𝜗𝜚˚⋆ “I DON’T NEED GOOGLE, MY HUSBAND KNOWS EVERYTHING”

p-links of sylus [L&DS]

summary: p-links that reminded me of sylus

notes: log into your twitter :)

warnings: sexually explicit & graphic content linked below the cut!

in the car, after you come back with information for him

your walls match his hair :)

your stomach too

you were moving too much, he just had to hold you still

better yet, he had to cuff your hands

yummy

why he picks you up from work

you said your other hole was sore from last time :(

likes to fuck his cum into you

sorry, i said like? i meant LOVES

taking care of his kitten

he's just so big

he lets you be on top

he lets you be on top part 2

gets impatient with you on top

what you do to praedator!sylus

he's just so big compared to you

that means his hands too

SO SO BIG

My mom needs to see this, I mean I didn’t just get here but my inner child feels this statement on levels I can’t even explain

fucking insane to me that people can be mean to kids. this thing is four to five shoe boxes tall and youre shouting at it ?? ? what is your damage the mf just got here.

Naruto and Sasuke daily life

I’m an introvert and an extrovert who hates physical contact of course I’m gonna remember every time you’ve dodged my touch and feel both sad and thankful for it cause I hate and love physical contact

family: “why are you just sitting in ur room smiling at ur phone?”

me who’s been reading smut about fictional characters for the past 6 hours:

I need someone to do this.

Sometimes you have to kiss her softly and tell her that she's good enough.

My backshots sound like bongos!

Synopsis. Your back hurts and they offer the best service!

Including. Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Toji, Sukuna.

Risk assessment 18+ mdni, smut and crack, stablished relationship, reader is unprotected, spanking, backshots, soft dom/dom vibes.

a/n: i did say a drabble might happen, and obvs i couldn't resist!!! Inspired by this beauty

GOJO SATORU—"LET'S LOOSEN YOU UP"

"My back's killing me. Come break it?"

You're half-joking. Maybe he'll bring a massage gun. Maybe he'll make a dumb pun.

Instead, Gojo shows up at your door thirty minutes later with a devil's grin and a bottle of oil.

"Emergency response team reporting for duty," he says, stepping inside like owns the place.

"You're not serious."

"I'm always serious about back-blowing."

You open your mouth to clarify—massage, not mayhem—but then his hands are on your shoulders, kneading casually while his mouth brushes your ear.

"You're tense," he murmurs. "You need something deep. Penetrating. Therapeutic."

Your protests die in your throat because… okay, his hands do feel good. Strong fingers work under your shoulder blades, slow and firm, and when he kneels behind you, straddling your thighs like it's nothing, you feel his breath hit the nape of your neck.

"Satoru—"

"Shh," he whispers, mouth grazing your skin. "Just breathe."

The shirt comes off first. Then your shorts. Then his hands slide lower, gliding over your hips with oil-slick precision, a finger dips between your thighs, testing your heat, and he lets out a low whistle.

"Damn. Didn't even have to flip you over. You're so ready to be fixed."

You turn your head to glare, but he's already lining himself up. Smiling like the demon he was.

"I hope your insurance covers maximum damage."

And then he's inside.

The first thrust knocks the air from your lungs. The second has your toes curling. By the third, you forget your own name.

He's slow at first—teasing, dragging his cock all the way out just to slam back in until your entire body jolts. One hand holds your hip steady, the other presses between your shoulder blades, forcing you down like this is some goddamn yoga pose.

"Good girl," he groans, rolling his hips. "Look at you. Taking it so well. Gonna break you in all the right ways."

The room fills with the sound of skin slapping, your breathy moans, and his sinful little chuckles every time your body arches under him.

"Feeling better yet?" he murmurs against your neck.

"No," you pant. "Harder."

He growls.

The pace changes. No more play. Just pure, ruinous rhythm—balls slapping your ass, hands gripping your hips like they're handles, the head of his cock hitting the spot that makes you tremble.

You come with a cry, body convulsing, nails clawing at the sheets. Gojo groans, deep and hungry, hips stuttering as he fills you to the brim.

Afterwards, he collapses beside you, glistening with sweat and absolutely zero shame.

"You're welcome," he says, smug.

