Emmbny

"Mind your own business." The drunkard hisses, and you hear his footsteps etch closer and you grip your stranger's jacket tighter.

"Back off." You hear a clatter, and a loud 'thump' as items from the shelves clatter onto the ground at the impact. One tomato can lands near your feet, bumping into your shoe. You lean slightly to the side, peeking to see what happened, and you spot the drunkard keeling on the floor, groaning as he tries to get back up.

"If you ever come near her again, I'll make sure you'll regret it. For as long as I can." Your stranger's threat is immediate, combined with his easy show of strength, even you feel intimidated by this man's presence. Once the drunkard managed to scramble up on his two feet, he scurries like a slippery rat, tripping over fallen cans as he runs off.

Your stranger watches, body tense as he makes sure the drunkard was truly gone before eventually turning back to you.

"You alright?" He asks, hands going up to your shoulders, rubbing up and down in a soothing motion.

You nod your head, still in a daze, not over the adrenaline high as you keep glancing back behind his shoulder to see if the drunkard will come back. His shoulder blocks your gaze again, his body shifting so he's your main focus.

"Don't worry, I'll make sure he won't look your way ever again." He reassures you.

You want to ask how he can guarantee that, but something about his firm grip, his steady voice- tells you that he can. Now that he's all up in your face and your mind isn't in complete survival mode, you can get a closer look at him. He's got recent bruises on his jaw, bandages around his knuckles and a crooked nose from a fight gone wrong. You also note the most beautiful green eyes you've ever seen.

He's a fighter, it's confirmed within one glance. Yet, you find yourself not wanting him to let go, your mind convinced he can protect you in your anxious state.

"You trust me?" He asks.

It's a silly question. Nobody should be trusted right now, your mind chastises. You don't even know him. Yet, looking into his concerned gaze, you can't help but answer with a yes.

"Good." He affirms, relaxing more now that he's sure you're not going to bolt. "I'm going to get you home, it's not safe for you to walk alone right now." It's not a suggestion, he's your chaperone for the night whether you like it or not.

He grabs hold of your hand, leading you out of the store. "What's the direction?"

"4th Avenue." You answer, but you're quick to ask your own question. "What's your name?"

You can't keep calling him 'stranger' in your head when he just helped you deescalate such a dangerous situation. If this was the last time you'll ever see him, you hoped to at least have the memory of his name.

He looks back at you, thinking. Eventually, he gives it to you. "Jason."

It suits him, as you eye his broad back facing you when he turns and pulls you along with a soft grasp to let you know you could break free whenever you wanted to. His walk is brisk, as if he has somewhere he's supposed to get to but you're a detour. Right, he looked like he was in a rush earlier when you first bumped into him.

"You can just drop me off at the subway." You tried to offer, suddenly feeling guilty. "I'll be fine after when there's people on-"

"No." He rejects outright. "Don't place your trust in Gotham's citizens. If something were to happen to you on the train, no one's coming to save you. They'll just pretend to save their own asses."

You can't deny his harsh words, growing quiet again. You both cross streets, and he swiftly shifts you to the right of the sidewalk, away from the road. His voice eventually cuts through the awkwardness. "What's yours?"

Yours? He's asking for your name? You answer, and he hums in response, repeating your name in a mutter. You can't stop the way your heart picks up at the sound of your name in his voice, soft and considering, completely unlike how he was earlier in the store when he had confronted the drunkard.

You think it's just the saviour admiration you've heard about from those silly videos about hot firemen, but you can't stop staring at him like he's a figment of your imagination conjured to protect you. It certainly doesn't help that he's exactly your type.

"You live alone?" He asks.

"Yeah, but it's usually fine down my neighbourhood. Nothing much happens."

"Nothing yet." He pushes back. He's off muttering to himself again before he looks at you. "What's the security measures at your place?"

"My lock?" You know it sounds horrible, but you've just recently gotten this place and the upfront deposit has taken out more from your bank than you can chew. You doubt you could even install a grill for the door right now considering your wallet.

He stares at you to cement the fact that he did not find your words funny. For some reason, his expression makes you giggle.

When he reaches your apartment, his expression grows more pained at your miserable small lock, as if it offends him that your words weren't really a joke. "Alright." He huffs. "This won't do."

"Yeah, my bank account disagrees." You rebutt.

"Your bank account won't have anything to do with this." He mutters, analysing your door with a disapproving look. "I'll come back tomorrow with a better.. everything."

Your brow furrows as you try to understand his words before realisation dawns you. "You're not going to buy me a new lock, or door! You've already helped me tonight, I can't possibly accept-"

"Good thing I'm not asking." He says with a smirk. You get the feeling he's not used to taking no for an answer.

"You're stubborn." You're trying hard not to smile as you say it, but your teasing tilt in your voice doesn't really carry any bite.

"Heard that one before." He scoffs. "Just to prove my case." He bends down near eye level with your lock, and takes out a pin. He sticks the pin in, twists it around with a focused expression. After a few clicks, your door pops open.

You can't hide the shock in your eyes. You knew that lockpicking existed, but seeing it with your own eyes, on your own door? It dawns on you how easy it is for you to get robbed.

He's waiting for you to say something, a satisfied smirk on his face to have been proven right. He looks like such a jerk in this light, but you can't deny it's ridiculously hot how his smirk slants to the side.

You roll your eyes. "Alright, fine. It's your loss."

He stands on his feet, and you're struck by his height. He leans on the doorframe, looking down at you with a serious expression. "Not a loss for me."

You can't help but feel hot under his eyes, and you avert from his intense gaze. "What time are you coming tomorrow?"

"Is it alright if I come earlier in the morning? Around 5?" He asks. "I have a... night shift."

You nodded in understanding, before your eyes widened. "Wait, isn't it like midnight now? Are you late for your shift?"

He chuckles at your words. "Don't worry about it. Why don't you head on in? I just wanna make sure you're safe first before I head off."

You don't know what's overcome you. The fact that you really made it home safe thanks to him, that he's willing to help fix your door, or the pure exhaustion that's now settling in. You wrap your arms around him for a moment, giving him a squeeze. Really, your arms can barely fit around him, but you're just so thankful.

"Thank you." You murmur, voice cracking with emotion. "You've no idea how much you've saved me tonight. Thank you."

He's silent, but then, you feel warm arms hug you back, patting you in a soothing manner.

"You don't have to thank me for saving you." He responds. "I would've done it no matter what."

When you part, there's no awkwardness in the air, only a soft knowing that you'll always be grateful to your stranger.

"Goodnight, Jason." You whisper, looking up at him with a smile.

He smiles back, and true to his word, he waits till you close the door. Only when you locked it with the soft 'click', do you hear his footsteps fade away.

It's five in the morning like he said, when you hear your doorbell. With a groan, you push yourself up from your bed with a slight confusion to who it could possibly be at this hour. It didn't take long for last night's memories to hit you and you forced yourself to the front door. Opening it, you don't know what you expected but being greeted with a boxes in your face wasn't one of them.

"Huh?" You muttered aloud, shifting your head to the left, and spotting Jason being the boxes.

"You mind?" He asks, and you realise you're blocking the way. You quickly step aside and he moves in, putting the boxes on the floor. You register a new lock, new bolt, new chain, new security camera..

"Are you building me a new door or something?" You joke.

He looks at you with a grimace, and only then do you notice how exhausted he looks. There's a new bruise at the side of his cheek too.

"Oh my god. Are you alright?" You ask, assessing his face before looking him up and down. Is that blood on his pants?

"Peachy." He grumbles. "I'll just get this fixed up for you before I leave, alright?"

"No way." You object. "Get your ass to the couch. I'm getting a first-aid kit."

Before he can argue, you've already moved to the kitchen, looking through your cabinets before finding the case. You hear a sigh audible enough from the distance and when you turn around, he's slumped on the couch, head tilted back to stare at the ceiling and leg placed on the coffee table to reduce the pulling of his wound.

You sat beside him, opening the first-aid kit on your lap. "So what type of night shift do you work to cause this? And you should've gone to the hospital."

For some reason, he laughs at your suggestion. "Haven't gone to the hospital since I was 15." There's some dark tone in his words, an inside joke you don't get. You shrug it off.

"Okay, I get that Gotham's hospital bills are insane, but so is thinking you can walk off a bleeding leg." You huff, assessing his wound to see how to clean it. "And you haven't answered my question on your work."

He thinks a little, before answering. "I'm a chef." Even he doesn't sound so sure about that.

You raise a brow. "A chef?"

"Yeah." He huffs, seemingly amused. "I don't look the cooking type?"

"No, I can get the rebellious chef image." You play along with it, even if you don't fully believe his words. "You seem like the type to yell in the kitchen for an order gone wrong."

"Yeah, some junior was completely off with his aim." He mutters dryly. "Knife went for my thigh instead of the meat on the counter."

"Must have been a shock." You murmur. "This is going to hurt a little."

You press the cloth dapped in alcohol to his wound, and he hisses. Maybe it's to distract him from the sting, but he continues to talk. "You'll find that in my line of work, injuries are pretty common."

"Yeah, that bruise on your cheek common too?" You pointed out.

He shakes his head, smiling again, his chest breathing easier once you took the cloth away. "Nah, that's just some asshole who thought he was better than me. Proved him wrong."

"Remind me not to be a chef." You mused, taking a look at his wound now that the blood isn't blocking your sight. "Well, you'll live to see another day. It's not the worst I've seen, only needs to be bandaged."

"You see wounds often?" He asks.

"My mother was a nurse." You answered with a soft smile. "She thought her children needed to have some survival skills in a city like this."

"Yeah, but apparently, she didn't teach you about home security." He laments.

You can't help but laugh as your hands wrapped the bandage around his thigh. "You're never letting that one go, are you?"

"Never." He says, and it feels like some forbidden promise. Like this will be a running inside joke years from now, when you're not even sure if you'll see him tomorrow.

The thought dampens the moment for you, and you realise you shouldn't get attached. Done with wrapping the bandage, you take the blood-stained cloth and first-aid kit into your hands. You want to move them to the sink, but something keeps you planted to your spot beside him. "You don't have to fix the door today, you must be exhausted."

In a way, you wonder if it's selfish for you to want him to come back. When he's already done so much for you, coming to you when he's injured? You shouldn't keep demanding his time. By the looks of him, it seems to be something he doesn't like to waste.

"No, I'll get it all installed in an hour." He promises, and your heart deflates. You shouldn't feel disappointed, not when it was expected. You barely knew him, and so far, you've been causing him more trouble than you're worth.

"Yeah." You answer weakly. "Sure."

You move to get up from the couch to bring the items in your hand to the sink, but he beats you to it with his hand coming to grip your wrist. You stared at the contact, of his large hand completely wrapped around your wrist before looking at him. He seems to be thinking of something to say, the same way you're trying to avoid asking him to stay. "I may-" He struggles with his words for a moment. "-have some additional stuff to bring back another time."

Your heart skips a beat at his words. Was he.. making an excuse to come back?

"Your windows." He gestures awkwardly. "Worse than your doors, really."

You stare at him, and a small laugh breaks out into a bigger one. You try to control your happiness, seeing his sheepish expression. "You going to revamp my entire apartment, Jason?"

He smiles at that. "Maybe? Do you want me to?"

You don't have to think twice about that. "Yes. I'd like you to."

"It's settled then." He murmurs, his fingers letting go of your wrist to hold your fingers like a loosened way of a handshake. "Nice to meet you officially. I'm Jason. Guess you're going to have to deal with me for awhile, miss."

The pen clatters out of your hand.

“W-wait, I’ll get it!” Gojo stammers out, disappearing beneath the long library table before you can say anything. His head of angelic white hair contrasts against the sleek mahogany, so at odds with the devilish question that’d just left his mouth - so perhaps it was only so fitting that when Gojo sunk in to get your pen…you could feel his soft hair graaaaaze against your thigh-

You shiver- sweeping a look around at the bored university students to make sure that nobody saw. Or overheard. 

And in the next second, he’s coming back up.

“I believe this is yours.” Gojo’s lips tremble in shyness, flushed as if you’d just thrown him into a furnace. He holds the pen out gingerly towards you, which you take - along with a moment to inspect him. Admire him, more like.

Gojo Satoru.

Human Calculator.

A++ being the lowest grade he’d ever gotten.

Pigs would fly before he didn’t take the #1 spot on the Dean’s List.

It didn’t need to be said that Gojo Satoru was one of the sharpest minds on campus - yes, perhaps even amongst the professors. For you’d seen Yaga hold him back after class on more than one occasion to become marvelled by his physics thesis. 

But that wasn’t where the problem lay.

The problem lay in the fact that not only was Gojo one of the smartest men you’ve ever met - but he was one of the cutest, too. That snow-white hair and ice-blue eyes made it impossible not to spot him amongst a crowd - always a few heads taller than everyone else, always crushing some textbook to his chest.

Thick glasses. Fast steps.

He nervously avoided eye contact in the hallways, and it’d taken you multiple tries to successfully tap at his shoulder and get his attention. Earlier in the semester, you’d pleaded your case to Gojo about how you’d been getting absolutely abysmal grades in Yaga’s class lately. After that it’d only taken you a little poking and prodding (‘do it for the love of science!’) to successfully convince the nerdy boy to tutor you once a week. 

Though he was blushing and fidgeting throughout the entire interaction…

The tutoring became a routine. The routine became a rhythm. The rhythm became a relationship that you’d honestly consider to be good friends.

Through these sessions you discovered that Gojo became rather talkative when he wanted to be, rather sweet, rather funny. And you weren’t blind to his good looks either, of course…In less than a semester’s time, you reached one of the top five spots in Yaga’s class. Despite that, the two of you continued your little tutoring sessions in your back corner of the library every week like normal.

Well, normal except for right now-

“Thank you.” You’re belatedly saying, gesturing at the pen.

To which Gojo scratches behind his neck sheepishly, “It’s no problem, of course!” He flushes even deeper the moment you turn your eyes towards him, looking as though he wished to sink into the light blue ocean of his sweater. “And about what I said earlier-” His pale brows scrunch together in a way that made him look adorably pleading. “-forget about it. Forget I ever asked something so-”

“I do.”

He snaps his azure eyes towards you at your interruption, twinkling behind his glasses. “P-pardon?”

“What you asked me.” You’re leaning over the table, the neckline of your shirt dipping juuust a tad—and you watch as Gojo gulps when his eyes flicker down. Unable to help himself. “I do feel the desire to get fucked pregnant sometimes.”

Gojo flinches at the way you’d worded it, prominent Adam’s apple bobbing. “Sometimes?” 

“Sometimes when I ovulate. Sometimes just in general on those late nights, I guess.” Your eyes hone in on the squirming man, “Though that depends on who I’m thinking of at the time.”

“Thinking of who’d be the-”

“The father, yes.”

Pushing his glasses up with jittery hands. “And have you ever thought of…” His question trails off, voice sounding as parched as if he’d just run several marathons in the scorching heat. And he was burning up just as much.

You cock your head to the side, “You?” He jolts at the mere word.

Only nodding.

“Would you be upset if I said yes?”

Only shaking his head.

And then Gojo mutters something underneath this breath that you don’t quite pick up on.

“What was that, Satoru?”

When Gojo looks at you once more, you notice that his eyes are blown wide. Dazed. Daydreaming. Beads of perspiration form on his upper lip as he stutters, voice oddly high. “I said- you’re set to ovulate in about t-two to three days from now.” Your mouth drops a little—didn’t that lil’ app on your phone say the same thing just yesterday? How did he know? Under the table, Gojo’s knuckles were pure white and gripping his knees. “I ah- one time you were late to a session because of your cramps. And ever since then I always sort of…kept track, you see.”

Your eyes widen- so that was how Gojo always somehow knew to sneak your favorite sugary treats into the library on the days of your period. You did begin to wonder…

“I…I see.”

“You see.”

You cock your head at him, “And do men feel the same desire?”

He whispers, “Depending on the person…”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” Like the most sinful confession.

Without a word you’re reaching out and tugging his notebook towards you. His breath hitches as he watches you flip between pages of neat handwriting - lessons curated just for you - before pausing at the very end of it.

You’re biting back a smile at the way he’d scribbled your name over and over on the last page, hearts doodled around each one. You write—-The pregnancy list.

1. Gojo Satoru.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

“Every good experiment has an apparatus list.” You’re looking up at Gojo with a sly smile, “You taught me that.”

Certainly not like this. “I did, but-” He looks around as though someone in the library would walk by and see what you’re writing.

“And every good experiment has material considerations, too, right?”

“W-well, yes, but…”

You continue to write.

1. Gojo Satoru.

Super cute

Probably a big D

Secret freak (tracked ovulation!??)

However has no experience (not quite a con?) and no place to fuck in (single bed + has a roommate, Geto)

“Hmm, how do you feel about being the independent variable?” You tap your pen on your chin.

Gojo whips his confused blue eyes towards you, a tiny furrow between his white brows. “What do you…”

“The independent variable.” Just in time, you’re looking up to catch the sight of a certain black-haired man entering the library. And you know who it is instantly - there was no man quite as pretty as him on campus. Handsome, sure. But this pretty? It was your best friend, someone you’d met in your first year and knew even before you knew Gojo. “Just like you’re tutoring me now, Satoru, haven’t you ever thought of someone-” His silver piercings glinting in the daylight. His stylishly tattered Sex Pistols t-shirt showing off toned skin. His lips stretching into a feline grin as he spots the two of you. “-tutoring you?”

Something electric runs down Gojo’s body, and he’s just about to turn and look behind when-

Geto Suguru throws an arm over his best friend’s shoulders and tackles him into a headlock, winking at you. “Hard at work, gorgeous?”

You nod, because the one thing about lists was that when you started one—you just wanted to keep on adding to it.

2. Geto Suguru.

Fucking PRETTY

Rings 

In a band

Already super close friends. Two in one go??

.

.

.

SUGONDEEZNUTS created a groupchat.

SUGONDEEZNUTS added Gojo Satoru.

SUGONDEEZNUTS added you.

SUGONDEEZNUTS named the groupchat ‘Juno, y’know?’

SUGONDEEZNUTS: Yo, sorted a place big enough for us~

SUGONDEEZNUTS: 8PM.

SUGONDEEZNUTS added RyomenTheK!ng.

.

.

.

“C-could you keep your panties on, sweetheart?” Gojo blushes as he stutters out the words. He’s looking down between your legs and slidin’ a thumb between your pussylips, collecting the slick syrup gathered on top of your light blue underwear. 

You raise a brow, “I didn’t think you’d be the type to have a panty fetish, Satoru.” Maybe you were right about him secretly being a freak…

“It’s just- they’re the same color as my eyes.” Those very same blue irises peak out at you above the rim of his glasses, partially fogged with condensation. “M-makes me think that we’re having…a boy in nine months or something like that. Maybe twins. A boy and a girl?”

Your jaw drops, “Oh-”

And it’s the only noise you’re managing to get out before Gojo slots his pretty pink cockhead between your legs. Just letting the thick curvature of it press aside your pussy’s folds before he’s rutting—like an animal. 

Gojo was just painfully hard already, swollen with need, bursting out in bouts of precum that left your thighs all wet. He was just so excited—he’d damn near cried once he managed to get you sprawled out on a bed that wasn’t yours. One of his doughy pink thumbs swipin’ your underwear to the side and getting a goooood long look at that pussy of yours-

“N-ngh—” His eyes fall shut, entire body shuddering at the sensation of your pussy throb-throb-throbbing away beneath him. Erection sliding down your front. Sandwiched by your cunt. Gojo Satoru - always so eloquent, always so intelligent with his words - can only heave his body forward and whimper- “S-scientifically, the presence of your panties won’t be a haaah- limitation in me breeding your pussy, right?”

“What are you even asking…”  You’re blinking up at him, “Satoru, you’re not seriously that pussydrunk, are y-”

“Oh look…” Gojo’s eyes widen as he watches a webbed line of his own precum slide down your slit, and that only leaves his sharp mind racing. “Scientifically, can your pussy talk, sweetheart? Because your unica mucosa vaginae is sounding like she wants me already.”

And then follows the utterly sloppiest squelch as Gojo pushes his thickened tip at your sensitive hole and starts to puuuush—

Your cute tutor had been the first one to take off his boxers - and it really was true what they say about nerdy boys being…bigger.

He was about nine entire inches, and the most adorable rosy pink at his tip - one that matched the blush on his face. Only growing more and more, thicker and thicker, every time he was swipin’ his velvety shaft between your folds and trying to fit inside.

Pushing and pushing.

Stretching out your quivering orifice.

Gojo was just so sensitive—you’d asked him earlier whether this was his first time, and the nerdy boy had only blushed and mumbled something incoherent. Though his cap of precum that just kept on pouring out told you everything you needed to know - even now he was squeezing just the barest inch of his tip into your hole and groaning. Twitching. 

“O-oh—” His pre-glossed tip slips out of your hole and slides-slides down the middle of your pussylips, “Fuck- I need at least the urethral meatus inside to successfully breed you, sweetheart. N-need to be inside your pussy…”

“You really wanna knock me up, huh?” You’re whining out.

“So badly.” Almost shyly. Gojo can only let a dopey smile stretch across his lips at the notion, sounding out-of-breath already. He’s keeping his thumb hooked on your panties, urging his hips closer with the most sinful sounds. “S-soooo fucking badly.”

Just draaaaawling out his agonizing groan as he shovels his thickened shaft between your pussylips. Without warning, he’s then pressing both hands upon either side of your legs, pushing them even wider open. 

You yelp, “Satoru-”

And then with you pinned down to the mattress, Gojo reels his slender hips back to thrust and thrust his raging hot cock into your pussy. “Gonna fuck you now…” The globular red edge of his shaft kisses your entrance and starts stretching the first resistance of your hole. Starts bending his curvaceous inches inside you. “Gonna fill the introitus- fill her up with my cock.” Starts making your walls immediately clench at the sudden intrusion. 

His jaw falls slightly apart at the feeling of being sucked inside by you, your slick orifice plugged up with his length. “Gonna fill her up with my kid—” Just letting his furious cock get one taste. 

One of his inches pushed inside your cunt. 

Just one.

Before Gojo’s throwing his head back with a cracked wh-whimper.

Before his entire body shudders.

Before his entire cock seems to zap with a carnal electricity.

And you’re feeling the hot sensation of something slatherin’ at your pussylips, raising onto your elbows to look between your legs. And the sight you’re seeing- fuck, it’s a pure white mess at your core and puddling onto the expensive silk sheets below.

He was cumming.

Just from that.

Your eyes widen, “Satoru, you’re already-”

“Fuck.” Gojo breathes out, head now pushing into the crook of your neck. Something warm and wet falls on top of your skin- and only then do you realize that Gojo Satoru was sobbing at the mere feeling of your pussy surrounding his cock. “F-fuck, I can’t believe…”

His creamy cum was spilling out in surges, drawing vertical lines between the crevice of your pussy in some lecherous pattern. Incessantly. Hotly. He’s webbing up your puffy folds and thumpin’ his rotund tip between your cunt to smear them. Lines upon lines. Layers upon layers. 

Like he couldn’t stop himself no matter how urgently he’s reaching a hand up to squeeze at his thickened base. “Sh-shit, s’not stopping.” The nerdy man babbles away, white-knuckling at his swollen cock in order to try and plug himself up - but it doesn’t work. He’s even pulling back a bit to move his thumb on top of his leaky divot. And he’s still not stopping. “Shit, I can’t control myself. Your tunica mucosa- your pussy just feels too good.”

“You’re s-still cumming…” You whine.

“Too good.”

He’s just dribbling out hot cum, creating an ivory gloss over your folds that drips around your thighs.

Gojo feels the wetness of it seep into his abs and pulls away from your neck, looking up at you with his teary gaze. He snaps his eyes down to the white sap that smears out of you and moans. Voice cracking at the back of his throat any time he’s shoving his honed hips between yours. “C-can I go again to your womb this time, my girl?”

You’re just about to open your mouth to answer when-

“Now now, Satoru…”

“Yer fucked if you think you’re getting her all night.” A familiar, gruff tone spits. “Especially after that embarrassment of a performance.”

You’re turning your head to the side of the bed - to the two men that watched from chairs facing the bed.

Geto Suguru.

Ryomen Sukuna.

3. Ryomen Sukuna.

Frat boy™ (leader of Curses Epsilon)

Probably REALLY good in bed

On his way to become a pro wrestler (headlocks omg??)

Might be rough…

Ryomen Sukuna had just gotten off from practice when Geto had called him.

And he can’t lie - he hadn’t exactly felt like answering the phone then. The two weren’t exactly what you’d consider friends, but neither were they not friends. Sukuna kept his circle close, you see—only his brother, his nephew.

Though recently there had been the development of a certain little someone. Sukuna had noticed you at one of his wrestling matches by chance, and ever since then it seems that he couldn’t stop noticing you. At his parties. At their fundraisers. At lecture halls that Sukuna purposefully took the long route to pass by - just to get a glimpse of you.

And he’d been considering asking you to be Curses Epsilon’s sweetheart, but that was neither here nor there!

Geto Suguru wasn’t someone that Sukuna would dub himself acquainted with to even that extent. His rock band sometimes performed at the infamous parties Sukuna threw, and it wasn’t really usual for him to call Sukuna outside of this.

But fuck was he glad he’d picked up the phone that day.

Because that was what got him here with you.

Snuck into his frat house. Laid out on his king-sized bed. 

Your eyes locked with his—

Sukuna’s cock throbs between his legs at the ruined expression on your face, and he’s immediately feeling a rush of jealousy at the white-haired man. Snapping his narrowed gaze to the other, “Such a pretty gal begging for you ta breed her and you embarrass yerself like this?”

“Sh-she just feels too good.” Gojo lovingly gazes at your overspilling cunt. Before looking at the frat president again, “You wouldn’t understand.”

Sukuna hates this man even more.

“O—okay, how about we don’t look like we’re gonna beat each other up, hm?” Geto’s silky tone breaks through the saturated air, and you’re squirming at the way his rings glint in the dim lighting.

He’s noticing the slight movement instantly, gaze flicking between you and his fingers. Realization splashes across his face, and the next time he speaks it’s with his voice dipped just a bit. “Oh, you’re a naughty girl, aren’t you? But you want that pussy to be treated like a princess?”

Gojo gapes as you nod, “M-maybe…”

“No need to be shy, gorgeous.” Geto hums, drawing even closer to you. “We’re all friends here.”

The mattress dips just a little bit as he sits down on the edge of the bed, his ringed fingers reaching out and dragging across the sheen of white covering your calves by now.

Geto lets the slick coating form on his fingers, smearing it on the tips of his digits. “Mmm, what a waste. Don’t you know that a princess is supposed to orgasm before she’s pumped full of cum, Satoru?” Tutting.

Somehow, you always did think that your closest friend would be the type to drag sex out for hours. To drive you numb with pleasure, to be so sweet—at least, his words were.

And even Gojo seemed to be quietening down his grumbling to listen, the only other sounds in the air being the plapping! of him still trying to rover his blushin’ cocktip even deeper. “W-well…”

“And don’t you know that a princess is supposed to be teased before she’s fucked?” His amethyst eyes seem to glow with amusement, and something else. Something…darker. “You’ve gotta make her cry first.”

Oh.

A primal shudder rips right through you.

Not sweet. Definitely not sweet.

You’re whining after his elongated syllables, “Please-” Tears spurting up to your eyes when Geto forcefully grabs ahold of Gojo’s slender hips and bodily pulls him backwards. Both hands positioned on the other man’s hips, keeping his throbbing cock warming inside your walls for a few seconds before puuuuuushing inside you again. He manages to fill you up in a way like you’ve never been before, his smooth shaft filling your every orifice. “P-please, Satoru-”

“Like that.” Geto hums, “Hard. Long.”

And Gojo gapes at the way you seem absolutely ruined beneath him, “I didn’t even realize…” 

“Mhmm, at this rate we’re never getting her pregnant.” Geto rolls his murky eyes, nails digging into Gojo’s hips once more. “Now more.”

“What?”

“Move.”

Your lashes flutter open at the way the long-haired man commands the other.

Geto’s tone was just so steely, and all it takes is a single word to make Gojo Satoru pull out of you. His long cock bobbing between his meaty thighs, tuggin’ out with the most lecherous squelch!

A wadded up web of cum follows him as he does so, connecting his irritated tip to your cunt still. Just red-hot and drippin’ with your slick syrup. At the sight of it, Gojo looks as if he already regrets his decision - but moves over to let Geto take his place anyway.

And both roughened hands - much, much rougher than Gojo’s, with so many years of training those fingers in his punk-rock band - press-press-preeeeeess your jittery thighs open. Firm. Unyielding, even as you whine at the stretch. Geto’s throwing his silky hair over his shoulder, sinking onto the carpeted floor at the foot of the bed. 

His knees hit it with two loud thuds!

“And what’d you think you’re doing up there, hm?” In an almost bored tone, Geto raises a brow at his best friend seated still on the bed. In a split-second, he’s grabbing onto the back of Gojo’s flushed neck and dragging him down onto the floor as well.

Side by side.

Gojo yelps as he’s brought ever-closer to your open legs. “What do you think you’re-”

“Teaching you how to eat a pussy properly, duh.” As if it should be obvious, Geto rolls his eyes. “This pretty princess deserves better than your sloppy self.”

With your elbows resting on the springy mattress, you peer over at the two men who nudged their faces closer to your drippin’ wet pussy. Both their eyes gleaming in excitement the nearer they were- it’s almost as if they were fighting for purchase between there.

Each one lightly shoving the other-

“Spit on her pussy, Satoru.” Geto’s sing-song voice was dark.

Gojo’s eyes widen, “Wh-what do you-”

“Spit. On. Her. Pussy.” Geto throws his long locks over his shoulder and smiles, “Right into her pretty hole- but if you make a mess that’s even better.”

“Why would I wanna make a mess?” Gojo huffs, nose crinkling cutely. 

“Virgin.” Geto titters.

The blue-eyed man looks up to meet your eyes- and flushes. Puckering his lips up nervously, they tremble just a little as he somehow drips out a line of slick on top of your cunt.

And Geto only looks down to appraise the mess he’s made, his chunkily ringed fingers swirlin’ the glaze with the front of his thumb. “Mm, I could’ve done better.”

They were both so fucking hard.

Geto turns back to you now, eagerly waiting. “See this tongue, gorgeous?” Unhinging his jaw, he lets his loooong and lavish tastebuds stick out for you to see. Slicked with watery saliva. Studded with a silver tongue piercing in the middle of it. “See it? S’what I’m gonna ruin you with- watch and learn, Satoru. Watch and learn…”

And you’re hearing it before you’re feeling it. Seeing it. 

The slurp of Geto’s slick tongue shoving between your sultry folds - just lengthy lines licked back and forth on your slit. He doesn’t speed up. He doesn’t act ravenous. Lingering his orbed piercing against every spot he can reach inside of you- no matter how much you’re restlessly squirming above him, he doesn’t go harder. Just light and fleeting.

Rubbing his ridged tastebuds against every orifice, sucking up Gojo’s ivory sap, letting his tongue juuuuust fill up your tight hole before fishing out- 

Making the other man balk, “H-hey!” His best friend was just making a mess of you, with his tongue lappin’ over the coats of cum that he’d poured out on your cunt. “That’s not fair- the seminal fluid is supposed to go inside the vaginal canal in order for internal fertilization to-”

Geto lazily cracks open an eye at him.

Before grabbing Gojo by the back of his throat and shoving him nose-deep into your cunt as well.

“Then do something about it.” He smiles.

Both of them had their greedy mouths open against your pussy.

Tongues flopping out and thrashin’ maddeningly against your cunt - Gojo’s a little longer than Geto’s, but Geto’s with his frigid piercing in the middle that scraped into your every orifice. It’s as if you were suddenly surrounded by the ridged texture of their tastebuds, until you couldn’t tell which one was which. Every sweet spot. Every fold. Dual tips aching to claim every inch of you. 

And while Geto slipped against your clit, Gojo was just craving to stuff his tongue inside your hole-

“Ngh—” His nose crinkles cutely a little as he whimpers, “D-don’t take up too much space now, Suguru.”

“You’re in my space, Satoru.” As if to prove his point, he presses the cold knob of his piercing right against your clit. “Don’t forget who knew her first. Now stop moving those lips and focus on- hers.” 

Gojo glares but doesn’t say anything more, only nudging the other man by his shoulder for more space. There’s a slight battle in the space between your legs- only drawing both men closer n’ closer to your cunt.

Gojo had his mouth plastered to your sopping cunt, lavishly licking into every orifice. And Geto- oh, Geto was doing the exact opposite.

Because while the nerdy boy was giving you everything that you wanted, Geto was pinching meanly at your clit and draaaaagging your cute nub until you felt like crying. Neglecting your clit when it felt like you were enjoying it too much. 

They were sliding over each other and making out messily with your pussy—and each other. 

“Tch- gay as hell.” Sukuna’s grumbling tone echoes, closer than you remember it. The sudden volume of it makes you look up with a jolt- only to realize that he was looming at the head of the bed. Looming right where you were.

Gojo spits out into your pussy, “Erm- bi, actually.”

“Does it look like I give a fuck?” 

Ryomen Sukuna has had enough.

He takes in the way that Geto and Gojo were shoved between your legs rabidly. Barely even paying attention to him. Barely even breathing- and he admits his mouth waters just a little imagining just how sweet your cunt tasted…

But he’s instead focusing his attention on another pair of lips.

“I didn’t come here ta get fuckin’ cucked.” Sukuna rumbles, his meaty thighs resting on the space of mattress beside your head. The sole reason that Geto and Gojo had chosen Sukuna’s room in the first place was because of his king-sized bed. And you were damn lucky that it could fit all four of you. “So…”

You flinch. 

“No need to be scared, mama, s’just me.” He’s patting his overlarge palm on top of your head, smoothing down your sweaty scalp. “And my ah- ‘friends’ here told me that a pretty gal like you wanted to be bred, hm? S’that true?”

You’re nodding through your tears, body twitching any time Gojo’s tongue curved just right. “Mhm- yes, fuck yes.”

“Bred by me you mean.” Gojo sputters out, drunken eyes turning up at Sukuna.

“Fuckin’ loser.” Sukuna sniffs, his prominent nose crinkling in distaste at the white-haired man. 

But he’s setting his crimson sights back on you, smirk only seeming to grow at the awe on your face - ogling just how large the other man was. He was on a scholarship for wrestling, or so you’d heard…“So s’true, huh? Ya came here to be bred? What a filthy fuckin’ giiiiirl—”

Squirming restlessly, Geto was now starting to circle the nub of your clit with his ringed fingers and it was leaving your body in a tizzy. Every wadded ounce of cum that Geto was licking out of you, Gojo was shoving back in with his flexible tip. Refusing to let any of his seed go to waste- they were just so sloppy. Kissin’ you open-mouthed. Again and again. Both nose tips bustling against your puffy clit, their tongues slickly sliding against each other and shoving in alternating paces. Gojo’s hard and fast. Geto’s agonizingly thorough. 

You whine, “Was just- hck! needy-”

“Oh I know all about how needy you are, woman.” Sukuna’s hands drop to the drawstrings of his sweatpants. “But do you even know my name?”

“Of course I do.” Your brows furrow, “You’re Ryomen Sukun—mmpf.”

Before Sukuna’s tugging down on the cottony hem of his pants and letting his raging erection smack! against his firm abs. Thick length. Drivelling tip. If you thought that Gojo was big, then Sukuna was just as big if not bigger…

An even more sultry number of veins that were overtaking the sides of his shaft - and now your mouth. He fits inside. He was so fucking hard that you could count each ravenous ba-dump! of his pulsations, shovelling and shoveling away-

“M-mmmpf—” You’re letting out muffled moans at the rough use of your mouth. Sukuna’s length seemed like it was never-ending. The tannish crown of his shaft finds the cute orifice of your mouth and opens away at your lips, wider and wider with every inch. Hips moving in solid, mean thrusts-

He snickers,“No, my name is Ryomen Sukuna. You don’t even know that, mama?”

“Mmm—” Letting out sinful noises at the feeling of his fat ball sack smacking against the side of your face with each of his movements, just so full with need for you. “Please-” You sob out - the only thing you can seem to sob out. “P-please-”

“Nuh uh, not that either.” He was having way too much fun with this. Plunging his thickened erection out and using the length to spank each side of your face. “Try again.”

“Ryo- oh.” But just as you’re trying to speak, Sukuna’s flooding your hot cavern with his salty tip once more. Almost as if he was chasing the vibrations of your voice, almost as if he was waiting for you to speak just so he can watch your pretty sentences break on his cock. 

He grins from above, head cocking to the side to take in the lovely sight. “Tryyyy again—”

“Ryo- mmpf.” You’re gulping down his swollen inches - fuck, Sukuna was even thicker than he looked. Somehow filling up every orifice inside your mouth, it felt as if he was reaching for the dangly lil’ thing in the back of your throat and then even further. 

Just slurp after slurp of his vicious hips movin’ back and forth.

He’s tightening his grip on the back of your head and humming. “Breathe with your nose, mama. Breathe with your nose.” The audacity to even act like he cares when he swabs the very back of your neck aggressively, “Relax that pretty throat f’me. Heh.” Just waiting until your airway was fully free, just waiting until you’d somewhat calmed down- before he’s arching his hips and slamming his puckered red tip inside. “Now that your voicebox knows me- try to say my name? Do you know my name?”

“R-Ryooo—” You’re gurgling through your spit and tears, “Ryo- ngh- men. Sukuna.”

“Atta girl.”

“Sukuna?” Gojo flinches as if he’d just been struck by lightning. 

“Hm?” Geto peeks his eyes open as well, only to find that the pink-haired man had very much made himself at home pumpin’ away into your mouth. His velvety length stuffing your small cavern open. “It seems, Satoru, that we have some competition.”

Gojo growls, nipping at your folds meanly in his possessiveness. “Oi…who the fuck do you think you are blocking her cute air tract with your nasty fucking-”

But Geto only smiles with your slick glistening on his lips, “May the best man get to breed her cunt first.”

And you’re confused for only a split-second before there’s a sudden spike of pressure - from both ends.

From Gojo and Geto who were thrusting their tongues inside your cunt, from Sukuna who was never one to back down from a challenge. And he’s looking over at the two men who were bickering but suddenly united, and plastering both paws on top of your scalp to thrust inwards.

Letting his slick, drivellin’ tip hit the roof of your mouth and make you moan—

“Suguru-” Gojo hisses.

But Geto was already on it- Geto was already fiddling with his chunky metal rings to transfer them all onto his right hand. “Mmm, don’t you worry now, Satoru. I’ll teach you.” With his goal finally accomplished, he’s hooking his fingers against your folds and pryin’ them apart. “First, you’ve gotta tease the princess.”

He’s spitting inside your hole and thrusting his middle finger inwards.

Swirlin’ around your velvety channel for a few seconds before pulling back out when you start clenching- “S-Suguru…” Your voice echoes from above, and both men look towards you with primal eyes. 

Geto cocks his head at Gojo, “See?”

