#maybe bc I have something with blue hair

[distinguished-slacker]

Happy Birthday Miku!🪷🎼

[harapeveco]

I was gonna complain over Kusha’s hair bc it really gave me brown vibes not blue but when I looked at it again I noticed how the top of his hair is white/gray as it progressively get blue and like…Yuu’s hair was like that too at the beginning it was white on top and then purple

And then when Yuu became catboy his hair went all grayish with the tips purple

Like I know it could be the light or just one of those weird coloring choices Newo makes but idk it’s a weird thing mostly when only two characters are colored like that and it so happens to be the characters that are more involved with the Zingai hell place 🤔

But then again in chapter 12 Tobi describes him as a guy with whiteish hair so maybe it’s not the light?

Hmm 🤔🤔🤔

[meowsticmarvels]

we are so fucking back. despite intending to go into vlr/ztd spoiler free i could not handle it anymore and ended up spoiling myself on a few things (...not everything bc its Mostly just related to characters I care abt and im gonna try and gaslight myself into pretending I didn't see it anyway).

but oh my fucking god clocking phi as transfem in the first hour of vlr was some incredible foresight because she is even more transgender than I thought

original post here if anyone wants to see it or my additional reblog but god. im crazy

[toytulini]

i feel like the makeup standards are not necessarily going to get Worse, just. stay the Same. "raised by sephora and ulta" christ alive yall act like this shit is new. as if this hasnt been the standard to blast young girls with makeup ads and shit via magazine and tv and imposed beauty standards anyway. the only real difference is like, idk, accessibility of tutorials for how to apply it well

[piningpercussionist]

Fav hair color ramona has worn?

She kinda rocks every color she's come around sporting, honestly.

I guess I'm partial to the blue- she's had it for a while now, so I'm pretty sure that must mean something.

Although...

*Kim pulls out her phone and messes with it for a minute, before turning it around.*

This was also a really nice look, if you ask me.

[welcometoteyvat]

[leaks] kaeya’s skin is looking good but I’m also eyeing the supposed lion dancer boy

[izzy-b-hands]

my life is finally changing for the better and it's bc I'm finally letting myself accept help (to be repaid asap ofc bc im still Me akdnfjfng)

and like. admit and accept that i will have to be a slight burden or more for at least a brief period of time on the ppl i care abt who care abt me and it's bc they care abt me that they're doing that and ahhhh!!!!! (good ahhhh!)

Therapy (and more importantly, all of my friends including the one helping me hugely to make these changes) was/were/are right!!!

I can't wait!!! Can't believe it took my brain this long to understand the concepts enough to let them work to a benefit instead of...not that lol, but!!! finally!!!!!

[osaemu]

GOJO SATORU: KISS & MAKE UP

✩ ‧ ˚. streamer!au: after the breakup, you two decide to make up in the traditional way—by having sex! NSFW

contents: fem!reader. oral (f. recieving), p –> v, teasing, praise, hair pulling (m. recieving), missionary, unprotected sex, creampie, squirting, use of pet names (too many to list here). not proofread bc you couldn't pay me to read all this again. 2.5k words. read this fic beforehand for better understanding of the context, but you don't have to.

author's note: tumblr hates me and that's why the banner quality's trash. if u wanna see the details, click here. anyways the streamer!gojo smut has finally arrived, tagging @satorena @screampied @cultrise, enjoyyy ;)

“did you tell them we’re back together?”

satoru nods in response to your question, plopping down on the couch next to you. he's spent the last hour chatting with his stream, and eventually he broke the news that you and him were back together after the breakup.

“yeah, i did,” he confirms, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in your neck. your hands automatically move to his hair and you thread your fingers through the soft white strands, pausing after a couple seconds to give him a quick kiss on the forehead.

a week ago, you and satoru had an admittedly messy breakup—not messy in the sense that it got toxic or dramatic, but messy in the way that it could’ve easily been avoided. it wasn’t that big of a deal, but thankfully, you and satoru resolved your misunderstanding within a relatively short time.

since then, things have been a little different—satoru’s been taking a break from streaming, which gave him move time to spend with you and away from his thousands of fans. it was his suggestion, and not surprisingly, it worked. but all good things have to come to an end, and your “honeymoon” away from satoru’s stream seems to be coming to a close.

“something smells good,” satoru notes, lifting his head and glancing at the kitchen. “wait, is that ramen?” your boyfriend gasps, eyes rounding as he looks at you hopefully. 

“yeah, you said you were craving it, so i made some,” you reply with a smile, untangling yourself from his arms and walking over to the kitchen. satoru blows you a flurry of kisses that you see out of the corner of your eye as you check on the ramen, which looks pretty much done.

“y’know, i still haven’t forgiven you for the shit you pulled last week,” you say dryly, turning off the stove and draining the water from the ramen into your sink. the steam rises up as the boiling water slips down into the drain, clouding your face for a moment before it dissipates into thin air. 

“...does that mean i don’t get to eat that ramen?” satoru asks tentatively, a nervous smile on his lips as you empty a packet of flavored powder into the ramen. you shoot him a look and raise an eyebrow, turning back to the stove to hide your smile.

“maybe, maybe not,” you reply coyly, not wanting to give in too soon.

“boo, you whore.”

you roll your eyes and divide the ramen into two bowls, one for you and one for your boyfriend. “you’re lucky i’m too nice to let you starve, regina,” you say pointedly, walking back over to the couch and handing one of the bowls to him, which satoru takes with both hands—a habit from his childhood that never went away. “otherwise you’d be—”

satoru cuts you off by poking your lips with his chopsticks, steaming hot ramen wrapped around them. you reluctantly open your mouth and let him feed you, smiling when he seals the bite with a kiss. 

“best girlfriend ever,” satoru proclaims when he pulls away, a lazy smile playing on his lips. his soft blue eyes study your own, observing your unusually guarded expression and frowning.

“how many times do i gotta apologize for my bullshit before you stop making that face at me?” he grumbles, twirling his chopsticks in his bowl and taking a bite of the ramen. it’s cute how satoru’s face lights up at the taste, and it’s even cuter how his eyes round at you in awe when he takes another bite. “i didn’t know instant ramen could be this good,” he muses, licking any lingering flavor off of his lips.

“very funny, satoru,” you laugh, swirling your chopsticks around the broth and watching the rest of the steam rise from your bowl. “and to answer your question, i don’t really know.”

satoru tilts his head and takes a sip of his water, ice clinking against the side of the glass. when you respond to his question, he pauses and tilts his head in confusion. “...wait, what does that mean?”

you think for a second, choosing your words carefully. “i’m not sure how long it’ll take until we’re back to… normal,” you say cautiously. in all honesty, you weren’t that pissed off at him—you never were. but the fact that satoru was so ready to throw your relationship away over something as small as that was upsetting, to say the least. and you weren’t entirely sure it wouldn’t happen again.

satoru looks at you thoughtfully, more serious than you’ve seen him in a while. you can almost see the gears turning in his head before he replies. “any idea how i can make it up to you?”

you shrug, swallowing another bite of ramen before you meet his eyes. “you tell me. actions speak louder than words.”

your boyfriend drops his chopsticks, letting them clatter around in the bowl before he stands up. he extends a hand to you, a determined glint in his eye. “then lemme prove it to you.”

“satoru, you can’t bribe me with sex.”

“that’s not all i’ll be doing, sweetheart. trust me.”

and that’s how you ended up in his room, hands tangled in satoru’s soft white hair as he eats you out. his tongue laps at your cunt with quick, kitten-like strokes, and he presses a gentle kiss to the inside of your thigh. “feels s’good, satoru,” you breathe, involuntarily tugging on his hair and dragging out a groan from his lips. “sorry—”

“don’t apologize,” satoru mumbles in reply, nose brushing against your dripping thighs as his tongue slips past your folds and goes in deeper. he looks up and locks eyes with you, unable to resist smiling at the way your legs tremble around him. “aw, you’re so fuckin’ cute,” he murmurs, flicking his tongue in and out of your cunt with a grin. “and i’m the one who should be—fuck, you’re gorgeous—apologizing.”

this isn’t the first time satoru’s eaten you out, but it feels like it every single time—somehow, his tongue has a talent of rendering you unable to focus on anything else but him. you grind your hips against satoru’s face, eyes squinted shut as your boyfriend flattens his tongue before lapping your slick up with cloudy eyes. “shit, i don’t know what i’d be without you,” he murmurs, voice low and steady—and something about his tone makes you certain he’s being completely honest with you.

“you’re so—fuck, satoru, i’m gonna cum,” you breathe, back automatically arching when satoru’s tongue reaches that spot inside you. he laughs, and the vibration of the soft sound against your puffy, sensitive cunt almost makes your legs give out—but thankfully, satoru’s hands are secured around your thighs, holding you in place. “‘toru, i can’t—”

“yeah, y’can, just relax that pretty pussy for me,” he cooes, licking up the slick dripping down his chin. “c’mon, you’re doing so good f’me, keep going, baby.” and just like that, his tongue slips out of your cunt and he lets you cum—the sheer force of your orgasm hits you like a truck, and your hips roll against satoru’s face in a choppy rhythm as you desperately ride it out, hands gripping and accidentally yanking his hair.

you stutter out his name a couple more times, unable to focus on anything but the feeling of satoru’s mouth on your sensitive, gushing pussy. your boyfriend praises you the whole way, gently murmuring soft words about how sweet you are for letting him taste you, even while your relationship was rocky. when your voice steadies enough for satoru to make out what you’re begging him to do, he’s not at all surprised to hear you plea for him to fuck you—so stands up and tugs you down onto his bed, hand intertwined with yours as he pulls the sheets over your bodies. 

you squeeze satoru’s hand and lean in to kiss him, chest still heaving from your earlier orgasm. naturally, you miss his lips and end up kissing the side of his face, which is flushed bright red from the way his body reacts to the taste of your pussy. “don’t ever leave me like that again,” you whisper, tears pricking at your eyes for some reason—maybe it’s the lovesick way satoru looks at you, or maybe it’s the way he’s holding onto you like there’s no place he’d rather be.

“i won’t,” satoru promises, pressing an affectionate kiss to your forehead and pulling your head into his chest. his lips touch the top of your head as he murmurs, “and if i do, shoot me.” it sounds like a joke, but you both know that he’s dead serious.

“good thing i won’t have to do that,” you say with a soft giggle. your smile is heart-achingly familiar to satoru, and it feels like home—and that’s the realization that has him stripping off what little clothing the two of you still have on before he climbs on top of you. 

satoru touches the tip of his dick to your pussy, waiting for your nod to allow him to go in all the way. after a second, you dip your chin and trail your fingers down satoru’s jaw, grabbing his chin and pulling him down into another kiss. his lips linger for a couple seconds, still-minty breath tickling your face, before he pulls away. satoru slowly lowers his hips and nudges his dick inside of your desperate cunt, hands resting on either side of you.

even though it’s only been a little over a week since you last had sex with satoru, it feels like it’s been forever—your boyfriend curses when he feels how tight you are, mumbling something about missing you “so fucking much” as he goes in deeper and deeper. it hurts a little at first, but you quickly get used to the feeling of him inside of you. 

“fuckin’ hell, i’m never gonna get tired of this,” satoru breathes, dipping his head and kissing your collarbone. a single drop of sweat drips down the side of his face as he watches you squirm, eyes soft and endearing as you do so. he starts rolling his hips back and forth against you to loosen you up a little, dragging out soft moans from you as he does so. 

“yeah, you better not,” you mutter, tilting your head back and drawing in a long breath of air. you can’t remember the last time you felt this good—maybe it was the last time satoru fucked you. “satoru, y’re going so slow—”

your boyfriend cuts you off with a particularly harsh thrust, making your body jolt against his mattress. satoru lifts his head and looks you in the eye, a breathy laugh slipping out of him when he sees the pout on your lips. “the fuck you mean, i’m going slow? you want me to tear you apart? silly girl,” he tuts, back to his usual cocky self. he shakes his head and goes deep enough in you to force you to arch your back, starting to grin at the way you paw at his chest. “always so selfish, aren’t you?” he cooes, dipping his head and giving you a sloppy kiss on the forehead. “but you’re always—so—fuckin’—sweet,” satoru whispers, punctuating each word with a thrust hard enough for you to moan out his name more times than you can count.

“you’re the selfish one,” you mumble, lips trembling enough to muffle your voice. satoru huffs out a sigh and kisses your mouth, teeth gently brushing against your bottom lip. “you broke up with me for no reason,” you continue, tears pricking at your eyes again. “you think i’m gonna forgive you this fast?” 

satoru shakes his head again and caresses the side of your face. “will you?” he asks, slowing his pace enough for you to notice. you mutter something about him edging you on purpose, to which satoru shushes you and repeats his question.

“maybe.”

“you gotta stop giving me maybe’s, baby—y’re drivin’ me crazy here.”

in the past week, satoru’s done so much for you, and it hasn’t gone unnoticed. on the day after your breakup, he picked you up from your house and took you for a picnic entirely curated by him. on the second day, he made you breakfast, lunch and dinner—it wasn’t the best food you ever had, but it was definitely the most memorable (in more ways than one). on the third day, he took you out to your favorite amusement park and did everything he could to make you smile—by then, you had pretty much forgiven him, and the giant teddy bear he dropped in your bedroom only made you love him more. the rest of the days were filled with longing glances and little gifts left around your house, which only helped him earn more and more of you back.

so, you figure that satoru deserves what comes next.

“okay,” you whisper. 

satoru’s eyes widen and he hesitates before he tentatively asks, “does this mean—”

you don’t let him finish his question, instead grabbing his face and tugging him down into a full kiss. he lets out a soft hm? in surprise, but kisses you back more than gratefully. “c’mon, make me cum,” you breathe when he finally pulls away. satoru nods dazedly and mouths “i love you” before he goes back in you, pace faster than before.

one of his hands snakes down to your waist, holding it in pace while the other caresses your face. you gaze up at him with a soft smile, eyes fluttering open and closed every time his dick hits your sweet spot—which is more times than your body can handle, but you welcome the feeling of him deep inside of you. after barely a couple thrusts, a coil forms in your stomach, growing tighter and tighter with each movement of satoru’s hips. 

satoru laughs, chest heaving as he grins down at you cheekily. “i knew you’d forgive me,” he murmurs, pinching your cheek affectionately. “m’ so sorry—”

“shut up and fuck me,” you interrupt, tongue starting to loll out of your mouth as you feel yourself getting closer and closer to cumming all over satoru’s dick. 

