sukubusss

[sukubusss]

— you just really have the biggest crush on your boyfriend sukuna , for some odd reason.

1.4k wc. warnings—suggestive, but mostly just fluff.

a/n. quick thing i whipped up because i can’t sleep and this is my reward for studying :3

You don’t really know how to explain it sometimes. It’ll happen at the most random of moments. You’ll just be sitting there, peacefully watching Netflix or something, bundled up on the couch in a hoodie twice your size (belongs to him), when he’ll walk in—loud footsteps stomping through your apartment like he owns the place (he kinda does), letting the door slam behind him with a grunt that barely passes as a greeting. Then he leans down, mutters something under his breath you don’t even catch, and kisses you. Softly. Briefly. Like it’s nothing.

Scratch that. Like it’s everything.

His kiss is always in direct contrast to how he acts the second you’re in the same vicinity, like he totally doesn’t want to be kissing you—except he’s always the one to do it first. Always the one seeking you out like some subconscious pull he doesn’t know how to fight.

Or when you’re doing something as mundane as washing the dishes. Lost in your little dissociative bubble, just vibing with the warm water and the clinking of plates. He comes up behind you without a sound this time, which is rare, and just stands there. And that alone has your stomach flipping.

Giddiness?

You feel like a teenager, like one of those girls in the early 2000s movies clutching their hearts as their crush walks past in slow motion. It’s stupid. You’re literally washing dishes. And he’s just standing there. But then his arms come around you from behind, thick and warm and solid, and he gruffly mutters something about how he should be doing the dishes tonight.

You don’t even know what he’s saying. You can’t process anything except his chest against your back, his chin on your shoulder, the way he exhales like being near you soothes something he’ll never admit out loud.

It happens again when he’s sitting on the couch, groaning low and frustrated at his laptop. His pink hair messy, eyebrows drawn together, mouth forming that irritated pout he always gets when he’s trying to concentrate. It happens when you walk past him, catching his eye mid-stride, and he just stares at you—blank and deadpan, but it does something to you. You grin, and the corner of his mouth quirks up before he shakes his head like you’re the ridiculous one.

It happens when your fingers brush as you pass him the salt. When his thigh, firm and warm, presses into yours while you sit side by side watching some dumb movie you’ve both seen three times already. When you hear the steady sound of his breathing in the middle of the night, and suddenly everything feels safe.

You may or may not have a tiny crush on your boyfriend.

Yes. Boyfriend.

You don’t know how it happened—he’s loud, he’s rough around the edges, he’s snarky to a fault—but you’re hopelessly, embarrassingly, irrevocably enamoured with him.

You stare at his back muscles in the mornings as he sits up, groggy and shirtless, scratching the back of his head. You trace the tattoos that stretch over his strong arms, his back, his chest. You memorise the sound of his laugh, the one he tries to cover with a cough when it’s too genuine. You still get that blooming feeling in your chest—like fireworks in reverse, soft and warm instead of loud and blinding.

The same feeling from middle school crushes, from sneaking glances in high school corridors, from scrolling through fanfiction about a character you were fixated on. The same feeling from that first motorcycle date, when he’d wordlessly handed you a helmet like he wasn’t nervous at all (he was). The same feeling as that very first kiss, the one that left you dizzy and kicking your feet like a tween.

Genuinely just a big, fat fucking crush.

And now you’re in bed with him, curled into his side, and he’s shirtless, wearing those stupid grey sweatpants that do something to your brain. His pink hair’s tousled, messier than usual, falling over his forehead in soft strands. He’s scrolling on his phone, attention half on you and half not, but you’re clinging to him anyway.

“Hello,” you say with a grin, arms wrapping around his torso as you burrow into his warmth. He smells like that stupidly expensive cologne he always wears—the one you told him made him smell “exactly what I wanted to experience when I’m ovulating,” which earned you a smirk and a very not safe for public comment.

“Fuck you mean hello? You think you’re Adele or somethin’?” he grunts, but his hand slides into your hair, fingers scratching lightly at your scalp before he leans down and kisses your cheek, hoisting you effortlessly into his lap like it’s nothing. (There it is again—the swooping, heart-flipping feeling.)

You blink at him, properly taking in his face up close. The sculpt of his jaw. The way his mouth curves naturally, even when he isn’t smiling. The faintest red tint to his irises, which always makes your heart race just a little faster. He’s beautiful in a way that shouldn’t be allowed.

“Oi. Quit starin’ at me like that, woman. ‘S fuckin’ weird,” he mutters, scowling at you, but it’s undermined by the soft way he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and gently pinches your cheek lovingly.

“Sorry,” you mumble, eyes still locked on his. “You just look really good. Do I ever tell you that? That you look really good? ‘Cause you do. All the time.”

You kiss his face lightly—nose, cheeks, jaw—pressing little pecks across his skin while he sits there suffering through it with dramatic sighs and minimal resistance.

“Christ. You’re so fuckin’ weird,” he mutters, grabbing your face with one large hand and smushing your cheeks together until your lips pucker. There’s a barely-there blush across his cheekbones that he definitely pretends doesn’t exist.

He narrows his eyes. “And for the record, you annoy the absolute shit outta me. Always goin’ on about how I look like this, how I look like that. Shut up, won’t you?”

But his thumb is skating across your lower lip again, his eyes softer than they were a second ago. No heat behind the words. Never is, really.

“Kuna,” you murmur, eyes crinkling as you press another kiss to his thumb, “I think I have a crush on you.”

He blinks. Then huffs out a low, lazy laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah?” he says, voice rough, teasing. “Bit late for that, ain’t it?”

And then he pulls you in, arms locking around you as he leans back against the pillows and lets you bury yourself into his chest—grumbling under his breath the entire time, but never letting go.

You can’t help but smile, your cheek pressed against the ink and warmth of him.

You’ve got a crush on your boyfriend.

You’re tracing patterns on his bare chest now, fingertips ghosting over his tattoos like you’re trying to memorize the exact grooves of his skin. He exhales slowly, eyes half-lidded, arm heavy and warm across your back.

“Keep doin��� that,” he mutters, voice low and silky, “and I’m gonna start thinkin’ you’re tryna get somethin’ outta me.”

You blink up at him innocently, chin on his chest. “And what if I am?” you ask, trying not to grin.

He scoffs, hand dropping to your waist, fingers pressing just enough to make your stomach flutter. “Tch. Figures. Can’t even cuddle me without havin’ some hidden agenda.”

“It’s not hidden,” you murmur, tilting your head slightly so your lips brush against his collarbone. “I’m being very transparent.”

You feel more than hear the low growl that rumbles in his chest, like you just challenged him and he’s all too happy to rise to the occasion.

“Is that so?” he says, hand sliding a little lower now, hand gripping your ass through your lounge shorts. “You sure you’re ready to back up that pretty little mouth of yours? Or you just talk big?”

You hum, pretending to think, your lips brushing higher, close to the hollow of his throat. “Maybe I’m just desperate for attention.”

He snorts, but there’s a hint of a grin tugging at his lips. “No shit,” he says, but his other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, tilting your face up to look at him properly. “Lucky for you, I got a bit of time to kill.”

And the way he says it—voice low and dangerous but playful, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement—you know exactly what he means.

“You’re sexy,” you breathe, even as your legs shift over his hips and your fingers curl around his shoulders, anchoring yourself.

“Yeah? Everything about me turns you on?,” he smirks, large hands grasping your hips to move them against his own. “Now quit starin’ at me like I’m some goddamn post on that fucking tumblr app and do somethin’ about this little crush of yours.”

You giggle, right before he pulls you in by the waist and the teasing turns into something deeper—kisses growing slower, more deliberate, his hands mapping out the shape of you like he’s committing it to memory.

Somewhere in between his lips mouthing at your neck and his hand sneaking under your shirt, cupping the warm, fullness of your breasts, he mutters against your skin:

“Still think it’s just a crush, huh?”

You can’t even answer—your thoughts are too hazy, your heart too loud.

But if this is what crushing feels like, you hope it never ends.

i lowkey feel so needy and weird before my period like it’s like ovulation but kind of worse and rn i need to suck on sukuna’s boob sorry i’m severely sleep deprived

[sukubusss]

First Husband Prank ft. ryomen sukuna

“Babe, will you take a video with me?”

He looks up from his phone and smirks. “What kind of video?”

“A regular one,” you clarify, though you’re not at all surprised by Sukuna’s initial reaction, he’s a fucking pervert. “C’mon get up, I was asked to review these protein bars.”

“Who would ask you to do that?” he snorts. 

“Get up,” you snap at him. 

He knows that tone all too well and immediately listens, getting up and standing right next to you, facing your phone with a scowl on his face. 

“What do you want me to say?” he grumbles. 

“Nothing, just stand there and act normal.”

“Kay,” he stubbornly says. 

Acting normal to him was averting his eyes from the camera, going as far as grabbing the bottle of water on the counter and taking a sip from it. 

“Hey everyone! I’m here with my Sukuna, my first husb—”

You don’t even get a chance to finish the sentence before you’re interrupted by a grown man choking on water of all things.

“Can you like, stop dying right now?” you grimace at him. “I’m trying to take a video.” 

“Uhh— no?!” he scoffs in disbelief. “No I won’t fuckin’ stop. I bet you’d like that huh?”

“Like what?” you ask, pretending to be confused as you watch his eye slightly twitch.

“If I died,” he slightly crouches down and points to himself, not hiding how wounded he is at the moment. “That way you’d be free to find your second husband.”

“What? No—”

“Oh really?”

“Yes, really,” you begin to laugh and reach for him. 

“Fuck off me, women,” he pouts and rubs the spot on his arm that you touched. “First fuckin’ husband my ass.”

“Babe, it was a prank!”

“Better be,” he barks back, “and if we’re not married, that just means I’m dead and you better believe I’m haunting the fuck out of you and that second husband of yours.”

You continue to laugh, “there is no second husband!”

“Yet!”

“So sensitive,” you mutter, forcing him to hug you, but he doesn’t wrap his arms around you and continues to glare at you. “Kuna, it was a joke, I’m not leaving you!”

“I don’t believe you,” he stubbornly says. 

“Babe, I'm sorry.”

“No you’re not!” he argues. “Sorry people don’t laugh.”

“What’s it gonna take for you to believe me then??”

“...lemme take the video I want now.”

[sukubusss]

2000s emo skater-boy sukuna who listens to foo fighters, can shotgun two beers at once, and has bruised knuckles from the amounts of fights he gets into—coining him the ‘campus uppercut.’ he wears those sleeveless muscle tanks with chains hanging from his belt, has far too many delinquent tattoos and a permanently bruised ego from miss know-it-all, you, who rejects him at every corner. textbooks held to your chest and you’ve already got a tut under your tongue whenever he shows up to the student council meeting you ran, practically begging to take you out.

[sukubusss]

Sukuna counted how many times he saw you in his life. It was few, but apparently quite memorable.

The first time he’s not so sure about. It was a long time ago. You were still a little girl. Probably around 3 years old. You had your hair tied up in little strands and were clinging to your mother when the villagers from the nearby area where he was, came to bring offerings. He doesn’t remember much; he wasn’t paying attention. He only realizes now that the little girl back then could have been you.

After that, he left. For another region, other people, and other massacres, and he ended up forgetting about you. Until he returned to the same place. He was just passing through, heading back to his starting point after getting what he wanted, and stopped briefly in the region. That, without a doubt, was the first time he really saw you. The villagers came to welcome him, which was somewhat amusing since they were all scared to have him so close. And then you arrived. You must have been around 18 years old, and you came with your mother, the reason he thinks you might have been that little girl, with a basket of cookies and other sweets. You were wearing an old, worn-out kimono and had a sad expression. He didn’t care much about you, but he cared a lot about the basket of cookies. They were actually quite pleasant to Sukuna’s taste — he devoured them all — but that was it.

The second time took a while. Four years, if he remembers correctly. Some group rebelled against the reign of the King of Curses, and he had to go. It wasn’t so bad; killing was always pleasurable for him. He didn’t plan on staying long, but while walking through the deserted streets of the village where the rebels were hiding, deciding whether to just leave or destroy the whole village, he smelled something he had almost forgotten. Cookies. It came from a house near the well. By the time he realized it, he was standing in front of the door. He didn’t knock, he just forced open the old wooden door, which creaked as it opened, and looked inside in time to see you jump from the sound. As soon as you looked back, he felt your fear. Your eyes widened, your fingers turned white from gripping the jar you were holding. Your head dropped, and you looked at the ground. It wasn’t every day you saw a four-armed being, who knows how many meters tall, staring at you.

But Sukuna’s eyes weren’t on you; they were on the cookies in the jar you were holding. Noticing this, you extended your hand toward him, offering the cookies, and without saying a word, he took the jar from your hand and left your house, disappearing between the trees that surrounded the village.

The last time he saw you was different. It was a new curse. One that had just been born. A special-grade curse. He didn’t care much; in fact, he didn’t care at all. Until the curse disobeyed him, then he got irritated. Sukuna went after the curse, but it was fast and left a trail of destruction wherever it went. Sukuna stepped over the dead bodies, laughing as if the curse thought it could affect him. This went on until he finally found the curse. He recognized that village, he recognized the curse staring at him with eyes full of fear, and he recognized the bloodstained body lying on the ground near the well. And he swore those death-filled eyes were looking directly at him.

Sukuna doesn’t know why he remembered you, but he thinks that thinking of your face now, while the pigs from the Jujutsu sorcerers were cutting off his fingers one by one and sealing him, wasn’t such a bad thought after all.

[sukubusss]

dilf!sukuna thinks it’s annoying how much you ogle him over the dumbest shit—but the smug tilt of his mouth says he eats it up. he was well-maintained for a man who ate the food for three people and went to the gym whenever time allowed him. infact, his trainer was surprised at his muscle definition, and asked tips from sukuna instead. his sharp words and scowls had mellowed, along with the addition of a few lines on his face, countable strands of grey in pink.

he's bent over the bonnet of his car, white tank soaked through and through, painted to his back. he was a sight for sore eyes, your husband, as he grumbled something about "fuckin' mechanics overcharging for shit—"

every muscle is on display, thick biceps flexing as he props the hood open with one arm, veins trailing down to thick, grease-smudged fingers. his wedding band flashes when he lifts his hand to rub at his lightly stubbled jaw, staring at the dozen hundred engine parts, deep in thought, that did something to you that you could never explain. one of the reasons why some of your fights never lasted for more than 2-3 days.

you hated summer, always whining about the heat and the stickiness that comes with it, but suddenly had a new-found liking for it.

"been calling your name like five times, woman. the fuck you starin' at?" he grunts, huffing as he lifts his top to wipe at the sweat collecting at his forehead. dilf!sukuna, whose abs peek out when he shifts, glistening like a damn oil painting, that stupid tank top riding up just enough to flash his happy trail and that sinful v-line you ached to trace with your tongue.

“if you’re gonna keep eye-fuckin’ me, at least be useful and grab me a cold beer.”

you roll your eyes, already halfway there to the fridge because—how do you say no, especially to a man like him when he's standing there, looking like that?

shirt clinging to his frame, grease staining his fingers and cheek like it belonged there, sweat trailing down his neck like it knew where it was going. you hand him the beer, and he pops the cap on the edge of the car hood like it's nothing. he takes a long swig, jaw flexing, throat working, and the scene before you seems to roll in slow motion. you shake your head to clear yourself of the haze that seems to consume you from head to toe, settling into a quiet ache between your legs.

he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, red eyes catching yours over the bottle like he knows what he's done. he always does.

and sure, this image of him reminds you of your apartment from before, the one you guys had before the bungalow. annoyed yells over the trail of socks he'd strewn around the place, or the way he'd let the dishes dry in the sink for more than two days, which would ultimately lead you to snipe at him, do the dishes yourself, or when you were at your limit, you’d shove at his chest, wild with irritation and sweat-slick fury, only for him to grab your wrist, drag you close, and say “do that again, I dare you."

the last time that happened, the AC had given up mid-argument. the place was already small to begin with, landlord couldn't care less about maintenance, the mess didn't help either. july was a damn furnace and you both were pissed, breathing in each other's heat, too hot and too stubborn to back down. and then, you had yielded when his calloused hands sought purchase on your waist, pressed you up against the counter, kissed you like he was picking a fight with your mouth, pawing at the silly excuses for clothes like he couldn't get it off you fast enough.

his name spat out in anger turned into unwilling moans he pushed inside of you—thrust after brutal thrust. he bent you over the kitchen counter like he owned it, like he owned you. one hand palming at the fat of your hip, the other in your hair, yanking you back so he could hear the way your voice broke each time he drove into you.

the sharp slap of his hand across your ass had you jolting forward, only to arch back with a desperate whimper. the sting bloomed, made your hips snap back to meet him harder, clenching around his cock, your body was begging for more. it earned you low, mocking words and a harsh tug to your nipples.

