.”

Your hands grip tighter around the base, slick and messy with your spit. Your throat clenches around him when his next thrust pushes too deep, the burn of your gag sharp at the back of your eyes. He doesn’t care. He ruts in again, voice low and fucked, his head tipping back for a second when your tongue flicks just right under the crown.

Your tears keep falling, mixing with the dirt on your cheeks until they carve raw tracks through the grime. You feel them drip down your neck when you swallow, mouth stretched wide enough to bruise your jaw. His words keep spilling, filthy and half-amused like he can’t decide if he wants to gut you or praise you for taking it.

“Good enough,” he snarls, hips jerking forward again until your nose hits the heat of his stomach. “Better than I thought. Look at you. All road dust and sharp teeth and nothing left but spit on my cock.”

Your lungs burn. You swallow again, the taste of him turning your stomach but your hands never stop moving, squeezing at the base like you’re trying to drain him for everything he’s worth. You feel it when he twitches, the first hot pulse hitting the back of your tongue. He groans low, hips rolling slow and mean while his hand tightens at your scalp, forcing your mouth to stay wide around him.

The taste is worse than the smell. Bitter and thick, rancid enough your throat clenches like it wants to spit it back. You don’t. You force it down, fighting the urge to gag as you swallow the first wave, the next, the last thick spill that coats your tongue before he lets your head pull back just enough to breathe.

Your lips slip off him with a wet pop, spit and seed dripping from the corner of your mouth as you pant for air. The grime on your face looks clearer now where your tears cut through it, salt and sweat and dirt smudged into your chin when you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

Sukuna’s breath saws through his chest, eyes locked on the mess of your lips and the way your throat works to swallow down the last taste of him. He wipes the last trace of spit from your chin with his thumb, slowly like he’s scraping grime from a plate he plans to lick clean later. 

His cock twitches once, still thick and angry where it slaps against his thigh when he lets go. He drags his eyes down your face, smirk split wide enough to show too many teeth.

“Alright,” he murmurs, voice rolling through the hush of the tiled washroom. “Want a burger or somethin’?”

Your glare slices through the steam. Your knees press tight together, your hips roll just enough to feel the burn between your legs sharpen. One hand slips down before you can stop it, palm braced on the slick floor as you shift your weight to rut your clothed cunt against the curve of your wrist. You can feel the grit scraping your skin raw, but you don’t care. Not when his eyes drop and drag over the mess of you there on the tiles.

A low chuckle rumbles out of him. His grin curves wider, tongue flicking over one sharp canine. “Look at you,” he scoffs, eyes dragging back up to your mouth. “Still starving like a stray sniffing scraps under my table. You think I’m feeding you for that?”

You bite down on the inside of your cheek so hard you taste copper, bitterness flooding your chest just enough to force your spine straight. Your mouth curls into something half-broken, half-vicious as you push yourself to stand. You nearly slip on the wet tile, boots skidding on soap-scummed floor. His hand catches your elbow before you crash down. He doesn’t let you breathe. His grip tightens. He lifts you like you’re nothing but a rag he’s sick of tripping over.

Your back hits the counter’s edge. The cold laminate bites into your ass through your thin jeans. Sukuna’s grin splits further when he flips you onto your back, rough palms pressing your thighs apart so wide you feel the burn in your hips.

“You’re gonna get my whole kitchen filthy,” he growls, voice rough near your ear as his hand drags slow up your trembling inner thigh. His thumbs dig into the soft flesh, fingers flexing like he’s kneading raw dough. “I should rinse you out with bleach first.”

You roll your hips up into his palm, spite twisting your lips even as your body betrays you. “Keep talking. I’m not scared of soap or you.”

That pulls a real laugh from him, dark and cracked open at the edges. His cock bobs heavy between you both, head flushed and dripping near your stomach. The vein along the shaft pulses when he slides his thumb down, dragging it across the slick patch spreading over your jeans.

“You smell like stale sweat and old piss,” he snaps, pressing his face close enough that you feel his breath heat your lips. “You’re not getting this until I scrape the filth off you.”

You try to spit words at him but he’s already shifting, hooking one big arm under your back while the other scoops your thighs. Your world tips. Your spine smacks against his shoulder as he hauls you like a sack of grimy loot.

The kitchen flashes by, metal counters scrubbed too clean, white tiles stained rusty near a drain you don’t want to look at too long. He stomps you through a steel door and shoves it open with his hip. Inside, a cracked washroom waits, steam curling off a battered shower head that hisses warm water into the air.

He tosses you down onto your feet. You stumble back, one palm braced on the cold tile wall. Sukuna stands there, arms folded, that ugly smirk carved deep into his mouth like he wants you to crawl.

“Shower’s not charity,” he snaps. “Work for it.”

Your teeth bare in a grin that tastes like blood. Your fingers hook into your waistband, yanking your jeans down until they slap wet against the floor. One boot thuds off. The other flies across the grimy corner. Socks peel off with a damp squelch. The tank top comes last, ragged fabric scraping over your skin when you toss it to the tiles at his feet.

Sukuna doesn’t hide how he looks. His eyes rake over the sweat-slick curve of your stomach, the grit at the backs of your knees. He strips too, peeling his ruined pants down those thick thighs until his cock swings free, heavy enough you feel the pulse in your throat just looking at it. The veins stand out thick and mean. His chest is broad, a map of old ink and muscle that shifts under the harsh flicker of the overhead bulb.

Steam spills over your shoulders when you step into the warm drizzle. His palm hits your hip hard enough you grunt. Fingers dig into your ribs, nails scraping off grime in rough circles that burn when the water slides through. His other hand cups your breast, squeezes until your nipple peaks tight under the heat. He pinches, rolls the bud until your hips shift closer on instinct.

“You don’t look half bad when you’re not covered in your own filth,” he mocks, voice rough, mouth pressing to the slope of your throat where the last streaks of dirt run down the drain. “Almost worth the stink.”

Your snort cracks open your grin. One hand drops between you, wraps around the heavy weight still half-hard at his stomach. You squeeze, thumb dragging along the slit just to feel the twitch in his abs when you pull.

“Don’t remember you complaining about the stink when you were halfway down my throat,” you bite.

A growl cracks out of him, low and mean. He fists your hair, tilts your chin up so your back hits the tile with a soft slap. Warm spray soaks your scalp, washes the grit from your roots while his other hand drops to shove your thighs apart.

“You talk too much,” he snarls. His thumb finds your clit, rubs hard and messy until your breath catches behind your teeth. “Maybe I should shut you up again. Mouth’s better busy.”

Your gasp splits around a low curse when two thick digits push inside you, the stretch so sudden your knees knock his thighs. The water drips over your chest, rolling down to pool at your navel when his knuckles drag against your walls.

“Hope you cleaned under those filthy claws,” you spit, breath broken on the laugh that tumbles through your teeth.

He snorts, voice sharp enough to cut skin. “You think I give a fuck? You’ll be begging for more of this dirt before you’re done.”

Your fingers dig into his forearm when he scissors you wider, the raw scrape of his knuckles pressing spots that make your thighs quiver. He doesn’t give you time to catch a breath. Another finger pushes in, the stretch raw and sweet when he curls them together.

“Spread wider,” Sukuna snaps, thumb grinding your clit until your hips rut helplessly against the push. “Don’t make me pry you open with my teeth.”

Your laugh shatters around a gasp, fingers still curled tight around the thick base of his cock as it twitches hot against your stomach.

“Big talk,” you rasp, hips jerking when his thumb circles your clit harder. “For a man who lives behind a counter frying mystery meat.”

Sukuna’s grin sharpens. His fingers slip out with a wet sound that makes your chest shiver. He shoves you back until your shoulders smack the tile. One rough hand slides under your thigh, hitching it over his hip when he lines himself up.

“I’ll show you what real meat tastes like, pest,” he snarls against your jaw, voice cracking over your skin just as his cock slides heavy between your slick folds. “Keep that mouth open.”

And when he thrusts up, splitting you open in one slow, bruising shove, your snarl twists into a moan so sweet even the flickering bulb above you seems to hum for more.

Your gasp catches hard in your chest when he shifts, the thick weight of him punching deeper with a bruising shove that scrapes the breath from your ribs. Sukuna’s body pins you flush to the cracked tile wall, heat searing your skin where his chest slides against yours, wet and slick from the water pounding down over both of you. His cock stretches you wide, every slow drag tearing your insides raw in a way that makes your knees quake.

Your voice hitches, mouth open against his jaw as he presses you harder to the wall, nails scraping down your ass before he squeezes the soft swell of it in both huge hands.

“Too big,” you rasp, eyes squeezing shut when his hips pull back and ram forward again, each thrust shaking the tiles behind your spine. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, nails scraping skin and old ink while your words spill out in ragged spurts. “It’s too fucking much… feels like I’m getting split on a damn post-”

A vicious grin splits his mouth as he dips his head, tongue dragging a slow, hot swipe over the sweat at your throat. His laughter rumbles low, so close you feel it in your teeth before you feel it in your cunt.

“Good,” he growls, voice rough as gravel. His teeth graze your earlobe before he bites down hard enough to make you whimper. “Better than that filthy hole you keep flapping. Maybe I should keep you plugged full all day so you shut up for once.”

The filthy scrape of him pulling back makes your hips twitch. One big hand slides down the curve of your ass to slap it, sharp and wet, the sound bouncing off the mildew-stained walls. Another smack lands on the other side, heat blooming under his palm when he rubs the sting in lazy circles before gripping tight enough to bruise.

“Might have to keep you stashed here,” he rasps, voice half laughter and half threat. He drags his cock deeper with another harsh grind, each push forcing a sharp squeak from your throat that he drinks in like it’s his last drop of liquor. “Keep you bent over my counter like a meal on a plate. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You bark a wheezing laugh that snaps in half when his hips ram forward, forcing you open around the thick weight splitting you raw. Your fingers fumble for purchase on the wet tile, your nails biting half-moons into his arms when your cunt clenches so tight your vision blurs at the edges.

“Only if there’s an all-you-can-eat buffet for me too,” you spit, gasping when his next shove makes your thighs quake. “I’m not gagging on your shit for free every damn night. I want real meat too.”

Sukuna’s teeth bare in something that looks like a grin and a snarl fighting to tear his mouth in half. He presses his forehead to yours, his breath hitting your lips hot and thick as his hips pound forward again, dragging another slick moan out of you.

“You think you’re worth a full meal?” he huffs, voice dripping with rough amusement. “You’ll be lucky if I toss you the bones. You’ll lick ‘em clean like the mangy bitch you are.”

The insult scrapes your chest raw but the filthy roll of your hips gives you away. His thumb finds your clit again, circles fast and mean until your breath stutters and your legs buckle around his waist. Your nails carve down his back when your cunt tightens, the raw stretch of him inside you catching deep enough to make your eyes water.

“Fucking, you’re so damn thick-” you whimper, voice cracking when he drives in again, the wet slap of skin ringing loud in the steam. “Hurts… fuck, it hurts-”

“Good,” he spits, lips dragging down your neck to your collarbone where he bites another bruise into your skin. “Maybe you’ll remember who’s feeding you.”

Your body snaps under the push and pull of him rutting you into the wall, water splattering down your back where it washes the filth away but leaves nothing clean between you. His hips crash forward, each thrust meaner than the last, his heavy cock splitting you open while your moans break apart under the rush of heat curling tight in your gut.

“You’re mine now,” he snarls when you try to look away, fingers fisting your hair to yank your head back so you have to see him, eyes red and half-lidded. “Every inch of you. Every pretty sound. Mine.”

You bare your teeth at him, your hips jolting up to meet his next push even when your thighs tremble from the strain. “Only if you keep feeding me real,” you pant, voice splitting around the filthy smack of his hips. “No more cans. No more trash. I want real meat. Cooked and steaming.”

He drags a harsh chuckle from deep in his chest, mouth smashing yours open on a kiss that tastes like steam and salt and the iron tang of your tongue between his teeth. His hips snap hard, cock throbbing inside you when your cunt grips him so tight it drags a guttural groan out of him.

“You’ll take whatever I give you,” Sukuna snarls against your lips, his hand slapping your ass again when you squeeze around him. “And you’ll beg for more when I’m done.”

Your laugh cuts into a moan that falls apart when his thumb rubs faster, the sharp press of his fingers driving you straight into the edge you’ve been choking on for minutes. Your spine arches off the wall when the wave hits, your vision crackling white at the edges as your cunt clamps down so tight you feel every pulse of his cock twitching deep inside.

“Fuck… fuck …Sukuna-” you choke, the words shredded on a whine that he swallows with his mouth still locked on yours. His hips hammer forward, his thick length dragging every shudder out of you until your voice collapses under the weight of it.

“Mine,” he growls again, words a filthy promise that splits your bones open as his hips slam flush, cock spilling hot inside you until the warmth drips down your thigh where the water can’t wash it away fast enough.

You choke on the taste of his breath when he bites your bottom lip, pulling back just enough to watch your eyes flutter under the blinking bulb. 

Your moan breaks open in his mouth when his hips slam flush, his cock twitching deep inside you. He holds you pinned to the cracked tile with the full weight of him, thick arms caging you in while the warm spray hits your shoulders and slides down your back. Your legs tremble, thighs tight around his waist as the first hot pulse fills you.

Sukuna’s groan tears out low, ragged in his chest. He doesn’t stop pushing. He stays buried deep, hips rolling in short, punishing thrusts that keep you split wide around him while each thick wave of cum pours into your cunt. The heat rushes through you, slick and heavy, dripping down the backs of your thighs when you clench helplessly around the mess he leaves inside.

“Fuck,” he snarls, voice cracking as he grinds forward again, forcing another rough spill that makes your breath stutter. His teeth catch your jaw, scraping along your skin as he mutters filth against your throat. “Take it. Pussy’s so tight. So fucking wet for me. You’re not done.”

Your laugh cracks apart when his hips jerk one last time. The last pulse of warmth drips out as his cock drags against your walls, leaving you trembling when your cunt flutters around nothing but the thick mess he’s shoved deep inside you.

“Sukuna,” you gasp, your voice thin, the steam around you swallowing it up. “You do realize there’s no birth control anymore. Not a single fucking pill, not a single shot. You think they stock that at some dusty ruin?”

Your breath hitches when his hand slips down, rough fingers rubbing at your clit again. Your hips buck at the touch, a soft whimper spilling out that you hate him for hearing. His grin slashes across his face, sharp and filthy, mouth dragging over your cheek where the water hasn’t rinsed him clean yet.

“Oh, I know,” he rasps, words half-laugh, half-threat when he pinches your clit just right, making your thighs jerk. “I know exactly what I’m doing. Maybe I’ll knock you up on this dirty floor, give this shit heap of a world something even worse than me. Little mongrel chewing through my leftovers while you waddle around this kitchen leaking me down your thighs.”

Your laugh rattles through your teeth but breaks off in a whimper when his thumb circles harder. Your spine arches off the tile, nails digging into his shoulders as your second climax claws through you with raw heat. The heavy mess inside you slips out when you clench, warm drips mixing with the spray around your ankles.

“You’d keep it,” he goads, mouth pressed at your ear while he rubs harder, pulling every soft cry out of you. “You’d spread your legs for seconds before it’s even born. Breed you full again right here on the counter while that little monster naps behind the grill.”

Your eyes roll, voice shredded as your thighs quake around his hips. “It’d eat you alive. Little savage.”

His tongue drags up your throat when your last moan shatters, teeth catching your chin in a soft bite. He holds you pinned with one huge palm at your lower back, the other still pressed between your legs, two fingers dragging your release out while you pant for breath that won’t come fast enough.