“as you wish, princess.”

satoru’s breathing slowly changes, becoming more choppy and uneven the closer you watch him get to his high—it’s so, so close for both of you, and when it comes, it takes over both of your minds like a drug. satoru curses and groans out your name, thrusts growing sloppy as he desperately rides out his orgasm. cum shoots out from his dick and coats the inside of your cunt white, dripping out once you physically can’t take any more.

you run your hands all over satoru’s body, clawing and gripping at every inch of skin you can latch onto—satoru’s always been your anchor, and you hope that he always will be. one of his hands leaves the side of your face and tangles with your fingers, holding it down against the mattress as he promises to never screw you over like that again, and you’re only too welcoming to him and his words as you squirt all over his dick. “fuck, satoru—”

he lifts his eyes and meets your own, and unlike you, his vision is clearer than ever. “shoot me if i ever leave you again, baby. i’m serious.”

you raise a shaky hand and touch the side of his face, eyes fluttering shut as you murmur, “i know i won’t have to.”

[sttoru]

‘and if i only could, i’d make a deal with god, and i’d get him to swap our places. .’ — kate bush

 𝝑𝑒 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒. gojo satoru x wife!reader. fluff to angst (no comfort). spoilers chapter 261. reader’s pregnant. major character death. mentions of blood, death. nicknames ‘pretty, sweets’. not proofread bcs i couldn't through the tears. i cried nine times writing this so.. good luck! wc: 3.6k

“he’s kicking again,” satoru chuckles excitedly. he’s been clinging onto you ever since you got back from your doctor’s appointment. your baby boy is growing up healthy and there don’t seem to be any complications.

you smile and rest back against the velvety pillows. you’re enjoying the affection you’re receiving, the kisses and nuzzles against your swollen tummy makes every bit of suffering worth it. your husband is going to be an amazing dad, that you can tell.

“hey, little guy—don’t give ya mommy a tough time,” satoru huffs and gently taps the side of your stomach that was last kicked by the unborn baby, “that’s my wife, y’know?” you giggle at the scene in front of you and close your eyes, relaxing your body.

a comfortable silence hangs in the room. satoru’s warm hands cupping and rubbing your round stomach add to the tranquil atmosphere. the weight of your husband’s head presses onto the front of your plump belly—ear pressed against the stretched skin as if expecting to hear your baby boy talk.

after a while, you open your eyes. you hear a sniff and then the usual silence follows. you look down at satoru settled between your legs, hugging your waist and resting his cheek on your tummy. he’s awfully quiet and you’re unable to see his eyes because of his bangs.

“toru, everything okay?” you carefully ask. your voice comforts him for the next couple seconds, before his muscles tense up once more. satoru tries his best to seem unaffected by the many thoughts scurrying through his head.

“mhm,” your husband nods and forces a small smile. though, he can’t keep the facade up any longer. the longer you’re pregnant, the more worried he gets about a certain something; something that’s been bothering him ever since.

it’s the reason why he doubted even having kids in the first place.

“i—well. i don’t know, sweets,” satoru sighs. a deep sigh that shatters the mask he’s had on for so long. his brows furrow and his eyes dart from one place to the other. his fingers stop their movements on your stomach. they curl around the material of your shirt instead; showing a clear sense of vulnerability.

satoru seems. . . afraid, yet also angry. perhaps at himself, perhaps at the world. you don’t utter a single word. if there’s anything you want, it’s for your husband to speak about his inner turmoil freely. you’re the only person who he can have such emotional conversations with—the only person he can be himself with.

the real gojo satoru.

not the strongest.

that’s why you’re not surprised when satoru opens his mouth to confess the inevitable to you. “i’m scared,” his voice cracks. it’s a faint change in tone, but it is noticeable to you. you’ve been his lover for long enough to notice every minuscule thing.

the white-haired man lets out another sigh. you brush his soft bangs out of his eyes and instantly notice the sudden weariness in them. normally, those beautiful blue eyes shine brightly, yet that light has now dimmed.

you pat his head and satoru immediately leans into your touch. you allow him to process his own emotions and words before speaking up.

“scared?” you ask quietly and carefully, giving your husband space to explain.

satoru nods. there are a thousand thoughts running through his mind. all those thoughts he’s tried to suppress since the day you’ve announced your pregnancy. maybe even before that—at the day of your wedding.

he’s sat down with you a few months into the marriage, to have the talk about kids. he seemed to be delighted to have children with you, however there have always been some dark and hidden thoughts lingering in the back of his mind.

the sorcerer has chosen to ignore them for the longest time. he’s been trying to convince himself that he has nothing to worry about. you’re going to be fantastic parents and your children are going to be extremely loved.

the day you surprised him with your pregnancy, was like a dream. satoru cried - which he rarely does - so it was an emotional night for both of you. neither of you could wait to meet your child—happy with whatever gender.

despite all of the optimism and enthusiasm, satoru’s struggles with his inner thoughts have not yet ended. he doesn’t want to bother you with it. you seem so content and he does not want to ruin that at all.

but even the strongest without limits has to reach a breaking point.

“yeah,” satoru speaks up, his voice hoarse. he kisses your belly button, hoping his child doesn’t pick up on his distress somehow. your husband closes his eyes as he places his forehead against your tummy, praying that the heavens above hear his pleas, “i don’t want our kid to inherit my cursed techniques. at all.”

your hand doesn’t stop stroking satoru’s hair. you don’t flinch at his words, nor do you immediately discard his worries. in all honestly, you’ve shared the same feelings before getting pregnant.

you know how satoru’s treated by the jujutsu society. it’s dehumanising how he’s seen as a weapon of some sorts. a weapon that could solve all problems—one that cannot rest until its duty is done.

you despise it. you’ve told satoru about your hatred for the toxic society, even going as far as asking him to move to a different country without telling anyone. you’re sick and tired. you can’t recall the amount of times that you’ve cried alone, in the bathroom, after you’ve seen the state your lover comes back home in.

the white-haired man always seems so tired. his eyes and head hurt because of them overusing his cursed techniques. there are even days where satoru doesn’t put his blindfold or sunglasses off at home.

and when you try to talk to him about it, satoru simply assures you that ‘he’ll be fine’. you believe him in the moment, but you don’t know for how long you’ll be able to keep that trust.

you’re letting him break, slowly yet surely, right in front of you. he’s working himself to his demise. it’s nothing out of the ordinary to not want the same for your child.

though, you’re sure that it’ll be fine even if your baby boy inherits satoru’s techniques. that’s because you two are going to protect him with all you have. no one is going to treat your child like a weapon—not while the both of you are still alive.

“i don’t want our child to take over the burden i carry,” satoru continues. his brows are furrowed and his lips are pressed into a thin line. he’s already thinking about all the possibilities that can follow with the birth of your son.

he can hide his child from the world, but wouldn’t that be too restrictive? he can keep an eye on him every second of the day, but wouldn’t that be overprotective?

you notice satoru’s internal state of panic increasing, so you quickly cup his face. you lean down and press a firm kiss against his lips, to which he instantly responds. his breath hitches and he sits up on the mattress, deepening the kiss as his hands hold you by the back of your head.

he needs this—you—more than anything else in the world. if it wasn’t for you, he’d have lost his sanity long ago.

you pull back after a good minute and pant. you chuckle as you notice the slight pout on satoru’s lips. he never seems satisfied with just one kiss, which is adorable. you coo and pepper his face with small pecks, “aww.”

it’s comforting to the sorcerer. he closes his eyes and his mouth forms a small smile. you’re doing an amazing job at calming him down. satoru’s muscles relax and he finds himself nestled between your legs soon enough.

you realise that he’s still somewhat afraid for the future of his child by the way he’s playing with your shirt. his head lays on your chest and his long fingers trace shapes on your exposed skin.

“i know, honey, i know,” you murmur against the top of his head. you massage satoru’s scalp gently, nearly making him purr because of how incredible that feels. you stare at the ceiling and continue your little talk.

“i’ve thought about all of it too,” your fingers find his undercut, playing with the little hairs. all you can hope for is that your partner stresses less about the outcome of your pregnancy.

if you can do one thing for him, it’d be that. reassuring him that you’ll both do your best for your child will surely put him at ease. your husband has enough to worry about anyway.

you want to share that burden. you don’t want him to carry the world on his shoulders alone—he’s got you for that now.

“but i think that our son will be fine. why? because he’s got you,” you smile and kiss satoru’s forehead. it’s his favorite type of kiss and it works wonders when you comfort him. his ocean eyes regain their sparkle, both because of your unconditional love and trust in his parenting skills, “our boy will grow up fine and protected because he’s got you as his amazing dad, yeah?”

satoru takes some time to let your words sink in. your trust in him is a beautiful thing. of course, he’ll protect his kid no matter what. both you and his kid will be safe for as long as he’s alive. you’re going to be a happy family—one that he’s always dreamed of having.

he isn’t going to raise his child to be the strongest. he isn’t going to raise his child as an heir to the throne. he isn’t going to raise his child as his legacy. he isn’t going to raise his child as a tool.

his son will have a normal childhood and he will guarantee that. satoru will give his kid what he didn’t have as a child himself;

unconditional love and support for whatever his son wishes to become.

satoru raises his head and leans in to kiss you, hugging you to himself. he adores you so much, you’re all he needs to feel like he can do anything and everything all at once.

carrying the world on his shoulders so you can live peacefully in it is all satoru does it for.

“heh, damn right. i’ll be the best husband and dad ever.”

. . .

but in the end, your dreams are just dreams, right?

an escape from reality, that’s all dreams really are. all those times you’ve sat together to pick the furniture you want to place in the nursery, to paint the room a baby blue, to buy clothes and toys, diapers and carriers, to giggle about the places you would love to visit as a family, to think about possible baby names, to joke about whether your son will say ‘dada’ or ‘mama’ first — all of it were naive, hopeful dreams.

perhaps you were too caught up in them to realise that reality will hit when least expected.

satoru and you have lived in your own bubble—your own little fantasy world where tragic fates does not exist. no one in this planet would suffer if life worked that way.

no one on this planet would have to pick up the phone and have their world shatter, their dream bubble pop. to have all hope lost in the span of a second.

grief is a scary thing. it’s devastating and it will consume you whole. you don’t realise that until you experience it firsthand. losing someone close to you will break you in half. it’s a punch to the gut.

especially if it’s your husband. someone you considered your partner—who’s promised you to be together forever. maybe those promises were also a part of your fantasy.

maybe they were also but a beautiful lie.

your footsteps feel heavy. you don’t have any energy left in you. every drop has been drained from you the moment you heard the news over the phone. your eyes and head hurt, both feeling like they’re going to burst. you don’t want to accept any of this.

the faces of the people around you are a blur. they’re all holding their head low, their hands gathered in front of them to show respect. no one speaks—all the room is filled with are your sobs. the loud cries you let out in hopes that they wake you up from this absolute nightmare.

you drag your feet to the examination table in the middle of the room. tears continue to blur your vision, though surely, you can confirm the outline of the body laying underneath the blanket.

how could you not recognise the person you thought you’d spend eternity with?

it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. it’s unfair. . .

“satoru.” your voice is barely audible. your hands are shaking and your face is stained with endless streams of tears. you stand at the side of the table and you instantly curl your fingers around the edge.

seeing that face from up close hits different. usually, it’d have your stomach fill with a feeling of delight, yet now all you feel when looking at it is unimaginable dread.

the blood on the corners of his mouth. the blanket that’s hiding whatever is left of him from below the waist. the dull eyes that once stared at you with hope and love. those dried lips that normally shone with a layer of gloss.

god, it’s awful. you don’t want this to be true. you’re still waiting to be woken up by your husband. so he can hold you close and hug you, whisper sweet nothings and reassure you that he’d never leave you alone in a savage world like this.

your shaky fingers reach out to his right hand. his skin feels cold and his hand doesn’t hold yours back. your breath hitches and you let out a long, devastating cry. it sounds like a scream for help as your body crumbles—falling to your knees whilst you tightly grip your lover’s limp hand.

“no, god no, please!” you cover your mouth with your free hand, nearly hyperventilating from pure pain. you feel like your heart is going to give up on you. it’s breaking into a million pieces, as does your future. you can’t live without him—you can't do it.

satoru is the sole reason you’ve held out for so long. you were each other’s support system. you can’t do any of this on your own. you can’t breathe properly—your body doesn’t let you.

not until you feel a hand on your back, rubbing it gently. you can guess that it’s shoko, but you’re too distraught to even pay attention to her. you lift yourself up by holding onto the edge of the table, your legs shaking. you sniffle and sob uncontrollably.

you reach out to touch satoru’s lifeless face, as gentle as you always do. you flinch when you feel just how cold his body is—the usual warmth that would comfort you gone, nowhere to be found. you don’t get a reaction from him when you touch his cheeks.

it only serves to remind you of the tragic events that unveiled. you’re still in denial, but the moment feels real. your brain is slowly yet surely processing the information. though, you don’t want it to. you want to live in a world where you grow old with your husband.

where your child is going to grow up with a father figure at home.

“satoru, come back to me.. to us, please,” you beg and beg, hoping he smiles and sits up, telling you that it’s just one of his silly pranks again. when none of that happens, you feel yourself become more hopeless. you hunch over him and cup his face. the same face that would light up whenever you’d touch it.

you hiccup and wail, unable to breathe. you rub his cheekbones with your thumbs, settling your forehead against his. your tears fall underneath his eyes and slide down his temples, making it seem like he’s crying with you.

you wait for satoru to respond, but he doesn’t. there’s an eerie silence on his part and you’re panicking. you need him to comfort you, but he isn’t there to do that anymore. you’re left alone, all alone.

“i can’t do this without you—we can’t do this without you,” you stammer between sobs. you can’t go through life, knowing satoru isn’t going to be there for you. he isn’t going to come home anymore. he isn’t going to cuddle you to sleep anymore. he isn’t going to experience what it’s like to have a family of his own. he isn't going to be able to hold his child and to play with him.

you blame life for being unfair—always taking away the people who don’t deserve it. satoru hasn’t done anything to deserve this. he just.. existed. his fate of becoming the strongest, decided at his birth, is what has lead to his death.

you continue to sob to yourself. you refuse to acknowledge anything or anyone else in the room. you’re solely focused on your husband. or rather, what’s left of him.

remembering how excited satoru was to spend the rest of his life with you and your future children pains you all the more. he’s been stripped from a normal life. you’ve tried your hardest to give him that said normal life, yet your hopeful dreams have gotten you nowhere.

you wipe your tears away for the first time in a while. your grief is making you delusional—disoriented to the point you try to make yourself feel better. you force a smile and hold tightly onto satoru’s limp hand, trying to speak through your quiet sniffles.

“o-our boy is gonna be born soon,” you chuckle bitterly and place satoru’s hand on your belly. it’s gotten bigger over the months and you’re already eight months along. he was so close to meeting your child—so close. yet his tragic destiny did not allow him to.

you hope he’s been happy with you for as long as he lived. you hope you’ve somewhat relieved him from his misery for as long as he lived. that burden he carried, the world he carried on his shoulders. . . it doesn’t seem to want to detach from him. even after death.

you press a deep kiss against his forehead. satoru’s favorite spot to be kissed at, you remember. you wish he feels it in the afterlife; wherever he may he. as long as he’s in a better place now, one that treats him well. this current world has been too cruel on him. it doesn’t deserve to home someone like your husband.

