𝙱𝙰𝚁𝙴 / 𝙵𝙰𝙽𝙶𝚂

-> Lyric knows if they touch Toji carelessly, no matter how deep he may appear to be asleep, he will awaken at the lightest brush to prevent being caught off guard. Therefore, when they shuffle the comforter off of him and pull down the waistband of his boxers over his shaft and under his sack, they think he is either deciding they are not a threat instinctively or he is pretending to sleep and watching. Either way, his cock springs out and slaps against the bridge of their nose with its own weight, hot and flushed red and smelling vaguely of sweat and copper. It's embedded deep in the skin, and when Lyric exhales against it the whole thing gives a lively twitch; they feel their mouth grow wet with saliva at the scent alone, a clenching in their stomach not unfamiliar to them now. They took it in both hands, sitting on their knees, and let a long line of drool pour out onto the head to give them some fluidity to work with as their hands gave several slow strokes, thumbs pressing on the slit on the way up and against the vein on the bottom on the way down. Lyric knows they can take it. Toji has made sure of that, their head hanging off the edge of a hotel bed while he fed it in an inch at a time with his palm around their throat and let them choke until they were dizzy. He has the same rough tending approach to all their holes, and when they taste the sourness of skin and sweat on his cock as they slip the first few inches into their mouth and lave at the veins, they wonder if there's a part of them in that sense that he hasn't tainted. Sex wasn't something overly important to Lyric to begin with, but some days they wonder if they'll be able to accept anything except really good sex ever again. The thought of some regular turning over after cumming one time and not fucking them until they shake and squirt and then mocking them for it feels like a small death in a way they can't describe. It didn't matter before, why does it matter now?

-> The answer lies in the sandpaper rumble of his tired voice not yet fully awake and the way his broad palm brushes through their hair and over the crown of their head when his shaft is spit-polished and they are choking themselves on it intentionally, feeling how it pries open their throat in a way they know will ache terribly later but can't kill them. Not with their Reversed Curse Technique. It might encourage their overly risky behavior, but they can't think about how that matters when they're forcing themselves to nose in the hair at the base of his cock, shiny lips and tongue and cheekbones pressed to his pubic bone as he stares down at them with eyes that make them shiver. They can feel how their eyes water and tears roll over their cheeks as their nails dig into his thighs and their throat spasms from the lack of air, barely enough through their nose, and when they pull back the noise is an erotic wet slurp as he can watch their throat settle into its regular shape. Their jaw aches even as they do it over and over again, one free hand coming to cup his heavy balls and roll them in their palm in a way they think they remember he likes. Their pupils are blown wide and their focus shot—who was to blame for this again? Him? Them? Their tongue is pressed over their bottom teeth and lip to the underside of his cock as they feel him throb and twitch on their tongue; cockwarmer and fucksleeve send visible shivers up their spine, a reedy whine escaping them even with their lips stretched taut around his girth. Their thighs and knees are spread on the bed between his open legs to get their center of gravity closer to the bed to give them better leverage to gag themselves on his cock, and the cool air it offers makes them vaguely aware of the damp, sticky feeling between their thighs.

-> He jerks his hips up and gags them on his dick, and they take it so well and so prettily: with their puffy lips and eyes, their tear-stained cheeks, their chin and tongue dripping saliva. They think about being knelt between his knees while he idles on the couch, cheap burner flip phone pressed to his ear by his shoulder as he palms their hair and touches their cheek, their throat tight and warm around his length even if it hurt. Even if it was hard to breathe just through their nose. They think about him rolling his hips when the conversation becomes boring, steadily fucking their throat for his own pleasure while their hands stay on the floor, never touching themselves ( not that they liked to, anyways. ) They think about him using their other holes to keep himself warm, as much as he can seated in their drooling cunt with the fat head pressed to their cervix in a way that is such sharp but delicious pain. He has mockingly said once or twice before some passing, degrading comment about them being fertile for him, that he could smell it on them, but they never knew if he was joking. It didn't really matter—the momentary way they clench and panic only to immediately fall prey to the thought that they'll take the risk if he just makes them cum one more time says more than they ever could. Hell, really any time he gets his hands on them Lyric thinks they get soaked and have to press their thighs together. Even when he's eviscerating them for fun, watching them heal up again. Even when he's putting cigarettes out on them or choking them or using a knife to shred their clothes. They think it's kind of fucked up. Like they've become some kind of perfect masochist.

-> He jacks his hips up into their throat again, one hand light on their head and yet so heavy, and Lyric keeps their mouth lax and messy with spit as they let him fuck quick into it. They know he's close by how his balls tense up in their palm, how he gives hard twitches in their mouth in a way that makes them whine around him, and he bottoms out and holds them down to on the base when he cums. They weren't a quitter, and if they were they didn't have a choice—their nails bite his skin when they gag trying to swallow all his seed. It's hot, everything is hot, but it settles warm in their stomach as the first thing they've eaten this morning from how much he has to give. No wonder he complains when he can't get laid.

"Mmph— ♡"

-> When the pressure on the back of their head lightens, they pull off slowly and noisily; swallow what lingers in their mouth as they tongue and suckle at the head, a hand squeezing and pumping his shaft while the other gently kneads his balls, pulling every ounce of seed from him as they run their tongue over his skin from root to tip. They are shameless how they mewl and mouth at the skin and the underside of the head and the veins until they're sure it's clean and their face is left flushed and messy from their work. They slap the head several times on their own tongue as they stick it out to show him they've swallowed it all, debauch as they breathe over it, their eyes hazy and head dizzy. Cock drunk.