Your days, once filled with piano, language, and dancing lessons, were now consumed by ballrooms, drawing rooms, and the intricate art of conversation. It was a constant parade of oneself in hopes of catching a suitor’s eye.

It was a lot less… eventful than you had imagined in your girlish daydreams.

Instead of the engaging discussions you’d hoped for, it was boring, to say the least. Most men were not interested in what you were saying, but rather what was presented below your neckline. Their eyes would glaze over your opinions on poetry or the new symphony. Balls, at least, held a visual appeal.

People dressed in the finest of fabrics and jewels, all freshly polished to a high sheen. In a room where everyone strived to glitter, it took a great deal for someone to truly shine. And shine he did.

The moment he caught your eye, it was like fireworks blooming behind your ribs; the carefully applied rouge on your cheeks did little to hide the sudden heat blossoming beneath your skin.

It seemed you weren't the only one with eyes, unfortunately. Mothers and eligible daughters flocked to the young bachelor in seconds, a murmuration of pastel silks and eager smiles, crowding him with their dance cards and aspirations. Just as you were tempted to join the flock, a voice at your elbow intervened.

"But the Lady prefers a dance, does she not?" Lord Zenin’s tone was smooth, his offer presented as the only logical conclusion. As a lady seeking a husband, it would be madness to reject.

He was handsome, in a severe way, with dark hair and sharper eyes. But as you took his hand, your gaze strayed back to the spectacle across the room. White hair—you had never seen someone with such pale and pristine hair. Would his children inherit such a striking feature?

"I am interested in having children myself," Lord Zenin spoke. You hadn't even noticed him speaking, too distracted by the figure at least twenty paces ahead. You were sure Lord Zenin was a fascinating man, yet your eyes gazed behind him more times than you would ever admit aloud.

You bowed politely at the end of your second consecutive dance with Lord Zenin. It was so early in the season that you had not expected to attract such a remarkable suitor so swiftly. As flattering as it was to catch a Zenin’s eye, your mind did not leave the white-haired man alone. You found yourself constantly peeking over shoulders and through gaps in the crowd, seeking another glimpse of the awfully popular mystery. You were quite familiar with most of the attendees, their lineages, and prospects drilled into you. He, however, was a complete mystery.

"Gojo, I presume," a voice laced with irrefutable gossip spoke beside you. You knew them, the matrons, mothers of girls your age. As they spoke, you listened, your fan held still.

"The Duke? I did not know he had returned from the continent."

"Why has he returned?"

"Did you not hear?" the third murmured, leaning in. "He is single." Those were the only words you needed to hear, though there was suspicion about whether they were correct. For what other bachelor would they be speaking of in such tones than the white-haired duke?

Where your formal knowledge of society was lacking, gossip was readily hot and ready to serve on a silver platter.

Your skills for gathering information were not few and far between, and you certainly understood that going about in the streets asking questions about this 'Gojo', a duke nonetheless, would raise far too many eyebrows in your far too fresh debut. You would need to be stealthy in your pursuit.

This quest for knowledge, however, was not your own secret, it seemed. The entire ton was buzzing with the reappearance of the newly available bachelor. It made your obligatory teas with fellow debutants much more enjoyable than listening to them list the contents of their overflowing drawing rooms. Your own was not empty—Lord Zenin was a persistent caller—but none of them was the duke who had captured your eye with a single, distant glance. When one of the girls mentioned, with a sigh, that he was confirmed to attend the upcoming art gallery exhibition, you felt a surge of purpose. You were very assured of your own attendance.

Paintings lined the hushed halls of the prestigious gallery, many donated by those you knew, even a modest landscape from your own family’s collection. You had seen most of them before, but one, placed on a wall of its own, caught your eye. It was different from the rest. They were all pleasing, yes, but this one had a soul about it that appealed directly to yours.

"I am quite pleased with this one myself," a voice spoke beside you, his gaze also fixed upon the canvas.

"It is beautiful," you said, your voice barely above a whisper in the hallowed quiet.

"I am delighted to find us in accord." He chuckled lightly, a warm, pleasant sound. "My apologies, we have not introduced ourselves. His Grace, Satoru Gojo." He bowed politely, and you followed suit, burying the triumphant grin that threatened to form on your lips.

Looking at him up close was a revelation. His features were not just agreeable; they were arresting. Eyes of a blue so pale they seemed to hold their own light, framed by those impossible white lashes. His smile was easy, and you felt a pang of irrational jealousy for anyone who had gotten to see it before you. He was a great conversationalist, effortlessly keeping a dialogue flowing, revealing a depth of knowledge about the artists and their techniques that went beyond mere aristocratic patina.

"I see you have donated this painting yourself. You have excellent taste, Your Grace." Your fan pointed delicately towards the small golden nameplate inscribed with his title and name.

"You are correct indeed. I found this during my travels and could not help but bring such an exceptional piece back home. It reminds me of the scenery near my estate in the country," he said, his tone softening with genuine affection.

You traveled the gallery with the Duke, a step behind yet beside him, commenting on the plethora of art. The man was certainly a talker, but an enchanting one, his wit sharp and his observations kind. You giggled at a few of his jests, the sound escaping before you could temper it, remaining as reserved as possible while trying to secure his interest. You would need to make your intentions clear but not desperate. Suitors are fleeting; you must use your teachings to keep them waiting and wanting more, a delicate game.

Unfortunately, the game was interrupted when your mother’s voice called your name from across the room, whisking you away from the Duke’s side. "I must take my leave, Your Grace; it was a pleasure," you said, your curtsy perfectly measured.

"The pleasure was entirely mine," he replied, his bow equally precise.

In the swaying carriage home, your mother could not help but question you, her eyes alight with curiosity. It seemed almost everyone knew who he was except you. The burning question hung in the air between the rhythmic clatter of hooves. "Well? Is he as available as the gossipers tell?"

Your mother let out an elated, knowing giggle. "My dear, he came back to the ton for a reason. He is very, very available."

That was all you needed to know to properly begin your mission; your mother would surely have more reliable information than matrons at a ball. Not just a debutante’s duty, but a true search for happiness.

—

With Gojo in attendance at the next ball, you hoped you would have the chance to dance with him at least once. Yet, since your walk in the gallery, your drawing room, and your dance card had remained stubbornly full. A great social triumph, but none of these men, the earnest younger sons, the pompous lords, came close to sparking the connection you had felt in that quiet gallery corner.

It was, you feared, love at first sight, a notion your practical training scorned but your heart clung to.

Lord Zenin, in particular, had set his intentions very clearly upon you. He visited no other ladies' drawing rooms, his attention as focused as it was oppressive. Although you had every chance to marry well this season, the Viscount was awfully strange. A possible over-exaggeration on your part, but the man was obsessed with talking about himself—his holdings, his horses, his opinions. Boastful, to say the least. Even with him monopolizing your time, you tried to keep your options open. Yet, Lord Zenin made it his duty to ensure no other suitor would get an extra dance from you. It would not have been such an issue if his dancing skills were up to par, but you did not know if your poor slippers could survive another of his heavy, misplaced steps.

You were only able to escape by feigning a sudden, desperate thirst. Like any gentleman, he left promptly to fetch you a drink. The moment he turned, your eyes scanned the room, hurriedly searching for the man who haunted your thoughts at every outing. There he was, standing alone by a marble column, just as you had hoped. Making your way across the ballroom, you squeezed past chattering groups with polite murmurs. You found him standing idle, watching the couples waltz with a faint, unreadable smile.

"Your Grace," you bowed, coming up ever so slyly beside him. "I hope you are finding the ball pleasurable." You greeted him, your fingers nervously fiddling with the dance card dangling from your wrist. It did not seem like he had been trying to find you, or even if he had noted your attendance with half the fervor you had his.

He turned, and his eyes crinkled in recognition. "I am indeed. And yourself?"

"It is lovely. I only wish to experience the dance floor a little more," you confessed, a slight, deliberate dig at your repetitive partner.

"Is that so?" He laughed, a genuine sound that warmed you. "Would you care for a dance? That is, if your dance card is not entirely besieged?"

"I would be honored, Your Grace."

Leading you by the hand, his grip was confident but gentle. He was an excellent dancer, as fluid in movement as he was in conversation, following the tempo with an innate grace Lord Zenin lacked entirely. Your feet were safe, and your spirit soared.

"My apologies, I have not taken to the floor in some time," he said, his hand squeezing your gloved one ever so slightly on a turn.

"You need not worry, I assure you your skills are perfectly fine," you replied, squeezing back. You hoped the pressure conveyed what words could not, that you were interested, that you were open. "I can only hope you take to the floor more often, Your Grace."

"That should not be a problem," he said, his eyes flickering to a point behind you. "It seems someone is waiting to reclaim this spot as we speak." He tilted his head slightly toward the waiting Lord Zenin, whose irritation was not lost on his handsome, scowling face as he watched you.

"A gentleman should have patience," you snickered, almost enjoying the look on the other man's face.

"Some are not graced with such a quality."

"I presume Your Grace is?"

"Very much so," he murmured, leaning closer. "One must wait a long time to receive such a particularly green-eyed look from Lord Zenin." His comment, whispered low in your ear so it would not carry, was scandalously funny. You could not help but laugh, quickly lowering your volume into a whisper.