“Perfect,” Sukuna huffs, words soaked with rough laughter that rumbles in his chest. “Perfect garbage family for the end of the world. You. Me. Some half-feral brat chewing drywall while you beg me for more.”

Your head thuds against the tile when you shiver, your last pulse fading out with the last hiss of the warm shower dripping over both your backs. His hand slides off your clit slow, wet fingers dragging a trail up your belly to smear the mess across your skin like he’s marking you twice over.

And when your eyes flutter open, breath wrecked, your mouth splits into a crooked grin you can’t hide. The heavy ache inside says you’ll never be clean again, no matter how hot the water runs.

When your legs finally stop twitching enough to hold your own weight, Sukuna peels you off the wall like he’s unhooking fresh meat from a rack. Your feet slap the warm puddle at the bottom of the shower. His massive palm stays hooked under your chin, thumb brushing your jaw like he’s wiping the last proof of you off his skin. He doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let you move.

“What’s your name,” he rumbles, voice rough with the scrape of all the filth that came before. The water drips off his shoulders in thick trails, steam rising from his bare chest where old ink coils around slabs of muscle you know now too well.

You blink the water out of your lashes, chest heaving, your mouth curling around the word like you’re daring him to laugh at it. “Yours if you keep feeding me.”

He huffs, a sound so low it could be a laugh or a threat if you cared enough to pin it down. His thumb slides to the corner of your mouth, smearing spit across your cheek before he drags it back down to your throat. He nods, eyes narrowed, pupils thin and sharp as they rake your battered face.

He doesn’t step away. Instead he shoves you back into the wall with his hips, cock already hardening where it brushes your belly. Your legs quake when you try to stand but his arm hooks under your knee, hiking it over his hip.

Your moan splits the stale air as he sinks back inside you, fresh heat mixing with the old pulse of everything he left dripping from your cunt. Words shatter behind your teeth when he leans in, mouth hot and open over yours.

The next fuck drags the hiss out of the cracked tiles. You lose count of how many times you come apart, your raw throat scraping curses and laughter into his shoulder. He fucks you until you’re begging for water again, until your name is nothing but a bruise in his mouth.

༒︎

When you wake later, it’s still there. Echoing in the hiss of old neon buzzing outside. You’re draped across a sticky counter in the dining area now, one of his old long-sleeved shirts swallowing your shoulders. The sleeves hang past your fingers where they wrap around a battered plate piled with half-burned meat and bread so stale it might break your teeth. You don’t care. You chew like you haven’t eaten since the world cracked open.

Behind you, Sukuna leans against the counter with his arms crossed, eyes drilling into your spine like he’s daring you to choke on the food he keeps throwing your way. He’s shirtless, fresh scars partially hidden under the dark ink that winds up his chest. One of his lower hands scratches the edge of his jaw while the other toys with a grease-stained rag. He looks bored, maybe even starved for whatever you’ll spit at him next.

The bell over the door chirps its rusted hinge alive. Both your heads jerk at once. The dry wind leaks in around two shadows, big enough to block the ruin of the sunset spilling through the cracked glass.

The first man steps in like the wind itself owes him something. He’s tall, so tall he has to duck under the broken frame, wild silver hair sticking out from under a battered pair of pilot goggles strapped over his forehead. His eyes cut bright and sharp behind tinted lenses, the grin he wears split wide and careless like he’s always known something you haven’t. He drags a dusty bomber jacket off one shoulder, boots scuffing the cracked tile as he whistles at the two of you.

The other drifts in behind him. Dark hair tied low at his nape, a few strands stuck to the sweat at his temple. His jacket’s older, black leather patched and stitched where the world’s torn it up. Eyes heavy, mouth soft but not soft enough to be safe. A cigarette smolders between his fingers. The smell cuts through the stale diner air.

Gojo Satoru leans back on his heels, goggles sliding down to hang loose around his neck. He tosses you a grin that feels like teeth hidden in a gift box.

“Place still open?” he drawls, voice rolling through the dead air like a spark looking for dry tinder. “Or you two done playing house?”

Suguru Geto lets the door swing shut behind them, boot heel crunching the grit on the floor. His eyes flick over the half-eaten food on your plate, then up at Sukuna where the bastard hasn’t moved an inch behind you.

Your lips part. Sukuna’s hand comes down heavy on the counter beside you, cracked knuckles tapping once on the old laminate as the neon outside flickers alive.

The Last Diner on Dead Highway hums around you both. And that’s where it holds.

notes: me realizing they didn't even kiss (whoops)

[nimueshell]

"MM, SHE THE DEVIL"

Welcome to hell, darling. I am Nimue - she/they if you please, a woman by birth but something a touch more monstrous by choice. This corner of sin is my garden and you, my little hellions, are the blossoms I tend to with sharpened nails and a soft smile.

Here fictional men devour you sweetly, your shame left smoldering at the gates while your pleasure takes its rightful place on my altar. Stay as long as you dare, sinners. I promise to make your damnation worth it.

You must be 18+ for admission to these fiery pits. Requests are open; come whisper your darkest desires to me.

Hell has never looked so inviting.

ৡRecent Works:

Caught in the Web (Gojo.S)

The Forest Took Me (C.K)

Patient Confidentiality (T.F)

Redline Brat (T.F)

Sticky Pages (C.K)

Jealousy, Jealousy (N.K)

MASTERLIST (to be added)

All credit belongs to @nimueshell. Please do not take credit for any of my writing. Do not share my work on AO3, Wattpad, or any other platform.

[nimueshell]

You have now entered the pits of HELL

⭑.ᐟ Greetings my name Nimue, my friends call me Rue, I'm 23, American, she/they pronouns. My sexuality is bisxeual 💖💖

Star signs: capricorn sun, scorpio moon, rising in leo.

Likes : Writing, art, listening to bangers, watching horror movies and animated films, reading fanfiction, talking to myself because I'm insane.

Dislikes : People, places, things, storms, bad grammar.

Hobbies: Dissociating, writing, drawing, reading, having mental breakdowns, going to the hospital once every other month.

Favorite Video Games: Dress to Impress (user:rueteas, add me), Mario Kart, Last of Us, Left 4 Dead, Silent Hill, Resident Evil, Beatstar, Everskies, Minecraft, & dress up games.

My Music: SZA, Doja Cat, Ricky Montgomery, Cavetown, Conan Gray, Musicals, Hozier, EXO, BTS, TOMORROW X TOGETHER, Joji, Phoebe Bridgers, Mother Mother, Sir Chloe, Chapelle Roan, Gigi Perez, Paramore, Roar, The Front Bottoms, Olivia Rodrigo, girl in red, Mistki, Genevieve Stokes, bbno$, Noah Kahan, and Lizzy McAlpine.

Animes /Manwhas: Ya'll already know I be reading yaoi. Animes, JJK, Black Butler, Yuri On Ice, Ouran Highschool Host Club, Haikyuu, BNHA (never got to season 5), Parasyte, Samurai Champloo, Cowboy Bepop, Devil man Crybaby, Soul Eater, Death Note, HXH.

Extra : Request are open, feel free to DM me.

[nimueshell]

۶•ৎ Redline Brat T.F

Summary: You swear you’re just there to watch him win dirty and lose worse, but you keep ending up sprawled over the hood of his beat-up car, gasping out apologies you don’t mean while the engine’s still ticking hot.

Substance: Street racer!toji fushiguro, afab brat!reader,public,size kink, rough, swearing,fingering,oral(m!receiving),pussydrunk toji, degrading,hair-pulling, name calling,unprotected,sex-marathon,overstimulation, blowjobs, dirty talk, toji is an asshole, betting, brat-taming.

Word Count: 8.1k

The engines growl in the distance, lights bleeding through the cigarette smoke and half-broken street lamps. Toji stands a few feet away from his half-built monster of a car, hood popped, one hand resting on the metal like it might bite if he lets go. His shirt clings to him in the humid night air, sweat darkening the collar, black hair slicked back and eyes cutting through the chaos like he owns every heartbeat on this busted asphalt.

You stand off to the side, sucking slow on a cherry sucker, tongue rolling over the candy while you stare up at him with wide eyes that don’t fool anyone. The other drivers throw glances your way but none of them are dumb enough to say a word when Toji’s there, broad shoulders flexing every time he checks under the hood.

He catches your stare, smirks like he already knows what you want before you do. The cars rumble behind him, headlights strobing across his grin.

He steps closer until the metal smell of oil and burnt rubber is all you breathe.

“If I win tonight” he says low, the words dropping like hot ash between you “you let me fuck that pretty mouth of yours. Right here when I get back.”

You pop the sucker out with a wet little smack, roll your eyes slow, bite down on the candy stick just to be a brat about it. “And if you lose” you say sweet as poison “you’re paying my cousin’s debt. All of it.”

Toji laughs under his breath, rough and low, a sound that makes your thighs press together before you can stop yourself. He flicks the end of the sucker stick with a dirty finger and leans down just enough for you to taste the promise in his grin.

“Better hope I lose then, sweetheart” he says as he wipes his hand on a rag, tossing it into the backseat. The roar of the other engines builds up behind him like a threat.

He steps around you without another word, slides behind the wheel and cranks the ignition. The whole car shudders, growling alive like it’s ready to tear the street in half.

You stand there on the sidelines, heart knocking at your ribs, candy melting slow on your tongue while you watch him pull up to the line. You know damn well Toji Fushiguro doesn’t lose. He only collects. And tonight he’s collecting you.

You stand at the edge of the makeshift line, arms crossed under your chest, nails tapping at your elbow like you’ve got any patience left. Your hair’s twisted up in two messy buns, cheap little butterfly clips barely holding the flyaways in check.

The PU leather dress hugs your body mean and tight, sleeveless and short enough that every time you shift your weight, someone behind you gets an eyeful they didn’t earn.

Toji’s car crawls up to the line, engine purring like a pissed-off cat, hood still trembling from the last run. He cracks his window just enough to shout through the roar, voice slicing through bass thumps and catcalls around you.

“Hope you wore the red ones, brat” he hollers, grin wide enough to split that scar above his lip. “I’m gonna rip ‘em with my teeth when I win.”

You flick your tongue at him, roll your eyes so far back your lashes kiss your temples. You raise your middle finger slowly, make sure he sees it before you step back into the press of bodies lining the strip. Some drunk kid whistles when you back into him but you don’t even flinch, eyes locked on Toji like he’s the only thing worth watching tonight.

The half-dressed flagger, some girl in a bikini top and cutoff shorts, steps right between the cars, her ass brushing up against Toji’s bumper when she raises the flag. She looks back once, gives you a wink like she knows who’s really gonna get wrecked tonight.

One sharp wave and she’s off the line, so is Toji, the tires screaming murder as he eats the pavement alive. The street lights catch the oil streak on the hood as he fishtails past the first marker, exhaust spitting flame like he’s carving a signature just for you.

Your arms tighten under your chest, grin pulling at your mouth while your heart thrums hot in your throat. If he loses, you’re rich. If he wins, you’re fucked. Either way, you’re about to get exactly what you wanted.

 ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

Of course he won. Of course the second that flagger’s ass bounced off the street, Toji’s battered matte-black Nissan Silvia tore down the line like it owed him rent money. By the time you realized your bet had backfired, he was already whipping the Silvia back around, engine snarling as he drifted past the row of drunks and idiots cheering him on.

The street’s lit up in flickering yellows and brake lights. Beer cans rattle on the asphalt, someone’s yelling about running it back for double or nothing but Toji doesn’t even spare them a glance. He sees you. That’s all he needs.

You’re halfway through a fake little smirk, pretending you’re gonna play it cute, when he kills the engine in front of you. Door slams, boots hit the street, and then he’s stomping right up.

Before you can say a word he’s got his hands at your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing, a sharp yelp slipping out before you slam a fist against his back.

“Toji! Put me down!” You kick your feet but all it does is make him snort a laugh that rattles your bones.

He doesn’t say a thing at first, just flips open the passenger door with one big hand, flips you off his shoulder like you’re a duffel bag and tosses you right into the cracked leather seat. Your thighs squeak against it, dress riding high up your hips as he leans down to growl near your ear.

“Sit there. Look pretty. Don’t open that bratty mouth till I tell you to.”

You open your mouth anyway but he’s already slammed the door, the whole car shuddering under the force. He rounds the hood slow, grin pulling wide enough you catch it through the windshield, eyes glinting under the streetlight haze. He drops into the driver’s seat, heavy hand twisting the key before you can even spit out your next complaint.

The Silvia growls alive, tailpipes coughing smoke while he throws it into gear. The other racers blur past your window as he revs hard enough to make your pulse skip.

The whole lot fades behind you in seconds, neon streaks and half-finished beer cans disappearing in the side mirrors. He doesn’t say where you’re going. Doesn’t care that your thighs are sticking to the seat or that your mouth is open, ready to cuss him out.

All you know is the road’s empty ahead and the grin on his face says your mouth’s about to be put to better use. Somewhere dark. Somewhere private. Somewhere only he gets to wreck you.

You side-eye him so hard you almost hope he’ll jerk the wheel just to prove a point. Toji doesn’t bother looking at you. His eyes stay locked on the stretch of black road ahead, that predator grin tugging at the corner of his mouth while one big, rough hand slides off the wheel and drops to your bare thigh.

His palm is so hot it feels like it brands you through the tight PU leather. You jolt in your seat, breath catching when his fingers squeeze.

“Put your seat belt on.” His voice is lazy, like he’s asking you to pass the salt instead of creeping his knuckles closer to the heat between your thighs.

You huff through your nose, snap the buckle around your waist just to shut him up. “If you crash, that just proves you’re a shit driver.”

Toji laughs low, thumb stroking the soft skin above your knee. “If I crash, that just proves how much of a fucking distraction you are.”

The Silvia hums under you both, road stripes flicking by in the dark like a heartbeat on the verge of something bad. Your thighs press together, trying to hide the way your panties stick to you under the short hem of your dress. Toji feels it. Of course he does. His hand drags higher, palm rough on your inner thigh, fingertips brushing over the damp front of your lace. He lets out a low whistle that makes your toes curl in your boots.

“You’re already wet?” He says it like he’s amused, like he didn’t know damn well what he was doing the second he pulled you off that street.

You roll your eyes at the window, but your legs clamp around his wrist like you want to keep him there. One of his hands stays on the wheel, easy and steady while the other dips right where you’re hot and sticky. His fingers ghost over your folds, rubbing slow, teasing circles that make you suck in a ragged breath.

You shift in the seat when he finds your clit, trying to muffle the needy little moan that slips out by pressing your palm to your mouth. Toji snickers, eyes cutting to the side mirror just to catch your reflection, your back arching off the seat, your dress bunched up so high he can see how your panties cling to you.

“Let it out. No one can hear us. That pretty mouth’s gonna be busy tonight anyway.” His voice is gravel and sin, fingers sliding the soaked lace aside without missing a beat.

You gasp when one thick finger pushes in slow, knuckle-deep on the first thrust. The slick sound of it makes him groan, his jaw tightening as he feels you clench around him.

“You’re such a brat, y’know that? Always mouthing off, but this pussy purrs louder than my engine.”

“Focus on driving,” you spit out, trying to sound tough, but your hips jerk down to meet his hand anyway.

Toji laughs rough, steering the Silvia over a slope without even a flicker of hesitation. He curls his finger deeper, feeling you spasm around him like a pretty promise.

