Gojo With A Corruption Kink Makes My Brain Explode Grrr

gojo with a corruption kink makes my brain explode grrr

too much..! (ﾉД`)ヽ

"o-okay, okay.."

"hm? what's okay sweetheart? you think 'm only gonna let ya take the tip?"

"t..toru.."

he had only propped the tip of his shaft into you, the hot and leaky cockhead making a small 'pop!' noise as it slides into your cunt. but his cock thickened around the middle, too thick you could say; and it almost hurts to take him further.

you huff. "c-can't- it'll h-hurt.."

"it's only for a little, mkay? i'll make sure it feels so good after.. don't you trust me?" his eyes peer up to yours, a slight glimmer in his pupil. you pressed up harder against his abdomen, but his piercing grapple on your hips makes it difficult for you to pull off any further.

you feel a sense of insecurity at his affirmation filled with holes, but the sole thought of being unable to please the honored one caused your heart to tighten with dread.

"don't you want to make me feel good?"

"i- i do..!"

"okay.. then be good and sit on it, okay? do it for me."

yummy, absolutely delicious depiction of Geto

“Didn’t expect to see you out here.”

Your head pops up as the unexpected voice makes itself known, twisting your face towards the sound only to see a figure standing at the end of the alley. He’s silhouetted where he stands—a shape more than a person. You can tell he’s tall, broad, and has a knot of hair tied up loosely at his crown. 

Geto Suguru steps into the light where you can see him better, though it makes his sudden appearance no less surprising. 

“Did you drink too much?” he asks, treading a few steps closer as he eyes you worriedly. You pull yourself up from where you’d been crouching on the ground.

“No, no. Just getting some air,” you reply with a stiff smile, dipping in a bow and quickly adjusting your pencil skirt once you’re back upright.

He has his tie loosened over his shirt with the top button undone, and his suit jacket is nowhere to be seen. He considers you for a moment, and his attention makes you want to fidget but you fight the urge.

You watch as he pulls packet of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his shirt and offers it out to you. “Do you smoke?”

“No, thank you,” you say with a quick shake of your head, smoothing your hands along the front of your skirt and then moving to step past him back towards the entrance of the restaurant. “I should go.”

He angles his body in your way before you can.

“No need to leave on my account,” he says, peering down at you. His face is partially in shadow because of how he’s standing, angled between you and the mouth of the alleyway that leads back to the busy street, caught in a small dark patch between the streetlights and the light affixed to the grungy brick wall. He tips his face up and the light touches his features once more, catching in his brown eyes as he waits in anticipation of your response.

“I should get back inside.” It’s strangely difficult to meet his gaze, so instead you look past him towards the street as an unwelcome heat surges up your throat to flood your face. A car passes quickly by the alley, and you watch as the headlights come and go in a flash.

“Why?” the man before you asks, placing the cigarette he’d fished out of the pack to his lips. He uses his teeth to keep it there while he fumbles through his pockets for a lighter. “You’re clearly having a terrible time in there.”

Your eyes snap up to meet his in shock.

“No I’m not,” your reply is notably indignant, even though his accusation is valid.

How would he know anyway?

“The smiley, nice-girl bit’s gotta be getting old, isn’t it? Pouring everyones drinks. Cleaning up everyones messes.” He laughs, though it’s only to himself, before clicking his lighter to life and holding it to the tip of his cigarette until it catches. The cherry burns red and bright on an inhale, and smoke slips from his lips as he adds, “You don’t have to lie to me, I’m not your boss.”

“I’m not lying,” you insist, but your performance isn’t particularly convincing. 

Truthfully, the very last thing you wanted to do after a ten-hour work day—capping off a fifty-hour work week—was come out drinking with your colleagues. You’ve never really liked these kinds of gatherings, even if the company is the one footing the bill. They always get a bit too rowdy for your liking. Always drag on a bit too long. And you know that you’ll inevitably be the one stuck forcing your plastered boss into a taxi in the wee hours of the morning, while the rest of your equally-sloshed coworkers find their own ways home.

But the department chair, the very same one you’re sure will be singing karaoke with his tie around his forehead in only a few short hours, had been adamant that everyone in marketing attend the gathering since the sales section was joining in too. 

Hence the sales employee standing toe-to-toe with you, blocking your path.

You know Geto Suguru, but only indirectly. The sales and marketing departments are separated by a single floor in your company’s office building, and often work on projects together. Geto is a section lead in sales, with a long, illustrious history behind him before he worked his way up to that role. He’s made a lot of money for the company, and a lot of friends along the way—what with his easy charm, silver tongue, and undeniable good looks. His reputation precedes him—in both good ways and bad.