"My apologies, I forget myself," he said, though his eyes sparkled with mischief.

"You are quite all right, Your Grace. I appreciate such patience and honesty," you confessed, matching his hushed tone.

"And I, you, my lady." He smiled, and as the waltz ended, he bowed deeply. "It was a pleasure dancing with you."

"Until we meet again, Your Grace." You bowed, your eyes falling to the neat script of his name now inscribed on your card. Satoru Gojo.

Gossip does what gossip is, and it spreads.

Your dance with the duke circulated through the ton with the speed you had hoped for. It helped, bringing more varied men your way—thankfully, some younger, more amiable ones—which subtly deterred some of the older suitors.

At the horse races, the day was bright, the weather peculiarly agreeable for the time of year.

The ton milled about, watching the sleek horses prance in the paddock. Men gathered, placing loud bets. You, personally, had placed a small, secret wager on a horse named Simon, a purebred with incredible lineage. Making your way through the crowd, you eyed the booths set up at the periphery. One held decorative hairpins; the quality was discernibly middling, but they were charming to look at.

"My lady," Lord Zenin greeted, materializing at your shoulder. "Do not concern yourself with such inferior trinkets. You ladies, cannot be expected to discern quality as a gentleman can. You are lucky to have one such as myself to guide you," he spoke, pride lacquering his voice like varnish.

"I was simply admiring the craftsmanship, my lord. I assure you I can tell the difference in quality from my own pins," you said, trying to hide your offence at his assertion. It did not stop him from launching into a lecture on materials and worth, which subtly and then not so subtly morphed into a rant about how a woman’s discernment was, by nature, secondary to a man’s. The implication was clear, and it curdled your stomach.

"I will accompany you to view the horses. I have a sizable bet on Andrew," he said, taking your arm with an air of possession as he guided you toward the viewing benches.

"That is not necessary, my lord. I came with my family."

"All the more reason for my escort," he insisted, his tone brooking no argument.

Throughout the entire race, Lord Zenin talked, disregarding any opinions you voiced, even scoffing at your choice of Simon. Andrew dominated the first quarter, and Zenin’s chest puffed out. But as the race wore on, Andrew fell behind, and when Simon began his powerful surge from the middle of the pack, you couldn't help but lean forward, caught in the thrill. As Simon pulled ahead in a final, breathtaking sprint to finish first, you shouted with the crowd, a grin of pure victory spreading across your face.

"That was an excellent race, was it not, my lord?" you asked, the thrill still buzzing in your veins.

"It was deception. The track was muddy on Andrew’s side. He should have won," he scowled, his tone souring immediately. You half-expected him to stamp his foot.

He guided you back through the booths, his mood fouling further, and he began to make loud, derogatory comments about the "common" vendors and their wares. You were praying for a glimpse of your father to effect an escape; you had had more stimulating conversations with your embroidery hoop.

A flash of your father’s hat in the distance provided the excuse. You pretended he was summoning you and extracted your arm from Zenin’s. "You must excuse me, my lord."

Making your way through the press of people, your eyes caught not on your father, but on Gojo. He stood apart, seemingly oblivious to the crowd, staring intently at a small, silver locket cupped in his palm. His expression was soft, tender in a way that made your step falter. Sneaking past your actual father, you approached him.

He did not notice you, lost in the tiny portrait. It was of a beautiful woman, her name inscribed within. He looked at the locket the way you wished he would look at you—with a love that was profound and settled. Your heart dropped into the pit of your stomach.

"Your Grace," you said softly. His eyes, when they lifted to yours, held a trace of sorrow he quickly masked. He hesitated for a second before snapping the locket shut with a soft click. "She is beautiful," you commented, the words ash in your mouth.

"Yes," he murmured, the single word heavy with memory. "Yes, she is."

"If you do not mind my asking… may I know who she is?" you asked cautiously, praying he would not say the words you suddenly, desperately did not want to hear.

"My late wife," he said, the words quiet but clear. "She passed four years ago."

The world seemed to be still for a moment. "I am so sorry for your loss, Your Grace. You were a beautiful couple," you confessed, forcing the word ‘couple’ out even as your own heart ached. It was painfully obvious, even in that brief glimpse, that the man was still anchored by his love for her. His heart, it seemed, would not be yours to claim.

At subsequent outings, you tried valiantly not to think of Gojo and his wife, to set your sights logically elsewhere. Yet, conversations with other suitors left your heart inert, no elation, not even a genuine smile. No one could compare to the easy wit, the surprising depth, the sheer light of him.

You had, for a foolish moment, hoped to convince him. But how could you convince a man to love you when he was so faithfully in love with a ghost?

And yet, he sought you out. He would find you wherever you stood, even when you tried half-heartedly to hide, forging a friendship that was both a balm and a torture. He stole you away for dances, shared humor, and offered effortless companionship. All your scheming to find him had caught up to you, leaving you ensnared in your own trap.

At the Bennets’ ball, you were truly amazed. Pyrotechnics and living statues, it was a spectacle unto itself. Even the punch had a spicy, intriguing taste, fitting the fiery theme. A definite step up from the previous year, where Lord Bennet had slipped and fallen into his own fountain. You stood sipping the exotic drink from an ornate glass, watching the dancers.

A soprano’s high Latin notes soared over the instruments. Your gaze, as always, found Gojo. His eyes caught yours across the room, widening in recognition, and he made his way to you with a determined grace.

"Trying to hide again?" he jested as he arrived, falling into step beside you as if you were old friends.

"Your Grace, you ought to teach Lord Bute your skills; his partner seems in dire need of rescue," you laughed, watching the woman wince with each of Bute’s clumsy steps.

"Satoru," he said, simply.

You stared at him, confused.

"My name. We are past formalities, are we not?" he prompted, a challenge in his smile.

"Satoru," you repeated, letting the unfamiliar syllables roll off your tongue. It felt intimate, scandalous, a secret shared. You enjoyed the thrill of it.

"Much better," he smiled, that sweet, tugging smile that unraveled your resolutions. He was a drug, and you were willingly addicted.

At a ladies’ luncheon soon after, the conversation turned to courtships and the swift engagement between Lady Howe and Lord Calhoun.

"And you? You are being courted, are you not?" one of the ladies asked, her eyes sharp on you.

"I am sorry?"

The table tittered. "His Grace, Gojo?" she clarified. You nearly spat out your tea. You had been so wrapped in your own conflicted feelings, you’d forgotten the omnipresent audience. You could not deny the accusation without sparking worse rumors, and since he had spoken of his wife, you hadn’t truly dared to think of it as a courtship. It was merely him, entertaining your hopeless emotions.

"I would not be surprised if there was an engagement on the horizon!" another gushed.

"Or perhaps it is Lord Zenin?" a third suggested slyly.

You demurred, letting the topic flow away from you, but their talk of ardent suitors and clear intentions highlighted what was missing. Lord Zenin made his intentions brutally clear. The Duke offered friendship, laughter, and a haunting sadness. He had not declared himself, nor could you reasonably expect him to.

The balls you once awaited with butterfly excitement now filled you with a nervous dread, afraid of seeing the man whose love was reserved for another. It was disheartening to talk to him, to push your own yearning aside to learn more about him, because every detail—his terrible jests, the way his eyes lit up when you volleyed one back—only made you love him more.

You could no longer afford to look at him as a potential partner; your future was at stake.

At the next ball, you sought solace on a deserted balcony, a glass of punch in hand, away from the crush and the music. The jewels on your gown felt like anchors. The garden below was a tapestry of shadow and moonlight, beautifully kept. The chill air was a relief.

Your solitude was shattered by a familiar presence. White hair gleamed in the ambient light as he leaned on the balustrade beside you.

"My lady, hiding again?" Satoru asked, his voice low. He leaned closer, his shoulder nearly brushing yours.

"It is quiet out here," you said. At least it had been.

"You have not danced with me once tonight. Yet I see you’ve endured two with Lord Zenin." He tried to sound light, joking, but a thread of seriousness ran beneath it.

You pushed off the railing, walking down the shallow steps into the garden proper, hoping he would not follow. He did, of course, his longer strides easily catching up.

"Must you walk so fast?" he called, a hint of amusement in his voice.

You sped up, gathering your skirts. "Why must you follow?"

"Why must you avoid me?" he countered, catching your arm gently but firmly, forcing you to stop.

You whipped around to face him. "It should not be of any concern to you," you spoke, holding your anger and hurt in check. "I have been promised to no one, least of all to you."

"Lord Zenin—" you began.

"Zenin?" he scoffed, the sound harsh in the quiet garden. He had not shown a fraction of the direct interest Zenin had, but at least with Zenin, you would be married, settled, your duty done. "You cannot be serious."

"Yes, Zenin."

"Do you know that man? Truly? You will be miserable. More miserable than you could ever be with—" He paused, biting his lip hard, stopping the sentence. "The Zenins see women as cattle, as breeding stock to improve their line."

"And what do you know about treating a woman?" The words flew out, sharp and bitter, before you could stop them. "You do not know Lord Zenin as I do. And above all, you have no right to monitor my potential nuptials."