“I-I see.” The other man looks as if he was on the verge of writing this all down.

“Then you’ve gotta- hah, take your time. Like this.”

“Like—oh.” You’re cut off by him sticking his finger back in. Letting his wet muscle expand and circle around your walls, his rings pokin’ away, a few times before edging back out.

“See?” Geto rasps, one of his thumbs pushin’ aside your folds to show your entrance off to the other man. “Look how she’s- hah, clenching like she wants to suck me back. You’ve gotta make her want it badly- s’fun to tease a pussy.”

Gojo nods eagerly.

“And for my last trick-” Oh, by the way he says it you already know that it doesn’t bode well for your sanity. The thickness of two fingers were now stretching your hole out wiiiiidely before running back out, thrusting in and out. In and out. In and out.

Probin’ with his silver rings near sweet spots that you didn’t even realize you had before.

At the same time, Geto runs his straight nose bridge down the line of your slit and ends up pressing on your clit. Just not enough pressure to satiate you, just enough pressure to make you sob out—“Fuck, stop teasing, Suguru.”

“And that’s how you treat a princess.”

Meanly.

“Let me.” Gojo gulps. His mouth waters at the milky display of your slick and his cum around Geto’s mouth, he shoves Geto aside with a muscular shoulder. “Let me.”

And it’s the last thing you’re seeing - that look of utter greed on Gojo’s face - before the white-haired man leans himself in reaaaaal close to your pussy. He’s nudging his straight nose bridge between your plump folds and ending up pressing down on your clit, letting his watery tastebuds swing out and-

And then Gojo Satoru was eating you out like a madman.

Geto had scooped out the wads of his best friend’s cum, and Gojo’s moaning at the mess that gushes around his mouth and onto his pinkish tastebuds. Blue irises sprinting to the back of his skull, raw lips falling agape. Geto’s breath hitches as he notices the change immediately- “Wait, Satoru, you’re going to-”

“M’going to breed her again.” Gojo spits out, “S’gonna be me not him-”

He was going to say that Gojo was going to forget how to breathe if he went on like this - but he gets the feeling that his best friend doesn’t even want to breathe right now…

Doesn’t want to do anything but grab onto either side of your thighs and shove himself even deeper. His fat tongue slipping out and smacking! against your pussy, his tastebuds searching any and every corner for a taste of you, his pussy-muddled brain not even knowing what he’s doing as he’s thrusting and thrusting.

Face pushing until the rim of his glasses pressed up against your pussy and he didn’t even see to realize—

“O-oh, fuck.” You’re gurgling out in a shrill tone, and Geto looks on at your pretty expressions in interest. “S’going in so deep. Satoru, you’re just so needy-”

Sukuna raises a brow, “Heeeeh?”

“Yeah, so fuckin’ needy, Satoru.” Geto repeats in his smoky tone, eyeing both of your feverish motions with interest. Gojo was face-down in your pussy and lapping at your cunt with a primal wildness, pinning down your squirming hips. Any time that your restless body tries to move away, he’s draaaagging you down to drag across his pretty face, he sticks his tongue so rapidly in and out of you that his tongue is nothing but a pinkish blur.

Completely the opposite of Geto’s mean, torturous methods. 

And, well, he can’t fall behind now, can he?

Without warning, the dark-haired man reaches his hand to shove not one- not two- but three of his ringed fingers down your tight channel.

Gojo startles at the intrusion and moves-

“Ah ah.” Geto murmurs, grabbing him by the back of the neck and shoving him into your wet cunt once more. “Stay.”

His nose glidin’ down your slit, furiously rubbing and rubbing his textured tastebuds against it until you’re opening up more for Geto. Inside it. Anywhere and everywhere. 

Geto was absolutely pummelling your cunt with his fingers now, while Gojo moved onto sucking your clit as if it was his favorite candy. “Mmm—-Sug…Satoru.” Moans meshing into one, as if you didn’t even know what to utter. “It feels so- oh.”

“So what?” Sukuna scoffs, reaching down to smack your right tit. “Don’t test me now, mama. Don’t make me- hngh, shut you up proper with my cock.” 

He’s grabbing one of your hardened nipples and pinching at the peak in a way that makes you whine- “Kuna- Kuna- Kuna-”

“Yeahhh, that’s more like it. Keep saying my name- until you memorize it. Until you memorize my fuckin’ cock.”

“Suguru, do something.” Poor, inexperienced Gojo can merely watch as his pretty girl’s taken over by the pink-haired man once more. He’s flicking furiously at your bundle of nerves- and yet you couldn’t do anything but out muffled whimpers with Sukuna’s hot cock shoved into your mouth. “My girl’s been- ngh, won over-”

“Your girl?” Geto raises one brow, but looks up at you anyways.

Fuck, this angle between your legs was just perfect - he could see the way that your throat expanded and outlined the sheer thickness of Sukuna’s girth. Just so massive that every thrust had his cylindrical intrusion bulging against your neck. Again and again.

And he can’t help but catch Sukuna’s red eyes, cocking his head over. He gestures—straddle her.

A signal that the other men understands instantly.

A sinful smile spreads across Sukuna’s lips, “I like the way you think, punk-rock.”

And Gojo can only watch, slack-jawed, as the wrestler pulls his fat cock out of your mouth and tap-tap-taps the tip on your tongue a few times. Letting your pretty lips water just a bit - just enough to wet your tastebuds enough - before he’s moving over your head in one fluid motion until. Before he’s behind your head completely.

Before his rude hips plummet his inches between your lips.

You’re moaning so loud-

The vibrations zipping up from his honed cockhead and up his spine. “Fuck- didn’t know such a sweet mouth could even make a sound like that.” Sukuna’s grumbling underneath his breath, fucking gnawing down on his bottom lip to keep from making too many noises himself. “Now I get why those two bastards are obsessed with you, ma.”

Thrusting away wildly, Gojo pulls away with a gasp. “Suguru, you traitor-”

“Easy there, easy there.” The other man breezes, giggling at the cutesy way your body lurches back and forth with Sukuna’s jackhammers.

You flinch as you feel something metallic and cold plunge into your deepest, deepest depths—hitting almost near your g-spot. Geto hums, “And that goes for you, too, gorgeous.” He gives you a vulgar few strokes of his fingertips, reaching for your sweet spot every time. And yet- still not reaching it, he was teasing you until you wanted to sob. “Did you know that I play bass?”

“I did know- I do.” You cry out.

“Then, you probably know…” A final thrust - all the way from the curvaceous edge of his middle, his index, his ring finger and doooown to each ringed base - that sets your teeth on edge. “-that I’m real good with the g-spot. Whoops, I mean-”

Somehow between Sukuna’s vicious thrusts you manage out, “S-Suguru—” Because just then, he’s shoving your velvety walls apart to push against your softest spot in an instant.

“-yeah no. I meant g-spot.”

“Heeeeeh…” Sukuna whistles, “You’re good.” Watching as the dark-haired man then utterly ruins you with a mere few movements of his fingers, they’re finding each tender spot inside you perfectly. Rings being used to mark exactly where and when Geto was thrusting away - but no matter what, he always ended with his frigid rings pushed against your g-spot. Purposefully glidin’ those geometrical edges of his rings against your sensitive nerves- “But I’m better.”

“Kuna, oh my god—” You babble out as he uses both hands to grab onto your tits now, his long fingers pinching your nipples and rolling them between each padded digit.

It was just insanity.

Geto with his globular fingertips finding your g-spot again and again, Sukuna with his hot cock filling you up again and again- and Gojo. Oh…Gojo was just gluing his pouty lips against your entrance.

Geto’s tongue meeting his in an open-mouthed kiss, the white-haired man pulls away- only to latch onto that pretty perky clit above your hole. “S-say my name, too, sweetheart.” You can just barely hear Gojo’s plead over the cacophony of other sultry noises filling up the room, “Say my name-”

You can just barely feel the sharp spark of pleasure coming from Gojo finding your clit and sucking. Like his life depended on it. “Say my name while you cum.” His pale brows furrow, and every luxurious lick at your cunt was all that he ever needed in life, all that made him glide his glasses down your front pussy. All that it took to make you mooooan straight into Sukuna’s cock. “Say m-my name while you cum, please?” At least he had manners still.

Before your entire body erupts in a high so sudden and strong that you don’t even realize it’s taken over until after Gojo himself comments on it- “She’s cumming.” He breathes out, almost in disbelief. Gojo feels his cock twitch at the way you’re cumming on his tongue- and reaches his free hand down to fist it angrily. “She’s cumming she’s—mmpf.”

“If she’s cumming then fuck her through her orgasm instead of running yer big mouth.” Geto grabs the back of his best friend’s neck and shoves him in again - which Gojo was glad to indulge in. Glad to gnaw on the knob of your little clit, until his lips felt so raw that they might as well fall off. 

And while Gojo made out with your pussy, Geto was fingering you crazily. His honed fingertips plucked at your bliss, hitting your g-spot precisely at every peak. Again and again.

“L-like this, Suguru?” Gojo gurgles out.

“Mhm, faster.”

They’re speeding up- Gojo letting go of his cock just to delve in even deeper, and Geto has to be the one to pump his best friend’s length.

You sob, “Satoru—mmmpf.”

“Shit, maybe you two bastards aren’t half-bad.” Sukuna muses, a pinkish brow raising at just how much you moaned and thrashed underneath the two men. His hips only grew faster.

All three men were absolutely ravishing you through your high, those little sparks of pleasure going up from your pummeled cunt to your pummeled throat. “Mmm—” Just about the only thing that you’re ever going to be able to get out at this rate, “Feels- good- ngh- good-”

“Yeah, but which one’s yer favorite, mama?” Sukuna spits. Nestling his heavy balls against your face while he shoves his cockhead lung-deep-

“At least let her finish her orgasm first.” Gojo seethes, his glasses completely fogged by now.

“Yer too fucking nice.” Sukuna bites back, “She likes being all roughed up, doesn’t she?”

“No, she likes indulgent-”

And they’re both speeding up their ministrations, Gojo going craaaaazy with the heart patterns he was drawing on your clit while Sukuna twisted his fingers even harder over your nipples. You’re practically held hostage by the pleasure.

And the only thing you can do is ride out wave after wave of your bliss, still being absolutely demolished from all angles by the three men when it’s finally starting to peter out.

You twitch, “S-Suguru—”

Because you knew that the pierced man would be the only one much too happy to stop you from getting what you need - but you’re surprised to find…that Geto merely shrugs you off with a grin. The one overstimulating you with his fingers until you’re crying-

“Keh…” Sukuna eyes the sobs you’re heaving out, though he doesn’t stop himself. He’s pumping out a few wads of creamy white, before pressing a thumb on top of his shaft to stop himself from releasing too much before he actually got to breed you. “Don’t make her tap out just yet.”

“Suguru…”

But he doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t even slow down until you’re being probed by his sultry fingertips all the way until a second orgasm. It flashes through you like a sudden fever, your entire body breaking out in a cold sweat.

Jaw dropping.

Back arching off of the mattress. 

You’re so sensitive by this point that even the lightest graze of Gojo’s canines against your clit makes you whimper n’ whine. Great heaving tears making their way down your cheeks, you’re nothing against the three sets of strong arms that hold you down so they could properly eloooongate your zapping pleasure.

And Geto Suguru doesn’t stop until he’s well and thoroughly fucked you through each mountain of your electrified high, and perhaps even all the way into a third-

“Aaaaand that’s enough outta you.”

“Yeah-” Gojo huffs, his pout pretty on his lips. “-you don’t get to hog her orgasms all for yourself, Suguru.”

Geto gives a final long liiiiiick with his pierced tongue.

Your brain is all muddled and stupid by the time that Geto with his love for overstimulating you is pulled off. You’re pushed further up the sweat-dampened mattress, sandwiched between Gojo and Sukuna from either side.

“So…” Sukuna asks, “Who won?”

“Me- she moaned my name-” Gojo grumbles up at the man. You whine at the way both their toned cores surround you, it’s as if you were a ragdoll they wanted to play around with. 

“Yeah right, you had first dibs.” Sukuna scowls, eyes narrowing into slits. “And ya ruined it. Now I get to fuck her pretty pussy-”

“How about me, gorgeous?” Geto wasn’t waiting around to argue with his friends - he was cupping your dazed face and asking you directly. But you were so damn far gone that you couldn’t even begin to formulate a coherent response before-

“No, Suguru.”

“Fuck no.”

.

.

.

You were right about Ryomen Sukuna being rough.

Because he was fucking you rough. And hard. And fast.

And ruthless.

It seems that the winner of last round’s ‘challenge’ had been none other than Gojo Satoru - based on the fact that his name had been the first one you’d moaned during your first orgasm. Perhaps his accolades as president of the debate club wasn’t just in name…

They’d unanimously decided that Geto Suguru, the traitor, wasn’t deserving of fucking you after that little stunt he’d pulled earlier. Overstimulating you until tears—how could he! Without both of them, of course…

And so Gojo had left you in your stupidly fucked state.

Merely hovering over you- the tips of his ears red, the head of his cock dripping wet already. He’d pressed just about half of his swollen shaft between your pussylips before - expectedly - cumming again in less than two strokes.

He just couldn’t handle the feeling of your hot cunt. Just the sensation of you throbbin’ away around him like that was too much for the bespectacled nerd to handle, his entire body shaking as he spurted his white seed all over your pussylips. Hot and syrupy, it dripped all over you and down onto the sheets below. Pink lips jutted out when he felt himself reach his high again, “I…I did it again, sweetheart.” He’d told you, shamefully.

And you’d barely gotten two comforting words out- “It’s alright, Toru—”

Before Sukuna had shoved him over.

“My fuckin’ turn.”

And now you were laid out against Sukuna’s chiselled back, feeling each ripped muscle move n’ flex against your own. Vicious. Vulgar. He was heaving after each thrust, he was hitting the very spongy end of your cervix, he was bending your back against his front—a hand scouring down your front to feel his cylindrical length impale you-

A full fucking nelson.

By none other than the wrestling star himself.

“A star player—fuck.” Sukuna’s raspy voice whispers into your ear, hooking his pointed chin at your shoulder and preventing you from moving a single inch away from him. Thud-thud-thud, his rotund tip could be felt all the way against your scratchy throat. And you swear you could taste the salty flavor of his gooey liquids. “M’gonna fuck a s-star athlete into you, woman- the best junior wrestling champion this world has ever seen.”

Gojo surges up from his chair in the corner - the one Geto and Sukuna had been sitting in earlier in the night. “She hasn’t even taken yet-”

“Ah ah- what’s that?” Sukuna interrupts between thrust after thrust. He looks around as if he’d just heard an indistinguishable noise from somewhere in the room, “What- oh.”

And you’re watching speechlessly when Sukuna’s honed fingertips slither down your front to squeeze your clit. 

“It’s this pussy begging me to get her pregnant-” His pinkish brow raises, “Oh- the best Olympic wrestler this world has ever seen? How ambitious, mama.”

Gojo spits, “Fucker-”

“You hear something?” And Sukuna was taunting him - Sukuna was playing right in Gojo’s face. His big beefy arms looping underneath your thighs and giving them a forceful tug- he’s spreading your limbs out as far as they’d go.

Making your soppin’ wet pussylips smeaaaar wide open and making the other two men throw envious looks your way. “Sounds like a little bitc-”

“Oh, please—” You’re bucking through your sobs. A particularly aggressive stroke has you damn near jumping out of his arms- but Sukuna’s only tightening his grip and bringing you riiiight back down to feel his cock. 

You weren’t escaping any time soon.

“C’mere, woman.” His tone was almost a warning, speaking down to you as if you were dumbified on his cock already—and you were close. Oh, were you close. The wrestler’s cock was just so thiiiick that his veins massage your tiniest orifices without even trying. Long glides. Hard throbs. “How m’I going to- heh, fuck you pregnant if you keep trying to run?”

“Well…”

He continues, “In the first place, you don’t think you can run from a wrestler, can you?”

Blinking your wide teary eyes up at him, “I can’t…?”

And it was almost too cute how stupid you were on his pistoning hips already, mouth splashing out saliva every time he was hittin’ a gooood spot inside you. Sukuna chuckles, “No, you can’t.” As if to prove his point, he holds you down to his glissading abs and swabs your wettened cervix. “But ya sure can fuckin’ try- ya won’t make two steps before I have you on my cock again.”

“Well that’s just n-not fair—” You’re trilling out at the way he bends you just a liiiiittle further against him. Both hands gripped primally onto your hips and not letting you get too far.

Not letting you get far at all, actually. You can barely even breathe without Sukuna bouncing your body right back and knockin’ the wind out of your lungs with his puckered tip. “Ya can’t handle it if I bend you a little like thiiiiiis—”

“F-fuck!” Sobbing at the way he further spreads your legs, bringing them up until the caps of your knees were striking your tits.

“And then just a little like thiiiiiis—” Sukuna arches his hips lightly off the dampened sheets to rover his cocktip inside. Arching you against him.

Ryomen Sukuna loved manhandling you.

“Oh my g-god-” It’s just about the only thing you can blubber out, your sentences hitching in your throat. “Shit, I didn’t even know I could bend like this…”

“Why’re you crying, mama?” Sukuna coos, though there was something decidedly dangerous in his tone. Almost as if in alarm, your pussy starts throbbing harder and he snickers as he feels it- one of his roughened thumbs come to wipe away at your tears.

“It’s j-just-”

“It’s j-j-just the entire future of wrestling that depends on this pussy right here.” He’s mocking you. He’s teasing you. Not in the same way that Geto would - Sukuna had you immobile and was bullying you with both his mouth and his rugged, roverin’ tip. 

His plump cockhead gapes out your cute hole, ending up in your deepest depths. He manages to leave you jolting after the pressure of each one. And after that bulbous intrusion then his inches just seem to go on and on and on—“S’a biiiig deal, mama. So you understand why I hafta fuck you a little ngh- rough, riiiight? So you understand why I hafta wrestle you a little, riiiight?”

Until you can feel Sukuna bash away even at your throat-

So hard that your eardrums almost pop- “It just feels so-”

Only to get overshadowed by the slurping squelches of your own cunt. Which only makes the pink-haired man grin, “There. It’s been decided then.”

“What are you…” Your dazed eyes widen, looking up into his rouge ones for an answer.

But the only answer he’s listening to? The background music of your pussy. 

Sukuna’s nodding in agreement with the slick wet sounds that escape you, even more of it increasing in volume once he lets his precum fill you up to the very brim. Dripping past your pussylips, “Now now-” For only a few split-seconds before one set of Sukuna’s rugged fingertips swipe the syrup back in. “-none of that. That’s at least a couple million yen you’re losing there, girl. If m’fuckin’ it inside ya then keep it inside ya.”

You quiver, zaps of electricity floating through you when he reaches down and pinches your throbbing clit. “And i-if I can’t…?”

“As my son’s manager, I can’t have that.”

He was picking and choosing management opportunities already?!

You see, the King of the Ring was hellbent on fucking you right - on getting his seed to be the one that took inside your sopping wet walls.

He was fucking you like he meant it - he was going to complete that mission one way or the other. He was drilling into you with a primal cadence, bulbous tip press-press-pressing inside to swab away at your every single orifice—

You’re jerking on top of him at the pleasure, and Sukuna’s immediately putting you in a headlock.

Gojo surges up to his feet in outrage.

But the fraternity president wasn’t paying the other men a single ounce of attention- merely tightening his bulging biceps around your neck. Leaving you nothing but a limp ragdoll for him to pump his inches into, thick and hot at the thought of impregnating you. “And as his father-” Sukuna shoots you a cocky smirk that the other two can see, “-m’not letting you walk out of this bedroom without carrying my child.”

He throbs inside you and you whimper.

“Suguru, I can’t stand this-” Gojo’s taking a step closer, chair damn near clattering to the ground.

He was donning his boxers for now, though his best friend was naked and proudly pumping his cock at the sight of Sukuna fucking you like a crazed man. Hard and fast. Hard and fast.

Soft pants leave the bassist’s mouth, throwing his head back with a grown as he watches Sukuna reach down and pinch your clit. He’s peeking ahead at the sight with a partially-cracked lid, “Satoru, give me my phone.”

Gojo’s brows raise, “What?”

“Give me my phone.”

It’s in quick, jerky movements that the white-haired man does. He tries not to stare too long at the moving couple in the bed but…fuck, he, too, was so damn hard at this point that he was dripping precum through his boxers.

Gojo practically shoves the phone into Geto’s arms.

He unlocks it with a chuckle and heads straight to the-

“You’re recording-”

“Shhhh…” Geto chortles, raising his camera up. “We’ve talked about it before, she’s said it’s alright. Now shut up, it’s getting to the best part.”

It really was. The video captures the scene perfectly: you’re still being manhandled in this full nelson. Draaaagged back and forth every time that Sukuna’s cock glides inside you, hitting a spot particularly delicate. 

He was just so muscular, with his cock plumpened up so much that Gojo almost wondered how you were taking all of him. Your cervix must be completely bruised by him now, and the camera manages to record how the skin ‘round his pelvis was burning red. 

Again and again and again.

The two of them were practically hypnotized by the rough way you were being fucked. Pounded, more like. The musician zooms in on the vision of your puckered lips, swollen with prolonged contact with Sukuna’s massive balls. Gooey puddles of Gojo’s cum from earlier dripping all around them. Smack-smack-smack!

It takes just a few more of those and a final pinch on your clit to make you shatter- your orgasm taking over you like a tidal wave.

White flashing behind your eyelids.

Spine arching into the perfect curvature on top of him.

Sukuna’s muscular front provides the best cushy surface for you to get lost in your high, one that leaves you limp and boneless on top of him. “P-please, Kuna…” Geto damn hopes that the audio managed to pick up your ravaged whines. “Cumming—”

“You don’t think that I don’t know that?” He hums, and you notice that his voice sounds so much more ragged than before. “Yer feeling like fuckin’ waterpark down there, woman.”

“O-oh…” Your maw drops, as if you just now realize how wet with arousal you were. Leaking all over his scruffy pink happy trail-

“Orgasm left you stupid already, huh?”

You can only mindlessly nod. 

All three men find their achin’ erections throbbing - the pink-haired man most of all with his swirlin’ tip tortured by the clenches of your orgasm. It almost pained him to pull out, even if it was to savagely thrust back in again.

And again. And again and again and again-

Geto whistles as the last few seconds of the recording capture the way that a sudden ring of white froths at your entrance. Sukuna pumping in his cum with a drawn-out groan—

The sharp tone of the video ending echoes out in the bedroom. Though you certainly couldn’t hear with the way your eardrums were popped with the pressure of his thrusts.

And Geto? Geto worked silently, as Gojo gawked behind him.

“S-send me that recording…” 

“Mhm.”

SUGONDEEZNUTS sent an attachment to ‘Juno, y’know?’

SUGONDEEZNUTS added Prof. Nanami Kento.

He clicks off the phone and enjoys the show.

“A star wrestler-” Sukuna’s spitting between his gritted canines, the edges of his lips squirking up into a vicious grin. He flattens one of his hands down on top of your core - right above where his thickened tip was plummeting into your womb.

Pushing down and you could already feel the glutinous layers of his cum start to slide around you, sploshin’ out of your hole.  It leaks out of you and he wonders just how much that much was able to fit inside because fuck—he’s cumming more than he ever has in his entire life. “Look at thaaaaat- we’re gonna have a star wrestler, mama. Better get ready, girlie, because m’gonna fuck an entire team of Olympians into you.”

“Please-” You yelp as his headlock on you tightens.

Flexing his incredible muscles against your neck, “And are you gonna run away?” It blocks every ounce of air from escaping.

“N-no…”

“Are you gonna tap out?”

“No-”

“Mmm—then how about we start thinking of the baby names-”

“Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves, shall we?” Geto’s breezy voice soothes out into the saturated air. It’s not too long before you’re hearing footsteps headed to where you lay utterly muddled. “After all, there’s more of us waiting.”

You shiver.

.

.

.

Nanami Kento wasn’t having a particularly good day, no.

For starters, he’d just been informed by one of his freshman students that half the campus thought he was in his thirties already—he was a damn TA in the first place! He wasn’t even an official professor (though he did plan to be one, so perhaps they were right on that note…)

And then his morning class slept through a particularly riveting presentation on the Kamakura period, then his (totally not favorite…alright perhaps favorite) student didn’t show up for your allotted office time with him, and now he was stuck grading papers of students who couldn’t care less about shogunate lifestyles.

Or at least he was.

He was grading papers of students who couldn’t care less about shogunate lifestyles.

That’s until he got the text.

With none other than said favorite student, you, featured front and center in its contents.

Now he was walking as fast as his long legs could take him to the most infamous fraternity house on all of campus: Curses Epsilon. 

And let it be known that Professor Nanami Kento has never clocked out of the history department earlier in his entire life-

“Oh, fuh-fuck—” You’re blabbering out stupidly, tears cascading your eyes at incredible volumes. The three men inside this room just had you ruined on their cocks - Gojo hadn’t been given a chance again after his last two mishaps, Sukuna had just finished rubbin’ your pussy walls raw, and now it was Geto’s chance. Finally.

You were on all fours - bawling face pushed into Sukuna’s pillows, your ass raised high in the air. 

The bassist had his index and middle fingers pulled into two honed tips, pressin’ away at your g-spot like it was a treasure trove he was uncovering. Push-push-pushing, Geto managed to force your tired body into one more orgasm, two more orgasms, three more org-

And that was when Professor Nanami Kento had arrived.

First, he’d knocked. Sharp and sensible - the frat house door had been unlocked, you see.

And it’d been none other than Geto himself who pulled his fingers cleanly out of your cunt and walked to the door. Slurping away at the treacly mess you’d left on his fingers- “You’re late, Kento.”

With a gasp, you’re pulling the sheets up to your chest- but Gojo had stopped you in your tracks—“But I wanna stare at your pretty cunt while she leaks, sweetheart…”

“Fuckin’ needy.” Geto had thrown his silky locks over his shoulder, rolling his eyes at his best friend’s antics. Then he turns back to the blond man who was trying hard not to stare at you on the bed—but he couldn’t help the way his eyes roamed. Fuck, he was only a man after all. “You know we almost thought you weren’t coming.”

Nanami gulps at the way Geto very obviously suckles the candied glaze of your juices from his fingers. One by one. 

You whimper at the display.

“Clearly.” Nanami’s eyes then shift slowly from the man before him to you on the bed, your eyes dazed with your high, your legs clenched together. But not even that can stop the constant overflow of creamy white leaking from between them. Overspilling. “Is that why none of you have fucked her properly yet?”

Geto’s dark brows raise in amusement, “Excuse me?”

“If you’re going to get her pregnant, then do it properly.”

Everyone’s jaws drop a little at the statement the professor is giving, and Nanami only soundlessly steps inside. Letting the door close behind him.

He has only one target and one target only - you. 

The blond-haired man steps towards you with purpose, starting to shrug off that formal jacket that fit him so well—

“Hello, my darling.” Nanami sighs, “On your back now.”

4. Nanami Kento.

The HOTTEST prof/ TA this campus has ever seen

Such a gentleman (opens doors, eye contact even when wearing skimpy tops, reads feminist books omg)

Mature 

Some think he’d be dry in bed tho…

Nanami Kento was not dry in bed. Nanami Kento was not dry in bed.

Oh, how many times have you dreamed of this day? Wearing your shortest skirts to Professor Nanami’s lectures, daydreaming away just how it might feel to have him bend you over his sleek mahogany desk.

Though in no time what he was bending were really your legs. 

Right over his broad shoulders, they were folding just so pliably—he’s patting upon each side of your wobbly limbs with a hum. “Not too hard for you now, is it, my love?” You’re shaking your head, growing wetter at the nickname- and Gojo groans as he watches you. 

Nanami smiles, “Mmmm, good.” Then he’s reaching an arm out towards the headboard and grabbing one of Sukuna’s pillows.

“Wha’s that for, Nanami?” You’re blurting out stupidly.

“This?” He’s cooing down at you in a soft tone, one that’s so sweet that it makes your entire body heat up. Especially your cunt. Deciding that it would be much easier for your muddled mind to be shown instead- Nanami slides the puffy pillow underneath your hips to raise them a little. “This is for helpin’ that cute cunt of yours actually keep all the cum she’s been given. Does that make sense?”

You nod. He was just so gentle-

“You’re going to address me as ‘sir’, alright?” Fuck—you were mistaken. How did you not notice the steely look in Nanami’s eyes? How did you forget that he was known not only as the most handsome professor on campus - but also the most strict. “Now, does that make sense?”

Just barely managing to breathe, “Y-yes, sir.”

“Good girl.”

Shit, it makes your orifice geyser out in more impossible wads of slick. And your back’s arching instantly the moment he tugs down his pants, and you feel Nanami’s large reddish tip enter between your legs. “Fuck, that feels so good, Ken—sir.”

“Good girl- good girl.” He’s hushing out your tiny cries, placing a soothing hand on top of your sweaty scalp. Which you thought was nice, which you thought was sweet- but you’re realizing that that gesture was actually to push down on your body and keep you from jerking away every time he was lightly plunging his cock in. Nanami presses down on your head, “We have a lot to learn now, don’t we?”

“Y-yess—oh.” Your voice cracks embarrassingly at the thick shaft that Nanami was sinking in.

You didn’t get quite as good of a look at him, but you could tell that his entire length was just a little bigger than Geto’s. Not quite as long as Gojo, but with even more veins and the prettiest tuft of golden hair on his base.

Somehow, what was special about Nanami was just how perfectly he was curved.

Just a few sultry degrees to the side. He’s managing to drag-drag-draaaaag the puckered end of his cock down your walls. Pinkish and puckered, kissin’ all at the ridges down your sides- headed straaaaaight towards your sweet spots as if he already knew where they were. “Have you done your homework, my darling?”

“H-homework?” You cry out.

“Mhm—” Nanami was easing inside your pussy with languid thrusts - and though he seemed to calm and collected on the surface, you could spot the furrow between his brows. The line of perspiration that ran down his forehead. The way his heavy balls seemed to tighten the more he slipped inside- “Have you researched the conditions best for- hah, pregnancy?”

“I…well…” You’re shyly looking away - you admit that you had done some, you hadn’t gone into this entire thing unaware. But having your history professor look at you like this just left you speechless, as though he was looking straight through you.

He’s smiling down fondly at you, “If only you spent a little longer studying instead of- mmm—” Pounding out a particularly hard thrust that leaves you seeing stars, “-instead of daydreaming about fucking me, hm?”

You gasp, “How did you-”

“Why, you’ve been dressing like a slut in my class for the entire semester, my love- how could I not know?”

And the only thing you can do is moan out like the slut he believes you were - your legs spread high on his shoulders, your pussy letting out the most filthy slurps and squelches as he’s easing inside.

Hard and thorough, Nanami’s fucking himself inside you in slashes- just grazing his honed tip against your sweetest spots. Before pulling away when you start to twitch for more, more more—

“So close-” You blubber out, “S-so close, Nana-”

“Excuse me?”

“Sir.” Correcting yourself in a single second.

It’s then that Nanami’s leaning in reeeeal close, and you’re looking up at the handsome man through your lashes. “Good girl.” What you’re presented with is a splat! of his saliva being spat down, Nanami holding open your jaw to let it slide all the way towards the back of your throat. “Now that’s to fix that dirty mouth of yours- better not make that mistake again, alright?”

Nodding, “Y-yes sir…”

“Good. Now let’s see if you did your research- let’s see if you can answer my questions, and we’ll see if you deserve to have a baby fucked into you, alright?”

“Yes, s—oh.” You’re barely even given the time to compute his sentence before your sinful examination starts. And Nanami folds you deeper in on yourself, easily rubbin’ his scorching hot tip against the very back of your cervix-

You start to shake at the feeling of his primal stretch and whine—“Now now, quiet during an examination. Or are you fucked too stupid to not even remember that, hm?” It just made you so dizzy how Nanami Kento was so stoic, sensible, sweet - and yet he had these moments where something predatory slipped beneath the cracks and left you speechless. “First question, who was it that fucked you first?”

Your head slips to the side of your pillow, locking eyes with a certain white-haired man that’d slipped his hand beneath his boxers. Lightly pumping- almost reluctantly but he just couldn’t help himself. “Satoru…”

“Hm…” Nanami inclines his head at the man, blond locks plastering on his head. “And who was it that fucked you the hardest?”

“Sukuna—” Teary eyes blinking at the fraternity president, the way his crimson eyes narrowed at the sight. “K-Kuna did.”

“And I assume that Geto Suguru was the one who was the fuckin’ filthiest?” As the other man speaks, Geto’s giggle echoes out over the question. “True or false?”

“T-True—” 

“Three correct in a row, that’s a hatrick.” His rugged thumb reaches down and glides between your pussylips, collecting the dewdrops of syrup drivelling out of you. “Well done- you deserve a little- hah, reward for that, don’t you agree?” The professor doesn’t even wait for your response before that very same digit of his presses down on your clit like a button. “Does that feel good, my love?”

And you’re so sensitive by the constant sultry assaults on your cunt, “Y-yes, so good—”

Only for Nanami’s tantalizing rolls over your clit to turn into a pinch—

“Wrong answer, darling.”

You scream out at the maddening answer, “Wh-what do you-” Head snapping up in surprise, before it’s suddenly falling back into the pillows at the surge of pleasure. You saw the look in his eyes. “I mean sir—yes, sir.”

“I fear your time is up, my love.”

“What- oh.”

And it’s the last thing you’re able to get out before- 

Before Nanami shoves both your thighs up until they’re ruthlessly hitting your tits. Before Nanami’s bending you into such a pliable shape beneath him. Before Nanami plummets straight to the deepest end of your channel to strike your cervix.

Fucking you firm. Hard. He’s mapped out every inch of you with only a few animalistic swabs, “Three out of four, that’s 75%—you did better than I could’ve hah-hoped, darling.” Blond brows raising, “Though you did make a careless mistake-”

“I’m sorry—” You’re botching out through the husky cries in your throat, “I’m sorry, sir-”

“So your final grade should come down to…” The professor trails off, his vulgar strokes thumpin’ away at your womb. Nanami shows no mercy for the bruises of his circumference he’s sure to be forming there, Nanami shows no signs of stopping- “-a fail.”

Your eyes snap wide open—“N-no please, isn’t there something else I can do to make up for it-” Fluttering your lashes in just the way you knew he liked - the same one you used all those times when you stayed behind his classes for something stupid. “-sir?”

Nanami’s biting down on his stern lower lip with a shiver, “You’re lucky you’re my favorite.”

And then with no trouble, he’s placing a direct thump to the sweetest spot on the side of your channel that makes you scream. Just the sweetest speck that he’s pushing in on.

Once. Twice. Thrice.

The blond-haired man leans down till the strands of his slicked hair tickle your forehead, panting into your open mouth. “Then how about another assignment, hm? Extra credit?”

You nod fervently, sure that some rational part of you knew that this won’t actually affect your semester’s grades. And yet there was some other part of you that just wanted to please him, to jerk your hips up into his with the cutest whimpers. “Please- please, I’d be so grateful, sir.”

“I need you…” You’re awaiting the rest of his sentence eagerly—but Nanami Kento takes his looooong lecherous time pumping his cock into you in the meantime. Push after push. Breath after breath against the shell of your ear, “-to get pregnant by me.”

That was your assignment?

That was your assignment?

It sends your mind into a tizzy, and you’re just about opening your mouth to answer-

When the bed dips beside you.

You’re looking up into the murky peripherals of Geto Suguru, his smile almost feline on his beautiful face. He looks between your shocked expression and Nanami’s furrowed brows, throwing his locks over his shoulder. “What? I thought class was in session?”

Nanami grumbles, “Don’t push it…”

“You don’t expect more than one student at a time?” He’s humming, milky thighs now splayed out on the mattress. You’re gulping as you watch him cup his thickened base with one hand, giving his red-hot length a few pumps. “It’s alright, I’ll just sit alllll the way at the very back-”

And you gasp at the feeling of him pressing his veiny shaft into your open palm. Curling his ringed fingers around your smaller ones to give his erection a drag—

“-you won’t even- hck! know m’here.”

“Tch-” Nanami clicks his tongue, channeling the tension at having the other man use your pretty self- into none other than your cunt. Into none other than thwacking! his heavy shaft deeper, harder, into you.

You’re starting to get pushed up to the headboard, doing your very best to keep a constant rhythm on Geto’s handjob. “Please- ngh, please m’not gonna last long-” 

“I can’t bear it either.” Gojo’s shaky tone rings out. 

He’s taking just one step before Nanami sternly barks- “Another step and I bribe all your professors into failing you this semester.”

The blue-eyed man slouches in and grumbles.

All as the other two ruin you-

“Then here’s a mini-quiz for you, gorgeous.” Geto hums, and Nanami glares at the other man. He continues as if he doesn’t see, “Who’s going to cum first- A). You…” And it sure was heading in that direction, if the way that Nanami was hitting your g-spot dead-on was anything to go by - you didn’t even know how he managed to spot it so precisely. The ratios of it being molded into your very cunt by his cock- “B). Professor Nanami Kento, here.”

His ruby tip twitches deep against the gummy depths of your walls, spurting out a wad of promising white pre.

“Or C). Me.”

And despite being you who was asked the question, it’s Nanami who’s speaking up. “I don’t care what it is.” He runs a free hand down the front of your stomach, “As long as my daughter’s healthy.”

When he’d first walked through those fraternity doors, you’d expected Nanami to have been the restrained one. Perhaps the one that was more put-together than the other, perhaps the one that wouldn’t have been as affected by the little ongoing challenge to get you pregnant.

And yet, you’re realizing that perhaps your professor was a family man after all.

In no time he’s dragging his cock out with a groan, letting the golden curls down his front scrape your skin carnally. Before with a final thrust- you’re cumming. Again.

“Shit-” Head growing airy at the feeling of him bruisin’ your bundle of nerves again and again and again. “How are you s-so good at hitting- that- spot-”

“Fuck, look at the way she’s dripping.” Gojo’s awed tone breaks across your synchronized moans. 

At the same time, both men on top of you were burstin’ out into their own white-hot high. And from the edge of the room, the other two could see the coating of pure white around Nanami’s lengthy cock as he fucks his miry ribbons inside.

Spraying your insides like a flood. Hot and wet.

It’s a constant wave of creamy white overtaking the spots inside your walls, thoroughly glazing you from the inside. Gluing your thighs together. Feeling the salty aftertaste at your throat. “Sh-shit, oh my god.” And not a single drop was wasted because of the pillow he’d smartly kept underneath you- “I feel so full, sir.”

“Sir? How kinky.” Geto’s panting out, thighs falling open. It only takes you a few slippery pumps to realize that he was pourin’ out his orgasm as well. Down your wrist. Splattering onto your face.

Gliding uuuuup and down, uuuuup and down in an unsteady rhythm- shit, he has to admit that even those little jerks you give when Nanami smacks his hips onto yours felt good. Geto starts rutting up into you, his fuzzy black happy trail scratching your skin. 

Soaking with his cum.