Your voice is hoarse. "That wasn't a massage."

"Sure it was. I touched your back and blew it out. Multi-tasking king."

GETO SUGURU—"YOU CALLED, MY PRIESTESS?"

It started with a text.

My back hurts. Break it?"

He replies instantly, like he's been waiting for this moment.

"Physically? Spiritually? Emotionally? "Massage, dumbass." "Got it. All three."

You expect a bottle of lotion and a pervy smirk.

What you get instead is Geto Suguru in a black kimono, hair tied up, sleeves loose, and a slow, knowing smile like he just walked out of a shrine and into your depravity.

"Lay down," he says, voice velvet-smooth, already lighting incense like this is a ceremony.

"Is this gonna get weird?" you ask.

He glances over his shoulder, eyes glinting. "You texted me 'break my back' and thought this wouldn't get weird?"

Touché.

Still, you obey. You lie down on the mat he brought—yes, he brought his own mat, wtf—and let him straddle you. His palms are warm. Soothing. Sinfully slow as they glide down your back.

"Stay just like that," he says, voice deepening. "Arms above your head. Legs spread. Back arched—good girl."

Your breath stutters. That was a lot for a massage intro.

"This is how we start," he murmurs, leaning close. His lips brush your ear. "So your body's prepared. Submission is a sacred act."

You snort. "You sound like a cult leader."

"I am." He grins. "And tonight, you're my only follower."

And then you feel it: oil drizzled, fingers gliding down your spine, rubbing slow circles into the small of your back, working lower with every pass. His hands are hot. Intentional. Reverent.

Your brain short-circuits around the same time his hands slip lower, cupping your ass like it's part of the ritual. You try to lift your head, but he presses you down gently.

"Shh," he coos. "Let me heal you."

You're wet. Shamefully so. And he hasn't even touched you where it counts—yet. That changes fast.

One hand stays on the small of your back, grounding. The other slips between your thighs, fingers gliding through slick folds like a prayer. He groans low.

"You were made for worship," he whispers, tracing lazy circles over your clit. "Look at you. Ready to be blessed."

Before you can answer, he shifts up behind you. The rustle of fabric tells you he's already stroking himself, and then—he drags the head of his cock through your soaked folds like he's blessing the altar.

"I'm going to take my time," he says softly. "Make sure you feel eeeevery inch."

And then he sinks in.

You moan—loud. His name, a curse, maybe both. He's huge, thick, and it's all so deep from this angle—his cock hits you from behind like it's meant to change your fate.

"Take it," he murmurs. "Let me ruin you right."

He starts moving. Slow, grinding thrusts at first, pushing you flat against the mat. His palm presses between your shoulder blades, holding you down while he fucks you like a man possessed.

Geto groans like he's the one being ruined. "Fuck, this is divine. Look at you. Face down, ass up—made to be worshipped."

You babble something incoherent.

"Breathe, pretty thing," he coos. "You can take it. You asked for this."

He leans over you, still slamming into your soaked cunt from behind, and kisses your spine like he's reading a prayer off it.

"Gonna fuck you until your back gives out. Until your knees shake. Until this pretty little body remembers who you belong to."

Your moans are broken, loud, begging. Every thrusts slaps against your ass, each one rougher, deeper—until you're shaking under him, climax ripping through you so hard your vision goes white."

"Yeah, just like that," he groans, voice wrecked. "Come all over me, priestess."

He follows with a deep guttural moan, spilling inside you as he grinds his hips against yours, burying himself to the hilt.

You're both panting when he finally pulls out, slick dripping down your thighs, his hand rubbing slow circles on your back again like he's sealing the ritual.

“Feel healed yet?” he asks with a smug smile.

You wheeze. “You shattered me like a fucking cursed object.”

“Mm,” he hums, kissing your temple. “Praise be.”

NANAMI KENTO —"LET ME TAKE CARE OF YOU"

It starts with a simple message:

"My back hurts. You busy?"

He replies two minutes later, like he was already halfway out the door.

"I'm on my way. Don't do anything strenuous."

You think he means a shoulder rub. Maybe even tea and a lecture about taking breaks. You don't expect Nanami to show up in his rolled-sleeve dress shirt, tie secured around his neck, hair just slightly mussed like he ran his fingers through it too many times on the train over.