You refused to let such an opportunity—the security, the position—be ruined by a man who offered nothing but confusing friendship. He would never understand the pressure, the cliff’s edge of choice that defined a woman’s life.

"I clearly know more than you if you are considering that basket for all your eggs. He is not an honorable man."

"And you are, Gojo?"

"Far more than he, I assure you. You mustn't marry him." His voice dipped, almost pleading. But why? Why did he care so much if his own heart was entombed? His mouth opened, those lips parting as if to speak a truth, but then they pressed into a resigned line. "I… care for you. Deeply. More than you could imagine. I could not live with myself knowing you would marry into that dreadful household."

His eyes, wide and earnest in the moonlight, pulled you back into the spell. You wished, achingly, to marry for a mutual love, not to be merely cared for as a replacement for a ghost. His simple attention would not heal the tear his confession had rent in your heart.

"Would it be better to marry someone else, then? Shall I compile a list of suitors for your approval?" you shot back, offended even as a treacherous part of you trusted his warning.

"I am not your father—"

"Precisely! So please, stay out of my business—"

"I cannot do that," he confessed, his gaze refusing to release yours. "I cannot simply stand aside."

"Do you hate me so much that you would deny me any marriage?" The frustration welled up as hot, stinging tears. You blinked them away furiously.

"It is not hate," he said, stepping closer. The scent of him—bergamot and night air—enveloped you. "What I feel for you is far from hate." You could not stand to listen to him dissect your prospects while offering none of his own. You would never be her.

"I apologize, Your Grace. I must take my leave." You hurriedly bowed, your voice cracking as you fought the rising tide of emotion. "Good night."

In your drawing room the following week, Lord Zenin sat sipping tea, the silence between you heavy. He had been monologuing about estate management for twenty minutes. You had been quiet, lost in thought.

"You would make an agreeable wife, do you not agree?" he said finally, a smug, knowing look in his eye. "I thought your… talkative nature might become an issue, but it seems you have learned better. I enjoy a quiet woman." It was not a compliment; it was a mandate.

"Women today forget what a man truly wants. All this talk of opinions and equality… I do hope you do not subscribe to such modern jests." It was not a question.

You simply nodded, the disgust in your stomach turning to a hard, cold stone. Satoru’s word echoed: cattle. Naoya Zenin saw you as a decorative, quiet asset. When he left, the silence he prized felt like a suffocating corset.

You could not imagine a life as Lady Zenin. Your mother, when you finally confessed you could not accept him, looked not disappointed, but profoundly relieved. "His reputation is not… kind," was all she said.

You entertained other suitors half-heartedly. Your prospects, once bright, felt dim and dwindling. After a brief, tedious promenade with Lord Phillip, you returned home. Your lady’s maid was helping you change when she appeared at the door of your sitting room.

"You have a visitor, my lady."

"At this hour? Who is it?"

"It is His Grace, Gojo."

You met him in the garden, the spring sun dappling through the new leaves. You walked in silence, your hand on his arm, hating how your pulse leapt at his mere presence. The quiet stretched, becoming unbearable.

"The weather is very agreeable, is it not, Your Grace?" you finally ventured.

"I did not come to discuss the weather," he said, stopping beside a camellia bush, its pink blossoms vibrant against the dark green. "I came to apologize. Properly, this time. For my conduct in the garden. It was unpardonable."

"If that is all, Your Grace, the apology is not needed. You may—"

"No," he said, his hand covering yours where it rested on his arm. "That is not my only reason. If you recall, I asked you then if your heart was with another."

The memory was repetitive. "I recall."

"And I told you I would stand back if it was." He turned to face you fully, his expression unguarded, vulnerable in a way you had never seen. "I have spoken with your father."

"My father? What could you have possibly provoked you to speak with my father?"

"If you are truly smitten with Lord Zenin, if your heart is with another, please tell me now." He paused, taking one of your hands. "I mispoke then. I do care for you, but what I feel is far stronger; it is not that I hate the idea of you being married. I despise the idea of you marrying anyone else."

"What…what are you saying?"

"If it is Lord Zenin that you prefer over me, I will stand back, just tell me that what I feel for you is not to be reciprocated. And I will stand back," he spoke as though saying this pained him, cringing even at the word Zenin. "I should have said this then. Please allow me to make up for this."

You could only stare, your breath caught.

"Your grace, I do not have an engagement with Lord Zenin; it seems your criticisms were not unwarranted."

"You hand is free, I presume?"

"It is," you managed.

"But is your heart?" he asked, his eyes searching yours, laying his own soul bare. "For you have utterly captured mine."

The world narrowed to the feel of his gloves on your skin, the intensity of his gaze, the hammering of your own heart. "My heart," you said, the words firm and clear as crystal, "is free."

He let out a breath that was half-laugh. He knelt there on the garden path, heedless of the gravel. He took your hand, turned it over, and pressed his lips to your gloved knuckles with a reverence that stole your breath.

"Then, if you are not opposed to a man who is flawed…would you do me the greatest honor of accepting my hand in marriage?"

—

Your marriage was steadfast, both families preparing for the union, dedicated. Satoru had not let you out of his sight, from events he was there to making sure he would be the only one you would dance with, declining anyone who came to you for a dance.

Some would come to you saying how they saw this happening, but you knew they would always say that, even if they never did.

Those who were indifferent to you before were now cozying up to the soon-to-be Duchess.

"You must set me up with one of his brothers!" you unfortunately had to give her news that Satoru did not have any siblings.

At the modist, you tried on fine fabrics and watched as your wedding gown was constructed, the decorations prepared, and your family home got set up for the reception. You were happy, but you couldn't help but become afraid.

"Your grace?" Satoru called out to you, following behind with his own horse.

"I am not your grace yet, Satoru." You murmured.

The wedding was in only a few days, and you've done all the discussions with Satoru and your future, yet it seemed so blurry. It was not like you could not see yourself with Satoru, but now that you were betrothed and your future secure, you got everything you wanted, but something was missing. Satoru was right here, yet he seemed so far.

"In a few days' time, you will be." He grinned, his horse next to yours. You smiled and nodded, satisfying his desire for your connection.

The days bled together in a flurry of silk and whispers until the morning dawned. You held up the jewels that Satoru had gifted, letting your lady's maid connect the pieces together. In a few hours, you would be a Duchess, a wife, and secure.

Tying the corsets and watching as they took your wardrobe into cases, packed it away, and took it to a new home, the Gojo estate.

You would not be staying in the city for your honeymoon, but rather at the estate in the country.

You looked at yourself in the mirror, and the dress was beautiful, gorgeous even. The dress was as white as Satoru's hair, and the sapphires as beautiful as his eyes. You felt a tear roll down your face, the excitement bubbling and building into the moment. Tears rolling down your face, you had done it. He was yours, Satoru was yours.

"My lady, it is time to depart."

The ceremony was a sublime blur of vows and vibrant stained-glass. You repeated after the officiant, your voice steadier than you felt. Satoru was more than happy, smiling at you with the same look he gave that locket that felt so long ago.

You stared into his eyes as he brought your face in for a kiss, cupping your head gently. His lips were so soft, pulling you in. It took everything in you not to dive for more; you were in a church after all.

At the reception, it was full of so many people, and Satoru followed you with his eyes wherever you went. You snacked and danced, his hand at the small of your back, until finally, it was time to change from the magnificent gown into your travelling dress.

The dread hit, a cold slickness beneath the joy. After this point, you did not know what to expect as a duchess, ruling a household.

Your mother taught you well, but it was different than experience. And the wedding night... a nebulous concept.

In the carriage, Satoru sat across from you, hand massaging yours. It felt strange touching his skin without a glove, to be away from the watching eyes of the ton; to finally be who they all wanted. A duchess.

"What does your, our estate look like?" you asked slightly, trying to get a view of what your life is looking like.

"It's beautiful, sunrise is like a painting, and it is vast, and the staff are well prepared for you, my love," he reassured. His thumb stroked the inside of your wrist, a slow, deliberate rhythm that made your pulse stutter. You nodded, massaging his hand in return.

You couldn't help but be drawn to his face. Caressing the sharp line of his jaw, the arch of his cheekbone-features you had dreamed of coming close to.

You had never thought you would get to touch him like this, so freely. He leaned into your touch, letting his cheek rest in your hand, his eyes closing for a moment.

He patted the seat next to him. "Come here, Your Grace." You moved, stumbling a bit in the lurching carriage, and he caught you, his hands firm on your waist as he settled you firmly beside him. Not an inch of space remained between you.

The close confines of the carriage, the dim lantern light, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels-it all felt suddenly illicit. He leaned in, not for a chaste kiss, but to press his lips to the sensitive skin of your neckline, just above the lace of your chemise.

A shocked gasp left you, and you instinctively pulled him closer, your fingers tangling in the snowy silk of his hair. "A different love, indeed," he murmured against your throat, his breath a hot caress.

His mouth was playful, nipping then soothing with his tongue, mapping a path to your collarbone. One of his hands slid from your waist to the back of your corset, fingers tracing the rigid lines of the stays. "So many barriers, even now," he groaned.