Nanami’s nose crinkles when Geto dips a hand down to swipe at his treacly syrup and smear it all over your lips. “You, Suguru…” As if to say that your lips belonged to him, as if daring the other man to kiss you this way.

“What about me?”

“If you thought that would stop me…”

Your professor’s placing his lips onto yours instantly, murmuring-

“How could I not kiss the future mother of my kids? Congratulations on completing my assignment, darling.” He reaches a hand down to thumb inside your hole, just a few slick remnants that he had to take care of. “And congratulations on my daughter-”

“Th-thank you, sir.” 

You could barely even breathe- just so much of Nanami’s and the others’ stuffing you from the inside. 

“It seems the answer was D)...” Geto rasps out, voice unsteady with the waves of bliss he was still riding out on your pretty palm. “All of the above.”

“That’s it- get off, my turn.” Gojo’s familiar tone bites out from nearby - though you were much too exhausted by this point to actually turn your head and look.

Sukuna hums too, “I’ve never been more excited to do an assignment in my- heh, entire fuckin’ life.”

Nanami sighs, as if the other men were wearing on him already. He doesn’t look at them as he sticks his hand out, “My tie.”

They pause, for just a little- before Gojo’s the one to actually spot the professor’s usual tie. Handing it to him with a confused look…a confused look that slowly melts into sensual agony once the blond-haired man ties the slip of fabric around your wrists.

Tight.

Restraining you to him—he’s using his makeshift handcuffs to draaaag you to him like a ragdoll. “Now, you better behave while we breed you, my love.”

“Yes, sir.”

.

.

.

It’s one more round with Nanami and a sloppy makeout with Geto later that you find yourself being pummeled by Sukuna…and Gojo?

They’d shifted you to lay on top of the wrestler’s toned body, your maw droolin’ a wet sheen down his prominent pecs. He provided the perfect cushioning for you while drilling into you like a madman—again and again reclaiming the depths of your cunt as his.

While Gojo was pistoning his cock hurriedly into you from behind.

Of course, he’d reached his high with a groan the moment he’d slid his furious cockhead into your second entrance. Furiously pushin’ his sappy wads inside- 

“Sh-shit…” The nerdy man shivers as he feels you clench your velvety insides, glasses slippin’ down his nosebridge. He could feel the outline of Sukuna’s thick cock sliiiiiiding against his- and he has to bite back a shudder at the fact. “Your dick’s so small, it’s depressing to feel it through my girl’s pretty anorectal junction-”

“You think I like feeling yours, two-pump chump?” Sukuna bites back. “M’trying to breed my woman here, how am I supposed to that when-”

“Wait wait wait- your woman?”

“Your girl?”

“Can you guys just sh-shut up and—fuck me—?” You’re trilling out stupidly, having had enough of the two men bickering above you. 

They more they argued, the harder they were fucking your two holes - each vein, ridge, and dimple plastering against your walls. It was just an incredible sensation, mind growing blanker by the thrust. By the ruuuuuub of their matching paces furiously filling in, splurging out pre, smearin’ the slick mess. Not a single spot was left unturned as you were being stretched out on both ends, having both cylindrical intrusions claim you-

“As you wish, sweetheart.”

“You said it, mama.”

Neither of them would admit that having the other felt good for them, too…

It’s then that there’s—no, there’s no knock on the door.

Because you have to understand that most fraternity brothers have seen all there is to see, which meant that basic manners were rather…forgotten whenever they were inside the house. Not that it ever revealed anything jaw-dropping during times like this, and most would just assume that a brother would lock the door if they’re ever having…time to themselves.

And you also have to understand that Ryomen Sukuna hated locking the door.

So it opens just a crack with a foreboding creeeeeeak—! and in walks the emo sex dream on campus.

5. Choso Kamo.

In Geto’s band.

Wears eyeliner on a daily basis.

Always quiet and walking around campus with nothing but his headphones and sketchbook (artsy ooo~)

Wanna make him whimper!!

The very same man who, last semester, had shyly asked to draw you for his art exhibition - and ended up creating the most beautiful portrait humanly possible. It was one you couldn’t believe was of a person of this realm, let alone you. And when you’d told half-joking told Choso that, he’d replied—

“But of course it’s of someone from this realm.” His sweet doey eyes had scrunched in a way that was so genuinely confused, “It’s of you. Do you not see yourself like I see you?”

You had to admit that you’d carried a little hallway crush on him since then.

And there he was—not a step made inside Sukuna’s room before you’d dragged him to the bed yourself.

In almost no time, you’d made Choso sit in the middle of the dampened bed- your legs somehow straddling his waist, your back arching, your moans filtering into the sticky air as you rode his cock with such hunger.

“I-I just came to deliver Sukuna his baggie-” 

Sukuna grunts, “Oh yeah, thanks.”

“-and y-you’re saying that—ngh.” You never imagined that Choso Kamo would be the type that couldn’t control his mewls, but right now every time your walls squeezed him just a tad too tight he was makin’ the cutest noises. “You’re saying that the goal is to- hck! g-get you pregnant, baby?”

“Yes, so good, Cho.” You’re blabbering out, your eyes practically turned into hearts.

Somehow…Choso was the largest size of them all- perhaps not the thickest, but his length was just increeeeeedible. Long and lucious, with the prettiest blushing tip. He was long enough that he was bashin’ at your gooey cervix without even being all the way inside, he was long enough that he pumped all the way deeply against your womb and you got the distinct feeling that he’d go even deeper if he could-

“Eleven inches.” Gojo’s awestruck whisper breaks through your frenzied mind, “I swear that guy’s eleven inches-”

And the worst (or perhaps best) part was the silver Prince Albert’s piercing that he proudly donned on his mushroomy tip. Cold metal contrasting with the feverish heat of his cock—making your irises swirl in the white of your eyes.

Geto whistles, “See the amount of cum pourin’ out of her? He might as well have undid all our hard work-”

“Why that emo little-”

“That only means we get to go again.” Sukuna hums with a smirk. Not waiting for the others’ reactions before he’s siddling up behind you, kissing aaaaaall the way down the line of your spine before reachin’ a hand between your legs.

And you jolt as you feel the sudden spikes of pleasure taking over your cunt, Sukuna’s thick fingertips pryin’ aside your pussylips to latch onto your clit. He’s toyin’ with your clit while you ride Choso, “F—fuck, keep going like that, it feels too good-”

“And so you mean to say- we can g-get you pregnant…?” Though Choso’s mind remained fixated on only one thing, and his voice quivered in disbelief. “We can really get you pregnant? Really, really get you preg-”

“For fucks’ sake-”

“You can, baby.” You’re cutting off Sukuna’s rumble- making the other man huff and continue to roll his thumb against your knobbly clit. His erection rutting into you ravenously from behind, “You can cum inside me-”

Choso’s beautiful brown eyes widen, “Cum inside-” He bucks at just the words leaving your mouth.

“And fuck it inside all you want.” You don’t think you’ve felt this much power since you made Gojo cum just with a single touch of your pussy. And Choso was easily the same type to get utterly pussydrunk after only a few glides of his veiny cock. 

Just babbling and babbling away with the clenches of your cunt whenever you felt his pierced tip. He’s striking his painfully hard tip on top of your g-spot and letting the tears flow until you wondered who was feeling the sensation-

“Are you alright, baby?” You’re pushing back his sweaty bangs, staring into those eyes of his that were smudged with eyeliner.

Sukuna leans over, “Yer never that nice to me, woman-”

“Shush before I ban you from the bed.” You huff.

“My own bed?”

But the King of the Ring quietens down anyways, watching down as the man being ridden manages to string together a few coherent words - he couldn’t blame his frat brother. After all, he’d already felt the filthy heaven that was your pussy, and it almost made him lose his mind as well…And by now Choso was far beyond ruined—“So let me get this…get this straight-”

“Go on, baby.” You’re noticing that the man below you was so shattered that his mere body was jolting at the mention of anything to do with a baby. 

Even that cutesy nickname for him made him spurt out in a steam of miry pre, clinging onto your insides. He gasps, “You’re saying that you want to- to have…my baby?”

Gojo pipes up from somewhere across the edge of the room, “And mine!”

“Mine first~” Geto follows.

A heated huff behind you. “Heh, good fuckin’ luck because it’s gonna be mine.” 

“That is unless it’s not mine.” Nanami pushes up his glasses, “Which will be impossible.”

Choso’s growing more and more dazed the more and more they speak—or perhaps he was just reacting to the speeding up of your hips. The way you’re leaning in so close with a sultry smile and saying, “It can be yours, too, Cho—”

And that’s all that it takes to make the poor man cum.

He didn’t expect it- he didn’t even think that it was on its way judging by the sudden jolt that wracks through him. Choso throws his head into the crook of your shoulder, jaw dropping open with little sobs as he furiously fucks himself through his high.

Again and again.

Wave after wave.

You think that Sukuna’s ministrations might have you hitting one of yours, as well - but by now, you were far too gone to actually feel anything but tender zaps of pleasure.

Too caught up in the way that the brown-haired man was poooouring out as many droplets of cum as his balls could hold. Every single one. “You’re saying- you’re saying that m’gonna be the one to breed you—?” He’s rasping out against the side of your neck, and Sukuna claims your other side with a possessive growl. “You’re saying that I’m gonna fuck you all f-full and glowing?”

Arching into the two toned men that sandwiched your, “Yes, please-”

“I’m gonna feed this cunt with all the- ngh, cum she wants.” All the wants and more—it was drippin’ out of you, a milky sheen that coats all three sets of your thighs, Choso’s own, and Sukuna’s. “And then she’s gonna turn it into a baby that’s mine?”

Gojo scoffs, “Erm, actually-”

“And she’s gonna be as beautiful as you-” Choso doesn’t even seem to notice the interruption, doesn’t even seem to notice that he wasn’t breathing. Wasn’t doing anything but moving his plump tip inside of you and bashing every orifice with his puckered, pierced tip- “And she’s gonna have your smile, my eyes, your laugh, my hair—fuck, she’s gonna be just as beautiful as you.”

It seems that he’s tapered out the miry white cum that’d been seeping into you, and the man finds himself reclining back on Sukuna’s bed.

Holding onto either side of your hips now, you’re shocked at the sudden claim that overcomes him once Choso bucks his hips of the bedsprings and starts rutting inside you- “Gonna be so fucking beautiful- gonna be so fucking mine.” Tip bulging. Piercing slick.

“P-pleeeease, Cho—” Your head throws back, body starting to lean against Sukuna’s for support.

When the other man swats away Sukuna’s hand with no fear and starts toyin’ hearts on top of your clit himself. The chipped black of his nail polish marking out exactly where his fingers were moving in a frenzy.

The wrestler raises a brow, “Oi…”

But Choso’s paying no heed, “Gonna fuck- fuck my baby into ya, baby.” His dark lashes quiver with tears, just so big and pretty and sensitive. “Gonna have everyone look at you and see what I did-” Gojo gets up with a growl, and Choso only spreads apart your pussylips with his fingers so that he can see better. The way you were dripping in his cum. 

“Gonna have everyone see you walking down the street and know that I got you pregnant.” It was just so surprising the sheer intensity he was fucking you with—you’re crash-landing into yet another high of the night. And the emo boy was fucking you perfectly through it, letting his bulbous piercing scraaape your dewy insides. “Gonna have everyone see you buying baby clothes and let them know that’s for my baby.” Balls tightening, “Gonna have these fuckers see her in nine months and see me, me, me—”

Choso’s fucked himself into oblivion against your cunt, inside your sopping wet walls - until he’s pushing into his second high of the night.

And the more he’s pushing those clingy white wads inside, the more pussydrunk he seems to be getting. “Gonna—-pregnant.” Only broken fragments of his thoughts and words echoing out, Choso was rubbin’ his reddened tip raw on your pussy. “Get you—ngh, mine—baby…”

Again and again, he was emptying his aching balls inside of you. Twitching after each white-hot pour of his syrup that left you flooded.

And it’s only after he’s done with his wave of euphoria that your jaw drops at his state. Utterly ruined.

“Are you o-okay, Cho?” Genuinely asking.

But the pierced man only looks up at you with tears in his eyes, “Baby, am- am I pregnant?”

Your jaw drops—fuck. Fuck, he was that pussydrunk.

But Sukuna only cackles from behind you, “The fuck did you ask?” He looks over his shoulder at the three other men who were just hypnotized by the sight, “Oi! D’you fuckers hear that?”

“It’s certainly an interesting idea.” Geto hums, drawing nearer.

“And yet, mostly implausible.” Nanami replies.

“If there’s anyone here that she’s going to get pregnant first- then it’s going to be me.” Gojo stabs a thumb at himself, and you all turn to look at him. Slightly abashed at the sudden attention, he pushes his glasses up his nose with a blush. “B-but of course, I know that’s impossible with the considerations of a lack of seminiferous tubules and even if there was a vans deferens the considerations of a male womb…” Trailing off.

You’re so fucked that you almost don’t realize that all five men were on the bed in mere moments.

Surrounding you.

Gojo and Nanami’s cocks being guided to your sweaty hands, they themselves starting to move your palms down their needy lengths. Choso perking his hips up still as if unstoppable, as if it doesn’t even matter how sensitive he was if he could just fill you up once more—

“H-hold on-” You’re gasping down at the brown-haired man, “Hold on, Cho, are you sure you can-”

“Hold on?” Choso chokes out, “Hold on.”

Before tunneling straight into your womb with no apology-

“M’trying to f-fuck you till you’re pregnant and dripping with my seed and you want me to hold on- never say that again, baby.” He leans in closer and whispers, “Never.”

Before your mouth’s plugged up with Sukuna’s cock.

.

.

.

Where the others were possessive, Geto was just downright filthy.

You hadn’t even allowed your brain to register the feeling of Choso’s plummy, split-ended tip pulling out of you with a plop! Just the sheer length of it singed into your walls- “Sh-shit.” You’re shivering sensitively, “What now—oh.”

And you don’t have to ask before you’re feeling it again.

Him.

Geto Suguru with his muscular front against your back, taking Sukuna’s position behind you on the mattress. “A full nelson, huh, Ryomen?” His breathy voice echoes out behind you. “You know, that might just work- c’mere, Satoru.”

Gojo perks up where he’d been sulking in his chair, “Me?”

“You.” All laid behind Geto now, you were just so far gone that you barely even feel it once he spreads apart your jittery legs. With a single swipe of his ringed fingers, he’s baring your cream-covered cunt for everyone to see. All gooey and wet with the wads of cum trickling out of you. “C’mere and eat her out while I fuck her.”

“I thought you were going to let me fuck her- out of the kindness of your heart.” Gojo huffs, but gets down before you two anyways.

“What heart?”

And it’s the last thing you’re hearing before Geto’s incredibly hardcockhead is mazing between your walls. He’d waited all this time since the beginning of the night, through the new additions to the bedroom, and now was his time. Now he was not waiting a single second for you to get used to his primal size. Not waiting a single second even feeling apologetic- 

“S’because I have no heart that m’reaching for hers~”

Gojo might have been the longer out of the two, but Geto was most certainly the thickest. An incredible girth that might just be one of the thickest you’ve encountered this entire night, his entire tannish tip covered in a few squiggly veins that perfectly outlined your cunt.

And the thing was—

Geto lived up to be just as good as his mouth was - he lived up to all the talk. He was leaving you stupid with only a few swabs of his puckered red tip, dribblin’ out gooey pre ‘round your entrance and then pushing then pushing each ounce iiiiiiinwards.

Again and again.

2. Geto Suguru.

Fucking PRETTY

Rings 

In a band

Already super close friends. Two in one go??

You met him at one of his gigs on campus, and you admit you’d been struck by the music- but also the singer himself. Rather accosting him after the show, it was a fast track to becoming friends.

And Geto Suguru was…Geto Suguru.

Anyone else might have gone a little slower in the beginning, anyone else might have let you at least get used to his incredible length before utterly ruining you - but Geto Suguru had your pussylips split upon his cock and was reaching in ravenously. Hard. Quick strikes. Not waiting a single second before plapping! at the very back of your spongy cervix and glidin’ back down, not waiting a single second after he’s making everyone’s cum pour out of you-

And Geto doesn’t even speak to you from behind until he’s sure he’s made your pretty pussy surge into your orgasm at least twice like his.

Carefully movin’ about the rude red tip of his shaft, he spanks a bruise onto your g-spot a few times and watches as you shatter as if made of porcelain-

“So how about it, gorgeous?” Geto’s gasping voice from behind you, the curtain of his long inky hair tickling your sensitive skin. He had you pinned against his back with a single pale arm, “Decided on which one of us you want to make your- hngh, baby daddy yet?”

“F-fuck, I’m not quite…” Your sentence trails off with pleasure.

“Yeah? Not quite yet?” He continues from behind you, acting for all the world as if he wasn’t just singlehandedly ruining you on his velvety shaft. And you could practically hear the pout in his purring voice, “Well, you’re going to have to- mmm, decide soon if you really wanna baby, y’know?”

Back arching, “Yes—yes-”

“Oh, who am I kidding?” And the waves of your bliss were roaring in your ears, leaving your friend’s sing-song voice sound as if almost from a distance. 

He doesn’t say anything before reaching his roughened-up hands down between your tits, sloooowly - almost as if he was attempting not to scare off his prey. “There’s someone- heh, better I can ask about that…”

“What are you…” You’re choking on so many of your whines as he reaches down and presses the slender tips of his fingers on top of your stomach, slightly bloated with sopping cum. And it just makes you guuuuush- “Shit shit sh-shit, Suguru, what are you—oh.”

“Whoops, was that me?” Geto’s purring out from behind you, ignoring the protests that erupt from every corner of the room. “Silly me~ I didn’t realize she was leaking this fucking much- we might just hafta fuck her like this all over again boys.”

“I mean, I would gladly.” Sukuna rumbles.

“Shit, same.” The white-haired man gulps from below, it was here that he could get the perfect vision of the ivory sap flowing out of you. Hotly melting between your pussylips and reachin’ the curled tip of his tongue, “Shit, what are you even doing to her, Suguru-”

“Hmmmm—?” Because none of them had ever fucked you like this.

While the other men had their goals of breeding you until you were all roooound and glowing, Geto had a slightly altered goal of doing that in the way that would most leave your pussy crying. Leave you crying.

They could see it right now, the way that the bassist would speed his slender hips until they were almost nothing but a blur between your legs. Roughly mazin’ the crown edge of his shaft until it felt like you were twitching from pleasure- until it felt like you were just a liiiiittle too close to reaching your high. And the only thing that Geto Suguru could do then is slow down.

Achingly so, until you’re left sobbing for more—

“Too fucking filthy.” Sukuna’s whistling, bulging biceps crossed. He cocks his head at the nerdy man, “So are ya gonna eat her out or just stare- because I could do a right job of it-”

“Shut up.”

And Gojo Satoru was never one to not catch up.

He lets his slick tongue flop out, gulping at the ivory sap flowing out of you. It’s like a hot melt between your swollen pussylips- “Mmm—” So fucking filthy. Too fucking filthy. And yet, he didn’t know if he was the filthier one for then reaching out and letting his tongue across your folds, dipping just a little lower…“Mmmpf- Suguru, did she say which one of us she wanted as the- hngh, baby’s father yet?” 

“Tha’s exactly what I’m asking her, Satoru.” Geto responds.

And in no time you’re feeling his fingertips push down on your womb once again, making it hard for you not to shatter into yet another one of your highs - but you were so overstimulated by this point that even that felt like a mere few tingles. “Let’s seeeee—” His breathy tone was in your ear, lookin’ down at the other man between your legs. “I think m’hearing ‘Suguru’, gorgeous…”

“Where the fuck are you-” Gojo himself is interrupted by a particularly loud splosh of sap trickling out from between your pussylips. And he can’t lie, he’s listening to the noise himself as if it was human words. “She did not fucking say that, don’t put words in my girl’s mouth- pussy.”

Geto arches a brow, “Then what did she say?”

“She said ‘Satoru’.” Stubbornly replying from below.

Geto’s snapping his hips up viciously at the feeling of his best friend’s tongue licking at your hole, parts of his textured tongue gliding down his own shaft. “Mmm, you fucking wish- just listen to her.” Making the echoing slurps grow louder and louder.

“Nuh-uh, fucking listen to this-” With the other man’s tongue slippin’ between your folds and dragging out just as many noises.

“Heh, yeah right—”

You didn’t even know which one of them was being louder at this point, because whenever you thought that it might be Geto then Gojo was tuggin’ on your clit with his teeth and making you moan- and whenever you thought that it might be Gojo then Geto was planting his hand down on your tummy and making you leak out. Making you formulate a puddle of slick that both men were just addicted to—

“P-please…” As if this was nothing but your little mantra, and it kept echoing out of you like a broken record player. You didn’t know what exactly you were begging for - for more, for mercy, for your life-

“I know.” Geto hisses from behind you, his sharp canines starting to dig into the side of your neck. “How about we ask her, Satoru?”

Gojo’s eyes snap above his foggy glasses, “Good idea- sweetheart, isn’t it me that your womb’s begging for?”

“Isn’t it me you’ve been dreaming of getting pregnant by?” Geto speaks out as well.

And you’re following the two men like a tennis match, with your stupidly dazed eyes bouncing between the rude pumps that Geto was placing on your cunt, the way that Gojo’s tongue somehow forked into all the right places.

Driving you wild.

“I-is it me, sweetheart-”

“It’s me, isn’t it, gorgeous-”

And when it seemed as though you were far too stupid on their movements to answer, Geto was reaching his hand down and pinching your clit—the very same that Gojo was surging up to and suckling. Both of them are fighting for purchase on you. Both of them ending up only making your pleasure ebb even deeper- and your nth high of the night crashing through your body.

“B-both—!” You’re calling out, getting the lewd attention of everyone watching. You buck and thrash on top of him, “Want both, Suguru- Satoru- fuck, I want both of you-”

“Then it’s settled.”

The bulbous end of his cock pulses away inside you, dragging back and forth along your walls in a way that was frenzied. He smears aside your legs even further and furrows his brows, “Then it’s settled-” Geto’s pants making the skin on the side of your neck perspire, his slender hips arching up into you in a way that you weren’t even sure was possible. Just the best angles hittin’ each throbbing spot inside you until you gasp, ”-that our baby’s gonna have two daddies, huh?”

And it’s almost as if that was enough to make Geto Suguru crash into his own high, like he couldn’t control himself at the image - he couldn’t stop himself at the thought of you being fucked by him and his best friend. In no time, his high was shooting straight through him and ending up smeared against the wetness of your cervix.

Right at the very back, it’s splattering out in a distinct warmth that you note. He doesn’t move a single inch as he pumps you through the shivers of his high. Pump after pump. Push after push that leaves you primally speechless. “Oh my god—” Your mouth waters as you’re filled up with wad after wad of gooey white-

“Suguru’s just fine, gorgeous.” He hums from beneath you, thrusts loooooong and thorough pushing in every single ribbony white excess. “Or maybe even- the future father of your kids.”

“I-I’d like that…” Twitching through the way he was fucking you like an animal. And just below, Gojo was much the same- just lickin’ and lickin’ away between your legs while Geto fucked you stupid. You’re filled up to the brim, until it was almost too much to keep inside—

And Gojo thinks he might just cream himself just from the very vision- “Don’t tell me you’re gonna cum already, Satoru?” 

“Fuck off, Suguru.”

.

.

Toji Fushiguro doesn’t get fucking paid enough.

Being the security guard on a college campus isn’t exactly the most lucrative job in the first place, but it was made worse by the fact that he had to deal with that—college kids. Toji himself was about ten years past his own college day, though that was not to say that his experience as a security guard didn’t hone him to handle all clientele. He could handle awkward high schoolers. He didn’t care about screaming middle schoolers. 

Hell- even the pre-schoolers seemed to have just a bit more sense than some twenty-somethings with too much alcohol and too little self-preservation on their hands.

Which is why he was answering a call at 3AM.

Perfect, those never bode well.

The complaint had come from the resident of some nearby dorm who’d happened to pass by the Curses Epsilon frat house (god, Toji fucking hated frats) and heard some…strange noises. It was far too loud and far too many voices for them to discern, apparently. And though they’d rung the bell, it seems that no one had been home.

Except for the strange noises, that is!

Looking up at the sprawling mansion from here, Toji could see just one light in the entire building turned on. It seems there was someone home - though likely only the resident of this particular room. 

And Toji didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to figure out that this was likely some frat dudebro (god, Toji fucking hated dudebros) who had a bad trip or far too much to drink. This fraternity in particular was always infamous for their ragers, ones that Toji himself has had to shut down many times. 

So he’s announcing his presence before trying the door hand and—ah, and it opens. Just as he expected (god, did he say he fucking hated frats?)

Entering through the dimly-lit living space, the noises only got louder the closer he got to a certain resident’s room.

The closer he got to—

“What the-” Toji’s flinging open the door to Ryomen Sukuna’s room, breath catching at the sight (cock twitching). “-fuck.”

You.

You, you, you, you.

Toji Fushiguro has wanted to fuck you since the moment he saw you.

Ever since last semester when you’d bribed him - oh, the sweet audacity - into letting you and your friends throw a party by bringing him a bottle of fine whiskey. He’d laughed in your face, of course, before ultimately taking the spoils and grumbling that you could (‘but only until 1AM’ he’d said).

That night he sipped on his whiskey, wondering if the pretty pussy underneath that thin skirt of yours was just as sweet. Just as addictive. 

And here you were now—laid across Ryomen Sukuna’s bed and being filled by five men in all of your holes.

And, well, did Toji mention that he didn’t get paid enough?

6. Toji Fushiguro.

That HOT campus security omg (someone should put his face on the campus magazine and the applications would fill in)

BUFFFFFFFFFFFFF X5

Gruff but lowkey has a soft spot

Rumor says he’s a DILF (hmmm?)

He’s starting to tug off his uniform immediately, “Don’tcha worry, doll-” Toji snickers at the shocked look on your face, looming closer to you. To where you were sprawled on the bed and getting pinned by one set of Sukuna’s hands. “-I don’t snitch.”

And the long-haired one in a band - Geto, he believes his name was - grins. “Welcome to the club.”

The rickety bedsprings creak as he joins you all on the bed. “This bed’s gonna fuckin’ break.” Sukuna rolls his eyes.

“Shut up, brat.” And only the older man was the only one here who would possibly talk to Ryomen Sukuna that way. Toji shoos away the other men to meet you in the middle of his dampened sheets, brows raising at the sheer amount of white sap pourin’ out of you. He’d overheard some of the things that’d been said before he came but…fuck. “Damn, they really did a number on you, hm?”

You can only nod, “Mhm—”

“And you don’t regret a single thing.”

“W-well…” You look away, unsure what to say.

“No no, s’good.” Toji coos—almost. His tone was far too mean for that, “A girl like you should enjoy yourself during your college years.”

You’re jolting at the inkling of something dangerous in his tone- as do some of the others. But you don’t get to think too long about it before Toji has one roughened hand flipping you over. The other shoving your head down into the pillows- “But let me show you how a real man breeds ya now.”

You can only nod.

He tugs down - merely tugs down - his pants until the thick reddened tip of his cock hits your pussylips. Smearin’ down the crevice of your cunt, watching as you drivel a wet glaze down Toji’s length—he wastes no fucking time before edging his hips upwards and shoving—“Y’know, I’ve always wondered whether these college boys were fuckin’ you right.”

“N-ngh, fuck—” Your eyes roll to the back of your skull. Toji was just so thick - thicker than anyone here, with more veins than your feverish mind could even count by now.

“Yeah? I’ve always wondered whether they could- ngh, satiate this pretty pussy like she deserves-” Toji snickers, watching as you shake beneath him. “-the way I could do it.”

“H-hey! I think we did a good job-” Toji sends Gojo one look his way and he shuts up.

The older man glides his calloused fingertips down your spine, drawing sensual hearts that make you shiver. “Because unlike these damn college boys, y’know it takes a reeeeal hard earner ta know the feeling of wantin’ to provide.” He’s gruffing out, hips hitting yours in half-ruts. “A real family man.”

“Oh fuck off, old man.” Sukuna rolls his eyes, “You’re looking at the future of wrestling right here-”

“And a future Nobel Prize winner!” Gojo pipes up, but hides behind the pink-haired man anyway.

Nanami chimes in as well, “I fear I simply do not see the point you are trying to make, Mr. Fushiguro.”

They were in an uproar. 

But to everyone’s surprise…Toji Fushiguro isn’t getting angry. Toji Fushiguro is smiling- “Hehhhh, fear you don’t see the point m’trying to make, huh? Let’s just put it this way then…” Almost muttering to himself, before he’s grabbing onto either side of your waist and funneling your womb with all his girthy seven inches. “-we’re about to make my son a big brother tonight.”

Their jaws drop.

Oh.

Oh.

They were well-aware that the security guard was single, all by his lonesome, according to gossiping admirers who had the courage to ask - but no one could have ever guessed that the man had a son.

And right now he was fucking you like he wanted to make a second- 

“I’ve always wanted to show her- fuck, to show this pussy that even older men can fuck you gooooood, honey.” Just as he promises, he’s reaching for your g-spot faster than anyone else before him. Harder. Scourin’ your honeyed walls and making sure that Toji’s cock was thoroughly etched against your pussy, “So how about it? Got a thing for DILFs?”

“Yes—” Your velvety walls are squeezing his length and Toji holds onto you so tight that his nail marks take home on your skin. “Yes fuck, how did you know-”

“Because everyone’s gotta thing for DILFs.” He’s snickering from above you, abs glissading faster down your back. Your mouth drops ajar at the way that Toji reaches down and squeezes your clit with no hesitation. “But whaddaya feel about becoming a MILF?”

“Sh-she was mine first.” Gojo growls out from your side, holding onto your arm as if to tug you away.

But Toji only glances over like he just realized the other man was there, lazily looking him up and down. “Natural selection, kid. I’m gonna be the one to make her a momma.”

“That’s bullshit.” 

“Keeeep talking.”

Toji Fushiguro’s fucking you like an animal - short, rapid bucks and ruts of his hips just to fit inside. Just to manage to stretch out your walls to his girth, and then draaaaag all the way back out again to repeat. “Heh, s’a big stretch- I know.” Almost as if he was out of control. And with his meanness, he didn’t mind being so sloppy with it that after a few thrusts his cockhead would slip out of your hole. Ending up slidin’ between your lips and grazing his flared slit along your most sensitive spots. Toji holds onto the base of his cock and shovels in even more ruthlessly than before.

Just to make you whine a bit more—

“Handle it.” He gruffs out from behind you, shaggy black bangs tickling the back of your neck. And Toji’s pistoning into you at a pace that leaves you dizzy, “I said fucking- hah, handle it. Yer gonna have an even bigger of a stretch down there in nine months- heh.”

“You’re just so mean.” You huff.

“Me?” Toji coos in amusement, “Aw, doll, you haven’t seen mean yet.” 

You’re holding onto his pale pillows for dear life as he fills you up once more, “Ohhh, feels so good, Toji-” Again. And again.

“Oh yeah? Oh yeah?” And he sounds fucking ecstatic at the fact. He grips onto the back of your throat with one hand, “You see- when ya get to my age you just don’t have time for the- hah, nonsense.” Fucking you hard and fast. 

And purposeful.

It felt like Toji’s rounded tip was hitting every spot he wanted it to, and even the slightest rub of his zig-zagging veins left you speechless. You weren’t even sure whether you were shaking because of the sheer stimulation or because he was just that good- “Just needa find a niiiice girl ta settle down with.” His rumbling tone continues, “Treat her all nice, get her everything she wants- heh, then pump her full with a kid or two—get all of them everything they want.”

“Shit-” You gasp out, trying to buck against the creaky mattress. “Fuck, m’just so sensitive-”

“And what is it that you want, momma?”

The only thing that you can cry out now, “T-to cum—”

His fingers twist on your clit even harder, “Anything for the mother of my kid.” He speeds up, heavy balls hitting you in light spanks. “Anything-” He snarls, your cunt was just dangerously fluttering around him. “Goooood, right? Goooood?”

“Good-” You hiccup- “So good-”

“Nuh uh, doll- s’it so goooood?” 

Toji might have been teasing you, but you still manage to find yourself repeating. “S-so gooooood-”

“Soooo good?”

Completely dumbified by now that you weren’t even sure what you were saying, the tell-tale twitches at the base of your stomach tells you that you’re close. “So, sooooo good.”

“Heh, how cute. So dumb on my cock.” He hums, “And can ya say Mrs. Toji Fushiguro?”

“Mrs. Toji—oh.”

And the next thing you’re actually seeing with your own two eyes…the bulging erection of Gojo Satoru. His pale thighs spread wide open in front of you, his puckered red tip being tapped on your lips. He wasn’t going to let you finish that particular sentence any time soon - or ever, really. “Open wide f’me, sweetheart? Let me see that cavum oris…”

“S-Satoru—” You whine, letting your jaw unfasten for him.

And it’s as if the moment they’re seeing their inexperienced friend take initiative, the rest of them were just rushing at you. Because Gojo’s slickly smooth tip thrusts between your lips- and then you have Geto and Sukuna’s hands dragging both of yours to their cocks.

Nanami’s even snaking his hands underneath to massage your sore tits.

Toji’s hands the only thing keeping your body held up- “Fuckin’ animals.” He’s hissing between gritted teeth, nose crinkling in a look of primal need. “Go easy on ‘er- she’s the momma of my future kid.”

“No, mine.” Nanami’s the first to speak.

“Mine.”

“Mine~”

Choso blinks, “M-mine?”

“N-no, mmm—” Gojo’s head falls back at the slide of your textured tongue underneath the line of his mushroom tip, “-mine.”

And when Toji finally cums it’s with all five other men still with their hands on you. 

Pumping his seed in primal, rapid half-thrusts in and out.

Massaging your elastic hole. Caressing your deepest insides with all his puffy veins.

Your face is being pushed up against Gojo’s toned v-line and there’s nothing you can do about it, your nose scratching on his sultry ivory hairs. Toji’s length just felt so perfect - you could feel the curve of his cockhead piston gluey webs against your very throat with how hard he was pumping himself into you. 

In and out, in and out, in and out until he could feel that sweet, sweet resistance of your hole and he’s forced to ease back out. He was reluctant to pull out even when he could feel the recoil of your cervix begging him to move- to fuck his ivory syrup deep inside. 

So much of it—

All of it mixing into one making you feel so full-

“Ay ay- stop fucking into her mouth so hard, how m’I supposed to breed her like this?” Toji tuts at Gojo.

“Can you blame me?” He, too, was milking his length on your heavenly body. Overflowing with a line of cum that streams out from his pretty strawberry divot and down to your throat- Gojo watches it all disappear between your lips and shivers.

Until Toji roughens out an incredibly hard jackhammer that has you spilling a few strings out of your mouth. “Heh, whoops-”

“Fuck you-”

“Fuck you-”

“I thought we were fucking her.” Geto’s humming through the argument, tilting his head down at you. “How about me next, gorgeous?” And you wished you had the rationality at this point to let him know that you were just barely getting through your nth high of the night-

Waves of tender bliss flowing through you.

You think you might pass out.

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Gojo hisses, and you’re just letting of Toji’s cock with a pop! and a few more sultry sounds of cum gushing out of you. Before he’s crushing you to his front, staring them all down. “It’s my turn again.”

“You fuckin’ wish-”

“Satoru-”

“How crude-”

“Well…”

“She’s mine.”

1. Gojo Satoru.

Super cute

Probably a big D

Secret freak (tracked ovulation!??)

However has no experience (not quite a con?) and no place to fuck in (single bed + has a roommate, Geto)

2. Geto Suguru.

Fucking PRETTY

Rings 

In a band

Already super close friends. Two in one go??

3. Ryomen Sukuna.

Frat boy™ (leader of Curses Epsilon)

Probably REALLY good in bed

On his way to become a pro wrestler (headlocks omg??)

Might be rough…

4. Nanami Kento.

The HOTTEST prof/ TA this campus has ever seen

Such a gentleman (opens doors, eye contact even when wearing skimpy tops, reads feminist books omg)

Mature 

Some think he’d be dry in bed tho…

5. Choso Kamo.

In Geto’s band.

Wears eyeliner on a daily basis.

Always quiet and walking around campus with nothing but his headphones and sketchbook (artsy ooo~)

Wanna make him whimper!!

6. Toji Fushiguro.

That HOT campus security omg (someone should put his face on the campus magazine and the applications would fill in)

BUFFFFFFFFFFFFF X5

Gruff but lowkey has a soft spot

Rumor says he’s a DILF (hmmm?)

“Seems we have quite the conundrum on our hands.” Geto’s the one to hum above the squabbling, and as he turns to you, so does everyone else - all six of them. 

Looking at you.

“So?” Gojo urges. “Which one of us will it be?”

A/N. The way I didn’t even KNOW how to tag this after I was done erm-

Oh.

You’re jerking your head up to meet his eyes, clearing not expecting of the man you knew not to be a social butterfly. And he’s looking away from you just as quickly—“I-I mean-” There was the socially awkward mess you’d forcefully introduced yourself to tonight. “Forget I said anything- there must have been a miscalculation on my part, I didn’t…”

Though you can’t help but notice that Toji’s ears were…bright red. Redder than even his flannel jacket. 

Oh. 

You knew he wasn’t the type to flirt around.

You knew he wasn’t the type to even get approached- though not for a lack of anything, Toji Fushiguro was hot. To say the least.

Shaggy black bangs that covered part of his glasses. Large hands made to carry numerous books (and perhaps something else…should you let your mind wander).

He towered above most of the campus, with shoulders for daaaaays—no matter how much he hunched them, Toji couldn’t hide just how sculpted they were. And not to mention, the way his biceps would flex any time he raised his hand to answer a question (which was…for every question) made it such a treat to sit behind him during Professor Yaga’s lectures. Beauty and brains?

Somehow, it seems that half the campus had decided that that was a deadly combination, and they could only admire from so close before they suffered from heart palpitations. And the other half had decided that perhaps such a combination really was fatal- and were much too intimidated to try and talk to the man.

And so he waded through the throngs of people, unknowing or perhaps uncaring of their silent admiration. 

Not that his quietly intense demeanor gave off many welcoming vibes, either way.

Toji Fushiguro had one love, and one love only: his books.

Ultimately, it meant that the three seats upon the left and right of Toji were consistently empty for whichever class he sat in.

And you felt for him - you really did. So you tried to sit next to him in whichever classes you shared, though you were yet to have the man make any attempts at friendship. 

And neither had you.

So you’d been content.

Until tonight, that is.

When you’re finding yourself dragging this tall, buff nerd into the frathouse bathroom - it was your luck that there wasn’t a line. Because you don’t think either one of you could wait. Pushing him inside-

Right before the door slams shut and you’re finding the roles fucking reversed.

And you’re finding yourself manhandled in the direction of the sink - front shoved against the porcelain surface, Toji’s weight pinning you down from behind. Panting. Ravenous. He steadies himself with a hand on your hips. 

His other hand reaching in front of you and stuffin’ into your panties. His raging erection pressing against your ass cheeks.