The fact that he’s here talking to you—a fresh-faced, relatively new-to-role nobody in comparison to his lengthy history with the business—is what you have a hard time wrapping your head around.

“Sure, sure.” Geto waves his hand dismissively, ash fluttering off in tiny specks from the end of his lit cigarette. “I’m sure you just love making all those copies, remembering coffee orders, and running that section lead of yours’s errands too. Oh, and don’t forget when he takes credit for your ideas.”

Your stomach drops. 

He keeps going.

“This upcoming brand collaboration is exciting,”—he takes a puff of his cigarette, his eyes sparkling as he looks at you—“too bad no one knows it was you who came up with it, huh?” 

Your fists clench tightly at your sides, your lips pressing together in a thin line.

Geto blows the last of the smoke in his lungs from the corner of his pursed lips, away from you.

“That’s the first honest expression I’ve seen on your face all night,” he says with a sly smile tugging at his lips.

Your hands are shaking.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask him weakly.

He tilts his head to the side, like your question confounds him.

“I’m not doing anything,” he says, and he sounds like he genuinely means it. “Have I said anything that isn’t true?”

You bite your lip, staring down at your pretty, professional pumps as you stand on the craggy pavement of the alley.

“You’re allowed to be angry, but don’t direct it at me for pointing out the people who keep screwing you over,” Geto says, and the way his voice sounds a bit nearer and the smell of his cigarette gets stronger tells you that he’s dipped down closer to you even though you don’t watch him do it. “No one’s gonna hand anything to you if you don’t fight for it.”

You glance up at him, your expression and your tone equally flat. “And what if I’m not a fighter?”

“Oh, I don’t believe that,” he says, chuckling a bit as he backs away from you.

You watch him as he watches you—contemplates you, like he’s sizing you up. He drops cigarette suddenly to the ground, still only half-burned, and crushes it with the toe of his shoe. You hold your breath as he takes another step towards you.

He leans forward.

“Hit me.”

“Pardon me?” The bewildered question rushes out of you all in one gasping breath, and you take a loping step back in shock.

“Come on, just one,” the man goads you further, rapping against his jaw with the knuckle of his index finger as a smile twists his lips up at the corners.

“You’re drunk,” you spit out incredulously, shaking your head and quickly moving to step past him.

“I’m not.” He sidles smoothly into your path once more before you get the chance to flee, like he’s half-a-step ahead of you at all times. 

It’s infuriating.

“Alright, then you’re just insane,” you offer instead.

You knew the sales department had a reputation for being a bit wild, but this is beyond all your expectations. This is nothing like the charming, easy going Geto that you’ve heard all your female colleague gossiping about in the break room.

His smile falls, and he crosses his arms over his chest. You try not to pay too much attention to the way his forearms look with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“I’m still your senior, y’know,” he says, and his voice is a little bit colder now. More admonishing.

You’re very acutely aware of that fact without him saying it.

You huff out a frustrated little breath through your nose, crossing your own arms over your chest in a mirror of his stance.

“I’m not hitting you.”

Geto’s brow quirks curiously.

“Why not?”

You can’t believe you’re having this conversation.

“Because that’s assault,” you counter his question shortly.

“It’s only assault if I press charges—which I won’t.” You know he’s telling the truth but it doesn’t make it any more convincing. He tilts his head to the side again, and a silky strand of his dark hair slips into his eyes. “Haven’t you ever hit anyone before? It’s cathartic.”

Your lips part in an expression of astonishment. “Of course I haven’t.”

The man in front of you looks mildly surprised at your answer.

“Do I look like someone who goes around fighting people?” you ask him incredulously.

“You look like you’ve got some repressed rage in you,” he says with a smirk, and the expression only worsens when he sees the way you react to it.

He taps his cheek again before tucking both his hands behind his back and leaning in close to you, like a man offering himself up to the executioner’s block. He shuts his eyes.

“C’mon, just a little one.”

“I won’t.”

“You should.”

“I won’t.”

“How come?”

You take his face in your hands suddenly, tilting it up to meet your gaze.

“Geto-san,” you say quietly, your tone bordering on desperate. “I’m not going to hit you, so please stop asking.”

He opens his eyes slowly, his dark lashes fluttering as he blinks up at you. After a moment he smiles, and his eyes curve into narrow crescents as he leans subtly into your touch.