You could only whimper, arching into his touch, your own inexperience rendered mute by a wave of pure sensation. His other hand found its way beneath the hem of your skirt, his long fingers skating up your stockinged calf. The contact was electrifying. You were drowning in him, in the scent of his soap and something uniquely him.

"Toru-" you managed, the informal name slipping out in a breathy rush.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes holdings new type of joy, darkened by what you found only described as his previous words, a different type of love. One that consumed you in every breath, yet you want to fall deeper.

"Say it again."

"Toru."

He captured your mouth, nothing like the kiss in the church. It was deep, claiming, hungry. His tongue swept against yours, and you met it with clumsy, eager desperation. He tasted of sweet champagne.

His hand on your leg crept higher, past your garter, to the soft skin of your inner thigh. You jerked against him, a bolt of startling pleasure-pain shooting through you.

"You're trembling," he observed, a playful smirk on his kiss-swollen lips. "Don't be afraid. This is all for you. For us."

Before you could formulate a thought, the carriage began to slow. Satoru let out a soft, frustrated groan against your lips. "The inn," he said, his voice steadying. "We break our journey here for the night."

The interruption was a physical shock. He straightened, his expression shifting seamlessly back to one of elegant composure, though his eyes still smoldered. He helped you adjust your dress, his fingers lingering for a moment too long on the fabric covering your breast.

The inn was a respectable coaching house, and the Duke and Duchess Gojo were ushered to the best suite with efficiency. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The door clicked shut behind the retreating servant, and you were truly, utterly alone with your now husband.

The public facade fell from Satoru instantly. He prowled towards you, loosening his cravat with one hand. "Now," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the very air between you.

"Where were we?"

You stood frozen by the bed, your earlier courage faltering under the sheer weight of his focused attention. He saw it and his expression softened a fraction, though the intensity in his cerulean gaze never wavered. He came to you, taking your face in his hands, his thumbs stroking the apples of your cheeks. "Let me see you," he whispered.

He turned you gently, your back to his front. His fingers, surprisingly deft for a man of his station and power, found the intricate closures of your travelling gown, working them with a patience that you once awarded to wanting him to hurry up. The gown loosened and pooled at your feet like a discarded sigh. Your petticoats soon followed.

His hands were on the laces of your corset. He worked slowly, kissing the nape of your neck, the shell of your ear, as each tug of the lace gave you more breath, more freedom.

"These contraptions are a crime," he muttered against your skin, his breath hot, finally pulling the stiff garment away and tossing it aside. You stood in your thin chemise and stockings, feeling more exposed than you ever had, the firelight painting your forms in gold.

He turned you to face him, his gaze a physical weight as it travelled over you, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

He lifted you then, placing you in the centre of the bed before stripping off his own clothes with an efficiency that left you breathless. His body was a revelation: long, lean, and built, all sculpted muscle and pale skin marred by the faintest silver lines of old battles. And between his legs, he was... considerable.

Your eyes widened.

The vague, clinical descriptions you'd heard had not prepared you for the reality of him, thick and heavy and very erect, the flushed tip beading with a promise.

He knelt on the bed, crawling over you like a predator claiming its territory. "The theory is one thing, my love," he said, as if reading your mind, a wicked curve to his mouth. He nudged your legs apart with his knee, settling his weight between them.

The rough hair of his thighs brushed against your sensitive inner skin. "The practice is something else entirely. And we are going to practice quite a lot."

“Practice-”

He kissed you again, swallowing your nervous gasp. His hand slipped between your bodies, his fingers finding the damp heat at your core through the thin linen of your chemise. You cried out into his mouth, bucking against his hand.

"So ready for me," he praised, his voice dripping with dark delight. He hooked his fingers in the waist of your drawers, pulling them down and off along with your stockings. The cooler air of the room kissed your skin, followed immediately by the searing heat of his body on yours.

Skin to skin. The contact was electric.

He palmed your breast, his thumb flicking over your nipple until it peaked into a tight, aching bud. Then his hand trailed down, over the quivering of your stomach.

"My sweet, brave wife," he whispered, his fingers parting your folds with a reverence that belied the hunger in his eyes.

He found your clit, slick and hot, and stroked a slow, circling pattern around the sensitive nub that made you arch off the bed with a broken cry. "Satoru!"

"I know, sweetheart. I know." He added a second finger, slipping inside you with a smooth, stretching pressure. The feeling was immense, foreign, but the glide of his fingers was aided by your own wanton wetness. He worked them in and out, curling them, seeking. When he brushed a particular spot deep inside, stars exploded behind your eyes. Your hips jerked of their own accord, seeking more of that shocking, delicious friction.

"There it is," he purred, watching your face with rapt attention as it contorted in pleasure. "That's it.

Make those pretty sounds for me." He continued his ruthless assault with his fingers, scissoring them, stretching you, preparing you even as he drove you to a trembling, gasping peak. You felt a coil tighten, unbearably so, before it snapped. Your climax washed over you, a wave of pure, mindless pleasure that left you shuddering, your inner walls fluttering around his invading fingers.

No wonder you were never taught such pleasure existed. Or than such pleasure resided between your legs, waiting.

He withdrew his hand, and before you could mourn the loss, he brought his glistening fingers to his lips. His eyes held yours as he sucked them clean, a low hum of appreciation in his throat. "Divine," he murmured. Then he shifted, his body sliding down the bed with predatory grace. "But I have not yet properly tasted my bride."

He hooked your legs over his shoulders, his breath a hot brand against your inner thighs. "None of that modesty now," he chided softly, seeing your instinct to close. "Let me see." And then his mouth was on you.

“That is n-not a proper p-place, ‘Toru!” he only paused for a moment, looking up at you with his eyes.

“Oh, but it is very, very, proper, my love.” he kissed the lips, his tongue licking in between experimentally. “It would be improper for a husband not to taste his wife,” he grinned, watching as you tried to keep you face calm and intact.

It was not a gentle kiss. It was devouring. His tongue, broad and insistent, laved a stripe through your soaked folds before circling that aching nub with focused precision. You cried out, your hands fisting in the bedsheets. “Very proper indeed.” He groaned against you, the vibration shooting straight to your core.

He feasted on you as if starved, one hand splayed on your belly to hold you still while the other slid back inside you, two fingers now, pumping in time with the wicked flick of his tongue. The dual sensation was overwhelming, a riot of too-much and not-enough. You could feel the coil winding tight again, impossibly so, your hips moving of their own accord against his mouth.

"Toru, I cannot-I shall-" you babbled, a composure near shattering.

He lifted his head, his chin gleaming. "You shall," he commanded, his voice rough. "Come on, my tongue, sweetheart. Let me feel you." He dove back in, his nose nudging your sensitive flesh, and that was all it took.

You shattered with a scream, your body bowing off the bed as the pleasure crested and broke, washing through you in relentless, pulsing waves. He drank you down, gentle now, lapping at you until the sensitivity bordered on pain, and you weakly pushed at his head.

He moved back up your body, his own arousal a hard, insistent heat against your thigh. He rubbed himself against your drenched cunt, the blunt head notching at your entrance, spreading the evidence of your pleasure.

His eyes locked on yours, brilliant and unblinking in the firelight.

"Look at me," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for disobedience. You obeyed, eyes locking with his, you felt the intrusion as he pushed in.

The stretch was immense, a burning fullness that stole the air from your lungs. You choked on a sob, your nails digging into the taut muscles of his shoulders.

"Shhh, there it is," he cooed, though his own face was a mask of exquisite strain, a vein throbbing in his temple. He paused, letting your body adjust to his girth, dropping kisses on your tear-streaked cheeks.

"Just the first stretch, sweetheart. You will take me so beautifully." He began to move, shallow, rocking thrusts that gradually deepened. The burning began to melt, transforming into something else, a deep, internal friction that sparked a new, desperate heat in your belly.

Everything was new, exhilarating, and utterly addictive.

His rhythm became less controlled, more demanding. He braced himself on one arm, the other hand snaking down to where your bodies were joined. His thumb found your sensitive nub once more, circling it, just as he drove himself deeper, hitting that spot inside that made you see white.

The sensation was catastrophic. Your back arched off the bed, a broken string of moans and his name falling from your lips. "Toru-l-it is too much-"

"It is not enough," he gritted out, his own breathing ragged, his hips pistoning with a force that shook the bed. "I will be sure t-to make it enough." His words, his touch, the relentless, pounding fullness of him—it all crested and broke again. A wave of pleasure, so intense it bordered on pain, crashed through you. Your inner walls clenched around him, milking his length, and you watched, dazed, as his almost aristocratic composure now matched yours.

His eyes screwed shut, a raw, guttural moan tearing from his throat as he plunged into you one last, beautiful time. You felt a hot, flooding pulse deep inside you as he spent himself, his body shuddering with the force of his release. For long moments, the only sounds were the crackle of the fire and your combined, ragged breaths. He collapsed atop you, his weight a welcome anchor.

He nuzzled into your neck, pressing damp, open-mouthed kisses to your frantic pulse.

When he finally rolled to the side, he pulled you with him, keeping you firmly tucked atop of him, his member still nestled within you.

His fingers traced idle, possessive patterns on the slight, tender swell of your lower belly. "Feel that?" he murmured, his voice hoarse with spent passion.