Toji’s calloused finger swipe up your glossy slit and he moans- “A-are you this fuckin’ wet for me—?” Voice breathy as though he couldn’t believe it himself.

And you can only nod. “Who else would it be for, Toji?”

“Well…” He doesn’t answer - he can’t. Because at that very moment, Toji Fushiguro is given the privilege to feel just how sinfully your cunt can clench ‘round his thick fingertips—and his brain goes into overdrive wondering just how cutely you’d squeeze his aching cock.

Before long, he’s hooking a hand underneath your left knee and guiding it up onto the sink. Letting you perch there- “Now—easy f’me, girl.” Toji’s rasps ruffle the sequins on your dress- one that you’re finding hitched up from your lower half. In fact—he’s baring you all the way until your panties. Moving them aside with a finger just the barest inch-

Enough for the bespectacled man to catch side of your glistening wet pussy and groan-

“Neither of us are making it out of this alive.”

And it doesn’t take long before you’re feeling Toji’s long, luuuscious shaft start to sandwich between your pussylips. Honed tip. Bawling divot. They were just so puckered and sensitive- even the barest lines of his veins leaving you gasping. “Fuck-”

“Easy there-” That familiar tone of his echoes, sounding even more out-of-breath inside this bathroom. Toji hooks his chin into the crook of your neck, “Easy—” His swollen, reddened tip starts circling your entrance- and your head spins at how he probes into you. “Easy there- now- breathe-”

“What do you…oh, fuck.” Mewls shattering in your throat- you feel the sheer streeeeetch of Toji’s incredible length.

Just so thick. Just so heated.

You knew that it was always the quiet ones…but fuck.

It felt as though he was melting your walls around him - feeling every throb he was letting out at the top of your head. Your teeth were on edge, and your body was torn between wanting to take him even deeper and bouncing away into safety. For your mere sanity—could he even fit?

“O-of course, I can.” Toji’s guttural answer comes - and it’s only then that you’re truly realizing that you’d said that out loud. Fuck- had you been so dumbified by his mere size? That you were now babbling away as Toji sunk inside—

And he’s ruthless in his swipes- hard, technical. “It’s gonna fit.” It felt as though Toji Fushiguro had already studied every single inch of you, and he was now hurtlin’ away his rock-hard tip straight into where you needed him the most. “It will fit.”

He sounded so sure of himself - as easy as passing every finals exam with flying colors.

Toji pushes his glasses up his nosebridge and angles his cock even more viciously. He rubs that bawling divot of his against the roof of your cunt- messing around some of those tender sweet spots that you’d always kept hidden. And then glide-glide-gliiiiding down to purposefully massaging every nook n’ cranny of your walls against those prominent veins of his-

“Fuck—” In absolutely no time- he’s managed to locate your pulsing g-spot. As though drawn in by a magnet, Toji’s then following the shivers of your body to target that exact spot. Ramming and ramming his heavy cockhead between your pussylips. “H-how are you even-”

“Hmmm?” Nearly purring, Toji grazes his cheek down the column of your throat. “Speak up, doll.”

“How-”

“Actually…” You could hear the smile in his tone. “-raise your hand to speak.”

You gape. And that rebellious streak within you makes you open your mouth with a protest- but soon enough Toji’s darting his tip away from your g-spot to start thumpin’ at your cervix.

Lengthy glides that end up swabbing your sweetest spots, before thrashing straight to your womb.

It was as if he was teaching you exactly what you’d be missing if it weren’t for him and fuck- if that wasn’t a compelling argument…

Belatedly, you raise your hand. “How are you even this good, Toji?”

And that makes him raise a dark brow- “This good?” He asks - mostly to himself - and the utter botched breath in his tone makes shivers sprint down your spine. Toji watches his plump tip disappear in and out of your cunt a few times- before suddenly he’s letting out a startled laugh. “This good?”

Before you can do anything about it, Toji lifts his hand off of your waist and ends up smushing your cheeks together. There was nothing gentle about it - Toji was mean. Toji was trying to leave marks.

So that everyone who sees the two of you walk out of the bathroom together can look at your pretty face and know that that was him. That pretty set of lips- both ones.

He’s holding your face up to the sink mirror, his eyes meeting yours through the reflective surface. You’re realizing with a jolt that Toji’s eyes were the most intense shade of emerald green - and they were currently narrowing down at you—“Who’s fucking you right now, girl?”

“Wh-what?” You’re managing to sputter out.

His grip slightly tightens- and his cock starts hitting you twofold. “See it?” Those handsome features of his are just irresistible, making it so difficult for you to tear your eyes away from him. “Feel it?” And his other hand loosens from your clit to glide down your tummy - where you felt utterly bloated with all his bulging, massive inches. Throbbing. “Feel it?”

And you can only nod and nod-

“Who’s fucking you right now, girl?”

“Y-you—”

And in that very moment, his fat cock bottoms out with a lecherous slurp!

“That’s what I thought.” Toji sounds so content with himself- slightly slurring at the ends of his sentence. “And what’s my name?”

“Toji-” You’re gasping out. Your cries were echoing so loud inside the bathroom that you’re sure some of the bystanders outside were hearing - but you didn’t care. Not when Toji was reeling his sloppy hips back and stutterin’ a few direct hits to your bruised g-spot—“Toji Fushiguro—!”

“And who said a nerd can’t fuck?”

He snickers to himself.

Right before he’s starting to fuck into you like a damn animal- spotting every ounce of space inside you with his dribbling pre. The length of his cock was nearly a blur between your legs, and Toji was just drunk on the thought of having you. 

On the thought of wanting to have you for so long now-

“I studied, y’know?” Toji whispers against the shell of your ear, words clammy. “I studied every inch of the human anatomy-” He presses a kiss—then a bite. “I studied eeeeevery nook and cranny-” Swirlin’ his rude cockhead around just in time, “Every nerve in the clitorourethrovaginal complex and every crevice-”

“F-fuuuuck-”

“Every statistic for the Gräfenberg spot, and every spot where it couldn’t be-” He pinches your clit. He’s thrashin’ his hips against yours so hard that it sends your heels flying off of the cool tile. “Every stretch of your rugae and every little clench-”

As if on cue, you’re clenching around him. Embracing him with your puckered pussylips until Toji himself sees white- “Toji, it feels so-”

“Good.” He’s furiously pushing his glasses up, not daring to miss a single second or squeeze of your cunt. “Because I know this pussy in and out—” The nerdy man lands a few more sloppy strokes, and he has to bite down on his lower lip to hold back a whimper. Locking eyes with you through the mirror- “And who’s fucking you?”

“You, Toji—” Your eyes scrunch shut as you’re crashing into a sudden high- taking your entire body by surprise. Those white-hot bolts of pleasure start up where he was plunging into you, before building up through the rest of your body.

Your toes curl. You’re seeing white.

So strong that it leaves you nearly numb.

Nearly stupid- unable to do anything but grip onto the sink and bounce your hips back down. Right as Toji was fucking you through peak after peak- “Toji—fuck, Toji-”

And your ears are still ringing by the time the bathroom door clicks open.

Too late, you’re sloppily swivelling around to face the faux-blond man standing at the doorway. Not that you had anything against people that dyed their hair - but you did have something against Naoya Zenin.

Your jaw drops, “You-”

His furious eyes dart between you and Toji. “You two-”

“Take a hike, fucker.” Toji’s gruff tone echoes from behind, and you’re noticing that he doesn’t slow down for a single second as he talks to Naoya. In fact, the bespectacled man plants a sudden spank on the side of your ass and speeds up—“You’ll see enough of her soon at family functions- as my girlfriend, of course.”

Fuming, Naoya doesn’t speak a word before the door slams shut.

And it takes the tremble inside the bathroom for you to speak- “Wait…family functions? Do you know him or something?”

And Toji looks at you squarely. “We’re related.”

Oh.

“And don’t think that I was b-bluffing about the girlfriend part.”

Oh.

He stutters at that?

.

.

.

After a considerable few years of teaching, Masamichi Yaga has learned not to be surprised. 

It was inevitable, of course—the same old campus, the same old syllables, the same old faces that inevitably get replaced by those rather similar. All bored and slightly hungover.

Though that’s not to say that Yaga doesn’t love teaching or his students - in fact, he can empathize with those that aren’t exactly the keenest on learning Veterinary Science at 8AM. He empathizes - really - and he does his best to keep the process as pain-free as possible until they’ve earned their credits for the semester. 

And then again, that’s also not to say that there aren’t a few students who always…stand out. Not in terms of looks or aesthetic, but rather in the work they do.

In the questions they answer- and the questions they ask.

In the hours they put in.

In the textbooks they keep as close as their hearts.

And who better to illustrate this point than Toji Fushiguro? Though it was such a shame that he wasn’t the social types - these stand-out students often didn’t tend to be - in fact, there was only ever one student that dared sit next to him—ah! There you were.

Yaga admits he takes no small pleasure in watching this small interaction everyday.

Namely how Toji would duck his head and pretend he didn’t see you- except…except today, Toji wasn’t ducking his head at all. Not at all.

Instead, the black-haired man looks straight at you and whispers something in your ear.

Something that…that - judging by the gaping expression on your face, and the smug one on his - was a sentence not meant for Yaga’s ears. Something dirty.

And oh goodness…

He doesn’t know what happened since last class, but if he has to watch the two of you flirt everyday from hereon after then…

He might just have to request a course change.

♡ NANAMI KENTO - Lesson #1

“So like—” It doesn’t surprise Nanami Kento - TA to Professor Yaga’s History class, the star student in the entire department, the man infamous for having even his dorm walls covered in academic accolades and awards - when you lean over his desk.

Palms planted almost on his side. The neckline of your loose satin blouse dipping.

Dipping.

Enough to give him a gooood look at what was underneath- he catches just the slightest glimpse of baby pink before he has enough sense to look away. Lingerie? You’d worn fucking lingerie to come get tutored by him?

But alright—say that was understandable. Say that Nanami has enough experience as a TA by now to know that certain students might attempt to gain favors through…non-academic means. 

Perhaps one could chalk that up to human sensibilities (or lack thereof) - Nanami Kento was never that type of man. In fact, most of the department would harp on ballads about what a romantic the blond-haired TA is- much to his obliviousness.

However, what actually stuns him is the way you’re tucking a finger into your blouse’s neckline- and how you have the audacity to actually tug down on it.

You’re humming, “What do I have to do to get an A in this class?”

Nanami balks. Mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

He knows your type- more accurately, he knows you. He knows you’re the type of student surrounded by others, always invited to the most exclusive parties, always with a phone blowing up, always at the center of attention—always in his line of sight. Though that’s because he knows you’re not above cheating to pass this class…of course. That’s the only reason.

Short skirt. Seemingly getting shorter everyday- sat front and center whenever he assisted with class.

Legs slightly ajar.

It made him lose track of his thoughts whenever he happened to glance your way. Happened to. 

To Nanami Kento, history is what he lives and breathes- but to you, he knows it’s nothing but a credit you need to get your degree. And though he wouldn’t necessarily fault anyone for that, he can’t deny that it’d sent a thrill up his spine once you’d cornered him yesterday asking for tutoring.

He’d said yes faster than he would’ve liked.

And thus, here he was.

Nanami Kento tries to keep his composure by reminding himself of your absolutely abysmal naming of Japanese shoguns from the 14th century, but just when he thinks he’s getting a grip on himself—

He darts a look down your blouse and his voice cracks.

You smile as though you’ve got him already - you’ve seen the way he looks at you during lectures.

“I-I think that would be highly inappropriate-” Pushing his gold-rimmed glasses up frantically.

To which you’re only leaning closer- “Oh? What would be inappropriate? I was asking about what extra assignments I could take to make up for my last test score…” 

You cock your head in the picture of perfect innocence.

But he knows your games- he fucking knows it. And almost as much as his ears were burning, his cock does the same between his legs, too. “Perhaps re-taking that test- and the last five.” Nanami grits out. “And perhaps a long reading list—”

“You say that as if you’re disappointed.” Smiling - a snare.

“You say that as if you didn’t plan to re-take any tests at all.” Nanami counters. Somehow, his perfectly slicked-back hair was mussed up - he doesn’t know how, but he always did seem to lose his cool when it came to you. Every part of him.

“What can I say?” You’re shrugging, “I love a hot fuckin’ nerd.”

Nanami gulps. Tightening his tie- before he thinks better of it and all but rips it off of his neck.

Perfectly pressed pants. Perfectly buttoned-up shirt. Sleeves sometimes pushed up to his elbows. Golden cufflinks. Tie. 

Everyone who has seen Nanami Kento striding about campus, has commented on his formal clothes in one way or the other - but mostly about how there was not a single crease in them, not even at the end of the day. And it really was true. You’re feeling them pressed up against your front right now—

With Nanami taking only a few split-seconds to tug you from the other side of the table - easily, as you were all but on top of it by now. He’s grabbing ahold of your wrist and easily manhandling you to his side.

Splaying you back out on the table. Back against the cool surface.

His muscular core weighing you down- and fuck, your mouth waters as you feel all the chiselled abs he was hiding away beneath his button-ups.

The calm, collected nerd had somehow snapped-

Nanami’s intense brown eyes peek up at you as he nears- and you can only nod.

It’s the only confirmation you need before that infamously handsome tie of his ends up ‘round your wrists—tied together. You’re delighting at just how rough he was being with you thereafter- flipping up your slutty skirt, barely pushing aside your panties.

Nanami’s all the way through taking out his heated, ravaging cock - so thick - and tappin’ his blushin’ red tip between your pussylips—before he takes a look at your heaving just and gapes.

“Oh.”

And before you know it, your blouse is being ripped straight down- buttons flying to the floor.

“Sh-shit-” You’re gasping at the shockwave of cool air that greets you. Your body arches up into his touch as Nanami leans down and draaaags his face across your tits, lapping his tongue all over the swell of your breasts and smelling you. So sweet. “Shit- just fuck me already, Kento-”

And the first thing you’re registering is the sound—thwack!

Before you’re registering the actual understanding that Nanami Gentleman Kento had just rovered his right hand down and spanked your puckered pussylips.

Hard. 

You’re so sensitive that the action sends you seeing stars, and you buck up into his touch-

Thwack!

“The first lesson we’re going to learn tonight-” He twiddles his thumb between your folds, smearin’ them open and taking a nice look at your cute hole. Wet. No matter how much self control the man might have, he can’t stop himself from leaning down and spitting—

A gentle wad of spit that falls vertically between your legs.

The TA hums at the splatter, running his thumb purposefully down your clit. “-patience.”

You begin to whine. “Now that’s just unfair-”

Thwack!

He looks up at you with heavy, half-lidded eyes. “What was that, darling?”

“N-nothing…” You’re forced to admit. And it takes every shred of willpower in you to stop from humping up into his touch so needily—and Nanami doesn’t utter a word as you take control over yourself. He merely leans back and enjoys the show.

Let you be the one to dictate how far he teaches tonight. He’s a patient man.

“Good.” Nanami announces once you’re finally stock-still, having contained your desperation. It was cute how you think you could mask those tiny squirms of your hips, but he lets it go as your first lesson…“Second lesson-”

You’re shivering at the thought.

And he spits between your pussylips once more.

“If you aren’t wet enough to fucking drench me- then I fear you won’t get me, my love.”

“P-please—” And you really were wet enough to drench him- you’re perking your hips up slightly so that he can see. Leaving a sheen of gleaming sap down the front of Nanami’s crotch, “I am I am-”

“Then…” His lips quirk up meanly. He’s sandwiching his ruddied cockhead between your pussylips and fucking- just between your pussylips. “Show your working.”

Show your working?

Show your working?!

It seems you have no choice but to spreeeead apart your legs even further- letting your gooey cunt gush out a few sploshes of slick. Nanami cocks his head down and takes you in, “Hm…good, good.”

And you’ve never felt more shy in your life. “A-and the third lesson, Kento?”

He fits his pointed cockhead between your ready folds.

“Good girls take it all.” 

Did that mean—

Soon enough, you’re throwing your head back- voicebox shattering with a spiel of moans. Mewls. Whines. Any and every noise that possibly couldn’t describe the sheer raw sensation of Nanami’s hot, giiiirthy cock entering your cunt.

He was stretching you out so wide.

Wider than you ever thought possible.

He’s placing a hand down on your front and press-press-preeeeessing down on your stomach as his cock sinks in- fat cockhead opening up your channel. Fucking you like an utter madman. It didn’t matter how composed his reputation stated him to be- because right now Nanami had his blond bangs falling across his forehead, his jaw clenched at the sensations, and his glasses nearly slipping off his face as he tuuuugs you down his cock.

His reddened divot weeping into even the tiniest of nooks and crannies inside you, his cock so large that it could almost be felt from the outside—

“Feel me right in there?” Nanami’s deep baritone echoes out into the room, echoing against all four corners. Five thick fingers of his splay out across your core- “Right there-”

You shiver as he locates the exact spot where he was easing in - another few inches pushed inside. His swollen tip was swirling about your insides and push-push-puuuushing inside, past those restraints and that tight muscle of your hole. “Yes.”

“Feel me openin’ that pussy of yours up?” He grumbles out in a gravelly tone. And it makes the hair on your body stand at attention to realize that this was him speaking like this. This was him pushing his glasses further up his perspired nose, this was him pounding his heated cock into you in short, jerky thrusts. “Feel me teaching her the shape of my hah- cock? Feel me teaching her to take me—”

“Y-yes—” To be quite honest, it felt as though you could feel him in your very throat. “But are you really…”

“Hm?”

And you’re trailing off simply because you’re so awestruck - Nanami’s cock was looooong and bloated. Decorated in a few veins down his sides—they were red and irritated. Thick. Throbbing so much that you swear you could count them from where you were spread apart on his table-

His cock is enough to render you so honest. “Are you sure it even can fit in?” 

And that makes Nanami pause.

“Can it fit?” He breathes out - his voice taking on an airy tone that you’ve never heard before. It’s startling enough to make you look right into his eyes, and the inkling of something…dark in them is enough for you to jolt. “Can it fit?” 

And before you can repeat - before you can even ask him what’s wrong…Nanami reaches up to grab the tied restraints around your wrists.

And don’t mistake him- he isn’t about to set you free.

He’s using that tie as leverage to haul your body down—“You’re asking if it can fit?” Your blond-haired TA grunts out hoarsely, breaths coming out ragged. He hisses when you clench your sopping wet walls around him- “Good girls take it all.”

“Y-yes, fuck-”

“And you’re my good girl, right?” Staring passionately into your eyes whilst he hits every hidden spot inside you in long, lecherous strikes.

His sheer expression - the way you had the Nanami Kento - so ruffled is so compelling that you can’t help but nod your head. “Of course.” And your legs are tightening evermore against his toned waist, interrupted only by Nanami himself.

He uses one hand to throw both of your legs over his shoulders- one each. And before you know it, the big, buff nerd is bending down to fold you in half.

His fat cock reaching the end of your pussy.

“Fourth lesson-” And you’re barely even hearing it above the constant thrashes and thuds at your cervix, the stars you’re seeing. “-repeat all those back to me…”

And just then, the round edge of his tip was grazing right across your g-spot.

“-or you don’t get to cum.”

.

.

.

“How odd…” Professor Yaga’s bushy brows furrow above his shades - it might not be quite professional for a professor to wear such a thing to campus, but to be fair, students showed up in their pajamas half the time. Besides, they helped mask his expressions rather well.

Like right now.

Though Nanami Kento - his ever-loyal TA - could sense that what was upon Professor Yaga’s face was nothing but pure, unabashed surprise. He says your name—“I don’t remember her getting A++’s a single time this semester- and now you’re telling me it’s all that she’s been getting?” The professor squints at his screen, in the middle of doing his customary check-ins before a lecture.

Nanami coughs, “I-I’ve been tutoring her lately…”

Professor Yaga looks to Nanami in surprise - he knew that his blond-haired student would much rather hug a porcupine than a person. Let alone spend his precious hours tutoring one. “Is…is that so?”

Nanami nods silently.

The older man clears his throat - if there was anyone capable enough to bring your History grades up to such an extent, then it could only be Nanami Kento. At this rate, you might be giving his star student a run for his money- “And how has that been?”

“Well it’s been quite- ah, illuminating, sir.”

Professor Yaga raises a brow in question- but before he can ask anything further—the students start trickling in.

Class has started.

To everyone including Professor Yaga, Nanami Kento- and you. 

Winking blatantly at his TA as you waltz up to your chair, skirt shorter than ever, hips swaying…

The professor just barely manages to catch the way Nanami’s eyes…follow you.

And it dawns upon him.

The slight wobble in your saunter.

The strange bruises peeking out above Nanami’s collar.

The traitorous blush upon his face.

Professor Yaga has never searched up course change forms faster.

♡ GETO SUGURU - “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

And that…is precisely what makes you pause.

It’s what makes you s-sputter. It’s what makes you shoot a glare at perhaps the most infuriating man you’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting- and that’s saying a lot. 

Though, he always did manage to surprise you—ever since Professor Yaga’s Philosophy Class 101, you’d been haunted by the thorn that was Geto Suguru.

You recall that first meeting like it was yesterday.

The nervous shuffling of seats. Professor Yaga was notorious for hand-picking only the best of the best for his classes, and you remember the glee that’d shot up your spine at the email of confirmation. You’d been picked. Similarly, adrenaline wafted off the other students in waves around you, burning its sour aftertaste into the atmosphere. Though at that moment, nothing had been sweeter.

Especially once the professor had finally - finally - asked a broad question about the theory of knowledge—

And your hand had shot up.

Right along with the boy’s beside you.

Long black hair. Longer limbs.

Draped across the chair so carelessly, his grey turtleneck hugged him in a way that made your eyes dart away.

Gold-rimmed glasses.

He had the most feline smirk across his face as his eyes met yours- smug. He raised his hand higher. 

And from that day onwards, you knew that Geto Suguru was your sworn enemy.

Rival, more like.

Throughout the semester, you’d answer one of Professor Yaga’s questions, and Geto would be sure to disagree. You’d top the grades in class, and Geto would break your streak on the next one. You’d try not to bash his head in, and Geto would only urge you to more.

He infuriated you. If not by whatever sharp quip comes to his tongue - seemingly always in competition with yours - then by whatever sly wink or smirk he’d throw your way. He was shameless. 

And you were sure Professor Yaga wasn’t paid enough for this.

So being paired together for the biggest project of the semester certainly hadn’t been on your radar. No matter how much predictivism you’d been taught.

And it was by sheer miracle that you two hadn’t strangled each other already-

“M-make you?” You ask. Geto adjusts his glasses and leans back in his chair, arms crossing.

“Make me.” He repeats, and you’re sure by now that you weren’t mishearing things. “You’ve spent this whole semester running that mouth- I’m starting to wonder whether that’s all it does.”

The slight arch of his brow makes you bristle. “You fucker-”

“No need to lower yourself to insults, gorgeous, I’m just stating the facts. Diogenes always did seek an honest man.” He hums, all faux innocence. “Philosophy isn’t just about theorizing, it’s about application. Besides…” Geto shrugs those broad shoulders of his, snug in yet another too-expensive turtleneck. Cashmere, you bet. He looks straight at you as he speaks—“-there’s nothing little about me, either.”

And then you pause.

And then you’re standing in the middle of Geto Suguru’s bedroom- because of course the bastard had suggested his dorm room for your project meeting.

“Prove it then.”

His pink lips part. “What?”

“Prove it.” You repeat. “Philosophy isn’t just about theorizing, it’s about application.”

“Maybe I will. Socrates said to be is to do.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Maybe I—” And of course, you have to be the one to make the first move. You have to be the one to drag Geto Suguru in by his stupid turtleneck, pressing your lips to his. Stupidly sweet.

He’s lapping at you like a man in the depths of hunger, licking his tongue between your gloss-covered lips and moaning- “Fuck.” He rasps out through honed canines. “Fuck.” Dragging himself off of the floor where your poster boards were spread out-

“Sit.” And without a single warning, you’re pressing the heel of your foot between Geto’s meaty thighs. You’re locating where his rock-hard cock is and puuuuuush-

“N-ngh…” He shivers. He blushes at the broken noise that escapes him. “Tha’s all you got?”

You raise a brow and crush his thickening length harder. 

Geto bucks- but he pulls himself together. “Still all you got?”

And so you’re narrowing your eyes n’ grabbing onto him- tearing through Geto Suguru’s stupid, pretentious layers like you’ve always wanted to.

Tugging off his neat pants. Pulling on his tight Aristotle-patterned boxers.

Spitting straight between his lips once he opens his mouth-

And Geto’s bulbous red tip twitches at the sensation of your wet dollop of saliva. He nods with a blush as you’re lowering your naked cunt down on him—“Yes.” Breathing out. Feeling a little dizzy at the sudden warmth of your swollen pussylips, swallowing him up- “Yes- fuuuuck-”

Before he knows it, your hand is around him. “Shut up.” 

“Fuck, that’s makin’ me even harder-” As if to prove his point, his flared tip throbs inside of you.

“I said shut up.” Those pretty fingers of yours claim his pale neck- digging the curves of your nails into his skin. It makes him gulp. “If someone walks in or if the dorm RA catches us, then my reputation will be affected-”

“You mean my reputation- fuh-fuck.” He can barely even get the sentence out before you’re tightening your grip. Perkin’ your pretty hips up juuuust a little before gulping down his thick length.

Inch after inch.

Fat and pulsing inside of you with need.

He was so veiny that each tiny slip n’ slide caressed Geto’s prominent veins against your sweet insides. And he’s throwing his head back at the sensation as though he’s seeing the pearly gates themselves.

Letting out such a guttural groan- “Oh fuck.” Choked-up at the back of his throat. Those milky thighs of his shake as he reaches them upwards to chase your wettened cunt, bashin’ in the roundness of his cockhead. “Oh fuck, fuck, fuuuck-”

“What was that about running one’s mouth?” You scoff. “Seems like you’re all talk- what? Can’t even handle a little pussy?”

“Maybe I just can’t handle your pussy.” He bites back. With yet another soft sound leaving him once your fingers dig against his throat.

“I doubt you’ve ever seen a real pussy in your life.” And when he opens his mouth, you’re quick to interrupt. “Don’t lie.”

Geto’s mouth shuts again. Having you be so stern with him like this…fuck. It makes some strangely carnal part of himself that he didn’t even know he had awakened- and the black-haired man merely ruts up into you a few times. A line of drool dragging down the side of his lips the more n’ more he’s feeling your soft clenches. Just one hard cleeeench.

He was gone for.

His cadence grows stuttered. His glasses slip down his face. And he finally nods in admittance—a virgin. And, listen, you didn’t have anything against virgins- but the fact that he could talk so big and yet get driven so wild by a mere drag of your sloppy walls down his cock- and still not admit to it?

“Pathetic.”

The dribblin’ and irritated crown of his shaft grows even bigger inside of you. Geto’s head plummets forwards, and he’s whispering something inaudible.

“What was that?” You raise a brow- an expression that he raises his eyes to meet and jolts. As if electrocuted. 

“I-I said I didn’t hear you.” He counters. Bucking into you like an animal. “Pythagoras said-”

And you don’t hesitate to emphasize every single syllable. “Pa-the-tic.” 

“What was that?” 

“I said you’re path—oh.”

Rutting into you even harder—fuck. It didn’t even matter that his massive, inexperienced cock wasn’t fitting all the way- because Geto was digging his rounded crown around your most delicate insides.

He somehow locates your g-spot in a few swipes, brows furrowed as though he’d memorized this particular spot through years of reading (he has, all for this very moment…) 

Such a delicious curve that you feel in your very throat, tastebuds sizzlin’ with a lacquer of saliva the moment his cockhead strikes your sweet spot. Your favorite. And more than your low profanities, the way you’re tilting your head down and glaring at him makes Geto Suguru splosh out in more lewd slick. “Watch it, Suguru.”

“Mmm—” He shivers. Hands coming up ‘round your back and tugging you further against his toned front- you never realized that the nerd you sat next to was so ripped. “S-say that again.”

And you swear now you’re beginning to grow a little concerned- he surely couldn’t be that pussydrunk, could he? “I said watch it-”

“No-” Geto cuts you off. “In that tone.”

That tone? And it dawns upon you slow and sensual—like the toyin’ rubs that he was granting on your g-spot now. Though you were the one most in control, letting his swollen cock stir up your insides at a thorough pace - now all the way from the tufts of black at his base to his puckered, drooling tip. “Suguru…” And your hand locks around his neck even tighter- and just as you’d suspected, he’s drenchin’ out even more syrupy sap that leaks out of your hole. Gets fucked back in. “You fucking like being degraded, don’t you?”

A blush rises to his face. His glare targets you even through his foggy glasses, “Th-that’s prepost-”

“You like me yelling at you.” And this time, it’s not a question. You already know—and you’re grinding your hips down onto his toned v-line at a frenzied pace, wrenching those words away from his husky throat before they can even formulate. “You like me calling you pathetic.” This time reaching up and tugging on a stray lock of his hair- “You like me fucking you like a little bitch.”

And his rude, reddened cock - ever the culprit - fills out your insides so much it’s as if you were fit to burst. He empties out his wadded webs inside you- 

“Isn’t that true?” You coo down at him. Poor Geto Suguru, spit-glossed lips and quivering at the feeling of your pussy- “You’ve always wanted to be fucked by me like this, huh?”

And he nods.

He fucking nods.

Eyes glazed. Brows furrowed.

Hips shivering every time they rammed into yours.

And that’s right before one of his tremblin’ hands reaches up to grab your own dominant set - lifting them off of his sweaty scalp. For a second there, you think that perhaps Geto is particularly cagey over his pretty hair- but then he’s opening up your palm and smacking the side of his even prettier face with your hand.

Not hard enough to harm. Not soft enough to not leave a print of your digits across his blushing cheeks.

You’re surging up with questions when-

“Ahhh…” He exhales, eyes fluttering shut at the sting. Once Geto opens them again, you’re noticing that they look clearer than ever now. “That’s better.” He pushes up his drifted glasses.

Rapidly and ravenously, he’s back in control with his sloppy cadence. Globular edge of his cockhead swervin’ apart your folds to tickle your g-spot—then reaching all the way towards the back of your womb-

Again and again.

“D-don’t think m’never gonna catch up, gorgeous.” Geto gnaws down on his lower lip as if to hold back a moan. “I’ve been wanting to fuck you since the start of semester- you didn’t think m’just gonna let you win, huh? Plato said that the first and greatest victory is to conquer yourself.”

“Don’t act like you weren’t just—oh.” You’re out of breath from his sheer thrashes, the ridges of his veins massaging spots you didn’t even know you had. “-weren’t just putty in my hands.”

“Ah- and about hands…” Like he’d just remembered- like he’d been so gone on the feeling of your sopping wet walls that he didn’t even realize what had just transpired, Geto shoots a look down at your hand. Still in his grip. Still prickling with the slap from earlier.

He bites his lip and blushes.

“Slap me again.”

You fucking knew it.

.

.

.

The next time you’re attending Professor Yaga’s class, you have a lot of explaining to do - first of all about why you’d sent him an urgent email in the middle of the night, requesting an extension for the project.

And second of all, why you and Geto Suguru walked into the next class holding hands.

“So that’s what happened.” He doesn’t even need to hear your excuses to know. From here he can already see the bite marks on your neck, the limp in your walk, the way that Geto looked much too happy with himself.

The older man pushes up his shades and sighs-

“Professor-”

“I really don’t get paid enough for this.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - XXXreads.

“I r-really can’t thank you enough for helping me.” Choso’s sweet, sweet voice flutters out at you—almost inaudible past the mountain of books in his hands. They were as tall as him when set down on the floor, and being held up they nearly grazed the arch of the doorway. “Really. I didn’t know how many trips I’d have to take otherwise.”

You giggle, “Don’t worry about it, Choso.”

“No but- really.” And somehow - perhaps through years of practice, perhaps because of those muscles you always suspected he hid underneath soft fluffy sweaters - Choso’s letting go of his towering pile to push his glasses up. “N-no one really offered…no one talks to me anyways but-” 

He looks at you in slight panic, as though fearful he’s scared you off.

“But really, thank you.”

And you feel your heart clench for the poor boy—it was true, after all. No one in class ever quite spoke to the nerdy Choso Kamo, always with his face close against the pages, always with his hand raised in the air.

He lived more in the world of books than he did with people.

Which was no surprise- not when the people in most of your lectures weren’t exactly the nicest. Despite it being university, it seems people still did pick on him for being a little…bookish. Tittering to themselves as he passed. Throwing scrunched up paper balls at his head. Speaking to him just for the laughs.

And that’s where you came in- there was absolutely nothing wrong with being bookish, or studious, or smart.

In fact, out of everyone in Professor Yaga’s English Lit lectures, you think that Choso was the best one there. The most…handsome, too. But that was neither here nor there!

And so you did your best to divert their attention, to prevent your classmates from taking out their slouched midterm grades and bad hangovers on the nerdy boy. Which included spotting his form (or at least the little you could make out of him) in the corridor, struggling to balance countless books, and stopping to help him.

And you’re nodding at the librarian as you enter- slipping in Choso’s multiple borrowed books through the book drop slot. Soon enough, you’re finding yourself free of all the weight of his books and Choso—holding onto merely one.

“What’s that one, Choso?” You ask in curiosity. 

His voice cracks. Holding the book against his chest, Choso’s handsome face tints red as he looks at you. “Th-this one? Nothing-”

And as you attempt to take a peek at it, he swerves away slightly. Hm… 

Pushing his glasses up his clammy face, “N-nothing at all. This is just one that I have to…to return personally.”

“Personally?” You squint. “Like put on the shelf yourself? I’ve never heard of that.”

“Yes—” With a final squeak, he’s darting into the depths of the library as though his feet were on fire. As though, perhaps, you yourself were fire - and he hunches away from you slightly when you’re following him. 

All the way past the science section.

“A-and thank you so much for your help- again. I wouldn’t want to bother you any longer.” He pants.

All the way past the literary fiction section.

“Really- I wouldn’t want to bother you. I promise you can leave.”

All the way into a darkened corner of the library that you don’t think you’ve ever been in before- where the tables were sparse and the students were even more sparse. In fact, there wasn’t a single soul in sight there.

“Please.”

And Choso ducks into a barren corner of an aisle.

One that you look up at—

And right there on the shelf marker atop the shelf. Right there in laminated plastic. Right there in printed script that could not be erased.

Erotica.

He’d borrowed an erotica book.

And judging by Choso’s familiarity with the section, this wasn’t the first time. Nor would it be the last.

In just a few seconds- you’re walking up to him. And knowing that he was cornered, Choso Kamo can do nothing but bow his head in shame when you reach out for the book—something by some author named Tony with a glitzy, glossy x-rated cover. You’re glancing at the brief summary on the back. 

You catch a few key words.

Nerd.

Bullied.

Class. 

The hot girl who’s the only one to treat him with kindess—and the one to take his virginity. 

.

.

.

“Fuck.” And Choso Kamo’s tone comes out hurried- it comes out harrowed. It comes out hushed—nothing but a low, trembling tone against the shell of your ears. It shakes, just like the rest of his half-naked body as he tucks his fat tip between your pussylips.

Pants pulled down just enough to free his raging erection. 

His plump, reddish crown swipes down your crevice and straight inside your hole. Jerking his hips sloppily back and forth a few times-

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck—” Choso’s voice cracks in your eardrums, entire body feverish as he glues himself to your behind. Your front against the ridged bookshelf, his toned body against yours. 

“Shhhhh, baby.”

He nods, “Shhhh.”

The towering man fucks you like an utter animal- hips pinned to yours and making the wooden furniture underneath creak. It’s as if he doesn’t even realize his own strength, his own girth - how could he? When he hasn’t had the experience to before…

And just the act of putting it in is enough to leave Choso a stuttering, strangled mess. A single tear tracks down his cheek, “Fuh-fuck, it feels even b-better than in the books, baby-”

“Thought about me a lot while reading, hm?” Turning your face around- you meet his flushed one with a grin.

“Well…”

You clench and his breath hitches- “Did you touch yourself to those thinking about me?”

It’s a tone that’s making him shiver - the tips of Choso’s ears burn bright red, and his lips wobble cutely. He nods—he fucking nods away drunkenly before he’s registering it. The look of glee on your face is enough to make the nerdy man choke. “D-don’t tease me, baby.” He quietly whispers out, hand dragging down the side of your upright body. He’s managing to slip his slender fingertips between your legs n’ massage those treacly pussylips of yours—just like his books had taught him. “Though you- I mean- the character in the books did, too.”

“Oh?” One of your brows raises interest. “And what else did this character do, baby?”

Choso whines, his flushed cockhead emptying out the most adorable lines of slick into your deepest depths. He pulls out a little just to watch those ribbons of sap cling onto your cunt- “F-fuck back into me…”

“Hm?”

“The character- I mean.” He gasps out. And a line of sweat glides down the side of his temple as he starts ruttin’ into you even harder, the round edge of his cock opening up spots you didn’t even know you had—Choso was fucking massive. “Would fuck back into me- the nerd.”

And so you’re gripping onto the firm wooden planks of the book shelf, using it as leverage to raise your hips. Up and down. Up and down. “Shit—” Your walls glide down his swollen cock, the patterns of his veins just so prominent. “And what else, baby?”

He’s whimpering at the sound of that pretty pet name on your tongue- so much so that Choso leans over to suck on your tongue. “And then- and then-”

“This is how you kiss, Cho…” You angle your head to kiss him back - so sloppy. Who’d have thought that the lovely, quiet nerd in your lectures was just so…

“And then she’d start t-to clench.” He admits, oglin’ down with big brown eyes at the glistening circle of your cunt. “I don’t really know what that means, baby, or what you have to do to cl—fuck.”

And you’re hearing the exact moment it hits him- the exact moment that the cute hug of your walls leaves him a broken man. Choso shudders upwards as though he’s just been jolted by electricity, and he probes his red, round tip against your spongy cervix- bottoming-out. Barely even starting to pull away from your sultry womb as he fucks inwards.

Held hostage by your cunt—he pants. He shakes. “And then-” Spittle dribbling down the sides of his lips, they twitch with delight. “Just like that—j-just like that…harder.”

And so you do. Fluttering your lashes, “Like this?”

“Harder.”

“Like this-”

“Hard-” Cutting his own words off, the nerdy man reaches his quiverin’ fingers from your slit—and before you know it, he’s pinching your puffy pussylips together. Tight. Ruthless. Making you see stars behind your shuttered lids at the sheer pressure- “Like this. And then in the end she’d beg-”

“Beg for what, Cho?” You ask.

“She’d beg…” The raw draaaags of his flared mushroom tip leave your knees weak. And Choso has to keep a hand constantly looped around your right thigh to keep you from collapsing. Perking your ass up against his ramming v-line, he utters—“You’d beg for my cum…”

Your mouth drops into a pretty circle. “Oh.”

And almost instantly, he seems to regret the filthy words spewing out of his mouth. “B-but that’s just a fantasy and-”

“Well…” This time, you’re the one interrupting him. And it’s done so with the realization that- hey, he was fucking you raw anyways. “Why don’t you go ahead then?”