It’s quiet in the alley, but your heartbeat is quick underneath your skin.

“Can you blame a guy for trying?” he asks you coyly.

You’re still cupping his cheeks in your hands. 

They’re warm.

“You really are crazy,” you reply softly to his question, though it’s not much of a reply at all.

He hums, turning his face so his nose drags across your wrist. His lips brush against your palm as he speaks once more. “I’ve been called worse.”

You don’t doubt he’s telling the truth.

Slowly, the dark haired man picks himself up to his usual height. He’s closer to you now than he’s ever been—and thanks to the little cat and mouse game that the two of you have been playing, you’re very nearly pressed against the alley wall. You can’t even see the street anymore beyond the expanse of his wide shoulders.

Everywhere you look, you only see him.

The realization sits hot and heavy in the pit of your stomach.

“I know you’re a good girl, but what are we gonna do about all that stuff you’ve got pent up in there?” Geto lifts his hand and presses a featherlight touch to your sternum over your diaphragm, his fingertips trailing delicately against the smooth plane where the arch of your ribs ends. Your breath hitches painfully as you stare up at him, a sticky knot at the back of your throat preventing you from forming any response—not that you can think of anything to say. 

Geto smiles down at you, his expression soft.

You see the faintest flash of sharp teeth behind his pink lips.

“Don’t you want me to help you let it out?”

Helloooo I just read your recent attachment issues and avoidant issues fic and omgggg !!! It’s so incredible idk how you wrote something the amazing. Istg I think I fell in love with your writing style!!

I love you made the smut to intimate yet almost eerie at the same time like we’re learning things about Geto and Gojo, things that we are t supposed to learn.

Sorry if this is too much I just love your writing !!!!

First of all, It’s never too much to express that you liked any of my work. I really appreciate it, thank you, mwah!! 😋🥰

But elaborating on that, this was the vibe I was going for!! Like the reader knows them both so well but they think that they’re soooo sneaky (they’re not).

Currently working on a continuation of this blurb, because I want to explore how this dynamic plays out when they’re together 🫢🫢

Tattoo artist Choso who finds out that the reader likes pain a little too much

Nghhh I need to write this asap or my brain might explode

I love nasty Suguru sosososo muchhhhh AAAAAH

a kind of dog — suguru geto

♡— You’re an animal with an appetite for his validation, and he has to pull the dish from you every so often to remind you that meals are fleeting. That way you’ll always need him. You’ll never bite the hand that feeds; You’ll suck eagerly on its fingers.

𝐖𝐂 - 4K

𝐒𝐘𝐍 - You would endure just about anything to earn Suguru’s praise — even his cruel game of denial and degradation.

𝐂𝐖 - [18+!] fem!reader referred to as “girl” once + no body descriptions, pwp, d/s dynamics, manipulation, reader is very subby, geto is mean, not quite a blowjob but close enough to tag oral (m receiving), spit!!!, degradation/humiliation, face fucking but think literal, some nasty stuff with cum + swallowing, no explicit pet play but lots of implications, terms used: plaything, whore, pet, slutty, good girl

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 - this was supposed to be a drabble but then it got too long for me to call it that in good conscience. idk how geto wormed his way into my mind like this but yeah !!

“Down.”

It’s a simple command, one you’re quick to follow, crawling from your seat on the couch to the floor beside his feet. Suguru likes that about you — that you obey so easily.

His legs open wider and you fill the space between them like a puzzle piece snapping into place. This is your place, below him, beneath him, and that’s something you’re reminded of often. Just as often as he pampers you and praises you, lifts you up until you’re light as air, he also buries you. But you lay in the ditch willingly and thank him for the piles of dirt, because you know it will please him. And it’ll be that much more satisfying when he pulls you back out again.

Secretly, you crave it all. The highs and the lows. You crave whatever he’ll give you, whenever he’ll give it to you.

You’re already bracing yourself for the low, the way he’s looking down his nose at you familiar enough to make your chest tighten. It’s an amused look, but with an edge of cruelty, like he’s privy to some joke and you’re the butt of it.

It’s almost contradictory, though, the way he reaches out and cups your face. So gentle, so covetous. He tucks your hair behind your ear and you keen into his touch, cheek coming to rest on the inside of his thigh. Fingers delve into the hair at the nape of your neck, scratching lightly, and your eyes flutter closed, lungs filling with a deep, pleasured breath. He smells good, clean. A light sort of clean, like fresh laundry and gentle body wash.