“I can multitask, sweetheart.” He plunges deeper, knuckle grinding your soft walls while his thumb circles your clit, slow and cruel.

“You’re such a dick, Toj’.” The words come out half a moan, half a whimper that makes him grin so wide you swear you’ll feel it for days.

He’s not gonna stop. Not until you beg. Not until you scream for him like you never wanted him to win in the first place.

Toji keeps driving like the road belongs to him, the Silvia purring loud enough to hide the filthy sound of your soaked pussy swallowing his fingers. He curls them slow at first, working your soft walls apart while your thighs twitch against the seatbelt cutting into your hip.

You swear at him under your breath, hissing through clenched teeth when his thumb drags over your clit in lazy circles that make your eyes flutter.

“Fuck you,” you snap, voice cracking as your hips roll into his palm like you’re starved for it.

He chuckles, gravel-deep, steering one-handed like he’s got nowhere better to be than knuckle-deep inside you. “You say that like it’s not exactly what you want,” he says, his thumb pressing down harder until your breath hitches sharp in your throat.

Your nails dig into the cracked leather seat. “Maybe I’ll bite your fucking fingers off,” you spit, hips jerking when he crooks them just right.

He laughs again, meaner this time, and the car drifts over the yellow line before he flicks the wheel back straight. His thumb rolls over your swollen clit, slow and punishing, while he slides another thick finger inside.

The stretch makes your thighs clamp shut around his wrist but you’re too far gone to push him away.

“Keep yappin’, brat,” Toji growls, voice low as he leans closer, breath ghosting your ear. “Mouth runs hot but your pussy begs louder every time.”

You gasp out something that’s supposed to be an insult but all that comes is a soft, broken moan that you bite down on too late. His fingers work deep, knuckles pressing against the slick mess inside you, thumb smearing tight little circles over your clit until your stomach knots.

You swear again, voice hitching every other word as you rock your hips forward, chasing it like you hate yourself for needing him this much.

“Fuck… Toji, shit.. I’m gonna…”

Your words die in your throat when your belly seizes, pleasure curling your toes in your boots. Right when it hits that sweet edge he feels it, the way your cunt tightens up, the way your thighs shudder like you’re about to melt. And he pulls out. Just like that.

A sharp whine claws out of your throat, your thighs snapping closed on nothing as he lifts his wet fingers to his mouth, tongue sliding slow between them as he sucks every drop off. His grin is filthy, eyes flicking from the road to your ruined pout.

“Sweeter than you act, huh?” Toji’s voice is all smoke and mean laughter, words muffled around his slick fingers before he pops them free with a wet smack.

You glare at him like you’d murder him if your legs would work. “You’re a piece of shit,” you spit, voice hoarse, hips rolling useless against the seat as you try to squeeze your thighs together for any relief.

He just snorts, drags his clean hand through his hair, the other one back on the wheel like nothing happened. The car hums on, neon signs dying behind you as he pulls off the main road, cutting through the dark until the only light left is the flickering overhead bulb behind a half-shut gas station in the middle of butt fuck nowhere.

He kills the engine, the Silvia sighing into silence while you’re still catching your breath, panties clinging soaked between your thighs. His grin splits wide in the glow of the streetlight, eyes dragging over you like you’re dinner.

“Get out,” he says, voice a rumble that makes your pussy clench on nothing all over again. “Time to finish what you started.”

You unbuckle the seat belt slow, metal clicking free, but you don’t move an inch. Toji watches you for half a second before that grin twitches mean across his scarred mouth. He shakes his head, tongue pressing into his cheek like he’s holding back a laugh.

He swings the driver’s door open so hard it rattles on its hinges, then slams it shut with a sharp crack that makes you jump in the passenger seat. Before you can swallow your hissed curse, he’s already stalking around the hood, boots crunching over the oil-stained gravel.

When you turn to face him through the open window, his bulge is right there. Thick and heavy, straining against the dark denim so close you feel the heat radiate off it. He plants his big hands on the hood, the car creaking under his weight as he leans over, that stupid smirk carved deep into the shadows under the buzzing gas station light. The scar across his mouth stretches when he tilts his head at you.

You tilt yours too, eyes narrowing like you’re about to spit something venomous. Instead, you lean forward, pressing your mouth over the shape of him through his jeans.

Your breath spills hot through the denim, tongue sneaking out to wet the fabric while your hand slides up to palm him through it.

Toji’s groan rolls straight through his chest, gravel-deep. “Don’t tease me, brat.” His voice drips warning but the shiver in it makes your smirk sharpen.

You part your lips slow, letting the damp heat of your breath soak him as your fingers work the button open, then drag the zipper down inch by inch. The waistband pops free under your touch, his boxers tugged low until the whole thick length of him bounces out.

He’s big. Stupid big. Pretty too, veins thick under pale skin, head flushed dark pink and already beading at the tip.

You press your face against him like you’re drunk on it, nose and lips dragging along the velvet skin. His hips twitch, a quiet shudder working through his thighs while he keeps his hands braced on the hood. You kiss the side of his shaft, your tongue teasing the vein that runs along it.

He grunts, one big hand sliding rough into your hair, fist tightening until your scalp prickles. He pulls your head back, his cock bobbing close enough to smear against your parted lips. You hum, eyes half-lidded, hands wrapping around the base as you guide him right back to you.

The weight of him pushes over your mouth, your lips parting wider to suck just the head. Warm salt, soft skin, heavy against your tongue. He rumbles a low “Good girl,” voice rough as his other hand drops from the hood to your cheek.

Your lashes flutter up at him, your tongue flicking the underside of his tip. Toji’s feet shift on the gravel, boots scuffing as he leans forward, feeding more of himself into the heat of your mouth. You feel him pulse under your tongue, thick and hot, his hand in your hair keeping you steady as he lets out another groan that shakes through his chest and into the dark gas station lot around you.

Toji pulls your head back with a sharp tug to your hair, your lips popping off his tip with a wet sound that makes your cheeks burn. He clicks his tongue low, glancing down at the mess of spit stringing from your mouth to his cock. He reaches down to the door handle, pops the passenger door open wide so you’re half spilled out into the humid night, knees directed outward, nudging his shins while you clutch the seat for balance.

His big hand plants on the roof, palm spread wide, muscles in his arm flexing under the dim yellow light. The other hand fists your hair again, dragging you back down until your lips kiss the thick base of him. You moan, mouth stretching wide as the heavy weight of him drags across your tongue.

“Look at you,” he rumbles, hips rolling forward slow at first just to watch you flinch. “Slobberin’ all over it like a fuckin’ mutt.”

Your lips part further, spit sliding from the corners of your mouth to your chin as you hollow your cheeks around him. His cock throbs, the salty taste filling your mouth as he rocks in deeper, the head hitting the back of your throat. You gag, whine against him, hands clutching his hips when he doesn’t pull back.

“C’mon, brat, open up,” he growls, his voice breaking on a ragged laugh as he thrusts in again, harder this time. The sloppy wet sound echoes off the metal car door. You choke around him, eyes squeezing shut as tears well up, rolling hot down your cheeks.

He grins down at you, dark and filthy, thumb reaching to smear the tears away with rough strokes while you fight to breathe through your nose.

“God, look at those eyes,” he says, voice almost soft if not for the way he drags your mouth deeper, his hips punching up into your throat. “So fuckin’ pretty when you cry all over my cock.”

You gag again, throat spasming around the thickness as he pulls back just enough for you to suck in a quick breath before he pushes back in, tip pressing deep where you can’t help but swallow around him. Your nails dig into his thighs, your lips and chin slick with spit and pre-cum.

He rocks his hips faster now, fucking your mouth with slow, punishing rolls that knock little desperate noises out of you. Every time you try to pull back his grip tightens, shoving you right back down until your lips smear messy kisses at the base of him.

Your cheeks hollow, throat working for him like you’re starved for every drop he’ll give you. Tears streak hot down your face, glinting in the yellow light as he brushes them away with a rough thumb.

“Such a sexy little mess,” Toji grunts, hips jerking as he shoves in deep again. He holds you there, his cock throbbing against your tongue, spit bubbling around your lips as you gag softly, lashes fluttering wet up at him like you’d thank him for it if you could speak.

He groans, breath catching, his head tipping back as he watches you drool all over his cock right there in the shadows behind some half-dead gas station where no one but him gets to see you ruin yourself like this.

You’re a mess, half hanging out of the passenger seat, ass sliding lower with every wet bob of your head until the backs of your thighs brush the edge of the doorframe. Toji’s grip on your hair is the only thing keeping you up, the sharp tug burning your scalp every time he jerks your mouth back down on him.

Your feet slide from the running board onto the gravel below, toes digging in for balance as you plant your feet right in front of his boots, your body bent at the perfect angle for him to ruin you under the hum of the flickering gas station light.

Your hands scrabble up his thick thighs, nails dragging over the muscle that jumps under your touch. You suck him deeper, tongue flattening along the underside, spit sliding down your chin and dripping onto your chest. You pull your lips back just enough to lick at his balls, soft and warm and pulled tight from how worked up he is.

“Shit, fuck--don’t you dare stop,” Toji grunts, voice raw, fingers twisting tighter in your hair as he rocks his hips forward harder. His cock pushes deep, the head brushing the back of your throat with every rough snap of his hips. You choke, drool bubbling out past your lips, eyes squeezed shut as more tears spill hot down your cheeks.

Your thighs rub together like you can squeeze the ache away, the heat between your legs pulsing so sweet you almost forget you’re about to suffocate on his cock.

Toji feels you gag, hears the broken moan that leaks around him when your tongue flicks under the crown. He growls something low and filthy, free hand slipping off the car to swipe your tears with the pad of his thumb.

He’s breathing heavy now, big chest rising and falling while he watches you ruin yourself on him. Your stupid space buns slip free when he fists his hand deeper in your hair, tugging them loose so he can get a better grip.

Strands stick to your damp cheeks as he sets a faster pace, hips thrusting up as your mouth stretches wide, lips swollen and shiny under the yellow light.

You moan around him, needy and desperate, spit slipping down your chin and dripping onto the gravel. Your hands tighten around his thighs, nails digging in as he drags your mouth down until your nose bumps the base of him, the coarse hair there scratching your upper lip.

“F..Fuk, such a good little slut...take it, yeah? Look at you, bein' all pretty for my cock.” His voice shudders on a laugh that sounds more like a growl, his thighs flexing under your fingers as he ruts forward.

The taste of him burns at the back of your throat, salt and sweat and the heat of him so deep you swear you’re gonna pass out from the stretch.

Your jaw aches but you push forward anyway, hollowing your cheeks to pull him deeper, tongue flattening under the weight as you lap at every inch you can reach.

Toji’s eyes burn down at you, pupils blown wide under the flickering light. His hips jerk harder, cock throbbing between your lips as he rocks faster, sloppy now, breath ragged when he feels his balls tighten against your chin.

You gag again but it just makes him grunt rougher, the sound vibrating through your skull as he mutters a filthy string of praise and curses.

“Shit, that mouth.. gonna fuckin’ fill you up… don’t waste a drop, you hear me?” He growls the words through clenched teeth, fingers fisted so tight in your hair they burn your scalp raw.

Your eyes blur more, tears slipping hot over your cheeks while your lips slide wet and shiny up and down his shaft. The sloppy suck, the slick pop when your mouth pulls back just to swallow him again.

He feels it hit the back of your throat and that’s it, his hips stutter, the muscles in his stomach tightening under your palms.

A low snarl rips from his chest as he shoves deep, his tip hitting your throat in a way that makes your eyes roll back. He holds you there, one hand spread over the back of your head, forcing you to take every pulse of his cock while hot salt floods your tongue.

Toji shudders above you, boots planted wide on the gravel as his cock throbs between your lips, thick spurts spilling straight down your throat while you moan around him, swallowing everything he gives you like you’d starve without it.

His hand loosens in your hair, thumb brushing your wet cheek with something almost gentle while he watches you choke and swallow, tears glinting under the shitty gas station light.

You gasp the second your lips pop free, tongue numb and jaw sore as you wipe the mess from your mouth with the back of your hand. Toji stands there in the piss-yellow light, big hand wrapped lazy around his cock that still glistens with your spit.

He doesn’t even give you time to catch your breath before he grabs your arm, grip iron-tight as he yanks you out of the car. Your legs stumble on the gravel, shoes skidding as you hiss his name through your teeth.

He kicks the door shut behind you, the slam echoing into the nothing around the shitty gas station. He doesn’t bother saying a word, just drags you straight to the hood of his car, your thighs bumping the warm metal as he shoves you forward.

The engine’s heat seeps into your belly through the tight fake leather of your dress, making your skin prickle while your hands brace against the edge of the hood.

“Such a fucking brute,” you spit, turning your head just enough to glare at him over your shoulder.

Toji laughs, voice dripping amusement as he hikes your dress up around your hips. The air hits your soaked thighs, the night biting at the slick sheen already running down between them. He palms your ass, spreads you open enough to see everything, his hungry eyes locked on the mess you’re dripping all over his front bumper.

“Act tough all you want,” he rumbles, dragging his cock up between your thighs until the heavy shaft slaps against your slick folds, the sound filthy under the buzz of the streetlight. “Hear that? She’s begging for me.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes just to keep your mouth working. “Yeah right. Maybe she’s begging for someone else.”

Before you can throw another barb, his hands rip the side of your panties clean apart, the elastic snapping against your thigh. He drops the scraps to the dirt like they never mattered and brings his cock down again, smacking the head against your ass so it jiggles.

The sight makes his grin stretch, scar pulling wide as he lifts his hips to do it again, each wet slap ringing through the empty lot.

You gasp when his hard v-line smacks your skin, sharp bone against the plush bounce of your ass. He steps in closer, boots planted so wide your shoes skid uselessly between his feet. His big hands slide over your hips, fingers sinking into the softness as he tugs you back against him.

“Ready for me?” Toji’s voice is so low it scrapes your ear raw when he leans down, mouth hot on your skin.

You bite your lower lip so hard it almost splits, but you don’t say a word. You don’t need to. Your hips tilt back on instinct, greedy cunt pulling his thick tip in before your brain even catches up.

He groans behind you, the sound rolling into your hair as his cock sinks halfway in, the stretch making your thighs tremble against the metal.

You groan, cheek pressed to the warm hood, breath fogging the paint as your hips rock back, hungry for more. Toji’s mouth is all over your neck, teeth scraping, lips sucking bruises that bloom under the yellow streetlight. He thrusts deeper, hips pushing forward slow at first, savoring the way your walls flutter around him.

“Halfway there,” he rasps against your skin, his teeth nipping at the hollow of your throat as he rolls his hips deeper, slow enough to make you whine. Your thighs tremble as the thick base of him grinds against your ass, the wet squelch of your cunt filling the silence around the two of you.

When you shudder under him, Toji huffs a laugh against your neck. He drags his hips back, then slams forward harder, the slap of your ass against his dark hair echoing off the metal hood. Your hands scrabble uselessly against the warm car as you moan, voice muffled by the vibration of the engine.

One of his hands slips down your belly, slides between your thighs until his rough fingers find your swollen clit. He rubs you in tight, filthy circles that make your knees buckle. The heat from the hood scorches your tits through your dress as your whole body arches into his touch.

Your panties are gone somewhere behind you, torn lace forgotten in the gravel. You don’t even bother asking. You don’t care. Not when Toji’s cock drags out slow and punches back in with a wet slap that sends sparks straight up your spine.

“Such a fucking good girl,” he groans, voice hitching when you clench tight around him. “Mouthy brat but this pussy knows who owns it.”