“where did all the fight go, hmm?"

he'd murmured into your damp neck, the vibrations of his words the last thing you remembered, your cunt clenching around him helplessly till the moment he found release in you, breathing heavily.

now? you’re here again. sweat trailing down your back. his hold, bruising the skin around your waist, pulling you flush as fingers tangled in his spiky, short pink hair while you chase at his lips like he’s your last meal. his hold, tying you to him, to this moment.

you're barely catching your breath when he mutters,

“when did you say nanami’s bringing the lil’ brat back?”

you blink, brain fried. “not ‘til evening."

he grins, his eyes flaring. “good. now get on the hood. haven't even started on you yet.”

maybe you do hate summer. but if this is what it looks like on him, you’ll happily burn for it.

A/N: had to get this out of my system. my ovaries are sobbing. currently summer here, it's soooo hot. and I'm prepping for exams. haven't written or posted in years. hoping this fed you as much as it fed me. might make this a series, based on requests. feedback is welcome!!

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[sukubusss]

Not Just Anybody | baby daddy!sukuna x f!reader

summary: with sukuna's career as one of the highest paid rugby players in the world, you both knew deep down you couldn't hide from the public.

genre/warnings: hidden child trope, ex-fwb to co-parents to lovers, horrible communication, angst, fluff, smut

notes: no notes today! enjoy the read <3

m.list | part eight | part nine | part ten

The original plan of grabbing ice cream and walking around the city changed when Sukuna asked if you were ready to go back to the hotel suite. 

You said no and now you two are in a somewhat busy dive bar— not too crazy to the point where you’re overwhelmed, but crowded enough to where Sukuna keeps you close and glares at anyone that walks by. Acting like a guard dog is a role he plays a little too well. You’re at the very end of the bar, right next to the wall. Sukuna’s chair is slightly pulled out further than yours, nobody aside from the bartender is getting within six feet of you. 

Guess you could say that was a good thing though— 30 minutes in and you were already drunk. Again, no one was getting within six feet of you, so you let loose. He wasn’t expecting you to be much of an emotional drunk though. 

“She’s growing up so fast,” your bottom lip begins to quiver, “she’ll be married with kids before we know it.”

Sukuna’s in the middle of taking a sip of his beer when he hears that and freezes at the rather ridiculous statement. “Sayomi? My little girl?” 

“Yes,” you sniffle, “who else would I be talking about? God you’re such a meat head sometimes.” 

His eyes narrow at the little dig, but ignores it and starts to ramble.

“That’s not happening,” he suddenly decides, as delusional as ever. “I’ll be dead and in a casket before I allow some shit like that to happen.” 

“Ma’am? Sir? Is everything okay here?” the bartender wearily asks. 

Sukuna waves him off, “yeah we're fine, my wife just drinks tequila and gets emotional over all the bad things that won’t be happening to our daughter.”

“Getting married isn’t a bad thing, Kuna!” you argue with him before turning to the bartender, “and I’m not his wife.”

Sukuna scoffs and turns to the bartender as well, “tequila makes her lose her memory too.”

You try to scoff at him, but your body betrays you by letting out a giggle. He whips his head back to you and can’t help but smile. Not because he was able to make you laugh multiple times in a row tonight— though that does do a lot for his ego— but no, he’s smiling because you are so blissfully unaware of how hungover you’ll be tomorrow. 

And what does that mean for Sukuna? He’ll get to nurse you back to health tomorrow— there’s nothing better than playing Captain Save-a-Hoe, only when it comes to you though. 

He checks the time and sees that it’s already 1:00 am. The nanny said to take your time, but he already knows you’ll wake up tomorrow feeling somewhat guilty, so he decides to call it a night for the both of you. 

“Nooo,” you immediately whine, “I don’t wanna go yet.”

“Not even if Yomi misses you?” he asks, throwing some cash on the counter.

“She’s awake?!”

“Mhm,” he lies, stifling a laugh, “let’s go, m’sure she misses us.”

“Fine,” you huff out, taking his hand as he leads you out of the bar. It’s summertime, but the cool air still hits you harder than expected when you two walk out. “Where’s the driver?”

“He went home,” he says, hoping you don’t start whining over that too. 

But you still do, once again reminding him that his daughter gets her attitude from you, not him.

“You’re seriously going to make me walk right now?” 

“The hotel's only a block away,” his eyes widen in disbelief, throwing his arm out in the direction it's in. 

“I don’t care,” you stubbornly respond, “call the driver.”

“I’m not doing that,” he chuckles, “come on.”

“N– what are you doing,” you squeal as he throws you over his shoulder as if you were a sack of potatoes. “Don’t drop me!!”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he continues to laugh while starting to walk back. “Now shh, people are going to think I’m kidnapping you or something.”

Walking back to the hotel was the easy part. Getting you bed was the hard part. To put it simply: you wouldn't fucking cooperate with him.

A part of him began to wonder if you were training Sayomi to be a brat to him whenever he wasn't around. Everything that came out of his mouth was met with a no, even if all he said was your name. But instead of crying right after like your child, you'd just laugh in his face.

Except for when he held you down. He only did it so he could wipe your makeup off with one of your makeup remover wipes, which took way too fucking long.

He took some of the blame for that. After 5 minutes of you complaining and whimpering about how cruel he was, he realized he grabbed the baby wipes. That led to him chasing after you in the living room after he finally found the right ones.

After few more minutes and a bruised shin from him hitting the coffee table, he had you pinned down again. Back to square one with getting called a meanie, though his focus was more on how magical makeup remover wipes were, just one swipe and the foundation was gone.

"I just don't know why you care so much," you continue to openly complain to him, but they fall on deaf ears.

"I don't," he barks back. "It's my wellbeing I care about. Do you really think I'd be spared from your wrath when you wake up in the morning and realize that I just let you sleep with your makeup on?"

"..."

Crickets.

"Exactly," he says, yanking a new wipe out of the pack, "now close your eyes so I can get this black shit off your eyelashes."

You finally cooperate throughout the rest of it and change into the pajamas he threw at you as well.

"M'kay," you begin happily fluff the pillow you were about to rest your head on, as if you didn't just make the last 30 minutes hell for Sukuna, "I wanna sleep on the left side tonight."

"Okay," he all but says as he hits the light switch, too tired to even ask why.

"Wait!"

"What."

"Face the fan towards my feet."

"Okay."

"Thank you," you blissfully respond.

He doesn't say anything else as he thinks that's the end of it. He thinks you're sound asleep, but then 3 minutes later.

"Kuna."

"What."

"Never mind, you're being rude," you murmur and turn away from him.

He laughs out of disbelief, "say it."

"Throw your leg over me," you suddenly say, as if you were expecting him to push for what you were about to ask for. "You're like a weighted blanket."

"Fine," he says, not wasting any more time as he pulls your back against his chest and throws his heavy ass leg over you. "Better?"

"Mhm," you hum, "g'night."

He stifles a laugh and kisses your temple, "night."

—

As always, he’s right. 

You’re incredibly hungover, except you unfortunately refuse to let him take care of you. He doesn’t know how you do it, pushing past the headache and nausea, all so you could get ready and pack a beach bag. Although you do let him get Sayomi ready for the day. None of it’s fun though, she hates his fucking guts right now. 

Her first meltdown of the day was when he tried to do her hair. All he was trying to do was tie the top half up so it wouldn’t get in her eyes, yet she acted like he was ripping her hair out of her scalp. 

Then there was putting sunscreen on her, which was harder than having to tie her hair. She literally wiped the sunscreen off her arm and slapped it back on him, all while saying “no!” and “daddy bad!”. 

God forbid he try to prevent his child from getting a sunburn. 

He could allow her to leave the hotel room with her hair looking like she just got struck by lightning, but there was no way in hell he was letting her leave without a thick layer of spf 50. So he does what any other caring father would do and puts goggles on her, then grabs the spray-on kind of sunscreen, and proceeds to spray paint his child as if he were tagging the side of a bridge. 

At that point she’s wailing, and you can hear Sukuna telling her “yeah, you’ll thank me later when you get to come home without a sunburn.”

She won’t. You doubt she’ll even remember this an hour from now. 

She looks ridiculous by the time you pick her up to console her, with her fucked up ponytail and crooked pink goggles, but you appreciate Sukuna doing all of that for her. With the way you were right now, you were not in the right mindspace to get her ready, you probably would’ve just cried with her from how much your head hurt. 

“Aww,” you coo, “was daddy being mean?”

“y-EAAAAH,” she continues to cry, a little harder this time because she wants you to feel sorry for her. 

You don’t, neither does Sukuna. He has to face the wall for a second because he would’ve bursted out laughing from how fucking crazy his child looks right now. 

It takes around 2 hours to fully get ready to go to the beach, but luckily she stopped crying and graciously forgave him for torturing her right before the three of you left the hotel. 

Most people would think a beach was one of the better places to be hungover at, but it’s not. Even with the giant umbrella you sat under covering you from the sun, you still felt the heat beating against you. Why you allowed yourself to drink as much as you did last night, you’ll never know. Next time you go out with Sukuna, you’ll make sure to tell him to stop you after a few, even if you do try to fight him over it. 

“You know,” Marjorie starts, while you both watch all the men with their children, including Sukuna and Yomi— who’s holding on to him for dear life because she doesn’t like strangers, “we all laughed when we found out Sukuna had a secret child— only because he’s the most violent player on the team— but he’s really good with her.”

“He is,” you hum back. If only she knew that the only reason why she’s not ripping her little bucket hat off and throwing it away is because she’s shy around people she doesn’t know. But that doesn’t take away from the fact that he’d just pick the hat up, plop it back on her head, and secure it a little better. “You should’ve seen them this morning, it was like world war 3 watching him put sunscreen on her,” you stifle a laugh. 

“Poor baby,” she laughs, “must’ve hated how cold it felt at first.”

“Oh no, we let the sunscreen sit in warm water for a bit before putting it on.” 

“So she just wanted to complain?”

“Yeah,” you take a sip of your coconut water, “her cries literally go in one ear and out the other for him. I don’t know how he does it.”

“I could never,” she sighs. 

“It’s so hard sometimes,” you say, “I used to call my parents or her nanny all the time in tears.”

She sighs, “I’m sorry to hear that. My sister was the same way with her first child.”

“It's okay, it’s a lot better now though with him helping out,” Sukuna turns to you as you finish the sentence and points to the water, “what?”

He covers Yomi’s ear and raises his voice, “do you want to get in the water with us?”

You don’t get much of a chance to think about it before Marjorie nudges at you, “go- I’ll watch your guys’ stuff.”

“Thanks,” you smile at her, then get up to meet the two. 

“Hi mommy,” your daughter beams the moment she realizes you're walking up. 

“Hi baby,” you squish her cheeks. 

“You feelin’ any better?” Sukuna asks, just as concerned as he was when you ran to the bathroom to puke this morning. 

“Yeah. Marjorie gave me some coconut water and it helped a lot,” you say, brushing off his concern. 

You follow him into the water and your daughter looks… weary, for a lack of better terms. This is her first time in the ocean and she doesn’t know whether she should like it or not, but it helps seeing you and her dad not reacting to it. 

The water’s warmer than you thought it’d be, you’re also thankful for the fact that it’s crystal clear, who knows how comfortable you’d be if it was murky even in just the slightest. You both take turns holding Yomi. She goes through moments where she splashes at the water before going back to looking unimpressed with it. 

The most reaction you got from her was whenever Sukuna disappeared in the water, making her burst out laughing each time he popped his head back up. But whenever you did it, she’d internally panic and look in all directions. For her sanity, you decided not to play the more extreme version of hide and seek. 

Sukuna was just a little offended though, she didn’t look panicked at all when he disappeared. 

“Wanna get out of here after this?” Sukuna asks. 

“Why?” you smile. “Is your social battery running low.”

“Yeah,” he snorts, “I’m ready to eat and take a nap. Didn’t realize how tired I’d be after a couple hours.”

“We can do that. Did you wanna go to a restaurant around here for lunch or did you want room service?”

“Restaurant. There’s a place up the road that has really good oysters apparently.”

“Do we need a reservation?”

“I don’t think so,” he shakes his head, then pauses after realizing how oddly quiet his daughter’s been. 

She’s shivering. 

“Are you cold honey?” you ask, holding back a little laugh. 

She doesn’t even respond and lays her head against his chest since that was the only source of warmth she was getting. 

He lets out a chuckle, “alright, lets get out of here.” 

Sayomi doesn’t even last halfway through lunch and passes out. It was hard not to, the restaurant was a casual one, so Sukuna wrapped her up in a towel like a little burrito and you opted to have her sit on your lap instead of a highchair. Three fries later and she’s peacefully sleeping with her cheek squished against your chest. 

She sleeps through just about anything, so you both are able to continue talking normally, not that it was over anything important. It was mainly over the upcoming week, which consisted of more traveling as you two would be leaving the country in two days and flying to France for the next tournament. 

The next two days consisted of you two resting, especially Sukuna since he’d be going back to training once he got off the plane.

And as much as you two wanted to rest, not everything goes to plan. 

Instead of spending those two days lazing around, he spent a majority of it fuming and on the phone arguing with his team’s PR manager. It’s not like you two were trying to hide it, but you also weren’t expecting to have an entire article written about Sukuna and his “secret life”, with pictures of you and your daughter plastered all over it.

Not just picture of the three of you in Australia, but pictures that date back to when he first found out about her.

All rights reserved © 2025 yenayaps. Do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works in any platform.

[sukubusss]

cat kuna who sits in your suitcase when you're packing for a trip. he's stubborn and he won't move.

he's not...sad. just a little distraught that you're leaving and you didn't tell him in advance. (you did tell him but he was too busy scoffing down that tuna fish to listen to you)

your eyes meet his little red ones and by the rapid movements of his tail you can tell that he's getting a little agitated. your maine coon takes half of your suitcase space and every time you try and place your clothes down he either hisses or attempts to swat at you.

'i'm just leaving for a day or two kuna. nothing more, nothing less.'

'meow.'

'don't give me that attitude, someone will be looking after you.'

silence hits the room. sukuna's tail stops.

'yes, it's gojo. our neighbour who pays for your vet check ups and your monthly food bill from that expensive, luxury cat food company, be grateful.'

grateful? grateful his ass. he'd rather eat nothing but dry corn than eat another dish paid by your neighbour who always loves to come over for a quick chat. and best believe sukuna has given him all the scratches and bites in the world but that white haired freak keeps coming back.

like fleas.

'kuna if you're going to act this way I might as well not even go. you're being a pain in the ass and you know it....'

he gives no response, deciding to lick at his paw whilst remaining in your suitcase.

'but I guess that's what you want huh.'

[sukubusss]

Post-Nut Reflections: Would You Like to Leave a Tip?

A/N: this is for shits and gigs, pls don't take it too seriously. you can see i got inspired by tonycries and reignpage and dashielldeveron, although i don't think i'll ever reach their level of pure mastery of the smut.also i messed up a couple areas that i meant to indent and not put in bold, but i have a headache so i'll fic it later

warnings: filth, not super well writen filth, minors this isn't for you.

Characters: Nanami, Toji, Gojo, Geto, Sukuna, Choso, Shiu, Higuruma. (in that order)

You are not alive. You are not conscious. You are raw hamburger meat in the hands of Nanami Kento, ex-salaryman, currently ranked number one in the World Sex Top Olympics.

This man— no, this golden retriever in a business suit with a monster cock and God-tier precision—has folded you like laundry, stretched you like warm mochi, and handled you like you were a hostile cursed spirit needing “subjugation.” With his dick.

And the worst part? (Best part?) He was sweet about it. Gentle voice, praise so soft it made your spine arch, but with enough force behind his thrusts to move your tax bracket. There were positions you didn’t even know existed. He held your wrists above your head with one hand. He let you bite him. Like a human stress ball. He told you, “It’s okay, you can be loud,” and then earned it.

You came—like, full-body, shaking came—FIVE TIMES. You blacked out during the third one and came to with your foot in the air and Nanami calmly fucking you like it was Monday morning paperwork.

Now:

You’re on his chest, dazed. He’s still warm. He smells like the answer to every prayer you’ve ever mumbled in a dressing room mirror. His arms are around you, strong and gentle, like a goddamn weighted blanket made of man.

He rubs your back slowly.

“I ran you a bath,” he murmurs into your hair, voice still a little hoarse from all the groaning he did while rearranging your internal organs.

You nod into his collarbone. “You’re so perfect it’s fucking unfair.”