His hips shift, breaking the spell you’re under, and your lids open again, gaze falling on where a large hand now rests right between his pelvis and the highest point of his thigh. His hand flexes in a lazy squeeze, and the outline of his cock strains against the black fabric. Thickened and half-hard, size impressive even as it rests down the leg of his sweats. Like a well-trained dog, you’re already salivating from the stimulus.

He’s still looking down the length of his nose at you, lazing back in the couch cushions. He’s gorgeous, captivating, with a perfectly chiseled jaw and a plush mouth. But his facial expression is so measured. You long to see it flushed and pained. You long to hear him praise you, even if it’s only with groans and stuttered breaths.

The cotton is soft and his muscles are hard under your palms as they trail slowly up his legs. Shifting your weight onto your knees, you nuzzle your face up, up towards the growing tent of fabric. It’s so close you can taste it — and, god, you really want to taste it, so much so that your tongue lolls out to drag along it through the thin barrier. He twitches under the contact, and you respond by pressing your lips to him, the shared heat quickly warming your mouth. Your fingers finally find the waistband of his sweats and hook under, and you’re already imagining how it’ll look springing up, how the thick base of him looks framed by black curls, how the tip looks all shiny with arousal, and how he’ll fill your mouth up, so heavy and—

“Did I tell you to do that?”

You falter. Hands retreating, chin tucking into your chest submissively. Peering up at him through your lashes, you find his mouth now set into a hard line, but that familiar amusement still glitters in his eyes. 

You’re not sure what you’ve done for him to deny you, and your mind races to find a reason. Had you misread the situation? Upset him earlier in the day? There has to be something, some misstep you weren’t aware of.

What you fail to realize is that sometimes Suguru is cruel for the sake of cruelty. Or, really, for the sake of balance. How can you crave him if he never gives you anything to hunger for? You’re an animal with an appetite for his validation, and he has to pull the dish from you every so often to remind you that meals are fleeting. That way you’ll always need him. You’ll never bite the hand that feeds; You’ll suck eagerly on its fingers.

Sometimes even in a literal sense.

Suguru leans forward and pushes his middle and ring fingers into your mouth. You take them with a hum, closing your lips and massaging them with your tongue, relieved to suck on something. He lets you have that for a moment, watching how you suckle tenderly before prodding deeper. Your jaw drops open obediently, and long fingers press down on the back of your tongue until they’re invading your throat. Instinctively, you try to lean away from the sudden intrusion, but a hand behind your head keeps you firmly in place.

“Ah-ah-ah, what have I told you about pulling away?” Suguru tuts, fisting your hair just enough to make a point. “Gag if you must, but do not pull away.”

He pushes them in further, expression calm while yours twists into discomfort. Your esophagus tries its best to reject him, and your whole upper body lurches with the force of the gag. His hand retreats, giving you just enough room to breathe before filling the space once more.

He makes you gag again, and again. The wet clicking and retching sounds coming from your throat are almost embarrassing, but you’re not able to feel much shame when he’s giving you his full attention like this. Dark eyes taking in your slowly deteriorating expression with an almost unsettling warmth. You’re basking in it, even as your throat begins to burn and your eyes overflow with tears.

You’ll endure just to hear him say it — to have him tell you that you’ve done a good job.

Your head is swimming by the time he’s finally satisfied, and your chin and cheeks are wet with drool and tears. He reclines, posture jarringly relaxed next to your panting and coughing, and holds his hand under your chin.

“Spit.”

You don’t hesitate. You never do, not when given a direct command. Suguru likes that about you.

The saliva is so thick that it’s hard to push from your mouth. It bubbles and drips in fat globs from your puckered lips, so much of it that it pools in his palm. His hand chases the long string of it, the edge of his pointer finger wiping up along your chin to collect what’s stuck there, then retracts.

You think he’ll say it then, as he’s pushing down his sweats just enough for his cock to spring free, but he doesn’t. You wait to hear him groan it when his eyes fall shut and his fist closes around his girth, all that spit you gave him coating him completely, making a slick sound as he pumps slowly from base to tip then twists on his way back down. But it never comes.

Pouting internally, you bite down on the inside of your cheek. You’re being sensitive. Needy. You’re well aware of that. To you his praise is gospel, and to be getting none of it right now, as he’s jerking himself off right in front of your face — well, it’s torturous. 