You try to spit something back but it dissolves into a broken whimper when his fingers press harder on your clit, rubbing messy, sloppy circles that match the brutal pace of his hips. He keeps driving into you, the slap of your skin against his pelvis so loud it drowns out the hum of the gas station light.

Your thighs rub slick together, the filthy squelch of your cunt and the grind of your clit making your breath stutter. Toji growls low, teeth scraping your shoulder as he fucks you harder, his abs brushing your ass every time his hips slam forward.

“Gonna cum for me?” he rasps, breath hot against your ear, fingers digging into your hip so hard you know you’ll see bruises tomorrow. “C’mon, brat. Make a mess all over my cock.”

Your voice catches in your throat as the tight coil snaps, your hips jerking back as your pussy milks him, clit throbbing under the rough rub of his thumb. A ragged moan rips out of you, forehead pressed to the warm hood, legs shaking so bad your shoes slip in the gravel.

Toji doesn’t slow down. He just laughs, low and mean, hips pounding faster as your orgasm floods around him. He fucks you through it, grunting at the way you tighten up, the wet slap of your bodies echoing under the wide sky.

When he feels you twitch, whimpering raw, he pulls out just enough to flip you over like you weigh nothing. Your ass hits the hood, back flat against the warm metal as he shoves your knees up, his broad shoulders wedged between your thighs.

“Not done with you yet,” he growls, lining his cock back up with your swollen slit. He pushes in deep, the new angle making your back arch off the hood, tits bouncing under the stretched neckline of your dress.

He grinds his hips forward, the thick weight of him dragging over your sensitive walls. One hand hooks under your knee, pushing it up by your ear as he thrusts deeper, the tip punching against your sweet spot over and over until your mouth falls open on a broken cry.

Your hands grab at his arms, nails digging into the tight skin over his biceps as he drives in harder. The hood rocks under you both, the metal creaking with every slam of his hips.

He leans over you, mouth crashing to your throat, teeth biting hard enough to make your breath catch. You feel him twitch inside you, the hot weight of him stretching you so wide you swear you can feel him in your gut.

“Gonna cum in you, brat,” Toji growls, his voice ragged and wild in your ear. “Gonna stuff you so full you drip all the way home.”

Your hips roll up into him, pussy clenching around his cock, milking him for everything he’s worth. He snarls your name, one hand gripping your jaw to make you look him dead in the eye while he fucks every filthy promise into your bones.

You feel the heat rush up your spine again, clit throbbing where his pelvis grinds against it. You choke out a sob, thighs trembling as he drags you over the edge a second time, the wet slap of his cock hitting home sending sparks across your vision.

He fucks you through it, hips jerking as his own climax breaks loose. A raw groan splits his throat, cock buried to the hilt as he pumps you full, his seed flooding so deep you swear you can taste it on your tongue.

You lay there pinned to the hood, chest heaving, thighs still twitching while his breath rattles rough against your cheek. Toji pulls back just far enough to see the slick mess leaking from your cunt, a sharp grin splitting his scarred mouth.

He shifts, the sticky slide of him dragging across your folds as he thrusts once more for good measure, making you gasp when your overstimulated pussy clenches again.

He holds you there, pinned between the hot hood and his big frame, cock still heavy inside you as the gas station buzzes above like the whole world is holding its breath just to watch you come undone under him all over again.

Your chest heaves under him, sweat cooling fast in the stale night air while you catch your breath. You lick your swollen lips, eyes half-lidded as you look up at him, voice cutting through the heavy silence like a blade.

“You fuck like you’re scared I’ll find someone better.”

Toji’s eyes flash that wild glint you know too well. His big hand lifts, and before you can suck in your next breath his palm smacks down on your soaked pussy, a sharp wet slap that echoes across the empty lot. The sting slices through your core, sharp enough to make you flinch and bark out a strangled laugh all at once.

“Brat,” he growls low, leaning down before you can spit another word. His mouth crashes to yours, heat rolling through you when your tongues tangle, teeth clicking hard enough to hurt.

You kiss him back like you hate him, nails scratching down the thick bands of muscle along his sides. He swallows every noise you make, tongue claiming your mouth until you’re gasping against his lips.

When he pulls back you’re dizzy, lips swollen and shiny, and he doesn’t give you a chance to come back down. He drags your legs up, tossing them over his shoulders like they’re nothing, knees pressing against your chest as your back arches along the warm metal hood.

The scrape of it burns your spine but you don’t care, not with how thick and heavy he feels when he sinks back inside you, cock pushing so deep you swear you feel him carve a space in your gut.

“Damn, listen to her,” Toji rasps, his voice dark with that grin you want to slap off his face and swallow down your throat all at once. “She’s so fuckin’ talkative tonight. Chatty little thing.”

The slap of skin on skin drowns out the shrill night chorus of cicadas and crickets. He pistons his hips harder, the sound wet and filthy in the stale air. Every thrust shoves you a little higher up the hood, your ass squeaking against the warm paint as your hands scramble for purchase along the edge.

Toji’s eyes flick down, watching your tits bounce under the stretched neckline of your ruined dress, the tremor of your stomach with every punch of his hips. His jaw flexes tight when he drags halfway out just to slam back in so hard you bite your lip to keep from screaming.

“Fuck, you hear that?” he pants, voice splintering around the words. “She’s so wet for me. So wet. So fuckin’ warm-”

You feel his cock throb deep inside, the sloppy drag making your toes curl as you spit a breathless laugh. “M' I think your pussy drunk, Toji,” you gasp, words cracking when he thrusts up so sharp you choke on the last syllable.

“Shut up,” he hisses, hips jerking faster as his eyes flutter half-shut. His hand slips down, thick fingers sliding over your clit in fast circles that make your back bow right off the hood.

The rough drag of his thumb matches the deep grind of his cock, every movement scraping your sweet spot so perfectly it makes your breath catch.

Your laugh warps into a whining moan, fingers clawing at the car under you as your thighs tremble against his shoulders. Your head tips back, mouth dropping open as the coil inside you snaps so fast it knocks the air out of your lungs.

“Fuck, fuck- Toji-”

You try to shove at his shoulder but he just grins wider, mouth dropping to your throat where he nips your skin hard enough to bruise. Your words dissolve into broken whimpers, every push of his hips drawing another desperate noise out of you. Your body goes limp under the relentless pace, your mind a blank white haze.

“That’s what I thought, sweetheart,” Toji groans, voice rough as he grinds deep and feels you clamp down again, your pussy sucking him in so tight it makes him swear. “Mouthy little brat’s cock drunk now, huh?”

Your lashes flutter, mouth parting on a high, helpless sound that you can’t even swallow down. You feel the sticky heat of him press deeper, his cock so thick and heavy inside you that the world fades to the sloppy pulse of slick skin and the sharp slap of your ass hitting his hips.

He shifts his weight, boots scraping the gravel as he digs in harder, fucking you down into the hood so rough the whole car rocks under you both. You think you hear him talking, half-lost words muttered against your ear.

“Always so tight for me. Fuck- can’t get enough. Gonna split you open, brat. Gonna make you remember exactly who fucks you this good.”

You try to say something smart but it’s just a mess of syllables and soft cries that get eaten by his mouth when he kisses you again. His tongue slides deep, licking into the helpless noises he drags out of you with every brutal thrust.

His thumb keeps rolling over your clit, the sticky friction making your hips buck as you spasm around him all over again.

Your legs twitch on his shoulders, boots slipping uselessly against the metal as your orgasm slams through you hard enough your vision goes blurry.

The world shrinks to the slick sound of him pounding you into the hood, the heat of his breath in your hair, the low, raw growl of his voice breaking on curses as he fucks you through every spasm.

He doesn’t slow down. He just keeps rutting forward, sloppy and desperate now, his own breath catching in his throat when your walls milk him tighter. You feel him pulse deep, the hard twitch of him stretching you even more as he slams in so deep your hips lift off the car.

“Toji- Toji please-”

Your voice is a ruined little cry against his shoulder, your thighs trembling so bad you can’t stop them. His grin is all teeth and sweat when he lifts his head to look at you, that damn scar slicing his lip wide as he pants into your ear.

“Gonna take it all, aren't ya? M'Gonna fill you up again. Gonna - fuck-”

His hips jerk hard, his whole body tensing as the heat spills out, thick and hot, flooding so deep inside you it makes your toes curl. He rides you through it, pushing every drop as far as it’ll go while you whimper under him, brain gone soft and useless.

Toji stays buried inside you, one big hand pressed firm over your thigh like he owns it, thumb sweeping lazy circles on your skin while the sweat cools sticky between your bodies. Your breath comes in tiny, ragged gasps, your chest rising and falling under your ruined dress.

Every now and then, he rolls his hips slow, just enough to feel your pussy flutter around him, clenching like you’re still greedy for more even though your thighs twitch with every aftershock.

The night hums all around you, the chorus of crickets and distant cars on the highway trying and failing to drown out the wet sounds when he grinds deeper. You swear under your breath, a tired half-laugh that dies when he nips at your throat again, teeth dragging over a fresh bruise blooming just under your jaw.

“Fuck,” you whisper, voice hoarse and cracked from all the crying and moaning. “Aren’t you done yet?”

Toji huffs a laugh into your neck, warm breath teasing your ear as he pulls back just enough to look at your face. He brushes the sweaty hair off your cheek with two fingers, smearing the mess he made without an ounce of shame.

“You look so fucked out, brat.” He says it soft but his smirk is sharp, all teeth and that stupid scar slicing his grin wide open. “I’d say you’ve had enough but…”

He shifts his hips, pulling out slow so you feel every inch drag along your swollen walls before he pushes right back in, a little sharper than you expect. You gasp, hands flying up to his shoulders for something to hold.

“…she keeps sucking me back in like she’s starving.”

You shoot him a half-hearted glare but the roll of your hips gives you away. His cock slides through the mess he’s stuffed inside you, the wet slick noise filling the empty gas station lot. The hood under your back groans with every small push of his hips, still warm enough to sting the skin behind your shoulder blades.

“Flip over,” Toji murmurs, voice low and rough, that tone that always means you’ll do it even if you pretend to argue. He doesn’t wait for you to obey. He lifts your legs off his shoulders and grabs your hips, hauling you up so fast your squeal breaks off in a breathless giggle.

He flips you over like you weigh nothing, your stomach pressed to the still-warm metal again, tits squished against the hood as he drags your ass back until you’re bent right where he wants you. You push up on your elbows, gasping when the night air hits the slick mess dripping down your inner thighs.

“You’re so full of yourself,” you bite out, voice muffled by the metal under your cheek.

Toji snorts behind you, one big hand smoothing over your ass before he palms the curve of your hip, squeezing hard enough to bruise. His other hand wraps around the base of his cock, still thick, still heavy, still hard enough to make your mouth water even when you can’t see it.

“And you're not full enough...yet,” he rasps, guiding his tip right to your entrance. He nudges forward slow, letting the swollen head pop inside before he drags it back out, teasing you just enough to feel your hips push back against him on instinct.

Your breath hitches. “Toji-”

He cuts you off with a sharp slap to your ass, the crack echoing under the busted gas station lights. The sting spreads across your skin, makes you arch your back just the way he likes.

“Shut up. Gonna stuff you again,” he grunts, voice slipping ragged when he slides in deep with one sharp thrust that rocks your body forward on the hood. Your mouth falls open, no sound coming out for half a heartbeat while your walls flutter around him, slick and tight and so goddamn warm.

He doesn’t hold back this time. Toji sets a punishing rhythm, hips snapping forward hard enough to shove you up the hood inch by inch. You brace your palms flat against the metal, feet scrambling to find a grip on the gravel as his cock drags through your overstretched cunt.

The slick slap of him pounding you drowns out the night, smothering the cicadas, the crickets, everything except your broken moans and his low curses.

“Listen to her,” Toji pants, his breath a growl as he watches you bounce under him. “So fuckin’ loud. Brat mouth, brat pussy. All mine.”

Your knees buckle when he hits that spot deep inside that makes you see stars. Your moan rips out of your throat, half-choked on the hood as your toes curl in your boots. He leans over you, chest pressed to your back, his bigger frame boxing you in while his hips grind so deep your belly flips.

“That’s it. Take it. Take every fucking inch.” His teeth find your shoulder, biting down just hard enough to make you yelp and clench around him all at once. His hand slips under your hips, rough fingers zeroing in on your clit again.

He rubs tight, filthy circles that match the brutal snap of his hips, dragging you closer to the edge you thought you’d already fallen over twice tonight.

“Toji- I can’t-” Your voice splinters when he presses harder, the rough pad of his thumb rolling over your swollen clit until your thighs quake.

“Yeah you can. You can. Look at you,” he pants, voice shredded from how deep he’s lost now. “Cock drunk little brat. Gonna cum again for me, huh?”

You shake your head weakly but your pussy betrays you, pulsing so tight around him you feel him twitch back. His groan rumbles through your spine, hips stuttering for a split second before he drives back in harder, harder, pushing you flat against the hood until your cheek squeaks along the warm metal.

Your eyes roll up, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth as your body gives in. The coil snaps so violently you almost scream, the sound muffled by your own arm as your thighs seize. Heat floods your belly, every nerve burning white while your pussy milks him through it, walls clamping tight, pulling him deeper.

“That’s it. That’s my pretty fuckin' girl,” Toji growls into your neck, his voice thick and filthy. He doesn’t slow, fucking you through every shudder, every twitch, his thumb rubbing your clit until your legs give out.

He snarls your name, hips jerking one last time before he buries himself so deep you swear you feel him in your throat. Heat spills inside you again, thick and hot, mixing with the mess you’re already leaking down your thighs.

His hand fists in your hair, dragging your head up just so he can press his mouth to your ear, teeth scraping your lobe while he groans through every throb of his cock pulsing inside you.

You lay there, pinned, ruined, belly pressed to the warm hood and the stink of sex hanging heavy under the pale moon and flickering streetlight. Toji doesn’t move at first, just breathes heavy against your hair, hand smoothing down your spine while his other thumb drags lazy circles over your hip, like he’s tracing his name into your skin for later.

“Good girl,” he mutters, voice raw and hoarse, a smug grin in every syllable. “Bratty, but you know who owns you now.”

You try to spit something back but your throat’s shot, mind soft and floating while the cicadas buzz on. All you can do is whimper when he finally pulls out slow, your pussy fluttering empty around the sticky mess he leaves dripping down your thighs.

Toji laughs under his breath, tucks himself back in with that same careless swagger that makes your stomach flip even now. He plants a rough kiss on your shoulder, his hand sliding up your thigh just to feel how wet you still are.

“Next time,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear, “we’re doing this somewhere with a bed.”

And with your face stuck to the warm metal, the night heavy with sweat and bruises and the quiet thrum of your heartbeat in your ears, all you can do is nod like you’ll let him ruin you anywhere he wants.

Please do not plagiarize.

[nimueshell]

✰ .ᐟ Sticky Pages C.K

Summary : Choso swears he’s just reading, but you know exactly what you’re doing, warm thighs spread, filthy words in his ear, turning his session into your private show.

Substance : nerd simp!choso, nerd fem!reader, whimpering, facesitting,begging, pet names, teasing, overstim, choso is a good boy, pssy drunk,

Word Count: 6.7k

The lamp on his nightstand flickers a little, the bulb humming like it knows it’s not supposed to be burning this late. Choso’s hair is tied back in that loose half-bun he never really secures, dark strands falling over his cheekbones, sticking to the soft shine of sweat already gathering near his hairline. His black nails tap at the edge of the page he hasn’t turned in five minutes.