He laughs, soft. Presses a kiss to your temple. “You’re perfect.”

“Incorrect,” you mutter. “I’m unhinged.”

He looks down at you.

“Why?”

You reach for your phone. Pull it up. Open a Google Form. Hand it to him.

“Please take this short survey to rate your recent sexual experience with me,” you say like a goddamn concierge.

Nanami blinks. “I—what?”

“Customer feedback is important to me,” you say brightly.

He looks at the screen.

Title: “Did I Fuck Good? 💖✨”

You watch his eyes scan the questions:

Q1: How would you rate my pussy?

🥲 1) Moist but confused

🤔 2) Made an effort

😤 3) Had potential

🤤 4) Top tier

🐉 5) Built by the Gods

Q2: Did I arch my back good?

Yes

No

You weren’t looking :(

Q3: Did you feel emotionally held by the experience of raw dogging me into another plane of existence?

Yes

I cried a little

I would like to talk to a therapist about it (in a good way)

Nanami freezes. Looks at you. Looks back at the form. Blinks again. He’s not upset. He’s just—processing.

“…Are you serious?”

You nod solemnly.

He stares.

“I—I’m not sure what to say. This is—” He gestures at the screen. “This is absurd.”

“Customer service is everything,” you mumble against his chest, trying not to laugh.

He reads the next part out loud:

“Would you like to leave a 15% tip for your server tonight?”

Pause.

“Or 20% if the pussy game was exceptional,” you offer helpfully.

Nanami is looking at the phone like it might explode.

“You’re joking.”

You stare at him, completely blank.

“I—uh. I mean. I would tip,” he starts, voice hesitant like he’s walking into a trap, “but we’re in a relationship. This feels—transactional?”

You can't hold it anymore- you burst out laughing. Instantly. Rolling onto your back, wheezing.

Nanami is utterly lost.

“You—wait—you’re not serious?” he asks, confused and adorable.

You just keep laughing, gasping, “I got you SO bad—Kento, you looked like you were about to file a formal HR complaint.”

He exhales hard. Shakes his head. A hand comes up to his face like he’s exhausted by your bullshit and also deeply in love.

“You—” he starts, then breaks off into a helpless chuckle. “You’re insane.”

You poke his bicep. “You like it.”

He leans over you, eyes warm, mouth curved in that rare soft smile that makes you want to cry and blow him at the same time.

“I do,” he murmurs. “Very much.”

Later, in the bathtub (which he made exactly 104°F, with those nice essential oils), you’re half-asleep in his arms. He’s washing your hair with gentle fingers. It’s disgustingly tender. Like cottagecore but make it slutty.

You murmur, “Hey, Kento?”

“Hm?”

“I think your dick is really pretty.”

He pauses.

“…Thank you?”

“Like. Not scary-pretty. Like not the kind of dick that looks like it came from the Mariana Trench. Like one of those deep-sea angler fish, you know? All pale and sad and overqualified.”

He’s silent for a moment. Then:

“I… suppose that’s good?”

“Your dick,” you continue, “looks like it pays taxes on time. Like it owns a really nice pen. It has manners.”

“I’m glad you find it… respectable.”

You grin at him through your shampoo-lathered hair. “Also your thighs are so unreasonably thick. Like you could crack a watermelon between them. Or a soul.”

He looks away, slightly pink.

You nuzzle into his shoulder. “I love you.”

“…I love you, too.”

Later, back in bed, he finally submits the form. Adds a comment at the bottom:

“Would recommend. Beautiful form, strong arch, excellent enthusiasm. Will return.”

He selects 20% tip.

And adds a Etsy gift card for good measure.

Because Nanami ? He supports women. Especially when they’re insane about his dick.

“Fushiguro Fucks™: First-Time Customer Satisfaction Survey 📝💦”

You knew Toji Fushiguro was gonna fuck like a menace. The man has biceps bigger than your self-control, a criminal record, and enough swagger to bankrupt a nation. His voice is all low and lazy and sarcastic, and the first time he muttered, “you gonna be good for me, or you gonna make me break you in?” you almost came untouched.

So of course, when it finally happens—when he finally throws your bratty ass over his shoulder like a sack of sins and fucks the fight right out of you—it’s exactly as intense, filthy, and bone-deep GOOD as you’d fantasized about while watching him eat a protein bar in one bite.

It starts with his mouth. Because Toji Fushiguro eats pussy like it owes him rent money. Like he’s trying to win something. It’s messy, it’s loud, there’s tongue everywhere, and at one point he pops off just to say:

“You’re fuckin’ loud for someone who talks so much shit, sweetheart.”

Then he spits on your clit and goes back in like a man possessed.

You’re clawing at the sheets like they personally offended you. You’re already shaking. And he hasn’t even fucked you yet.

And then. Oh. Then.

“C’mon,” he growls, dragging his cock along your soaked slit, “count it for me.”

You blink up at him, dazed. “Huh?”

“To the hilt, baby. Count every inch while I stretch this little pussy out.”

BABE. LISTEN.

He lined up that massive fuck-off cock and growled again—

“Count it, baby. Count the fuckin’ inches.” and you did. “One—nnngh—two—ah! fuck—three, s-shit, too big—” “You wanted to be a little bitch. Take it.” “fuckfuckfuck—i am!!!”

Toji had you folded up like an omelette. Thighs shaking. Jaw slack. Drooling. Literally drooling while he wrecked your shit like his life depended on it. You barely make it to “three” before your voice breaks and Toji just laughs and keeps going. By the time you get to “seven,” you are drooling into the pillow, folded in half like a camp chair, mumbling about god and death and possibly taxes.

Toji’s grunting, breath hot in your ear, and when he locks that rear chokehold in around your neck with one fucking strong arm, you straight up go boneless. Like a ragdoll. Like a little slutty puppet.

“Still got that mouth on you?” he pants into your neck. “Or did I finally fuck the brat out?”

“Y—you did,” you slur, tears in your lashes. “You fu—fucked the alphabet out of me—”

You come. A lot. He comes. Deep and hard, with a feral noise and a shudder that rattles your entire body.

Afterwards:

He hauls you into the shower.

You protest weakly.

He calls you “crybaby.” you call him “cockzilla.”

He washes you roughly, but careful. Palms big and firm and steady as they run down your back. He kisses your temple when he rinses your hair.

You do the same for him. Except you add in some extra groping. He pretends to hate it.

You’re both warm and soft and human again. (you are, in fact, so in love. but we’re not talking about that right now.)

Now:

You are soup. You are ruined. Your pussy is making dial-up noises and your soul left your body fifteen minutes ago.

Toji’s got you in his lap, one hand stroking your thigh absentmindedly, other hand still kinda pinning you by the waist like he doesn’t trust you not to float away or commit another felony.

You’re also not sure if your spine is still aligned. Or if your soul has returned to your body.

What you do know is that you can’t move your legs. Not well. Not at all, actually. They’re kind of just… there. Twitching occasionally. Definitely on strike. And toji’s the union-busting boss who just made them clock 87 hours of overtime. With no breaks.

“You alive?” he mutters, brushing sweat-damp hair off your forehead.

You blink up at him. “Barely. You broke my brain. You did a crime.”

He grins, lazy and fucking smug. “Yeah? That’s what you get for mouthing off.”

You smack his chest. Weakly. “Abuse. You’ll hear from my lawyer.”

Toji chuckles. “You got a lawyer now?”

“No,” you say, fishing for your phone, “but I do have a customer satisfaction survey.”

Toji squints. “The fuck?”

You pull it up. Flip the screen to him.

“Post-Dick Debrief: Brat Edition,” you say sweetly.

Q1: Did I look hot while choking on your dick?

Yes, obviously

Stunning

I saw god

You cried a little (it's okay)

Q2: How many braincells do you estimate I lost?

1

2

All of them

You took them with you

Q3: Would you describe the pussy as:

A menace

Highly delicious

Too powerful to be left unsupervised

In need of... correction 😏

Q4: Would you like to leave a tip for your experience today?

10%

15%

20%

I AM broke but can offer... another kind of tip 😏

Toji is staring at the screen like it personally insulted his bank account.

“What the fuck am I looking at?” he asks slowly.

“A survey,” you say, chewing a piece of jerky he fed you for aftercare. “Rate your experience. Comments appreciated. Praise mandatory.”

He lifts a brow. “You made this before we even fucked?”

“Of course,” you say, shrugging. “I had high hopes.”

He grunts. “Bold of you.”

You look at him. “You literally made me count the inches. What do you mean bold.”

He snorts. "Yeah. Bet that mouth won’t forget 'em either."

You grin. “No, but my cervix might need therapy.”

He huffs a laugh, still scrolling through the form. Then pauses at the tip section.

“I’m broke,” he says bluntly. “You want me to Venmo you $3.87?”

You make a dramatic gasp. “So you’re saying this pussy wasn’t WORTH TIPPING FOR—”

Toji groans and rolls on top of you again, pinning your wrists down.

“I’ll give you another kind of fuckin’ tip,” he growls, nudging your thighs apart again. “One that goes right back in.”

You shriek, laughing, kicking uselessly beneath him. “TOJI I’M GONNA DIE—”

He smirks, presses a kiss to your collarbone. “Guess I gotta re-fill out that survey, huh?”

You look up at him through your lashes. “Maybe this time I’ll make a loyalty punch card.”

He snorts. “Fifth nut’s free?”

“Only if you say please.”

He growls into your throat. “You’re lucky I like brats.”

You wink. “You’re lucky I like felons.”

You were seeing colors, and not just the sexy RGB ones you saw behind your eyelids every time Gojo did that thing with his tongue.

No, no. You were seeing cosmic, interdimensional, 5D shit.

God personally gave you a high five, and then left you to perish under that white-haired menace.

The bed was in pieces.

Not “wobbly headboard” pieces. No. Like wooden shrapnel embedded into the drywall pieces.

Your knees were—gone. Your neck was at an angle it shouldn’t be, your pussy was… well, she had been through war.

And Gojo? Gojo looked like he just got a massage. Glowing. Shirtless. Muscles flexing with every breath. Hair a mess. Blue eyes still doing that glowy thing that made you feel like maybe he was trying to ascend you to another plane again. You were not ready.

He was humming. Actually humming. A happy little tune, like he hadn’t just rearranged your guts with cursed technique-enhanced strokes. Like he hadn’t grabbed your ankles mid-missionary and literally bent time around your clit.

You were cradled into his chest, naked and swaddled in the very last towel you had left because—again—bed? Decimated. And Gojo had the nerve to pet your hair like he had been the victim.

“Babe,” you croaked. “I think I left my soul in my uterus.”

“Aw, it was in the way anyway,” he said sweetly. “Now there’s more room for me~.”

You were too tired to bonk him. Your bones? Were jelly. Your organs? Rearranged. Your will to live? Floating somewhere in the corner of the room, probably clutching a support beam and whispering prayers to the jujutsu gods.

You shifted slightly. Winced. "Ow."

Gojo perked up instantly. “Too much?”

“…No,” you said hoarsely. “I’m just learning how to walk again. Don’t mind me.”

He snorted and kissed your forehead. “Told you not to challenge the Six Eyes, princess.”

You glared at him from your makeshift cocoon. “You broke the bed.”

“Enhancement technique, baby.” He grinned, proud. “Was so worth it.”

You made a mental note to never let him touch cursed energy during sex again unless you wanted to explode.

But enough of that. You had work to do. Scientific work. Important data collection that simply could not wait.

With a Herculean effort, you unwrapped the towel from your cocoon and reached for your phone on the floor—barely missed the shattered corner of the nightstand. (RIP to the nightstand. He didn’t deserve that.)

Gojo, ever nosy, leaned over your shoulder with a curious look. “Whatcha doin’? Texting your funeral director?”

“No,” you said, unlocking your phone and opening the form.

His eyes narrowed as the pastel-colored screen popped up. “Wait. Is that—”

“Yes,” you said seriously. “Post-Sexual Performance Evaluation Form. Version 3.2.”

Gojo’s lips twitched. “There have been multiple versions.”

“Yes.” You pointed to the title. “I take data very seriously.”

He blinked. “Is this about me?”

You turned to him slowly, dramatically. “No. This is about me. I’m the subject.”

“…Oh,” he said, visibly confused. “Wait—what???”

You held the phone up like a clipboard and cleared your throat. “Name one word to describe your experience of me, tonight. Don’t overthink it.”

He blinked again. “Uhhh. Holy.”

You nodded solemnly. “Mmm. Good choice. I did cry out to God at least twice.”

“Three times,” he corrected. “And once to Nanami, which was weird, but I’m not judging.”

You gave him a look. “He’s stoic. It’s a kink.”

“Remind me to never make eye contact with him again.”

You cleared your throat. “Next question: On a scale of 1 to 5—5 being ‘destroyed my soul and I’d thank her’—how would you rate the head?”

Gojo didn’t even hesitate. “Infinity.”

“…That’s not an option.”

“I am the option.”

You side-eyed him. “Fine. 5 with sparkles. Got it.” You tapped it in. “Next: What was your favorite moment of the evening?”

Gojo flopped back dramatically onto the pile of pillow casualties. “Ooohhh, that’s hard. I mean—when you started sobbing during reverse cowgirl—”

“I WAS OVERWHELMED.”

“—but also when I cursed technique’d your clit and your eyes went white like a demon was leaving your body.”

“That one’s going in my memoir.”

“Oh! And the part where the bed cracked under us and you said, and I quote, ‘Fuck a headboard, I’m seeing GOD.’”

“…Are you proud of yourself?”

“Baby, I’m about to make this my LinkedIn bio.”

You scribbled that answer in with a satisfied hum.

He peeked over your shoulder again. “What’s next?”

“Describe my ass in three adjectives.”

“Juicy. Divine. World-ending.”

You raised an eyebrow. “World-ending?”

He gave you the most deadpan look. “The way it bounced when I hit it from the side? I almost died.”

“…Fair.”

You tapped that in.

Gojo leaned in close now, nosing at your cheek. His voice dropped just enough to make your toes curl (again). “Are you gonna ask me to fill out a form for you?”

You smirked. “Nah. Your dick already signed the guestbook five times.”

He wheeze-laughed. Absolutely cackled. Clutched his stomach and rolled like you’d just hit him with a “your mom” joke in 7th grade. “BABE—no wait. Wait—‘guestbook’ is INSANE—”

You patted his cheek lovingly. “Shhh. Science is happening.”

“I'm in love with a psychopath.”

“Ahem. Final question: Did this experience make you fall deeper in love with me, and if so, how will you show it?”

Gojo looked at you. His grin softened—just a little. His arm slid around your waist, pulled you against him again, all warm and lazy now. “I’ll show it,” he murmured, voice dropping to that low timbre that made your legs twitch, “by fixing your damn bed, drawing you a bath, feeding you strawberries in the tub, and then asking if we can do it again tomorrow.”

You stared at him.

“…You wanna break another bed?”

He kissed your shoulder. “I’ll buy you five.”

You looked down at your phone.

Form Completed. Response Submitted.

You shut it off and rolled over to wrap yourself in Gojo like he was the blanket and the mattress and the room itself. “You’re the worst,” you mumbled into his collarbone.

“I’m the best,” he whispered back.

“…Yeah. You kinda are.”

Shrine Maiden Pussy Hits Different.

Like. Listen.

You were warned. The moment you let Suguru Geto put his hands on you—really put his hands on you, not the polite little touches and idle petting he usually reserved for his sweet, holy little priestess—you knew something was going to snap. Somewhere between his mouth on your thigh and his fingers still dripping wet with your slick while he kissed a prayer into your skin like a sacrament, something went very, very wrong.

Because Suguru Geto?

Suguru Geto fucked you like he hated you. Like your pussy owed him money. Like he was punishing you for praying to anyone but him.

And you liked it. You loved it. You are no longer the same person you were before. That version of you? She died. Perished. Ascended. Is floating in nirvana right now, wearing a commemorative hoodie that says "I Got Destroyed On The Altar And All I Got Was This Lousy Post-Nut Clarity."

You don’t remember how many positions he folded you into—mostly because your brain stopped processing human thought around orgasm #3. He manhandled you like he owned you, like your body was something to use, and it wasn’t just the strength—it was the way he did it.

Like he didn’t give a fuck if it hurt. Like that was the point.

"Aw, poor thing," he’d said with a saccharine, infuriating mockery of a coo, dragging his cockhead over your spent, twitching entrance for the fourth round. “You wanted to be good, didn’t you?”

You whimpered something. A prayer, a plea, a garbled little noise that may have included his name, the words “I’ll behave,” and maybe even “Please, I’m trying—”

But Geto only smiled. Tilted his head and smiled, strands of hair clinging to the sweat on his neck, eyes dark and mouth mean.