He reaches back behind his head to pull his t-shirt off, then disposes of his sweats, and you shift out of the way to let him untangle them from his ankles before taking your place again. Now he’s completely nude before you, lounging back in the couch, looking like he was formed by careful hands in the image of some ancient god. His skin is smooth and perfect like porcelain, but the strength he holds is obvious. Shoulders broad and muscles cut sharp. Somehow, with you still fully clothed, he seems even more powerful. You think he could walk stark naked into a room full of investors and still hold dominion over them all like it was his divine right. 

By the time he wraps his hand back around his length, you’re damn near trembling with need. It’s hot and slick between your thighs, but that’s hardly the ache at the forefront of your mind. Instead, it’s the ache to please, the need to be useful. It’s a beautiful sight – a privilege, really – to see him lost in that slow-building ecstasy. But you want to be what’s making him feel that way. To be what’s making his chest expand with full breaths and his neck arch back in pleasure. Why won’t he use you to get himself off? You’d offer up any part of yourself (and you have, many times before), so why won’t he accept your offering? You never thought it possible to feel this jealous of a hand.

And still his hand pumps, and twists, agonizingly slow, like it’s taunting you. The sound of wet skin on wet skin is hypnotizing, as is the way his flushed head disappears and reappears from his foreskin with each steady stroke. Another firm, upward squeeze and a clear drop of arousal is beading right on the tip before rolling down and disappearing in the mess of fluids. 

Fuck, it’s unbearable. You can feel yourself getting antsy, your body overheating and your hips rocking. From the way you’re seated, with your legs tucked under you, there’s just no friction where you want it besides the slip of your own soaked underwear. You don’t dare reach down to touch yourself, not without his express permission, but watching him jerk himself off without paying you any mind, so close that you can see every vein, every wrinkle of skin — you’re fucking shattering. 

And, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing to you without even looking at you, Suguru moans. Head resting back, raven hair fanning out on the cushion, pretty lips parted just so, he moans. A low drag of a moan that rakes all the way up your spine and back down again. He breathes in deep, swallows thick so his adam’s apple bobs with it, then pushes another pleasured sound out through his nose — a long and heady mmmm. You shiver so violently you’d think he actually touched you.

It’s in that moment that a few drops of the sloppy mixture coating his dick begin to roll down the base and over his balls. They’re sticky globs of saliva and pre, dripping slowly between his legs, but soon they’ll be staining the couch beneath him. You should clean it – he would want you to clean it. That’s what you’re telling yourself as you lean forward, stick your tongue out, and begin to lick the mess from his balls.

When he doesn’t immediately stop you, you lick again, and again, lathing your tongue over the velvety skin and making sure you’ve really done your job. His soft grunts stirs you on, and you suck one of his balls gently into your mouth. Peeking up at him, you find his brows knitted together and his eyes now on you, hand still working over his length, so you switch to the other one, lapping softly and then closing your lips around it. It feels so delicate and swollen on your tongue; The softest part of such a powerful man, and you get to take it between your teeth. The thought makes you moan around him.

Suguru hisses at the vibration, then opens his mouth to finally speak to you again, and your excitement grows at the prospect of finally receiving praise. Maybe he’ll tell you how good your mouth feels, or how pretty you look between his legs, or–

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” He scolds. 

Eyes wide and apologetic, you release him from your mouth with a pop. He lets out a condescending sigh, then shifts his hips down until the tip of his cock is tantalizingly close to your lips. 

“Here,” he says with the clipped tone of somebody who’s doing you a favor, “stick your tongue out, since you want to taste it so bad. But don’t move.”

You do as you're told, and your eyes nearly roll back in your head at the taste of your reward. Salty and musky, warmed by his own body heat and the friction of his hand. Suguru rubs his tip against your tongue, as if to really mark you with the taste of him, then resumes stroking with it resting there. The sound is right in your ears now, a slow schlick-schlick that fills your head with cotton and your core with lava.

You want so badly to wrap your lips around his girth, to feel the ache in your jaw when you try to fit him all the way in your mouth, to suck him down and swallow. You want him to tell you how good you’re doing when he finally slides into your throat. But each drop of precum he wrings out of his cock and onto your outstretched tongue is enough to satiate you for now.

The way your face has melted so quickly into contentment makes Suguru chuckle. You look rather silly, actually. Face flushed and eyes glossy, dew still clinging to your lashes from when he’d throatfucked you with his fingers. The lips that were just sucking at his balls are shining with spit, and your tongue is stuck out to form a little pillow for his cockhead – so lewd, so desperate, and you clearly fucking love it. It’s cute, Suguru thinks. You’re cute. But he won’t tell you that just yet. 