His hoodie sleeves are rumpled at his elbows, showing the pale skin of his forearms, little faded scars and veins that twitch every time your hips roll against him.

You’re perched in his lap wearing that short two-piece pajama set you only pretend is for sleep. The top is cropped high enough to show the warm line of your belly every time you breathe, the thin straps slipping off your shoulders when you lean close to mouth at his ear. The tiny shorts cling to your ass, riding up each time your hips shift, the thin fabric darkening where you press down over the thick shape growing under his sweats.

Your glasses are slipping down your nose, lenses fogging up every time your breath hitches against his neck. You giggle when you see his are just as clouded, smudged at the edge where you keep nudging him off the page with your mouth.

Choso tries to keep his focus. He always does. He clears his throat soft, that low, raspy sound that’s more breath than voice. His thumb flicks at the corner of the manga, page half-turned but never finished. He tries to shift his hips away but you roll right with him, dragging the soft heat of your pussy over the thick ridge caught under his waistband.

His voice slips out warm, softer than the lamp’s glow. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

You push your nose under his jaw, glasses bumping his chin as you smile against his skin. “Doing what?”

He huffs, lashes fluttering when your hips press down harder, the wet drag leaving a little patch darker than the cotton can hide. The squeak of the bedsprings is the only sound louder than the soft buzz of the TV when he tilts his head back against the wall, throat bobbing under your open mouth.

You press your tits closer to his chest, the edge of your pajama top dragging against the zipper of his hoodie. Your breath hits his collarbone when you laugh, slow and syrup-thick. “Keep reading. Or are you gonna cry if I don’t let you finish your page?”

His fingers twitch on the book, nails scraping the page but never turning it. His cock throbs under you, hot and thick where your wet heat grinds through the thin layers left between you. His lashes lift just enough to catch the way your fogged glasses slip down your nose, your smile wide enough to crack him open right there.

He whispers it like a confession. “Please behave.”

You smile back, your hips already circling slow again. You love how polite he tries to sound. You love how you know exactly what it’ll take to ruin him tonight.

The book in his hands is one you slipped into his backpack two days ago with that sweet grin and a wink that made his ears flush red. A smutty, hand-bound little mess of pages titled Midnight Sirens, thick with obscene panels that left him too embarrassed to even open it in public. He tried to return it to you once, mumbling something about “not his thing” while his eyes darted to your mouth and then the floor. You didn’t let him give it back. Now it’s open across his palm, pages soft and dog-eared where your fingertips lingered too long.

You shift your weight on his lap, thighs spreading wider until the hem of your little pajama shorts barely covers anything. The wet heat of your cunt drags over the outline of his cock again, and you swear you can feel how hard he throbs through the thin cotton when you lean in, your glasses slipping down your nose until they nearly slide right off.

“Here.” Your finger taps the page, nail clicking on glossy paper right over a panel that would make anyone else look away. A pretty girl bent double, mouth hanging open, eyes glassy while a thick cock spears her deep enough that the lewd, sticky details make your thighs squeeze tighter. You wiggle your hips, pressing down just enough that Choso’s breath hitches, the edge of the book bending under his thumb.

“Can we do that?” You whisper it against his ear, voice sweet and filthy all at once. “Like this. Right here. I wanna feel that. Deep like that.”

Choso’s lashes flutter when you say it, dark eyes pinned to the page but not really seeing it anymore. He shifts under you, hips rolling just once like he can’t help it. One of his hands leaves the corner of the book and slides down your side, rough palm smoothing over your hip until his long fingers fit snug around the swell of your ass. His breath catches when you grind down harder, slick already soaking through your shorts and leaving a damp mark over his sweats.

“Please don’t tease me sweetheart.” His voice breaks around the last word, quiet and strained like he’s begging you not to see how bad he wants it. The softness in his tone makes your stomach flip hot, your clit throbbing where the fabric presses against him.

You bite your lip to swallow a grin, pulling back just enough to tug your fogged-up glasses off your nose and set them aside on his desk behind you. Choso’s glasses slide low on the bridge of his nose, the steam on his lenses catching the soft flicker of the lamp.

“Don’t tease you?” you echo, your hips circling again, slower this time, just enough to hear him swallow thick under you. “I’m trying to help, baby. You’re the one holding the book.”

You lean in close, breasts brushing his chest, your cleavage spilling over the spine of Midnight Sirens where it rests open on his lap. He tries to look down at the page but his eyes dart to the curve of your tits instead, lashes fluttering so sweet you swear you feel yourself get wetter just watching him pretend to read.

“You wanna try it?” Your words puff warm over his ear, your mouth ghosting the edge of his jaw while your hips roll again, slick grinding the head of his cock through the thin cotton. “Wanna see how deep you can get it? You’d look so pretty wrecking me just like that panel. Want it all sloppy. Want you to make me drool on your cock.”

Choso’s fingers dig into the soft swell of your ass, his grip trembling where he tries to steady you. The book quivers in his other hand, his thumb stuck between two pages while his hips buck up once, hard enough to knock a squeak out of your throat. He tries to steady his voice but it comes out rough, needy, softer than any filthy line you’ve ever fed him.

“You can’t say that.” He says it like he’s telling you a secret, voice barely louder than the hum of the TV. His nose nudges your cheek when he tries to hide in the crook of your neck, his glasses bumping your collarbone. “Not like that. Not when you’re- fuck- when you’re sitting on me like this.”

You hum, mouth curling into a grin that presses soft kisses under his ear. “But I love saying it. I love when you beg.” You shift your hips higher, feel the hard ridge of his cock catch right at your soaked entrance through the fabric. He trembles under you, his free hand sliding lower to squeeze your ass harder, fingertips dipping just under the edge of your shorts.

“Keep reading then,” you breathe, voice dripping sugar. “You said you’re reading. Keep reading that filthy story while I make a mess on your cock. We can do every position in here tonight. One by one. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? My sweet boy.”

His breath shakes out of him in a soft, choked sound that makes your thighs squeeze around his waist. The book slips lower in his hand, the pages brushing your bare belly while his eyes flutter half-closed, lashes trembling when you rock down again.

“Please.” He whispers it into your throat, his mouth brushing the warm skin just above your pulse. His voice shudders, that same polite hush he can’t shake even when his cock throbs so hard you feel it twitch against your clit. “Please don’t tease. I wanna- I wanna feel you.”

Your hips grind down again, harder this time, dragging the soaked fabric of your shorts against the damp patch blooming over his sweats. The soft friction makes your breath catch, makes your nipples tighten under the thin cotton of your pajama top. You can’t help the moan that slips out, soft and sweet against his hair while your nails scrape over the curve of his shoulder.

“Feel me then,” you whisper, mouth dragging over his cheek, your tongue flicking the corner of his lips before you bite his bottom one soft. “Put the book down and fuck me, Choso. I’m so wet for you. You can feel it, can’t you? Feel how bad I want it?”

The book slips from his hand. It lands spine-up on the blanket beside you, pages bent open on that filthy panel while his hands slide down to cup your ass tight. He groans against your mouth when you roll your hips again, slow and sloppy, the sticky drag of your cunt soaking through every layer left between you.

“You’re so good for me,” you murmur, voice soft and ruined as your thighs flex around him. “My sweet boy. My good boy. Gonna let me ride you just like that picture? Want me to use you up?”

His breath stutters out in a warm, broken gasp. His hands slip under your shorts, fingers rough on your bare skin while he shifts his hips up into you, cock straining under the soaked fabric.

“Yes.” It’s almost a whimper, the sound hidden in your neck when his lips press there, soft and desperate. “Anything you want. Just - please. Please sit down on it. Please.”

Your laugh is soft, breathless against his hair as you grind down harder, your slick soaking his sweats until the sticky drag makes you clench around nothing. His cock twitches so hard under you it makes your stomach flip. You slide your hand up the back of his neck, tug the loose tie from his messy bun until his dark hair spills over your fingers.

“Yeah?” you breathe, rolling your hips one more time just to feel him jerk under you. “Gonna beg so pretty for me while I ride you stupid? Gonna let me ruin you, my sweet little nerd?”

Choso’s hands flex on your ass, pulling you down harder while his voice cracks warm and needy into your throat.

“Yes. Please. Please.”

Choso’s mouth drags lower, soft breaths fanning over your collarbone as he nudges the thin strap of your pajama top aside with his nose. He hesitates just a moment, eyes fluttering up to yours, lashes dark and trembling when he sees your breath catch, your chest pushing into him like you’re already begging for it.

Then his lips press down, warm and clumsy, mouth open as he licks at the swell of your breast through the thin cotton. You gasp when his tongue flicks over the hard peak, the wet heat of it seeping right through the fabric until your nipple tightens painfully under the swirl of his tongue. He groans against you, the sound muffled where his lips wrap around you, sucking just enough to pull another shaky sound from your throat.

His hips buck up at the same time, a helpless grind that drags the thick heat of his cock right where your soaked cunt rubs it raw through the damp fabric. You feel him pulse under you, every twitch of his hips matching the rough squeeze of his hands on your ass. He palms the soft fat, fingers digging in until your thighs tremble where they straddle his waist.

One of his hands slides lower, the tips of his fingers dipping between the curve of your ass, brushing the sticky mess you’ve left on his sweats. He groans when he feels it, voice raw and quiet against your breast as his finger traces lower, slipping under the hem of your shorts until it finds the slick heat waiting for him.

His breath catches in a soft whine, mouth still suckling at your nipple while his fingertip slides through your wet folds, dragging the slick up to your clit before dipping lower to feel how ready you are for him. The pad of his finger slips in just enough to make you gasp, your hips jerking down into the soft push of him.

“You’re so wet,” Choso breathes, voice cracking when he lifts his mouth, lips pink and shiny. He looks up at you through his lashes, eyes wide and blown dark as his finger rubs slow circles through the mess he finds dripping for him. “No panties? Sweetheart, no panties?”

Your gasp comes out sharp, your fingers threading through his soft hair, tugging it back just enough to make him groan when your nails scratch his scalp. You can’t find words for a second, your hips rocking helpless into the slow slip of his finger pressing deeper, the sticky heat of you coating his knuckles.

“Say it,” he whispers, the word trembling around a soft gasp when you pull his hair tighter. “Say you’re so wet for me. Please.. fuck.. please.”

Your voice shivers out of you, lips brushing his forehead as you breathe it soft, filthy, right into the warm space between you.

“I’m so wet for you, Choso. So wet. Just for you.”

He cries your name against your chest, his mouth finding your nipple again as his finger pushes deeper, slow and sweet and so careful while his hips buck up like he can’t help himself anymore. The soft drag of his tongue and the push of his finger make your thighs shake, make your breath stutter as you hold him close, buried in the mess you’re both making in the quiet dark of his room.

Your breath comes in quick little gasps, lips parted as you look down at him, your hips still rocking into his hand while his mouth hovers over your breast. You grab the hem of his hoodie, fingers twisting in the soft worn fabric as you tug it up over his shoulders. He lifts his arms without a word, hair slipping loose over his cheekbones when you peel the hoodie off and drop it behind you on the bed.

Underneath, his black t-shirt clings to him in the low lamp light, soft cotton stretched tight over the slope of his broad shoulders and the sharp lines of his collarbones. You trace your palms down his chest, feel the heat radiating off him as you hook your fingers under the hem. He helps you then, eyes half-lidded and sweet when he lifts his arms again, voice soft as his mouth ghosts yours.

“Take it off,” he murmurs, breath catching when your hands skim the soft trail of hair under his navel. “Please.”

You pull it up slow, mouth dragging over his neck as the fabric slides up his warm skin. He shivers when it brushes his nipples, when your nails scrape lightly over his ribs, and you feel him buck his hips up when you push the shirt over his head and toss it somewhere on the floor.

Your hands move down his bare chest, palms smoothing over the gentle lines of muscle that flex under your touch. His skin is so warm, the slope of his pecs soft under your fingers, his nipples hard where your thumb brushes across them just to make him whimper. You drag your hands lower, fingertips tracing the faint ridges of his abs until they slip past his belly button, brushing that sharp V line that makes your own hips stutter down against him.

You feel the scratch of his dark hair low on his stomach, coarse where it disappears under the waistband of his sweats. Your breath breaks on a soft laugh when you push your palm lower, feeling the heavy weight of him straining up against the thin fabric.

Choso moans into your mouth when you kiss him again, his lips messy and open, tongue licking into you like he’s starved for every wet sound you make. The kiss turns sloppy fast, his teeth bumping yours as you roll your hips, slick smearing through your shorts as you grind over his cock. He groans into your mouth, voice soft and desperate when his hands slide over your ass, squeezing so hard your thighs tremble where they cage his hips.

He slides one hand down between your legs, fingers pressing through the wet cling of your shorts until he finds that sticky heat waiting for him. His thumb circles your clit, slow and warm and so gentle it makes your thighs press tighter around his waist. He pulls his mouth back just enough to whisper it against your swollen lips, voice trembling like he’s confessing every dirty thought he’s been swallowing for weeks.

“I need to taste you.” His breath hitches when you roll your hips down into his touch, a helpless buck of his hips pressing his cock up harder against your soaked heat. “Please sweetheart. Please let me taste you. I need it so bad.”

You try to say something, maybe a filthy tease or a soft yes, but he doesn’t give you the chance. He shifts under you, his strong arms hooking under your thighs as he sits up, pressing your chest to his bare skin while he stands. The world tips around you, breath caught in your throat when he carries you the few steps across his small room.

You land on the couch with a soft bounce, his hands slipping under your thighs to spread them wide as he kneels between them. The lamp’s glow catches on his cheekbones, sweat shining where it drips down the sharp line of his jaw. His fingers hook in the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down over your hips with a soft growl when the fabric catches on your thighs. You wiggle out of them, legs kicking the flimsy cotton off to the floor.

You barely catch your breath before he grabs your hips, dragging you up the couch cushions until your knees frame his shoulders. His dark hair brushes your inner thighs when he looks up at you, pupils blown wide, mouth parted as his breath warms the soft heat between your legs. His hands grip the backs of your thighs, pulling them higher until your soft skin hugs his flushed cheeks.

You feel the sharp stubble of his jaw scratch your inner thighs when he leans in, his nose brushing your swollen clit before his tongue flattens over your slick folds in one long, messy drag. You gasp, hips jerking when the wet sound of his mouth fills the quiet room, the sloppy lick echoing in the hush.

Choso groans, deep and low, his voice muffled where his mouth presses to you. His hands squeeze your thighs tighter, thumbs digging into your soft skin as he drags his tongue up again, circling your clit before he closes his lips around it, sucking gentle and slow until you cry out.

“You taste so good,” he breathes it soft, voice breaking when he pulls back just enough to suck in a shaky breath. His lips shine with your slick, tongue flicking out to lap it off before he dives back in. “So fucking good, sweetheart. I could stay here forever.”

You try to answer, try to tell him something filthy but it melts into a moan when his tongue flicks your clit again, soft little circles that build so slow you swear you’re losing your mind. His nose bumps your mound, warm and soft when he hums into you, the low rumble vibrating right through your core.

Your thighs clamp tighter around his cheeks, the messy drag of your cunt over his mouth slick and sloppy as your hips buck up. His hands slip lower, rough palms squeezing your ass until his fingertips dip under, tracing the soft edge where your thighs meet the curve of your hips. One hand slides closer, fingers teasing lower until they find the sticky mess dripping down past your entrance.