And he doesn’t even need to hear that entire sentence- he doesn’t even need to hear the middle of it. He merely slaps a hand on top of your gaped maw - effectively shutting you up in such a mean way - and rams his slam-reddened hips against yours. Choso all but fucking collapses his muscular body against your back as he scours his tip into your deepest spot.

The circumference of his girth ending off at your womb.

Before you’re feeling the slow, sensual trickle of his cum filling you up from the inside. It starts off with a few shy dribbles- before soon, the bespectacled man has to gnaw his canines down on your neck to stop himself from making too much noise.

Chasing your hips as you don’t know whether to fuck back or lean against the library- shoving and smearin’ his leaky tip into every orifice. Every nook. Every cranny.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head at the feeling of his slick glaaaaaazing you from the inside, frothing out near your entrance. “Sh-shit there’s so much, Cho.” You murmur out. “You’ve never cum inside anything but your fist, huh? Shit- been savin’ this all up, hm?”

Biting back a groan as your words make his seed shoot just a few more spurts—“Yes.” To your absolute surprise. “Been saving it up for you, baby.”

And a shiver runs down your spine.

Both at Choso’s words-

And at the sudden knocking upon one of the bookshelves- almost as though someone was making their entrance known upon a front door.

Both of you whip your heads up in a panic - with Choso still not moving away from your cunt. All honeyed and driiiipping with his ivory sap. 

And the sight before you two makes the nerdy man wrap his arms around you possessively.

Because standing there—tall, tattooed, dark hair that reached his shoulders. A bright blue jersey with the infamous emblem of Delta Jujutsu Pi - it was none other than Chisato Kamo. 

His twin brother.

A man that shared the same face as the one fucking you, but just about none of his interests.

Well, none of his interests other than you that is…and perhaps that’s why in a few minutes the older brother of the two is being pushed aside so that Chisato can ram his rugged, red tip into you rudely. Scoffing at the way your pussy quivered and clenched around him—

“Cheh…shut up, girlie.” He plasters a palm over your mouth, just as Choso had done so earlier. “Honestly, are ya even my brother? Look at her poor hole- she isn’t fucked even half as good as she should’ve been-”

Choso pipes up from where he’d been banished away from your pussy. “If you just gave me her again-”

“To cum in two pumps again?”

“She said I could- she’s mine.”

“She’s mine.”

.

.

.

“I’m not even going to ask.” Professor Yaga rubs at his throbbing temples—it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary to see his star student, Choso Kamo, walk into the lecture hall with his head bowed low. Unspeaking even with him.

It wasn’t even anything out of the ordinary to see you clinging onto aforementioned Choso Kamo, talking his ear off about your day. And Choso would let you.

What was absolutely astounding was the way in which the aforementioned Choso Kamo’s younger brother - Chisato Kamo, member of Delta Jujutsu Pi, attended more ragers than study sessions, never attended this English Literature class a day in his entire life - was following behind…

Sauntering in as if he owned the place.

He throws an arm around you- and Choso immediately jerks up to smack it off of you.

He sees the two brothers glare at one another.

And Yaga decides that he definitely wasn’t paid enough to intervene with that…

He sighs and starts off attendance, and for the first time has the privilege of hearing. “Mister Chisato Kamo?”

“Here.”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - 2-IN-1

“Isn’t she just…”

“Out of your league?”

“-gorgeous.”

Uraume can’t help but roll their eyes- well, mentally. They knew that their (unfortunate) best friend’s (unfortunate) resolve wasn’t nearly as strong to withstand such a thing, and so they have to settle for letting out a long sigh.

Bringing that red Solo cup to their lips, they hum. “Then why don’t you go there and talk to her-”

“Talk to her- ya must be fuckin’ joking.” Sukuna scoffs, staring down at his white-haired friend. Uraume had been attached to his side ever since their freshmen year rush for Jujutsu Delta Pi, and they’ve seen him through thick and thin. Through his wrestling lows and his professional contract. Through his best moments and…whatever this was.

His embarrassingly big crush on you. Ever since he’d seen you at one of his wrestling games, cheering him on- Uraume has heard far too much about you from him ever since.

He sighs at the sight of you dancing in the middle of the dance floor.

Before narrowing his eyes down at Uraume’s cup. “Seriously…has your fruity lil’ punch - and I know you don’t drink anything hard - been spiked with something? Talk to her- cheh, just imagine-”

“Ryomen Sukuna.” Cut off by the stern, supremely exhausted voice of his best friend. “If you don’t ask her to dance right now—” The smaller person looks up from their far shorter height, dead-set into Sukuna’s crimson eyes. “-then I’m telling the entire party about what a nerd you are.” A pause. “And showing them your Grimmjow figurine collection.”

“On it-”

And it was a dance- just a dance, right?

It’s not like Sukuna was going to ask you to marry him or- or to come up to his (geeky) bedroom or anything. It’s not like one dance would have him embarrassing himself. It’s not like one dance would have you finding out his true identity as a…nerd.

Right?

He was a Health Science major, for crying out loud!

Uraume drinks a shot of straight vodka.

.

.

.

“Fuck, I need ya.” Sukuna breathes out against your throat—one hand tilting your neck to the side for more access, the other gripped onto your hips. He kisses you maddeningly. 

Blindly, the two of you had made your way through the throng of meshed, musical madness and climbed those fraternity stairs up to Sukuna’s bedroom. Where he had your back pressed against- his mouth attacking you wildly—he groans. Licking a stripe up your sweet skin, “I need ya so badly—”

“All talk.” You tut. And before he can stop you - before his rational mind can get the better of him - you let your hand slip to the door handle.

Flinging it open and letting the two of you stumble inside. Door slamming shut.

You’re making it all the way to splay out on Sukuna’s massive king-sized bed before you turn on the lights and-

“Woah.” And your jaw drops at the vision before you. Surrounding you. Someplace you’d never thought to be…Ryomen Sukuna’s bedroom- anime posters, figurines, books upon books upon books, academic trophies as well as wrestling ones. 

And he panics- “This is-”

“You’re a-”

“A little fuckin’-”

“Nerd.”

“Nerdy.”

The both of you pause—before the clear urgency and embarrassment on Ryomen Sukuna’s face makes you smile. He looks away with a huff-

“Do you have glasses?”

Reluctantly - still staring off intensely into a poster of Ouran High School Host Club - he nods.

“Can you wear them while you fuck me?”

He looks back down with heated eyes.

And so he does.

Sukuna keeps his thin-rimmed, tortoiseshell glasses on as he tears through your glittery dress. Sukuna keeps his glasses on as he tugs down his ripped jeans n’ swipes his thickened tip between your pussylips. Sukuna keeps his glasses on still as he fucks you in long, sloooooppy strokes through and through your multiple orgasms.

Once just from fingerin’ over your clit - with his fraternity ring still on. Once more just from eating you out. Two more times just from fucking deeeeep into the sponged softness of your cervix- feeling him fill you out like never before was maddening.

Just about tunneling you through your fifth- meanwhile he hasn’t even cum for the first time yet.

He leans his sweaty head down in a mating press - close enough that the thundering slams of his hips send little flecks of slick flying up to his glasses. Roverin’ reddened cockhead plunging between your pussylips and hitting dead-set on the back of your cunt—splattering both your slick and his own upwards.

Coating the frame and all the way down to the lens, Sukuna snickers as he fucks you even harder—“Better know that yer gonna pay for dirtying these glasses-” He pants between clenched canines. “Yer not getting off that easy, girlie.”

“A-and it’s my fault?” You’re squealing out in indignation. “I’m not the one that—fuck.”

“Fuck?” Sukuna hums. Expression turning into one of mocking thoughtfulness, “Why, yes, according to my calculations I am fucking you.” With that said, he’s dragging his veined cock all over your walls and pulling out—just to tap the swollen curve of his cockhead on top of your cut. Splashin’ away your slick, “Quite the astute observation, brat.”

Gurgling out between the force of his thrusts, “Th-thank you?”

“I was talking to this pussy.”

Your maw drops at his sheer audacity. “Y-you’re not even that kind of nerd-”

He cocks his head, soft pink curls following him. “And what fuckin’ kind of nerd am I, hm?”

“You’re not even the…” In punishment, his length drills into you even harder - as if he was trying to pound those insolent words back into your throat. Making you feel the lump of his girth there where your voicebox crackled- “-the scientific kind.”

Sukuna shoots a glance at the numerous academic accolades atop his shelves. “Right…”

“Because if you were then you’d have found my g-spot already!”

Right now you were blundering out whatever it was that you could say- which wasn’t much at all. Sukuna’s ravenous cock had left your mind nothing but mush, pounding and pounding and it felt as though your cunt was molded to his exact shade and size by now—making you arch up into him. He glides a hand underneath your spine to help you.

It was true, however.

Ryomen Sukuna had made you reach your sultry orgasm five times without even caressing your g-spot. And you weren’t sure whether it was inexperience, or ignorance, or whether he just didn’t care for it but-

But he lets out a deep, dark burst of laughter at your sentence.

The last thing he does before reelin’ his thickened cock back and hitting your womb in a hard slam- “Not the scientific kind?” Sukuna’s repeating to himself, through a slight chuckle. And there was something ragged in his tone that made you shiver—“Not the scientific kind?”

And if his first repetition sounded as though he was in disbelief, that last one sounded as though his brain just refused to fucking register this shit - couldn’t possibly. It’s almost enough to make you take back your statement, but thank goodness that you don’t.

Because within the next split-seconds, Sukuna has his middle finger pushing up his glasses- his eyes locking down above your front. His gaze then calculates the distance between where your swollen pussylips were gobbling him up, and where he could feel his rounded tip scrape your spongy depths. Your womb.

It takes him only mere moments- “The Gräfenberg spot is said to be on the anterior wall…” Accordingly, he stirs his erection deep inside of you. “About 1-3 inches deep as per average statistics…”

And you’re suddenly feeling his bawling divot trace that exact distance down your walls. Up and down. Up and dooooown—“Sh-shit, Kuna-”

“Directly behind the pubic bone- the inferior pubic ramus could…”

“Shit, Kuna- almost-”

“Considered part of the clitorourethrovaginal complex so-” And before you know it, his finger swipes down your pretty clit. Your body trembles, expectedly, and Sukuna’s bespectacled eyes follow that shiver riiiight up your cunt.

“P-please-” You cry out.

And he’s cracking a small snicker. “Tell me if the trials are successful, my lil’ lab helper.”

“Trials?” Climbing up onto your elbows in confusion—what trials? And you’re regretting the action almost as soon as it happens, because just then Sukuna lurches his hips back n’ gives a thorough smooch near your g-spot. 

Near it.

“Trial one…” That little lilt in his pitch lets you know that he’s waiting for your answer.

“F-failed.” Blubbering.

He pushes his glasses upwards and tries again- harder this time. “Trial two-”

“Failed-”

Even harder. 

Mercilessly bashing in the top of your cervix, so smooth and slick you were - he’s sure his rude tip has formed a bruise there. Round and ravenous. 

“And trial number…” Sukuna trails off. Dragging his swollen cock back aaaaaall the way until his tip was just chastely pecking your pussylips, and you could feel every single throb - and then dooooown until those scuffs of pink scrape your pussy. A carnal itch. “-three?”

“F—fuck.” You can’t answer.

Because with that final thrust, Sukuna’s swipin’ down your g-spot perfectly. Making you go numb with the pleasure of him poking that tight orifice- right before you’re bursting into your nth high of the night.

Stars behind your lids. Toes curling until it hurts.

You can’t stop your hips from thrashing upon the squeaky mattress—and Sukuna can’t stop from shovelling his throbbing inches just a little deeper. He grips onto your hips from one side. He locates the exact spot that made you shatter, and digs his rotund tip into even even further - not pulling away even if you were sobbing at the sheer overstimulation.

Just slow, staccato-ed pushes inside.

It made a small primitive part of Sukuna break to pull away- he just wanted to keep on kissin’ your cervix. And he grunts at the back of his throat, the nerd’s own high washing over him in waves.

Silky droplets of cum that end up pouring deeeeep into the back of your pussy—it’s such a goopy mess there. Splashin’ around every time that Sukuna fucked his hips inside, collecting where he kept on pressing at a constant pace - like a button - on your g-spot.

Being fucked through peak after peak.

Thrust after thrust that aaaaaall end up targeting your g-spot. He was proving to you that he knew where it was, that he was that type of scientific nerd. 

And the corners of his lips twitch in delight, “I take that as a success?” Though he wasn’t asking you - not at all - he leans his head down to peer at your pussy. Lens coating in spraying droplets of sap, “Why thank you for the help, my best assistant.”

“Y-you’re so…” Your legs tremble weakly.

And Sukuna pushes those tortoiseshell glasses up his nosebridge- you’re noticing just now that they have small horns in the corners. How fitting. 

He didn’t even bother wiping away the thick layers of your slick. Stuck onto him like a medal - the best, the shiniest out of all those upon the shelves.

“Now, have you ever heard about the A-spot?”

.

.

.

“Mister Ryomen Sukuna.” The man’s stern voice calls out - it was 8AM but Professor Yaga could make a sloth jump onto a racetrack with his tone. Not that it does that much to the star of the wrestling team, the notorious pink-haired member of Delta Jitsu Pi, and Yaga’s very own star student of Health Science.

Sukuna merely looks at him boredly. Lounging an arm around the back of your seat- right beside him.

Honestly, if it wasn’t for the fact that he was (secretly) topping all the exams, then Yaga wouldn’t even put up with all this.

“Please pay attention to the lecture.” Professor Yaga straightens out his papers, “If you have any personal conversation to be had, then please take it out of my classroom.”

“Aye aye, teach.” Sukuna sleazes out a grin. “I was just helping my girl here with the lesson, y’know.”

A chuckle spreads throughout class, little did they know that they were laughing at the smartest student between all of them - perhaps even between the whole year. 

“Then I suppose you don’t mind giving the entire class a briefing-” The professor starts boredly, before he catches the smug look on Sukuna’s face- and Yaga has to look behind himself. The PowerPoint slide he didn’t realize he was on—fuck, it makes him swear internally.

Erogenous zones: The Gräfenberg spot.

“I would be more than happy to give the class a briefing, teach.”

♡ INO TAKUMA - Got webs?

With great power came great…responsibility. Sure. 

That was what Tony had briefed Ino Takuma on—meeting the Avengers and getting to speak with Iron Woman? Absolutely awesome. Meeting the Avengers and saving the world? No biggie. Fighting crime and putting his life on the line everyday? Pssssht-

Getting fucked by you?

Shit, he was about to cream his pants.

Ino Takuma was fucking terrified.

Not because of you, of course, because you were just as beautiful as all his dreams and even more so—but rather he was caught up in the fact that this…well, wasn’t a dream. Exactly that.

It’d all come not too long after he’d confessed to you that he was Spider-Man. Taking you on a romantic dinner at some fancy restaurant he’d had to beg his uncle to make a reservation for, followed by a moonlit walk downtown- and a little breaking into campus to watch the stars from the rooftop. It was perfect.

And the way you’d taken him being Spider-Man? Perfect. 

You were so sweet and loving- punching him in the shoulder (deserved) before taking him into your arms (Ino doesn’t know if he’d ever be deserving of being in the arms of an angel…but…he sure wasn’t complaining).

And afterwards, he’d taken you into his arms and used his webs to swing you all the way back to his apartment. It really was perfect.

And now he can’t lie, he’d taken you back to his apartment - landing neatly on his lil’ balcony ledge - without any ulterior motives. He promises! Ino Takuma is as pure as snow!

Ignore the fact that snow contains atmospheric pollutants and vehicle emissions…but other than that he swears he’s pure! He’d merely wanted to show you his vast Lego collection, perhaps his camera and all those pictures he’d taken recently (maybe not the ones he’d taken of you from afar, however…), and a few more of his nerdy Spider-Man gadgets!

So he swears that the little peck he’d placed upon you was innocent. And when that peck turned into something more…he swears that was innocent, too.

And when that turned into sprawling him out on his chemistry bedsheets, straddling his erect cock n’ sliding your soft pussy down it—fuck, he doesn’t know what’s innocent or not. Right now your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man was trying not to pass out.

Pretty brown eyes scrunching closed at the cleeeench of your soft, sensual pussy- you were so sweet around him that it felt as if you were about to melt. Velvety and slippery. 

The winding zig-zags of his veins rubbin’ against your sides.

You’re letting off a sudden squelch! as you swallow up yet another inch of him - and Ino has to bite down on his lips to keep himself from whimpering. Fucking whimpering—“E-easy there, sweetness.” He’s grabbing onto either side of your waist, with the brilliant idea to control those sloppy bounces of yours- but instead he’s ending up merely…holding onto you for dear life. 

His limbs were weak n’ boneless.

His body was putty in your hands.

He was arching his hips ooooooff of the rickety single-bed- and he doesn’t have to even think before doing it. Body moving on pure instinct. Bulging tip yearning to hit your cervix—“Keep going like this n’ m’gonna cum already…”

“Awww, you poor boy.” You’re tittering- and shit, he knows it might be a little lecherously amusing to you. But does it really warrant enough for you to lean over and push his thick-framed glasses up his nosebridge? He swears he sees heaven itself. “Spider-Man can fight crime- but can’t handle a pussy?”

“I can’t handle your pussy.” Ino bites back, a blush upon his cheeks. “N-not that I ever have before…”

“Then maybe I should be deemed the strongest in the neighborhood, huh?” You hum.

“Y-you wish…” He’s bucking up into you at a frenzied pace- not even full thrusts. Mere, milking half-thrusts that have his precum pouring out in bucketloads—his balls were so heavy that they almost hurt.

“Oh yeah?” And you could feel the twitchin’ of his scouring tip with each one of your sentences - your syllables. Ino was growing only harder and harder at your egging on- “You’re stronger than me, baby?”

He stammers, “W-well…”

“Think you can take me down like you take down all those bad guys, baby?” Cooing- and that tone. Fuck, that tone…it left his flared, reddened tip scraping your insides at an even faster pace. “Think Spider-Man’s gonna win again?”

Ino shivers as you lean down to press your naked chest against his toned one, “Yes…I can—” And then you’re gripping at once of his biceps for balance, “I can-”

All for you to press a pretty peck on the side of his face- and then drag your tongue across where the attractive man was tearing up at the mere feeling of your pussy. So soft and hot. Sucking him up until he was seeing stars- “Then prove it, Taku—”

And it all happens in a split-second.

You don’t even realize it.

One second, you’re staring down at your boyfriend - with his chestnut hair splayed out upon the pillow like a halo, with a faint blush breezing across every inch of him (yes, every inch), with his entire body shaking n’ shivering underneath you. He seemed just so delicate.

Gone on your pussy.

Except…except for that little fire in his eyes that clued you in on something dark.

And the next second- you’re the one staring up at the ceiling. And right into Ino Takuma’s glazed, glittering peripherals. 

He was stimulated on your pussy until tears.

There was something stoic in him, however, as he reaches his right hand up somewhere above you. And you hear it before you see it- the splat! of something wet and clingy sticking onto your wrists. They’re both pushed against the headboard by the sheer force of…whatever that was.

And only when you go to pull away do you realize—oh fuck.

You were stuck.

You’re jerking your head up to glimpse at the pattern of white webs that restrain either hand against the sides of your headboard. Trapped.

And you’re peering up at Ino with a sheepish smile- “Baby?”

He pushes up his thick glasses, “Don’t ‘baby’ me—” And his ruddied tip finds its way between your pussylips in a split-second, jerkin’ in and out at a dizzying rate. Until his furious length was nearly nothing but a blur between your legs. “You wanted this- fuck, you’re gonna get it.”

“Yes-” You’re being manhandled back and forth- unable to do anything. Unable to even hold onto Ino’s locks of sweaty hair for balance, “Yes, yes, yes—please.”

“And you’re gonna fucking- hah, take as much as you’re given.” Ino emphasizes his point by slowing down, giving you loooong and luxurious licks of his puckered crown. “Only as much as you’re given- any complaint for more n’ I’m webbing that pretty mouth up, sweetness.”

“Oh, anything for you.” Fluttering your lashes up at him. It was just so cute how that made Ino immediately break out into a smile, “But what if I want you to cum inside m-”

“God- fuck.” And his wrist twitches as though he’s just about to make good on his promise. “Don’t even fucking…”

That aching cock of his just can’t stop pumping in and out, in and out, in and ouuuuuut.

And before he even knows it, he’s plunging straight into his high- deep and hot inside of you. “Thermodynamics—” And you’re almost sure you didn’t hear him right - spit-slicked lips repeating away as he pumped his hot wads into you - “Polarization functions.” His sweat-matted head dips into the crook of your neck, and he’s pinpointing each single orifice inside you with a dollop of his seed. “Orbitals- fuck, I love orbitals.”

Pouring and pouring out so much of his voluminous cum that it practically overflows.

“W-wait, why are you reciting formulae now, Taku?” You’re breathing out with the last inkling of your rationality, “You’ve already cum-”

“To stop me from losing my fucking mind, pretty.”

And he sounded damn serious.

Damn ruined.

Eyes wide. Voice pitched.

There’s nothing more for him to do but ruggedly hit his cock into every one of your delicate spots now- feeling those tender bundles of nerves with his tip. He slide-slide-sliiiiides down those particular areas—fucking and fucking and fucking you until you’re bursting into your wave of bliss.

“And don’t think we’re done yet, sweetness- maybe next we could get some use out of my camera…”

You’re not making it out of this alive.

Because it turns out that not only does Ino gain superpowers as Spider-Man, but he’s also earning extra…stamina. And he lasts until dawn breaks, he lasts until his fucking bed breaks- you have to tap out before you think he might just break you, too.

Wobbling your way downstairs- you can only clamor onto the walls and furniture for help. “I’m banning you from sex for a month-”

“A month?” Ino gasps, “I only just had my first time-”

“Two months.”

“Sweetness, just let me help you walk-”

You grumble, “Forever.”

And as Ino howls about how utterly unfair it was- and how you had actually been the one to start him up on his superpowers—you’re stumbling across…a figure in the kitchen. Hunched over the island. Coffee in hand.

It’s just then that you remember that Ino Takuma didn’t live alone- no. He lived with his uncle who was supposed to be away on a professor’s retreat tonight.

But it seems…

“Taku-” You elbow your ranting boyfriend, who still hadn’t looked up from his hands. He continues. “Taku-”

“I can handle a villain, but I can’t handle a damn se-”

“Taku.”

It’s only then that Ino looks up from his tear-stained (honestly, he’s so dramatic for the hell of it) palms and sees his uncle. Masamichi Yaga looked as though he was about to burst a blood vessel.

Honestly, in all the semesters that you’ve seen the deadpan professor- you don’t think you remember a time when he didn’t look as though his students were bringing him to the precipice of an aneurysm. 

“H-hello, sir.” You’re the first one to speak, after far too long a silence from your boyfriend - guess Spider-Man has two weaknesses, huh? Yaga nods graciously at you in response, before fixating his eyes on his nephew once more.

“Uncle Yaga—” Ino jolts with yet another elbow at his side. “I didn’t know you were coming today.”

Yaga’s ‘World’s #1 Uncle’ cup chips in his hand.

♡ GOJO SATORU - Goonology.

“—and in this one he’s Frankenstein with a huuuuuge dick- heh.” Gojo titters as he pushes his glasses up, having slid down his face in excitement. He gestures to another file on-screen, “And in this one, they’re clan leaders that have to fuck for an heir. And in this one, he’s a rose toy that turns into a real man and she reeeeally likes that. And in this one, it’s an omegaverse- do you know what an omegaverse is? So basically it’s like those alpha wolf memes but with-”

“Uh-huh.” Nodding absent-mindedly - honestly, you’ve been doing it for so long by this point that it’s likely become a permanent fixture of your demeanour.

Perhaps you’ll go nodding away for the rest of your life.

Perhaps you’ll only nod when you think of Gojo Satoru, and the absolutely massive (concerning) hentai collection he was showing you. Files upon files all meticulously organized and named, with a spreadsheet to follow rating them on the basis of goon-ability.

You’re not sure how you got here, to be honest.

You’d become friends with the nerdy boy at the start of Professor Yaga’s physics course, assuming him to be one of your fellow intellectuals. And what you’d found out was that…Gojo Satoru is an intellectual (there was no denying that, he was the brightest amongst the department with a suspected job offer from JAXA straight out of university—even Yaga himself couldn’t deny it no matter how much the white-haired boy got on his nerves), but that he was also the ultimate…gooner.

The realization didn’t come instantly, of course.

It’d started off with long study nights and mornings spent early in the library, poring over thick physics books with Gojo. Then that acquaintanceship had turned into a friendship. Which resulted in nights dragging Gojo to bars and parties, and helping the nerdy boy cut loose.

And then an even deeper friendship—

After which a few too many Jägerbombs (one, actually, he was a lightweight) ended up with Gojo confessing to you that he was a virgin. You’d guessed as much, to be quite honest.

But then he’d confessed to you that he’d never even had his first kiss before- hell, he’d never even held hands with an in-real-life woman before. And it’s that last comment that got you—what the hell did he mean by an ‘in-real-life’ woman? 

And Gojo Satoru had been more than happy to confess to you that although he might’ve never had contact with a woman in real life - you yourself were a miracle, and the first friend he’d had in…forever - he’d gotten into far too many bases in his virtual world. 

His video games. His manga. His body pillows. His hentai.

Anything and everything that had your jaw dropped in this cozy bar the two of you were at. Eventually, you’d both ended up getting kicked out once Gojo had (far too loudly) talked to you about his collection of personalized ahegao hoodies. And ‘would you like any recs?’

What the fuck…?

You’d gone home to sleep it off that night- but you couldn’t help yourself. Call it morbid curiosity, call it some part of you being a masochist—but you just had to call Gojo up the next day and tell him-

Yes, I would like some…recs. To know what he was into, if anything.

Totally nothing to do with the fact that you were maybe-kinda-sorta nursing a massive crush on the pretty, perfect (other than…perhaps this) white-haired nerd. His blue eyes. His shyness. Those dimples at the edge of his smile. Oh…and perhaps you had to know whether he was actually crazy or not, alright?!

And thus, here you were.

Doing your very best to ignore the body pillow that was splayed out upon his bed, with an original character of his own that looked suspiciously like…

“Me?” You’re blurting out without meaning to.

And Gojo glances over at you in response- fixing those cutely thick glasses of his. “Yes?”

“Why do they all…” Come to think of it…you’re taking a closer look at his glaring computer screen. And the expression of glee upon Gojo’s face at your sudden interest quickly morphs into one of absolute horror at the analytical look in your eyes.

He darts forward to cover his screen. “Wait-”

“They all look like me.” Snatching the computer mouse from his hand, you’re scrolling through the numerous MP4 files. Rows upon rows. Thumbnail upon thumbnail. Each one gave you a brief flash of an animated woman that looked like you, coupled up and being absolutely pummeled by a man with…blue eyes. Rows upon rows. “Satoru…”

And you’re looking at him in silence. He’s silent back.

“Do you like-”

“Yes.” Adrenaline runs through your body. 

And now he looked a bit more like the shy, bookish man that he usually was. Fiddling with the hem of his Digimon t-shirt, that aroused blush upon his face getting replaced by something a bit more innocent.

And by looking at his slender, pretty hands- you’re accidentally sneaking a look at the bulge in his pants. “And do you…” At his questioning gaze, you gesture at his crotch.

“Y-yes.” He admits.

Your eyes widen, “Even—” Looking at the body pillow on the bed.

He huffs and tugs down the hemline of his t-shirt to cover his erection. “Yes.”

And as the silence grows longer, Gojo fidgets more upon his squeaky chair. Restless. Ravenous but…he couldn’t quite browse through his collection with you in here, could he?

Before finally you say-

“And what about the real one?”

.

.

.

“Oh fuck—ngh~” Gojo’s gaze was wide and dilated- the blackness of his pupils almost entirely engulfing his irises. There was a slight glowing glaze on top of his eyes, as though he was drunk - and the way he’s babblin’ away certainly didn’t help his case. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—”

The very crown of his tip was tremblin’ nearly as much as his tone was- and the nerdy man pushes his hips up into yours like an animal.

Claiming the tiniest of orifices inside you as though he’s running out of time.

Splashing around his glittery white cum- because of course he’d ended up cumming just as soon as he’d put it in. 

Stirring around his thiiiick cock until a ring of white forms at your entrance. “Oh fuck, it fuh-feels—” Cute pink lips tremoring. He’s fluttering those long lashes up at you, from where you were straddling his cushioned chair. “It feels so- ngh- much better than it looked in the hentai, sweetheart.”

“Oh yeah?” You titter to yourself. And it’s an action that makes the nerdy man pout, “That good?”

“Yes—” Gojo’s mouth drops, as though he genuinely couldn’t believe that you were asking him this - as though he genuinely couldn’t believe that such a question like this existed. And with his back arching off of the chair slightly, he ruts up into you- again and again. With no rhythm nor rhyme other than the urge to absolutely pound-pound-pound his hot, needy cock into your perfect pussy. “Yes- why the fuck wouldn’t it feel good? Do you know how fucking good you feel?”

And then you clench and it’s enough to send him throwing his back through tears-

“It should be fucking illegal for your pussy to feel this good.”

He sounded dead-serious - and you almost found it cute just how pussydrunk Gojo had gotten after only a few vicious strokes. “I dunno…you had ah- omegaverse and all in your hentai, Toru.”

“My hentai had omegaverse, but I have you…” He’s blubbering out. And it would’ve been the most romantic things he’s said…perhaps, had it not been for what he says next. “And y-you even feel better than my PocketPussy3000…”

Arching one of your brows, “I don’t think I want to know what that is—oh, fuck.”

He gives a sudden swipe, dragging that metallic sensation across every one of your hidden sweet spots.

Oh, how could you have forgotten to mention?

Gojo Satoru - nerd galore, the most inexperienced man you’ve ever met - has a fucking Jacob’s Ladder piercing. A line of ruthless metal barbells that pierced his lengthy shaft, that stuck out lewdly - creating a texture that made your eyes absolutely roooooll to the back of your skull.

Their delicate orbs were rubbin’ coldly against your walls, were molding his interesting shape against your channel. And you find yourself speeding up your bounces just to feel his sensual piercings. 

Just to feel the rub-a-dub of them pushing apart your snug cunt- clinging onto any tiny crevice.

Gojo’s giving an inexperienced slam against the back of your womb and you cry out—“Shit, how can it feel so good-” Holding onto his broad shoulders to keep yourself from falling off of his lap, “You’re really a virgin, aren’t you?”

He pushes his glasses up smugly. “That, I am.” Feeling more confident now, he’s grabbing onto either side of your hips- if this was one of his hentai, then he’d probably use his alpha powers to induce you into heat. Then probably pound you with his cum until you’re bloated…that last one, he could still do. He gives you a few rough thrusts, “And because I’ve got the power of gooning and hentai on my side-”

“Okay, I wouldn’t go that far-”

“Why not?” There was that smug bastard you knew and loved in class- so sure he was right. Gojo cocks his head defiantly to the side, sure he had you wrapped around his finger. Cock, more like.

But just then you’re clenchin’ your fluttering cunt around his cock—making the overconfident nerd stutter, making him blush, making him jerk his hips up into yours and splat! out another wad of cum. Adding onto the puddled mess upon your cervix, slick and heavy with syrup. “What was that, Toru?”

You’re keeping him absolutely hostage.

And it felt so good for you, too, with the nooks and ridges of his Jacob’s Ladder driving you absolutely wiiiiiild. Especially the orbs at the end of his barbells that slipped easily into your walls.

Again.

And again.

And again-

He’s staring up at you through his lashes, words sputtering. “I-I meant-”

“Hm?” Yet another clench- a mere clench. And that round, reddened tip of Gojo’s ends up swervin’ straight against the door to your womb—the nerd’s mouth waters as he thinks of all the possibilities…

“I just meant that m’thankful, sweetheart.” Gojo’s crooning up at you. He loops his arms around your papping! waist and brings you deeper against his toned chest, probin’ your spots even deeper. “I’m so thankful to get to- hck! fuck a pussy like this- so, so thankful…”

“Mhmmm?”

“There’s a reason I cried a little when I first put it in, y’know? A loser like me could never have even imagined- fuck.” Answering, he keeps on drilling his hips up into you - sloppily. Semi-thrusts that leave your entire body on edge from how fast n’ frenzied they were becoming. “And no hentai nor manga nor bodypillow in the world could ever compare to you—” 

“Fuck-” You whisper. It was only making his mazing tip, his massaging piercings, do their magic even harder inside your slippery channel.

And Gojo whispers - mostly to himself. “I got those just because they looked like you, anyways…”

But you’re hearing him perfectly.

And it takes only a few more swerves n’ grinds of your hips to draaaaag yet another orgasm out of Gojo Satoru—you’ve lost count which one it was for the night. But it’s enough that your walls feel slightly inflated with the sheer volume of seed pumped into you, the clingy wads n’ webs stuffing you so full.

Part of it sprays between your legs and glues the backs of your thighs to his waistline. 

And you’re only tightening them ‘round him deeper- ready to ride him maddeningly through another burst of euphoria.

But the surprise comes when Gojo pushes his foggy glasses up in determination - it comes when he peeks down at your pussy through his sweaty bangs. Pinkish tongue sticking between his teeth, the nerdy man locates your neglected clit in a few seconds and starts rollin’ over it with his thumb like a machine. 

He wasn’t quite sure what to do - but he knew from those sultry mewls leaving you that it felt good. And so he’s alternating between slow hearts n’ rapid stripes drawn down your puffy nub.

Every drag of his digit sending sparks to your brain. Overheated.

“Shit-” You’re somehow managing to choke out. And it takes only one-two-three more twists n’ turns of his wrist to get you to start trembling. “Shit, shit—Toru. That feels so-”

To get you to cum.

And so you do-except…you weren’t just cumming.

You were squirting—glittering, hot splashes of sap escaping between your pussylips. They splatter all over Gojo’s slender waist, drenching him all the way down to his chair- and he doesn’t care. 

Fuck, he’s having the girl of his dreams soak his cock with her pussy—and you think he’d care about something like that?

Barely paying attention to his own orgasm, Gojo balances you on top of him n’ drags you through your high. Such strong, sudden zaps of bliss going from his roverin’ tip and straight up to your muddled mind—just a few hungry hammers, and you’re already babbling with pleasure. The knobs of his Jacob’s Ladder massaging your sweetest spots, only elongating that wave of euphoria even further.

It shatters through your body until you’re a mess.

You’re dripping between your legs- and from your eyes. Sobbing into Gojo’s shoulder, “Sa-Satoru, that feels so good—fuck, that felt so good.” Perking your hips up n’ down his swollen shaft—even the area ‘round his pelvis was reddening with impact. “You did good, baby.”

“I d-did?” Gojo asks.

And you can only nod. “You have to delete that insane collection of yours, though.”

“W-well of course, I will…” He smugly pushes his glasses further up his nosebridge- and the sudden improved vision lets him see the dark patch you’d squirted all over his favorite Digimon t-shirt. 

And Gojo can’t help himself from tugging up that hemline and fucking sniffing your sweet, sweet juices-

“Now how about I introduce you to my PocketPussy3000…that I named after you?”

.

.

.

Professor Yaga is just about reconsidering his resignation plans- it’s been a while without any…incident involving his students pushing him to the verge of an aneurysm, he hasn’t had any problems with grading, he hasn’t had any problems with the other staff.

Overall, life has been good.

The problem comes when Gojo Satoru comes to class looking as though he’d come to the very same conclusion.

That morning, he decides that the bespectacled man - his star student in Physics class - looks blissed out…too blissed out. His skin was glowing. His eyes seemed sparklier than ever. He was practically hovering into class.

And Yaga’s eternal conundrum is put to rest when you walk in right after, looking (perhaps not as dramatic) equally happy.

Ah…he connects the dots. And he catches the way the two of you look at each other as though you wished the rest of the class didn’t exist-

Yaga shudders. He reconsiders reconsidering his resignation plans.

He splits the two of you up during seating.

Gojo’s loud cries sound like music to his ears.

♡ HIGURUMA HIROMI - Mr. Mr.

“Fuck…” Higuruma Hiromi finds his head pressed against the polished mahogany of his desk yet again, breathing out his woes into it as though it could hear him.

It always was his most avid listener, these days.

He ignores the newest paper that’d landed on his desk - Higuruma wasn’t above taking cases that interested him anymore. But then again, most cases required attention—and that was exactly what he was lacking right now. These days.

And who else was to blame for such a transgression by Tokyo’s best law professor but you? 

You. You. You. You.

Ever since you’d walked into his lecture hall at the start of semester- your pencil skirt sharp, your mouth even sharper. Higuruma would be lying if he said he wasn’t drawn in by the sheer breadth of your knowledge—even to a man like him who lived and breathed law itself.

He was stunned.

And you were stunning.

Both in your beauty and your brains- and everything else in-between that Higuruma Hiromi just couldn’t stop fucking thinking about-

It was driving him crazy.

He thinks he might be going crazy.

He can’t spend a single class without his eyes drifting towards you—as though drawn in by magnets, even though he didn’t really have a point to emphasize nor any question to ask. He can’t grade your papers without fearing that he might just subconsciously slip in an extra point or two - not because you need it, but because he’s a weak man. He’s a weak, weak man. 

And Higuruma always ends up loaning off your papers to some other attorney friend of his - it always does make him breathe easier when he finds out that you’re always given top marks regardless.

Even the clock has found itself inutile ever since your entrance into his life—no longer is it a device to display time, but rather a countdown for when he might see you next.

The next class. The next orchestrated bump in the hallways. 

The next time he sees your beautiful, beautiful smile.

If Higuruma isn’t in class with you, he’s spending his time counting down the hours until he does. And that’s what he was doing at this very moment—that’s what he was attempting to stop right now.

“I must have gone mad.” He runs a hand through his thick, black hair - usually parted to perfection, but it usually seems to unravel whenever he thinks of you. As does every other part of him. And Higuruma whispers his confession into the late hours- with no one in the vicinity right now.

Class had just ended, and he was still reeling from the vision of you in that short, short skirt. So short…

Higuruma’s breath hitches at the mere memory of it, like a dying man. He’s always been the type of man to prioritize his career - and that means he’s never quite…felt anything like this before. He’s never quite looked out of his books long enough to take interest. Perhaps he’s been in a maddened haze—“That must be it.” He declares, “I really must have gone mad-”

He stands abruptly. Slightly teetering.

“Because I can’t—” You were a university student. You were a decade his junior. You were the beautiful face he got to see everyday- and yet, he wasn’t supposed to notice just how beautiful you were. “It’s not right. It shouldn’t be done. I really can’t-”

“Professor?”

“My law student of all things-”

“Professor?”

“And yet- fuck, I’ve never wanted anyone so desperately-”

“Professor.”

Higuruma feels his blood grow cold. Without a speck of sense in him, still, he’s whirling around to face you - he’d recognize your voice above thousands.