Instead, he’ll grip your jaw in his hand, just rough enough to wake you from your trance, and tilt it to the side. He’ll show you just how cute you look to him by smearing his dick from your mouth to your cheek, then rutting his hips up to grind himself right on your face.

“Fuck,” he breathes, brows pinching at the sight of your soft skin indenting with the hard shape of him, “That’s it– yes, just like that. Stay nice and still for me.”

It’s all so slippery, your own spit lubing his cock and making it glide seamlessly along your cheek. If you didn’t look a mess before, you most certainly do now. He spreads the mess all around your face, gripping himself firmly at the base and rubbing the underside of his dick this way and that, over your lips and across your tongue, from one cheek to the other and back again until your skin is completely coated. Shining in the light, the glossed picture of debauchery.

It’s downright nasty, and you’re allowing it to happen. More than allowing – you’re enjoying it.

“You’d really lower yourself to this?” He coos, voice saccharine and soft despite the way his words cut. A hand braces against the top of your head, anchoring you in place as he rolls his hips up to grind once more. “On your knees, letting me rub my cock all over your face… You like being my little plaything? My little whore?” He slaps his cock against your cheek with a wet plap. It’s gentle, but heavy enough to make a small gasp flit from your lips. Your face scrunches when he does it again – plap-plap-plap – but you don’t make any move to pull away. Suguru smirks. “You like being my little pet?”

Your eyes meet his, and – god – they’re beautiful. He’s beautiful, and he’s staring down at you like he doesn’t even need you to answer, like he’s already read your mind. 

The truth is, no matter how he says it – plaything, whore, pet – your answer will always be the same. Because it’s not about the label, it’s about the phrasing. My little plaything, my little whore, my little pet. All you hear is the possessive, the sound of a lock clicking closed on a collar. All you hear is that you’re his. 

Nodding, you give him your silent answer: Yes, I like it. His smirk grows. 

“Kiss it.”

You press your wet lips to the tip of his cock, right on his frenulum, and Suguru’s breath hitches at the softness of it.

And then he’s pushing up onto his feet, hand gripping the hair on top of your head to angle it back as he goes. Your neck strains painfully to follow his motions, back arching and hands finding the floor behind you to brace yourself. Suguru looms over you, cock in hand and legs barring you in on either side, a long curtain of black hair falling down around his face. 

“Stay still for me,” he breathes, voice light and sweet, much unlike the heavy darkness his shadow is now casting over you. You swallow, then squeak out a small “Yes, sir.” and your subservience sends him over the edge.

His cock slaps down on you, so long the tip rests on your forehead, so thick and heavy it makes you flinch. He cups your face in his hands, fingers splayed out over the sides, and if it weren’t for the hard dick he presses to your skin with his thumbs, the gesture might look like adoration. But perhaps this is adoration, in some twisted way. Adoring you so fully, so intensely, that he needs to show you in the most animal way. He needs to defile you.

His hips jut forward, and his cock drags along your face. He rocks back again, then pauses, and for a split second you’re concerned you weren’t staying still enough, but then he tucks his chin down and purses his lips, and spits. It lands on his dick and splatters across your face, making you gasp and squeeze your eyes shut in surprise. Then a mean smirk spreads his lips, and he starts humping steadily into you.

“There you go,” he murmurs between hot pants and firm bucks of his hips, “look at you. What a fucking mess.”

You can only imagine what you must look like right now; On your knees, actually bending over backwards for this man as he — very literally — fucks your face. It’s depraved, the way he’s grinding the underside of his dick up and down, up and down the length of it. Precum leaking from his tip and mixing with the spit that coats every inch of your face, making it wetter, messier with each roll of his hips. But even more depraved, is how much you fucking love it. Because he’s using you to get off. 

It’s degrading, sure, but god is it fulfilling. To hear the way he pants and moans above you. To feel the throbbing heat of him on your skin. He’s using you like you’re just an accessory to his masturbation. A pretty accessory — his favorite accessory — but an accessory nonetheless. But you can’t bring yourself to mind, not when every nerve ending in your body is alight, and Suguru is starting to curse and ramble like his are too.

“Dirty little–” He’s grunting between gritted teeth, barely audible over the squelching sounds ringing in your ears. “Letting me do this to you, whatever I want to you. Letting me– ahhh—” Your hands are bracing hard on the floor behind you now, body shaking with the force of his movements. Your neck hurts, and you can’t open your eyes, but you don’t dare move. His thrusts are getting sloppier, his heavy balls seeming to tighten up from where they’re squished against your chin. “Gonna keep you– my slutty little pet– keep you forever– oh fuck!”