“Too bad, sweetheart. Being good doesn’t mean you don’t get punished.”

And then he bit you. Again.

He bit your shoulder, your thigh, your tit—God help you, he had fangs, didn’t he? There were actual bite marks down your ribs. You were positive he had rearranged your guts and taken notes while he was in there.

By the time he was done with you, the shrine was desecrated, your thighs were shaking like you were going through exorcism withdrawals, and you were soaked in every kind of fluid. Bodily and otherwise.

Suguru Geto fucked you like he was trying to replace your soul with his cum.

And unfortunately?

Mission accomplished.

So, there you are now.

Your legs? Not working. You’re draped across the altar like a spent offering, still twitching, still leaking, still absolutely fucked out of your goddamn mind. Your hair is a mess. Your body feels like it was rolled in candle wax and whispered about in Latin. Geto is sitting beside you, smoking. (Where the fuck did he even get that cigarette? Did he summon it??)

And your phone is in your hand.

Somewhere in your sex-melted neurons, you remember a sacred duty. A higher calling.

You unlock it. Open Google Forms. Type with trembling fingers.

You hand it to him.

“…What’s this?” he says, glancing down, voice low and hoarse, a little smug but mostly curious. His hair’s a mess, half-up, half-fallen, bite marks on his neck from when you lost your goddamn mind and yanked it mid-round five. His lips are still red. Still smirking. Still tasting like you.

“A… survey,” you say weakly, blinking at him with all the life of a damp washcloth. “For my… performance.”

He stares.

You blink again. Maybe drool a little.

He slowly turns the screen towards himself.

"POST-NUT PERFORMANCE EVALUATION™️" ✨✨Rate your experience today on the shrine! Be honest, I am fragile. ✨✨

How would you rate the service?

🥺 Exceeded expectations

😳 Went feral, thx

🫠 I saw god

💀 I can’t walk

Was the shrine adequately defiled?

Yes

Also yes

It’s currently haunted

Would you like to leave a tip?

💰 Money

🍆 Dick again

✋ High five

🙏 A prayer to forgive me for what I let you do to me

Additional comments: “(eg. I no longer fear death, thank you.)”

Geto’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

He looks at you. Then the phone. Then you.

“…Are you fucking serious?” he says.

You nod solemnly.

He scrolls. Silence. More silence.

Then—

“…‘It’s currently haunted.’”

He barks out a laugh. Honest to God, deep-chested, spine-warming laugh. You feel it in your bones. It’s not fair. It’s not right that this man can go from soul-breaking dick demon to adorably amused priest-boyfriend in under a minute.

“You’re insane,” he says, shaking his head as he clicks through the options. “Absolutely fucking deranged. How are you still conscious?”

You smile hazily. “I have… very strong bones.”

“You were literally crying because I said ‘good girl’ and spat in your mouth—”

“I said what I said. Fill out the form, Suguru.”

He snorts. Checks ‘I saw god’ and ‘Also yes’ for the shrine haunting. Pauses at the “tip” section. Slowly checks “Dick again.” Looks over at you.

“Again? Baby, you can’t even feel your legs.”

“…So that’s a no?”

He growls. Growls. "You really want to do this again? You want to end up comatose on this altar for real?"

"Maybe I have a kink for religious trauma,” you shoot back.

“You’re gonna have a kink for hospital beds if you keep mouthing off.”

“Oh no,” you whisper, pressing a hand to your heart, “Not the ER sex arc…”

He lunges at you and you shriek-laugh, legs flopping uselessly as he grabs your ankle and drags you back across the altar like the shameless little hellspawn you are.

You are definitely going to hell. But at least you'll have five-star dick on the way down.

You knew you were in for it the moment your yukata got ripped down the middle like it owed him money.

Not even a preamble. No warning. Just—RIP—and Sukuna's voice in your ear like smoke and brimstone:

"You won't be needing that anymore, little pest."

Well. Excuse you.

Now you're here. Somewhere between heaven, hell, and a realm of overstimulation where your brain has been entirely replaced by white noise and the alphabet no longer exists.

Because here's the thing about True Form Sukuna:

FOUR. FUCKING. ARMS.

Two of them holding you in place. One gripping your jaw like you're something fragile (he lies). The last? Alternating between teasing, pinning, choking, and pulling your thighs apart like he's trying to break you in half.

And TWO. FUCKING. DICKS.

One already had you creaming when he folded you in half like a napkin. The second? The second made you see a version of God that moaned back.

(And the MOUTH on his stomach??? THE STOMACH MOUTH. THAT THING IS THE DEVIL. It LICKED your clit while you rode him and SMIRKED when you came. You're suing.)

By the time it's over? You're toast. Puddle of melted girl. Legs trembling. Pussy bruised. Eyes glazed.

Sukuna? Not even breaking a sweat.

"You're alive," he says, amused.

You wheeze. "Barely."

AFTERCARE TIME... kind of:

You end up in the bath together. Honestly, your brain is soup. Your body is soup. You are soup. Welcome to Sukuna’s special: human girl stew.

You're floating in the water, arms barely moving, skin kissed by a thousand faint bite marks, bruises blooming like little purple constellations all over your thighs, your collarbone, your titties.

Sukuna with one leg out like the arrogant bastard he is, while one of his lower arms casually rubs circles into your thigh like he's not the reason you're semi-comatose.

You scowl at him, chest rising and falling as you attempt your fifth breath in a row without audibly wheezing. (It doesn't work.)

“You,” you rasp, voice wrecked and crispy like fried seaweed. “Destroyed. My. Yukata.”

Sukuna doesn’t even blink. “That flimsy rag? It ripped like wet paper. Not my fault you wore tissue paper to a ritual sacrifice.”

“IT WAS COTTON BLEND!”

He shrugs. All four shoulders shrug. You want to die.

“You should thank me. You’ll never wear another one again. Gonna be limping for a week. You're welcome.”

You try to splash him. You miss. You almost drown instead. You flop back against the bath edge and wheeze.

The smug bastard leans over, one hand—big, veiny, and frankly illegal in five prefectures—reaching for your face. For a second, you flinch, thinking he’s gonna grab your chin and whisper some new filthy punishment into your ear. But no.

He just tucks your wet hair behind your ear.

...

You stare at him.

“Are you… being gentle?”

Sukuna scoffs like you called him a virgin.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You're just weak and pathetic after getting split open like a festival melon. I’m letting you recover.”

Then a pause... and:

"I should break you more often," he hums.

"I'm not a glowstick," you mutter. "I can’t light up unless you shake me first."

He grins. Sharp. Dangerous. Still fucking fond. His top set of arms pull you closer.

"You like it."

You make a noncommittal noise and nuzzle into his chest. His skin is hot. Muscles for miles. The tattoos on his body practically hum under your fingers. You swear one of the mouths on his shoulders chuckles.

Then.

Then.

You wiggle out of his hold. Grab your phone from the nearby table. Open up a Google Form you had pre-filled and saved in your drafts for this exact moment.

You crawl back into his lap. Flash the screen.

"So. Feedback time."

Sukuna stares.

"What. The fuck. Is that."

"A post-sex survey," you say sweetly. "For me. Your human plaything, remember?"

He blinks. Once. Twice.

Reaches for the phone with two fingers—like it's some kind of ancient relic. His claws dwarf it. One pinky alone could probably break the entire device.

He squints at the screen. All four eyes.

POST-COITAL SURVEY: HOW DID YOUR HUMAN DO?

Q1: Was the experience satisfactory?

Yes

Yes, with blood-curdling enthusiasm

I saw the edge of existence and she waved back

Q2: Did your human make pretty noises?

Yes, very pleasing to my curse ears

I recorded them for later

Q3: Were there any injuries?

Minor

Delicious

I hope there are scars

Q4: Would you like to leave a TIP for your service experience today?

15%

20%

Two tips 😏

Sukuna stares at you.

Stares at the form.

Back at you.

Then back at the form.

He is so visibly confused.

"This is a thing humans do now?"

You nod solemnly. "Standard protocol. Helps build trust."

He glances back at the phone. His lips twitch. "And this 'tip' part..."

"Like money," you say, barely holding in your laugh.

He scoffs. “Leave a—?! I gave you the privilege of getting fucked by a god. That’s the tip. You want coin for getting fucked into a new religion?"

"Well. I am a five-star experience."

Sukuna grins. Wicked. All teeth. One hand grabs your ass.

"Fine," he says, voice dripping filth. "I'll give you two tips."

You raise a brow. "Oh?"

He leans in, mouth by your ear.

"The tips of both my cocks. In your throat."

You SNORT.

Collapse onto his chest cackling like a demon.

"YOU’RE DISGUSTING!"

"You started it, little pest."

You wipe a tear from your eye. Reach up and peck one of his cheek-eyes. It narrows, pleased.

"Admit it," you grin. "You love me."

He grunts.

"I tolerate you."

(He tucks you into his side and lets you stay there. His stomach mouth licks your shoulder like a pet cat.)

You're grinning like a fool. Completely fucked out. Survey sent.

Sukuna doesn’t delete it.

He does, however, start filling it out when you fall asleep.

(It auto-saves. You’ll find it in the morning. Under the comment box he wrote: “Stop being hot, I’m trying to stay evil.”)

God. You’re in love with a cursed idiot.

Listen. You didn’t mean to ruin him.

You really didn’t.

You just meant to ride him a little, maybe pull his hair, leave some scratch marks to remind him who’s in charge.

And Choso—sweet, lovely, emotionally constipated Choso—looked at you with those big wet anime eyes like, “You want to go on top?” Like it was some sacred ritual. Like you were about to crown him King of the Universe. Like he was LUCKY to even be beneath you.

And you were like. “Oh I’m gonna ruin you.”

So here’s the thing about Choso. He’s sweet. He’s so fucking sweet. He’s whispering thank yous while you sink down on him like you’re the one doing him a favor. He’s grabbing at your hips like you’re evaporating. He’s moaning with this messy kind of reverence like he’s not entirely sure this is allowed, but god, he hopes it is.

And when you scratch down his chest with your nails and pull his hair back to whisper, “Mine,” into his mouth?

This man WHIMPERS. Whimpers. Like. A sound came out of him. From the soul. The lower abdomen.

You ride him into the fucking void. He’s gripping the headboard. Begging. Not even words, just sounds. Babygirl noises.

“You’re doing so good,” you purr, grinding down hard, deliberately slow. “So loud for me, huh?”

He covers his face. Moans into his palm. You yank it away. “I wanna see that face when I make you come.”

AND HE DOES. Like a fucking fire hydrant.

You laugh. You’re having the time of your life. He’s ruined. Already looks like he cried a little. And you? You are THRIVING.

But then.

Then.

CHOSO FLIPS YOU OVER.

You don’t even register the switch until your knees are by your ears and he’s got one hand tangled in your hair and the other gripping your thigh like he’s trying to implant a tracking chip.

He mutters, “S’my turn, right?”

Oh. Oh no. OH YES.

He rails you. He RAILS you.

And he’s still sweet about it, whispering your name like a prayer, but also??? He’s possessed. Like “I died once and I’m not doing it again without turning you into a cumsock” levels of aggressive.

“I—I thought I was on top,” you gasp, barely coherent.

He’s breathless, panting, so soft. “I wanted to feel you under me.”

SIR-YOU'RE GONNA NEED TO PAY FOR THERAPY AFTER THIS.

At some point—you lose count of time. Of orgasms. Of which limb is where. He makes you come until your vision is fuzzy. He praises you like it’s a kink (it is), and when you scratch his back so hard he hisses, you SWEAR he fucks you harder. Freak.

Eventually, you go limp. Done. Finished. You see God, and She high-fives you. Then you see Choso’s sweet, flushed face hovering above you like he didn’t just annihilate your cervix.

“You okay?” he asks softly, pushing your hair back.

“Yeah,” you rasp, “just need… a moment. Or a shovel.”

He kisses your nose. “I can carry you to the shower.”

“Romantic,” you say. “Is that before or after the survey?”

He pauses. “The… what?”

You weakly pull your phone from the nearby pillow, open the Google Form you’ve had saved in your Notes app since you decided Choso had “first dick appointment” potential.

“Please fill out this anonymous form,” you say sweetly. “It’s called ‘How Did I Do? 😌💦’”

Q1: Was the pussy

Feral

Majestic

God-tier

Forbidden fruit of Eden

Q2: Did the riding make you see ghosts?

Yes

Yes, but they were nice

I forgot my own name

I think I saw my brother

Q3: Were the scratches on your back out of pocket?

No, I liked it

I deserve worse

Mark me like a canvas

Can we go again

Q4: Would you like to leave a tip?

10%

15%

20%

I’m broke but I’ll make you breakfast

Choso is blinking. Slowly. Like a confused baby deer.

“You… made a survey?” he says, voice soft.

“Mmhmm,” you say, nuzzling into his chest. “For feedback. Very professional. I’m ISO certified.”

“Is it anonymous?” he asks, concerned. “Is someone else reading this?”

“No,” you giggle, “it’s about me. Not you.”

He stares. The screen. Then you. Then back to the screen.

“I don’t—do you want a real answer? Or a joke? Or—wait. Are you serious? Is this, like… a sex thing? Is this a dominance thing? Like, ‘fill out my Google Form, slut’?”

You start cackling.

“Oh no-,” you wheeze, “I’M JOKING. You should’ve seen your FACE.”

He blinks again. His ears are so red.

“Oh,” he says softly. “Okay.”

You giggle and kiss his cheek. “You’re so cute when you’re confused.”

“I thought you were gonna make me… write a paragraph review or something.”

“Oh my god,” you gasp, rolling over him. “NOW I’M GONNA.”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Please don’t post it anywhere.”

“I won’t. Probably.”

He whines, muffling it into your shoulder. “You’re so mean to me.”

You stroke his hair. “And yet you begged to be under me.”

He grumbles. “Yeah, ‘cause you’re scary.”

You smile.

“Good,” you whisper. “Now fill out the survey before I fuck you again.”

You’ve killed a lot of people. Like—a lot.

Strangled a cartel lieutenant with her own belt once. Clean shot through a diplomat’s temple with a rifle you assembled in under ninety seconds. One time you poisoned a man just by kissing him (thanks, custom lipstick). You're not new to adrenaline, to high-stakes, to... messy.

But this?

This is the messiest you've ever been.

Shiu Kong just rearranged your soul and now you’re staring at the ceiling of some nondescript safehouse while your legs do this weird twitchy thing every time he exhales near you.

You’re a trained killer and this man—your handler—just made you come so hard you saw static. Five times. Maybe six?? You lost count somewhere between the choking and the part where he bent you over the sink and said, "If you’re gonna act like a brat, I’ll fuck you like one."

No one warned you Shiu Kong fucks like a tired, overworked demigod with a deep resentment for incompetence.

And you? You just happen to be his favorite little killer for hire. So guess what that means.

Earlier...

"You know the mission briefing said subtle, right?"

He’s got his arms crossed, suit pants rumpled like he’d been sitting too long, tie just barely loosened. And the look in his eye? That half-lidded, already-annoyed expression? Yeah. That’s the look he gives you right before he reads you for absolute filth.

"I was subtle," you said. "Up until the stabbing part."

"Subtle doesn’t include seven fucking witnesses and a goddamn fire alarm."

You smiled at him. "Technicalities."

You expected him to sigh. Maybe hand you another envelope with your next job and tell you to clean up your mess.

What you didn’t expect was him stepping in, cornering you against the concrete wall of the safehouse, and saying low against your mouth:

“You want to act like a headache, sweetheart? Fine. Let’s see if you can still smart off with my cock halfway down your throat.”

Oh.

Oh no.

Now.

You’ve got one arm flopped off the bed, one leg somewhere near Shiu’s shin, and you can’t remember your own name.

He’s shirtless, somehow still looking composed while his knuckles brush your hipbone. You should be afraid of how fast he made you fold. You’re not. You’re a slut. And also emotionally unstable, but mostly a slut.

“Still alive?” he murmurs.

You let out a croaky “...eh.”

He huffs. You think it’s a laugh. Maybe. Either way, your brain is pudding and you’re not even embarrassed.

You roll onto your stomach with a noise that can only be described as disrespected furniture. Then—with the energy of someone who just emerged from a particularly intense spiritual awakening—you paw around for your phone on the floor.

Shiu watches, eyebrow raised. "...You ordering food?"

“No,” you mumble, unlocking your phone. “I need you to fill something out.”

He blinks. "Excuse me?"

You thrust the phone at him with the last of your strength. “Here. It's a Google Form.”

He stares at it.

You watch him squint. Then frown.