He slides one finger in slow, the thick push of it stretching you open while his mouth sucks harder on your clit. You gasp, back arching off the couch when his tongue flattens and drags over you, wet and sloppy, the messy sound of him licking you up like he’s never tasted anything sweeter.

“Choso,” you whimper, voice breaking on his name when he curls his finger inside you, dragging it out only to push it back in slow. He groans against your cunt, hips pressing into the couch cushion under him like he can’t help it.

His eyes roll back when you grind down harder, your ass rocking over his chin until his lips slip lower, tongue licking into the slick heat of your entrance while his finger rubs your walls from the inside. His hair sticks to your thighs, soft and damp where your slick smears his cheeks every time you grind down.

“You’re perfect,” he pants, voice muffled under the soft slap of his tongue. “Taste so good. So wet for me. Let me have it, sweetheart. Please, please let me have it.”

Your breath comes in hot, broken gasps, thighs trembling where they hug his head. Your fingers twist in his messy hair, tugging him closer until his nose bumps your clit and his tongue pushes deeper. He groans, loud and desperate, the sound vibrating through your cunt while his finger fucks you open, slipping in another beside it until the stretch makes your hips stutter.

“Fuck, Choso, oh god-” you gasp, hips rolling while the soft squelch of your wetness drips down over his chin. He moans at the mess, eyes half-shut, pupils blown wide as he looks up at you through his lashes. The sight of him ruined between your thighs makes your stomach flip, heat coiling so tight you know you’re close.

His tongue drags up, circling your clit with sloppy, open-mouthed kisses while his fingers thrust slow and deep, curling just right to push you closer to the edge. You whimper his name again, voice high and raw when your thighs clamp tighter, ass grinding down over his mouth until his nose presses hard against your mound.

He cries out soft, the sound muffled in your cunt while he licks faster, sloppy wet sucks that make your vision blur. Your hips stutter when the coil snaps, your body jerking as your orgasm floods out all over his tongue.

“Choso…fuck… oh my god,”

You feel him moan, feel the soft tremor of his lips when he drinks you in like he’s dying for it. His fingers keep working you, dragging every wave out until your thighs shake around his flushed cheeks. Your slick drips down his chin, messy and warm where his jaw scratches your inner thighs raw.

He pulls back only long enough to breathe your name, voice trembling, eyes rolled back when his tongue flicks your clit one more time just to watch you gasp. He hums soft, licking you slow as he murmurs into your soaked skin, his breath hot and shaky.

“Perfect. So perfect. You taste so good. Please let me have more. Please.”

You can’t answer, not with the heat still burning your spine, not with your breath broken to pieces in his hair while he licks every drop off your thighs like he’ll never stop wanting more.

Your thighs twitch where they’re still pressed warm around his head. Choso’s breath fans hot against your inner thigh as he pulls back just far enough to blink through the haze smudged across his glasses. They’re useless now — the lenses fogged and streaked with your slick, so misted over he can’t even find your eyes through them.

You laugh, breathless and still trembling as you reach down, fingers slipping into his soft hair. He makes a low, needy sound when your nails scrape his scalp. You tug him up just enough to push his glasses off, setting them somewhere behind you on the couch cushion.

“There,” you breathe, your voice all honey and soft praise, sticky on your lips as you tug him back down. “Now clean me up, pretty boy.”

His lashes flutter when you guide his mouth right back to the messy heat of your cunt. His hands slip under your ass, palms cupping you tight, lifting your hips so he can bury his face deeper. His tongue drags through the slick mess spilling down your folds, a wet sound filling the hush of the room.

You shudder when his tongue flicks your clit again. He groans at the taste, eyes slipping shut as he swallows every drop you give him like he’d starve without it. Your fingers tangle deeper in his hair, tugging soft, just enough to make him whimper when he sucks your folds clean, sloppy and careful like it’s the only thing in the world that matters.

He pulls back after what feels like forever, lips pink and wet, chin shiny with your slick. His breath stutters as he shifts, eyes flicking to the side where Midnight Sirens still lies open on the blanket. The page glares up at him, obscene in the soft glow of the lamp — that filthy pose you showed him earlier, the one that’s been burned behind his eyelids since the second your finger traced it out for him.

You see the way his eyes linger there, pupils blown wide, lips parting like he wants to say something but can’t. You drag your fingers through his hair, tug him up just enough so your mouths almost touch, your voice sticky-sweet.

“Wanna try it?” You whisper it soft, your breath brushing his wet lips. “Like the book, baby?”

Choso’s breath catches. He nods so quick you feel the tremble in his shoulders. He shifts, knees bumping the cushion when he plants his feet, palms braced on either side of your hips. He pushes himself back just enough to drag his sweats down, the elastic scraping his thighs until they pool at his knees.

His cock bounces out thick and flushed, the head dark pink and dripping slick precum down the veiny shaft. Your breath hitches when you see the way it twitches against his belly, the tip already shiny like he’s been close for hours.

Your grin softens into something mean when you tilt your head, lips brushing his throat. “Did you cum from eating me out?” you purr, voice lilting like a tease. “Such a sweet boy, cumming just from my taste?”

Choso’s ears go pink. He shudders when you wrap your fingers around the base, squeezing just enough to make him gasp. A soft, broken noise slips from his throat, his hips stuttering when your thumb drags over the wet slit.

“I— I didn’t— not really,” he stammers, his breath warm where it hits your cheek. “Just-- it felt so good-- you taste so good, sweetheart.”

You pout up at him, the soft curve of your lips brushing his jaw. “Such a mess,” you hum, your thumb rolling lazy over the slick head of his cock. “My good boy.”

He whimpers at that, the sound caught in his throat as he drops his forehead to yours. His hips push forward, cock dragging sticky across your belly where it leaks a mess between you.

“Please,” he pants, voice breaking as he shifts you under him, guiding your thighs up around his waist. “Please let me-- wanna feel you-- wanna try it, please.”

You giggle soft against his mouth, your thighs spreading wider, wrapping warm around his hips as you drag him closer. He lines himself up slow, the fat head pressing sticky against your entrance. Your breath catches when he pushes in, the thick stretch so sweet it makes your nails dig into his shoulders.

Choso moans low, soft and desperate as he sinks deeper. He buries his face in your neck, teeth scraping your skin as his hips roll forward inch by inch, the wet slide of him filling you so deep your walls flutter around him.

“Fuck...good boy-" you gasp it into his ear, voice cracking when his hips press flush to yours, the base of him grinding warm against your clit. “So good, baby, so good for me.”

He whimpers at that, his hands slipping under your back, pulling you tighter against his chest as he rocks his hips forward. The couch squeaks under you both, every thrust dragging a broken gasp out of your mouth when his cock drags along your soft walls, thick and perfect.

“I’m sorry,” he pants, voice rough in your ear when his hips stutter, pushing deeper than before. “Sorry, sweetheart, I can’t-- feels so good-- can’t slow down.”

You laugh into his hair, breath hot when you lick a wet stripe under his ear. “Don’t you dare slow down,” you whisper, your hips bucking up to meet him. “Fuck me like that page. Use me up, baby.”

Choso groans, the sound caught low in his chest as he pulls out just enough to slam back in, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing under the hum of the lamp. His cock drags perfect against your walls, every thrust hitting so deep you feel your breath catch in your throat.

You claw at his back, nails raking red lines down his spine when he pounds into you harder, the couch cushions squeaking under the push and pull of his hips. Your moans melt into soft, broken cries when he shifts his angle, the thick weight of him pressing sweet and hot right where you need it most.

He buries his face in your neck, breath hot and sticky as his lips find your pulse. He kisses you there, sloppy and sweet between the raw sounds that slip from his throat. His hips never stop, each thrust deeper than the last, the wet smack of your bodies filling the small room like music.

Your thighs squeeze tight around his waist, the soft slap of his pelvis brushing your clit every time he rocks forward. The heat coils low in your belly again, the slick slide of him dragging another climax right to the edge.

“Choso--” you gasp, your voice all sugar and heat where it breaks under the pace he sets. “So good-- good boy -- my good boy,”

He moans against your skin, his voice raw and sweet when he whimpers your name, hips jerking faster, harder, the wet slide of him so thick it makes your whole body shiver.

“Please, please… let me… wanna fill you up..” he begs softly, like he’s praying to you, his breath shaky when his cock throbs inside you.

Your nails dig deeper into his shoulders, your hips rocking up to meet every sloppy thrust. The coil snaps sharp, your orgasm crashing through you as your pussy clenches tight around him, milking him deeper.

“Fuck Choso, fill me up… give it to me,”

He cries your name when he cums, hips driving deep as the first thick pulse hits your walls. He buries himself to the hilt, cock throbbing inside you as warm, hot spurts flood you full. His breath catches in a soft, broken sob when he grinds deeper, filling you until you swear you feel it spill around his cock.

He shivers in your arms, face buried in your throat as his hips roll slowly, the creamy mess slipping out around him while he stays deep inside, so thick and warm it makes you twitch all over again.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, your lips brushing his temple as you whisper soft praise, your chest still heaving while he breathes you in.

“Good boy. My good boy. So perfect for me.”

Choso’s voice is a soft whimper against your skin, his mouth pressing open kisses there while his cock twitches one last time inside the sweet mess he’s made of you both.

Your thighs still tremble where they cling warm around his waist. The heat between you drips sticky down your thighs, the soft spill of his cum still warm inside you. Choso’s breath hitches against your collarbone, his mouth dragging slow, open kisses over your skin like he’s scared to stop tasting you.

You hum softly, your fingers carding through his messy hair. He shivers when your nails scratch his scalp, a soft needy noise catching in his throat when you tug him back enough to see his flushed face. His cheeks are blotchy pink, lashes damp and heavy when he lifts his eyes to yours. He looks so wrecked and sweet you feel your belly tighten again just from watching him breathe.

“Hey,” you whisper, your voice soft and sticky as your thumb strokes his jaw. He blinks at you, pupils wide and glossy, still a little lost. “Wanna try another one, baby? Another page from your filthy book?”

For a second he just blinks again, like the words are too thick in his head to catch up. Then he perks up, lashes fluttering when your nails scratch the back of his neck again. His mouth parts, lips shiny from your skin, and his eyes shine with that shy, desperate need you’ve dragged out of him all night.

“Yes,” he breathes it out rough and sweet at the same time, his voice raw from every moan he’s bitten into your throat. He nods fast like he’s afraid you’ll laugh at him for it. “Yes, please. Want to. Please.”

You feel his cock twitch inside you again, still buried deep in the soft heat of your cunt. The pulse of him makes your hips buck without meaning to, a soft sticky squelch of your mixed mess dripping out around him. He gasps, face flushing deeper when you rock your hips slow, dragging the fat head of him right against that sore spot inside you that makes your breath catch.

“You’re such a good boy,” you purr, your mouth brushing his cheek as you tilt your hips again, just to feel him gasp. “So ready for me. So full for me.”

His soft whimper makes you smile. You shift your hips and push at his chest until he pulls out slowly, the thick slide of him leaving you fluttering open and leaking down your thighs. Choso stares, dazed, at the mess dripping off the tip of his pretty cock. The sight makes him bite his lip, shy heat burning under his cheeks when his cock gives another lazy twitch.

You twist to reach for the book still flopped open on the couch cushion. The page is still spread wide, showing that filthy position you both pretended to ignore the first time. You drag your fingers down the panel with a soft hum, then glance back at him over your shoulder, your grin wicked where your mouth curves slowly.

“Like this one,” you breathe, your voice so sweet it makes his cock twitch again. “You think you can handle that, baby?”

He swallows so thick you see his throat jump. His hands tremble when they slide over your hips, his voice breaking when he croaks out a soft “Please” like he can’t find any other word.

You roll off his lap, your knees brushing the cushions as you turn and push him back into the corner of the couch. He falls into the soft dent of the pillows, hair loose and messy around his red ears, lips parted when you crawl back up his legs and straddle him again.

“Hold still for me,” you murmur, your nails scratching his chest as you press your mouth to his jaw. “Gonna ride you just like that page says. You want that? Want me to use you again?”

He nods so quickly you feel it shiver through his belly. His hands drag up your thighs to your hips, trembling where he cups the soft curve of you, thumbs pressing into the sticky mess still dripping out of you.

“Please. Want it so bad. Please, sweetheart,” he whispers, his voice breaking sweet and shy in your ear.

You grin into his hair. Your fingers wrap around the base of his cock, still thick and twitching. You line him up again, the flushed head sliding sticky through your folds before you sink down slow. The stretch burns all over again, your sore cunt sucking him in until he’s buried to the hilt, his soft gasp echoing sweet against your throat.

“Look at you,” you breathe out, your voice soft and hot while your hips circle slow, grinding down until his hips jerk up helpless. “Good boy. So full for me. Gonna let me take every drop you got left.”

Choso moans, the sound raw as his head tips back against the couch. His eyes roll half shut, lashes fluttering while his mouth parts around your name like he’s praying to it. You start to move slow, rolling your hips until the wet slap of your ass hitting his thighs fills the quiet room.

You lean forward, mouth brushing his ear as you whisper the filth he craves. “Bet you’ll shoot blanks for me. Bet you’ll try anyway. Gonna milk you empty, baby. Gonna ride it all out of you.”

A soft whimper falls from his throat when your hips drop harder, his cock dragging sweet and thick inside your fluttering walls. His hands slide to your ass, spreading you wide so he can watch the mess drip down his balls every time you bounce.

You laugh, breathless when you feel the coil snap tight in your belly again. “You gonna cum just from my pussy again? My pretty boy. So needy for me.”

He tries to answer but it’s just a choked sound, high and sweet as his hips buck up into you, desperate for more friction. You grind down hard, clit catching where his skin meets yours, every drag of your cunt squeezing him tighter.

His voice splits raw when he gasps your name again, hands fisting in the soft flesh of your hips. He’s so deep you swear you feel every twitch in your gut. Your laughter turns to a soft moan when your own orgasm builds sharp, the sweet heat snapping over every nerve as you ride him harder, messier.

“Please, please, please,” he whimpers under you, his breath catching every time your ass slaps down on his thighs. “Can’t, gonna - please, sweetheart-”

You feel him twitch, his cock giving a helpless pulse that spills nothing this time, just the soft sticky stretch of him inside you as he cries out your name, his voice a broken wreck. He hides his face in your chest, gasping as his hips buck up under you.

You moan into his hair, your own climax crashing so hard you laugh breathless, the heat flooding out of you as your cunt clenches and milks him for everything he doesn’t have left to give.

His hips stutter under you, trembling while your nails drag over his back. His soft breath cracks when he mumbles your name again, words so warm and raw you swallow them down with another soft laugh pressed to his sweaty hair.

“Good boy,” you whisper, your hips rolling soft to feel the last twitch of him fade inside you. “My perfect boy.”

He whimpers under you, lips brushing your throat while you hold him there, sticky and warm and so wrecked he can’t even open his eyes. And you grin, your heart hammering, your breath spilling over him like you never want to come back to earth again.

Please do not plagiarize

[nimueshell]

⭒✮⭒ Jealousy, Jealousy N.K

⋆Summary: You're the secretary of your fiancé's office, but what happens when he gets a new little assistant that sits in the same company?

⋆ Substance : bunny human kemonomimi fiance! f reader, wolf human kemonomimi! nanami kento, semi-public (office), reader is in heat, size kink, nanami cannot fit all that, rough, creampie, pet names, swearing, possessive reader, whiny reader, fingering, handjobs, squirting, spitting, pet names, unprotected.