You were standing at the edge of the doorway, tip-toeing slightly inside as though unsure whether you should interrupt. One of your hands rest at your chest to feel your beating heart—and the other one slowly but surely closes the lecture hall door behind you.

“I came here to get a bag I’d left behind…” You’re starting off- and to Higuruma this doesn’t feel real. He’s falling into his chair—“But maybe I’ve left something a little more ah- important.”

And that smile of yours definitely doesn’t feel real.

“I-I beg of you to reconsider.” He starts off, nervously fiddling with his glasses frames.

“Motion denied.” You smile, stepping closer. And the way you’re looking at him—fuck, he feels his cock start to throb already.

“I’m much older than you, my angel.” Higuruma attempts to reason - but the thing is, he isn’t sure whether he’s attempting to reason with you or himself. Because you certainly had an air of finality about you- “And I’m your professor.”  He gulps. He has his books in his office- so, so many books. And yet, none that would help him find the words for right now. “Not to mention, there are so many other eligible bachelors who would be a better f-”

“Dismissal with prejudice.” You hum. Examining the older professor before you—dark circles, beautifully tragic, such a bookish air about him. “Anything else?”

He pushes his stern glasses up his nosebridge. “No…sentence accepted, Your Honor.”

.

.

.

And it’s not too long before you’re finding yourself spread flat across Higuruma’s desk - all polished, poised, formal. Not a speck of dirt or document out of line—except for the fact that you had your back against it and was currently being fucked dizzy on Higuruma’s fat, throbbing cock.

Throwing both legs on top of his shoulders. Pinning you down with a hand at your throat. 

He was giving you all that you were going to get- and all that you were getting were looooong swipes of his bulging tip. In and out. In and out.

Plummeting between your pussylips n’ tickling the deepest spots in the back of your pussy. The deepest—Higuruma makes you taste his rotund circumference at your throat, before he’s dragging his sloppy cock back out and repeating it all over again.

Reddened tip to the tiny curls at the base of his cock- and luckily for you, this was everything you’d been wanting since the second you walked through those hall doors.

Ever since you’d seen your hot, nerdy law professor. 

Higuruma pushes his thin-rimmed glasses up his nose, and you’re gulping at just how handsome he looks. A thin line of sweat tricklin’ down the side of his temple- “Shit-” He’s hissing between clenched teeth, voice higher as though he still couldn’t believe that this was real life. “Shit, you’re taking me so well.”

“A-anything for you—” You’re gasping out. His thrusts are hard enough that you swear you could feel him empty out his pre all the way in the back of your throat- and you swear you could taste it, too. That salted caramel flavor that clogged up your tastebuds—

“For me, huh?” Higuruma’s handsome nose crinkles, and he slams a set of his fingers down upon your clit. “Teacher’s pet.”

You’re whining at the stars that makes you see. “You have no idea.” It was only in the slight reprieves between his thrusts - when he’d pull back from your cervix and relieve the pressure on your womb - that you could manage to even speak. “You have no idea how fuck- how long I’ve wanted to fuck you.”

“That long, huh?” His dark eyes widen.

“So long.” And you’re not even sure why you’re being so honest - but you suspect it has something to do with just how stupid he’s making you with his textured length. Those zig-zagging veins and ridges upon his swollen cock—fuck. “You have no idea how many nights I spent- ngh, poring over textbooks. Just to memorize things n’ impress you.”

His achingly-hard cock grows even plumper inside of you. “You d-did that for me?”

“I wanted you to be proud of me—” You’re almost sheepishly admitting to him. You dare to hide your face behind your hands- but Higuruma stops you then and there to take in your full expression. “-sir.”

And that almost makes the stoic man…pause.

It almost makes his lungs heave out.

It almost makes his glasses slide completely off of his nose-

Something in him just snaps - perhaps his sanity, his restraint, his hips slamming into yours until your very mind jolts. Fuck…

And Higuruma has to stare at you - whilst his cock still shovels in at a rapid pace - for a few seconds just to register. He has to throw his head back—“Fuck. Substantive and procedural law, right and duties- liabilities.” Such an odd slew of words and concepts from your syllabus leave him, growing even more feverish the more fervent hush hips become. “Theory of legal positivism—”

“What are you…” You don’t even have the words to describe it.

But Higuruma looks down at you with such dark, depraved eyes - a slight glaze atop them that made you realize he was completely and utterly pussydrunk. “That’s to distract myself, angel.”

“Oh—fuck.”

And before you know it, he’s scooping your lower half even further into his body and bending deeper down. Deeper. Deeper. Deeper. Higuruma folds you until the cheeks of your ass aren’t even touching the polished wood of his desk, and his cock reaches in so deep that it makes your pupils cross-

“And that’s to remind you that big girls never hafta bow down- not to anyone.” A line of drool travels slowly down the side of his mouth - he kisses you. “So how about it—”

“You want me to call you-”

“I’ll be calling you-” He starts off. “-something very fitting, Your Honor.”

You shiver.

And he basks in his own glee - what else for his star student?

Higuruma’s poundin’ away at the gooey back of your pussy- all the way until it feels as though he wants to fuck you through his damn office desk. 

And you’re sure by now that a print in the shape of your two bodies has formulated on top of the varnished mahogany—and knowing Higuruma, he’d likely just admire it all day. And as if he was trying to make this dream a reality, his bludgeoning pace increases until that gluttonous cock of his was nothing more than a dark pinkish blur between your pussylips.

Thrashing and swiping.

Locating your sweetest spots.

Higuruma draws a particularly good stripe down your puckered g-spot and you moan- “Please- m’so close, s—”

“What was that?” He cuts through. Stern. 

You didn’t think you’d get anything past him, did you? There was a reason he was so damn famed in the courts of Tokyo.

Higuruma’s sharp eyes glint. Through slower, sensual draaaaags of his cock he asks- “What- was- that—”

“Nothing-”

“I believe there may be inaccuracies in that statement.” He hums. Thickened shaft plummeting once more to your womb—thud-thud-thudding. “Try again.”

“You must’ve heard me-”

“Hearsay.”

“I called you-” Ultimately, you’re left to cry out. Nothing left but to have Higuruma’s hazy peripherals staring intensely down at you, and his cock twitchin’ as he pumps you through your orgasm. “…sir.”

And he reels back in delight at having won.

Your body trembling. Your eyes welling up with tears.

It was such a startling wave of bliss- one that almost made it hard for his fattened cock to fuck deep into you - not with your walls clinging onto him like that. And he has to fight to keep himself from cumming right now, just wanting to let you bask in the simmering pleasure first.

Just rammin’ a bruise of his cockhead against your cervix. Again. And again.

Though his steamrollin’ cock fucks you through peak after peak, Higuruma’s smile stays as mean and merciless as ever. Tutting, “Someone deserves some punishment, sugar.”

You’re still shivering from the force of your euphoria- “R-request for a fast trial?”

Wordlessly, Higuruma then reaches somewhere behind you—and you don’t have to turn your head to know what it is. Because soon enough, he’s bringing his shiny gavel to your line of vision- and dragging the honed tip of it straight between your legs.

“My conditions are that you cum with just this-”

“And my punishment if I can’t?” You breathe.

That perfectly poised wooden tip is just starting to inch inside and graaaaaze down your tight walls.

Higuruma gruffs, “Then I sentence you to ride my face until you squirt.” 

He smiles.

.

.

.

“Hiromi—” Masamichi Yaga’s drawling tone echoes down the empty corridor- it’s been just a few hours since he’d last been in the Law Department. Not one of his usual haunts (and he was almost glad for it, law students just seemed so much more…intense), he felt awkward waddling down the barren place.

It was long after classes had ended, though it was a sure shot that Higuruma would be in his office.

If not for the little…task he’d sent his friend—then because of his workaholic nature. Yaga was sure that his friend would have that little letter typed out for him by now, Yaga was sure that by tomorrow he could walk up to the Dean and let them know that he was resigning. Officially.

And with such a formal letter to boot- his pension was going to be luxury!

He was sure of it…

So tell him why he’s wandering right up to Higuruma’s door and hearing the strangest…groaning noises from inside. Worried that perhaps his friend might have gotten into some trouble with his health, Yaga’s hands twist upon the door handle- one that would’ve been less easy to open than a safe.

It was firmly locked.

“What the…” His brows raise well above his shades, and Yaga can’t help himself- he really can’t. He was acting under the presumption that his close friend might have been hurt—alright! The older man leans down to the keyhole on the door and…peers inwards.

He knew that Higuruma was never the type to keep a key in a door- he preferred deadbolts and such. But oh, how Yaga was wishing it was the opposite as he snatches a glimpse.

And what he sees is his best friend- not suffering from any health complications or injuries as he could see. Instead, Higuruma seemed as healthy as ever as he arched you deeper into his front and fucked you - you - in a way that made Yaga blush.

He’s shooting upright as if burned.

Speedwalking down the corridor—fuck the letter, fuck the Law Department, fuck everyone around him.

Yaga was never resigning.

A/N. Got a little…carried away with this one whoops-

"do you think they'll come if we watch long enough?"

gently, you pry your daughter from where she's perched on the couch. her tiny body clings to you, face contorting into a pout. "i'm sure they will, my darling. but it's bed time for you. you have school tomorrow."

"please, please let me stay up! just a little longer? i wanna see if one of them comes. we made dessert this time!" she points at the tiny cupcake sitting on the plate's edge, and her tiny letter stating simply, this is for you!

"superheroes work late at night, my dear." you set her down on her bed. you tuck her thin covers up to her chin, bumping your nose with hers. "to keep us safe while we sleep."

"do you think we'll see batman?"

"i dunno." you turn off the main light and flick on her nightlight. "i'm sure he's out there, but he's probably hard to spot, since he's dressed in all-black."

living amongst vigilantes still felt awfully surreal. a bit like a fairytale, a lot like a joke. but the longer you lived in gotham, the more you felt grateful for the absurdity of it all.

you drew your daughter's curtains and kissed her forehead. "i love you, sweetpea. i'll let you see what's been taken from the plate tomorrow."

"okay." she sighed, cheeks puffing out. she snuggled deeper under the covers as you tucked a stuffy between her arms. "love you, mama."

you smiled and closed her door. you couldn't ignore the twang of fear that pierced your heart each time you left her, even if it was just the two of you in your shitty apartment.

you pictured someone shattering her window. you could hear her screams now. ear-shattering, heart-breaking sounds that would leave scorch marks across your memory.

as much as you thought leaving food for vigilantes was adjacent to leaving milk out for santa, secretly you hoped someone was watching you. someone was taking care of you and your daughter.

there was only so much you could do to protect her. if it was up to you, you'd run from this city. would metropolis be better? safer? anywhere but here. if you had the money, that is.

you sigh, plopping yourself down on the couch before the television. sirens wailed distantly, city lights illuminating a world of crime and chaos. you stared at your reflection in the TV—nothing more than a smudged silhouette.

you're not quite sure when you drift off. usually, you're so good with your routine—lock the doors, close all the windows. but sleep wins tonight, pulling at your eyelids until your head falls too.

something is shuffling outside.

perhaps it's because you've lived so long in this city that you flinch awake. you know nowhere is safe.

your eyes flutter, and you register the time. 3:24 in the morning. gosh, you should really shower.

it's probably just some birds outside. pigeons and gulls always scavanging at that poor plate.

but just as you're about to turn around, you glimpse a reflection in the blacked out television screen. one that's not yours.

there's a smudge of red attatched to a body—a mask or helmet of some sort. it sat next to the silhouette's hip.

you froze.

someone was sitting on your balcony eating the food.

someone was actually here.

you're not sure how to react. where to go. what to do. was it really a vigilante? was it some villain taking advantage of the free food? just some random biker from the street?

you knew not to fight. your first instinct was to protect. to close the window you left open.

hands trembling, you wiggled off the cheap couch. the cushions whined at your missing weight.

your eyes never left the television screen—your only way to tell when the man sitting on your balcony made a move. if he twitched, if he adjusted his grip, you watched it. carefully. like you were studying him.

never taking a breath too deep, never moving more than necessary, you crept towards the window. only, when you finally inched close enough to feel the breeze, there wasn't one.

your eyes flitted down.

the window was closed.

and there the man sat, back to it, swinging his feet back and forth. golden light shimmers along his raven-black hair.

should you wait for him to leave? try to chase him off the balcony with that crowbar in your closet?

what scared you the most was the fact that he didn't seem malicious. often times, those people turned out to be the worst. so you stand and stare, perhaps a bit of a creep yourself.

you'd stay here all night and watch him just to ensure your daughter was safe.

your daughter. oh gosh.

what if this was all a distraction?

with little acknowledgement to the noise you now made, you raced towards her room and whipped the door open.

your daughter turns over in her sheets, groaning at the noise.

relief floods your chest.

you closed the door and returned to the living room.

the vigilante was tidying his space now. he was...folding the napkin laid out and arranging his utensils neatly.

you watched in awe, a bit unsettled by how...nice he was being.

he reached for his helmet, prepared to take off when he spots you staring at him from inside.

his eyes went wide, lips parting as he realized he's been caught. the two of you remain like that for a while. staring at the uncanny sight of the other.

it's only when he registers you've seen his face that he begins to move.

you take in the blood on his clothes. the empty plate. the wind through his black hair.

and soon, you're unlocking the balcony door and stepping out.

"what are you doing here?" your voice dropped low. attempting to be threatening.

"what do you mean what am i doing here?" he looks at you like you're crazy. he gestures to the plate and the letter your daughter left for any vigilante stopping by.

"i didn't...i didn't think anyone was actually eating these..." you never left out much food. only leftovers. mashed potatoes, rice. food that was about to go bad.

and you assumed the pigeons were scraping the plate clean.

well, wasn't this just a...big-ass pigeon on your balcony?

"of course i am," he says. with a shrug, he adds, "sometimes it's the only dinner i have."

"you're not...not here to hurt us, right?"

"if i wanted to do that, i would've."

"are you here to...protect us?"

"and eat your food."

you drag a hand down your torso. "o-okay." your breath shudders as you note the guns on his hips. the flexing muscles beneath his shirt. scars peppering his face.

"i'd never hurt you," he reminds you. "or your daughter."

well, fuck. he knows you have a daughter. of course he does. what were you thinking, leaving out food for strangers?

the rational part of you is beginning to realize that, yes, if he wanted to hurt you, he would've. but he hasn't.

his eyes glaze over you. "she's sweet," is all he says.

you nod. "i...i know. she's very kind."

"that's all a parent should ever want their child to be." he looks down and reaches into his pocket. without thinking, you race towards him and grip his wrist, hoping to stop him from pulling out a weapon.

he freezes. he doesn't look at you like you're stupid. like you're overreacting. his eyes promise reassurance.

gently, you ease off his wrist.

from the depths of his pocket, he pulls out a tiny black wallet. or what you presume to be one. but inside, there's no money or credit cards. only weathered pieces of paper.

every single one has your daughter's scribbles on it. whether it's a drawing or a messily written thank you!

"you...you keep her letters."

"now do you believe i'm not gonna hurt you?"

"i...i don't know."

the man shakes his head. "have the streets been quieter lately?"

recently, yes. they have been. "i...guess so."

the man only smiles. it's warm. a little playful. then he points across the street. "this is a bad area to be in right now. trust me, i know. i grew up in that complex. right down the street."

that must've been long before you moved here. long before rent became too high everywhere else that you had to resort to an area as dangerous as this.

"i know you're scared." he waves around your daughter's letters. "but you don't realize the amount of protection kindness gives you."

you simply whisper a tiny thanks.

the man looks you up and down. "not that i'm not grateful or anything. but i'm hungrier than i look." he nods down at the plate. "the cupcake was filling, though."

"r-right."

he gives you a taut smile and squishes his head into his mask. the red color glares under the amber city lights. without another word, he hops off the railing and disappears beneath the fire escape.

heart pounding, you lean over, eyes searching for him frantically.

your heart swells with skepticism.

but gratitude overwhelms it a second later.

you were safe. your daughter was safe.

so long as you kept feeding your 'personal' vigilante, he'd keep coming back.

am i insane for wanting to write a pt 2 to this or no...

When Homelander first noticed you, it was during a bus jacking. It was routine for him, but traumatic for everyone else involved. The bus jacker may have been lasered, but all’s fair in self defense, right? There was one curious thing that caught his eye-a young, plain, weak girl stayed calm. Collected. Even comforting other hostages. You smiled, and for gods sake, even got them to laugh. 

     It was something Homelander had never seen before. 

     And people fawned over you for it. They thanked you, almost as much, if not more, as they thanked him. And at first, Homelander despised you. Despised the way you blushed and brushed their praise off, saying you were just helping where you could. And you left, to continue your droning, mindless existence. He followed you home out of spite. He contemplated killing you, flying you to the highest building and dropping you off so it would look like a suicide. 

     But after days of obsessively watching you, learning your routine and habits, he grew fond of you. Saw your potential. Saw the way you were kind to everyone who didn’t deserve it. You dropped old clothes off at your local Good Will, tipped more than was necessary, and always gave that homeless guy by your street corner money, or takeout, or attention that he didn’t deserve. You paid more attention, more care and passion and love, to the smallest things than had ever been given to him.

     Sure, he was loved. By the mindless public. Not by Maeve, not by Madalyn, not by anyone who had ever seen the real him. Not by anyone who matters. 

     But neither had you. You helped people from a distance, cried when your friends hung out and didn’t tell you, read books and watched movies instead of going outside and talking to people. Homelander watched you and an idea, a desire grew within him. Maybe you, with your fix-it complex and unending empathy, could love him. And he, battle worn and alone, could love you. 

     And maybe together, neither of you would ever have to be alone again. 

     He took a risk one day. Followed you into your favorite coffee shop. He even was in line behind you, waiting to get his coffee. He had ordered the same as you. And although his super senses and seen you, smelt you, known you, he had never felt you. His heart palpitated at the closeness, his fingers ached to just reach out and touch you, pull you into his chest, wrapped his hands around your throat until you loved him-

     And so, he did. His hands had a mind of their own. He was often overcome by emotions, but the feelings you brought out in him were new. Carnal. Animalistic. He was a slave to them, to the temptation your lewd body screamed. He tugged at your sweater, gently, impulsively, wanting you to see him, really see him in the way he knew only you could. 

     You turned around slowly, curiously. He quickly let go of your sleeve, an uncharacteristic blush adorning his chiseled features. “Um, hello?” You ask, eyebrows pulled together and biting your lip nervously. He fidgets anxiously with the string of his black hoody, more awestruck than he had thought he would be.

     And so, you meet him. At last. The strings of destiny pull you to him as he knew they would. “Hey, uh, hi!” He stammers, glancing around the cafe. Not exactly the first impression he was going for, but how else do you react to a-a-

     A goddess. You were perfect, far more divine in person. Your perfume is musky, sweet, and graces your natural odor marvelously. You had opted against wearing too much makeup today, and Homelander is thankful, you are much more beautiful natural. He had watched you curl your eyelashes and brush on a bit of Vaseline, and that was enough to make you turn heads. At least, his head. You were much more stunning than his first impression on the bus. 

     “Uh, do you-do you need something?” You ask, still bright but obviously uncomfortable. You pop a hip, quirk a smile, and Homelander can hear your heart beat faster, and he understands that you are nervous. Maybe you can already feel an inkling of what he feels. 

     “Don’t you recognize me?” He asks.

     You smile, uncertain and embarrassed. “…should I?” You chuckle nervously. “Have we met before?”

     On one hand, Homelander was annoyed. Who did you think you were to not recognize the Homelander? Your savior? America’s hero? He was on the news every night! For fucks sake, there were more movies about him than there were those shitty slasher movies you loved. His fists tightened as he grimaced at your naivety, your stupidity, at not recognizing a god among men. 

     On the other hand, he had a chance here to be someone else. A person. A human being. He didn’t know what that felt like, and you didn’t know what you were offering you to him. You didn’t know you were handing him your life on a silver platter. His fist relaxed, and he chuckled, a deep hum from his chest.

    “Yes, actually,” he lied smoothly. “Last week. You forgot your purse on the bus, so I grabbed it for you.” You had lost your purse on the bus, but he hadn’t grabbed it for you. He was merely lucky enough to witness it, lucky enough your memory wouldn’t remember the difference between the man who had grabbed it for you and himself. 

     You gasp, your eyes widen. “That was you?!” You say excitedly, grabbing his hand forcefully. “Oh my gosh, thank you! I’m so sorry, I’m so forgetful!” You laugh anxiously, nervously glancing at your feet. Forgetful enough to be fooled into thinking you remember him, and hopefully forgetful enough to forget his name. “J-Jake, right?” You question, blushing and releasing his hand, awkwardly rubbing your head but still smiling at him. He mourns the contact immediately.

     He pretends to cringe. “Ho-“ he hesitates, grimaces, forced to degrade himself to the boring, common name he had previously been known by; the only other thing he knew he could respond to. “John, actually.” The man’s real name had been Jamie, but of course you wouldn’t remember that. 

     You giggle. “John. Okay. I need to thank you again, I wasn’t sure I’d ever see you again. Small city, right?” The barista calls your name, and something in Homelander tightens at the way he seems so familiar with you. 

     “One sec!” You say brightly, and quickly grab your latte, talking with the barista and laughing at something he says. Homelander glares daggers at him, almost wishing you weren’t there so he could laser his eyes out. Then again, if you weren’t there, he wouldn’t be either. 

     “Sorry!” You hold your cup like a life line, your natural social anxiety and otherness oozing out of your pores. Homelander smiles, the way you’d smile when a small child does something cute. You were kind, but anti social; traits that had endeared you to Homelander in a way he hadn’t thought possible. You’d go out of your way to help others, giving the homeless money or donating food to a church, but kept yourself separate from the world for the most part. You cried about it, sometimes, the way you never seemed to really be able to connect to anyone on a deeper level. Homelander believed this to be because most people, tedious and dull and boring, didn’t have a deeper level the way you two did. Didn’t have the passion, the potential, the-

     Loneliness. Homelander saw himself in you. Just a little bit. You were polar opposites in almost everything; you were kind while he was brutal, you were soft where he was rough, childish in all the areas he was mature and mature in all the areas he was childish. You complimented each other perfectly, with one big similarity; you were both lonely. 

     You both were driven, searching for love in all the wrong places. You ate alone every night, rarely went out, and while you had friends Homelander could tell that they weren’t good for you. Asking you to go out, go on a date with this guy, continuously taking you out of your comfort zone when really, you were just fine. You had your routine, your dreams, and even if you really didn’t know it yet, him.  Homelander knew all this, knew you had dreams, goals, and was almost sorry to deprive the world of you. Almost. But gods need sacrifices to be appeased. And Homelander has sacrificed enough for this country to be deserving of one goddamn woman, no? 

     “No problem.” Homelander smiles. “Hey, actually, wanna sit down and get to know each other?” He smiles, Prince Charming, mouth quirking slightly to the right. 

     You hesitate. No. He’s losing you. It’s like fishing; you have to bait, be patient, and wait for the fish to bite. You being the fish. “Or if you have somewhere to be, I can give you my number and we could meet some other time.” He says quickly, hope obvious in his eyes. 

     You relax, shoulders settle, and you smile softly, genuinely. “Sure. I’d like that.” Homelander grins cheekily. He put you in charge of the situation, showed how gentlemanly he is. It’s your choice now, and he knows you’ll make the right one. 

     The barista calls his name, and he watches as you quickly pull out your phone and hand it to him. “Same coffee order?” You laugh. “Seems like a meet cute.” You can’t tell, but Homelander is screaming internally inside as he types his number in your phone, triple checking for a mistake. He’s shaking and sweating and nervous and god, he’s never felt this way before. 

     “What can I say?” Homelander teases, walking to the counter. “We have great taste.”

     He watches as you wave, exiting the cafe and entering the bustling street outside. His smile faded quickly as he turns to the barista, memorizing his name for a future errand. He glares, and his powerful hatred engulfs the cafe, creating a startlingly volatile atmosphere. He doesn’t say anything as he grabs his coffee, but as the freaked out barista hands him his cup he smiles coldly, it not reaching his eyes. “Have a nice day, Aaron.” 

     The words were polite, normal, not threatening in the slightest, but Aaron’s face drains of color as the man leaves. He’s shaking, and he’s really not sure why, but he hopes you don’t have anything to do with the man he saw talking to you. 

     The same man whom you decided to text that same night, despite a harrowing gut feeling telling you not to. 

     Hey. 

     It’s boring, simplistic, but how else do you start a conversation with a stranger? He texts back almost immediately. Hey. What are you doing up this late?

     You glance at the clock. 12:21. You shrug, turn down the tv, and snuggle closer into your blanket. Watching a movie. What’re YOU doing up this late mister? Homelander smiles at the phone, at your mock authority and playful nature. 

     I have a late job. Homelander texts back simply, at a loss at what would constituent as a normal response to that question. He’s sitting at the edge of a rooftop, kicking his feet like a school girl, smiling ridiculously hard as he watches you from a couple buildings over. 

     You smile at your phone, shitty horror movie almost forgotten as you text the mysterious stranger. Ohhhhh interesting. What is it exactly that you do? You bite your lip, wondering if you’re prying to much already, having only texted him three times thus far. The dots stay on your screen for a while, Homelander pondering how much he should divulge about his life to you. I work in law enforcement. He decides on. What do you do? He already knows, of course, he’s seen you on your way to and from your job everyday. 

     Law enforcement? That’s so cool! You get to help people! I’m just a nail tech. You hesitate, deciding to over share regardless. If he can’t love you at your weirdest, then he doesn’t deserve you at your best, you decide, although you’re nervous at his response to you sharing your passion. 

     I want to be a writer though. 

     Homelander lights up. You trust him enough already to tell him that? This is great progress, quick, and maybe he won’t even have to convince you to live with him. 

     That’s really interesting! Anything in particular you want to write? He watches the dots excitedly, bouncing in his seat. 

     I don’t really know, you write back finally. Homelanders heart plummets. No. No. No no no! He groans. Where is all that openness, that vulnerability you had moments ago? Did you always want to be in law enforcement? You ask, the movie ending and credits rolling.

     I never really thought about anything else. Homelander writes honestly. The people who raised me kind of raised me for it. What an odd way to refer to one’s parents, you think, leaning on your doorway. You shivered, you don’t sleeping in pants, and quickly climb into your bed and under your covers.

     Homelander stares at you, phone almost forgotten in his hands, positively enamored by the sight of you, until his phone buzzes. Wanna meet for lunch tomorrow? You text. 

     He smiles. Not quite dinner, but a start. Too much of a slowburn romance for him, but he’d do anything for you. I’d love to. 

     You smile. Goodnight, John. 

     Goodnight, y/n. Maybe if you were less tired you’d remember you never told him your name. Maybe if you were less tired you’d remember he gave you his number; he wasn’t supposed to know who was texting him. But all you do is smile as you turn your phone off and settle into bed, Homelander watching love struck in the distance. 

     You sit at the simple cafe you had selected, the one with the salads and wraps you liked, in a flowy summer dress and converses. You had done some makeup, but nothing out of the ordinary. Strangely, you were nervous, tapping your foot while you wait for your admittedly handsome date. You had chosen a familiar, comforting place for the date, somewhere where you’d hopefully feel more at ease and open up. The vintage cafe soothes you, reminding you of your hometown, and you’re thankful for your foresight of your own anxiety. 

     You hadn’t gone on a date in a while. 

     John wasn’t late, but he definitely wasn’t early. Is this what they call a beige flag? Being on time? You check your phone for the umpteenth time, but all that greets you is the time: 11:57. Three minutes until he’d be late, and you were worried you looked sad to the customers and staff, sitting alone and waiting for a date who might not show. If he didn’t, you couldn’t come back, and you quite liked it here. 

     The bell above the door jingled, and you look up to find John waving at you as he made his way to your table. “So sorry for the wait! It took me a minute to find this place!” He laughs it off, sitting in the chair comfortably, a man who had never felt out of place.

     He had known exactly where you wanted to go. He just wasn’t sure whether you preferred men who arrived early and showed responsibility, or men who made you wait in anticipation. He decided to play it safe. 

     “No problem! I wasn’t sure you were actually coming.” You joke, leaning back into your chair and settling down.

     Got it. Arrive early. The cafe bustles around you, and he glances around. “Don’t be silly, of course I’d come!” He glances at you wryly. “Who wouldn’t want to have lunch with beautiful lady?” You blush, glance at your shoes, a small smile blossoming on your face. You fluster easily, and Homelander smiles with a fondness and familiarity you mistake for laughing at your shyness. 

     “Well. Where are the waiters?” He asks, glancing around at the cheap flooring and old tables. He represses his disgust. When you’re with him, he’ll take you to nicer places, places with wine other than the boxed kind.

     “I told them someone else was joining me today, so they said they’d waiting to take any orders until you got here,” you explain, taking a sip of water. “Someone will be out in a second.” You take another sip of water, not sure how to start a conversation. 

     “Do you come here often?” John asks, voice light and, dare you say it, flirtatious? 

     “Actually, yeah, the place I work at is only a couple blocks away,” you point vaguely out the window. “Some of us usually either come here or go to the Chinese place a little closer.” 

     Homelander knows you come here a lot. He’s watched you. He knows exactly what you’re going to order: spring salad wrap with chips, and an iced white mocha. He knows you. You don’t know him yet, his preferences and taste and orders, but you will. 

     “Really? How,” he hesitates, nose wrinkling just a bit, “quaint.” This place was below you and you didn’t even realize it. Oh, he can’t wait to take you to real dining, in Paris or Rome. You’ll feel so lucky he saved you, like your very own Cinderella story. He, of course, is your knight in shining armor. 

    You don’t notice the underlying condescension of Johns words. “Yeah, I think so. I love this place.” You smile brightly at Homelander and he could swear his heart stops. He’d do just about anything for you to beam like that forever at him, although he’d prefer it to be about his heroism rather than some dirty cafe. 

     “Is your lunch break long?” You ask John, twiddling your ring. “Mines only about forty-five minutes, so I can only stay for about thirty more.”

     Homelander blanches, panics, before deciding on a random time. “Mines about an hour, so I should head back the same time as you.” 

     You smile. “Perfect.”

     The waiter approaches the table, notepad in sight, and apron disheveled. “Hey y/n, this your date?” The waiter smirks while you blush, and both of you miss John’s wry, possessive glance at you.

    “Sam, this is John, and this isn’t a date-“ you hurry  to explain and divert the conversation.

     “Isn’t it?” John asks, mouth quirked, a glint in his eye. 

     Your blush deepens, and you smile softly, unable to look either of them in the eyes. “I-I guess. A-anyway, can I get an iced white mocha with my usual?” The waiter writes that down, before turning to John. “And for you, y/n’s not-date?”

     He pretends to think. “The same thing, but with a glass of milk.”  

     “Sure thing. It’ll be out in a second,” they walk away quickly, leaving you alone with your date.

     A glass of milk is odd, you think, but decide not to bring it up. “You don’t even know what you’re getting,” you smile, quirking your head to the side. 

     He leans back in his seat, folding his fingers together comfortably. “I’m sure whatever you get will be great.” 

     The two of you spend the rest of the maybe date getting to know each other, finding out you have a lot in common. Both of you never knew your real parents, both of your last relationships ended horribly, and both of you were fairly isolated people. Closed off. Although, while you shared many of your other interests and hobbies, every time you asked about his, he would change the subject. You figured it just boiled down to the closed off thing again, and that he would open up more as you two got closer. You two were actually discussing the prospect of the next date as he walked you back to your job. (He had insisted, slightly forcibly if you wanted to analyze it, but you believed ignorance is bliss) 

     “So, y/n, when do you want to meet next?” He says smoothly, stopping at the door to the nail salon. You pretend to think, biting your lip. “What about tomorrow night?” 

     He smiles, genuinely excited, “okey-doke. I’ll pick you up at seven.” 

     “You don’t even know where I live,” You laugh. “And I don’t even know where we’re going.” You fiddle with your purse, glancing through the door’s window to at least three pairs of eyes on you. 

     “It’ll be a surprise. Text me your address,” He opens the door, quickly-he had almost messed everything up, forgetting he wasn’t supposed to know where you live.  

     “Okay, sure. Thanks for lunch, John,” you step through the threshold. “See you later!” You smile and wave, a horde of excited girls greeting you as you walk in. 

     “Bye, y/n.” He shuts the door, and walks away quickly so he doesn’t do anything embarrassing or incriminating in your eyesight. He smiles, and resists the urge to fly into the air and start screaming in delight. 

     Tomorrow night, he’s giving you a taste of your future life. 

     He’s watching you get ready. He thinks it’s sweet how much effort you’re putting into getting ready for him. Singing along with some niche pop artist, someone called Ari Abdul. Doing not only a full face of makeup, but paying extra attention to your dark, sparkly eye makeup, which was the one part of your makeup he could get behind. You looked like you were having fun. You had curled your hair, and had yet to get dressed, clad only in your pajamas when Homelander decided to pick you up early.

     He knocked at your door, and you yelled back, “just a sec!” He knew you were finishing your hair, and although he enjoyed the voyeurism, he almost wished he had more self control so he could see you open the door and be completely surprised. Luckily, he was a good actor, and when he opened the door he pretended to be surprised. “Wow. You look,” he swallowed down many lewd remarks, “great.” He gestured to your pajama’s, “is that what you’re wearing?” 

     You blush, and he smiles. “Oh, no, I just haven’t gotten dressed yet,” you open the door a little wider, revealing more of your pajama shorts to his perverted eyes. “Wanna come in?” 

     Homelander follows you into your cramped apartment for the first time, but he had the layout already memorized from watching you. “Cute place,” he says, eyeing your books stacked against the wall, many mugs and cups scattered throughout, and clothes on the bed through your door. 

     You clear off a place on the sofa for him. “Sorry for the mess, I didn’t think you’d arrive so early!” You laugh nervously. “I’ll go get dressed so we can head out.”  

     “It’s no problem,” John said smoothly, making himself at home. “It’s very.....you.

     You smile, and quickly walk into your bedroom and close the door. You have no idea how little that door protects your privacy, with Homelander watching you through your door with his X-ray vision. He leans back, legs spread as he watches you. You were quick to take off your pajama’s, pulling out a pair of lingerie to wear under your dress. It’s red, and although you don’t know this yet, he appreciates the use of one of his colors. It’s as if this is fate.

     He pants tighten as you put on the lacy, see through thong, the way you pull your breasts up so your bra can hug them tighter together. You pull the dress out of your closet, a short, babydoll black one he hadn’t seen yet, buried in the back of your closet and rarely used. It hugs your breasts before flaring out and resting at your mid-thigh. You look entrancing, and it takes everything Homelander has to not break in there and ravish you right now. 

     You creak open the door slowly, shyly, smiling at the ground as you walk out. “What do you think?” You ask, spinning around while the dress floats beside you. 

     John stands up and clasps his hands behind his back, strict and straight; a soldier at heart. “Y/n, you look,” he fumbles, looking for words that could even encompass half of the beauty before him. “Amazing.” He stutters out, kicking himself in the shins for not thinking of something more clever.  

     You take the compliment anyway, and are quick to grab your coat and purse. “Where are we going?” You ask, leading John out the door. 

     “Just a restaurant I think you’ll like,” he says vaguely, walking quickly and hardly giving you time to catch up as you exit the building. 

     “Mysterious,” you mummer, regretting the heels immediately, calluses forming already. If you’re lucky, you won’t be able to feel your feet by the end of the night. 

     Homelander’s mouth ticks upward just a notch, super-hearing picking up every little sarcastic thing you say, every foot step and breath and heartbeat. He had yours memorized already, of course, but having it right next to him, living and breathing and talking about some mundane thing to fill the silence-you hated small talk, but hated awkwardness more-was comforting. He could hear everything at once, but, god, was it hard to comprehend what you were saying-he had only gathered enough to recognize that you complimented his tuxedo. 

     “A tux seems rather nice for a mystery date,” you rambled, as you two wait for his car to pull up, “it suits you though.” 

     He grins cockily at you, “it would look better on the floor.” 

     The limousine pulls up just in time to hide your blush, and you’re too preoccupied trying to calm yourself down to even think twice about getting into it. You scoot over, the seats smooth and soft. The interior is shiny, new, unused and unloved. Laminated and showy, but lacking any obvious personality aside from an ostentatious display, and for a movement, you compare it to John. You feel uncomfortable in the sterile environment. 

     “A limo?” You half smile at him, “what is your job again?” 

     He smirks. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll explain the details later.” 

     You sit alone in a strange car with a near stranger, barreling towards an alien location. Your palms sweat, your heart races, but you smile. This is new, exciting, completely out of character and you love it. The apprehension is welcome, and your legs squeeze together by themselves. 

     Homelander notices. 

     Of course he does. He can feel your heart palpitating, the way you leak just by his nearness, the pure, unadulterated, adoration you feel. As you should. He reciprocates in full, his dick hard as a rock, a tent in his pants only unnoticeable through your fog of excitement and blissful naivety. He would say something, he would, but you’re not supposed to be aware of his full infatuation just yet. Soon. Soon. 

     Not soon enough. He inches closer, grabs your thigh, slowly tracing his hand upward. “What say we scrap dinner and go back to my place,” he purrs, “put something else on the menu.” 

     The tension snaps so quickly even Homelander, lost and disheveled in his own mindless besottedness, can feel it. The driver quickly rolls the partition up. John’s hand stays still, but his fingers continue to draw gibberish on your leg. You gently pick his hand up and set it down next to you. “John,” you whisper gingerly, “I’m not.......ready for this yet.” 

     He frowns. His eye twitches. He all but snarls, “I thought we-“

     “You thought wrong,” you interrupt, turning to look out the window. “I have some........bad experiences. I’d rather move things slow. If you’re looking for anything more, I’m......sorry.” 

     He softens imperceptibly, tent falling but mind churning. “.....who?” He growls, glaring at nothing and everything at once. 

     You glance at him quickly, eyes darting around the car, subconsciously making sure you have an exit plan. “That’s none of your business.” You snap, palms sweating and heart racing for a different reason. 

     “Y/n.” He breathes out angrily, “tell me who. What happened?” 

     Suddenly, the knowledge you really don’t know this man is frightening. The excitement at stepping outside your comfort zone is gone, replaced with the grim reminder of why you never leave. “Jesus Christ, John! It’s kind of personal! And, quite frankly, I’d rather not relive it!” 

     He closes his eyes and rubs his temple, impatience gnawing on his psyche. “Y/n.” He doesn’t open his eyes, reminding himself that it’s not your fault, and trying to calm himself down. Your refusal to tell him what happened only strengthens the terrible feeling someone did something obscene to you. “I’m not asking again. Tell me what happened before I do something we both regret.” 

     You gulp, the finality and resolve in John’s voice tell you that you really ought not piss him off. The silence persists, and the mask of John’s patience was slipping with every twitch and purse of his lips.