Then stare at you like you’ve just presented him with a tax audit and a pregnancy test at the same time.

“‘Post-Encounter Evaluation for Elite Operatives’?”

“Yes.”

“…Why is the first question ‘How satisfied were you with my holes today (scale of 1-5)?’”

“I’m gathering feedback.”

You’re trying so hard not to smile, but your lips twitch anyway. It’s either that or drool again.

Shiu doesn’t laugh. He never laughs. But his nostrils flare and he exhales through his nose like a man trying to process something deeply confusing and mildly arousing.

“Question two,” he reads aloud, deadpan: ‘Did I make you feel like a powerful man who could destroy the world with his cum alone?’”

“...Well. Did I?”

Shiu blinks at you.

Then, after a beat, he actually tilts his head. Like he's genuinely thinking about it. Which is insulting but also hilarious.

“You are completely useless right now,” he says, glancing at your limp body. “So. I suppose that’s a yes.”

You beam.

“Keep going.”

He scrolls. "‘Were the sounds I made appropriately slutty and grateful for your dick?’ Jesus Christ—”

“You were incredible. I’m just trying to be professional about my brand.”

Shiu lowers the phone. Looks at you over the screen. His expression? That deeply unimpressed, handler-through-hell look that says: I hate that this is working on me.

"...There’s a tip section."

“Yes.” You blink up at him like a koala on tranquilizers. “It accepts Apple Pay.”

He actually chokes. Not laughs. Chokes. It’s like hearing God cough.

“You want me to tip you.”

“I was a very good girl,” you say. “And you’re not paying me for this. This was a... personal project.”

“Personal?” His voice drops. “That wasn’t personal, sweetheart. That was a field test.”

You whimper.

God, why is that so hot?

“I needed to know what happens when you’re overstimulated and half-feral,” he continues casually, like he’s reviewing your resume. “For future assignments. In case I need you compromised.”

Your thighs clench.

This is fine. You're fine. You're a professional.

...You’re also going to need like 72 hours and an ice pack.

“Did I pass?” you whisper.

He leans down until his mouth is against your ear, voice a quiet purr:

“You’re lucky I didn’t fucking fail you on the spot. No composure. No stamina. You begged like a brat who didn’t read the briefing.”

You shudder.

Then groan into the sheets, face down. “Sir, I literally cannot feel my pelvic floor. Can you please just fill out the form?”

Shiu sits back. Looks at your phone. Quiet.

Then?

He types.

You try not to giggle as you hear the soft click of his fingers tapping on the screen.

"...You selected ‘Extremely Satisfied’ for my holes.”

“I did.”

“...And you left a comment that just says, ‘Jesus Fucking Christ.’”

“Accurate.”

You pause. “What’d you put for the tip?”

He glances at you.

Then back at the screen.

Then slowly... presses a button.

You hear the tiny ping of a successful payment.

"...You tipped me fifty dollars?” you ask, stunned.

“You earned it.”

You're quiet for a second. Then, a beat later, in a completely wrecked voice:

"...Handler of the year.”

Shiu’s mouth twitches. His version of a smile.

Then he sets the phone down, rolls on top of you again, and murmurs:

“Don’t get cocky. You’ve got another mission tomorrow.”

You whimper into the mattress. “I can’t walk.”

“That’s your problem.”

submitted response to your google form:

Holes Satisfaction? 5/5 Did I feel like a powerful man with world-ending cum? Unfortunately, yes. Was the agent appropriately slutty? Debatably. Lacked professionalism. Good vocals. Room for improvement? Didn’t cry. Next time, tears. Tip: $50. Don’t spend it all on lube.

Additional Comments: Please stop sending me forms. Also, clear your browser history.

You once called him a “walking prosecution kink in a three-piece suit” to your best friend over drinks. You also once said you’d rather eat your own foot than sleep with him.

And now, post-fuckageddon?

You're not sure you could eat solid food if you tried. Let alone walk.

Your soul is hovering outside your body, sipping tea politely and waiting for your system to reboot.

Hiromi is beside you—naked, warm, freshly showered, and dangerously tender. Which is a war crime, frankly. He’s rubbing slow, absent circles into your thigh while you lay face-first on his stupid crisp white sheets, drooling like a newborn and trying not to moan every time you remember what he did to you.

Five times, bitch. Five. You came like he was getting paid by the orgasm.

The first time? Fingers. The second? His mouth. (His nose, really. That thing deserves its own license to kill.) Third? With your legs up and your arms pinned. Fourth? Bent over the fucking dresser. Fifth? From just the way he kissed you and talked to you while he was still inside. ("You don’t have to prove anything, you already won. Let me take care of you—")

STOP. You can’t mentally afford a sixth.

“So,” Hiromi says, voice all low and calm like he didn’t wreck your shit less than an hour ago.

You hum into the pillow.

“I hope I didn’t—go too far.”

You pick your head up just enough to blink at him. “Hiromi. I literally begged you to go further.”

He smiles. Softly. Like a smug cherub who knows exactly how tight he made you scream.

“I just wanted to make sure I didn’t… you know. Overwhelm you.”

You snort. “You gave me two orgasms before even putting it in. I was overwhelmed at the entrance exam, my guy.”

He squeezes your thigh. "I just want you to feel safe.”

You want to say something witty.

But all that comes out is a pitiful, genuine little: “...You’re so good at sex.”

Which makes him go so red it’s illegal. This man has cross-examined murderers with the composure of a glacier, and you made him blush harder than any closing statement.

But okay.

Enough. You didn’t build your entire reputation as his courtroom nemesis—the only defense attorney who’s ever flustered him on record—for this to be all hearts and roses.

So.

You reach for your phone.

He watches with curiosity as you open your notes app, tap something, then pass it to him like you’re handing off a subpoena.

“Here,” you mumble.

He takes it. Squints. Blinks once.

Then reads aloud.

“‘Post-Coital Performance Evaluation for Your Favorite Legal Rival (Anonymous Feedback Welcome)’…?”

You bury your face back in the pillow. “It’s a Google Form. I made it this morning just in case I died.”

Hiromi is frozen.

Like actual lag-on-the-hard-drive frozen.

"Question one," he reads slowly, bewildered: "‘How satisfied were you with my holes today (scale of 1–5)?’"

You lift one finger. “Be honest.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. You think he may be buffering.

“Question two,” he continues, tone becoming increasingly… confused husband. “‘Did the defendant perform with enthusiasm and skill?’”

You nod solemnly. “I’ll need citations.”

“…Question three: ‘Were the sounds I made appropriately slutty and legally distinct from what I say in court?’"

You peek at him. He looks like he just found out he was dating a BuzzFeed quiz. A very slutty one.

"I've never—" he starts, then cuts himself off, flustered. “No one’s ever given me a—performance review before.”

You shrug weakly. “You’re my rival. I need metrics.”

You pause. Then murmur: “Also I gave you very good head as an apology for joking about your hand-holding thing, so I feel like I deserve something.”

He squints. "That blowjob was vengeance."

"It was reparations," you correct. "You looked so sad, Hiromi. I had to fix it with throat."

He covers his face with one hand. “You’re insane.”

“You held my hand while railing me within an inch of my life, sir. We all have our coping strategies.”

After a minute, he actually… starts filling it out.

You hear little tapping sounds. The softest clicks. The man is legitimately answering. Your toes curl.

You grin into the pillow. “What’d you put for the holes question?”

He glances at you. “Six.”

You snort. “That’s not even on the scale.”

“It should be.”

Then he hesitates.

"...I don’t know how to answer this one."

You peek up. “‘Did you feel emotionally held while also being physically annihilated?’”

"Yes. But that feels inappropriate to admit.”

You hold out your hand.

He takes it immediately, like a reflex, and squeezes.

You both pause.

“…So that’s a yes,” you say.

He makes a quiet, wounded noise in his throat.

“I just think,” he mutters softly, “if I’m ruining someone in bed, I should at least be nice to them afterward. That’s just basic decency.”

You blink.

Then smirk. “Wow. Gentleman dick. You’re like the legal world’s favorite war crime.”

Hiromi ignores you and goes back to filling out the survey.

A minute passes. You close your eyes, finally relaxing.

Then—

“...You put a tip section,” he says slowly. “And a line that says: ‘Cash, Venmo, or Apple Pay accepted. I also take compliments.’”

“Money or praise,” you mumble, half-asleep. “I’m a modern woman.”

Hiromi sighs. Then taps a few more times.

You hear the ping of a payment.

Then he murmurs, “You just got a Venmo for $69.69.”

Your eyes pop open. “You tipped me?!”

“You said you take Apple Pay!”

“That was a joke!”

“I didn’t want to be rude!”

submitted response to your google form:

Holes Satisfaction? 6/5 Did the defendant perform with enthusiasm and skill? Yes. Devastatingly so. Still recovering. Was emotional + physical annihilation achieved? Absolutely. Recommend with caution. Tip? $69.69. Additional Comments: Please don’t show this to anyone. Also, I think I’m in love with you. But I’ll object if you bring that up in court.

A/N:.... sorry. this was inspired by a dear friend of mine telling me that she did this to like two of her bfs. very funny tbh. also this isn't proof read annnddd sorry for being late again. also i messed up a couple areas that i meant to indent and not put in bold, but i have a headache so i'll fic it later

Massterlist.

:)

[sukubusss]

its okay that you crave me

content warnings: 18+ mdni, non-con/dub-con, somnophilia, bondage, piv, ass play, cunnilingus, breeding, sukuna being generally terrible

Thinking about obsessed ex-boyfriend Sukuna who will not accept that you’ve ended things with him. You're his and you’ll always be his even if you don’t know it yourself. You won’t get a moment of peace from him - constantly blowing up your phone with texts and calls, changing his number every time you block him, managing to find your new number when you try getting a new one to get away from him. 

He’ll show up wherever you are. Your usual grocery store, the gym, even happening to show up in the same restaurant as you when you dare to go out on a date. Always giving you that same grin, flexing his muscles and callously suggesting that you go back to his place - you must miss him after all. 

And with every rejection you give him you grow more exasperated, more aware of the fact that Sukuna is not the sort of man who gives up. You wonder what it would take for you to finally get him off your back. Nothing you’ve done so far has worked - changing your habits, going to new places further away from your home, even changing apartments. No matter what you do he’s there, his presence unshakable. 

You even try getting a new boyfriend, moving on from him completely and making things official with a nice coworker of yours. Sure, this new guy doesn’t stoke heat and passion in you the way that Sukuna used to, but he’s a hell of a lot nicer - no manipulation or cruelty and not even as much as an interaction with the police unlike your criminal ex. A pleasant and safe option who treated you nicely. 

Unfortunately your gambit to push Sukuna away, to show to him that you’d moved on and that he should too just furthered his obsession with you. He knew that you couldn’t really be serious about this loser. That guy couldn’t protect you like he could, couldn’t look after you like he could and certainly couldn’t fuck you like he could. 

He’d had enough of this annoying little game that you were playing with him. 

So it was your own fault that he was breaking into your new apartment in the middle of the night. You’d pushed him to this, if you’d just come back to him like his good little girl things would’ve been easy, but now he has to do it the hard way. 

He had no problem getting in through the back window, you were practically helpless without him, completely unaware of how to keep yourself safe and secure. Weren’t you lucky it was him climbing into your bedroom and not some creep? You didn’t even wake up as he stood over you, all curled up and cozy in your bed, completely at his mercy. 

You’d always been a deep sleeper. That’s why it was so easy for him to tie your hands against the bedpost, sliding your cute silky nightgown up your body, exposing your soft breasts and pretty pussy to him. He’d missed seeing you like this up close - it just wasn’t the same watching old videos that he’d taken of you, he needed to be able to touch you. 

Burying his face between your thighs, he wasted no time getting to work and eating you out. He was desperately hard and wanted to fuck you as soon as possible, but you used to always whine if he didn’t prep you first. So he was being nice, doing you a favor so that maybe you’d show him a little gratitude when you woke up. 

His thick tongue explored your pussy thoroughly, taking his time lapping over your folds before pushing the tip of it into your tight opening, relishing in the way your legs were twitching at his touch. It was so cute how your body responded to him instinctively, as if you were made to be his. 

He’d worked you halfway to an orgasm by the time you awakened. With your mind a haze of sleep and pleasure it took you a few moments to understand what was happening, to see those deep red eyes peering up at you from between your legs. Dread pooled in your stomach, mixing together with the aching feeling of need that Sukuna had worked into you with his tongue. 

And as you’d struggled against the rope that tied your hands, and thrashed your legs against his grip, you felt humiliation burn in you as you came on his tongue. Body convulsing with a twisted pleasure as he granted you release. He knew your body even better than you did. 

The next thing you knew he was changing positions, crawling up your body and pressing a rough kiss to your lips, swirling his tongue against yours and making you taste yourself on him, sitting back and grinning at the look of horror on your face. He’d taunted you, telling you to stop pretending you don’t like it.

He positioned himself over you, throwing off his own clothes and running his cock along your slit. Taking no notice of your cries and begging for him to stop, chuckling at the cute little excuses that you threw at him like how it wasn’t fair to your boyfriend. Didn’t you know yet? He was your boyfriend, you were his. 

For a moment he’d played along, acting as though he cared about anything you had to say, untying your hands and watching as you shuffled away from him, giving you that little glimmer of hope that he’d leave you alone. Before he took it all away. 

You were helpless as he pounced on you, pressing your face down into the bed sheets as he mounted you, sinking his cock into your sopping pussy and letting out a sigh of relief. He’d missed this. Other women just couldn’t compare to you - your pussy was just so warm and tight, wrapping around him as though you had been moulded for his cock. 

He found it amusing, the way that just moments ago you were begging him not to put it in, but now you were whimpering and whining like a needy little slut. He was made for you too after all. 

He fucked you hard and fast, as was always his way. Driving his cock as deep as it would go, laughing at the cute little sounds that you were making each time he pressed you into the mattress, revelling in the way your pussy was squeezing around him with every thrust. One of his hands moved to your ass, his hand circling your puckered hole, his cock jumping with elation as you begged him not to touch you there. 

Slipping his thumb past that tight ring of muscle he mocked your pathetic little cries, noticing the way that your pussy was squeezing him tighter now that he had a finger in your ass, his cruel voice reminding you that actually you liked this, that you loved him and that he’d make you feel good if you just stopped fucking complaining for once. 

And you hated that it was true, but you did like it. His cock felt so good pistoning into you, the cruelty of his words and the way that he completely dominated you was making your pussy drip with need. He was the only person who could make you feel like this - your nice little boyfriend certainly never did this, never had you seeing stars like Sukuna did as you came on his cock, face roughly pressed down into a pillow. 

Sukuna pulled out of you for a moment, satisfied that he’d seemingly broken through your resistance. He flipped you over, your body limp from your second orgasm, and threw your legs over his shoulders, putting you in a mating press before sinking his cock back into your sloppy pussy. Your weak little whines spurred him on as he enjoyed the new position, fucking into you hard, gazing at that pretty, fucked-out expression that you had on your face. 

Yeah - that was for his eyes only.

He sped up, grinning as he watched your breasts bounce, loving the way your little hands were clawing at his arms, trying to stabilise yourself beneath the weight of his thrusts. He was desperately chasing release, amused by the way you suddenly seemed to regain a bit of awareness, pleading with him to not cum inside, telling him that you hadn’t been on birth control since the two of you had broken up. 

He paid you no mind, shoving his thick fingers into your mouth and silencing your pleas as he came, driving his cock as deep inside you as it could go, pushing up against your cervix and letting his cum pour into you. You were whimpering softly as he filled you up, trying not to think too much about how much of his seed was inside you right now. 

Letting your legs fall from his shoulders, he removed his fingers from your mouth as he laid down on top of you, caging you beneath his massive body. You were silent now, trembling against him. He pressed a sloppy kiss to your lips before nuzzling his face against the side of your head, cooing and whispering against your ear about how you were his, how you were going to carry his children, how he was never going to let you go again - and that if you even so much as thought about leaving, he’d kill that pathetic little ‘boyfriend’ of yours. 

As you lay there beneath him, his cock still buried and twitching deep inside you, listening to him ramble on about what horrible acts he would commit if you ever left again, you knew that this time you’d do exactly what he asked. 

You were his after all.

a/n: I swear I'm working on chapter 3 of to distant lands but the sukuna brainworms took over and I needed to write this immediately.