"That is me. Deep inside you. Marking you. Exactly where I belong." You could only hum, your body and mind buzzing with a languid, sated stupor.

He was not done. After a while, his hands began to wander again, playful and insistent. He took you twice more that night, each time with a shifting mood—once slow and worshipful, his mouth tasting every part of you until you were mindless with need, begging him in broken phrases; fast and rough, with you on your hands and knees, him driving into you from behind, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave blooming fingerprints, his praises filthy and fervent against your ear.

As dawn threatened the horizon, he had you on your back once more, moving in you with a slow, deep, grinding rhythm that felt more like possession than passion. His forehead was pressed to yours, his breath mingling with your whimpers.

"I am going to fill you until you are dripping with me," he promised, his voice a dark velvet rasp. "Until the thought of anyone else is impossible. Until you carry my child here." He pressed his hand more firmly over your womb, and the thought, the sheer carnality of it, pushed you both over the edge together.

Later, as a grey light filtered through the curtains, you lay spent and boneless. Satoru propped himself on an elbow, looking down at you. His fingers, gentle now, traced the curve of your hip, then drifted through the sticky evidence of his spend that had seeped from between your thighs.

He brought his fingertips to his mouth, his eyes holding a possessive, satisfied glint as he tasted you both. "You must ride me, or I will die."

He was as much of an addict as you were becoming of his touch, of his love.

—

You sat in a chair, dressed in an elegant and ornate gown, Satoru beside you, his hand on your shoulder. Matching colors, a delicate blue. The painter took glances diligently, painting both of your features onto the canvas. You tried to stay as still as possible, but Satoru was making an effort to get a rise out of you.

It was your wedding portrait; thanks to Satoru's antics, you were late. It did not help that Satoru would continue poking, tickling, and even making crude jests; quietly enough for the painter not hear but just low enough in your ear, you could make out every word.

"You forget yourself, Your Grace, we have duties attend to." You sighed, resisting the urge to kick him in the knee.

"Well, Your Grace, I was simply remarking on the excellent skills of the painter before us." His calm face breaking for a smile. He knew what he was doing and exactly what he had said. You even noticed the way he giggled when the thought formed in his mind. Each worse than the one before it. The painter bowed, only heading the compliment, unaware of Satoru's crude comment of 'painting your walls instead'.

"I will remember that, Your Grace," you warned, keeping your soft smile.

"Please do, we must be quiet now, the painter must do his work," he paused, tapping your shoulder lightly.

"I am sure you know-" you kicked him in the shin, stopping whatever was coming out of his mouth. It was low enough for the painter to not hear, but the wince on Satoru's face did bring you an inch of joy.

You would surely tip the painter well. Satoru did make haste on his comments immediately after the painter took his leave.

There would soon be a portrait of the Duke and Duchess Gojo, replacing the former one on the wall. Although you would never be her, you would be his, and he would be yours.

You worked hard to make that true.

♡ gojopied ©2026 do not copy, edit, plagiarize, put into AI, repost, or translate any of my work.

"Never said what?" Toji rumbled, his voice a dark, vibrating thing against the shell of your ear. His arms were iron bands under your knees, pinning your thighs flush to your chest, your back arched and utterly open to him. He didn't move; he let you marinate in it. A low, satisfied groan rolled through his chest and into your spine. "Feelin' real small now, ain'tcha?" 

You tried to gasp a retort, but it came out as a wet, pathetic whimper. Your inner muscles fluttered wildly around the intrusion, a frantic, instinctive pulse. "Didn't think so." He withdrew, a slow, torturous drag that made you feel hollowed out, then slammed back home. The slap of his hips against your upturned ass was a sharp, skin-on-skin crack in the room. Again. Again. Not a rhythm of pleasure, but of punishment. 

He grunted, pistoning into that devastating depth, his green eyes glinting with a feral light. "Never getting’ tired of this. Every fuckin' time you clench around me like this." His pace was brutal, each drive aimed to prove a point, the swollen head of his cock kissing your insides, just barely missing your sweet spot; threatening to unravel your sanity. "T-Toji—ah! God—" you pled. 

"Nah, talk to me. Tell me how it feels." He shifted, leveraging his strength to hike you even higher, the angle shifting so perfectly, so destructively, that you saw stars. The new depth forced a shattered scream from your throat. 

You were babbling, tears pricking your eyes from the overwhelming sensation. "S'big-too big, please-”

"Too big?" he mocked, a sheen of sweat coating his scarred lip as he drove into you with a particular viciousness. "Thought it was 'not that big'" His breath was hot and ragged in your ear. "She's tellin' a different story. Suckin' me in like crazy. Tryin' to milk me dry.” The coiling tension in your gut was a live wire, threatening to snap. He felt it, your walls beginning to rhythmically spasm around his shaft. His grin was all teeth.

"Gonna cum? On this average dick?" He punctuated each word with a jarring thrust, his heavy sac slapping against you, a lewd, wet punctuation to his question. "Go on then. Do it. Squirt all over it. Let me feel how unimpressed you are." The command, the sheer filthy arrogance of it, tipped you over. You came with a shattered cry, your body seizing in his unbreakable hold, inner walls clenching and fluttering around his relentless girth in frantic, helpless waves.

Through your haze, you felt his control snap. A guttural, animalistic sound tore from his throat. "Fuck. That's it." His thrusts lost all finesse, becoming a ragged, pounding finale. He buried himself to the root and held, his big body shuddering as he emptied himself deep inside you with a final, possessive groan, the hot pulse of his release a shocking contrast to the brutal stretch.

For a long moment, the only sounds were the slick, connected noise of your bodies and your shared, ragged panting. He slowly lowered you trembling legs, his arms still trapping you against his soaked chest. He nuzzled into the sweat-damp hair at your temple, his voice a rough, satisfied murmur.

KENTO ♡ NANAMI

“To whom?” he asked, finally grabbing his attention. He didn't look like it Nanami had a little mean streak, happened to forget that when you played a “prank” on him. 

"And you thought it was funny to say that?" he murmured, his voice a low, gritty thing that scraped right down your spine. His grip on your hips was absolute, fingers digging into the soft give of your flesh as he dragged you back, your ass meeting the hard plane of his stomach with a soft, telling smack.

You tried to form a word, an apology, anything, but it died in your throat as he shifted, the broad head of his cock nudging through your slick, finding your entrance with an unerring, practiced aim. He didn't push in. Not yet. He just held it there, a relentless, blunt pressure, making you achingly aware of every millimeter.

"You can be so mean, sweetheart," he said, almost conversational, as his other hand came down to span the small of your back, pressing, settling you. "We really need to work on that." There was no slow descent, no gentle acclimation. It was one deep, rolling thrust of his hips that sheathed him inside you to the root, a single, devastating stroke that punched the air from your lungs and carved a ragged, broken cry from your lips. Your fingers scrabbled against the sheets, twisting, pulling, as your body struggled to comprehend the sheer, stretching fullness. He was so deep you could feel him in the base of your throat, a hot, impossible presence rearranging your very core.

"Not that big, huh?" he grunted, his voice strained with the effort of holding still, letting you feel the brutal, throbbing reality of him. You could feel every vein, every pulse, the way your own fluttering, overwhelmed cunt was trying desperately to cling to him. A low, rough sound of approval rumbled in his chest. "There she is. At least someone is being honest.” 

He began to move then, and it wasn't the jackhammer you expected. It was worse. It was deliberate. Each withdrawal was a slow, torturous drag, your sensitive walls clinging to him, protesting the loss. Each drive back in was a conclusive, ground-shaking surge, his pelvis meeting the backs of your thighs with a solid, wet slap that echoed in the room. Over and over, that same devastating, complete depth. He was proving a point, inch by relentless inch.

Your moans were continuous now, a breathless, sobbing stream into the mattress. Your vision spotted, tears of overwhelming sensation pricking at your eyes. "Kento, I-ah! God-didn't—!"

"Didn't what?" he cut you off, his pace never faltering, each thrust punctuating his words. "Didn't think l'd let a comment like that slide from my own pretty girl?" His hand left your hip, snaking around your front, fingers finding your soaked, swollen clit with unerring accuracy. The dual assault made your legs shake violently. "You feel me? You feel how deep I'm sitting in this greedy pussy?"

You could only nod, a frantic, desperate motion, your words dissolving into a guttural keen as his fingers worked cruel, perfect circles. You were climbing, your insides coiling into a knot of unbearable tension, your cries pitching higher.

"Gonna cum," you choked out, a warning, a plea. "Ken, 'm gonna-!"

"Yeah, you are," he growled, his own rhythm starting to fracture, growing jagged and urgent. His body bowed over yours, a wall of heat and muscle, his sweat-damp skin sliding against your back. His mouth found the shell of your ear, his breath searing. 

"Do it, baby." Your cunt convulsed around him, a frantic, rippling clutch, and you screamed, the sound muffled by the sheets, your body bowing against his restraining hand. With a final, brutal drive, he buried himself to the hilt and followed you over. A raw, animal groan was torn from his throat as he came, his hips stuttering against you, pumping his release deep into your clenching heat. You could feel the hot, rhythmic pulses of it, filling you, marking you from the inside out.