“i wish you were here to see your son. to see our baby grow up, you'd be so proud, honey,” you kiss satoru’s forehead again. it’s all you can do stop yourself from losing it completely. you know satoru would tell you to be strong, for his sake. for your unborn son.

“i’m going to tell him all about you, ‘kay? i'm going to tell him about how awesome his dad was,” your voice breaks for the nth time. you’re still in the first stage of grief, though you try to seem strong in case satoru is watching from somewhere.

that’s what he did when he was the one going through a tough time. he’d act brave and fine, putting on a mask to make you worry less, telling you all kinds of reassuring words while he was suffering internally.

now it’s your turn to safely send his soul off to the afterlife. to let satoru pass away in peace, with him knowing that you’re going to live on for him and for your child. it’s the least you can do at the moment.

you put on a brave face, staring into his lifeless eyes, smiling through the unbearable pain. you’re sure he’s still listening to you from somewhere. satoru’s always told you that your voice is soothing, so you do your best to calm his soul and reassure him that it’s fine for him to rest.

“i’ll do my best to raise him, yeah? so you.. you just rest.”

rest was a foreign word to the sorcerer. this world didn’t give him an ounce of peace. he’d either be overworked by his family or the jujutsu society, and if it isn’t work, his inherited techniques were slowly killing his brain and body.

you’re praying that satoru has none of that in the afterlife. you’re praying that he can live a normal life, eternally. so that when you join him one day, you both won’t have to suffer nor share the burden. you can live out your dreams without anyone interrupting.

not even fate.

“you deserve to rest. you really do,” you sigh.

soon enough, you feel yourself crumble again. you burst out in tears once you realise that he’s actually never coming back to you in this life. you bury your face in the crook of his neck and sob loudly, not holding back your emotions anymore. you just can’t—you can’t act brave when your second half has been taken away from you so suddenly.

you hope that you succeeded into sending him off without any worries. you can’t help but continue rambling to yourself, “i’m going to miss you s’much. oh, my baby.”

you lift your head back and stare into satoru’s eyes once more. did he think about you when he was on his deathbed? did he see his life flash before his eyes, including his many memories with you? did he see what could have been?

it’s unfair.

you give him one last bright smile and gently close his eyelids for him, hoping his lost soul saw your face before you did so. with one last kiss on his lips, you whisper your final words;

“please wait for me on the other side, my love.”

[exopelagic]

maybe straight boy might have a maybe girlfriend. 18 dead 34 injured

[autism-corner]

idk if my new hair colour actually looks good or if its just because i washed my hair :/

[sanatomis]

⋆౨ৎ˚ ──── 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐔𝐒𝐄.

it's been on your mind for a while now. and, even though he's a little confused at first, it takes satoru very little time to warm up to your enticing offer.

დ content. fr3e use kink, cursing, female!reader, fingering, vaginal sex, creampie, consensual somnophilia, deepthroating, cum-swallowing, mentions of satoru eating it from the back <3

დ notes. second attempt at posting this on tumblr, don't mind me. it's crossposted on ao3 bc my previous attempts at posting all failed miserably (it never showed in the tags ://)

Satoru is confused. It doesn’t take you much time to notice that your softly spoken words have him quite rattled, as the results of them can so clearly be observed on his face. There’s his nose that scrunches up cutely, and a little tilt of his head to the left which comes accompanied by a few snowy strands of hair shifting across his forehead. A small furrow of his brows, the soft gnawing on his bottom lip. He’s thinking about it; mulling over your offer. 

Three times, he tries to say something. His mouth opens once, twice, and it’s futile. Not a word escapes, and he takes a sharp intake of breath. You almost believe that, if you weren’t currently seated opposite him, he’d smack the side of his head a few times to make sure it’s still screwed on right. 

“So, I just. . .” The third time really is the charm, it seems. Though, he never quite manages to finish what he was going to say. 

“Just put it in, yeah.” 

You finish it for him, you’re sweet like that. It does really seem as if he could use the help.

“Wh—whenever I. . .” 

There’s a little voice in your head, chiming and chattering about how all of this is weird. It makes you nervous, and your fingers itch to play with your necklace to fight it. 

“Whenever you want,” you confirm. It’s as if your heart has suddenly moved to your throat. 

“Wha—what if you’re asleep?”

“I said whenever you want, didn’t I?” 

He almost lets out a little squeak at the words you so casually give him. They surprise him, as they do you. Your last sentence wasn’t one spoken by your mind, and you shift in your seat as if it’d shush the part of you that did. 

It’s as if you’re telling him what you’d eaten for breakfast this morning, not giving him permission to slip, bully and sheat his cock into your needy cunt at any given time of the day. Without needing to ask, too. Satoru can fill you up, stuff you full, and dump so much of his cum into you until you’re overflowing, and he can do it whenever he feels the need to—because he’s Satoru, and you love your Satoru.

“Are you sure?” He asks, a hint of apprehension laces his voice. Your heart almost swells at his concern, at his hesitancy and need to confirm your wishes; even if you’ve vocalised them so bluntly. “Maybe, think about it for a little long—” 

“I have,” you interrupt him. As gentlemanly as he’s being, there’s no mistaking the darkening of his eyes. The pretty, baby-blues making way for something sinister. You suddenly don’t feel so nervous anymore. “I have thought about it. Way too much, and for way too long.” 

A string of curse words tumble past his lips. They’re hushed, and quick, and from the way he, too, shifts in his seat you gather that he’s hard. Painfully so, if the bulge forming in his pants is anything to go by. Your relationship has existed long enough for you to know that drops of his pre-cum are staining the fabric of his boxers already—always so messy, your Satoru. The mere thought has you wanting to take him out, to put him in your mouth and lap at the sticky, white beads falling down his length. 

“Please,” you plead softly, and watch how he stifles a groan at the needy, saccharine sound of it. You want more, more of that sound. Right next to your ear, preferably. “Use me, Satoru.” 

There’s little you want more than that, little that arouses you more than that. The thought of Satoru taking you whenever he wishes, abiding by his whims and allowing him free-reign over your body—it instils a heat into your stomach, into your core. It makes you feel filthy, like a cheap whore picked up from the street; but you’d be his whore, and suddenly it all starts to feel like a dream. It’s Satoru. Satoru, Satoru, Satoru. He’ll be gentle, and he’ll be kind, and he’ll stop as soon as you utter your safeword, and he’ll love you so much, even if he fucks you as if he doesn’t. 

You have half a mind to ask him again, to plead, to beg for it again, as it almost feels as if he didn’t quite hear you. But, as soon as you open your mouth to do so, he immediately latches his lips onto yours. It’s messy, and sloppy, and entirely fueled by the frantic state his mind is currently in—but you don’t complain, and never will. 

His hands are everywhere and nowhere all at the same time, and you feel him almost buzzing with excitement. Your teeth clash against one another at the force of the kiss, your tongues greedily seek the other out, and saliva gets swapped from your mouth to his, and vice versa. It’s dirty, and sticky, and almost brings you back to your high-school years, when he’d been all clumsy hands and feigned confidence on the night you’d lost your virginity to each other. 

Satoru pulls back from your kiss first, and a small smile falls over his lips when he notices you chasing him. “Wait a minute, sweets,” he murmurs, forehead against yours. His breathing is heavy, as is yours, and you don’t want to wait a minute—you want him, now, tomorrow, and each day after that. “Are you. . .” He chuckles when you kiss him again, and again, and again. You only stop when he holds your head in place. “Are you completely sure about this?” 

You blink up at him, eyes wide and lips swollen. “Mhm,” you hum, and caress his cheekbone with one of your thumbs. Satoru melts in your hold, as he always seems to do. “‘S you, ‘Toru. I’m completely sure when it’s you.” 

He lets out a shaky breath. There’s a storm of emotion behind his eyes, but all of them point to the same conclusion—he loves you. So much, you might even get sick of it one day; he’d told you as a joke, one born out of fear. But you won’t. You never will. And you think he’s starting to realise it, finally. 

“Okay,” he whispers, and kisses your forehead. 

It’s delicate, and loving, and so opposite from the way he buries himself into you over, and over, and over again a mere five minutes after that. Satoru’s needy, and impatient, and so pent-up from your previous conversation that foreplay gets thrown out of the window. 

He bends you over the couch first, that cute little ass of yours jiggling right in front of his face as he mounts you from behind. He slips in easily, with a pussy as wet as yours, and a cock as leaky and hard as his—the lack of foreplay almost goes unnoticed. Almost, of course, as the sheer size of him never fails to elicit a hint of a burn as he stretches you out. Nevermind that you take his cock daily, or that your walls are bound to carry his shape after the many years you spend with him. 

The sounds that decorate your apartment are filthy, lewd, and borderline obscene, but you’re thoroughly obsessed with them. The slapping of his balls against your ass, the squelching with each passing thrust, the deep groans and choked whimpers Satoru releases next to your ear just like you wanted. Even your own moans, your own babbles, and your own whines add to the experience; the combination of sounds. And you love it, because it’s you, and it’s Satoru—and it’s the two of you together. 

It doesn’t end after Satoru cums, nor does it after you do. The agreement between the two of you that was made tonight seems to have done a number on him, and he takes you a second time. On the balcony, where he puts you on display for the world to see as he fills you over and over again. And a third time, in your shared bed that’s never been safe from his affection and blatant desire towards you. And a fourth time, in the shower that was initially meant to clean you up, he decides to dirty you even further. 

If this is the reaction he gives to the mere idea of using you whenever he pleases, you long for the time that he actually does.

It’s well past midnight when Satoru finally decides he’s done with you. You’re curled into his side, a shirt that’s way too large for you (but one that you swore you didn’t steal from him) covers your figure. You’re asleep. Tired, exhausted, and completely knocked out. He smiles. You’re so cute. A love-sick expression is stuck to his face, and it may very well become permanent if he stays looking at you. 

One of his fingers reaches in-between your thighs, gently scooping up the remnants of his release. Satoru almost coos at the way your nose scrunches up cutely when he starts to finger it back into your pussy. It allows his digits to slip easily through your folds, and she sucks them in as soon as he reaches your hole. His cum doesn’t leak out this time. Not yet, anyway, but even if it does, he’s more than willing to repeat the process. 

He sighs. Mind full of thoughts, but at least his balls are empty now. There’s a little huff escaping his lips, and he’s amused at his own comment. Satoru shakes his head, but the small smile remains nonetheless. Strong, yet gentle arms pull your body tighter against him. 

You’re delicate, and sweet, and so precious to him; and he will do his best to take care of you. Use me, use me, use me. He kisses your forehead, his own eyes falling shut. 

He will most certainly try to. 

The very first time Satoru entertains the idea of indulging in your offer, is on a day where you’ve decided to wear his favourite lipgloss. It’s so shiny, such a cute shade, and makes you look so beautiful, but above all—it’s sticky. It’s sticky, and easily smudged, and he knows from experience that everything feels so much filthier when he steals a kiss from you with it on. 

Without meaning to, thoughts of you wrapping those glossed lips around his dick, creating a mess made-up of spit, cum, tears, and thus that delightful stickiness from your lipgloss, enters his mind. The coloured shade will leave a perfect ring around his length, there’s no doubt in his mind. Your pretty face will be all dirty, smudged stains near the corners of your mouth courtesy of his fat cock. You will be a sight for sore eyes. 

You’re talking to him, but Satoru can’t seem to listen. He’s enamoured by your lips, your soft-looking, plumb, and very glossed lips. He briefly feels pathetic, knowing that a mere make-up item has the ability to make his head spin to such a degree—but he doesn’t, as he quickly realises it only does so because it’s you that’s wearing it. 

Fuck, he really wants to stuff his cock into your mouth. 

Five, six, almost seven seconds pass before the realisation kicks in. If he wants to put his cock in your mouth, then he can. Satoru’s body moves on its own before he gets a chance to think about his actions, as is often the case with him, and it's not long before his large hand finds its new home on the back of your head. He falters briefly, watching how you quiet down, how your eyes widen slightly, but continues as he’s doing when you make absolutely no move to stop him when he gently guides your head down, and down, and down—until you’re right where he wants you. 

A small gasp leaves your lips when he puts you on eye-level with his crotch. It’s quiet, and he almost didn’t hear it, but it makes him pause nonetheless. The hand on your head loosens its grip, and he hesitates as he looks down at you. 

“Is this oka—” 

The sentence never gets finished, forever interrupted by a sharp hiss as you take his cock out of his pants with such unabashed eagerness. It slaps against his abdomen, leaky tip staining the fabric of his shirt. Your previous conversation is all but forgotten, it seems, as you don’t waste a second in taking his hard, aching length almost entirely into your mouth. It all happens so quickly, and Satoru’s mind almost can’t keep up. All he did was think about filling your mouth, and now he’s actually doing it; the fat tip prodding near the back of your throat. 

His hands are shaky, he notices, and so is his breathing as a small whine escapes when one of your hands goes downwards to play with his balls. “Fuck!” he curses, caught by surprise at the boldness with which you reached for that part of him. In his startle, his hands return to the back of your head, and your words make their impromptu return to the very front of his mind. 

Use me. 

He will, then. 

Satoru isn’t at all gentle when he does. His fingers tangle into your hair, and he pushes you down onto his cock until your nose brushes against the soft, white hairs near his pelvis. Your poor little mouth is struggling, he can see, but he can’t seem to pay much mind to it; the sounds of you gagging around his thick length are too much of a pleasure to hear. The way he pushes you up-and-down nears the realm of brute force, and still you eagerly suck, and suck, and suck. 

A particularly loud groan echoes through the room when he steals a glance at your small form kneeling between his legs. It seems he knows you well; you are a sight for sore eyes like this. There are tears in your eyes, and some of them have already fallen down your hollowed cheeks; hollowed, to make space for him. Your mouth is filled to the brim with his cock, and even though he can see you fighting for breath, you never make an attempt at catching it—as if you wouldn’t dare to deprive him of the please your throat gives him. 

Satoru catches himself falling in love all over again. 

He fucks your face harder, and harder, and harder the closer he gets to the edge. Deep groans, and slurred curse words join your symphony of muffled moans, and his hold on your head slowly starts to falter. 

“‘M close, princess,” he mumbles, but that’s about all the warning he gives you. A few seconds later, he cums down your throat. He doesn’t ask, he doesn’t need to. Not because you’d given him permission to use you as he sees fit, but simply because he knows you’re utterly obsessed with him doing so. “Fuck, f—fuck, look a’you, hm? Gonna take all of it like a good girl? Don’t waste it, m’kay? S’all for, fuck, for you.” 