Word Count: 6.6k

A/N: first time posting/writing smut, inspired by @luvelle00's wolf nanami on character ai, not preread

Your soft knock barely echoed before you carefully nudged the heavy office door open, your small fingers curling around the polished edge as you peeked your head through the gap. The warm hush of Nanami’s office greeted you: the quiet shuffle of papers, the faint scratch of pen on wood, and the steady click of a keyboard under quick, efficient fingers.

Leona, Nanami’s new assistant that you weren’t particularly fond of, was perched at the small corner desk Nanami had cleared just for her, the neat stack of fresh files beside her elbow barely disturbed as she typed away, her dark brown eyes narrowed in quiet, focused concentration. The soft curve of her lamb ears twitched now and then under the spill of her white curls, flicking at the distant hum of the copier just outside the glass.

You shifted your weight on your snow boots, your soft cottontail flicking behind you as you stepped inside just far enough to see him , your eyes immediately catching on the familiar sight of Nanami’s broad shoulders hunched over the neat spread of papers across his desk.

His sharp hazel eyes lifted the second he felt her scent slip through the door , piercing, watchful behind the golden rim of his glasses as they flicked from your worried eyes to the soft, nervous curl of your bunny ears against your hair.

You cleared your throat, your voice quiet and sweet as it broke the careful hush that Leona never disturbed. “Um… Kenny… it’s lunch time…” you murmured, your fingers fiddling with the faux fur at your wrist as you glanced at him from under your lashes, your soft tail giving a shy wiggle through the little slot in your dress.

Nanami's fingers paused on the keyboard, his eyes taking your appearance in with sharp, appraising intensity. Your soft voice, your nervous twitching, the way your ears flopped against your hair; everything about you was so goddamn soft and small and fragile.

You looked like you’d break if someone looked at you too hard, and that just made his possessiveness spike all over again. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze lingering on your fidgeting hands as he reached up to adjust the glasses on his nose. 

“...Already?” he muttered.

Your soft ears twitched at the low rumble of his voice, your shoulders relaxing just a fraction when his sharp eyes finally landed squarely on you , that heavy, familiar weight you craved pressing into every nervous flick of her tail.

You stepped inside a little more, letting the office door ease shut behind you with a gentle click as you padded closer, your snow boots muffled against the polished floor. 

Your fingers fussed with the rose,gold band circling your small finger, twisting it back and forth as you peeked at him through the soft curtain of your lashes.

A shy, warm smile curved your lips , the kind that always made his chest clench, that little bunny sweetness that made all that possessive heat in his gut coil tight.

“Yep,” you breathed out, your voice soft but bright like fresh snow under weak winter sun. Your eyes flicked quickly to Leona’s quiet form before drifting back to his face, your soft tail wiggling once behind your dress as you rocked forward on your toes. “And the snow stopped… so I thought we could… y’know…”

Your smile widened just a shy inch, your thumb brushing the band of your ring again like a nervous little promise.

“Go to that restaurant ‘round the corner for lunch… just us…” your ears flopped forward against your hair as you waited, eyes wide and hopeful in the hush of his office.

Nanami's jaw flexed at the sweet, hopeful look in your eyes , your faint voice and the nervous twitch of your tail twisting his chest like a steel band. Your sweet scent was like an aching throb in his chest, the urge to press that soft little smile against the desk just beneath his own clawing deep in his blood. The moment you mentioned lunch with just the two of you, no Leona, no pestering Gojo, just you two, he had another idea.

His dusty blonde wolf tail straightening taut behind him. He leaned forward in his chair, his hands flattened against the surface of his desk, his eyes never leaving your face as he towered over you. 

“Come here.” He rumbled, his tone still rough but softer now as he gestured at the space between his legs.

Your ears twitched low when Leona’s quiet typing stopped, the gentle clatter of keys replaced by a hush so thick you could hear your own heart hammering in your ears.

You peeked sideways just in time to catch the lamb hybrid rising silently from her small desk, soft curls brushing her shoulders as her wide, dark eyes flicked curiously between your flushed cheeks and Nanami’s hard, unyielding stare.

“Excuse me,” Leona murmured, her voice gentle as a drifting snowflake , polite, practiced, just warm enough to sting as she slipped past you, her soft scent of wild daisies and green, sunlit grass trailing behind her like a taunt. The door clicked shut behind her, that too,sweet fragrance still clinging to the edges of Nanami’s neat office.

Your nose twitched at the ghost of it , her soft cottontail giving a frustrated flick under the snug fall of your white dress as you stepped forward, your boots whispering across the polished floor.

You rounded the corner of his broad desk in a shy but stubborn little march, slipping right into the empty space between his spread knees until your soft hips brushed the hard edge of his chair.

Your small hands found his broad shoulders first, then slid higher to wrap around the thick cord of his neck, your fingers sinking into the short, soft hair at the nape as you leaned down, pressing your flushed cheek against the sharp edge of his jaw.

Your brow pinched tight, a tiny wrinkle forming between your lashes as one booted foot gave a soft stomp on the floor , just enough to let him feel your huff right against his skin.

You inhaled him , that clean, sharp wolf scent that drowned out the stubborn ghost of daisies still clinging to the collar of his jacket, and your small voice caught just under your breath, sweet but edged with a sleepy, jealous whine that only he ever got to hear.

Nanami chuckled at your jealousy, his tail curled possessively around the back of your legs, his grip on your hips tight and almost bruising as he forced down the urge to bend you over and fuck you right there in the middle of his office.

He tilted his head, his mouth finding the curve of your neck with sharp teeth and wet tongue, leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses up the length of your neck. His hands shifted, his palms flattening over the curve of your ass to grip the generous flesh in his palms, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp against his ear. 

Your soft breath hitched again when his teeth scraped your neck, a shaky, broken gasp spilling past your parted lips as your small hands slipped from his shoulders to clutch at his collar, wrinkling the crisp fabric between your trembling fingers. Your hips shifted helplessly under the heavy press of his palms, the firm squeeze making your curves mold perfectly into his broad grip as a soft whimper caught at the back of your throat.

You tilted your head up just enough to meet his sharp, hungry eyes, your  lashes damp and fluttering as the warmth of his mouth dragged a shiver up your spine. Your nose twitched again, catching that faint, stubborn ghost of wild daisies and fresh,cut grass clinging to the edge of his suit jacket, and your soft cottontail gave a pitiful flick behind you.

“You… you smell like… Miss Reed…” you mumbled, your voice small and sweet but raw at the edges, your pout trembling as you sniffled softly against his cheek. Your glossy eyes darted over his face , that stern, sharp jaw and the soft glint of his glasses , then drifted away to the neat glass door behind him, the same door you’d sit outside every day, your soft scent tangled with every other set of sharp teeth and hungry eyes in the carnivore wing.

You blinked quick, your lashes wet as you leaned in to bury your nose under his ear, trying to drown out the faint flower smell with the clean, deep wolf scent that always made your heart ache and settle all at once.

Nanami forced your body to perch even more snugly against the growing bulge under his slacks, the heat from your core making his mouth dry and his hands shaking with the need to stuff you full of his cock , to mark you, to own you. His tail twisted tighter around your legs, his chest swelling with want and pure, heated fury as he spoke.

 “I just spent the morning with the lamb’s scent all over me.” He growled, his teeth grazing the curve of your neck. “You have a problem with that, bunny?”

A whine slipped out soft and muffled against his neck, your small, warm body trembling as you pressed in closer, your belly flush to the hard heat straining under his slacks. Your cottontail twitched helplessly behind you, brushing his own tail where it wrapped tight around your thighs like a leash no one else could see.

Your hands slid up to cradle his jaw, your thumbs brushing over the sharp lines of his cheeks as you tipped your nose deeper into the warm crook of his neck, breathing him in like you could scrub every stubborn trace of wildflowers and grass from his skin with nothing but the soft press of your lips.

You sniffled, your lashes fluttering as you peeked sideways at the door , the quiet click of it still echoing in your head, the blinds drawn just enough to keep your world small and hidden but not enough to soothe the soft ache low in your belly.

“It’s… it’s not funny, Ken…” you whispered, your pout brushing against the hot pulse under his ear as you ducked your head shyly. Your voice wobbled, sweet and needy as it tangled with the raw edge of your jealousy. 

“She’s… she’s so pretty…” you mumbled, your soft hips rolling just enough to brush the thick shape of his bulge under you. “And she gets to… gets to be in here with you all day…”

Nanami’s hands slid up your legs to grip the back of your ass again, his fingers digging into the thick, generous flesh through the soft fabric of your dress. He could feel your soft, shaky whine against his neck, the heat of your breath and the quick drum of your heart against his chest. 

His tail curled even tighter around your legs, his grip rough and fierce. His chest swelled at your words, his fingers flexing against your ass as he spoke harshly in your ear. “You think I’d look at her instead of you, sweetheart? Shall I remind you who I proposed to?”

Your soft little whimper caught behind your bitten lip as you leaned back just enough to meet his sharp, burning gaze , your wide eyes glossy and uncertain under the dim hush of his drawn blinds. Your hands stayed cupped around his jaw, your thumbs brushing over the edge of his glasses as if you could soothe the hard line of his jaw with just your gentle touch.

Your nose twitched once, your plush thighs squeezing tighter around his hips where his tail bounded you in place, trapping your soft heat flush against the thick, twitching dick straining under his slacks. You chewed your bottom lip again, your pout pink and shiny as you glanced down at his chest, then flicked your eyes shyly back to his face , voice barely more than a stifled, raw hush.

“Um… b,but… did you even tell her I’m your… I’m your fiancé…?” you mumbled, your voice trembling with something sweet and small that only made his chest clench tighter around all that growling, proprietorial need. Your tail flicked once under the snug fall of your dress as you waited for his answer, your nose brushing his as if you couldn’t stand to be even an inch further away.

His grip on your ass all but tightened, his nails biting into the soft fabric of your dress. His tail pulled your legs even higher, spreading you open against his hard length and trapping your heat right on top of him. He growled against your neck, his teeth scraping against the soft skin there hard enough to leave a lingering, buzzing sting beneath your skin. Nanami’s hands shifted, sliding under the dress to cup your weeping cunt through the thin fabric of your panties, his thumb pressing over your swollen clit through the damp cotton. 

“No.” His voice was more rugged than ever as he answered your question. “And you don’t need to worry about that lamb.” His thumb pressed harder against your clit, circling over your pussy as you whimpered against his neck. “You’re the only one I’m looking at, sweet bunny.”

Your soft squeal broke apart against his throat, muffled by the desperate press of your parted lips to the hot line of his neck. Your plush thighs trembled where they were pinned wide by the tight coil of his tail, your hips rocking helplessly into the rough, perfect drag of his thumb circling over your slick warmth through the damp cotton.

Your lashes fluttered low, your pretty doe eyes rolling back half,shut as your soft breath hitched in ragged little gasps, warm puffs that tickled against the sensitive skin just under his jaw. You nosed deeper into him, your teeth catching the edge of his collar as if you needed to anchor yourself to keep from melting right through his lap.

“Y-You… you should’ve told her…” you whimpered, your voice breathy and high as your hips gave another tiny roll, grinding your soaked panties against his thick fingers like you couldn’t help it, like your body needed to mark him back in the only way it knew how.

Your words melted into a sweet, broken chant against his neck, your nose brushing his ear as your soft tail flicked in tiny, frantic twitches under the snug hem of your dress. “M-Mine… s’mine… mine mine mine…” you mewled, your thighs squeezing tight around his waist as your hips stuttered up into his rough hand, claiming him with every shy, desperate little pant of your name for him.

Nanami’s thumb hooked against the edge of your panties, pushing them to the side to expose your dripping folds to the cool air. His fingers found your swollen clit again in an instant , circling over the sensitive bud with harsh, rough circles, his thumb pressed right against the hard nubbin and grinding against it with every quick movement. 

His tail wrapped around your waist even tighter as his other hand slid up to grab your jaw, his grip rough as he pulled your head back to meet your lidded, lust,blown eyes.  “Look at me sweetheart,” His voice was deep and strident , like it only ever got when he’s caught up in something fierce and feral and wild. His teeth grazed your neck, his tongue sliding up the column of your throat until he could catch your bottom lip between his own , cruel and hungry against your plush pout.

“Tell me who you belong to, Bunny.” 

Your purr slipped out warm and shivery against his mouth , soft and sticky and sweet, catching on the sharp edge of your broken little gasp when his rough thumb ground down harder on your swollen clit. Your hips jerked in his lap, rolling up in desperate little circles that smeared your slick heat all over the thick drag of his fingers, your thighs trembling wide where his tail bound you flush to the iron warmth of him.

Your lashes fluttered so low they brushed your flushed cheeks, your eyes hazy and blown wide open with that wild, pretty desperation only he ever got to see. You tipped your head back into his rough palm, your pout parting for him to taste, your plush bottom lip caught right between his teeth as your voice cracked in a breathless rush.

“Y-You... you…” you mewled, your soft nose brushing his as your hips gave another helpless buck. “Belong t-to you… m’yours… all yours, Ken…”

Your cottontail flicked in quick, shy jolts under the snug hem of your dress, hands clutching at his shoulders like you’d slip right through him if he didn’t hold you down tight, your belly fluttering under the raw, rough scrape of his claim.

Nanami’s thick, long fingers slid deeper into your soaked, silken heat, his thumb still harsh on your twitching clit as he curled his fingers until your back snapped in a trembling arch of delicate little tremors under his digits. His teeth ran down the column of your neck, sharp and insistent over your pulse as it raced behind your hot, soft skin.

His free hand moved to hook under your thigh, spreading you wider in his lap until the cotton of your skirt rubbed against the rough fabric of his pants, the hard shape of his hard and leaking cock rubbing against your needy cunt under your panties. He bit his lower lip with a hum, his fingers circling your needy hole, before he slowly inserted not one, but two of his fingers.

“You’re all mine,” he murmured, eyes shimmering a golden hue, “Every inch, every hole, every noise…it’s mine, bunny.”

Your soft, broken whine spilled into his mouth the second your lips crashed against his, a messy, greedy kiss that muffled the tiny, desperate cries you couldn’t hold back any longer. Your nose brushed his, your lashes fluttering against his cheek as your hips rolled helplessly into the thick, perfect stretch of his fingers curling inside of you, your slick cunt clenching tight with every rough swirl of his thumb over your swollen nub.

You gasped into his mouth when his teeth grazed your bottom lip again, your soft purr dissolving into a shaky moan that vibrated between slobbering lips. Your wide, glassy eyes darted once to the door , unlocked, a breath away from the hush of the outer office where anyone could peek through that thin strip of glass. The thought made your walls flutter tighter around his fingers, your thighs trembling as he spread you even wider in his lap, the cotton of your skirt riding up over your plush hips.

Your hands fumbled at his belt, too clumsy and desperate to care about the quick clink of metal and the rough drag of leather slipping free. The moment you freed him, your warm palms cupped the thick, heavy length of him, your greedy fingers wrapping around him in both hands as you pumped him in quick, messy strokes, smearing his leaking precum over his flushed mushroomed head over your trembling knuckles.

Your hips bucked into his hand, your soft heat soaking his fingers as you tore your mouth from his just enough to moan against his jaw, your sweet voice cracking around his name like a prayer you couldn’t hold back.

“K-Ken  Ken …oh …ah, need you inside me, Kenny, please - please…” you gasped, your breath hot against his ear as you gave him another rough, needy tug that made your cottontail flick under his arm, your belly pressing flush to the thick shape of him pulsing in your grip.