Slowly, carefully, he withdrew, and a helpless, oversensitive whimper escaped you as the sheer size of him left you feeling hollowed out and used. A slick, warm trickle escaped down your inner thigh. His hand, surprisingly gentle, smoothed over the curve of your ass. Then he gave it a light, stinging slap, making you jump. "Have something to say?"

You couldn't speak. You could only manage a weak, shuddering shake of your head, your face still buried in the cotton.

You heard his soft, dark chuckle. "Didn't think so."

RYOMEN ♡ SUKUNA

It's been 2 hours, 7,200 seconds of torture.

Your spine is a permanent, trembling arch against the mattress, the heavy, unyielding heat of him buried to the hilt inside you. Sukuna hasn't moved. Not a twitch, not a shallow rock, nothing. His massive form caging you beneath him, his arms braced on either side of your head. 

The only movement is the fine tremor in your thighs and the obscene, slow seep of your own arousal around his impossible girth. 

"Not that big," you'd taunted, a teasing finger poking the lowest of his abs. The joke had died in your throat the second his eyes slid to yours. 

"Two hours," his voice is a low rumble. His pink hair brushes your forehead. "That is nothing." 

You groaned. The sound is torn from a place of pure, overstimulated agony. You are stuffed, stretched to a blinding, perfect ache. “Kuna don't be like this.” 

"Like what?" he purrs, lowering his mouth to your ear. His forked tongue flicks the lobe. "I'm not doing anything." You pouted, obviously, if he were doing something you wouldn't be in this position now. A fresh, hot gush of slickness escapes you, a traitorous body's response to his voice. The sound is a wet, shameful schlick. 

One of his lower hands slides down your sweat-slick side, over the curve of your hip, and dips between your pressed-together thighs. "What would she do without me?" A thick finger finds your clit, swollen, throbbing and neglected. He doesn't stroke it. Just rests the pad of his finger against the hypersensitive bud, a mocking pressure.

He shifts. It's not a thrust, just a slight settling of his weight. The adjustment sends a lightning bolt of sensation through you, a white-hot spark that has your toes curling violently against the sheets. A cry escapes your lips. The pressure on your clit increases, just a fraction. A warning. Tears well in your eyes, blurring the sight of his smug, devastating face above you. You knew he was cracking too, his cock twitching inside of you, desperate for friction.

You like a live wire, every nerve ending screaming for movement, for the brutal, satisfying slam of his hips you'd grown accustomed to. This stillness is a new kind of madness. You feel every vein on him, every pulsing ridge. You feel the heavy, full ache of his own arousal, held in check by sheer, terrifying willpower.

Now he decides to be patient. 

“Say it.” 

“Say what?” Your body begins to shake in earnest, a continuous, fine tremor of exhaustion and relentless tension. The orgasm he's denied you for 7,200 seconds is a living thing, clawing at the base of your spine, threatening to tear you apart from the inside out with no relief in sight. He simply stared at you, eyes peering over your figure. He wanted an apology, a Band-Aid to his ego. Whatever, it was a joke anyway. 

Dragging your finger across your belly, feeling the faint imprint of his cock through your stomach. “You see that? That's all you Kuna, so, so big.” you purred, shuddering at the contact of your finger. He shivered his head bowing back, he sighed loudly as though he were holding it in for hours; which he probably was. 

With one fell thrust, his hips slammed into your skin. Each withdrawal was a frantic, excruciating drag, his thick ridge catching on every sensitive fold, pulling you inside-out. Each return was a deep, grounding slam that seemed to bruise your soul, the wet, meaty thud of his pelvis against your ass echoing in the room. The obscene, soaked sounds of your own body were amplified between impacts. 

One hand snaked up your throat applying pressure. The other remained between your legs, his thumb now pressing cruel, unforgiving circles into your clit. The orgasm that ripped through you was silent at first; raw and endless, as you convulsed around him, a vice of fluttering, desperate spasms. 

You felt the hot, pulsing eruption deep within you, a flood that had no end, filling the desperate clutch of your walls until a thick, creamy overflow began to seep out around the violent stretch of his shaft. 

“Y-you started it.” 

SUGURU ♡ GETO

“Right,” he nodded leaning back onto the sofa to get a better look. “What's taking you so long, Im not that big anyway so it should be a piece of cake.” he mocked, yawning into his hand. In one brutal, seamless motion, he slammed you down the entire remaining length of him, burying himself to the root in a single, gut-punching stroke. Your back arching as you were suddenly, completely impaled. Your nails scrabbled against the black cotton of his shirt. 

"Not that big," he repeated, his voice a silken purr. His eyes, gleaming with light, locked onto yours. He wasn't letting you move, wasn't letting you find a rhythm. He held you speared, full to bursting, letting you feel every insidious inch as your inner walls fluttered in frantic, overwhelming pulses around the intrusion. The stretch was dizzying, a sweet, burning ache that stole the breath from your lungs.

"But look at you," he mused, his grin all sly, white teeth. One hand slid from your hip, tracing a torturous path up your sweat-slicked spine. "Takin' it all like it's nothing. Guess you were right.” Before you could rasp a reply, that same hand came down on your ass with a crack that echoed in the room—a sharp, stinging sensation. He groaned, low and appreciative, at the way the impact made you jolt around him, your walls convulsing. 

"Fuck, feel that?" he hissed, his composure slipping for a split second. He didn't wait for an answer. His hands gripped your hips again, and he began to move you on him, setting a ruthless, piston-like pace. Rocking your hips, you followed his pace allowing his hands to guide your movements. the obscene, squelching rhythm of your soaked pussy filling the space alongside his ragged breaths and your broken moans.

Your head lolling forward. The world had narrowed to the brutal, exquisite friction, to the slap of skin, to the sight of his smug, gorgeous face watching you unravel. He gave your ass another sharp smack, then another, peppering your cheeks with stinging blows until the skin bloomed hot under his palm.

"What's wrong, princess. You called me out. Back it up." He thrusted up particularly hard, grinding the broad head of his cock against a deep, tender spot that made your eyes roll into the back of your head. "Am I big enough for you?” 

"Slow down!” you cried out, the words dissolving into a gasp as he shifted his angle, hitting impossibly deeper, that sent electric jolts up your spine. Your hands fisted in his hair, the long, black strands slipping through your fingers like silk. 

"Answer me," he growled, his own control fraying. His movements became more erratic, more desperate. Fingers gripping your waist as you rode him.The coiling heat in your core pulled taut, a wire about to snap. "Fuck! It's—it's big," you sobbed, the admission torn from you. "You're... you're so fucking big, Suguru!" 

The smug triumph that flashed in his violet eyes was feral. "Yeah?" he huffed, his rhythm faltering as his own end rushed toward him. He slammed you down one last time, holding you there, buried to the hilt as he pulsed deep inside you. His groan was a raw, gut-deep sound as he filled you, the hot, sudden flood making your hips stutter and triggering your own shattering climax.

Your pussy clenched around him, milking him in frantic, fluttering waves, a silent, screaming release that left you boneless and trembling against his chest. Arrogant asshole. 

SATORU ♡ GOJO

He is so petty. 

“Nope, off of me.” he pouted scouting away from you as you crawled near his lap. It's been a week since you called his dick average, not small, average. It was the worst timing too, jerk probably knew you were ovulating and was going to last a few days until it was over. 

“Please.” you pouted holding your hands together in front of him, batting your eyelashes; usually this would work on him but he wasn't budging. “Please, I'll do anything-”

“Anything?” 

Not the bed.

The floor-length, gilded mirror you had installed because, it better than the other mirror in the bathroom. His reflection loomed behind yours. Your flushed, needy reflection staring back at you with wide eyes. His palm, broad and hot, pressed between your thighs, the other hand hooked under your thigh, hiking it up and out, spreading you open. “Average? Me?” he scoffed, his index finger poking at your glistening hole. He was huge, a reality the mirror forced you to acknowledge. Refusing to look you buried your head in his chest. 

You felt him, then. Not his hands, but the thick, blunt head of his cock, nudging through your folds, painting itself with your wetness. "Look," he commanded, “have to make sure this is up to your standards, baby.” His hand grasped your chin forcing you to look into the mirror. He didn't push in. He let the fat tip just catch on your entrance, a teasing, torturous pressure. You watched in the mirror, hypnotized, as your body gave a helpless little shudder, more slickness seeping out to ease his way.

Lifting your body up slightly sheathing himself inch by inch. The slow drawl of his cock stretching your cunt, the sensation so overwhelming it bordered on pain before it melted into a breathtaking, all-consuming fullness. "Fuck," he groaned, his head tipping back for a second before his gaze snapped back to the mirror, to where you were joined. "So pretty,” he murmured. 

He started to move, and it was nothing like your usual rhythm. It was a brutal, piston-like, each withdrawal dragging that thick ridge against your inner walls before slamming back. 

"Show me," he grunted, his hand leaving your thigh to snake around your front, fingers finding your clit with unerring accuracy. He didn't tease like he usually would. He circled the pad of his thumb right against your sensitive clit, in time with his thrusts. "C'mon, baby. Tell the mirror what you told me. Tell it my dick is average." 