The weight is suddenly gone from your face and then the curve of his tip is poking at your bottom lip. “Look at me,” comes his growl, equal parts pleasured and crazed, and you do, lashes unsticking and lids fluttering as you readjust to the light.

He’s properly fucked-out now, sweat making his forehead glisten and a rosiness dotting his cheeks. He’s jerking off over you again, but with so much more fervor now than before. Shoulder jumping and forearm flexing as he strokes fast and hard, spit and precum frothing around his fist and dripping onto your lips. If you looked down at his cock, you’d see what an aching red the tip now is, how the veins visibly pulse, just how painfully hard he is from sullying you. But you can’t look down at his cock, because he’s given you an order, and, truthfully, you wouldn't look away from his even face if you could.

“Stick your tongue out. All the way— there you go.” His voice strains, ragged breaths making his chest shake. “Stay like that. Look at me, pet— agh, yeah, look up at me—“

Suguru groans long and low, and then the first rope is shooting into your waiting mouth. The head of his cock weighs down harder on your tongue as he pumps his length faster, and then there’s more, and more, hot and thick as it pools right on your tastebuds. You stay perfectly still for him, keep your eyes trained up and your mouth open wide like the obedient thing you are. And he rewards you with that beautiful, blissful expression of his, and so much cum that it feels like it could spill over at any moment and drip down onto your chest.

Once he’s unloaded completely, squeezing the very last drop from his tip and watching it join the pool of white in your mouth, he gives you another instruction.

“Hold it there. Don’t make a mess.”

Again, you do as you’re told. 

Suguru pulls his sweats back on, tucking his softening cock away and sitting back down on the couch in front of you. Running a hand through his hair to unstick the strands from his damp forehead, he chuckles breathlessly. You’re perfectly still, hands placed politely in your lap like you’re preparing to serve tea rather than doing a balancing act with his cum. It’s amazing, really, the lengths you’ll go to please him.

“Silly little thing,” he coos at you, patronizing. “If I told you to heel, you’d heel. If I told you to bark, you’d bark. Isn’t that right?”

You can’t answer, you can’t even nod, but Suguru knows that. Your head is still angled back, your mouth still stuck open to obey his command. You’re willing your body not to tremble, breathing slowly and evenly through your nose. All of your focus is on not spilling a single solitary drop of the thick puddle of spend currently resting on the center of your tongue – at least, until he allows you to swallow.

And he takes his sweet, sweet time. He checks his phone, tapping away at the screen for a moment before locking it and setting it back down. He leans forward, rests an elbow on his knee and a hand on his cheek, and watches you with sharp, low eyes. He trails his other hand up your torso, a ghost of a touch that he knows you’re craving, then pets lightly at your face before pinching the tip of your tongue between his thumb and forefinger. He pulls the muscle out further with sick amusement darkening his handsome features, observes the way his own cum decorates the inside of your mouth. Gooey and white against delicate pink. Some of it collects at the base of your tongue, right at the start of your throat, where you’re refusing to let it through. 

It must taste bitter, he thinks. It must feel gross just sitting on your tongue like that, and your jaw must ache from hanging open for so long. And yet you sit still anyways, so pretty and patient, awaiting his next instruction.

You’d stay here just like this, with his cum going cold in your mouth, for as long as he pleased — just to earn his praise.

Suguru smiles. “Ok. Swallow.”

It’s gone in a flash, lips sealing and throat bobbing. 

“Show me.”

Teary eyed and panting, you open wide and stick your tongue back out to show him that it’s empty. That you’d done exactly what he’d asked, exactly when he’d asked it. That you are worthy of his favor.

He pats lovingly at your cheek and, finally, he tells you exactly what you’ve been aching to hear. The words warm you from the inside out, all your insecurities melting down into pure, honeyed satisfaction. Two words with only two syllables between them, but such a resounding power in your world:

“Good girl.”

Thinking of Suguru who totally has avoidant attachment style while Satoru has anxious attachment style and how that translates into their love lives w reader

Suguru x reader; Satoru x reader

not proofread btw, warning include rough sex, a bit of masochism and sadism, and toxic relationships

***

Thinking about Suguru who never left, but never received the help he needed, either. Suguru, who's moral compass is messed up and all over the place, who's only purchase on life is you. Sweet, cheerful and so awfully welcoming.