© sukunahs

[sukubusss]

AFTERMATH OF A MATCH ★

content ꩜ smut! fem!reader. car sex. doggy style. squirting. use of 'brat' ﾉ 'dollface.' he's kinda mean but caring afterwards.

part of knocked out series . . ♡

the screams and cheers of the crowd fill the arena as the famous national boxer, ryomen sukuna, swaggers his way over to the ring, a smug look on his face. he steps in, chest puffed out and pounding on his chest proudly. the crowd hollers louder for him as he almost silently rallies on his fans.

his eyes scan the crowd, in search of one particular person. for a few moments, he's still looking around but then finally his gaze lands on who he's been searching for — you. his beautiful girlfriend. a softer visage draws over his face as he sees you cheering louder than anyone else. a warm, illustrious feeling blooms in him every time he sees you in the crowd. you have been his number one supporter since you met and he couldn't be more grateful.

and tonight he made a vow to win this for you.

he steps into the ring, eyeing his opponent dangerously and terrifyingly. his opponent shudders a bit, almost curling up as sukuna continues to glower at him. he looks over to you once more, shooting you a little wink before the bell dings to signal the start of the fight.

it truly wasn't so much of a fight, or at least it didn't feel like one. he'd thrown a few punches and swings, almost imperceptible to his opponent. in just a few moments, his opponent fell to the ground, face bloodied and you were sure sukuna had broken his nose. but what did it matter to you? the second the referee lifted his arm in the air to indicate his win, you were rushing towards the ring, pushing and shoving people aside.

he wastes no time in getting out, jumping down to the ground just as you approach his side. without a second thought, he pulls you in for a rather sweaty yet passionate kiss. all the adrenaline from his fight is still coursing through his body and you can feel it in the way he kisses you — hungry, desirous, fiery. the crowd's screams grow louder at your wistful display but the two of you pay no mind.

"liked what you saw out there?," he pants as he pulls away from you, resting his forehead atop yours. even though he's dripping with sweat, you don't care. your hands rake through his wet hair and you beam at him, "of course i did, baby! oh you know—", your voice goes low, "—you're so sexy when you're out there."

he lets out a sound that's like a purr as he pulls you in closer. "don't say things like that, doll. you're gonna get me all riled up."

you smile impishly, wiping away the little blood that stained his cheek. you lean in to him, lips near his ear as you whisper sensually, "that's what i want, baby."

sukuna has your face pressed down on to the car seat as he slams his hips from behind at a relentlessly ruthless pace that has you crying and clawing on the leather beneath you. his own nails dig into your sides, creating dark red crescents that were sure to be there for days. "you damn brat," he snarls, strokes languid and heavy as he stretches out your poor pussy. "teasing me like that in public huh? wanna get me — fuck — all horny for everyone to see do ya? fucking brat."

whimpers tear from your throat, eyes glossy with tears as he continues his harsh assault on you. his thick head is reaching all the way to your cervix, kissing it deliciously and making you scream out his name louder and louder with each thrust.

he laughs almost cruelly as his hips smash against your ass, the flesh rippling every time he slams into you. he bunches up your hair in his hands, pulling you up so he can growl in your ear, his breath hot against it, "yeah, scream louder for me dollface. let everyone know who's making you feel this fucking good."

"kuna! kuna! kuna!," you wail out, throat hoarse from how much you're crying out. the squelching sounds of your pussy around his fat cock has him rolling his eyes to the back of his head. you feel way too good — your warm and gummy walls are sucking him in, taking him so well as always.

"filthy damn thing you are," he groans, his arm coming to wrap around you from behind, fondling with your tits. he rubs your sensitive bud between his fingers and that has you moaning your little heart out — and by now, you're sure anybody who passes by would be able to hear you. but with how good he's fucking you, how can you care?

"'m gonna cum!," you whine, grabbing onto his strong arms that have your upper body hoisted up as he rams into your tight cunt from behind. he simply groans, his own dick throbbing inside you, his own climax building. the coil in your abdomen tightens and tightens until it snaps! and you're gushing all over him, spraying and dousing him with your arousal. your entire body trembles and if it weren't for his arms holding you up, you would have tumbled forward.

"fuckkkk," he drawls out, pumping you with his warm seed and tainting your velvety walls white. the way you're drenching his cock and the way your pussy is clenching around him as you come undone for him, it's all too much. he pulls his dick out, some of his cum dripping on to the seats beneath and he rubs his cock over your sensitive folds, letting your arousal splash all over. oh, it's the hottest thing he's ever seen and paired with your cute and salacious moans — it's just perfect.

he's holding you against his chest, rubbing his hands up and down your tummy so gently — such a stark contrast to how rough he was being a few mere seconds ago. he plants a soft kiss to your shoulder and whispers sweetly, "you're the best prize i could ever get. my sweet, little doll."

© dollychou ⋮ do not copy, repost, or translate any works.

[sukubusss]

part of knocked out series . . ♡

boxer!sukuna who used to be your average street thug, getting into pointless fights and onslaughts nearly everyday with bruises on every part of his body. he thought this would be his life forever but that changed when he was picked by his school's boxing team, the coach feeling like they needed a man like him — a savage. 

boxer!sukuna is now one of the top athletes in the nation, revered as a tough and ruthless man whenever he's in the ring. he gives his opponents no chance to fight back once he's going at it, making them bloodied and begging for mercy. 

boxer!sukuna has been deemed to have 'superhuman strength', able to knock out even those bigger than him — though that is a rarity. other players truly shudder when they find out they will be versing him. to date, he's never had a loss. 

boxer!sukuna is extremely disciplined, never missing out on his workouts and his diet is always in check. people tell him he can lay off but he refuses. despite his smug and arrogant attitude, he takes his sport very seriously and fears if he slacks off even once someone will claim his position. 

boxer!sukuna is a gruff and detached man, talking with authority and not one to engage in idle chatter. people describe him as intimidating, scary, aggressive. but he can't help it — brutality is really all he's known. 

boxer!sukuna who is still so in awe of you. that a sweetheart like yourself would be with someone like him. he happened to meet you through some mutual friends and the moment he laid eyes on you, he thought you were the prettiest and most delicate girl he'd ever seen. 

boxer!sukuna thought you'd be intimidated by him, just as everyone was when they first spoke to him. yet you never floundered nor ever backed away when he talked to you. 

boxer!sukuna found himself warming up to you and slowly letting down his walls in front of you. it was very difficult for him but you were so patient and kind that he found it easier and easier to do so as time went on.

boxer!sukuna soon opened up to you about his life on the streets. the fights he used to get into, the petty crime he did, and the few times he got arrested — and being honest, he thought you'd leave him the moment he shared this with you. yet instead, you coddled him and whispered, "you're not him anymore."

boxer!sukuna who, unconsciously, is so soft with you. he touches you like you're made of glass and that you'll break if he uses his full strength. he caresses you with a feather-like touch, calloused hands running over your smooth skin. 

boxer!sukuna speaks to you with a much more mellow tone, though it still has this edge to it. he has tried to get rid of it but it seems ingrained in him at this point. but he makes sure never to raise his voice with you, never wanting to hurt you. 

boxer!sukunawhose love language is physical touch. he loves to have his hands on you, squeezing your supple flesh — it's now a form of comfort to him. he'll always have his hand either on the small of your back or shamelessly on your ass. 

boxer!sukuna also shows his love through gift giving he's not good with his words so he tries to show his adoration for you by giving you meaningful gifts. he's got a buttload of money so he spoils you so much. whatever you want, he's getting it for you. and he's also made it a habit to get you flowers every week. 

boxer!sukuna is a man rough around the edges but he's so, so soft and tender with you. and it seems to comes so naturally to him that sometimes, he scares himself. but he's here to stay with you and protect you, come what may.

© dollychou ⋮ do not copy, repost, or translate any works.

[sukubusss]

how it feels to shave everything after months of growing a fur coat:

[sukubusss]

faking it

first transaction | chapter index

everyone has a price - even suguru geto

synopsis: with no friends and a wallet full of cash, you concoct one last idea to make your final semester one to remember. paying everyone's favorite pretty playboy to pretend to be your boyfriend to complete your college bucket list before you start the life your family is forcing you into. but you might be buying far more than you bargained for.

pairings: broke!Geto x rich!Reader x dropout!Sukuna

content: mdni, angst and fluff, college au, fake dating, pining, yearning, Geto is a bit of an asshole, reader is VERY awkward lol, emotional hurt, a smidge of second hand embarrassment

art by @aransmind !!

Suguru Geto could command a room with a simple wave, a small smirk, people stopping to stare and whisper practically every time he passed by.

You once overheard some girls joking in class that he was hot enough to melt ice with a single look. Okay, it wasn't that witty, but they weren't wrong either. Just a hint of his warmth, one corner of his lips curling up the tiniest bit higher than the other, and he'd thawed out your heart too.

There was only a single day it was ever directed at you. A handful of seconds.

You'd bumped into him in the hall, the notebook in your hands hitting the ground when you stumbled, and he stopped to help you gather your papers. His fingers grazed against yours for a split second, your eyes snapping nervously up to his face just to find that faint smirk. You stuttered out a sorry out of surprise but he chuckled and shrugged it off. One of his friends pulled him away before you could say anything else.

Two minutes and you were instantly and irrevocably crushing on someone who would never feel the same.

It was still probably the nicest interaction you had with any of your fellow college classmates since you transferred here.

The next time he saw you two months later?

He acted like you didn't exist.

That was just your normal though.

People only wanted to talk to you for two things. What was in your bag or your body.

Someone had started a rumor your second week there about your family being rich, that they had used their connections to get you a scholarship. That you were just some prissy princess who thought you was better than the rest of the school.

It didn't matter what was true. It only mattered what people thought the truth was.

Girls thought you were standoffish. Guys thought you were stuck-up. All your attempts to make friends had failed. Turned into a shitty joke every time you started to trust someone.

It'd been three fucking years. Graduation was only a few months away.

All you wanted was to make some memories that weren't bitter and brutal. To go to a party without feeling completely pitiful. To go on dates and get drunk.

But even you could admit this was probably definitely a terrible idea.

Geto only glanced up at you with bored eyes when you sat across from him in the library. His bag was tossed on the empty seat beside him, no one else around in the tucked-away corner. He didn't even say anything, only briefly arching a brow before looking back down at his book.

"Uh, hi," You whispered, fiddling with the hem of your skirt and barely managing to meet his eyes.

"Hey," He muttered, not looking up.

"I'm-"

"I know who you are," He sighed, turning the page. He already seemed annoyed, but it wasn't like you'd ever done anything other than exist in his proximity before.

"Oh," You breathed, biting down on your lip.

God, this was fucking awkward.

"Do you need something?" He asked, finally glancing up when he realized you weren't getting up and going away.

"This is going to sound weird. But could you, um, pretend to be my boyfriend?" You asked, chewing on your cheek as you spat out your embarrassing plea. What did it matter if he went and told everyone else? You were already a laughingstock. "I'll pay you."

He chuckled at you, dark and mocking. His eyes narrowed into a glare, searing through your fragile feelings.

It was hard to act like it didn't hurt.

"What? You wanna buy me too?" He scoffed.

"It's not like that," You protested, nails digging into your palm under the table as you pouted. "It's just, I meant-"

"Maybe we don't all have as much money as you, but some of us have morals," Geto murmured, obviously offended.

You couldn't exactly defend yourself when technically, you were kind of asking him to be an escort.

"Just hear me out, okay?" You asked, voice small, shrinking back into yourself.

"You think I'd stoop so low just from some cash?" He grunted, about to turn away before you caught the edge of his sleeve.

"Five hundred a date. Extra if you walk me to my classes," You fumbled to get the offer out.

"What?"

"Please," You breathed.

You just wanted a fucking friend.

Everyone already liked him. Why was it so hard go get someone to like you?

"I'm not asking for you to kiss me or anything like that," You muttered. "Just hold my hand in the hall and take me to a party or two."

He didn't reply.

Just stared at you like you were speaking another language. His face frozen in what you hoped was confusion instead of condemnation.

You pulled out a sticky note from your purse, grabbing a glitter pen and scrawling your number on it before sticking it on the table in front of him, terrified if you just held it out, he wouldn't take it. You'd rather get hit by a bus than be the first girl whose number he rejected.

"Call me if you're interested."

Geto wasn't interested.

Seriously.

Who the fuck asks a stranger something like that?

What? Did you pity him? Think he was so pathetic he'd go around worshipping the ground you walked on just for a paycheck? Humiliate himself to make you look good?

"Latest hookup? Or future one?" Gojo laughed, picking up the pink sticky note stuck to his nightstand and squinting at your sloppy scribble. Geto figured for someone who seemed to stick your nose up at everything, you'd at least have neater handwriting.

"Neither," Geto scoffed, taking it back from him.

But for some reason, he didn't toss it. He balled it up in his palm, the sticky side itching his skin, but he just dropped it back on the scratched wood veneer.

"Sure," Gojo drawled, smirking like he thought Geto was being humble or avoiding bragging about the newest girl in his bed.

He'd never hear the fucking end of it if Gojo knew you basically propositioned him to be your personal boytoy.

Geto wasn't the kind of guy to take stock in rumors. Not one to listen to bullshit or play a game of telephone until the truth was twisted into fiction.

But you were always alone, sitting by yourself in class or walking with your head held high, heels clicking against the floor that cost more than his part-time job made in months. Refusing to look down at everyone below you, dressed like you were going to a soiree and yet never attending a single fucking party he'd ever been to.

Drinking out of red solo cups and taking shots was probably just another thing you were too good for.

Gojo might be rich too, but he'd still play beer pong and eat two-day old microwaved leftovers with a plastic fork.

"Have you bought your plane ticket yet?" Gojo casually asked, rummaging through the rest of his nightstand, picking at books and loose papers.

"Not yet," Geto shrugged, swallowing the uncomfortable anxiety scratching at his skin.

He couldn't afford them, actually.

Gojo would pay if he knew, but his pride kept preventing him from asking. Even if he worked doubles at his part-time job, or picked up a second one, he still couldn't cover the tickets and expenses for the trip Gojo wanted to take with all their friends to celebrate graduation.

He still needed to save up enough for a deposit and rent for a new apartment since he'd be kicked from student housing soon. And probably at least a mattress so he wouldn't be sleeping on the floor. You know, some food so he wouldn't starve would also be nice.

And who knew how long it'd take him to find an actually decent job after college? His professors had recommended him to a few companies, but it wasn't like Gojo who'd pretty much automatically start working at his family's company the second he got his degree.

"I'm buying mine today, want me to just get yours too and you can pay me back later?" Gojo offered, pulling out an old Polaroid of them drunk at some frat part and chuckling before shoving it back in with the rest of the stuff.

"Nah," Geto grimaced. "It's fine."

"Are you su-"

"Yeah, yeah, I've got it," He grumbled, glancing back at that stupid sticky note.

Fuck.

He shouldn't.

Really, if he had any fucking self-worth, he'd just text you to go fuck yourself before blocking your number.

But he did have bills to pay. Places he wanted to go. People he'd actually like to take on dates. If you meant what you said, a few outings would easily cover his expenses.

All he'd have to do was suck it up and put on a satisfying performance for you for his problems to be solved.

He'd just have to swallow his fucking pride and hit send.

Still, it was ten times harder to say as much to your face and have you slide him an envelope across the table.

"I know people don't really like me that much," You freely admitted, carefully brushing back a styled strand of hair and looking up at him with surprisingly anxious eyes. You spoke softer than he imagined, more airy. Like it'd soften the blow to his ego. "So thank you for doing this."

"Yeah," Geto grunted, glancing around the small cafe you picked out, his pastry untouched in front of him despite how tantalizing and tasty it actually looked. You had ordered it for him before he even arrived.

"I, um, made this," You swallowed hard, biting your lip raw as you slid a neatly organized and numbered list over.

He skimmed over it, scrutinizing and struggling to read your handwriting. A handful of date ideas, all places his friends frequented. Parties. Requests. Payment listed next to each.

An itemized receipt perhaps.

Things he'd have to do for you.

"If you there's something you don't-"

"It's fine," Geto insisted, sliding it back to you.

It was honestly even more money than he thought it'd be. If he was going to sell out, at least he'd be well paid for it.

"O-okay," You stammered.

If he didn't know what he knew, he might think you were cute. Shy even.

"Let's get one thing straight though," Geto grimaced. You sat up straighter in your seat, manicured nails tapping the table. "I don't like you either."

"Your total is $8.42."

You nodded, hair falling in your face when you tried to rummage through your purse for your wallet. All you were trying to buy was a couple of energy drinks, something to help you stay up to study and finish the last of your assignments. Throwing on some sweatpants and a hoodie, hiding yourself in something loose and dull so you wouldn't run the risk of acknowledging someone you knew before heading to the closest convenience store. It wasn't like you'd ever even seen anyone from your school there, but the universe had a knack for playing cruel pranks on you.