You couldn't. All you could do was babble, drool falling from your lips onto his fingers as he fucked the coherence out of you. "’Toru-” 

"Wrong answer," he sing-songed, his hand left your clit, and you whined at the loss, but then you felt two of his fingers, slick from your own mess, press against your lips. "Lets put that mouth to better use. Suck." 

You obeyed, taking his fingers into your mouth, tasting your own juices. You sucked and laved your tongue around them, your moans vibrating around his knuckles. He watched, enthralled, his thrusts becoming somehow harder, deeper. 

"Yeah, that's it," he whined. "My pretty little liar." He pulled his fingers from your mouth with a pop, tracing the string of saliva that connected them to your lips before bringing them back down between your legs. He pushed two fingers inside you alongside his cock. The stretch was insane. The mirror showed your eyes rolling back, your body seizing. You were so full, so impossibly full. 

"I really spoiled you,” he growled, his rhythm faltering as he felt you clamp down around the intrusion. "Average doesn't do this." He curled his fingers inside you, searching, and found that spongy spot deep within. He pressed, and the world went white at the edges. You came, your toes curling inwards, the obscene, squirting mess was all there in the mirror for you to see. 

He fucked you through it, his seed spilling from your pussy onto his fingers. "There it is. That's my girl." He pulled his fingers free, bringing them to your mouth again, smearing cum over your lips.

“You should be proud, I lasted a full week without her!” he grinned nudging his head into your neck. Wiggling you attempted to move but he held you still. “Nuh uh- we have to make up for lost time,” he pouted licking the leftover release from your lips. 

Your penmanship, loops and swirls of diplomatic correspondence, had done this. Had summoned him from his throne, from the matters of curses and domains and territories he claimed to prioritize over you.

His lower hands gripped the meat of your hips, fingers dimpling the flesh hard enough to bruise. The upper set bracketed your shoulders, one palm flattening against the back of your skull, the other splayed across your spine, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

"You think I cannot read between the lines, woman?" His voice rumbled through his chest, through the floor, through you. "The way you dot your i's. The curve of your p's. Practically begging."

What the fuck is he talking about? You thought momentarily.

You tried to shake your head, to protest, but he pressed down harder, your cheek grinding against the ruined letter. The ink smeared, your words becoming illegible. ‘Your Excellency, the eastern territories require-’

His cocks pressed against you, both of them. The weight of them settled against the cleft of your ass, the slick heat of your cunt, and you could feel every throbbing inch, every ridged vein. He hadn't even entered you yet, and already your thighs were trembling.

"The last time you wrote to me," he continued, his voice dropping into something darker, something that made your stomach clench, "you signed it with such care. Such precision."

His hips rolled, the heavy shafts dragging against your wetness, coating themselves in the arousal that had started the moment you heard his footsteps. "I kept it. Did you know that? Between the pages of texts even I shouldn't possess."

The thought of him sitting in his private chambers, reviewing your neat, proper handwriting with those crimson eyes, touching the paper the way he touched you. "You are strange," you breathed, and the words came out wrong. Came out worshipful.

His laugh was low, mean, the sound vibrating through the stomach-mouth that pressed against your lower back. That mouth's tongue-forked, hungry-licked a wet stripe up your spine, tasting your salt, your fear, your desperate want.

"My ‘strangeness’ you seem to enjoy," he agreed, and there was no shame in his voice.

The first cock nudged against your entrance, the blunt head spreading you open, and you gasped, your fingers scrabbling at the sheets. He didn't push in.

He waited, letting you feel the threat of it. His pink hair had fallen across his brow, sweat already beginning to darken the strands. His eyes were half-lidded, blown wide with lust, the red irises nearly swallowed by black.

"You want to know what I did with your letter, little scribe?"

"I-" Your voice cracked when he shifted, the head of his cock catching against your clit, sliding through your folds with deliberate cruelty. "What did you do?" His grin split wider, and his hips snapped forward. The first cock buried itself to the hilt in one brutal stroke, and your scream was swallowed by the pillows, by his hand, by the sheer size of him stretching you open.

Your vision whited out, stars bursting behind your eyelids as your body fought to accommodate him. He was too big. He was always too big, and you would never get used to it, would never stop feeling like a vessel being filled beyond capacity.

"Touched myself with it," he growled against your ear, his breath hot, his chest pressing against your back. The second cock nestled against the first, pressing against your stretched rim, threatening to join it.

"Wrapped that pretty letter around my cock and imagined it was your throat. Your cunt. Your hand." You moaned, long and broken, and he laughed again, cruel and delighted.

"Got it all wet. Ruined your neat little words. Couldn't even read the damn thing after, just a mess of ink.” He thrust, shallow and sharp, making you jolt.

His lower hands slid up your sides, claws dragging against your ribs, not breaking skin but promising they could. The upper hands returned to their positions, one on your head, one on your spine.

He pulled out until only the tip remained, letting your body clutch at him, desperate to keep him inside, then slammed back in with enough force to shove you up the bed. Your knees slid against the silk, your nails tore at the fabric.

"Count," he ordered, and the word was ragged, his composure beginning to crack.

"What?" His hand tightened in your hair, yanking your head back until your spine arched, until you could see the ceiling, the shadows, the madness in his eyes.

"Every letter. Every word you used to tempt me." His hips snapped harder, faster, the second cock now pressing against your entrance, the pressure building, building, building. "I want to hear you apologize for each one."

"I wasn't-"

"One," he commanded, and his second cock pushed in. Your body seized. Your mind went blank. The stretch was unimaginable, two of him filling you, splitting you, rearranging your insides until you weren't sure where he ended, and you began. The burn was fire, was pleasure, was pain, was everything all at once, and you couldn't breathe, couldn't think, all you could do was feel. "Say it."

"One," you sobbed, and he rewarded you with a thrust that made your toes curl.

"Good girl. Next word. The first one that made me hard."

"T-Territories," you gasped, because that was the first word you could recall, the one that started it all.

His laugh was dark, approving. "Territories. Yes. You wanted to discuss territories with me." He punctuated the word with a thrust that made your eyes roll back. “As if,” he scoffed. The hand in your hair released you, and you slumped forward, gasping, only to feel his palm come down on your ass in a sharp, stinging slap.

The sound echoed through the chambers, mixing with your cry, with the wet slap of his hips against your skin. "Keep going."

"E-Eastern," you managed, your voice breaking.

"Eastern territories." Another slap, harder this time, and you could feel the heat blooming across your skin, the imprint of his hand spreading like a brand onto your flesh.

His pace grew brutal, insane, the bed shaking beneath you, the headboard cracking against the wall. He was lost in it now, in you, all pretense of control dissolving into pure, animal need. His claws dug into your hips, his teeth grazed your shoulder, and the mouth on his stomach pressed open-mouthed kisses against your back, tasting every inch of skin it could reach.

"R-Respectfully-" you tried, and he laughed so hard his rhythm stuttered.

"That's it. That's the sound I kept your letter for." His voice was ragged now, his hips pistoning, his skin slapping against yours with a rhythm that bordered on violence.

Your climax was building, a wave so high you couldn't see the top, couldn't breathe for the pressure of it. He felt it too. The way your cunt was squeezing him, milking him, trying to pull him deeper, trying to keep him forever.

"Cum," he ordered, and his voice was absolute, was law. "Cum on my cocks and show me what you wrote that letter for."

The orgasm ripped through you like a blade, like fire, like every nerve in your body igniting at once. Your back arched, your mouth opened in a silent scream, and your cunt clamped down on him so hard he groaned, long and deep, his rhythm faltering as you pulsed around him, as your slick gushed down his shafts, as you painted him with the proof of your pleasure.

Your body was still spasming when he pushed through it, still shaking when he fucked you through the aftershocks, still gasping when he finally, finally let himself go.

His hips slammed into you one last time, burying both cocks to the hilt, and you felt him pulse inside you, felt the hot flood of his release fill you, spill out of you, drip down your thighs in thick, white ropes.

He came for what felt like minutes, his body shuddering against yours, his arms tightening until you couldn't move. You let your body slump against the sheets; you know you will be here for a while.

CHOSO ♡ KAMO

"Hello everyone! Welcome back to the stream." You greeted your camera, adjusted to an unfamiliar angle in an unfamiliar room. Choso's fingers hovered over his keyboard to ask where you were, even if he knew. He couldn't let his top commenter spot go.

The chat exploded with greetings and comments about the unexpected stream. You're usually strict on your schedule, and multiple streams in one week were rare.

T3_Sahur: ur better than El Cinco Yuki Supremacy: Haii!! Can you please play the new update of the last stream's game???? SixSevenEyes: {@T3_Sahur} ur taking it too far, el cinco tops

"Okay, okay! No game today, just wanted to talk." You interacted with chat for a bit. Usually, Choso was the first to comment and get noticed by you, but his hands were busy stroking his cock to your voice. He had missed it since he last saw you. Begging for you to take him to New York with you, it was only for a day, but the thought of you being so far away for so long was too much on his heart, and the dwindling supply of lotion.

He double-clicked his mouse, zooming in on your face. The comments were distracting, and instead of saying their usernames and repeating comments, he wished you'd say his name. Call out to him, touch him, tell him what to do next.