And that look he gives you? It says he's not here just to fix your posture.

"You could've called earlier," he murmurs, setting his watch on your desk. "You know I'd drop anything for you."

You smile. "Didn't want to interrupt your work—"

"I'll always make time for you."

You blink at the sudden warmth in his voice, but then he steps close. His hands are on your sides, raising goose bumps along the way, pressing softly against your lower back with soothing circles.

"Right here?" he murmurs. "Where it aches?"

"Yeah," you whisper.

"Let me fix it."

You expect pressure. Massage. Something clinical. But instead:

"Assume the position."

You blink. "You mean—"

"Face down. Elbows on the desk. Legs apart."

You do as you're told. Because of course you do. Because something in his tone makes your knees weak and your cunt throb.

He steps behind you, warm hands smoothing up your sides, over your hips, thumbs digging into the tight muscles. His touch is firm. Intentional.

And then—he pauses.

"Your lower back is tight," he mutters, voice deepening. "I'll fix it."

You thought he was going to press his fingers into your skin. What you get is his palm gliding under your waistband, fingers brushing against skin, tugging everything down in one motion.

"Nanami—"

"I said I'd take care of it. Don't talk back."

You gasp. Then you moan—loud—because his hand dips between your thighs, two fingers running through slick folds like he's confirming what he already knew.

"Hm. Wet already," he says, like it's a report he's filling. "I haven't even started."

Then you hear it. The sound of his belt. The hiss of fabric sliding down.

You arch your back instinctively.

"Desperate," he mutters. You just needed an excuse, didn't you?"

You tried to tell him that was not true, that you really just needed to have your back rubbed.

But he lines up. Grips your waist. Pushes in slow.

You choke on a moan. He's thick, long, steady as a metronome as he sinks into you, inch by inch, stretching you open like you were made for it.

Once he's fully inside, he leans over your back. His breath brushes your ear.

"This angle is perfect," he murmurs. "Let me realign your spine properly."

Then he starts moving.

Slow, measured thrusts that build tension like a clock ticking down. Every snap of his hips knocks your desk forward an inch. Every slap of skin against skin echoes off the office walls. His hands hold you in place—no escape, no mercy.

You look up—and catch his reflection in the glass window.

Loosened tie. Muscles flexing. Jaw clenched. Focused.

"Look at yourself," he says. "See what a pretty mess you are."

You do. And it makes you whimper, because Nanami is staring at your reflection too, watching himself fuck you with precision that borders on obsession.

"Taking me so well", he mutters. "Back arched perfectly. You'll thank me for this tomorrow."

You come with a cry, vision hazy, walls clenching hard around him. He groans, pace faltering as he grips your hips harder.

"Fuck—" he hisses, voice breaking as he buries himself deep, spilling inside you with a grunt. "Goddamn…"

Silence. Heavy breathing. His hand rubs lazy circles over your back as you tremble against the desk.

Then—

"Next time," he says, tucking himself away and smoothing your hair, "schedule me in advance. I'll bring proper equipment."

You laugh, breathless. "What, like a foam roller?"

He smirks. "No. Restraints."

FUSHIGURO TOJI —"DON'T TAP OUT NOW"

"Your back hurts?"

He grins like the devil he is as he pushes you flat onto the bed, tugging your hips up with a single hand and yanking your panties down with his teeth.

"Lemme guess. You want me to fix it?"

He doesn't wait for an answer.

You yelp as he flips you onto your stomach, manhandling you like he'd been waiting all night to throw you around. One big hand presses down between your shoulder blades, keeping you chest-down, ass up—exactly how he likes it.

"Cute," he mutters, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds. "You wanted backshots, and didn't think I'd take that literally?"

You barely manage a breath before he thrusts in—deep, fast, merciless. No warm-up. No build up. Just a brutal, thick stretch that makes your eyes roll back and your fingers claw at the sheets.

"Fuckin' tight," he growls, snapping his hips into you with obscene force. "Gonna fuck the tension outta ya', princess."

Every thrust slams your hips forward. The bed creaks. Your moans are barely coherent, but he's eating them up like a man starved.