It’s something he’s done countless times before, but Satoru swears that each time he spills his cum down your throat feels better than the last. Thick, sticky ropes fill your mouth, and you hum around him when it keeps going, and going, and going. You’re struggling to take it all, and he huffs in amusement when bits of it start to drip down your chin. His thumb catches it, and he quickly places it back in your mouth, forcing you to open it wider to accommodate both the digit and his slowly softening cock. You happily do so. 

He pulls out of you shortly after, with his chest heaving as he recuperates. His entire focus is on you, you, and you as he watches you wipe your mouth and swallow the last of his seed. There’s a smile on your face. It’s kind, and gentle, and innocent; almost as if he hadn’t just fucked your mouth and dumped his release down your throat. Satoru is utterly bewitched as he watches you, captivated by all and every little thing you do, and he cooperates as you tuck him back into his pants. 

And then, as if nothing at all happened, you sit down next to him again—and you speak, you continue talking, finishing the story he’d interrupted with his need to be sucked off. Your voice is hoarse, and your cheeks are still stained with dried tears, but you pay neither of those facts any mind. It makes all of this look so. . . mundane. You were speaking, and then you were between his legs, and now you’re speaking again. 

Satoru’s heart starts to beat even faster for you. Fuck, that’s so hot. This time, he decides to try his very best to listen to your tale about some co-worker of yours that pissed you off this week. He pitches in every-now-and-then, adding a low ‘huh,’ or ‘mhm’ to keep you occupied, and he almost feels guilty—guilty, because all his adrenaline-filled mind can think about are the future possibilities of using you.

“And, wanna know what’s the worst thing about the situation? It was my idea to get donuts for everybody! That harlot didn’t even want them initially.” 

Satoru’s downward spiral is inevitable, and he finds himself falling victim to it more times than one would consider healthy in a mere seven days. He very quickly learns that he’s thoroughly obsessed with the notion that allows him to fill you up anywhere, and at any time. To him, it’s one of the highest honours. 

There’s such confidence, such unwavering faith encompassed in your view of him. There has to be, if you’re willing to allow him such a thing. Thinking about it almost causes a cute pink hue to colour his cheek. . .you really do trust him a lot, huh?

He’s never been able to tell you ‘no’ before, and he certainly isn’t about to start. So, he dutifully listens to you and abides by your delectable request. To satisfy you, of course. There’s absolutely no other reason for his actions, and the way he breaches your dripping cunt with his leaky tip, all while soft breaths leave your lips, and your pretty eyes are peacefully shut, is simply to indulge you. 

Use me. Use me. Use me. 

Satoru curses, the crude words that tumble past his lips being plenty colourful. One of his hands settles on your hip whilst the other hikes your (or rather his) shirt up to provide him with better access. It’s your fault, really, that he’s currently sporting one of the hardest boners of the century. You were waiting for him, weren’t you? Waiting for him to return and bury himself to the hilt in that sweet, sobbing pussy of yours. 

There’s no other reason for you to fall asleep with nothing but his shirt on. Not even panties covered your cute little cunt, your sticky folds fully on display and welcoming him home. Satoru wants to bury himself in it—in a multitude of ways if he’s being truly honest with himself. For now, though, he’ll stick to simply one. 

“Shh,” he coos into your ear, delicately rubbing soft circles into your upper thigh with his thumb. You whine faintly, feeling his cock fight its way past your walls. He splits you open, stretching you just wide enough to slip inside. Your nose scrunches up cutely, and he almost rouses you from your slumber.  “‘S me, really need you, baby.” 

And that’s all he has to say. It’s me. It’s your Satoru. A gentle whisper of those words, and he gets to use you as he pleases. All of his previous worries, all of the near-boiling anger he felt at his previous meeting with the higher-ups washes away as soon as he sinks himself balls-deep into your pussy. Satoru groans deeply at the feeling, and gentle, stuttered declarations of love are babbled into your ear with each slow drag of his cock along your walls. 

The garbled mesh of words that he deems too important not to say, even despite their poor enunciation, only ceases to exist a few minutes later—when he spills his heavy load into that sweet, sweet cunt of yours. No, into that sweet cunt of his. Because, that’s who it truly belongs to, no? It’s his, to use, to spoil, to worship. You’d offered it to him so kindly, after all. And, well, Satoru has never been the type of person to turn down a gift. 

. . . You unknowingly create a monster. It seems that even the mere idea of being allowed to use you as he pleases has him tip-toeing around the line of borderline insanity. As each time he sees you, he wants you. . .and each time he wants you, you let him. 

It doesn’t matter what you’re doing at that moment. Even if you’re speaking, and he suddenly feels the need, no, the simple want for a blowjob. And even if you’re asleep, resting after what must have been a long day, you still allow him to slip his aching cock into you to satisfy the craving he’s had for hours. 

Even if you’re busy setting the table, you don’t push him away, and you still allow him to bend you over the wooden surface, to sink to his knees and lick, suck, and kiss around his pretty pussy with his tongue. Simply because he wants to do it, and you really do so, too. 

. . .And even now, when you’re cooking dinner. 

There’s a certain cuteness about the way your brows scrunch in concentration, about the way you gently bite on your bottom lip as you prepare the food for the two of you; it nearly makes him feel guilty for feeling the secret desire to ruin such a lovely, innocent view. The word nearly is important, however, as he’s acutely aware of your need for him to do exactly that—and so, any sense of wrongdoing melts away, similar to snow underneath the sun.

He’s not quite sure what it is that you’re cooking, but it smells delectable. There’s an array of spices, herbs, and vegetables strewn around the counter, and Satoru knows he’ll be eating like a King in a few minutes. As for right now, though, there’s a different craving, a different type of hunger slowly making its way forward. He fears it won’t be one that’ll be sated by your lovely culinary skills. 

“Smells good, baby,” he mumbles. It doesn’t take him long to settle himself behind you, large hands gently coming to rest on your hips. He sighs in the crook of your neck, and nudges the skin with his nose. “What’cha making?” 

You answer. He knows you do, as he feels the vibrations of your voice underneath his lips, the soft hum feeling quite soothing as he kisses along the column of your throat, but Satoru can’t find it in himself to focus on the words you give him. His ever-loose hands roam eagerly down your body, and the previous loving, and delicate kisses along your neck turn sloppy, wet, almost, as Satoru dips one of his hands underneath the waistband of your panties. There’s a grin forming on his lips, one entirely too big and full of confidence. 

“‘M startin’ to think you’re just always wet for me, pretty girl,” he mumbles against the shell of your ear, fingers entirely coated in your slick the second he’d sunk them into your dripping cunt. 

Your cheeks heat up, and you try to stifle a moan when he, so very, very slowly starts to move his fingers in-and-out of you. “I—I am,” you admit, and clench around his digits just as he’s about to take them out; as if it’s a last resort to keep them inside. “F’you, Satoru. Just for you.” 

“Hm?” He hums, and almost huffs in amusement as he sees you trying to continue what you were doing so desperately, as if you weren’t being fucked on your husband’s fingers. Just for that—he rapidly thrusts his fingers back into you, harsher, deeper, and so much quicker. “Just for me, yeah, princess?” 

“Y—Ah! Yes, yes,” you squeak, one of your hands seeking out some semblance of support from the kitchen counter.  “Only for you.” 

There’s an embarrassing sound hitting your ears, as each thrust of his absurdly long fingers is accompanied by your wetness squelching around them. You struggle to speak, to breathe almost, as he fucks you on his fingers. Satoru stretches you out, curling his fingers to find the spot he knows will leave you with those pretty tears falling down your cheeks, and to hit it over, and over, and over again. 

There’s such a heat gathered between your legs, such a pleasurable source of warmth, and Satoru suppresses a groan as he’s once again made very aware of that fact when your walls clench around his digits. His cock twitches, and he lets out a shaky sigh as he grinds it against your ass. “You are, aren’t you? Hm? C’mon, baby, don’t be shy. . .be a little louder.”

You aren’t shy. You haven’t been for a while now. There’s a certain hotness in the way you moan so unabashedly, so utterly shamelessly whenever Satoru gets his hands on you in such a way—it’s as if you can’t ever get enough of him. It never fails to harden his cock even more, to make his balls feel achingly heavy until he ultimately empties them inside your tight little cunt. And you know so, which is exactly why you do it. 

“‘M not,” you rasp out, one of your hands coming to rest on his wrist. The back of your head falls against his shoulder as you choke on a moan, seeking some very necessary aid to stay upright. “Please, I. . .’Toru, please.”

In all honesty, Satoru isn’t quite sure what you’re begging for. He knows it’s one of two options: either to cum on his fingers, or for him to push his thick cock inside your pussy already. There’s no desire to ask, however—he’d much rather make that decision himself. The hand that wasn’t currently burying three of its digits knuckle-deep into your pussy busies itself with his belt-buckle. 

There’s a pitiful whine falling from your lips, one that’s released immediately upon the removal of his fingers from your cunt. “Shh,” he coos in your ear, instantly soothing your upcoming tantrum. You stifle the complaint you’d prepared for him, the feeling of his fat tip prodding near your too-eager hole quickly puts an end to it. “S’okay, pretty girl, just wanna feel you cum around my cock, s’all. . .Think you can do that for me?” 

You nod, and rapidly so. “Mhm,” you hum, and open your mouth when he presents it with his soiled fingers. You clean them, suckling around them until each bit of your sweetness is gone. “Want to—really wanna cum around your cock, ‘Toru.”

“Of course, you do,” he breathes, and captures a quick kiss. And another. And another. And one more. It makes you smile, and that, in turn, makes him smile. When he does pull back, there’s as much love as there is lust dancing in his eyes. “Wouldn’t have expected anything less of you, princess.”

Satoru is often greedy. There’s no such thing as savouring something with him—if he’s enjoying himself, he’ll be as gluttonous as he wishes. The exception is you, of course, as you always are to him. There’s no greater feeling than savouring you. It’s why he, more often than not, decides to fill you up slowly. To let his cock drag along your walls, to let your soothing warmth engulf him inch, by inch, by inch, until his firm balls press up against your ass. He does so this time, too. 

Your long, drawn-out moan as he fills you up slowly sounds as if it were gifted to him by the Heavens, and Satoru’s cock twitches inside when he hears you mutter a soft fuck as you struggle to adjust to him. It’s certainly not the first time you’ve taken his cock, but the sheer girth of him still stretches you out—as it always does. Your husband loves you dearly, however, and waits. . .one second, two seconds, three seconds, and he doesn’t get any further before his self-restraint falters. 

Satoru nearly pulls himself out of your cunt completely, only for him to fuck himself back inside so deeply—it has you place both palms of your hands on the counter to steady yourself. It startles you, as he hears you choke on a moan, but he continues. His movements are quick and rough, animalistic even, as he pounds into your cunt. 

“Sa—ngh, Satoru, wait, I. . .” You interrupt yourself with a moan, the feeling of his tip near your cervix too sharp for you to properly finish a sentence. He’s so deep. It feels as if he’s in your womb, in your stomach—it feels as if he’s everywhere. “Fuck, I. . .f—fuck, ‘Toru. . .”

 “Hm?” He breathes out, a groan slipping past his lips. “Want me to, fuck, you. . .” His rapid movements dial down. The self-control needed for it is enormous, but you’d asked him to wait—so he will. Some beads of pre-cum drip into your cunt, as if his cock was upset that he’d suddenly slowed down. “Wan’me to go slower, baby?”

“No,” There’s a small whine near the end of your sentence. It’s the absolute last thing you wanted him to do, even if you originally asked him to wait. “No, don’t, please, keep going. Need—need more.” You feel Satoru wrap both hands around your hips, as if he’s preparing for something. “Harder, please. . .”

“Harder?” He asks, and you don’t need to see him to know there’s currently a sense of smugness ruining his pretty face.  “How hard do you want it, huh, sweets?” 

Little more than the tip remains inside you, and there’s not a moment for you to mourn the loss of his entire girth—as all air leaves your lungs when he immediately thrusts back into you with a newfound vigour, with such force that it has you bend over the kitchen counter. 

“Like, ah, like this, huh? That how you want it, angel?”

You don’t answer—you’re not able to, as Satoru uses the entirety of his thick length to steal your ability to speak coherently. Once again, you’re acutely aware of the sheer size of your husband. Satoru is tall, and big, and he likely isn’t even aware of it. It certainly doesn’t seem so, as he heads no mind to the way your feet are starting to lift off the floor. Each deep thrust has you inching further up the counter; his hands on your hips nearly holding you up and off the floor as he rocks into you from behind. 

There’s little you can do, except take it. 

The kitchen is filled with sounds that definitely do not belong there. Your wetness is prominent, the sound of it borderline embarrassing, and Satoru’s balls slap against your skin with each thrust. He’s relentless, and you want to cry. The good kind of crying; the kind that often comes accompanied with mind-numbing pleasure. You hiccup, and sniff, and try your best to stabilise yourself against the counter. 

Though, your efforts prove futile once Satoru brings one of his hands to your front. You choke on a whimper as he cruelly pinches your clit, toying with it, flicking and rubbing it in the way he knows will get you off. 

“T—Toru,” you warn him. “I—I’m. . .”

“Mhm,” he hums in acknowledgement, not letting up even for a second. There’s a featherlight kiss pressed to your shoulder. “Me too, princess. S’okay, let, shit, let go for me, yeah?”

And because he’s Satoru—your Satoru, you comply. It hits you all at once, and you’re suddenly very grateful for both your husband holding you upright, and your expensive kitchen counter for adding some extra support. You’re still breathing heavily, coming down from your high, when Satoru hits his own. It’s a familiar feeling, but one you’ll never grow tired of nonetheless. 

You sigh in content. His cum fills you up rapidly, and to the brim. It’s hot, and thick, and trickles out of you even with him still inside—simply because there’s so much of it. The both of you are out of breath, and because of it, choose to stay within each other’s hold for just a little while longer. 

Satoru could—and would—stay in this position for the rest of his life. . .but he’s quite sure that you’ve put a lot of effort in today’s dinner and he doesn’t want it to be for naught. With a deep sigh and a quick kiss to your cheek, he goes against every fibre of his being, and pulls out of you. 

A shiver trails down your spine when he does so, and you let out a soft sigh in content. You’re still recovering, he notices. There’s a trail of his cum dripping out of you, though he wastes little time to push it back inside. Satoru takes matters into his own hands, and decides to place your panties back into place for you, too. It gets soiled by his seed rather quickly, but that’s a problem for later. 

After smoothing down your skirt, he tucks himself back into his pants, as well. He’s by your side as quick as he can, and presses a sweet, lingering kiss to your temple. 

It’s only then that he properly takes notice of all the stuff that’s been thrown around the kitchen. Pots, pans, vegetables, spices. It seems you really were busy.

And, as if he hadn’t just finished fucking you silly, he smiles. 

“So, what are you making?”