It's always late at night when he barges into your apartment, desperate and pent up. It's on times like this, where he fucks you like he hates you. He has you bent over the couch, legs dangling down, face shoved into the cushions by his large, rough hand as his cock drags through your walls with no care in the world. He's always rough and degrading, his hips snapping fast and cruel, pelvis hitting your ass in the way that will surely leave you sore and bruised.

Mean words slip past his perfect, glossy lips unprompted, then.

"So fucking desperate for my cock, you pathetic slut."

He's always desperate when he nears his release, his thick, long cock making you cry out as it hits all the right spots inside you, making you cry and moan broken syllables of his name, drool escaping past the corner of your lips.

His grip on your hair only gets tighter, pulling at the scalp painfully, making you keen. You can't help but look back at him, how he looks like a god above you, so high and mighty.

He's tall and muscular, with broad shoulders and a trim waist, his silken hair slipping out of the bun and strands of it clinging to his flushed face. It's perfect, too. Whiskey brown eyes half-lidded, perfectly shaped nose scrunched up slightly and his lips parted.

He catches your gaze, he always does, and gets meaner. Your face gets shoved into the pillows, uncaring if you can breathe, if you can speak. You never complain. Suguru doesn't like vulnerability, Suguru doesn't do vulnerability.

"Fucking trying to look at me, like you've earned that shit. You're nothing but a stress reliever with a tight cunt, nothing but a fucking cum dump. Take it, you whore, take it."

He's always meaner when he's about to come. It's a mask of sorts, because no matter how rough he's being, no matter how venomous his words are, he always makes sure to make you come, to have you soak his cock, slick dribbling down and staining his thighs. A few more sloppy thrusts and he fills you up with warmth that he never provides with his touch, or his words.

He makes you suck him off after, until your knees ache and bruise, fucks you again, if he's not too tired. He never stays over. Suguru just helps you into bed, cleans you up a little and presses a small kiss to the side of your head. That's all the affection you get before he leaves. And it's fine. He's bad at expressing emotions, he's bad at labels and relationships. Suguru always comes back, nevertheless.

***

Thinking about Satoru, who is so much sweeter. His best friend, the only person to ever understand him, has never left, but never fully stayed, either. Some integral part of Suguru left after Riko died. And Satoru knows that, god, he knows. You're his vice, his blessing, his angel in the darkness that has obscured his life.

It's almost akin to love. He texts you regularly, always checks up on you, asks how your day is going, comes over to take care of you after a perticularly rough mission.

When he fucks, there's no sign of roughness. He treats you like you're made out of glass. You think that he's afraid that you'll change, eventually, just like Suguru has. That's why he's so careful not to break you.

He spends hours between your legs, pretty pink lips latched onto your throbbing clit while two of his fingers hit the same spot inside again and again until there's no other choice but to come. He laps everything up like it's a blessing to be able to, he praised you all the way through.

"So pretty when you come, the most beautiful girl in the whole world. Absolutely perfect, I could spend days between your legs, love."

He fucks you carefully, restraint woven through every single part of his perfect body. Satoru almost never fucks you from the back. He craves to see your expressions, wants to see what feels good for you, what makes you moan and what makes you clench his pretty, long cock tighter.

He never scolds you for looking at him, revels in it, almost comes when your pretty, glossy eyes study each and every part of him. He's leaner, yet still strong, still the strongest. His skin is like porcelain, perfect and pristine, not one hair falling out of place even as his thrusts speed up, helping you chase your release. His eyes often remind you of a kicked puppy. Desperate for approval, desperate for your praise. You call him sweet names and chant his, when you see the ocean blue of his irises, when you see how his expression hardens and his lower lip wobbles slightly.

He's always so put-together, even when he comes. His thrusts never grow sloppier, he still drags in and out in a pace that you prefer, rewarding you with another mind-shattering orgasm before he paints your insides white, hesitant to pull out.

He always kisses you after, pushes your hair away from your sweaty, teary face and hughs you a bit too tight.

"So sweet for me, always milk my cock so well. How did I end up this lucky, how am I so blessed, love? Gosh, I absolutely adore you, baby."

In moments that follow, the strongest is vulnerable. He pulls out and cleans you up thoroughly, massages out the sore muscles and makes sure you eat and drink plenty of water.

Satoru never leaves after. He slips into your bed, pulling you close to his bare, muscular chest, his breathing a little erratic. When he thinks that you've fallen asleep, he begs and prays that you never leave him. It never fails to make your heart ache.

Suguru avoids everything that has to do with relationships, lust on a completely different level than love, and Satoru can't make one coexist without the other.

You can't help but think about how this jarring contrast would play out if they had you together.