Lip gloss, mascara, napkins, tampons, a few loose cents clinked around as you shoved stuff aside trying to find it. A few receipts crumpled that you really should've thrown away weeks ago. But no wallet.

Shit. Had you left it back at your apartment?

You had it at breakfast. You'd given Geto all the cash you had then.

But you'd been upset by the time you went home and kicked your heels off, tossing your bag on your coffee table and crying for a few minutes before trying to make yourself feel better with some online shopping.

Was it still there?

"I'm sorry, I think I left my wallet at home," You murmured, face heating up and flustered. The guy in line behind you scoffed, probably irritated that he had to wait for nothing. "I'll put these back."

Someone tossed a wrinkled ten dollar bill on the counter with a huff.

"I've got it," A guy grunted.

You glanced over your shoulder, blinking back surprise. "You really don't have-"

"I said I've got it," He grumbled, scowling at you.

You were even more stunned to realize you recognized him. And then excruciatingly embarrassed.

He was paying you back.

You'd run into him here a few months ago. Except, uh, he was soaking wet from the rain and scraping together change to buy one of those gross pre-made sandwiches that just looked like it'd give you food poisoning.

Honestly?

You sorta thought he was homeless for a few seconds.

Long enough that you just dropped some extra cash on the counter and told him you'd pay before he scoffed at you he had more than enough to cover it. You pretty quickly realized he wasn't homeless. He was heavily tatted, actually handsome in the rough sort of way, all sharp and blunt, hard features and harsh edges under his hoodie and dark jeans. But it still ended up in an argument where the cashier just took your money so he didn't have to count his change and get both of you out of the store.

"I don't like owing people," You murmured, but he moved his body so you couldn't squeeze past him, brute forcing his way into taking over the transaction.

"Me neither."

He thrusted one of the energy drinks into your hand, stealing the other one for himself. Or, you guessed, it wasn't actually stealing when he paid for it. Still holding the receipt and another one of those awful sandwiches you supposed hadn't killed him yet against his broad chest.

"You know, you're gonna like, get a tapeworm or something from that," You commented, pointing at what was probably three-day old deli meat.

"Yeah? You volunteering to make me one?" He wryly commented, cocking his head to your side.

"I'm just saying," You rolled your eyes.

He studied your face for a second, frowning at you as if it was personally offensive.

You were having terrible luck with guys today.

"Do you need a job or something?" He asked, one pierced brow arched as he looked over your baggy clothes and messy purse, half-used makeup containers and receipts stuffed inside it.

"What?" You scrunched your nose up, squinting at him. Okay, maybe you looked rough today, but still. No one had ever asked you that. "Making you sandwiches?"

That was the future your parents had planned. Arranging a marriage with the son of some other rich asshole where your degree would collect dust and you'd be stuck making sandwiches and babies for a man who'd never appreciate it.

"My receptionist quit today," He grunted. "Need a new one."

"Why are you asking me?" You heard yourself ask, brain not fully functioning without the much-needed caffeine.

"I feel like it," He shrugged.

You blinked at him, the cold from your drink starting to make your hand go numb when he dug out a business card from his pocket. He put it in your pocket, the warmth from his hand lingering through your fabric even after he pulled it back out.

He left before you could give him an answer.

You ended up staring at the embossed lettering in the driver's seat of your car under the dim yellow streetlights. It was for a tattoo shop, the kind of place your family would kill you for stepping foot in. His number was listed along with a list of services he offered, along with his social media. Not that you had any of your own. Then there was his name. Stamped in bold and bright red.

Ryomen Sukuna.

[sukubusss]

sukuna owning a hostile cat. hostile to the point that any person who tries to get close to the feline ends up with horrendous bites, or at the very least, scratch marks.

one day, the cat goes missing for a good five hours, and when he slinks back into the house, sukuna's quite surprised to see him all soft and pliant and sporting a bright red lipstick mark on his furry forehead.

[sukubusss]

we were just one breath too late. . .

feat. gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

sum. what’s the worst thing someone could say to you before you die? “i don’t want to see you again. . .” is that worse enough? will they feel guilty? sorry? or relief? maybe your boyfriend can answer that. . . maybe not.

wn. non-sorcerer au, angst no comfort, themes of death, fatal accidents, emotional and verbal arguments, intense grief, survivor’s guilt, and heavy angst. it includes depictions of emotional trauma, blood, physical injury, and reunion in the afterlife. there are also mentions of alcohol use, self-blame, and spiritual imagery. reader discretion is advised.

GOJO SATORU

it started like every other argument.

small.

stupid.

avoidable.

but tonight, something inside both of you snapped.

you stood under a streetlight, the flickering bulb overhead casting harsh shadows on gojo’s sharp features. the city buzzed around you — car horns, footsteps, laughter in the distance — but between you two, it was silent. thick. suffocating.

“you forgot again,” you said quietly, arms folded across your chest. “my presentation. i told you about it three times. you promised you'd come.” gojo tilted his head back with a heavy sigh. he looked tired. not just physically — but in the bones, in the heart. “i got caught up at work,” he muttered, avoiding your eyes. “it was one meeting after another—”

“you always get caught up!” your voice cracked. “it’s always ‘meetings’ or ‘clients’ or some emergency that somehow always matters more than me.”

he flinched. “that’s not fair.”

“no, what’s not fair is being in love with someone who’s never here!” you shouted, tears brimming at your lashes. “i come home to an empty apartment. i fall asleep alone. i eat dinner alone. i show up to events alone. i’m starting to forget what it feels like to be in a relationship, satoru.”

he looked at you like you had physically struck him. his mouth opened, then closed. then he laughed — not out of amusement, but disbelief. “you think i don’t feel like shit about it?” he said bitterly. “you think i like missing everything? i’m doing this for us, dammit! so we have a future—”

“a future doesn’t matter if there’s nothing left of us to share it with!” you screamed.

silence.

your chest heaved as your words hung in the air between you like shattered glass. “god,” gojo muttered, running a hand through his hair. “i don’t even know who i’m talking to anymore.”

you took a step back. “what the hell does that mean?”

he looked at you with eyes that had stopped shining. “you’re not the same. you’re not the girl i fell in love with.”

you went still.

your mouth parted, breath catching in your throat. “and you’re not the man i thought you were.”

he exhaled, long and low, like he’d been holding it for years. then he turned — really turned — like he was walking out of your life. “maybe we shouldn’t do this anymore,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “maybe it’s better if we just stop pretending.”

then —

“i don’t want to see you again.”

you stood frozen, heart cracking open like a dam, pain gushing out too fast to stop. “don’t say that,” you begged. “satoru, don’t walk away. please—”

but he did.

without looking back.

and you, like an idiot, chased him. just one more step. one more call. one more plea to make him stop.

you never made it past the street.

the screech of tires.

a horn.

then nothing.

just blood. just broken bones. just cold

when gojo got the call, he laughed. he thought it was a sick joke. he even yelled at the nurse for wasting his time. then they said your name again, and it broke something in him. he drove faster than he ever had, broke every law just to get to the hospital. burst through the ER doors. his eyes scanned for you, desperate, deranged, refusing to believe—

“sir,” the nurse said gently, “she didn’t make it.”

his heart stopped.

he stumbled into the room where they kept your body, untouched, still, and when he pulled back the sheet—

he collapsed.

“no,” he whispered, gripping your cold hand. “no, no, no, no, no. this isn’t— this isn’t how it ends. wake up. baby, please—” he shook. sobbed. screamed into your chest like it would bring you back.

but you never breathed again.

six months later

he didn’t touch his apartment. not even your toothbrush. your shoes still sat by the door. your coffee mug still rested on the windowsill. your scent — faint but present — still haunted the sheets. he refused to let anyone clean anything.

he quit his job.

what was the point?

he started walking at night. hours and hours, mind blank, waiting for exhaustion to swallow him whole. he talked to you. out loud. sometimes on street corners. sometimes at the cemetery, where your grave sat covered in your favorite flowers. sometimes on the balcony, where you used to watch sunsets.

he stopped laughing.

stopped smiling.

stopped seeing color.

“i didn’t mean it,” he’d whisper to the wind, voice breaking. “i didn’t mean any of it. you were everything. i was just scared.”

he stopped answering friends.

he deleted your number, but memorized it anyway.

he called it sometimes, just to hear your voicemail.

“hey, it’s me,” he’d say to the beep, voice trembling. “i saw that commercial you liked. you would’ve laughed so hard. i— i miss you. i’m sorry. i’ll always be sorry.”

he kept a picture of you in his wallet.

folded, creased, worn from fingers that touched it every night. some days he’d imagine what life would’ve been if he just turned around that night. if he hadn’t said those words. if he had listened. if he had held you. if he had said sorry.

you haunted him.

not the ghost kind.

the kind that lingered in quiet moments.

in the smell of your shampoo.

in the old voice memos.

in the way his heart still reached for you, even now.

he never dated again. never loved again. never even tried. because you were the only person he ever wanted to see. and he’d told you he didn’t want to. and fate, cruel and exact, listened.

GETO SUGURU

the air was heavy with the smell of early rain and city smoke, the kind of evening that felt unfinished — like something was waiting to be said. you stood under the gray sky with your arms crossed tight to your chest, and suguru stood across from you with that tired, worn expression, like he was already bracing for the worst.

“you forgot again,” you murmured, barely louder than the hush of cars passing behind you. he blinked, slow and distant, like he hadn’t quite heard. “forgot what?” you looked away, jaw tight. “my art show. it was today. i waited for you.”

there was a pause — long enough to bruise.

“shit,” he whispered, more to himself than to you, “i thought that was next week.”

you laughed. hollow. sharp. “you always think it’s next week.”

he looked at you then, really looked — and for a moment, he looked ashamed. but the wall went back up too quickly. it always did with him. he was too good at protecting what hurt. “i’ve been swamped with work,” he said, like it explained everything. “you know that.”

you turned to face him fully, eyes glinting beneath the streetlight, damp lashes trembling. “you’re always working, suguru. always somewhere else. i feel like i’m dating your shadow.”

he exhaled hard, ran a hand through his dark hair, gaze falling to the pavement. “i’m doing my best. this job— it’s not easy.”

“neither is loving someone who’s never really here.”

those words hit something. you saw it flicker in his expression — that small crack in the foundation. he looked up slowly, his voice a little sharper now. “so what, you’re blaming me for trying to build something stable? for trying to give us a future?”

“what future?” you asked. “one where i’m always waiting and you’re never coming home?”

“don’t twist it.”

“i’m not twisting anything. i’m lonely, suguru. i miss you even when you’re in the room.”

he went still.

then he laughed — bitter, tired, wrong.

“maybe we’ve outgrown each other,” he said softly. you stared at him, stunned silent. his next words were a whisper, like he hated them as they left his mouth. “maybe we’re better apart.”

you took a step forward, your voice trembling like wind-blown glass. “you don’t mean that.” he met your eyes. and this time, there was no anger. only something worse — resignation.

“i think i do.”

you swallowed hard, breath catching. “say it, then. if you want this to end, say it.”

and so he did.

“i don’t want to see you again.”

your heart cracked like the world had tilted.

and just like that —

he turned his back to you.

and walked away.

and you, still so foolish in love, stepped forward. just one step. just one more call of his name— you never made it across. the screech of tires split the quiet. a scream. a sharp thud. and then only silence.

he didn’t cry right away. not at the hospital. not at the funeral. not even when he kissed your forehead for the last time and felt the coldness seep into his bones. but he cried three days later, standing in the kitchen with two mugs in his hands — one yours. instinct, maybe. or hope. but your lips would never touch that cup again, and he crumbled right there, on the floor, hands shaking.

the grief did not come all at once. it came in waves.

in the quiet.

in the morning light that poured through your empty side of the bed. in the sound of your laugh from a video he couldn’t bring himself to delete.

he lived like a ghost of himself.

quiet. strange. slower.

he started talking to you like you were still around. “morning,” he’d whisper to the air, brushing his fingers over your pillow. “i saw someone today who looked like you.”

“i keep thinking i’ll see you walking home with that lopsided tote bag.”

he kept your lipstick on the windowsill.

your earrings in a dish by the sink.

your jacket still hanging by the door.

people told him he needed to let go. he never listened. he went to work. did his job. smiled when needed. but something in him had been buried with you. he stopped writing music.

stopped painting.

stopped dreaming.

and every year on the day he lost you, he would sit on the sidewalk where it happened. a small bouquet. your name whispered like a prayer. eyes searching the sky, as if you might still be in the clouds, watching.

“i didn’t mean it,” he says to the wind, year after year. “those words. that moment. if i could trade places with you, i would.” his heart, once full of poems and possibility, now only echoes with what-ifs and empty promises.

and true to his word—

he never saw you again.

not in dreams.

not in visions.

not even in passing strangers.

because sometimes, the cruelest part of love is that we don’t get to choose our last words. we only live with the ones we never got to take back.

NANAMI KENTO

you stood outside the station, the rain coming down like broken glass, your bag slung over your shoulder, and your heart barely stitched together. nanami stood in front of you, tall and tired, the collar of his coat soaked at the edges, eyes dim with something he refused to let show.

“you didn’t call,” you said quietly, voice catching in your throat. “you promised you would.”

he looked at you, unblinking. “i was working.”

“you’re always working, kento.”

“i have to.”

“no, you choose to.” you hugged yourself tighter, knuckles pale. “you choose your job. your schedule. your clients. you don’t choose me.” his jaw twitched, and he looked away for a moment. “you know it’s not that simple.”

you took a step closer, rain seeping into your shoes. “then explain it to me. help me understand why loving me always comes second.” he sighed, deep and worn. “i’m not young like you. i don’t get to drop everything for romance. i have responsibilities. deadlines. expectations.”

“and what am i, nanami?” you asked, voice breaking. “a weekend hobby? a luxury you squeeze into your planner when there’s nothing left to do?”

his silence hurt more than any answer.

you swallowed the lump in your throat, your hands trembling. “i waited for you at that little italian place. sat there like an idiot with a candle burning out.” he closed his eyes, rain dripping from his lashes. “i didn’t forget. i couldn’t leave the meeting. it was important.”

“more important than me?”

he didn’t answer.

and god, that was the answer.

“say it, kento. if you’re done, say it. if i’ve become another chore, say it and let me go.” he opened his mouth, hesitated—then, with a voice that cracked the world in two, “i don’t want to see you again.”

you flinched like he’d struck you.

he looked away. “you deserve someone with more time,” he added, quieter now. “someone who doesn’t disappoint you.” you shook your head slowly, eyes stinging. “but i don’t want someone else. i want you. even on your worst days. even when you’re tired. even when you forget.”

he turned his back.

and he walked away.

just like that. no final touch. no glance over the shoulder. and that’s when it happened.

you stepped off the curb too fast, still staring at the place where he used to be.

a shout.

a horn.

a metallic crash.

and the world blinked to white. they say it was instant. no pain. no time to speak. just silence and rain.

nanami got the call the next morning. his hands trembled, the receiver pressed too tightly to his ear. his coffee had gone cold on the table. he didn’t finish getting dressed that day.

at your funeral, he stood like stone. still. quiet. his eyes rimmed red, though no tears fell. he wasn’t the kind of man who cried where people could see. but he broke in the quiet. after that, everything dulled.

he went to work.

he ate his meals.

he paid his bills.

but he never bought another book. never returned to the coffee shop where you used to sit across from him, reading aloud the funny lines. never smiled without guilt biting at the edges. your number stayed in his phone. your toothbrush remained untouched. your side of the bed—cold. he would talk to you sometimes. in the mornings. in the silence. softly, like you might answer.

“you’d scold me for how much takeout i’m eating.”

“you always hated this tie.”

“i should’ve told you to wait. should’ve told you i didn’t mean it.”

his apartment became a museum of you. photos. receipts. your scarf on the coat hook. he couldn’t let go, because letting go meant accepting the truth. that his last words to you were a mistake. that he’d chosen work over love, and the cost was never seeing you smile again. he read the letter you left on the fridge a hundred times. “don’t forget about dinner tonight, love you.”

and he whispered to the quiet, every night before sleep—

“i’ll never forgive myself.”

because he didn’t just lose you. he buried the part of himself that believed love was enough. and true to his words, he never saw you again. not in dreams. not in crowds. not even in memory the way he wanted to.

only in the echo of your name, spoken too late, to the dark.

TOJI FUSHIGURO

the city never really slept, not this side of it anyway.

it was almost midnight when you finally caught up to him — the sharp sound of your boots echoing through the back alley behind the bar, neon lights flickering against the wet pavement. his motorcycle stood parked just beyond the fence, engine still warm, helmet hooked on the handlebar like he hadn’t decided whether to leave or not.

he turned when he heard you, cigarette hanging from his lips, jaw clenched like he’d been waiting for this — or maybe dreading it.