© MADE BY SANATOMIS — please, refrain from stealing, copying, or reposting any of my works.

[satoruhour]

HIS FAVOURITE W— STUDENT !

a/n: dilly / @crysugu i am losing the pwp war i needed the lore to be in this HELP. anyway !!! professors bc i cannot stop my mind from spiralling while starting my university classes — im not entirely proud of this but eehhh ….

wc: 4k

warnings: ultimately semi-public sex for all, unprotected sex, cumshot, standing doggy, brief oral (m receiving), brief f! masturbation, brief fingering (gojo), geto is a professor who is also a camboy, camgirl!reader, f! and m! masturbation, mentions of bad dragon’s cumtubes, brief fingering, unprotected sex, creampie / breeding kink (geto), pussy slapping, spitting (on yo pussy), pet names, clit stimulation, oral / cunnilingus, tit play, fingering, implied f! masturbation (nanami), mentions of murder, stripper!reader, riding, degradation, calls you ‘slut’ and ‘whore’, calls you ‘mama’ once too, unprotected sex, oral (m receiving), deep-throating, slight face-fucking (toji), n*sfw under the cut

✶ GOJO

professor gojo was… an interesting teaching figure. he didn’t have a set way of doing lectures or tutorials, nor was his feedback on assignments entirely coherent, but he was fun and unorthodox. he was also hot as fuck, as you’ve heard from your friends, but you never really got the deal even after seeing his photo on the university website or from miles away entertaining some starstruck student. his classes were always left with no vacancies, too, only able to see what your friends meant after stepping foot first into the lecture.

you were a tad bit early, greeted with gojo sitting at the front with his legs propped up on the desk as he shot you a nonchalant greeting and you think maybe you should’ve signed up for another lecture group, but then he speaks and the air is knocked out of your chest. professor gojo is charismatic when he teaches about art, design and media, captivating everyone with the stark white hair and blue eyes, but he’s clever with his glances because you aren’t realising he stares at you more than anyone else.

aren’t you in your second year? how did he not see you anywhere last year? why did you just sign up? 

the smiles he gives you are sweeter than others, the words more sugar coated with lilts in his voice and you’re chastising yourself for not being any different from everyone else, soon turning into the girls who ask for extra tutoring sessions and sidling up to him on campus — at least you’d get the full experience.

“oh! sweetness, what are you doing here?” you’ve managed to get gojo just as he leaves his office, standing outside for quite some time thinking if you’d really want to do this. several lecturers and professors have already walked past asking if you needed anything, but no matter how much you wanted to say professor gojo’s name, it always turned into something like waiting for a friend.

“oh— uhm, professor gojo, just wondering if the grade for that major project is really set in stone?”

gojo makes a show of thinking, but you know you’re asking for the devil himself when he replies yes with a stifled grin and you’re asking if the two week period of appealing works for the major you’re in.

“you can submit other collaterals as an appeal but it might either boost your grade or bring it down,” the professor leans down with a sick smile on his face, because he’s had so many people outside just like this, nervous from his advances and yet not going through with what they thought they could do. but this time it’s you, the you who he imagined taking on his office desk or even in a lecture theatre for everyone to see, who wants the words to fall from your lips just so he could be your knight in shining armour.

“is there really no… other way to appeal?” you swallow when gojo switches the position and gets you in exactly where he wants you: your back facing his office, his face dangerously close to yours while his eyes slyly catching the way your thighs rub together.

gojo smirks to himself when you knock down yet another cup of stationery on his desk after “discussing” ways you could improve your grades, nails making unsatisfactory noises on the wooden desk while he can hear your cunt gush around him, made obvious from the squelch of your hole and he’s muttering praises into your neck from behind.

“this what you had in mind, baby?” just another girl in his roster, getting ruined just for a grade that wasn’t even that bad. what you didn’t know is that you were the only girl, getting professor gojo so hard in lectures and tutorial classes just from the sight of you that to finally have you — it’s a sweet reward. you shiver when his hand reaches to your front to rub at your clit and you’re grasping at nothing as moans leave your lips.

“y-yeah, professor—” gojo is filthy, lewd, lifting your leg to prop up on the desk just so he could get deeper in you, your pussy everything he imagined and more as he continues to fuck into you. you’re warmer than his hand, than some hookup’s mouth from the club, clenching around his cock so tightly his hips stutter.

“f-fuck, angel, tryna snap my dick off?” you let out an incredulous chuckle at that, hips moving back to meet his while the sounds of his balls slapping against your ass fill the room. your juices are coating his length so well, too, that gojo’s eyes lock on your cunt that sucks him in over and over again, the spread of your pussy lips just amplifying his moans. the other spreads your cheeks and sighs at the translucent ring of cum at the base of his cock, hips fucking up to hit your sweet spot that you’re cumming with a shock down your spine — so hard, so deep, so intense that you’re jolting from the orgasm with whimpers of his name. gojo never truly is done with you after pulling out to cum on your ass, however, and you aren’t either.

there’s a thrill that runs through his veins when you back him up onto the sofa, a glimmer in your eyes that suggest you’re as intoxicated on him as he is on you, a sultry gaze taking over your shyness from earlier before he’s pushed onto the cushions.

“thank you for the meal, professor,” you giggle and gojo swears he’s reached his death when your mouth first closes around his still sensitive tip and he whines loudly, hearing your fingers fill your drooling cunt as your hand squeezes out leftover cum from before. a hand runs through your hair and your cockdrunk face is enough for him to see white—

professor gojo thinks you look heavenly between his legs.

✶ GETO

you sigh echoes throughout your dorm room, ending the stream and collecting your keep for the day as you grimace at the mess you’ve made on your sheets. it’s not like it wasn’t pleasurable, but on some days you’re wondering how long you truly need to serve gross men on the internet for it to be enough to pay off your university fees. sure, there were a few attractive people who commented and tipped you, but that was the extent of it. it’s not long before you can only think about cleaning up and taking a big fat nap, but a video in the sidebar catches your attention.

it seemed like a casual stream — no script or planned storyline apart from a heavily tattooed arm taking up half the screen, his pelvis just slightly off the thumbnail. he was faceless, too, filming rather from the chest down which was also inked, something that sends a chill to your core.

it’s only later when you’re slipping your dildo back into you as you watch this stranger pump his cock, guttural groans and slick noises filling your airpods that you realise the dragon wrapping around his arm looks awfully familiar. you’re so blissed out by pleasure, focusing on the needy moans that the man lets out before he cums with a grunt, so much cum leaking out from him. you’ve reached your high too, but you have no time to admire the stranger because it seemed like he was in a hurry, but not before you’ve caught a glimpse of his lip ring.

you know why he looked so familiar, now, standing in front of him in his office while his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, something he doesn’t do often. geto suguru doesn’t wear his lip ring in lecturers either, and now you think you know why because they match the video you’ve seen just last night. you aren’t even entirely sure why you were called in, and you think maybe it’s because you “accidentally” sent a friend request, but you’re taken aback when he asks you if you’ve already selected a tutor to be your mentor throughout your major project.

“surprised? i sent out the email a week ago, love.” you try not to let the name get to you, and the confession lingers at the tip of your tongue.

“y-yeah! i saw it, professor geto, just—”

everyone was no stranger to professor geto’s striking looks, always turning heads with his unconventional gauges and long hair that probably should’ve landed him in a modelling agency in the first place. except, he’s opting instead to teach linguistics, a fitting major for him to talk of the history of language and its formation of it, even slipping in some latin and greek to show its origins but you can hardly listen when all you can focus on is the tight pull of his shirt around his body while his hair falls around his face and you think maybe it was a bad time to think if his hair falls out of his bun while he rails someone. you hope soon it’ll be you, just so you can confirm it for yourself with no other reason involved (you’re a fucking liar).

geto clears his throat and you swallow and the flex of his forearms only distract you further, the dragon on his arm seemingly laughing at your torment as it moves along his skin — the other doesn’t miss your dilemma, staring at you for your answer with a dark stare and enjoying the effect he had on you. your brain doesn’t respond fast enough, though, and you’re blurting out the first thing as you watch the curve of his mouth turn in either distaste or satisfaction; you weren’t sure.

“i saw you stream yesterday—” and you slap a hand over your mouth, wanting to run immediately, but you didn’t expect him to smile after a moment of recognition, making the connections to your account until his mouth falls open just a little.

“you’re the little cutie who sent me a request last night, aren’t ya?”

as he asks the question you hoped he wouldn’t ask, you find there’s nothing on your mind except maybe seeing his tattooed arms wrap around you — and you did. they looked so much better up close, leading from one thing to another in that stuffy office soon they’re looking especially good with how he’s currently dragging the tip of his cock along your folds, collecting your slick as you hold onto his biceps after confessing sin after sin about you from—

“i’ve jerked off to your videos.” a burn on your cheeks when geto sets you on his office table, palms leaving hot trails along your thighs and skin. he lets you play with his bulge, hands probably forming bruises on you from how you relieve the tension in his pants.

“the way your cunt wraps around that dildo — makes me wish i was there fuckin’ your pussy instead.” a gasp and a moan when he preps you with both fingers as he sucks hickeys into your neck and plays with your tits, pinching your nipple that has you clenching around him.

“didn’t miss how you like to be bred in your videos too. think maybe you need some real cum, princess,” geto’s button up shirt is pried open by now, trousers just barely pulled down below his hips because he has a lecture in about half n’ hour. though, he wanted your pussy all to himself and if 27 minutes was all he was granted, he was going to make full use of it. geto groans into your hair when your legs wrap around his middle and he’s reeling at how he’s been watching your videos for the longest time and yet, nothing compares to having you fall apart by his hands.

a quick glance to his watch tells him fifteen minutes, eyes flitting back to the squelch of your cunt around him and he smiles smugly at the whimpers he knows so well. he’s sure it’s imprinted on his brain by now but his dick still jumps at the many variations you’ve let out during the 27; he’d commit every single one to memory. “professor— s-shit!”

geto angles his hips up, the curve of his cock hitting that spot just right that your back arches and you let out a drawn out moan, “yes, baby?”

“w-wan’ your cum in me, suguru,” you’re pleading with a drunk little smile and your face is twisted into such pleasure he’s only seen through pixels that geto cums almost immediately with a pained laugh seeing the real thing, hips stilling as he fills you up, up, up to the brim with hot, white semen that geto feels embarrassed to climaxing so quickly. but what can he do? when his favourite camgirl and student asks to be bred, it’s only natural.

how could he possibly say no?

✶ NANAMI

“does that mean the poem is written from the cross’ perspective?” your hand shoots up in hopes of interpreting the text correctly, but also because, just maybe, that you wanted to impress a little someone at the front of the lecture theatre. beside you, you can hear the gasp of your friend along with the eyes of various other students. “sort of like— personification?”

nanami points to you with his glasses that he’s long removed, a small smile on his face. it’s not like you’re trying too hard, but of course you know your shit fairly well. you always have in every class, it was just a bonus you were so attractive that all nanami could think about was spreading your legs right on this desk. “yes, almost. anthropomorphism, something that was very common in poems or works written in old english.”

you were sceptical about professor nanami at first, especially since he was a lecturer who was transferred here from overseas only three months ago and is technically quarter of a white man, but he held command of the japanese language well enough for you to understand, both in speech and concepts. you were more interested in the lecturer himself though, piqued from the moment he explained his grandfather was danish and you turn to your friend, explains the blonde hair, doesn’t explain how he’s so insanely fine, giggling quietly to each other the first day.

as for your major, it was texts after story after poem, but you enjoyed it alongside giving your own input in class — something you knew would help your participation grades. you’ve raised your hand in more ways than one, always coming up at the end of lectures with a question, stopping him in hallways to show him the book you were currently reading. so that’s why you were confused when you were called to the front of the lecture theatre after everything’s over. it couldn’t be bad, right?

it wasn’t bad, it was much better, especially when nanami’s got your legs on either side of him on the lecture theatre desk while he takes his rightful place between your legs — somewhere he’s always longed to be. both the front and back doors are locked, with only your soft, muffled moans filling the room. but nanami has no shame, slurping up the juices that drip from your pussy loudly, possibly staining the desk below him. he’s cared before about the condensation of his drinks but when it comes to your sweet, sweet cunt? he doesn’t give one fuck.

“taste so good, sweetheart,” nanami moans wrapping a forearm around your thighs and just eats. he flicks his tongue over your clit, while the other hand goes up to squeeze at your tits, kneading and playing with them while you’re still at awe at the man on his knees, at how you’ve gotten one of the hottest professors in the university eating out of your pussy like it’s the last meal on earth.

you’re snapped out of your daze when nanami lands a few slaps onto your pussy, brown eyes boring holes into your skull. but this stare is different, as opposed to glaring down the mischievous boys who can’t stop making noise, this is…

“pay attention when i eat your little pussy, angel,” the demanding tone has you shivering, a small grin stifled when he nods in deserved approval and continues his assault. fingers slip in before you have time to react and your head is thrown back so hard it bumps against the wood but you don’t care, clamping down around his fingers. nanami’s pace is unforgiving, sucking hard on your clit while he pumps them in and out.

“feel good?” nanami asks through slurps as he catches your eye, licking one last stripe before gathering his saliva into a ball and he spits onto your clit, sight so lewd you clamp around his fingers. he admires how the way the glob of liquid runs down your cunt and mixes with your arousal that he can’t wait for it to be his cum instead.

“better than…” your voice trails off when he rubs in his spit, a thumb on your bud while he continues to move his fingers and your thighs are already trembling from how nanami knows all your sweet spots in such a short period of time. nanami simply chuckles at your sensitivity, meeting you halfway as you sit up to feel his lips against yours and he whispers against your lips—

“what were you gonna say, baby?”

you’re heaving for oxygen as he adds a third finger and you’re just hoping he’d show you his fucking dick already. hot breath fans across your lips and you smile to yourself seeing how your words affect him.

“better than fucking myself with my fingers thinkin’ it’s your cock, prof.”

✶ TOJI

it was nine in the morning, and toji could already feel a headache forming from the amount of absentees in his class, simply sighing before pulling up the details for today’s lecture, eyes unknowingly looking for you in the large lecture theatre. he finds that you’re already looking, clad in a cardigan and tired eyes — no doubt from trying to reach his deadline earlier than usual. toji found that you liked to do that, the first one to always submit your essays and assignments, so that’s why he knows what game you’re playing at when you’re asking the difference between first, second and third degree murder when you already know their definitions.

he would know — you got full marks the other time. 