"Yeah, that's it. "You hear yourself? That sloppy little sound every time I slam into you? Fuck, you love this, huh?"

You try to speak. All that comes out is his name—half a whimper, half a plea.

Toji leans down, his body blanketing yours, cock still driving into you like he's trying to rearrange your guts. His hand fists your hair and yanks your head to the side so his mouth is at your ear.

"Say it," he snarls. "Say you wanted it just like this."

You moan. "I—I did—Toji—"

"That's right. Wanted me to ruin you, huh?" He grins against your skin, all teeth and deranged. "Back's gonna be fucked after this. And not 'cause you're sure. 'Cause I'm planting you on this mattress."

He fucks you harder.

Faster.

Filthier.

You're drooling into the sheets, ass smacking loud with every thrust, your body reduced to trembles as he pounds into you like it's a sport.

"Tap out if it's too much," he says smugly, already knowing you won't.

Because the second he angles his hips just right, your body seizes around him and you come violently, sobbing into the pillow as your thighs quake.

"Fuck," Toji growls, losing rhythm. "Takin' me so good, ma—shit, I'm gonna—"

He buries himself to the hilt, lets out a broken moan, and fills you with a load so warm and thick it drips from around the base before he's even pulled back.

For a second, the only sound is both of you breathing hard.

Then he leans back, slaps your ass, and grins.

“Still sore?”

You twitch.

He laughs.

“Good. We’ll go again in five.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA —"YOU ASKED FOR A GOD, DIDN'T YOU?"

"Back hurts, huh?"

Sukuna laughs like you just said something adorable. The kind of laugh that chills your spine—because he's already behind you, already hard, and already decided what kind of night it's going to be.

You poor thing," he coos mockingly. "Let me fuck the pain right out of you."

You're already chest down, ass in the air, thighs trembling from the first orgasm he barely let you recover from. And now?

Now it's worse.

Because all four of his hands are on you—one spreading your ass, another gripping your throat from underneath, the third one cradling your belly to feel every deep thrust, and the four slapping down over your spine just to keep you pinned.

His cock is buried to the hilt, thick and veiny and monstrously deep, rutting into you with relentless force. Every time he slams in, you jolt forward, breath punched from your lungs, drool slipping past your lips onto the sheets.

"Fuck, listen to you," he growls. "Sloppy, wet, desperate—my perfect little cocksleeve."

You moan something that might be his name, and his laugh turns darker.

"That's right. Cry for me. Moan for me. This is what you wanted, isn't it? On your knees for a god?"

He leans in, tongue dragging up your spine as he pounds into you harder—deep, brutal backshots that make your ass ripple, his name a broken chant on your lips.

"You wanted worship?" he hisses. "Then take it. I'll worship every inch of you—while I fucking ruin you."

He presses kisses to the back of your neck between thrusts, almost tender—if not for the vicious snap of his hips and the way his fingers bruise your skin as he holds you down.

"You think anyone else can fuck you like this?" he growls, voice a gravel rasp in your ear. "Think anyone else could own you like this?"

Your moans are incoherent now, your body a mess of pleasure and overstimulation. Your knees buckle, and he catches you with ease—two hands holding you up, the others lifting your hips back into place.

"Don't you dare fall now," he hisses. "I'm not done. Not until you forget what walking feels like."

Your climax slams into you like a tidal wave—legs shaking, mouth open in a silent scream, everything white-hot. You clamp down around him, and he groans, shoving in one last time before he fills you, cock twitching as he pumps you full.

He doesn't pull out.

Instead, he strokes your trembling sides with surprisingly gentle hands, his voice low and smug:

"You break so beautifully for me."

A pause.

Then his tongue flicks against your ear.

"…Round two, pet?"

overstim <3

not proof read :(

There’s this big urge in the back of my head, I want— no I NEED someone to tie me up eagle on my bed, overstimulating me with their tongue, tears, drool smeared everywhere on my face, my makeup that took me hours to perfect ruined, my eyes all red and puffy, my face even more so. As he laughs and doubles his efforts on my sopping, wet, red and tired pussy, one of his fingers furiously rubbing my clit in firm fast circles as I come for the umpteenth time, screaming, crying and moaning all at the same time. Oh one can dream.