“you said you’d stop disappearing like this,” you said, voice steady despite the storm in your chest. toji exhaled slow, smoke curling upward. “figured you’d be asleep by now.”

“you said you’d be back by dinner.”

“yeah, well. i didn’t wanna argue.”

“so you just don’t come home at all?”

you stepped closer, arms wrapped around yourself like armor. the scent of gasoline and cold air clung to him. his eyes, always sharp, softened for half a second before hardening again.

“you know how i am, baby.”

“no,” you said quietly. “i don’t. because you never let me in. you disappear, you fight, you come back like nothing happened, and i’m supposed to just… smile? play house?” he shifted his weight, grinding the cigarette under his heel. “you knew what you were getting into with me.”

“i thought i did,” you whispered. “but i didn’t know it’d hurt this much.”

toji looked away, jaw ticking. “you deserve better.”

“don’t say that.”

“it’s true.”

“then be better, toji!”

the words echoed into the night, your voice trembling with all the weight you couldn’t carry anymore. “i can’t,” he said, and it was the quietest you’d ever heard him. “i don’t got that in me.”

“you do. you just won’t let yourself have anything good. you think you ruin everything, so you leave before it happens.”

“maybe,” he said, shrugging like it didn’t crack your chest in half. “but if i stay, you’ll hate me anyway.”

“i’ll hate you if you leave,” you said.

“because you keep choosing the easy way out. and i’m always the one left bleeding.” he moved toward the bike then, reaching for the helmet, eyes not meeting yours. “i don’t want to see you again,” he said.

you froze.

“…what?”

“i said i don’t want to see you again,” he repeated, harsher now, like it was the only way he knew how to kill something softly. “it’s better for both of us.” you stood still, eyes stinging. “you don’t mean that.”

“yeah,” he said, slinging a leg over the seat, engine purring to life. “i do.”

he didn’t look back when he pulled away.

he didn’t see you run after him. he didn’t hear your voice break behind him. he just turned the corner, disappearing like smoke.

and that’s when it happened.

your breath hitched as the headlights blinded you — a car, fast, too fast —

tires screeched. a sickening thud. then silence. like the whole city held its breath. your body lay still on the pavement, your phone still clutched in your palm.

he found out an hour later.

sirens. flashing lights. a phone call from a stranger who found your emergency contact. he dropped the helmet. sprinted through red lights. blood on the concrete. your name already fading into past tense. he wasn’t allowed to see you at the hospital. not until you were already gone.

his hands shook. he hadn’t cried in years, but that night, he did — loud and ugly in the hallway, fist through drywall, the taste of iron in his mouth. he’d told you he didn’t want to see you again. and now he never would.

toji never went back to that alley again.

he avoided the bar. he stopped sleeping in the bed you once shared. your picture stayed folded in his wallet, worn at the edges from the way his thumb kept brushing it. he still kept your old hoodie — the one with the faded print on the front and your perfume in the sleeves. on some nights, he wore it to sleep.

he started carrying a helmet for two. never used it. just kept it. sometimes he talked to the empty seat behind him on long rides.

“you’d laugh at me if you saw me now.”

“i should’ve stayed.”

“i didn’t mean it. fuck, i didn’t mean it.”

toji fushiguro, who never begged, now whispered your name like a prayer. but prayers don’t bring people back. not even the ones we love most. and just like his words, he never saw you again. and it ruined him forever.

RYOMEN SUKUNA

you stand just off the gravel path, arms crossed tight around yourself, breath visible in the cold air. the red and gold leaves have long since fallen. the trees are bare now. and so is the truth.

sukuna leans against his black car, cigarette half-lit in his fingers, eyes on the fading sky. the sunset paints him in fire — but none of it reaches his chest. “you lied,” you say softly. no venom. just a hollow ache. a hurt that’s been carved into your ribs like a name on stone.

“i didn’t,” he says flatly.

you blink. once. twice. “you said you’d stay. that we were… building something. something real.” he exhales smoke and looks away. “things change.”

“no,” you shake your head, taking a step forward. “you changed. you started pulling away. you stopped coming home before midnight. you stopped talking to me unless i begged. is that what you wanted? for me to chase you like some pathetic girl hoping for scraps?”

“stop,” he mutters.

“i’m not going to stop,” you snap, voice finally cracking under the pressure of holding it all in. “you say you’re tired of me? well, i’m tired of feeling like a ghost in my own relationship!”

his jaw clenches, the fire in his eyes flickering like the fuse on a bomb.

“i never asked you to stay,” he says.

“you didn’t have to,” you breathe. “i wanted to. i chose to. and you— you took every piece of me and turned it into something disposable.”

silence. just the wind brushing against the trees. and the slow, cold collapse of everything you thought you could survive.

“look,” sukuna finally mutters, pushing off the car, voice low and lethal, “i don’t want to keep doing this. if this is what we’ve become, if this is what you’ve become — someone who wants to scream and cry and throw shit every time something gets hard — then maybe we shouldn’t keep pretending this is love.”

your throat tightens. “so you’re giving up.”

he doesn’t answer.

“say it,” you whisper. “don’t walk away this time, don’t leave without saying it.” he looks at you, then. really looks. and for a second — just a second — you see it. the ruin in his chest. the heartbreak he’ll never name. because if he does, he’ll fall apart.

“…i don’t want to see you again,” he says.

it’s almost gentle.

you step back, your world crumbling under your feet. “if you leave now,” you warn, voice trembling, “this is it. i won’t chase after you. i won’t call.” he lights another cigarette with a flick of his thumb, eyes hollow.

“good.”

then he turns. gets in the car. engine starts.

he doesn’t look back.

not even once.

you stand there long after the sound of tires fades. you wipe your tears before they freeze to your skin. you step forward, legs shaking, heart pounding like it’s screaming not to go—

you never see the other car. bright headlights. no time. a shattering crunch of metal. then quiet.

then nothing.

he finds out in the morning.

he hadn’t slept. he never does when he fights with you. not really. but he hadn’t turned around. not until someone called. not until the world stood still. they told him you died instantly. that there was a ring box in your coat pocket. he hadn’t seen it before.

now he wishes he had.

after you, sukuna doesn’t date. doesn’t smile. doesn’t laugh the way he used to. his apartment is cold. silent. like a museum for a life that never got to finish.

he buys your favorite tea. never drinks it. he leaves your contacts in his phone. never deletes them. on your birthday, he drives to the road where you died. sits on the edge of the cliff with a cigarette and stares down at the curve of the road below. he keeps asking the wind, “why the fuck didn’t i stay?”

he dreams of your voice. he dreams of the way you laughed with your whole body. he dreams of how you’d lean into his chest at night like he was safe. like he was someone worth loving.

and every morning he wakes up, it hits him all over again. he said he didn’t want to see you again. and now he never will. and for someone who never believed in punishment, he lives every day like it’s hell.

SHIU KONG

he’s never one for public scenes. not shiu kong. always measured, always cold with his kindness — like a man who keeps even his warmth under lock and key. but tonight is different.

you’re standing outside a high-rise bar in roppongi. past midnight. your heels ache. your throat’s raw. the city’s pulsing behind you — full of strangers who’ll never know the ache of your name in his mouth.

the rain’s just started, soft and unhurried, like the sky can feel the ending too. “you don’t even look at me anymore,” you say, voice trembling as you hold your coat tighter. “it’s like i don’t even exist unless i’m behind your door or in your bed.”

shiu sighs. slow. practiced. his hands stay in his pockets like he’s afraid of what he’ll do if they don’t. “you know how i work,” he says, eyes flicking to the ground. “you knew from the beginning. this job, this life— it was never going to be simple.”

“i never wanted simple,” you spit, stepping closer. “i just wanted you.”

he doesn’t flinch. just exhales, tired.

“you’re young,” he says quietly. “you still think love means burning the house down just to feel the heat.” your jaw clenches. “and you? you think love is pretending it doesn’t hurt to watch the person you care about beg for scraps?” his silence is louder than traffic.

you laugh bitterly, blinking against the rain. “i loved you, shiu. i loved you. and you— you loved your job. your image. your goddamn quiet.” he looks up finally. and for a moment, something falters in those sharp, tired eyes.

“don’t do this,” he says lowly. “not here.” you shake your head. “why? because people might see you crack? because the big, composed man might fall apart over some girl who loved him too hard?”

he swallows. hard. “you don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“no,” you whisper, voice breaking. “you just don’t understand what you’re losing.” he says nothing. just stands there, like he’s frozen in place, like he knows that if he moves — even slightly — he’ll say something he can’t take back.

but he doesn’t move. he never does.

and maybe that’s the problem. you take a step back, shaking. the ache in your chest doesn’t feel like heartbreak anymore — it feels like finality. “say something,” you plead, voice barely there. “say anything.”

he hesitates.

“…i don’t want to see you again.”

he says it with no venom. no hate. just that quiet, cold steel he always wears. and he turns. just like that. into the streetlight, into the mist, into the part of your life that will never come back. you watch him walk away. you don’t follow. you cross the street blindly, barely seeing the headlights, barely hearing the tires screech—

a sudden flash.

a dull crack.

and then, stillness.

you don’t even feel it when your body hits the pavement.

shiu doesn’t sleep that night.

he pours himself a drink in his high-rise apartment, watching the lights of tokyo bleed into the windows. he thinks about calling. about saying sorry. but he’s not the kind of man who apologizes for being exactly what he warned you he was.

the call comes at 4:16 a.m.

the voice on the line is grim. he doesn’t speak for a long while after they hang up. he just stares at the window, at the half-empty glass in his hand, at the last message you sent hours before — still unread.

“just let me in.”

he keeps reading it.

again.

again.

until his eyes blur.

he doesn’t go to the funeral.

he sends flowers — white lilies, with no name on the card. but he keeps your photo on his desk. he keeps the voice message you once sent when you were drunk and laughing and calling him “your grumpy old man” like it was the sweetest thing in the world.

he never deletes it.

sometimes, when the nights are too quiet, he plays it just to hear you laugh. and every time he closes his eyes, he remembers your voice in the rain. you loved him like it was a promise. he left you like it was a habit. and now the rain never quite feels the same. because he said he didn’t want to see you again.

and he got his wish.

HIGURUMA HIROMI

the argument starts in his office. glass walls. cold lighting. your reflection shaking in every polished surface. you came to bring him lunch. again. like always. you always come. and he always forgets to eat. and that’s how this began — with your love, simple and ordinary, clashing against the weight of his silence.

“you’re not even listening to me,” you say, placing the paper bag down harder than you mean to.

hiromi barely looks up from his desk. “i am.”

“no,” you whisper, “you’re hearing. not listening.”he sighs, finally leaning back in his chair, dark circles under his eyes like bruises. “what do you want me to say?”

you shake your head, stepping away from the desk. “something. anything. do you know how hard it is to be in love with someone who’s always somewhere else? always buried in cases, in guilt, in the past?”

his jaw clenches. “this job isn’t something i can just leave at the door.”

“and i’m not someone you should treat like a ghost,” you snap, eyes glassy. “i’ve been here. showing up. loving you through your silence. and you… you just disappear into it.” he rises slowly, suit perfect, eyes unreadable. “i never asked you to stay.” and the room drops into coldness. so sudden. so final.

“what?” your voice cracks.

“i didn’t ask you to stay,” he repeats, slower this time, quieter. “you chose this. and now you want to make me feel guilty for not being the man you built in your head.”

“no,” you whisper, breathless. “i wanted you. all of you. not a fantasy. not a perfect man. just you. and you can’t even give me that.”

he doesn’t answer. you wait. nothing.

so you laugh, soft and broken, backing away toward the door. “i hope your court never stops needing you, hiromi,” you say bitterly, “because i’m done waiting for a verdict that’s never coming.” you leave before the tears fall. you leave before he can see the way your hands shake. and he lets you. he watches the door shut and tells himself he’s doing the right thing.

he always tells himself that.

the accident happens two hours later. just outside the train station. wrong place. wrong time. someone running a red light. a body thrown too far. a phone crushed in your hand with your last unsent message:

“can we talk?”

when hiromi gets the call, he’s reviewing a case file. he thinks it’s a mistake. thinks it’s a sick joke. he keeps reading the sentence on the paper in front of him five times before realizing he hasn’t understood a word.

he doesn’t cry.

not that day.

not the day after.

he doesn’t attend your funeral either — says it’s to avoid attention. but the truth is simpler: he can’t face what he did. he can’t look at the hole he left in your life and pretend it’s just grief. it’s guilt. and it eats him from the inside.

weeks pass.

he stops shaving. stops replying to his colleagues. stops arguing in court the way he used to.

they say he’s changed. that something cracked in him. he doesn’t correct them. every night, he comes home to silence. he pours two glasses of wine out of habit, but always drinks alone. your toothbrush is still in the bathroom. your jacket still on the hook.

he never moves them.

he reads your old texts like scripture. listens to a voicemail you left one rainy evening, laughing about some café you wanted to take him to. he never got to go. he never said yes.

and every time he sees the empty space beside him in bed, he thinks:

“i said i didn’t ask her to stay.”

but god, he wishes he had. he wishes he had told you — that he loved you. that he was scared. that you made the world bearable.

but he didn’t.

and now, the only verdict left is this; you never saw him again.

just like he said.

[sukubusss]

🍆🍆 + 🥛= patre0N

[sukubusss]

ＷＡＹ ＯＵＴ ＴＨＥＲＥ 𖠰 ⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

series masterlist

✦ ── pairing: lumberjack!sukuna x citygirl!reader

✦ ── synopsis: taking a hike, alone, in a massive forest to escape your mundane life may not have been the greatest idea you'd conjured up—a realization you'c come to soon after you managed to lose your map miles inland. but when a lumberjack who knows the land like the back of his hand offers you a place to stay, you think maybe your life isn't so tragic after all. besides, for the sake of your safety, who knows what lingers in the shadows after nightfall?

✦ ── contents: lost in the forest au, forced proximity, bantering, angst, trauma/torture aspects, minor injuries, eventual romance, eventual smut, more tags to be added.

✦ ── a/n: this is going to be my 1k followers special but i've already got a solid outline and plenty written. i believe this will end up being a multi-chapter fic. can't wait to release this, so check below the threshold for a teaser ;D

archive ─ playlist

part one // ???

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art by outdmilk on twt

teaser 𖠰 ✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

After getting fully dressed, you shuffled your socks on before you let out a loud hiss–a sudden piercing pressure on your ankle.

Gently setting your sock down, you sat atop a nearby rock and crossed your legs to take a closer look. 

It seemed that the thorn that poked you earlier had done more than just that–the area swelling and red. The spot, previously a microscope hole, had grown and was practically glowing and exuding a heat.

You pressed a finger against it, immediately regretting it when it sent pain spiking through your veins, the skin bulbous.

“You’re not making it out of the forest any time soon in that condition.”

You yelped with a jump, full-body flinching and swinging your head behind you to see Sukuna towering over you, eyes narrowed to slits as he eyed your injury. “Jesus. Warn a woman next time?”

He ignored you, something you’ve noticed he has a habit of doing, as he folded in half, skimming a finger over your puncture wound. A tight whimper left your lips, his calloused finger ghosting over it before he straightened out. “Can you walk on it?”

You attempted to pull the sock back over before you winced, heart fluttering in nerves. “I-I can try,” you stammered out, trying to maneuver it carefully before he clicked his tongue.

“Fuck, alright,” he grunted, as if mulling something over before he stepped in front of you. He crouched down on one knee, jeans digging into the mud yet he didn’t seem to care. “Hop on.”

Your maw fell slack at the sight, suddenly feeling incredibly hot at the sight. This crude and ruffish man was offering to carry you all of the sudden.

“Uh, it’s alright. I-I can walk–”

“Quit your rambling and get on.”

You shut up at his interruption, muttering a ‘rude much?’ he didn’t acknowledge under your breath before standing to a wobble, doing your best not to bump your ankle into anything as the pain began to flare to what felt like your bones.

Oddly enough, he was practically your height on his knees, his massive form slightly intimidating you.

You brought your hands over his shoulders and clasped them in front of him, hoping he couldn’t smell the musk radiating from your sweat-soaked clothing.

As you tried to wrap your legs around his midsection, he suddenly rose, wrapping his massive hands along the underside of your thighs and straightening to his full height.

You did everything to ignore the flip of your stomach as he did so, the touch burning your skin.

Something sizzled in your mind, before you realized how leggy this man actually was. “Could make a joke about the weather up here, but it’s really quite nice,” you snickered, head ducking between his hat, cheek right beside his, as your eyes raked over his bird's eye view.

“Shut it or I’m dropping you.”