“hm?” toji only hums when he sees your enthusiastic face and a quick look down to your lower half shows how your legs spread naturally for him. the professor only licks his lips before he spots your underwear, entertaining you for now as you stare on earnestly, while nothing is actually entering your brain. that’s okay, though, you’re smart.

toji can count on one hand the amount of times you manage to catch him off guard, but he didn’t expect both of those times to be on the same day. it was a busy night at the club, trailing behind professor gojo, bored, until the clock hits 11 and the shift changes, some dancers retiring for the night whilst others make their way out. they emerge with pumps and skimpy outfits, but toji still hasn’t found someone worth wasting his loaded bank account on until you’re stepping out in a corset and garters and toji whistles lowly, eyes travelling up your person unforgivingly before he hears a small gasp.

his curiosity is piqued at the small noise, only to be greeted with your widened eyes and taut muscles at having seen your professor at the strip club you work at, but with a clap from somewhere backstage your body moves naturally into a professional stance, and perhaps a little more sluttily than other days.

your professor was hot, of course you would work twice as hard, twisting your body around the pole while you show off your assets — things you were covering just this morning in professor toji’s lecture. he taught criminology, a minor that you were trying out in your second year of uni and if it didn’t work, you’d drop it, but no matter how much you complained about the class, the green eyes that bore into yours in lectures always seem to ask you to stay. you never really knew whether he was looking at you or not.

at least now, you’ll make him.

toji’s hands tightened around the wad of cash he planned to waste tonight, all put on hold just from watching the way you put your body on display. he wouldn’t have imagined seeing you tonight at the strip club he let gojo drag him to, but he’s almost glad he’s here when you seem to be only dancing for him, all focus on the other patrons lost.

your eyes are still locked with toji’s, reminding you of the times in the lecture theatre where green was all you could see, a smile creeping on your face when one of your girlfriends behind you whispers that the man with the black hair and tight shirt wants a private session with you.

that’s all it took before you feel toji’s hands on your ass later in the private room, pulling you to his front with a smirk. “what’s a sweet girl like you doin’ here?”

you roll your eyes as you feign annoyance. your heart was pounding along with the music, finally being able to feel his toned body from the front., “cut the crap, prof. you booked me for a reason. what, here to talk about my grades or something?”

“what? can’t see my favourite student?” you scoff with a small smile.

“and how did you know i work here?”

“i didn’t, but seeing you work that pole,” toji grins, landing a smack on your butt before grinding his very obvious, large bulge on you and he’s loving the way it seemed to stimulate your clit, “i need ya to show me what i’ve been missing, mama.”

toji groans later while you’ve got his cock in his mouth, on your knees in front of him while you’re fisting the places you can’t reach. you take most of him easily, feeling the tip of his length reach the back of your throat. there, your eyes flick up to him, doe eyed and pleading. it isn’t long before you feel his hips bucking into your mouth and the cute twitch of his cock in your mouth, moaning around him as you knead his thighs, dragging him closer with what little strength you had.

“dirty fuckin’ slut, huh?” toji mumbles out breathlessly, tightening his grip around your hair before you start bobbing your head again, a plethora of lewd noises alongside the slurp of your saliva and his pre-cum mixing only makes your panties wetter and sends your cunt clenching around nothing. “who knew my cutest student was such a whore?” your head reels at the degradation, sucking in your cheeks even more while you slobber over him. toji swears under his breath when your tongue sweeps over his tip, collecting his pre-cum.

“it’s s’big in my mouth, professor,” giggling, you bob your head faster as the other’s noises increase in volume, and he’s left to tap the side of your skull, causing you to tilt your head in question. the vibrations of your moans has him grinding into your mouth, shutting you up until he’s cumming down your throat with a loud groan. toji spills so much into your mouth that you have to swallow twice, pulling on your jaw as you show him the remnants of the cum still on your tongue.

“’m sure they have it somewhere in the conduct about professors not having sexual relations with a student,” toji chuckles when he sees you peel off your underwear, eagerly wrapping his arms around your waist. “or even something about cutting corners to get your grades up…” it’s a little soft, trailing off when he feels you drag his tip along your pussy and he’s mesmerised with how your dripping folds accommodate him easily.

you pout in dramatics, thighs tightening around his when you take inch after inch of him before you’re bottoming out. there’s a deep sigh coming from you before you’re moving your hips lazily, a certain slur to your words that already show you’re drunk on your professor’s cock and toji only smiles.

“yeah, but my grades are perfectly fine,” you whisper with a small whine when toji squeezes your ass, something he never thought he’d get a taste of.

“plus, we’re not in the classroom now, are we, professor?”

[ugh-yoongi]

hi. i would like to request seungcheol (obviously). all i request is enemies-to-lovers. you may do with this what you wish. i leave it up to you to decide exactly how you will ruin my life 😌

tysm for the request my beloved !! he is so enemies to lovers coded i had TEWWW many thoughts (and started three separate wips oops), but here we are. i hope u enjoy this !! can't wait to get the collab fics out of the way so i can torture u further with baseball dk. i picked dodgers hat!cheol just for u. ♡

— we need to talk

pairing: choi seungcheol x f. reader summary: sometimes the only way to win the game is to not play, but sometimes it's not a game at all—sometimes it's four years of emotional build-up with nowhere left to hide. genre: enemies (kinda) w benefits to lovers; frat/university au; smut, angst?, fluff rating: explicit. minors do not interact with this or any of my work. warnings: frat boys. gendered language and insults. swearing. mentions of drugs & drug use (vernon is literally a drug dealer 🤷🏻‍♀️) as well as alcohol. possessive, jealous seungcheol who is extremely down bad and kind of an asshole and would be toxic af irl but is fine in fanfiction probably. this is maybe more "people who used to fuck and started disliking each other along the way bc they can't figure out their feelings" to lovers than enemies. there are very slight, very meaningless mingyu x reader undertones here. jeonghan is a bastard. feelings you think are unrequited but alas! this got softer than i intended oops. smut warnings: seungcheol truly is a man driven to the brink of madness bc of pussy idk what to say. kissing. hair pulling. mentions of masturbation. the dynamics shift in this one a lot, but to be overly cautious i will say dom!cheol and slightly dom!reader undertones that are not implicitly stated or defined. seungcheol uses the term "whore" once, sorry. oral sex (f. receiving). pussy slapping. unprotected sex. if i missed any pls lmk. wordcount: 8k. no i do not know what a drabble is, leave me alone. author's note: title from the song of the same name by waterparks but this was actually brought to you by "i'll never stop" by nsync bc it's their best song and fit the vibes perfectly. anyway, i still do not love writing smut but i am insane over this man so whatever, we persevere. everyone go shower mj in lots of love bc she's the best and deserves it. also everyone say thank u @the-boy-meets-evil for looking over this for me. i did not look at this again after she beta'd it so any mistakes are of my own stupidity. <3

Seungcheol is incensed.

What in the fuck are you thinking, showing up here? Ignoring him, walking by him with nothing more than a brush to the elbow and that sultry, electric gaze? A pair of painted-on jeans and a sheer top?

Who the fuck had invited you?

He looks around the room, gaze heavy under his furrowed brow. Bass thumps in his ears, the music so loud he can feel it in his chest. Still, his feet stay planted on the floor, already sticky with spilled alcohol and god knows what else. He needs to find Vernon—just needs something to get through this very unexpected (and very unpleasant) surprise, take the edge off.

But he can’t see through the sea of people. They’re everywhere, occupying every inch of available space in the house, but he just needs a glimpse of that mop of cornflower blue hair. If he could just—

Instead, he sees a streak of white-blond in his peripheral vision. “Soonyoung!” he calls, grabbing the man by the arm. “Hey, have you seen Vernon?”

Soonyoung stares up at him with glassy, bloodshot eyes, his breath already stinking of alcohol as he shrugs and says, “Dunno, hyung. Think he’s upstairs.”

Fingers still wrapped around his bicep, Seungcheol heaves a sigh. “Go find Jeonghan. He’s on babysitting duty and you’re already fucked.”

“I’m fine,” Soonyoung argues, slurred words giving him away immediately.

Seungcheol scoffs. “Bro, you can barely stand and you reek of shitty vodka. Go drink some water.”

As he sends Soonyoung away, he can feel eyes boring into him, tension wound tight in the center of his back that refuses to dissipate no matter how many times he rolls his shoulders. He turns slowly, already knowing exactly what he’ll find, but knowing does little to stop the hitch of breath as he takes you in.

And he hates it. Fuck, he hates the effect you have on him more than anything.

Hates that he’s still pining after you. Hates that all you have to do is look at him and he’s putty in your hands. Hates that you’re the first person he looks for in a room, the last person on his mind before he falls asleep. Hates you, hates that all of this is unreciprocated, because if Choi Seungcheol is anything, it’s proud. He’s rich, he’s good-looking, he’s pre-law, and the president of this fraternity, for fuck’s sake—he should not be hung up on a girl.

But he’d been doomed from the beginning. Ever since you’d been assigned to him as a challenge to overcome, an impossible task to conquer, he’d been helplessly, pathetically smitten with you.

And fuck if you didn’t know it, too.

So, it’s a game now. A lifetime’s worth of pining for Seungcheol all because his frat was misogynistic and refused to keep up with the times. They’d nodded in your direction and laughed at the confusion on his face, the knot between his brows. Seungcheol couldn’t figure out why his initiation was to fuck a girl, one his brothers wouldn’t even address by name, but when he’d approached you at a party and you’d immediately told him to go fuck himself, he’d figured it out pretty quick.

Call it determination, call it a stubborn streak that refused to quit, but the two of you soon came to a reluctant agreement: you would let Seungcheol lie to his frat, figuring he was attractive enough that people thinking you’d slept together wouldn’t be complete social suicide, and he’d owe you a favor you’d keep in your back pocket for as long as it took to cash in.

Which hadn’t taken long. The stress of finals that first year had gotten to all of you, and it wasn’t long before you were at his door looking for his drug-dealing roommate and a quick fuck.

That was the second time Seungcheol had been doomed to hopeless pining, because once he had you, he knew it’d be impossible to let you go.

Short of outright saying the words, he’d all but told you as much during some alcohol-induced brain shortage junior year. And, in turn, you’d all but laughed in his face.

Right.

Of course.

That was to be expected.

So, you’d continued your… well, whatever this is: quick fucks when both of you were bored or lonely or horny, usually under the influence of something illegal; a mutually tense but beneficial relationship for each of you, because you had been Seungcheol’s initiation and the initiation itself awarded him connections and opportunities. You got a back-up plan. A safe body and warm bed to retreat to when the need arose—one who clearly wanted it to be something more, but was, all things considered, fine with the current arrangement. Didn’t pressure you.

But, as was also to be expected, it was never going to be that simple when feelings got involved. When he started feeling slighted. When he wanted you so bad he ached with it sometimes and it was beneath you to care. Which is why he really, really needs to find Vernon. If he’s going to endure an entire party with you, he’s not going to do it sober.

He takes the steps two at a time, feet stumbling onto the landing as soon as he reaches it. Vernon’s door is the third on the left, and he can hear a separate, distinct bass line from the one booming downstairs that hums louder the closer he gets.

And Vernon knows. Of course he does, because he’s yanking his door open before Seungcheol has even raised a hand to knock, the stench of weed seeping out into the hallway, and all he needs is a quick look at Seungcheol before he pulls the door open wider and says, “Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States of America,” as if he’s speaking into a microphone. When Seungcheol doesn’t react, he awkwardly tacks on, “Hi, hyung. I’m assuming she’s here.”

Seungcheol nods, dumbly, and stands as awkwardly in the center of the room as someone who’s about to ask their roommate for drugs tends to be. “Yeah.” Shoves his hands in the pockets of his overpriced jeans so Vernon can’t see the sheen of sweat.

“You looking for somethin’ specific?” he asks, rifling through the top drawer of a tall dresser. “Like, is this an I’m about to fuck her the rest of the night visit or an I need something to help me forget she doesn’t actually like me visit?”

The words come like a reflex. “Fuck you,” he seethes. Vernon’s not wrong, per se, but he didn’t have to go and just… say it like that.

Vernon just shrugs, one side of his worn-out collar slipping down his shoulder as he does so, and Seungcheol can’t tell if he’s actually dressed for the party or not. “Gonna guess it’s the second one, then.”

Seungcheol scoffs. “Well, it’s not,” he insists, knowing damn well he should let it go, that he’s just digging himself a bigger hole, but the truth sits in the pit of his stomach like lead.

And, really, he knows he just needs to accept it. That little strand of hope hasn’t brought him anything but more pain—allowed him to delude himself into thinking it could be something more, something tangible—and it’s time to let it go.

You don’t want more.

You don’t want the label and the relationship.

You don’t want him.

He knows this, but it still tastes sour in his mouth. Still tastes like the chill of autumn when you’d first showed up at his door all that time ago. Tastes like all the blunts you’ve shared and the liquor from all the parties you’d snuck away in the middle of. Tastes like the sharp notes of your perfume, the ones that’d coat his tongue when he’d kiss down your neck—the same notes that stain his bedsheets.

Mostly, it’s the pitying look Vernon’s giving him that hurts the most. He’s above pity. Doesn’t need it, especially not from Vernon Chwe, but it hurts all the same to be on the receiving end of it.

“Give me whatever you’ve got.”

Vernon’s face quickly morphs into surprised concern. “Uh, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I mean, I’ve got some pretty heavy shit here.”

Heat flares in his belly. The pity was bad enough—now he wants to be patronizing? “Then give me whatever the fuck you think I need,” he snaps. “I don’t care. I don’t have time for this shit.”

“Well, you definitely need to chill,” Vernon mumbles. “You want some dabs?”

“No. Something…” The word feels thick in his mouth. Stronger implies that Seungcheol does heavy drugs, and that’s not true. “Else,” he finally finishes.

Vernon sighs as he continues rifling through the drawer. “Your dad would fucking kill me if I gave you my real heavy shit, so…” He pauses, eyebrows raising in triumph as he finds what he was looking for: a small baggie filled halfway with some nondescript powder. “You want a bump?”

Maybe he should be ashamed at how quickly he agrees, at the urgency and greed with which he grabs the baggie from Vernon’s fingers, but he just needs something. Needs the distraction, the brain fog. He shoves it in his back pocket next to his wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

Vernon wrinkles his nose. “Nah. Consider that one a freebie. No offense, but you’re a real piece of shit when you’re like this.”

The implication only pisses him off more. Seungcheol is loaded—he can afford to pay his drug dealer, thank you very much—but he’s not like anything. “I’m sorry?”

True to his nature, Vernon barely shrugs. “I’ll put it on your tab, hyung,” he says in a way that implies he’s not at all going to do that and is only saying so to get the fraternity president off his back.

Jeonghan (23:12) Better come get your girl. Kim Mingyu’s dick looks like it’s halfway up her ass by now. Jeonghan (23:12) Uh oh! I think I just saw a testicle

Seungcheol stares down at his phone, hands trembling in anger. Of course it’s Mingyu. That pathetic loser has been taking up residence on the subs bench ever since you’d made out with him months ago in an admittedly successful attempt at payback. Seungcheol had hooked up with some downgrade at a party one time and you’d gone and made out with his friend. It was hardly a fair trade.