     “I-my ex,” you whisper finally, suddenly ashamed and guilt ridden. “It was his birthday. He wanted to have sex, but I wasn’t in the mood. I said no, and he started calling me a “whore” and a “slut”. I got so fed up that I just started leaving, but-“ you take a single, shuddering breath, “but he wouldn’t let me. He grabbed my arm and then he-he-“ you sob, instinctively leaning into John’s open embrace. 

     He shushes and calms you down, but his own mind is screaming. Who did he think he was?! To stalk and rape an angel like you?! To tarnish you, like you weren’t a person?! He takes a deep breath, the smell of your hair only serving to anger him further. You’ve been claimed by him, you were his, and some cheap, loser dickwad had no right. 

     But you weren’t done. “I think the worst part was that his friends were in the room next door. They heard everything, they just.....didn’t care.” Homelander’s heart cracks, and he contemplates flying you to whatever shit hole this douchbag lives, just so you can watch and not care while he fucking kills him. 

     But then you look up. The tears in your eyes stream down. Homelander’s heart breaks now, and he shifts uncomfortable. His rage bottled for now, he gives you the full attention you deserve from him. “He hey hey, don’t cry!” He coo’s, wiping away tears from your eyes as he rubs your back reassuringly. “I’m here. I’m here now, and I’m gonna make damn well sure no asshole like that can ever be near you again, okay?” 

     You sniffle, looking up at him through teary eyelashes. “Okay?” He prompts again, slightly more forceful.

     You nod slowly. “.....okay.” 

     “Yeah?” John smiles at you, and twirls your hair. “That’s my girl.” He murmurs, burrowing you closer into his chest while he rubs you comfortingly. He rolls down the partition, “take us back to her place.” 

     The driver nods silently, quickly (or as quick as you can) turning the car around to drop you back off. The drive back is silent, save for your occasional sniffles and John’s vaguely patronizing coo’s. When the driver finally pulls up, you try to open the door but John, with a strength you hadn’t expected, holds you still. “Allow me,” he smiles, all teeth, while he opening the door and carrying you bridal style to your apartment. 

     “My keys are in my purse,” you murmur, face in John’s, eyes closed and breathing calmer. 

     “Righty-oh,” he say’s, surprisingly up beat, but you didn’t know he was just excited to be invited back into your home. At night. Maybe his dick would get wet tonight after all.  

     The door unlocks with a click, and Homelander slides in as though he owns the place. Well, a shell company of Vought, but he practically does. His form seems massive in the cramped apartment, and he looks as if he doesn’t belong. He feels as if he doesn’t belong. It’s claustraphobic, but he likes the way you seem to slit in perfectly anywhere you are.

     He settles you on your bed, still covered in the clothes you had been trying on before the disastrous date. “Get comfortable, yeah?” He smiles, caressing your jawline, before leaving the room and closing the door to give you a minute to collect yourself. 

     You sit up shakily, looking around your room dully. You really want to be alone for a bit, but have no idea how to ask him to leave, especially after he comforted you. Instead, donning an old band tee with some sweatpants, you grab an oversized shirt for John, hoping it will fit him, and steady yourself to leave the comfort of your room. 

     “There she is!” A booming voice from the kitchen bellows through your apartment. “Feeling better?” 

     He smiles, leaning against the entryway to your kitchen. Behind him, a mess of cookware and food covers your kitchen counter. “Uh,” you blink, confused. “Here’s a shirt, if you wanna change. Whatcha,” you tilt your head, “whatcha doin?” 

     “What, this?” He scoffs a bit, looking surprisingly bashful for a man who has made himself right at home. “I was, uh, I was trying to make us dinner. You know, because we had to cancel our plans.” The smallest of blushes adorns his face, his eyes are downcast, but a slight smile causes his mouth to quirk slightly. 

     He really is beautiful, you think, awestruck at the man who’s seemingly wandered into your life. His blue eyes sparkle in your dim apartment lights, his bleach blonde hair looks surprisingly touchable, and he looks tall in your tiny apartment, muscular, but above all, he looks safe. Trustworthy. Sweet. 

     Looks can be deceiving, but with both of you desperate for connection, it’s hard to tell. 

     You smile at him, touched and amused by his lack of culinary skills. “Why don’t you get changed, and then we can figure this out,” you hand him the oversized Nirvana shirt, which he takes after you practically force it into his hands. It’s soft from use, a favorite he’s seen you wear countless times to sleep in. He has to grind his teeth together, smiling forcefully, to prevent another untimely boner. 

     “Back in a jif,” he says, walking towards the room you just left. Your bedroom. 

     Once the door is closed, he grips the shirt like a lifeline. He brings it to his face, stuffing his nose into it and breathing you in. He can smell your perfume, your deodorant, your shampoo; everything hits him at once like a truck, and it almost causes an orgasm by itself. He quickly takes off his tuxedo, shoving himself into the piece of you gifted to him. It’s tight on him, his lean muscles showing through it in what he hopes is an attractive way. He moves to your clothes hamper, grabbing the thong you had been wearing before changing into your lingerie. He brings that to his nose, moaning as quietly as possible,  bringing his hand under his boxers, an experimental pump bringing another groan out. 

     He breaths heavily into your thong, his pace getting faster and faster. He can smell the scented candle you just lit through the panty, can hear the music you turned on and can hear you singing along quietly. You’re so pretty, everything about you; your voice, your hair, your eyes, body, and soul. He pictures you in his mind, uses his x-ray vision to watch you through the walls. He shoves the thong in his mouth, silencing the moans threatening to out him. He can taste you on his tongue, and he’s oh so excited to taste the real thing. He cums, watching you, the hot stream making a mess on your floor. He pants as he finishes, quickly shoving the panties into his pants pocket for later. He grabs some tissues on your bedside table, mopping the mess off the floor. The bathroom, connected to your bedroom, is a godsend-he throws away the tissues, washes his hands, and tries to touch himself up for you. He quickly splashed his face with cool water and fluffs up his hair. He takes a deep breath before stepping back out. 

     “Sorry for the wait,” he says, perching himself behind you. “I had an important phone call.” 

     “It’s okay,” you said, whisking the pancake mix you had made in his absence. He hugs you from behind, arms wrapped around your waist and head pressed into your hair, floral shampoo tickling his nostrils. “Pancakes?” You ask, stepping forward and trying to exit his clingy grasp. 

     He follows you closely, never letting go but following you instep. “Mm hm,” he closes his eyes, lost in the music you turned on. 

     “You know we’re not hooking up, right?” You ask, suddenly worried you led him on by letting him in and telling him to change. 

     “Yes, maam!” He sing songs, charmingly joking around, pulling you into him tighter. 

     “Oh, well, okay then,” you settle into him easier, not uncomfortable but not comfortable either. He feels the subtle release of tension, and moves his mouth to your ear, testing the waters. He kisses it gently, before releasing you.

     “Anything I can do to help?” He asks, lost in the kitchen and looking for the stuff he had out not too long ago. 

     You turn to look at him. “Uh, have you ever actually cooked anything?” You laugh, “what were you trying to make? 

     “Uh, well, I uh, I was-“ he never felt as inept as he did now, but he had never needed to cook anything for himself so he never bothered to learn. “I was gonna figure that out along the way.” 

     His hands are very expressive, but whenever not in use rest behind his back. That was something you’ve noticed about him. “That’s not really how cooking works. Why don’t you go find a movie on Voughtflix?” You say, gently trying to edge him out of the kitchen. 

     “Alrighty then,” he practically groans, reluctant to leave you. He walks to the living room, only a couple feet away, but he’s comforted by the view of you regardless. 

     You dump some pancake mix onto the preheated pan. “Did you use to be a soldier?” 

     He turns the TV on, uncomfortable, beginning to scroll on Voughtflix. “Kind of. Special forces,” he says after a pause. “I’d rather not talk about it.” 

     You flip a pancake. “Yeah, of course! If you ever do want to talk to someone, I’m here.” 

     He watches you. Legs crossed the couch, neck turned to watch you cook. You look nice, bathed in the lights of domestic bliss. “I’ll hold you to that,” he says, scrolling. “What about 13 Going On 30?” He calls.

     “I love that movie!” You practically yell back, placing the last of the pancakes on two plates and pouring the syrup. “How’d you know?” 

     “Your liked movies,” he says as you settle down next to him. 

     You hand him the plate, fork resting precariously on top. “Here you go,” you sing song, pulling your legs closer to you as John drapes his arm over your shoulder. “Go ahead and start the movie,” you say, shoving bite of pancakes into your mouth.

    He does as you say, stifling a chuckle at your ability to be purely, unadulteratedly you. Throughout the movie, he spends more time watching your reactions then he does the movie. Your laughs, giggles, little smiles; you pretend not to notice him staring at you. Near the end of the film, you drift off. Homelander’s plate of pancakes is practically untouched, while yours were demolished rather quickly. When the credits roll, he picks you up, weight nonexistent to him, and carries you to bed. He comes back to clean up a little bit before he joins you, picking up your plates and scraping off his own before placing them in the dishwasher. 

     He enters your room now like a chapel-and getting in bed with you feels like divinity. He wraps his arms around you, and you nuzzle into his unnatural warmth instinctively. His breath catches in his throat, but he has never felt this comfortable before, never had the ability to let his guard down so easily with anyone else. He kisses your neck before joining you in unconscious bliss. 

     He wakes up to his phone buzzing in his pocket. He ignores it for as long as he can, but when he feels you stir in your sleep, phone rousing you, he gets out of bed to check it. Ashley. Fucking Ashley. Of course. He closes the door to the bathroom, answering the call unwillingingly. “Ashley,” he says curtly, “can’t this wait until it’s not four in the fucking morning?!” 

     “Homelander, sir, with all due respect, where the fuck are you?!” She practically screams into the phone, “Madelyn has been looking for you everywhere! What the fuck are you doing?! You have an interview at six this morning that we still need to prep you for!” 

     Homelander rubs his temples, huffing. “Ashely, if you don’t calm the fuck down right fucking now, I will laser your tongue out and watch you choke on it, okay?” 

    Ashely shuts up. “I will be there in ten minutes, so you can tell the upper brass to shove it up their asses. I have other things to be doing then pushing their fucking agenda’s.” 

     “Yeah, well, it’s my head on platter if you don’t show up, so ten minutes and not a second longer.” 

     Homelander hangs up abruptly, clenching his fists, reminding himself not to blow up, you being in the room next door. He takes a second, calming himself down before reentering your bedroom where you still rested, dead to the world. God, you were so pretty like this. He kneeled down, resting his head next to yours, watching you sleep. He stayed like this for a couple minutes, the sound of you breathing and your slow, steady heartbeat calming him down. He could move faster than the speed of light, so he wasn’t in any rush. 

     He grabs a notepad on your desk, writing you a quick note; he knew you’d appreciate the romantic sentiment, and he himself craved the type of bond he had never seen in real life. He was a big fan of sitcoms and romcoms, the old ones, where people did little domestic acts such as this all the time. He didn’t really have any other example’s of what domesticity was supposed to look like. Hey, pretty girl, he writes, something important came up at work, but I’ll call you later.

     He hesitates, but decides to close it with this; love ya. Sweet, but not overbearing, not jumping the ship to early. He leaves his suit here (grabbing your panties, of course) and leaves wearing your Nirvana shirt, giving himself a reason to come back. 

     He leaves quickly; doesn’t need fucking Ashley to cause a problem for him. 

     Not now, when everything is finally going fucking right.  

     You wake up late, your alarm off for the weekend. You roll over, not expecting John to still be there but disappointed regardless. Your phone had been left in your pocket, and you pull it out. 10:28. Not horribly late, but you had a bunch of errands. Your battery is low, so you plug it in and set it on your bedside table, turning on some music to do your morning routine. You stand up, walking sluggishly to the bathroom. A note taped to your door stops you. 

     You read it, smile blossoming in your face. John was the rare romantic you used to dream about as a kid; handsome, protective, leaving notes instead of just ghosting you or texting you. If you were being completely honest, you might be falling for him.

     But time will tell. 

     You finish your morning routine, doing skincare and getting dressed, before making an early lunch at 11:30. Thankfully, Eliza, your co-worker, was working this weekend (although you’re working the next), you eat quickly and pack your purse, ready to finally finish some errands that have been on your to do list for weeks. You shrug off your pajama top, hurrying through your closet for something to wear when your phone starts buzzing. You answer it intuitively, not even checking the caller ID, and put it on speaker. 

     “Hey, y/n, sorry for rushing off on you this morning, work has been really hectic lately,” John exclaims, something in the background sounding muffled. You ignore it, assuming he’s in a car or something. 

     “It’s no problem, John. It was sweet of you to write a note, though,” you smile, pulling a simple shirt-another band tee, Radiohead this time-out of your closet, pairing it with a pair of ripped jeans. 

     “Yeah, well, I’m sorry anyway!” He laughs, a deep rumble, into the phone. “Sometimes I feel like they need me to breathe.” 

     “Maybe they do,” you reason, “your job sounds pretty important.” 

     “Yeah,” he stresses, “but it’s just a job. I have a fucking life.” 

     You begin to say something reassuring, but he interjects. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. What are you doing this afternoon?” 

     “Just running some errands,” you say, grabbing your purse, car keys, and pepper spray. 

     “Mind if I join?” It’s not really a question, but you act like it is. 

     “Not at all. I can text you my location when I get there, and then we could meet up? Just a warning,” you step out of your apartment, locking the door behind you, “it’s gonna be boring.” 

     “What! With you? Never.” 

     It’s cliche and stupid, but serves its purpose as you blush, pink tinging your cheekbones, and you’re thankful that this is a phone call and he can’t really see you. 

     “Okey-dokey,” he preens, “see ya then.” 

     “Yeah, okay, drive safe!” You tell him, getting into your own car. 

     “All right, all right,” he chuckles, knowing he doesn’t drive. “Love ya.” 

     You hesitate. “Love you too.” 

     Homelander hangs up, pocketing his phone, and turns to the bound man in the corner. The apartment was small, even smaller then yours, and the man was small as well. At least, to Homelander, he was. 

     “Gabe, Gabe, Gabe,” he tsks, “do you know who that was?” 

     Mock sympathy clings to his words, but his composure is strict-he is in full costume, blood dripping down the sides, and he stands rigidly with his arms locked behind him. He looks in control. His eyes darken with blood lust as he steps closer to the man in front of him.

     Your ex.

     He sighs, “I suppose that in order to answer that,” he rips off the duct tape covering his mouth, “you’ll need to be able to talk. How’s that feel, Gabey boy?” He coo’s sneeringly, mouth quirking up in disgust at the man’s pathetic cries for help. 

     “Please-“ Gabe gasps, tearing up, “please, Homelander, sir, why are you doing this? I-I didn’t do anything!” He shakes in the chair, mouth quivering while tears pool in his eyes.

     Homelander rolls his eyes. “The question,” he proclaims, standing straight again to begin pacing, “was, do. You.  Know. Who. That. Was?” He emphasizes each word as if he’s talking to a child. 

     In all fairness, Gabe responds like a child, nodding excitedly at know the answer. “Y/n!” He blurts, desperate. 

     “Good! Very good,” he looks down at him condescendingly, “turns out those brains of yours still work after all, eh?” He pats his head roughly, patronizingly. 

     “S-sir-“Gabe stutter’s, but Homelander brings his fingers to his lip, shushing him. 

     “Shut up, Gabe!” He spits out his name spitefully-a monster like him had no right to even think your name, much less lay his filthy hands on you. “You wanna know what’s gonna happen? Huh?!” 

     He passive aggressively backs away from him, running his hands through his hair. “Remember when you touched her? When you raped her?”

     Gabe’s eye’s widen fearfully. “Th-that’s not what happened-“ 

     He slapped him. Not enough to break his neck, but with more force than a normal person could produce. “I told you to shuuuuuuttt uppp, Gabe!” 

     Gabe quickly shuts up. “Remember when you disgraced her body with your sinful fucking hands? With your fucking poor excuse of a penis?” 

     Gabe begins shaking in his bindings. 

     “Awwwww,” Homelander pouts, “is somebody going to cry?”

     “How pathetic,” he sneer’s, “can’t even take any fucking responsibility for your actions.” 

     His eye’s light up red as he stares down the quivering, blubbering man in the chair. “Remember you did this to yourself. Nobody touches my things” 

     It was time to wrap this up. He had a date with you, after all. 

     The dates multiplied, and soon enough your six month anniversary was upon you. John was almost perfect; full of compliments, charming, all your friends loved him-although, as you planned a celebration dinner, you realized you haven’t talked to or even heard from any of them in months. Almost perfect. There were cracks in Johns mask. Small glimpses of rage. He would say condescending things with a smile, touch you too intimately when you were uncomfortable, and more often than not you got the feeling he looked down on other’s. 

     But that was insane, right? Especially because he worked in law enforcement-he just hadn’t divulged much of anything else involving his work. Just that it was important, and secret. 

     You let it go. 

     You were planning a dinner date in celebration of the occasion, at the cafe where you had your first date. John had called earlier, to tell you work would be keeping him a little later today. All the better-now you had more time to get ready. 

      So did he, but you didn’t know that he was ‘busy’ filling his closet, soon to be your shared closet, with finer replica’s of your current wardrobe. He had bought a second home, somewhere in a forest somewhere-just so you can become comfortable with the idea of dating the Homelander. After your celebration dinner, he’d take you back to your place, tell you to pack a bag full of keep sakes for a getaway, a honeymoon of sorts. Then, he’d fly you there. You’d be shocked, at first, but he’d explain everything when you arrived. You had been dating the Homelander. He was anticipating some.....distress, at first, because of the transition and overall shock, but that’s why the cabin is so remote. To give you an adjustment period.

     To force you to accept him. 

     The real him-not the version you currently know, nor the version he shows to the public. For a couple months, at least, it will be just the two of you. The only ones in the world. Vought owes him a sabbatical anyway (he threatened to introduce you to the public unwillingly, with no preparation or makeup, kicking and screaming if he had to), and he said he doesn’t particularly want to share you with the world, so the deal was he’d take two months off to ‘train’ you (Madelyn’s term), and then when you’d return, you’d be his dirty little secret.

     Some time alone will be good for you. But to get to that, he had to go to the thing you planned. 

     The limo picked you up, sans John, and drops you off at the little cafe you two had your first date. It wasn’t busy, just another couple and a family. You sit down at the same table you always sit at, the same table you and John had eaten at. A different waiter, a bored looking teenager, walks up and ask for drinks.

     You order a whole bottle of champagne, and tell the kid to wait until your boyfriend arrived. He does, albeit a little late, in a tux, blonde hair slicked back. He sits down quickly, grabbing a bottle and pouring himself a glass of champagne.

     “Sorry for the wait!” He exclaims. 

     “Took you long enough,” you smile teasingly at him. 

     “Just getting things ready,” he sounds surprisingly giddy, “you know, I have a little surprise planned myself.” 

     “Oh?” You lean forward, and rest your head on your hand. “And what would that be?” 

     He leans forward to-“awww, y/n, but that would ruin the surprise!” 

     The waiter walks up slowly, star struck. “H-homelander? Sir?” 

     You both turn quickly, brows furrowing for different reasons. “Sorry, kid, but I think you have me mistaken for someone else,” John laughs, fist clenching under the table. If this kid fucks up his plans, he’s gonna-

     He shakes his head quickly, smiling. “No, no you’re Homelander! I have all of your merch...” 

     You time him out, turning to you boyfriend- “John?” You question, confused. 

     He closes his eyes, clenches his fists-the whole restaurant is looking at him now, whispering. He can’t lie his way out of this one. 

     “Yes! Yes,” he proclaims, “I am Homelander. Want an autograph or something?” 

     The kids eye’s light up. “W-wait, actually? Yes! Yes. C-can you sign my notepad?” 

     You watch, shocked, as John takes his notepad and signs it with a flourish, sending the kid away to tell everyone in the kitchen. 

     You stare at John. “What the fuck?” You whisper, running through your whole relationship in your head. “What the fuck?” You say a little louder. 

     Homelander reaches out to grab your shoulder, “y/n-“ he tried to reassure you, but you jerk your should away, standing up. 

     “What the fuck, John?! You’ve been lying to me for months, and-and you didn’t grab my purse for me that day, did you? Because why the fuck would Homelander be on the bus in the first place?” You rant, not even thinking through your words as they come out, just saying them and connecting the dots as you go. 

     “Y/n, you’re making a scene,” he warns, hands outstretched trying to placate you.

     “Fuck a scene! You lied when you first met me! If you weren’t on the bus, but you knew about-about the purse, then-then you were stalking me?” You ask, voice high pitched and shaking.

     The whole restaurant is quiet now. See, this is why Homelander wanted to do this privately. He makes a grab for your wrist, but you pull it to your chest. He closes his eyes for a moment, pursing his lips as he contains himself. “Y/n. Can we maybe talk about this somewhere more private?” 

     You shake your head. “No, Homelander!” You spit it out spitefully, “no, we can’t! You aren’t even denying it? What the fuck?! No, just, no-“ 

     You grab your purse, “we’re done! Please, please, just-leave me alone!” 

     Homelander quickly stands up, grabbing your wrist and dragging you back towards him. “Jesus, y/n, can we just talk about this?” He sounds exasperated, as if you’re being irrational. 

     You try to pull away but you can’t. You try again, to no avail. He doesn’t even budge, doesn’t even bat an eye. You’re starting to panic now. 

     He pulls you closer, mouth moving to your ear. “We’re going to walk out that door, and talk about this in the car. Okay?” 

     You try to pull away again-but he only grips you tighter. You scream. Everyone was already watching, but now everyone is concerned. You slap him with your other hand, and more than anything, it only hurts your hand. 

     He pushes you back into your chair. “I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he murmurs, “but watch closely, okay? This is what happens when you don’t fucking listen to me.” 

     In a second, he’s gone. You blink. And he’s back-blood stained hands cupping your face. The walls are red, and everyone in the cafe is dead. The kids-the kids, who were just playing with each other, are dead. He killed kids-your John, the Homelander, a murderer. You can’t seem to focus your eyes. 

     You think you scream, but you can’t hear anything above the ringing in your ears. He pets your hair, bloodied fingers getting stuck in every tangle. He squeezes you, hugging you, but he wraps his hands around your neck. He squeezes, tighter. 

     You can’t breath.

     You claw at his hands, “p-please-“ you gasp. 

     His eyes are red, and he looks on the verge of tears. “Why are you making me do this? This could have been a nice night! Things could have gone so differently if you had just listened-“ 

     He keeps jabbering, but you pass out. 

     You wake up somewhere new. The walls are brown, wooden; you’re in what looks like a log cabin, albeit one for the rich, artistically rusted and insulated. The blankets are fuzzy, and it’s warm. You roll over, seeing a window-a winter forest greeting your eyes. 

     You sit up. You think, the memory of how you ended up here was hazy, but there regardless. The door creaks open, and Homelander walks in, a steaming mug of something in his hand. 

     “Good morning, sleepyhead!” He chirps. “Although, it’s actually midnight. I made you hot chocolate! Thought it’d calm you down, help you settle in.” 

     He sits on the edge of the bed, and you pull your knees to your chest. “H-homelander, what is this? W-what’s going on? Where are we?” 

     He grabs your foot anyway, rubbing reassuring circles. “Hey, it’s okay, everything’s gonna be fine.” He hands you the mug, and you take it hesitantly, not taking a sip. “I just thought that we needed some time to ourselves. Just to give you some time to settle into things.” 

     “Homelander, you killed people-“ you start, but he interrupts. 

     “Stop calling me that.” He snarls, squeezing your foot a little tighter than was necessary for a moment. 

     “What?”

     “Don’t call me that. I’m not Homelander, to you, I’m John. I’m still the man you fell in love with.” 

     “You were literally pretending to be someone else,” you argue tersely.

     He scoffs. “Tomato, tomoto. It’s not like I acted any differently. I can hardly be blamed that you’re adverse to watching the news.” 

     “You lied to me-“

     “I didn’t lie to you, I never said anything that wasn’t true. I just didn’t tell you the full truth,” he scoots closer to you, tipping the mug against your lips. 

     “What, you think I’d drug it?” He joked, reasoned, when you keep your mouth firmly shut. “I already have you here, and trust me when I say I don’t need to drug you to kill you.” 

    It wasn’t comforting, but you took a tentative sip regardless. “Good girl,” he smiles, letting your hands bring the mug to your lap.

     “You killed them,” you whisper.

     “What was I supposed to do? You kind of put me in the corner there,” Homelander runs his hands through his hair, “you were making a scene, calling me a stalker, turning me into a bad guy-I couldn't have that! Bad press, ya know?” 

     You stare at him, appalled. “So you just.....killed them? Ho-John, there were kids there! You killed kids! Innocent people, and, and, and you just-“ 

     You catch your breath, slick tears running down your face. “You’re supposed to be the hero.” 

     He scowls. “I am a hero, y/n. I’m your hero. I’m saving you! I did that, I’ve done everything for you!” 

     “You.....tricked me,” you say between shuddering breaths.

     “Tricked you?” He mocks, getting upset himself. “No, I saved you! I saved you from living a life of mediocrity! I can give you anything, everything, you want! Why aren’t you getting this?!”

     “John, why aren’t you getting this? These are real people’s lives you’ve taken-“

     He cuts you off. “Can we just talk about it in the morning? Give you some time to think very carefully about what you want to say to me?”

     “Are you threatening me?” You ask, resigned and betrayed. 

     “Th-threatening you?!” He throws his hands up. “Jesus, y/n, really? I’d never hurt you.” 

     He pauses, and thinks about it. Genuinely lost in thought-this doesn’t bode well. “Nothing serious, anyway. Maybe only things you don’t need.” Like your legs, goes unspoken in his mind. 

     The words terrify you, but you decide following up on them might not be the best idea. 

     You can’t say anything even though a million thoughts race in your mind, a million questions and a million fears. Homelander takes your silence as acceptance, as complacency, gently setting your barely touched hot chocolate on the bedside table. 

     He gets up slowly, as if you’re rabid; as if you’ll bolt the second he takes his eyes off you.

     You might.

     But you don’t. Homelander turns the lights off crawling into bed beside you. You inch to the other side of the bed, and the dark hides his annoyance. “C’mere,” he says, and the words are said playfully but it’s a command. You hesitantly move towards him, and he does more then meet you half way. He pulls you in to his chest with a force you now recognize as inhuman. He breathes you in, nose pressed into your hair. 

     “This is nice,” he breathes into your ear. 

     You don’t respond. You stare the wall, praying this is all some sort of sick nightmare. You can’t sleep-this place feels foreign to you. Cold. Sterile. Uncomfortable. John’s oppressive heat in your back remind you of the bleakness of the situation. Makes you wish you were home. 

Your suit remains in the cylindrical glass vault on the wall—Nightingale’s armour pristine, untouched. The matte black plating catches the cave lights in dull glints, the bat emblem symbolic on your chest, pink highlights and accents decorating your suit.

It's neat. Too neat.

Like it’s waiting.

Waiting for it's wearer to come back and put it on. Dick notices it first. His gaze snags on the suit and lingers half a second too long before he looks away Jason clocks it next. His jaw tightens, nostrils flaring, like he’s bracing for a hit he knows is coming. Damian doesn’t look at it at all.

Bruce steps forward.

“No patrol tonight.”

The words echo strangely against the stone.

Everyone freezes.

“What?” Steph says immediately, boots halfway on. “You’re joking.”

Bruce doesn’t blink. “I’m not.”

Tim swivels in his chair, confusion flashing to irritation in a heartbeat. “Bruce, we’re already running behind—Oracle flagged three hotspots—”

“I know,” Bruce says.

Jason lets out a sharp laugh. “So what, Gotham’s just on its own now?”

Bruce’s mouth tightens. “You’re benched. All of you.”

The cave feels smaller.

Tighter.

“For how long?” Dick asks carefully.

“Tonight,” Bruce replies.

Then, quieter, firmer: “Tomorrow too.”

Damian finally looks up. “That is unacceptable.”

Bruce turns to him. “You’re staying.”

"And if any of you try anything, I'll stretch that time to indefinitely."

The finality in his voice shuts everyone down.

Even Jason doesn’t push. Not when Bruce looks like that—tired in a way no sleep fixes, grief stitched into every line of his face. He looks like he's aged years in the past few weeks

“Suit down,” Bruce orders.

Reluctantly, one by one, they comply.

The walk back up to the manor is silent.

Boots echo against stone. Gloves are pulled off and shoved into pockets. Helmets are clipped uselessly at belts. No one says what they’re all thinking: that patrol would’ve helped. That punching something would’ve been easier than sitting with the ache.

They pass your suit again on the way out.

Cass’s fingers twitch like she wants to reach for it.

Damian pauses for a fraction of a second—so brief it’s almost invisible—but his shoulders tense, breath hitching before he schools himself and keeps walking.

The elevator doors close.

The cave disappears.

They reconvene an hour later in Tim’s room, still dressed half-for-battle, irritation buzzing under the grief like static.

Tim’s sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on knees, staring at the floor. Jason’s leaning against the desk, arms crossed, foot tapping. Steph paces, restless energy with nowhere to go. Cass sits cross-legged near the window on a bean bag, watching the city lights like she might memorise them. Duke’s slouched in a chair, hoodie pulled up, jaw clenched.

Dick stands near the door, arms folded, trying—and failing—to keep the peace.

“This is bullshit,” Jason mutters finally. “Benched. On a random ass Tuesday night.”

“It’s not random,” Tim snaps, far sharper than intended.

Silence.

Steph exhales solemnly. “It's 'cuz tomorrow’s her birthday.”

No one answers. How could they refute that?

Elizabeth Taylor Wayne, your pet Cavalier, pads into the room then, tiny paws soft against the carpet of Tim's carpet, who's room she frequented after your passing. She’s wearing one of her little pink sweaters—slightly crooked, like someone rushed putting it on. She pauses in the doorway, head tilting, tail wagging uncertainly before she beelines straight for Damian. (YO I LOVE DOGS OMFG)

Of course she does.

Damian stiffens as she noses at his boots, then sighs and crouches, scooping her up with practiced care. She settles immediately, licking his chin like she’s claiming him.

“She’s anxious,” he mutters, more observation than complaint.

Jason snorts quietly. “Yeah. Wonder why.”

Dick rubs a hand over his face. “Bruce thinks keeping us here helps.”

“Helps who?” Steph asks.

Yet again, no one has an answer.

Tim finally speaks, voice low. “He couldn’t even look at her suit.”

That does it.

The room goes heavy.

Dense.

Like the air itself is grieving.

Elizabeth squirms, then wriggles out of Damian’s arms and hops onto Tim’s bed, curling up atop one of your old hoodies like it’s instinct. Like she knows.

Damian watches her with an expression he doesn’t have words for.

“She was supposed to wake me up tomorrow,” he says suddenly.

Everyone looks at him.

“She always does,” Damian continues, staring at nothing. “She said birthdays should start early. That they deserve… ceremony.”

Steph presses her lips together.

Dick swallows. “We’ll still—” He stops.

Tries again. “We’ll get through tomorrow. Together.”

Jason scoffs, but there’s no bite to it. “Yeah. Sure.”

Outside, Gotham hums on, uncaring.

Inside Tim’s room, surrounded by half-packed gear, borrowed hoodies, and the soft breathing of a dog who misses you in a way she can’t explain, your siblings sit with the weight of being benched—not just from patrol, but from the one thing they all want most.

To outrun the day that’s coming.

The house knows before anyone says it out loud.

Wayne Manor is quiet in a way that feels intentional, like it’s learned how to mourn without making noise. The kind of silence that presses against the ears, that fills every corner until it’s hard to breathe.

Damian wakes first.

He always does.

Training drilled into muscle memory. For a brief, treacherous moment, his body moves on instinct alone—feet hitting the floor, posture straightening, already turning toward your room with irritation half-formed on his tongue. He expects to see your door open, light spilling out, you already awake and doing something infuriatingly normal.

Instead, the hallway is still. Your door is closed.

The realisation hits him in stages. Not like a blade, but like pressure—slow, crushing, unavoidable. He stands there longer than he should, staring at the door like if he waits long enough, you might open it yourself and give him a kiss on the cheek.

Elizabeth Taylor trots up beside him, soft and warm, tail brushing against his calf. She presses her head into his leg, grounding him. Damian exhales shakily and kneels, burying his fingers into her fur.

Her pink velvet dog bed isn’t in your room anymore.

It migrated.

Quietly. Over several days.

It sits in Damian’s room now, tucked beside his bed, next to Titus'.

No one commented on it. No one questioned it.

She sleeps there every night, curled close to him like she’s guarding what’s left.

Everyone has been taking care of her.

They take turns bathing her, brushing her coat, changing her outfits with the kind of careful attention usually reserved for something fragile and irreplaceable.

Jason complains the loudest but never skips his turn. Steph hums softly while she buttons tiny sweaters. Alfred puts her in a pink stroller and takes her to your grave every now and then. Cass watches her like she’s memorising her existence, Dick brings Haley over more often, for Elizabeth to have a girl companion. Damian's taken up replenishing her doggy bowl and upkeeping her insanely expensive diet you sponsored.

After all, she is the last living thing that loved you without knowing what death was.

Downstairs, Alfred sets the table.

He does it the same way he always has—measured, precise, unyielding in ritual. The grand dining room feels cavernous this morning, its long table too long, the ceiling too high. Sunlight filters through the tall windows and lands across the polished surface like it doesn’t know what it’s illuminating.

Your place is set.

The chair between Duke and Damian is pulled out, napkin folded neatly, cutlery aligned just so. Alfred adjusts it twice before he’s satisfied. He doesn’t look at the chair for long. One by one, they drift in.

Dick checks his phone as he walks, then stops dead when he sees the date. He doesn’t sit right away. Just stands there, thumb hovering uselessly over the screen.

Jason takes the seat across from yours without realising it, then stiffens when his gaze flicks up and lands on the empty space opposite him. Tim arrives last. Hoodie sleeves swallowed over his hands. Eyes shadowed. He hasn’t been sleeping well. None of them have.

Bruce doesn’t come down.

Alfred pours tea.

He comments on the weather. Mentions a meeting at Wayne Enterprises that Lucius has postponed. His voice is steady, clipped, perfectly composed. He asks about training schedules that no longer exist. About patrols that aren’t happening. They answer him because it’s easier than saying anything else.

Forks scrape against porcelain. Cups clink. Damian doesn’t touch his food. Elizabeth sits at his feet, chin resting on his shoe, eyes tracking every movement like she’s afraid someone might disappear if she looks away.

The chair stays empty.

It’s Tim who finally breaks.

His voice is barely above a whisper.

“It’s her birthday.”

No one responds immediately.

The words don’t echo. They sink.

Steph’s hand freezes mid-reach. Duke swallows hard, eyes fixed on the table. Dick closes his eyes like he’s been punched. Jason’s jaw tightens, teeth grinding audibly.

Alfred stills.

Just for a breath.

“Yes,” he says softly. “I believe it is.”

No one wishes you happy birthday.

After breakfast, no one knows what to do.

They hover in that awful in-between—too restless to sit, too exhausted to move. Bruce still hasn’t come down. The manor feels wrong without him, like the absence of both father and daughter has knocked something structural loose.

That’s when they see the package.

Bruce stands near the base of the staircase, motionless, a medium-sized box clutched in his hands like it weighs more than it should.

Your name is printed on the label in clean, unmistakable letters. Ordered weeks ago. Scheduled. Planned.

For today.

No one speaks.

Bruce doesn’t look up. His grip tightens slowly, knuckles whitening. The box crinkles faintly under the pressure.

Alfred approaches quietly, like he’s walking up to something wounded.

“Master Bruce,” he says gently. “Perhaps… a game might be of use. The children could use the distraction.”

Bruce doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t move.

But he doesn’t object either.

So they play cards.

Uno, of all things. They gather in the sitting room, sunlight slanting through the windows, dust motes floating lazily in the air like nothing has changed.

Steph volunteers to deal.

She shuffles once. Twice.

Disperses the cards, makes sure everyone has the standard deck of seven.

Everyone has one. Yet there's one extra deck remaining.

One meant for you.

“Oh,” Steph breathes.

Her hands shake. She almost drops them.

No one tells her to stop.

She reshuffles, and deals again like muscle memory can carry her through what her heart can’t.

They play.

They argue about rules. Jason accuses Dick of cheating. Damian snaps at Tim for not paying attention. Alfred comments dryly from the armchair, pretending not to notice the way conversation falters every time someone laughs too hard.

Tim’s phone buzzes.

A TikTok.

It’s stupid. Genuinely stupid. A video that would’ve made you laugh. Without thinking, without pausing, he hits share.

Your name pops up automatically.

Sent.

The realisation lands a second later.

He stares at the screen, breath leaving him in a sharp, broken sound. The phone slips from his hands. He curls in on himself, shoulders shaking as Cass’ hand finds his sleeve and Dick shifts closer, anchoring him.

Later—after cards, after silence, after everyone drifts away—Bruce stands alone in the hallway.

He holds the package.

He doesn’t open it.

He stares at it like it might start breathing.

“I was supposed to give this to you,” he whispers, voice breaking completely. “I was supposed to be here.”

The manor listens.

And for the first time that day, it lets him cry.

After your funeral, it felt like there was a hole Dinah and Ollie harboured that they couldn't fill up. The penthouse is too quiet when they come back from your funeral.

It’s the kind of quiet that only exists after something enormous—after crowds, speeches, the weight of hundreds of eyes and condolences and hands on shoulders. The doors shut behind Dinah and Ollie with a soft click, and suddenly there’s nowhere for the grief to hide.

Dinah slips her heels off by the door without bending down, toes nudging them aside.

Her feet ache. Her shoulders ache. Her chest feels hollowed out, like something vital has been scooped cleanly away.

Ollie sets the keys down too hard on the counter. The sound echoes.

He winces like he’s broken something.

“Well,” he mutters, forcing air into his lungs, “home sweet—”

He stops himself.

Dinah doesn’t answer. She’s standing in the middle of the living room, still in black, still stiff, still holding herself like if she lets go she’ll collapse straight through the floor. There’s a strange exhaustion that follows events like this. Not the kind sleep fixes. The kind that makes your bones feel heavy, your thoughts slow and sludgy, your body lag a half-second behind your mind. Dinah feels it settle into her joints as she walks further inside, fingers brushing the back of the couch.

She can still hear voices.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” “She was such a beautiful soul.” “She loved you both so much.”

Dinah sinks down onto the couch and stares at nothing. Ollie hovers for a moment, unsure, then sits beside her. He reaches for her hand, squeezes once.

Solid. Real.

“She shouldn’t be dead,” Dinah says suddenly.

Ollie’s jaw tightens. “No.”

“She was supposed to come over,” Dinah continues, voice flat, distant. “To get back her airpods, and she wanted to borrow a dress. She said she’d already planned the outfit but wanted my opinion.”

Ollie exhales through his nose. “She always wanted your opinion.”

“She never listened to it,” Dinah says.

A pause.

“But she wanted it.”

The penthouse smells faintly like flowers—sympathy arrangements that arrived before they left, before they could stop them.

Dinah hates it.

It feels invasive. Wrong.

She stands abruptly. “I need to change.”