You were desperate and needy, his sweet little bunny falling apart in his lap. Heat swelled in his chest as he listened to your sweet little mewls and whines, his fingers pumping into your tight, slicking cunt. He growled into the hollow of your neck as your nails scraped against his neck, his tongue gliding up the hickeys he left behind in a rough swipe.

Nanami’s palm flattened over your ass, his thumb still rubbing firm circles over your clit with the pad of his thumb, a third finger slipping into your entrance, curling with ceremony. He groaned when your hands twisted over his throbbing cock, his hips moving up with the tempo. Nanami’s tail tightened around your waist, his fingers thrusting higher to find the spot he knew would make you weak.

“How badly do you want it?”

Your soft brows pinched tight, your lashes fluttering low as you dragged your nose along the sharp edge of his jaw, your pout swollen and wet when you leaned in to nip at his lower lip, tugging it between your smaller teeth until a growl vibrated low in his throat. Your lop bunny ears twitched where they brushed his cheeks, the silky fur quivering with every breathless pant that ghosted hot over his skin.

Your hands never stilled, pumping him harder, slick and greedy, your thumbs brushing the thick, leaking head of him before curling back down his length with a soft, desperate whimper.

The wet sound of your own pussy around his thick fingers echoed under the hush of the drawn blinds, mixing with the slick slide of your palms around him like some raw, filthy promise only he ever got to hear.

You tugged at his lip again, your nose brushing his when you pulled back just enough to breathe the word out on a broken moan, your thighs trembling wide over his lap.

“S-So bad,” you whispered, your soft small tail flicking hard behind you as you rocked down on his fingers, your hips rolling up into the hardness of him in your hands. “I’m willing to do it… right here… in your office….please fill me up..”

Your lashes fluttered open just enough for him to see the dark, glossy swell of your pupils swallowing the soft pink ring. Your pout curved into something sweet and wicked all at once as you leaned in closer, your voice dropping to a needy, breathy hush that made his teeth grit tight.

“Sir.”

His ears flicked back in a dark, rumbling growl at the sound of that nickname, the same one that never failed to twist his gut every time he heard it escape your lips.

His fingers gripped your ass hard enough that his fingers pressed deep into the soft flesh, his fingers in your cunt pumping even faster. His cock throbbed desperately in your hands, the hard heat grinding against your needy little fingers as he growled against your jaw.

“Here?” He breathed against your ear. “You want to risk it right here? In my office where anyone can hear us?”

You let out a sweet, breathless hum, soft and broken at the edges as your head tipped back, your throat bared for him like you wanted to feel his teeth there again, sharp and claiming against the hot thrum of your pulse.

Your plush lips parted around a tiny gasp when his thick fingers plunged deeper, your walls fluttering tight around the stretch as your hips rocked down to meet every rough pump.

Your hands worked him greedily, thumbs brushing the hot, slick slit at the swollen head of him, smearing his precum down his length as your small fists squeezed and stroked him in quick, messy pulls that made your thighs quiver wide in his lap. Your soft tail twitched under the snug hem of your skirt, brushing his wrist where he pinned your hips down so perfectly.

“Mm’sure…” you moaned, your voice dissolving into a shy, raw whine that crackled at the edges as you peeked at him through your heavy lashes. “E-Everyone left for break…I think.”

Your pout curved into something sweet and sinful all at once, your nose brushing his cheek as you panted soft little breaths into his ear.

“Gonna spread… gonna spread your office with my scent…” you whispered, your words sticky and thick as your hips gave another roll down on his hand.

Your thumb dragged slowly and teasing over his slit again, smearing the mess across your knuckles as you panted harder.

“Don’t want… d-don’t want you or your office to smell like Miss Reed…” you breathed, your lashes fluttering as your hips bucked helplessly in his lap, your belly pressing to the hard heavy shape of him throbbing in your hands.

His fingers curled deep inside you, your slick heat clenching around him as you moaned and whined desperate in his lap. He growled against your neck, his mouth hot and wet against your skin as he spoke in a rough, harsh rasp. 

“S’right? Gonna make me smell like you, so needy,” He growled, his teeth grazing your neck in sharp, rough little bites. “No one else gets to smell you but me, not even those greedy fucks out on the floor. You’re mine. My sweet, sweet little bunny.”

Your whine broke into a soft, choked cry, your plump lips falling open around a helpless little gasp as your hips jolted in his lap, stuttering once before they picked up again in frantic, messy rolls.

Your soft belly quivered against his cock that was held by your hands, thighs trembling wide around his hips as you pushed yourself down harder on the thick stretch of his fingers curling deep inside you, pulling that tight, hot ache right to the edge.

Your lashes fluttered once, twice, then your eyes rolled back so sweet and pretty when his teeth scraped sharp down your neck again, marking you with every raw, claiming bite.

Your soft bunny ears twitched low against your hair as your breath hitched, your cottontail giving a frantic flick under his forearm just before you broke apart for him.

Your slick heat clenched so tight around his fingers, greedy and wet and so perfect, before you gushed out in a sudden, helpless rush that soaked the soft fabric of his slacks, the sharp edge of his suit jacket darkening under the mess of your sweet, trembling orgasm.

Your thighs gave a tiny, useless squeeze around his hips as your soft, breathless moans filled the hush of the office, sweet, stuttering little sounds that made the heavy slap of your palms slowing over his thick length sound all the filthier.

Your hands kept pumping him in slow, sloppy strokes, your thumbs dragging lazy circles over his leaking head even as your body melted into the hard drag of his chest, your lips parted in soft, shivery gasps against his throat.

Nanami’s rough groan rumbled low in his chest, vibrating against the warm, slick curve of your throat as his hips snapped up helplessly into your small, greedy hands.

His thumb never slowed over your swollen, soaked little nub, dragging tight, rough circles that made your slick gummy walls flutter all over again around nothing but the thick air of his office. The sound of your sweet, soft panting tangled with the wet slap of his cock sliding through your fists, every pump wet and messy from the spill of him leaking hot over your knuckles.

“You made… such a mess, sweetheart…” he rasped, his voice so rough and low it scraped up your neck like claws through velvet.

His canines sank deep into his lower lip, the sharp bite keeping the ragged, raw snarl in his chest from echoing too loud through the hush of glass walls. But even so, the sharp, primal growl slipped out anyway, just a soft, dark edge that made your thighs twitch where they stayed spread wide in his lap.

His dusty blonde wolf ears pinned back into the rumpled fall of his hair, his hazel eyes flashing bright gold under the slant of his lashes as he tipped his head back, only to snap it forward again to catch the sight of you: flushed and open and dripping, your sweet scent thick as honey in the tight hush of the office.

His tail wound tighter around your hips like a leash, the soft brush of your cottontail trapped under his wrist as his big hands slid over yours, guiding your smaller palms up and down his slick, throbbing length until that thick seed burst out in hot pulses across your trembling fingers.

His sharp eyes flicked down to the mess they’d made on his expensive slacks, then back up to your glassy, half,lidded eyes as his chest heaved, every harsh pant soaking the air in nothing but your scent. Sweet. Heavy. His.

One big hand slipped from your wrists to your soft hip, rough and hot as he dragged you closer positioning the soaked, pulsing slit of your soaked pussy right over the swollen head of his length.

His other hand slid down to tug rough at your tail,  a low, dark hush murmured against the hot curve of your open mouth when you whined so soft and sweet for him.

Your hips gave a tiny, helpless buck at the sharp pull on your cottontail, the sweet, sticky tip of him sliding right against your fluttering entrance until the slick head nudged inside, stretching you open with a messy, wet pop that made him snarl.

“Good… fuck… good girl,” he groaned rough and low against your throat, his teeth grazing your pulse as his hands flexed hard on your hips, pressing you down until your trembling heat swallowed the thick crown of him inch by greedy inch.

Your whimper spilled out soft and desperate as your plush thighs trembled wider over his hips, hands sliding up his broad shoulders, clinging to the thick muscle under his shirt like you’d slip right through him if you let go.

Your gushing walls squeezed around him so tight you could hardly breathe, the stretch dizzying as your hips rolled slow and shaky, trying to ease him deeper even as your head fell back in a helpless gasp.

Nanami’s big hands gripped your ass rough and possessive, his fingers digging into the soft, thick flesh until it spilled between his calloused palms. He spread you wider over his lap, forcing you to take every last inch until the thick crown of him nudged right against your cervix, pulling a tiny cry from your throat that broke right into his mouth when he leaned in and bit at your pout.

“Too… too big… ah…” you mewled, your voice cracked and raw as your lashes fluttered low. But Nanami’s low tsk made your hips shudder, your cottontail flicking as his dark voice rumbled up your spine.

“You can take it,” he growled, his lips brushing yours, the rough scrape of his teeth giving way to the hot slide of his tongue pushing past your parted lips, claiming the soft moan that spilled from your chest. “Take it like a good little bunny, huh? All of it.”

He thrust up hard, one brutal snap of his hips that drove you down in one sharp, slick plunge until he bottomed out so deep your vision went white behind your lashes. The wet, obscene squelch of your slick pussy swallowing him whole filled the hush of his office, your tangled scents thick and heavy as honey.

“F-fuck so tight,” he snarled, his voice low and frayed as he pressed his forehead to yours, the rough edge of his nails biting crescent marks into your ass when you squeezed around him like you’d never let him go. His tip brushed that soft, swollen spot so deep inside you that you cried out his name, half-sob half-plea as your hips gave a messy buck down that made his sharp teeth flash in a wicked grin.

“Gonna put a baby in you,” he rasped, his voice thick and raw with that wild, primal need only you ever got to see. The filthy promise made your hips snap down again, your belly pressed flush to his as he bucked up to meet you with a deep, shuddering groan.

Your soft whimper dissolved into a rough, messy kiss, lips parting wide for him as his tongue pushed yours down, swallowing your moans as his hips rolled up slow and deep, every thick drag filling you so full you could feel him everywhere.

“Yeah? You wanna be a mom?” he growled against your lips, his deep chuckle broken by a ragged snarl as your walls clenched tight enough to make his cock twitch. “You’d… ha… be a good mom, bunny. Big and round with my baby.”

The filthy promise tangled in your chest, pushing another soft cry from your throat as you kissed him deeper, their tongues sliding slick and greedy as your hips stuttered in tiny bucks, every wet slap echoing with the thick squelch of your soft pussy milking him deeper, their blended scent so thick and raw it clung to every inch of polished glass.

Nanami’s growl rumbled low in his chest, vibrating straight through you when his big hands hooked under your trembling thighs, the raw heat of his palms pressing into the soft flesh just above your knees. His tail, thick and warm, uncoiled from your hips only to snake higher around your narrow waist, cinching you snug against him as he stood, his broad frame towering over your flushed, needy body.

The sudden shift made his cock drive impossibly deeper, burying so thick and hard inside you that your gasp broke into a ragged moan, your soft back arching away from his chest as he shifted you higher in his arms. He barely paused,  just long enough to stalk the two steps to his pristine, polished desk before he laid you out across the smooth wood with a heavy thump, papers and pens scattering to the floor like they didn’t matter at all.

His hips never stopped moving, thick and ruthless as they bucked up into your tight, drenched core with wet, messy slaps. One big palm dragged up your belly, rough fingertips finding the taut peaks of your nipples through the thin stretch of your dress. He pinched one between his thumb and forefinger, rolling the stiff bud until your sweet moan spilled out, raw and broken under the hush of drawn blinds.

“Oh?” His voice was a rough, mocking purr, hungry and proud as his mouth ghosted over your parted lips. “No bra at work? How bold of you, bunny.”

He growled low at the answer he pulled from your throat, the raw squeeze of your walls milking him deeper as he hooked his fingers under your dress and dragged it up, bunching the soft fabric high until it barely covered the swell of your chest.

The sight of your bare, flushed nipples made his hips buck harder, rougher, his tail lashing behind him like a wolf on the edge of losing every last shred of restraint.

He dipped his head, mouth closing hot and wet over one perked nub, his teeth grazing the soft flesh before his canines sank down just enough to sting, marking you up as his as your hips stuttered against him. His other hand worked your clit in tight, punishing circles, rough fingertips dragging slick from your messy folds as you writhed beneath him.

Your head snapped back, your back bowing off the desk as your fingers scrambled for purchase, finding his wolf ears instead, pulling at the soft fur with a broken moan of his name that made his cock twitch inside you, so deep you could feel every thick pulse.

“You’re so good, fuck, so good… so wet for me, bunny,” he growled, his voice shredded as he pulled back from your chest, lips shiny with spit as he dragged his mouth up your throat. One hand slid from your clit to your loppy bunny ears, gripping them rough enough to tilt your head back, your mouth falling open pretty and wide just for him as your glossy eyes locked on his.

His hips snapped up, brutal and deep, the desk rattling under them as he spat, warm, thick, the mess of it dribbling from his lips right into your parted mouth. Your tongue caught it with a soft, innocent look that broke him apart, your throat working as you swallowed every filthy drop down, your voice a shredded mewl of his name as your slick walls fluttered tight.

“Fuck, s-such a good bunny taking her wolfs cock,” he snarled, the praise torn from his chest as your climax crashed through you, your hips bucking, thighs trembling wide as your orgasm squirted out in messy pulses, drenching your stomach and the sharp line of his hips with each desperate, helpless spurt.

Nanami’s low groan cracked into a sharp, feral snarl as your heat milked him deeper, his nails tearing the remainder of your ruined panties off your hips in a single rough rip before tucking the scrap into his back pocket like a trophy. He leaned over you, his chest pinning you down as he kissed you hard and sweet, swallowing your whimpers right as his cock twitched deep, thick pulses of seed spilling into you until you were swollen and full, every last drop buried deep where only he’d ever reach.

Nanami’s breath rattled in his chest, a low, rough huff that misted warm over your damp, flushed skin as his hips gave one final, slow roll to press every last drop deeper. He let out a quiet growl when your soft walls fluttered again, greedily clinging to the thick drag of him even as he slowly pulled free, the wet, sticky sound of your messy core echoing sharp in the hush of the ruined office.

He dipped his head to press a warm kiss to your forehead, a soft, fleeting thing that almost felt too gentle for the filthy mess you’d made. He didn’t move far, just enough to slide a hand into his suit’s breast pocket, tugging free the crisp white handkerchief he kept there for moments exactly like this. His big hand spread your trembling thighs wider on the desk’s polished wood, his rough fingers brushing your slick skin as he dabbed away the mess with patient, quiet care.

But when your sweet little hips twitched again under his touch, your mouth falling open in that raw, broken gape he loved so damn much, he chuckled low, the sound rumbling warm in his chest as he pressed two thick fingers back into your swollen entrance, pushing his seed right back where it belonged.

“Stay still,” he murmured gruffly, the corners of his mouth curling into something sharp and dark as he watched your belly shiver under his palm.

He helped you sit up slow, steadying your soft hips with one broad hand while the other tugged your dress back down over your trembling thighs, smoothing the wrinkled hem with a rough swipe of his thumb.

His sharp hazel eyes flicked to the streaks of your scent on the glass behind them, then back to the soft curve of your flushed cheeks as he brushed one big knuckle along your jaw.

“Well,” he rumbled, his voice dry but warm with that low, teasing edge only you ever pulled out of him, “my office and I smell rich with honey now.” He ducked to press one last kiss to your temple before tucking himself back into his slacks, his rough fingers pausing at his zipper as he glanced at the dark stain on the ruined edge of his suit pants.

He grunted, his tail giving an amused flick behind him as he muttered under his breath, “At least I have an extra pair of pants for days like these…”

Please do not plagiarize