Seungcheol (23:14) Good for Mingyu, he can deal with her then Seungcheol (23:14) I’m busy Jeonghan (23:14) Doing what? Jerking off in the upstairs bathroom again? Jeonghan (23:15) Do you know what size condom he wears btw? Looks like I might need to fetch him one if you don’t want to take care of another man’s baby Jeonghan (23:16) Although, to be fair, you might want to sit this one out. He has way better bone structure than you. Might be a blessing in disguise Seungcheol (23:16) Fuck you Jeonghan (23:16) Better be nice to me, Choi Seungcheolie~ that might be the only fuck you get tonight

Seungcheol needs better friends. He needs a lot of things, really, but number one on his to-do list is to never let Jeonghan be on babysitting duty ever again. Somehow he’d forgotten how obnoxious Yoon Jeonghan is when he isn’t stoned and half-asleep on a couch somewhere.

For now, he just stomps down the hallway; locks himself in his room and doesn’t bother to turn on the light. He’s not going to be here long. Just enough time to do this line, change his t-shirt, and come up with a game plan, because he’s not going to let Mingyu even entertain the thought of being able to have you but he also can’t appear desperate. Not just to you, but to everyone else. Choi Seungcheol is not clingy, especially not over a girl.

Especially especially over a girl who doesn’t even want him like that.

But the longer he sits in the dark, the more trouble he has finding his resolve. Can’t bring himself to dig that baggie out of his pocket. Can’t drag his t-shirt over his head. Can’t bring himself to think about anything other than Mingyu’s hands all over you, and fuck, does that image drive him insane.

Does he touch you like Seungcheol does?

Does he coax those same jagged whimpers from your mouth like Seungcheol does?

Does his semi-hard cock feel as good pressed against you?

God, he’s so fucked. Utterly and completely fucked. And he wonders if this would be as bad if he’d just kept his mouth shut, took that secret to his grave instead of fooling himself into thinking it could be more. If it wouldn’t have devolved into… this. You’d always told him not to get attached, that sex was just sex and there was no need to ruin a good thing. But Seungcheol is a selfish man, always has been, and what if? is a dangerous question.

Jeonghan (23:36) Wow, you’re a fucking pussy. Stop hiding in your room like a little bitch. Seungcheol (23:36) Fuck off

He can’t go down there. Not because he’s a coward, but because he’s barely tethered to his sanity as it is. Something about you brings him out of his mind, makes him toss whatever good judgment he has left to the wind. Seungcheol is far too impulsive when it comes to you, reckless in ways that have all twenty years of his social training weeping in a corner; have alarm bells ringing in his brain. So, no, he can’t go downstairs right now because he knows he’ll do something stupid. Stick not only his foot but his entire lower body in it. He should’ve listened, yet here he is, dick pulled halfway out of his jeans because the thought of you alone gets him hard but his pride won’t let him jerk off to the image of anyone touching you that’s not him.

Forget whatever Jeonghan had called him. He’s a fucking fool. A moonstruck, delusional fool who’d tricked himself into thinking he could swim when he can barely tread water.

You (23:41) Something wrong?

Oh, here we fucking go, he thinks. Because this is Seungcheol’s game—one he’d perfected years ago, the one where he’s coy and chilly, never too eager, never committed. Just a little bit of a tease. Barely enough to keep them on the hook, a little needy; still enough to keep them coming back. But you’d taken one look at him all those years ago and had him pegged immediately. Figured out his game and learned the rules, used them against him. Now you watch him flounder with a smile on your face.

Seungcheol (23:42) Never knew you were so needy baby. First you show up uninvited and now youre missing me?

But just because there’s now a player two doesn’t mean he’s doomed to lose. He knows how you look when you’re on your knees for him. Knows how you sound when you’re begging to cum and stuttering out his name like you’re singing hymns. Knows how you look with your eyes rolled back after he’s fucked you dumb. Kim Mingyu doesn’t know shit.

Seungcheol knows he’s the only one fortunate enough to experience you like this.

And god does it kill him.

You (23:44) Don’t act stupid

A pleased exhale of laughter, an equally-smug smirk. Yeah, this is still Seungcheol’s game, the crown still sitting atop his head. You can let Mingyu grind his dick against you all you want, but Seungcheol is still the one you’re seeking out, pouting at the fact he hasn’t come to find you yet.

You (23:44) Mingyu invited me

Oh, you’re good—know just which buttons to press and how much pressure to use. Whatever smug expression Seungcheol had been wearing slides off his face immediately, tongue pressing into his cheek.

Seungcheol (23:46) And yet youre looking for me? You (23:47) Don’t have to look for you to know you’re upstairs sulking in your room because Jeonghan tattled on me like a fucking five year old Seungcheol (23:49) Maybe you should come up here then Seungcheol (23:49) Away from prying eyes

You don’t reply immediately. It’s just long enough for Seungcheol’s brain to conjure up something indecent—the way you’ll straddle him, the way his cock will feel pressed against the apex of your thighs; the goosebumps that’ll raise on his arms when you work your tongue along his neck, that spot near his collarbone you know he likes. His cock throbs against the confines of his jeans when he thinks about the devastated look on Mingyu’s face when you make up some excuse to get away from him, to traipse up the stairs and fall into Seungcheol’s bed, when he realizes he’s not going to have you.

You (23:56) It’d be pretty rude to leave my date, don’t you think? You (23:57) If you want me so bad, come down here and get me yourself

Seungcheol doesn’t play games; doesn’t compete because he has no competition. He’s always been given whatever he wants on a silver platter, no questions asked, so he’s wholly unprepared for this turn of events. What he knows he should do (respond to your text and tell you to fuck off, that you know where he is should you stop being a brat and change your mind) is not what he does (tucks his dick back in his jeans, finally throws on a clean t-shirt, and takes his time descending the stairs so he doesn’t look too eager), because logical thought gets tossed out the window entirely wherever you’re concerned.

“Ah, if it isn’t our resident pissbaby making his grand re-entrance.”

Seungcheol clenches his jaw for the nth time and glares. “Fuck off, Jeonghan.”

The man in question laughs—the annoying raspy one that grates on Seungcheol’s nerves—and hands over a cup of something brown and pungent. “Well, judging from your attitude, and the fact you’re barely hiding that boner you’ve got, you clearly didn’t spend your time away jerking off. What finally got you down here, the promise of cheap whiskey I nicked off some freshman or the fact that your girlfriend’s about two seconds from getting a public indecency charge courtesy of Kim Mingyu?”

Well. Jeonghan may be an asshole but he’s not wrong. Even through the crowd of people and the haze of whatever’s in his cup and a contact high, Seungcheol spots you immediately. Your back is pressed against Mingyu’s chest, his fingers gripping tight at your waist as you roll your hips in time with his. Whatever manufactured filth he’s whispering to you draws a smile, causes you to reach up and tug sharply at his hair. Fuck, Seungcheol can almost hear Mingyu’s moan from across the room, and his blood quickly heats to a rapid boil.

Another chuckle from the demon beside him. “Stop fucking laughing,” Seungcheol snaps, still unable to take his eyes off of you. “Fuck this. I’m going back upstairs. Make sure everyone’s out of here by three. I’m not paying for another noise citation.”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “I’m absolutely not going to do that.” He shoves a bottle of something in Seungcheol’s hand. “Take this and think of me when you’re crying yourself to sleep because Mingyu stole guaranteed pussy right out of your hands.”

“Why do you do this?” Seungcheol asks, shoving at Jeonghan’s shoulder roughly. “You never know when to fucking quit.”

Another streak of white-blond. “Hey, no fighting!” Soonyoung slurs, trying his best to push Seungcheol to the other side of the kitchen with his useless, limp arms.

This attracts the attention of Joshua, who struts into the room looking straight out of Fashion Week, much like he always does. He hasn’t even broken a sweat. “Aw, are Mom and Dad fighting again?” he asks, his lips tugged into a smirk. He ignores Seungcheol’s scowl as he fixes himself a drink. “You know Mingyu only does it to get a reaction out of you,” Joshua adds, quieter this time, as if he’s telling Seungcheol a secret only meant for the two of them to share.

“What’s her excuse, then?” Seungcheol fires back, because even if he doesn’t like it, Joshua’s right. This is exactly the kind of behavior he’d expect from resident campus whore Kim Mingyu, but he never expected you to go along with it.

Joshua cocks an eyebrow. “She doesn’t need an excuse, Cheol. She’s not your girl.”

Even though it’s a truth he already knows, it somehow hurts worse being spoken in plaintext, a hushed conversation in a crowded kitchen. Being let down gently. Seungcheol knows he needs to make a decision. He needs to let you go and start moving on with his life; can’t be having these quasi-meltdowns during frat parties anymore. Can’t be possessive and spiteful. You don’t want him. Everyone knows you don’t want him, so that’s all there is to it. Maybe you’ll want Mingyu and he can finally wash his hands of this forever, scrape the jealousy off his tongue.

He steels himself. Rolls his shoulders back, cracks his neck. Navigates the crowd in the living room until he reaches you and your so-called date. Grabs you by the elbow—gentle enough that it doesn’t hurt but firm enough to send a message—and says the two of you need to talk. Upstairs. Now. Mingyu just smiles like he knew this was coming and presses a pointless, wasted kiss just below your ear. Seungcheol tells him to fuck off, too, and Mingyu grins wider, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

As he guides you to his room, he doesn’t think about the way your hand fits in his. Doesn’t think about how this is going to be the last time he has you. Doesn’t think about who’ll have you after. Doesn’t bother to wonder if you’ve finally changed your mind like he had all those other times he’d walked this same familiar path with you in tow. Because it’s the last time. Whatever happens once it’s over is out of his control.

Perhaps that’s what it’d always been about. Seungcheol has always been spoiled and selfish and so terribly, terribly desperate to prove he’s more than his family name and family money. So, yeah, he’d wanted the control; wanted what was never his for the taking. You’d always been the opposite—his perfect little counterpart. Always so pliant and careless and free: everything Seungcheol tried so hard to be but couldn’t, and that’s where the switch flipped.

Someone like you isn’t meant to be controlled.

What he used to want so badly now tastes rancid in his mouth.

The door locks behind you. Seungcheol doesn’t meet your eye as he says, “You got what you wanted. Are you done being a fucking brat?” It’s not a tone he usually takes. Usually he’s dirty, a little possessive, willing to let you set the pace. He doesn’t miss the way your breath hitches. “I asked you a question.”

“Seungcheol—”

He clicks his tongue, stalks closer until you’re nearly in his grasp. Your eyes close instinctively as if you’re expecting his mouth on yours. Instead, he threads his long fingers in your hair and pulls. “What’s so hard about answering a simple yes or no question? Did you really want Mingyu’s dick so bad you’ve gone dumb all of a sudden?”

You gasp. “No.”

“No what?” Seungcheol chides. “No, you’re not done being a brat? Or no, you weren’t just downstairs acting desperate and pathetic for mediocre cock?” He runs his thumb across the seam of your lips, follows their movements as you speak.

“I wasn’t—”

A low, mocking chuckle. “You were, baby.” Sounds condescending; speaks to you like you’re a stupid child. He’s so close to you now. Can smell the tang of your skin, the sticky notes of your perfume. Feels your breath fan against his own sweat-slick skin. Still avoids your gaze, because as domineering as he appears, he knows he can unravel just as quickly. “Take your clothes off. This is the last time I’m gonna fuck you and I’m not going to ask twice.”

Now you truly look caught off-guard. “What?” Still he ignores you, expensive silver rings clinking into a dish on his dresser one by one, expensive watch following. “What do you mean the last time?”

Deft fingers play at the buttons on his shirt. Not silk, but just as expensive. “Shit. You’re really testing my patience, you know.” You’re still standing at the edge of his bed, staring dumbly as if he’s just going to start spilling all his secrets, give you some kind of explanation. “I believe I told you to strip.”

Unlike Seungcheol, your fingers tremble as they work at buttons and zippers and hemlines, push down denim and remove heels. It’s clear you’re trying to work out what he’s playing at—if this is some punishment for fucking around with Mingyu or if he really means it—but you’re not going to risk asking. Things between the two of you are already tense as it is. Seungcheol has never been wound this tight, never been so ready to snap.

“That’s it,” he praises once you’re left in nothing but a skimpy underwear set you know he likes. “Look at you. Fucking gorgeous. I bet that’s why you think you can get away with embarrassing me, huh?” He grabs your chin, forces you to meet his gaze for the first time since he’d dragged you up here. “Get on your knees. I’m getting tired of repeating myself.”

It’s not an unfamiliar sight—as it is, you usually leave Seungcheol’s room with bruised knees on a good night—but it settles differently in his gut this time. Because he’d dared a glance at you once and knows he can’t do it again, so he watches the top of your head as you fumble with his belt buckle and looks away whenever he thinks you might risk a glance upwards. Finds some point on the wall to focus on. Hisses through his teeth when you pull his cock from his briefs, your hands cold against his flushed skin.

All he wants to do is kiss you. Draw this out. Give you a memorable last time, maybe mark you up a little. He really wants to savor the feeling of your tongue on his cock, but all he can focus on is the fact that he’ll never be enveloped in that wet heat again. He’s never going to feel your mouth working him over, feel you humming around his length because he knows you love the weight of it, you love wrenching away that little bit of control, turning him into a mess.

But he’s not going to dwell. He’s going to thumb at the hinge of your jaw, force it open just wide enough for his cock to fit inside. Then he’s going to fist your hair into a makeshift ponytail, grip it tight, use it to guide your mouth until there’s only an inch of space between you. He’s going to stare down at you, silently revel in how fucked out you look already even though he hasn’t touched you. He’s going to watch the way your fingers dig into your thighs because they can’t touch him. Then he’s going to say—

“Beg me. Beg me to let you suck my cock.”

There’s a flicker of hesitation. Seungcheol doesn’t talk to you like this. This is not the kind of dynamic the two of you have, and Seungcheol finds himself wondering if things would be different if it was. If he’d never started going so easy on you. Would you want him then? Or would you have left a long time ago?

He’s half-expecting you to do that now. You look ready to bolt, to pull your clothes back on and tell him to go fuck himself on the way out. Probably go straight back to Mingyu, let him fuck you hard but routine, the way Seungcheol usually does, the way he knows you like. He expects you to leave, and this is the last time, anyway, so he figures he has nothing left to lose.

“I’m going soft,” he snaps, the admonishment harsh on his tongue. When you look up at him, his jaw is clenched, eyes narrow. “You have one fucking job and you can’t even do that properly? Who’s going to want a dumb little whore that can’t follow simple instructions?”

He watches your eyes squeeze shut involuntarily. Wonders if he’s gone too far before deciding he doesn’t care if he has. It’s the last time, anyway, so it’s not like it matters. Watches the indents in your thighs grow deeper. Watches you inhale and try to steady your breathing.