Ollie watches her walk away, shoulders squared, movements precise like she’s holding herself together through sheer discipline. He doesn’t follow.

Dinah goes to the closet.

She’s halfway through unzipping her dress when she sees them.

The handbags.

Lined up neatly.

Exactly as you left them.

Her hands still.

For a moment, her brain refuses to connect the dots.

They’re just bags.

Leather. Fabric. Accessories.

Normal things in the closet of a woman who happens to have a billionaire for a husband.

And then the memory hits her sideways.

You, perched on the bench, swinging your legs. “Dinah, why do you have so many black bags?” “Because black goes with everything sweetheart, your father knows that of all things..” “That’s boring. This one though?” You’d picked up the ridiculous beaded clutch, grinning. “This one has personality.”

Dinah’s throat tightens.

She slowly, carefully zips the dress back up and steps out of the closet.

That’s when the days start to blur.

The quiet mornings. The untouched handbags. The way Ollie stops cracking jokes when he realizes no one’s laughing.

And eventually—weeks to months later—it’s the department store.

Dinah hasn’t moved the handbags.

They’re still where you left them—lined up along the back of the walk-in closet in their shared penthouse, pristine and untouched.

Chanel, YSL, the ridiculous beaded clutch you insisted she needed because “Dinah, it’s cute.” Dinah passes them every morning and every night and does not touch a single one.

She tells herself it’s because she doesn’t need them.

That’s a lie.

Ollie notices first.

He notices everything lately.

Dinah feels both blessed and cursed to have such an observant husband.

The way Dinah’s fingers hover, the way she inhales like she’s bracing herself, the way her shoulders tense when she catches sight of something that still smells faintly like you—your perfume, your shampoo, your presence.

“You gonna rotate your bags or keep ‘em in museum formation?” he asks one morning, light, careful.

Dinah doesn’t look at him. “They’re fine.”

Ollie nods. Lets it go.

He’s learned when not to push. He feels your absence as well.

Queen Industries feels wrong without you. Ollie’s office used to be a revolving door whenever you were in town. You’d show up unannounced, feet kicked up on his desk, stealing his coffee, complaining about Bruce, asking if Roy was around, asking if Dinah had eaten yet.

You made the place loud. Lived-in. Human.

Now it’s just… quiet.

Too clean.

Ollie catches himself glancing at the door some afternoons, half-expecting you to barrel in with a grin and a complaint and some overpriced desserts you bought from that viral pastry place downtown.

But yet, it never happens.

The door stays closed. The silence settles.

He hates it.

That’s why he suggests the department store.

“Dinah,” he says one afternoon, keys in hand, “you haven’t bought anything frivolous in weeks. That’s not like you.”

She arches a brow. “I don’t need frivolous.”

“Okay, but want?” he counters. “Come on. Smell some expensive nonsense. Yell at me about notes and undertones.”

She hesitates. Then sighs. “Fine.”

The store is bright and glossy and painfully normal.

Dinah moves through it on autopilot—past makeup counters, past mirrors, past smiling employees who don’t know her world has ended. Ollie trails behind her, hands in his pockets, watching the way she moves slower than usual, like she’s underwater.

They reach the perfume section.

Rows and rows of glass bottles. Gold caps. Elegant labels. Too many choices.

Dinah reaches for one without thinking.

She freezes.

Her fingers close around the bottle.

She doesn’t spray it.

Doesn’t need to.

She already knows.

Ollie sees it immediately—the way her breath stutters, the way her grip tightens, the way her eyes go distant.

“Babe?” he says softly. “What’s wrong?”

Dinah swallows.

Her voice comes out quiet. Fragile.

“Y/N used to wear this.”

Ollie steps closer, his usual bravado evaporating. “Yeah?”

Dinah lifts the bottle, finally spraying it onto the tester strip. The scent blooms into the air—warm, familiar, unmistakably you.

Sweet without being childish. Sharp without being harsh. Confident.

Alive.

Dinah closes her eyes.

And suddenly you’re back.

You’re sprawled across her couch, kicking off your shoes, telling her about a gala you went to with your father and sister that bored you out of your mind. You’re hugging her hello, cheek pressed to hers, that exact scent clinging to your skin. You’re laughing, loud and bright, asking if she wants to gossip because oh my god you will not believe what Dick and Jason did.

Dinah’s chest caves in.

She makes a broken sound before she can stop herself.

Ollie’s arms are around her instantly.

“Hey,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to hers. “I’ve got you.”

“She smelled like this,” Dinah whispers, fingers trembling as she clutches the strip. “Every time she came over. Every time she hugged me. I didn’t even realize how much I associated it with her until—”

Her voice cracks.

Ollie tightens his hold. “She had good taste,” he says hoarsely. “Obviously.”

Dinah lets out a shaky laugh that dissolves into a sob. “She was our kid,” she says. “She just… showed up one day and never really left.”

“I know,” Ollie replies.

His own voice wavers now. “I miss her stealing my office chair.”

“She stole everything,” Dinah says.

“My clothes. My makeup. My time.”

Ollie exhales. “My peace.”

They stand there like that—in the middle of a luxury department store, surrounded by strangers and polished glass and music that feels inappropriate—holding each other while grief quietly wrecks them.

Dinah pulls back first, wiping her eyes. She looks at the bottle again.

“I can’t buy it,” she says. “Not yet.”

Ollie nods immediately. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s okay.”

She puts it back carefully, like it might shatter.

As they walk away, Ollie glances back once, then mutters, “She’d be mad we didn’t buy anything.”

Dinah huffs weakly. “She’d tell you to stop being dramatic.”

“Yeah,” Ollie says. “And then she’d hug us both and say we were doing our best.”

Dinah presses her lips together, nodding. They leave the store empty-handed.

The scent lingers anyway.

Just like the memory of you.

ON ANOTHER EARTH, IN A SEPARATE UNIVERSE.

You remember the night your father died.

23 days before your birthday

On another Earth, the night your father dies does not end when his heart stops.

It stretches.

It coils around your spine and stays there.

You remember the sound first—not the explosion, not the chaos, but the quiet after. The way Gotham goes eerily still when something sacred has been taken from it. Rain clings to your lashes. Your gloves are slick with blood that will never come off, no matter how hard you scrub later.

Batman is not dead.

But Bruce Wayne is.

You don’t scream. That comes later. Right now, you’re too busy counting breaths that aren’t happening, hands shaking as you press down, as if pressure alone could undo destiny.

“Dad,” you whisper, uselessly. “Please.”

His cowl is cracked, his face pale beneath it. His eyes are still open, unfocused but somehow still kind.

That’s what destroys you — the kindness. Even now.

Someone pulls you back. Dick’s voice cracks your name like it’s breaking glass. Damian is shouting, furious and terrified and far too young to be watching this. Tim's gotten nauseous, you can't decipher what Babs is saying over your comms.

You don’t remember leaving the alley. You don’t remember the ride back. You only remember that Gotham keeps breathing even when Bruce Wayne doesn’t.

The cover story is decided before the blood dries.

You are not in the room when they say it, but you hear it anyway — whispered through walls, through Alfred’s careful silences, through the way everyone avoids your eyes.

A drug overdose. Suspected suicide.

The words feel obscene.

Bruce Wayne, philanthropist. Bruce Wayne, troubled billionaire. Bruce Wayne, fallen icon. Bruce Wayne, a father, who is now dead.

The media eats it alive.

They speculate. They pity. They dissect his life like it belongs to them.

You sit at the long dining table and stare at the empty chair at the head.

He died in an alley protecting his city.

And the world thinks he gave up.

Parallel lines you don’t yet have the words for twist tight in your chest.

The funeral is public.

Of course it fucking is.

Bruce Wayne deserves marble steps and black umbrellas and a sea of faces pretending they understand loss and better yet, pretending they knew who he was.

You're holding your dog, and Ace and standing beside Dick, who hasn’t slept. Damian is rigid on your other side, small hand fisted in the fabric of your coat like he might fall apart if he lets go. Tim looks hollow. Cass watches everything with eyes too sharp. Steph cries quietly. Jason doesn’t look at the coffin at all.

They speak of Bruce Wayne’s achievements. They speak of his generosity. His legacy. His struggles.

They do not speak of Batman. They do not speak of the man who taught you how to breathe through pain.

When the casket is lowered, something inside you follows it.

Later, when the cameras are gone and the world finally leaves you alone, you break.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

You fold in on yourself in a hallway at Wayne Manor, hands pressed to your mouth to keep the sound in. Your knees hit the floor. Alfred finds you there and doesn’t say a word.

He just kneels, dignified even in grief, and holds you like you are still a child who scraped her knee.

“I am so very sorry, Miss,” he murmurs.

You nod because if you speak, you will drown.

The days after blur into responsibility.

Someone has to take over Wayne Enterprises.

That someone is you.

Board members test you at first — subtle, patronising, polite. You shut it down quickly. You wear black like armour. You speak carefully.

You do not cry in meetings. Tim's by your side more often then not.

At night, you sit in Bruce’s study with the lights off, listening to the house settle.

You don’t touch anything. It feels like trespassing.

Dick becomes Batman because Gotham doesn’t wait for grief.

You watch him leave the cave the first night, cape settling over his shoulders in a way that makes your chest ache.

He pauses at the steps.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he says quietly.

“I know,” you reply.

But you do it anyway.

Damian stops sleeping through the night.

He ends up in your room more often than not, curled tight and furious with the world, he holds you like you'll disappear as well. You brush his hair back like Bruce used to. You never mention it.

You become the constant in all their lives.

Joining the PTA for Duke regardless of how much you hate Margie and all the other middle-aged women. Showing up to Cass' ballet recitals. Taking Damian to piano classes and his swimming lessons. Helping Jason on the occasional mission, and the occasional hangover.

And it costs you more than you let on.

You and Dick ramp up your presence at the Watchtower.

Initiating meetings, scheduling timetables, emails with the UN.

Even though the two of you are heavily respected, all your league members look at you the same.

Two kids who lost their dad.

And now they're paying the price for his absence.

Dinah and Ollie are the ones who notice first.

Because of course they are.

They show up without warning, no fanfare, just familiar noise cutting through the manor’s oppressive quiet.

Ollie complains about the driveway. Dinah hugs you hard enough that your breath stutters.

They don’t ask you to be strong. They don’t ask you to talk. They just stay.

Something you took for granted quite frankly.

You end up in Star City more often than you expect — weekends at first, then longer stretches. Dinah teaches you how to breathe again, slow and deliberate. Ollie distracts Damian with archery and loud jokes and the kind of fatherly affection that doesn’t demand anything back.

You sit on their couch one night, exhausted, head tipped back, and Dinah drapes a blanket over you without comment.

“You’re allowed to rest sweetie,” she says softly.

You don’t answer.

But you stay.

They become your anchors — not because they fix anything, but because they don’t try to.

Because they remember Bruce without making him a ghost.

Because they look at you and still see you, not just the weight you’re carrying.

When you laugh — really laugh — for the first time in weeks, it startles you.

Ollie grins like he’s won something.

“There she is,” he says

This past weekend, you've been staying with Dinah and Ollie, it was the perfect opportunity as Dick's on a solo mission with the Titans, Tim and Damian are with the Kents, Jason's with the Outlaws and Steph and Cass are preoccupied with Babs on girls night, they were gutted you couldn't come with, but they weren't gonna stop you from being with Ollie and Dinah. They knew how much you relied on them.

Star City feels wrong before you ever see it.

It’s subtle at first.

The way the air hums just a fraction too loud, like the city itself is vibrating under your skin. The sky is clear, but it feels watched.

You stand on the balcony of Ollie’s penthouse, coffee cooling untouched in your hand, and you can’t shake the sense that something is leaning toward you.

Waiting.

Dinah notices because Dinah always notices.

“You’re doing that thing,” she says, leaning against the doorframe. Her voice is gentle, but her eyes are sharp.

You glance back. “What thing?”

“The staring-into-the-middle-distance-like-the-universe-is-about-to-punch-you thing.”

You huff a weak laugh. “Didn’t know I was that obvious.”

“To me? Always.” She steps closer, her shoulder brushing yours. “You been sleeping?”

You hesitate. That’s answer enough.

Below, Star City moves like nothing is wrong.

Cars. People. Normalcy.

It makes your teeth ache.

“I don’t like this,” you say finally.

Dinah doesn’t ask what this is.

“Neither do I,” she replies.

Inside, Ollie’s on the phone, voice low, humour stripped clean. When he sees your expression, he ends the call immediately.

“What,” he asks. Not joking. Not loud.

Just what.

“There’s something in the Glades,” Dinah says before you can. “I can feel it.”

Ollie exhales through his nose. “Merlyn.”

The name lands like a bruise.

You straighten instinctively. “You’re sure?”

“No,” Ollie admits. “But I’m never wrong when it matters.”

The lights flicker.

Once.

Twice.

You all freeze.

That hum you felt earlier deepens, crawling into your bones, vibrating behind your eyes.

Somewhere far away—too far to pinpoint—metal screams.

You don’t say it.

But you’re already reaching for your gear.

The facility isn’t marked on any public map.

It sits half-buried in concrete and steel, a scar stitched into the city’s underbelly. The closer you get, the louder the sound becomes — not noise exactly, but pressure. Like reality being squeezed through a needle’s eye.

Your comm crackles.

“Energy readings are off the charts,” Dinah says, voice tight. “This isn’t just tech.”

“No,” you murmur. “It’s worse.”

The entrance yawns open, heat rolling out in waves. Inside, the air shimmers, bending light in ways your brain doesn’t like. Your head throbs. Your teeth buzz.

Ollie draws an arrow anyway.

“Guess Merlyn decided subtlety was overrated,” he mutters.

You move ahead of them without thinking, instincts honed sharp by too much loss, too much responsibility. Nightingale moves like second nature — quieter than fear, faster than doubt.

The core chamber is massive.

Circular.

Wrong.

Spanning hundreds of metres in distance.

A machine dominates the centre, towering, spiralling rings rotating at different speeds, glowing with a violent, sickly light. Energy arcs between them, snapping like lightning with no thunder.

The air smells burnt, metallic, alive.

You gaze up at the machine

You hear Dinah swear softly. “That’s a supercollider.”

"It's a particle accelerator. Merlyn failed with the last two, this one's gonna succeed." You say.

Ollie goes still. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“I wish I was.”

At the far end of the platform, Merlyn waits.

He looks pleased.

“You’re late,” he calls out, voice echoing unnaturally. “I was beginning to think grief had dulled your reflexes.”

Your hands curl into fists.

“You’re going to shut it down,” you say coldly. “Now.”

Merlyn laughs.

“Oh, child,” he says. “This is the shutdown. Of everything.”

The machine pulses.

Harder.

Your knees buckle for half a second before you catch yourself.

Dinah grabs your arm. “You okay?”

You nod, even though your vision is fracturing at the edges.

“Split up,” Ollie says. “We disable the outer rings.”

You don’t argue.

You should.

But something in your chest is pulling you forward, toward the heart of the machine, toward the light that feels like it knows your name.

The closer you get, the worse it becomes.

Gravity wobbles.

Time hiccups.

Your footsteps echo twice, then not at all.

You swear you see movement in the light — shadows that don’t belong to anything solid.

Your comm screeches.

“Nightingale—!” Dinah’s voice cuts in and out. “Something’s—wrong—”

“I know,” you gasp.

Your head pounds. Images flash behind your eyes — Bruce’s smile. Damian asleep on your shoulder. Dick’s hand on your back. A coffin lowering into the earth. Another one. Parallel grief folding in on itself.

Merlyn steps into your path.

Up close, his eyes are fever-bright.

“Do you feel it?” he asks eagerly.

“The strain? The walls between worlds thinning?”

You raise your guard despite the vertigo. “You’re insane.”

“Yes,” he agrees cheerfully. “But I’m also right.”

He gestures, and the machine surges.

You scream.

Not from pain — from everything. From the sensation of being pulled apart at a molecular level, of existing in too many places at once. Your knees hit the platform. You claw at the metal, gloves smoking where they touch.

Dinah shouts your name.

Ollie fires an incendiary arrow that disintegrates midair.

Merlyn’s grin widens.

“You’ve been holding the universe together with grief and duct tape,” he says softly.

“You were always going to snap.”

He grabs you.

For a split second, you think of your father.

Then he throws you.

You don’t fall.

You are taken.

The world detonates into colour and sound and screaming light.

Your body is weightless, then impossibly heavy.

You can’t tell where you end and the energy begins. The supercollider howls, rings spinning faster, faster—

Your thoughts fracture.

Is this how he felt?Is this how I die?Is this how I leave them?

Your mouth opens but no sound comes out.

Space folds.

Time screams.

You're shot into a myriad of electric webs, seas of blue with sparkling rope.

You see cities that aren’t yours.

Skies wrong shades of blue.

Your atoms stretch.

Your soul lurches.

The last thing you feel before everything tears—

—is your name being ripped out of the universe like it was never meant to stay.

And then—

nothing holds you anymore.

You wake up on concrete.

Cold seeps through your suit first—through the plating, through the kevlar, through whatever adrenaline is still clinging to your bloodstream like it knows it’s about to be evicted. Your vision swims. Light fractures overhead, neon signs bleeding into each other, letters doubling, then tripling, then snapping back into place.

Star City.

You know it instinctively. The smell—salt, oil, rain. The hum of traffic a few streets over. The particular way the wind curls through alleyways like it’s learned the city’s bones by heart.

But something’s wrong.

Your ears ring, a high, thin whine, like feedback after an explosion. You push yourself up on your elbows and the world tilts violently to the left.

Your stomach lurches. You swallow hard, breathing through it.

“No,” you murmur. Your voice sounds wrong here. Too loud. Too real.

Your head throbs where it hit—when did it hit? The last thing you remember is light. Pressure. The feeling of being pulled apart and stitched back together incorrectly.

You sit up slowly.

The alley is narrow.

Brick walls on either side, damp with last night’s rain. A flickering security light buzzes overhead. There’s a dumpster to your right, graffiti you don’t recognize sprayed in angry red strokes.

You look down at yourself.

Nightingale’s suit is scorched.

Hairline fractures spiderweb across the chest plate. Your gloves are blackened at the fingertips like you tried to grab the sun and lost. Your mask is still on—thank goodness—but the edge is cracked near your temple.

Your comm is dead.

Of course it is.

You try to stand.

Your ears ring as you push yourself upright, palms scraping against the ground.

Your hands stutter.

Not shaking. Stuttering.

Your fingers leave faint echoes behind them when you move, like afterimages burned into the air. You watch, horrified, as your wrist phases a fraction of an inch out of sync with the rest of you, snapping back with a sharp, nauseating jolt.

“Oh—no,” you whisper. Your voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. “No, no, no—”

You stagger to your feet, back slamming against the wall as another wave of distortion rolls through you. It feels like pins and needles under your skin, like your atoms are being politely but firmly told they don’t belong here.

Wrong Star City.

You squeeze your eyes shut and try to breathe through it.

In. Out. Slow. The way Bruce taught you. The way Dinah insisted on when your hands shook too badly to string an arrow.

Dinah.

Your eyes snap open.

They were just with you. Both of them. You can still hear Dinah shouting over the rising whine of the collider, still see Ollie’s hand gripping your shoulder, too tight, too scared.

You turn in a slow, unsteady circle, scanning the street beyond the alley mouth.

Pain explodes up your spine and you gasp, stumbling back against the wall. Your breath comes fast, shallow. Your heart is hammering, too loud in your ears.

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself. “Okay. That’s fine. That’s—fine.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Where are Ollie and Dinah?

They were just there. You can still hear Dinah’s voice in your head, tight with warning. Ollie’s hand on your shoulder, solid, grounding.

You open your eyes again and the alley is still empty.

No Green Arrow. No Black Canary. No humming supercollider tearing reality open behind you.

Just Star City.

But not your Star City.

You think of your family, of Dick, Damian, your siblings back home, you wonder if Dinah and Ollie notified them of you disappearance. The panic the two of them might be feeling, are probably experiencing.

But your thoughts return to your surroundings.

Of a different Star City.

You don’t realise how deeply wrong it is until you hear footsteps.

They’re halfway down the block, arms full of nothing, the shopping bags long since abandoned back at the department store counter.

Dinah is mid-sentence, voice warm with something dangerously close to nostalgia, when Ollie stops so suddenly she almost runs straight into him.

“Ollie—?”

He doesn’t answer.

He’s staring down the alley.

Dinah follows his gaze, annoyance melting into something colder, sharper, the instant she sees the movement there. A figure braced against the brick, head bowed, armor catching the flickering streetlight in jagged flashes.

The air feels wrong.

Not tense. Not hostile.

Off.

“Do you see that,” Ollie says quietly.

Dinah’s fingers curl around his wrist without her thinking about it. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “I do.”

The figure moves—and glitches.

For a split second there are two of them, offset by a fraction of space, before snapping violently back into one. Dinah’s breath catches hard in her throat.

“…That’s not funny,” she whispers. “That’s not—”

They’re already moving.

Not as Green Arrow and Black Canary. Not with masks and weapons and mission parameters.

Just as themselves.

Because whatever is happening in that alley, it feels personal in a way that makes Dinah’s chest ache.

You hear them before you see them properly. Footsteps approaching, voices cutting off mid-conversation.

You spin, adrenaline flaring sharp and hot, muscles screaming as you drop instinctively into a defensive stance. The world lurches again at the sudden movement, your balance wobbling as static skitters across your skin.

Two figures stand at the mouth of the alley.

Civilian clothes.

Dinah’s scarf. Ollie’s jacket.

The exact way Ollie stands when he’s relaxed but ready, weight shifted just so, hands loose at his sides.

Your heart slams into your ribs so hard it hurts.

“—Uncle Ollie?” The words slip out before you can stop them.

Both of them freeze.

Dinah’s eyes widen, just a fraction. Ollie’s shoulders go rigid, like someone’s just drawn a bowstring through his spine.

You take a step toward them.

The world breaks.

Your vision fractures into overlapping images, the alley stretching and folding in on itself as your body lags behind your intent. You gasp, clutching at your side as your outline shimmers violently, air cracking around you like displaced electricity.

“Hey!” Ollie snaps, all instinct now. “Don’t move.”

“Woah—woah,” you say quickly, panic rising, hands lifting placatingly even as they leave ghostly trails behind them. “It’s me, it’s me, I swear—”

You rip your mask off.

For one awful, suspended second, no one moves.

Dinah feels like the ground has dropped out from under her.

It’s you.

It’s your face.

The same person she’s scolded and laughed with , the same cheeks she's pressed kisses to when the world got too heavy. The same jawline, the same scar near your temple she remembers patching up herself.

But your eyes—

Goodness.

Your eyes look like they’ve seen too much.

Not older, exactly.

Just… exhausted in a way she’s never seen on you before.

Like sleep hasn’t touched you properly in years.

Like grief has taken up permanent residence behind them.

There are fine lines of tension around your mouth that shouldn’t be there yet.

Scars she doesn’t recognise.

A weight to the way you hold yourself that makes her chest ache.

You look at them like you’re drowning and they’re the only solid thing left in the world.

Ollie swallows hard.

“…Kid,” he says, voice low, careful, like one wrong syllable might shatter you. “That’s not possible.”

“I just saw you,” you say, breath hitching. “You were there. Both of you. The collider—Dinah, you were yelling at Merlyn, and Ollie you told me to get back and—”

Your body spasms.

A violent ripple tears through you, your form blurring and splitting before snapping back with a sound like a gunshot. You cry out, dropping to one knee, nausea flooding your throat.

Dinah moves without thinking.

Ollie catches her wrist.

“Dinah,” he says quietly. “Our kid is dead.”

The words sit there.

Heavy. Final.

You look up at him.

Something flickers across your face—pain, old and sharp—but it settles into something quieter, sadder.

“…Not on my Earth,” you whisper.

Silence.

Then Dinah steps forward anyway.

She stops just short of touching you, hands hovering inches from your shoulders, like she’s afraid you’ll glitch apart if she makes contact.

“Say that again,” she says softly. “Slowly.”

You explain.

Not cleanly. Not all at once.

Fragments spill out between breaths.

You come from a different Earth.

Different choices.

Bruce died instead of you.

Surviving things you weren’t supposed to.

Merlyn. The collider. The moment everything went wrong.

Ollie listens without interrupting.

That’s how Dinah knows—knows—he believes you.

Because with Ollie, disbelief would’ve come loud. Defensive. Angry.

Your body glitches again, smaller this time but relentless, a constant shimmer at your edges like the universe is tugging at you, trying to pull you loose.

Dinah’s eyes fill with tears she doesn’t bother to hide.

Ollie exhales slowly through his nose. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

She reaches for you.

Stops.

Looks at Ollie.

He nods.

Dinah pulls you into her arms.

The contact grounds you instantly—and breaks something wide open inside your chest. You cling to her like she’s gravity itself, fingers digging into her coat as another wave of distortion rolls through you. Dinah buries her face in your neck, inhaling the same smell that went with you everywhere.

Ollie joins a second later, wrapping both of you up, pressing his forehead briefly to yours.

“We’ve got you,” he murmurs, fierce and unsteady. “We’ve got you.”

For the first time since the collider, the world holds.

They don’t ask where to take you.

Ollie doesn’t even consider anything public.

The penthouse doors slide shut behind you, sealing out the city, and the quiet hits you like a wave.

Without the noise to anchor you, the wrongness comes roaring back.

The penthouse is different.

The kitchen and the living room have been swapped. Dinah and Ollie's wedding portrait looks different. Huh.

It's all a bit uncanny really.

It's the same house, same people, but there differences everywhere.

You think that's probably what they thought when they laid eyes upon you.

Your reflection in the glass windows flickers, lagging a half-second behind your movements. You sway, knees buckling as the room seems to tilt.

Dinah catches you before you hit the floor.

“Easy,” she murmurs, guiding you down onto the couch. “I’ve got you.”

Your glitching worsens under the stillness. Your outline shimmers constantly now, like a bad signal. Ollie watches it with a tight jaw, arms crossed, eyes never leaving you.

“You’re decaying,” he says.

You huff out a weak, breathless laugh. “Yeah. That happens when you’re not supposed to exist somewhere.”

Dinah shoots him a look.

“What,” he says. “That’s my way of panicking.”

She kneels in front of you, cupping your face gently, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes.

“We’re going to fix this,” she says, voice steady despite the tears shining there. “You hear me? We didn’t survive losing you once just to do it again.”

Your throat tightens.

“Still bossy across universes,” you murmur smirking.

Her smile breaks—and she pulls you into another hug, holding you like she’s afraid the universe might steal you back if she lets go.

She hugs you so tightly, it's so comforting.

You can tell she's been through a lot.

She still scratches your scalp the same way she always did, puts a hand behind your neck.

Some things never change, you guess.

The city outside keeps moving.

And for now—

You’re still here.

Ollie doesn’t pace when he dials.

He stands at the window of the penthouse, one hand braced against the glass, the other holding the phone like it might detonate. Star City glows below—alive, oblivious, cruel in its normalcy. Dinah sits behind you on the couch, her arm draped around your shoulders, thumb tracing slow, grounding circles like she’s afraid you’ll slip out of existence if she lets go.

The call connects on the third ring.

“Bruce,” Ollie says.

There’s a beat.

Then Bruce's voice, low, tired, restrained to the breaking point. “Oliver.”

Ollie exhales through his nose. “I need you to listen. And I need you to stay calm.”

That alone is enough to make Bruce’s spine go rigid on the other end of the line.

“What’s happened?” Bruce asks. “Is this about Gotham?”

“It’s about your daughter.”

Silence.

Not the empty kind.

The dangerous kind.

The kind that means Bruce has gone very, very still.

“…Which one,” Bruce says quietly. Asking even though he knows the answer.

Dinah closes her eyes.

“Y/N,” Ollie answers.

The name hangs between continents.

Bruce’s voice drops. “That’s not funny.”

“I know.”

“Oliver.”

“I’m not joking.”

Another pause.

Longer.

He can hear Bruce breathing now.

Controlled. Measured. Like he’s already bracing for impact.

“She’s dead,” Bruce says.

It isn’t an accusation.

It’s a statement. A fact carved into his bones.

“I buried her.”

Ollie swallows. “I know you did.”

“Then don’t say her name like this,” Bruce snaps. “Don’t—”

“She’s sitting on my couch,” Ollie says, cutting in. “She’s alive. She’s hurt. And she’s not from this universe.”

The words land wrong. Like broken glass in the mouth.

“You’re going to explain,” Bruce says, voice razor-thin, “right now.”

“She looks like her,” Ollie continues, slower now, choosing every word. “But older. Tired. Like grief’s been living in her bones for a long time. She knows things she shouldn’t. She called me uncle. She called Dinah aunt. She—”

“Stop,” Bruce breathes.

“No,” Ollie says. “You need to hear this. Because she thinks you are dead.”

Bruce’s hand tightens around his phone so hard it creaks.

“In her world,” Ollie says, “you died on the same mission. Same explosion. They ruled it a suicide. Covered it up. Just like—”

Bruce closes his eyes.

“…Just like we did with her,” he finishes hoarsely.

Dinah opens her eyes again, tears streaking silently down her face.

“She’s decaying,” Ollie adds. “She got into an incident with Merlyn and got shot into this universe, I think it's because this universe doesn't have Y/n in it. But it's like she doesn’t belong here. Barry might be able to help, but right now—right now she needs you.”

A long, broken breath on the other end.

“…I’m coming,” Bruce says.

“Come alone,” Ollie replies gently. “As Bruce.”

The call ends.

He doesn’t go to the cave.

He doesn’t touch the Batmobile, doesn’t pull on armour, doesn’t look at the memorial wall. He takes the stairs instead of the lift, every step echoing too loudly through the manor.

The living room is full.

They’re supposed to be gearing up.

Half-suited, half-armed, irritation crackling through the air because patrol was delayed again.

But they're not. 'Cuz they're benched.

Damian is on the floor with Elizabeth Taylor curled against his thigh, pink bed dragged in like a quiet rebellion. Dick is mid-sentence, Steph sprawled across the arm of a chair, Tim cross-legged with a tablet, Jason leaning against the wall, Cass and Duke close together.

Bruce passes through them like a ghost.

“Bruce?” Dick says, confused. “You good?”

Bruce doesn’t answer.

Jason straightens. “Hey. Where are you going?”

Bruce stops at the door.

“I need to step out,” he says.

Damian frowns immediately. “For what purpose?”

Bruce turns then.

His eyes land on each of them in turn, like he’s committing their faces to memory.

“It’s about your sister,” he says.

The room detonates.

“What?” Steph blurts.

Tim’s tablet slips from his hands and hits the floor with a sharp crack. “Bruce—?”

Dick is already moving. “Is she—did something—?”

“You benched us, then you say that?” Jason snaps. “You don’t get to just—”

“Enough,” Bruce cuts in, sharper than intended.

Silence slams down.

“I will explain,” Bruce says, forcing steadiness into his voice. “Later. Alfred will stay with you.”

Damian rises to his feet, Elizabeth’s leash still looped around his wrist. “Father. You are withholding critical information.”

Bruce meets his gaze.

It softens considerably.

He kneels to meet Damian.

“Son, I need you to trust me,” he says.

Damian’s jaw tightens.

He nods once.

Bruce leaves.

The front door closes behind him with a quiet finality that feels like another loss.

You don’t mean to open the news.

You really don’t.

But the penthouse is too quiet, and Dinah’s thumb has stilled on your shoulder, and Ollie’s gone tense in that way he gets when he’s bracing for bad timing. A tablet is in your hands before you’ve fully registered it.

Your name is trending. It's been trending for weeks.

You stare at it, blankly, like your brain refuses to translate.

You tap.

Your face fills the screen.

Y/N WAYNE, DAUGHTER OF BRUCE WAYNE, DEAD.

Another headline.

Another photo.

A gala smile.

A candid shot with Damian scowling beside you.

Death ruled a suicide.

Your throat closes.

“Oh,” you whisper.

Dinah notices instantly. “Hey—hey, sweetheart, what did you see?”

You tilt the phone toward her.

She sucks in a sharp breath.

You scroll numbly.

Edits. Tributes. Candle emojis.

She would’ve been another year older today.

People arguing in comment sections about whether you were happy.

Whether you were lonely.

Whether you were “too gentle for this world.”

Your hands start to shake.

“I’m dead,” you say, distantly. “Here, I mean.”

Dinah pulls you fully into her chest now, arms locking tight. “I know.”

Your eyes burn. “They said I killed myself.”

Ollie’s voice is rough. “They didn’t want questions.”

You nod slowly. “Same thing they did to my dad.”

The realisation settles like ash.

“This isn’t my universe,” you murmur. “I knew that. I just—I didn’t think it would hurt like this.”

Your vision blurs. The glitching starts again, a faint stutter at the edges of your hands, like static crawling up your skin.

Dinah presses her forehead to yours. “You’re okay. You’re here.”

“Am I allowed to be?” you ask quietly.

Footsteps sound behind you.

The door opens.

Bruce Wayne, your father, stands in the threshold.

He looks smaller without the suit.

Older.

His eyes find you instantly—and stop.

Time folds in on itself.

You look up.

Every breath has left your lungs.

Dinah and Ollie's gazes remain transfixed on you and Bruce staring at each other.

“Daddy?” you say, small and uncertain, like a child testing the edge of a nightmare. You stand, slowly.

Bruce crosses the room in three strides and pulls you into him, arms crushing, desperate, breath shuddering against your hair.

“Oh my goodness, baby, you’re here,” he whispers. “You’re real.”

You cling to him, fingers digging into his coat. “Daddy I missed you.”

He lets out a sound that might be a sob.

When he pulls back, his hands stay on your shoulders, grounding, trembling.

“You shouldn't be here. My daughter is dead,” he says, voice breaking. “Here.”

You nod.

“I know. I saw.”

“And in your world,” he continues, forcing the words out, “I died.”

“Yes.”

The symmetry is unbearable.

“They said you overdosed,” you add softly. “Suicide. They couldn’t tell the truth.”

Bruce closes his eyes. “We did the same to her.”

Your chest aches.

“I buried you. I took over the company. Dick became Batman. Damian—he needed someone. I stayed Nightingale. I just… hardened.”

Bruce cups your face gently. Smiling, even though the pain he's feeling is the worst he has ever felt, like stitches being ripped open again.

“You shouldn’t have had to.”

Your glitching worsens suddenly, static crawling up your arms.

Bruce notices immediately. His jaw sets.

“You’re destabilising,” he says. “Barry can help. He understands this kind of physics.”

You nod, trusting.

Exhausted.

“I don’t belong here,” you whisper.

Bruce pulls you into him again, softer this time.

“Maybe not,” he says. “But you’re not alone. I promise sweetheart.”

You wrap your arms around his waist, feeling like he'll disappear at any second, but you savour this moment.

The moment lingers longer than it should.

Bruce’s hands are still on your shoulders, like if he lets go you’ll flicker out completely. You can feel it—the strange, itchy wrongness under your skin, the way the air doesn’t quite agree with you.

Dinah watches it happen with a tight mouth. Ollie clocks it immediately.

“You’re destabilising again,” Bruce murmurs, more to himself than anyone else.

You nod faintly. “It gets worse when I think too hard.”

Bruce exhales, then straightens. The Batman slides back into place—not the armor, not the voice, but the decisiveness.

“I’ve already called Barry,” he says. “And I notified the Watchtower. Select members only.”

Ollie lifts an eyebrow. “You trust them with this kind of stuff?”

“I trust them with her,” Bruce replies without hesitation.

That lands heavier than anything else.

Dinah squeezes your hand. “Alright. Then we move.”

She stands, already reaching for the hidden panel near the hallway. “We suit up.”

You blink. “Now?”

Ollie gives you a soft, crooked smile. “Kid, if you’re gonna glitch out of existence, you’re doing it somewhere with the best minds in the universe.”

Dinah disappears briefly and returns with something folded carefully over her arm.

Your breath catches.

It’s a suit—but not yours.

Not Nightingale as you knew her.

The silhouette is familiar, but refined.

Reinforced seams. Subtle gold threading worked into the black. A faint canary insignia worked into the inside lining, near the collar.

Dinah holds it out. “Temporary. Modified to stabilise your vitals. Barry’ll do the real work, but this’ll help .”

You take it with trembling fingers. “You didn’t have to—”

“We did,” Ollie says gently.

As you change, the penthouse hums with quiet urgency. Dinah and Ollie suit up too, muscle memory guiding them. When you step back out, fully masked, Bruce stops breathing for half a second.

You’re Nightingale.

But older. Sharper. Tired in a way this world’s Nightingale never had the chance to be.

Bruce approaches you slowly, like you might spook.

“You ready?” he asks.

You hesitate—then lean forward and hug him.

He makes a small, broken sound as his arms wrap around you, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I should go home first,” he says quietly. “I need to tell them, the kids deserve to know.”

You nod. “I know.”

You pull back just long enough to press a kiss to his cheek. He does the same to your hair, lingering.

“Be careful,” he whispers.

“You too, daddy.”

He watches you go with Dinah and Ollie, something in his chest ripping open all over again.

Bruce drives home in silence.

The city lights blur past, reflections ghosting across the windows. His hands are steady on the wheel, but his thoughts are anything but.

Alive. Not his. Dead here. Alive somewhere else.

The manor looms ahead like a mausoleum.

Inside, the lights are on.

Alfred opens the door, welcoming him.

He walks ahead, trying to figure out a way to break the news to his children.

Too many of them. Voices carry faintly from the living room—irritated, confused, restless.

He steps inside and all of them turn at once.

Cass's head perks up first, she nudges Duke who stops talking

“Bruce?” Dick says immediately. “What the hell is going on?”

Jason pushes off the wall. “You disappear and drop that line about Y/N like it’s nothing—”

Steph and Tim are already standing, eyes sharp, scanning Bruce’s face. “Is this about the Watchtower alert?”

Bruce turns his head because how did he have Watchtower alerts?

Damian is quiet.

Elizabeth Taylor sits at his feet, tail thumping nervously, like she knows what's up. “Father,” he says. “Explain.”

Bruce closes the door behind him.

He doesn’t take off his coat.

He walks to the couch and sits.

That alone shuts them up.

“I need you all to listen,” Bruce says. “And not interrupt.”

That earns him a few looks, but no one speaks.

He swallows.

“Y/N is alive.”

The room explodes.

“What?” Steph blurts.

Tim stumbles forward a step. “That’s not—don’t do that.”

Jason laughs once, sharp and disbelieving. “That’s sick, man.”

Damian’s breath hitches. “Father—”

Bruce raises a hand. “She is alive. But not our Y/N.”

Dead silence.

Dick’s voice is barely audible. “…What?”

Bruce exhales. “She’s from another universe. In her world, I died. Same mission. Same explosion. They covered it up as a suicide.”

Tim pales. “Like we did to her here.”

“Yes.”

Cass steps closer to Steph instinctively. Duke’s hands curl into fists.

“So she just—what—shows up?” Jason demands. “Wearing her face?”

Bruce’s voice breaks despite himself. “She called me dad.”

Damian’s composure fractures. “You saw her?”

“Yes.”