Watches your eyes snap open, any trace of hesitation long gone. “Did you make that other girl beg for you?”

Seungcheol snorts, amusement showing all over his face. “Is that what this is about? You’re still mad I hooked up with some other girl so you act like this?” He clicks his tongue at you, fists his cock, slicking it up. “Are you jealous?”

“No,” you answer simply, “I’m just trying to figure out why you think you can speak to me however the fuck you want.”

Seungcheol’s hand stutters along his length before it stills, your words sharp and immediate against his skin. He should’ve known. Shouldn’t have thought something like this would work on you, that you’d like it, and he’s halfway to soft and throwing his hands up and tucking his dick back into his briefs when you say, “Answer the question.”

“What?”

You tsk. Move your hands from your thighs to his, nails pressing just deep enough to leave crescent moons behind that match your own. Something for someone else to see. “Did you make her beg for you?”

Seungcheol’s brain power decreases the higher your palms go, when your thumbs press into the dimples of his hips. Can barely choke out a hissed yes, yeah, fu-fuck when your hand covers his, fingers wrapping tightly around his own as you guide it back and forth, up and down the length of his cock. “What did you make her beg for, Cheol?”

“To—to to-touch me.”

You hum. Tighten your grip on Seungcheol’s hand and laugh as his hips roll involuntarily, seeking the friction. “Touch you how? Like this?”

“Yeah—fuck, yes, like this.”

“Did she? Did she listen to you like a good girl?” Your hand leaves Seungcheol’s only to collect the precum at his tip. “Don’t get all shy now, Cheolie.” You suck your thumb into your mouth and he whines. “Was she a good girl for you?”

You sit back on your haunches. Watch him jerk himself off. “Yeah,” he finally says, word cracking in the middle. “Boring, though. Not like—not like you.”

“No one is like me,” you admonish. “I could’ve told you that for free, before you went off and fucked someone else.”

“Not an idiot,” Seungcheol replies, the pace of his hand quickening. He’s playing a dangerous game; approaching the cliff edge at a dangerous pace. “No-nothing comes for free with you.”

All you do is smile, lopsided and smug. “Mm, that’s true. Guess your little dom moment earlier can just be chalked up to momentary stupidity, hm?” Seungcheol wants to nod, wants apologies to tumble from his lips until you shut him up, but his palm is so slick against his dick, fist tight enough to white out his vision. “Did you make her beg to suck your cock?”

Truth be told, Seungcheol can’t remember much of anything right now. He’s perilously close to coming, right at that precipice, and each filthy word that slips from your mouth just pushes him further to the edge. He remembers Chan inviting him to a party. He remembers a few drinks, a few hits from a blunt, compliments of Vernon; he remembers a girl making eyes at him from across the room—eyes that had looked a lot like yours in the haze of his crossfade. He remembers a locked bathroom and the sound of his voice as he told that girl how to touch him so it felt like you. He remembers her doing whatever he told her to, remembers how eager and submissive she was, how she didn’t mouth off to him the way you always do—

Remembers how unsatisfying it’d been when he came.

You’ve ruined him.

Not a revelation. Not even close to one. Seungcheol has known this for a long time, but that doesn’t mean annoyance doesn’t flare in his belly at the reminder. You don’t want him. Being so hung up on you isn’t doing him any favors, just means he’ll have a longer drop when this is all over. God, what the fuck is he doing?

He wants you so badly he’s aflame with it. He wants you so badly he can barely look at you anymore. He wants you so badly it consumes him, drives him insane, has him all fucked up and seething. He wants you, he wants you, he—

Loves.

Reality washes over him like a cold wave. Knocks him backwards, drowning, desperately trying to remember how to breathe. In, out; in, out—and none of it changes a goddamn thing.

Four years of this. Four years of touches exchanged in the dark, behind locked doors. Four years of yearning and trying and failing. Four years of everything getting lost in translation, because it’s hitting him now, but shouldn’t he have felt it before? Shouldn’t all those ‘drive me fuckin’ crazy, can’t fucking stand you’s he spoke into the crook of your neck rang hollow?

“Cheol—” you say, because you asked him something, tried to play along with this whole stupid charade, and he knows he’s frozen, just standing there, hand still wrapped around his cock, and he needs to say something, he needs to fix this—

“I’m a liar,” is what he comes up with. You’re still staring up at him, brows furrowed, pinched in the middle. Move, he wills himself, but nothing happens. “I’m a liar,” he says again, because if he says it enough you’ll believe it. “I’m sorry. I’m—”

“What are you talking about?”

He swallows. I’m in love with you, he wants to say. Feels the weight of the words on his tongue, heavy and pressing, and he thinks you should know. Even if you don’t feel the same, he thinks you deserve to know, but the way you’re looking at him—

He can’t bring himself to say it.

But he can—“Can I show you instead?”

Slowly, you nod. Seungcheol nods, too, still feeling off-kilter as he cradles your face in his hands, thumbs in the contours of your cheeks. Moves them down your neck, your shoulders, down the length of your arms. You meet him halfway, twining your fingers together, and he helps you stand, careful and considerate. At full height, he places a hand in the small of your back to tug you closer, kisses you like it’s the end of the world. Whines into your mouth at your familiar taste, and if he lets himself be delusional enough, he can pretend there’s form and substance to those sounds, that their edges are squared-off to form the words he wants to say.

Because it really might be the end of the world. Seungcheol has never known how to play the cards he’s been dealt when it comes to you. Always gets it wrong. Feints one way when he’s meant to go the other, takes the field with two left feet, always playing catch-up. Maybe the mistake was treating it like a game. Maybe the mistake was strategizing, only playing to win, because he lays you gently on his bed, fits his body in the space you create for him between your legs, and realizes he already won a long time ago.

He won the first time your eyes met. He won the first time he’d kissed you, more nerves and teeth than anything else. He won the first time you tucked yourself against his side and stared at his bedroom ceiling, half-smoked joint between your fingers, and made fun of the stupid flag he’d hung up. He won every time you took all the bullshit he threw at you and dished it right back. He won every time he had the privilege of tracing mindless shapes into your soft skin.

Every second of your time you chose to give him—all victories.

He presses in further. Groans when your hands move to his shoulders and grip tight; when your nails dig into the skin of his back. “I’ve been so stupid,” he says, punctuating his words with a nip at your ear. Smirks out of the corner of his mouth at your shuddering breath. “Haven’t I?”

“Yeah,” you answer, rolling your hips upward. He grabs at you desperately, tries to keep you still; hisses when you swat his hands away and redouble your efforts. “You’ve been a fucking asshole for a—for a while.”

You can’t see the way he pouts. Wonders, too, if that would work on you, if it’d earn him one of those rare moments of tenderness. “Well I’m trying to—shit, baby—trying to make it up to you, but you seem pretty determined to make me bust right now.”

He can see the way you roll your eyes. See the way the corners crinkle after as you laugh softly, breathlessly, still trying to chase a high Seungcheol refuses to provide. “You deserve it. You tried to dom me, you dickhead.”

Embarrassment sits obvious on his ruddy cheeks. He hides his face in the crook of your neck so you don’t see it, don’t have something to poke at him with later, but you’re having none of it. You thread your fingers through his hair and tug gently, forceful enough to have him pliable, and there it is: there are stars in your eyes as you stare up at him, tender and soft just like he hoped you’d look, and he misses the feeling of your nails on your scalp until you’re tugging at the delicate chain around his neck and pulling him closer. “Just kiss me and we’ll call it even.”

This is how it feels to get struck by lightning, he thinks. Every part of him is on fire, and he’s content to burn as his lips find yours. He sighs happily into your mouth, hikes your thigh higher around his middle, presses in to lay claim to what little space is left between you. Seungcheol is so close he can feel the rapid pace of your heartbeat, because this is not the way you usually kiss. What used to be dirty and quick, a means to an end, now has intent, purpose. He’s kissing you like he wants to steal the air from your lungs to replace it with something better.

Trails those same kisses down the length of your body. Open-mouthed at your neck, your collarbones, the space between your breasts. Teasing and slow in the space between each rib, just to watch the way your skin pebbles. Hungry and insistent at the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, because if he’s feeling this unhinged, he wants you right there with him. Can’t bear the thought of still being in this alone. Not anymore.

“Legs over my shoulders.” You listen immediately, and Seungcheol mutters a quiet fuck at the sight before him. “God, you’re so wet.”

“No shit—”

He swats at your clit, delighting in the way your body jolts. “Hush. The only thing I wanna hear out of your smart mouth from now on is my fucking name.” And then he’s diving in.

He eats you out like a man starved; like he could do this every day for the rest of his life and he still wouldn’t be satisfied. Can’t help but rut against the mattress at the way you taste, the way your thighs tighten around his head, the sting as you pull at his hair. Places both hands beneath your ass to lift and drag you closer to his waiting mouth—licks at you wet and feverish, all of this seemingly more for him than it is for you, and you’ll get tired of it soon, just like you always do. You’ll tell him—

“Do it right, Cheol, please—”

And he’ll pull away and tsk, swat at you again. His responding laugh will be cocky and derisive when your body trembles again, frantic with the need for more. “What did I say, baby? Do you not trust me to make you come?” You cock an eyebrow, torn between throwing some sarcastic remark at him and following the rules long enough to get what you want. His voice grows serious as he presses a soft kiss to your core. “I will always take care of you.”

The rest is muscle memory.

The rest has a chorus of Cheol, Cheol, Seungcheol spilling from your lips as he suctions his own around your clit. The rest has you grinding your pussy against his face. The rest has him groaning at the way he’s so wholly consumed by you: the taste of you on his tongue, face soaked, two fingers pressed deep into your cunt. The rest has him saying that’s it, baby, come on my face, I know you can and feeling delirious when he finally pushes you over the edge; when your walls clench around his fingers, breathing fractured, when you grab at him until you’re eye-level and you’re licking into his mouth to taste yourself.

Tastes a lot like I love you.

“Want you to ride me,” he says, gaze half-lidded and pleading. You whine as he moves his thumb back to your clit, tracing slow, slow, slow circles, oversensitive. “Will you do that for me?”

The party seems so far away. Grows even further away when you nod and straddle his lap. Seungcheol sits up, tells you to wrap your legs around him. Can’t stand not touching you; needs every inch of his skin to be covered by you like a bruise—something deep that’ll last for days, weeks, months. The mottled colors will change, but it’ll still be there.

“Need you, Cheol,” you whisper, kissing his eyelids. He hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes.

“You have me,” he answers, but it sounds foreign to his ears—sounds wretched, like the words have been punched out of him. It sounds like forfeit. “Always have.”

You pull back. Study his face. Run over his plush bottom lip with your thumb. It feels like an eternity of silence before you speak. “No, I haven’t,” you insist, tone insistent but delicate, like you’re trying to convince him of it, too. “Not like this.”

I love you.

You lift your hips just enough to sink down on his cock. Seungcheol’s moan is loud and unabashed, not afraid to let anyone hear the way you make him feel. All he can think is familiar: he knows your blinding white heat; has made countless homes in your tight grip he still holds the keys to; has done this so many goddamn times it’s second nature.

He was an absolute fool to think he could ever walk away.

You roll your hips, taking him deeper like you’ve got something to prove, body moving on its own sinuous accord. Seungcheol loves you like this, when you know exactly what you want and aren’t afraid to take it. When you press sloppy kisses to his neck, the column of his throat. When he grabs at your hips, tries to move you faster along the length of his cock, and you swat his hands away. When your rhythmic up-and-down turns into a slow grind that has you gasping and breathless, pussy spasming around him.

“Goddamn, I love this pussy,” he chokes out, fingers gripping tightly at the sheets since he can’t touch you. He’s mindless with pleasure, feels himself start babbling nonsense he can’t make sense of, and it’s overwhelming, having you like this. Isn’t sure how he’s survived this long, but maybe you were right.

Maybe it was never like this before.

Usually he’d take you from behind, quick and dirty, hands digging into the meat of your ass, palm cracking down on it every now and then, imparting white heat of his own. Usually he’d have you beneath him, knees pressed to your chest, all condescension as you told him, eyes rolled back, that he was too deep, that you couldn’t take it, and he’d rub at your clit and tell you you could as he dragged another orgasm out of you. Usually he’d be so frenzied and worked up he’d take you against the door, sweats pushed to mid-thigh, forearms straining as they held you up.

So, yeah—this is different. This is a patient, sensual dance to the finish line. This is Seungcheol in his rawest form: a live wire, vulnerable, anxious. This is the unknown, because something has to come after but he doesn’t know what it is.

This is Seungcheol throwing caution to the wind, leaning in close enough to taste the salt on your skin, and saying, “I love you.”

This is Seungcheol planting his feet and fucking up into you, unwilling to hear your response. Sometimes ignorance is bliss, but sometimes bliss is just bliss, and he’ll willingly take either.

This is you coming undone on his cock, breathing rapid and ragged, pupils blown wide as you stare at him in awe.

“Say it again.”

Someone slams into the wall just outside Seungcheol’s door, and all at once the real world creeps back in: the thrumming bass line of the music downstairs; laughter, shouting, and yelling; fists banging on shut doors—but he hears you loud and clear. Presses each word into your mouth this time and groans when you swallow them. Barely makes a sound as he spills inside of you, feeling like every nerve in his body is aflame.

The two of you are quiet for a time as you try to catch your breath. Seungcheol only moves to grab his duvet and wrap it around your shoulders, smiling fondly at the small thank you you mumble, seemingly still bogged down, well-fucked.

He presses a tender kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“Okay?”

You nod, push at him until he lays back and pulls you with him, lets you use his firm chest as a pillow. That flag you’d made fun of before isn’t up there anymore, but Seungcheol feels warm at the memory anyway, almost laughs at the comment he imagines you’d make.

Clears his throat. Tries to find his courage. “I really am sorry,” he tells you again, because it doesn’t matter if he loves you if he doesn’t know how to be good at it.

“I know, Cheol,” comes your easy reply. You’re tracing shapes on his stomach that have his muscles contracting. “I know you love me, too.” You sigh, press your lips to his rib cage. “Who knew it’d only take making out with Mingyu to get you to admit it.”

A wild laugh tumbles out of him. “Fuck off.” He can feel your grin.

“You got a fucked up way of showing it, though.”

He hums, holds onto you a little tighter. “Go easy on me, I only figured it out about an hour ago.”

“An hour?” you faux-gasp, make like you’re about to leave. “I’m outta here. I know my worth. If I’m going to say it back to someone, they need to be in love with me for at least two.”

He chokes at the implication, heart threatening to beat right out of his chest and into yours. He knows he looks exactly like the moonstruck, loved-up loser he is, and he coughs to cover it. “That’s what I said,” he lies. “Two hours. You must’ve heard it wrong.”

No, it was never like this.

[punkrott]

the urge to dye my hair rn… strong