His hands were nothing like yours, so soft and pretty. He imagined yours instead of his, stroking his cock, bringing him closer to the edge. Grabbing his phone from off the ledge, he took a picture of cock. The notification sounded through the screen. Picking up your phone, your eyes widened suddenly. Quickly looking up at your monitor, making sure the audience could not see the obscene picture Choso had sent.

Under the photo, he typed impatiently, 'Say my name plzz.'

Your hand darts out, phone face down on the desk before anyone can see. The motion is too quick.

KenjakuFanAccount: oop what was that lovesick_angel: did ur phone scare u LOL RamenKing55: sus

You laugh it off, the sound tight in your throat. "Sorry, sorry. Just the notification scared me. You know how it is."

Your fingers itch to pick the phone back up, to look at the picture again, his thick cock, pink at the tip, wetness beading at the slit, his hand wrapped around the base with those silver rings glinting.

Three dots. He's typing.

Choso: i miss u so much it hurts Choso: ur so pretty on camera Choso: please say it

"Um—" Your voice cracks. You grab your water bottle, take a long sip, and let the cool liquid ground you. "No, I haven't been there," you hummed. Picking up your phone, pretending to look up the restaurant. Instead of a Google search, it was different angles of your boyfriend's cock begging for you.

"Choso would love it there."

He moaned into your panties, taking them from the laundry. He needed you on him, and this was the closest he was going to get to smelling your sweet pussy. His tongue lapped up the gusset, tasting the leftover fluids on his tongue.

His hips buck into his fist at the sound of his name falling from your lips. Choso. The way you said his name could make him cum in his pants, no matter how many times you've said it.

He wished you weren't currently sitting in a hotel room thousands of miles away while he was suffocating himself in your worn panties, cock leaking all over his stomach.

The screen blurs for a moment as his eyes roll back. He blinks rapidly, forcing himself to focus on your face.

His phone buzzes again, but he doesn't pick it up. Can't. Both hands are occupied now—one fisting his cock, the other pressing your panties to his face so hard the elastic digs into his cheeks. He inhales deep, greedy, like a man drowning. The scent of you floods his lungs, settles in his chest, makes his head spin.

On screen, you're talking about something. The restaurant. Some place he's never heard of, some place you went without him. The thought makes something dark curl in his gut. His grip tightens, thumb swiping over the head of his cock, spreading pre-cum down the shaft. He should be there. He should be in you, not jerking off to your voice.

"I think he'd order the spiciest thing on the menu," you're saying, and your voice has gone softer now, more distracted. Your eyes flick down to your phone, then away. "He's like that. Can't help himself. Always to the extreme."

Choso whines, the sound muffled by the cotton pressed against his mouth.

The chat scrolls faster.

AppleBottomJeans: who's choeso??? RamenKing55: {@AppleBottomJeans} her bf bro catch up SixSevenEyes: El cinco better

He wants to comment. Wants to type something, anything, just to see his name in the chat, to have you read it aloud in your voice that makes his balls draw up tight.

"Anyway," you say suddenly, sitting up straighter. The movement makes your shirt— his shirt, he realizes with a jolt that has pre-cum dripping down his knuckles, rides up, showing a strip of skin he wants to sink his teeth into.

His free hand leaves his cock, grabbing his phone with shaking fingers. The screen is slick with pre-cum, but he doesn't care. He opens the camera, angles it down, takes a picture of his flushed cock, the veins standing out, the way his balls are drawn up tight and aching.

He doesn't type anything this time. Just sends it. Watches your face as your phone buzzes again.

You don't pick it up immediately this time. You keep talking, something about the trip, about the project, about the schedule. But your eyes keep darting to the phone. Your leg is bouncing under the desk. Your chest is rising and falling a little faster than it should be.

Please, he thinks, gripping his cock again, stroking slowly and deliberately. He begs you to pick it up. Look at it. Think about him inside you, filling you up.

The phone buzzes again. And again. He's sent three more photos now, each one filthier than the last. Finally, you pick it up.

Your eyes widen. Your throat works as you swallow. And Choso watches, hypnotized, as your thighs press together under the desk. "Sorry," you say, and your voice is rough now, strained. "Just someone keeps texting me. It's distracting."

You laugh, but it's hollow. "It's not important."

Choso's hand stills. He's typing before he can stop himself, thumbs flying across the screen.

Choso: no one important??? Choso: i made u cum three times before i left Choso: remember? u were crying so pretty on my cock

Your phone buzzes five times in quick succession. You don't pick it up. You keep talking, keep pretending, but your hand is trembling where it rests on the desk.

His cock aches. Fist fucking his cock vigorously. His eyes roll to the back of his head as he comes. Bringing the fabric from his face, he presses it to the tip of his cock, soaking the fabric in his cum. He sends another picture. This one is your panties stretched over his cock, the fabric dark and wet.

"I have to go," you say suddenly, and your voice cracks on the last word. "Stream's over. I'll schedule something for next week. Bye."

The screen goes black. A few moments later, a message pops up. Pink panties, the gusset soaked in your juices. 'Just wait till I get home.'

He knows you intended it as a warning, but it only made his cock grow harder.

TOJI ♡ FUSHIGURO

Toji rarely checked his phone during a job; however, boredom was taking over. His hands fiddling with the earpiece readily in his ear. The vibration of his phone in his deep pockets was an escape from the stakeout.

Three full days of torture, not only had he not left the truck, but he didnt even get to see his sweet wife. If it weren't for the payout, he would never take jobs like these. Green eyes narrow against the glare, expecting another useless update from the client.

Instead, his thumb hovers. A message from you. A picture. He clicks it before he can think. It's a mirror shot.

Your phone is angled just so, a big black shirt hanging off your skin. A loose hand pulling at the collar, a bit of cleavage peaking through the material. The bathroom light catches the sheen of what looks like oil on your skin, highlighting the plush swell of your thigh. Your lips are visible in the reflection, parted slightly.

Toji's jaw tightens. His cock, already half-hard from days of nothing but monotony, was pulsing against his thigh. He can almost feel the warmth of your skin under his palms, the way you'd arch into him if he pressed you against the cool bathroom mirror.

A low, guttural sound rumbles in his chest. His grip on the phone tightens until the plastic creaks. He can practically hear the wet, slick sounds his fingers could make, can picture the way your lips would part, the little breathy gasps you'd let out accompanied by his name.

He doesn't think. He hits the call button. It rings once. Twice. His patience, already a frayed wire, snaps.

"Pick up," he growls to the empty truck, his voice a gravelly rasp.

On the third ring, there's a click, and then your voice.

“Toji?"

"Nah," he cuts off, his voice low. "Don't just send me shut like that and play it cool." His own hand drops from the phone, palming the heavy, aching length of his cock through his cargo pants. The coarse material rubs against the sensitive head, and he has to bite back a groan.

"My day was great, thank you," you scoffed, "I can't miss you?" he could hear the faint sound of water running and turning off.

"I missed you too," he grunts, finally giving in and unzipping his pants. He's thick, heavy in his own hand, the skin hot. He wraps his fingers around the base, giving a slow, tight stroke. "Talk to me, baby. What are you doing?"

“Just got out of the shower, might watch a movie,” you hummed, voice soft against the microphone. The sound of a drawer sliding open, the soft jostle of fabric.

"Don't," he says, "Don't put anything on yet."

"What?"

"The movie. Keep talking to me," he rasps, working his fist up his shaft, pre-cum beading at the tip. "Haven't heard your voice in ages."

There's a pause, the soft pad of bare feet against tile. Then the whisper of fabric, the rustle of cotton sliding over skin. He can picture the shirt falling against your thighs, the way the worn material would cling to the curve of your breasts. “It's been three days, Toji,” you chuckled softly.

“That's a long time,” he groaned. The sound of your soft laugh crackles through the speaker, and he swears he can feel it against his neck. He fists himself tighter, slower, the way you like it when he's being mean.

"A long time," you echo, voice low. "You sound busy."

"Just sittin' in a truck," he grits out, thumb swiping over the head of his cock, spreading the wetness there. The movement makes his hips jerk, a barely restrained snap of muscle. "B-bored out my fuckin' mind."

"Bored?" The word lilts up at the end, and he hears the soft creak of the bed. The one he should be in right now should be pressed against you, not sitting in some stale truck. "Or lonely?"

"Both," he growls, and he can hear the edge in his own voice. The one that usually makes you shiver, makes you press your thighs together. "Miss you. Miss watchin' you fall apart on my cock."

A sharp exhale from your end. The rustle of sheets.

He closes his eyes and sees it: you sprawled across their bed, that black shirt riding up your thighs, your hand drifting down. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he breathes, working his length in firm, practiced strokes. His forearm flexes, veins standing out against scarred skin. "You touchin' yourself right now, baby? Got that hand between your legs?"

"Maybe," you whisper, and he can hear the smile in your voice.

His grip tightens. "Don't play with me."

"I'm not playing," you purred, and the hitch in your breath tells him everything. Your fingers are doing exactly what he'd be doing if he were there. Circling slowly. Teasing. "Just...thinking about you."

"Sure." His strokes get rougher, the wet sounds of his fist working his cock filling the truck. “What're you thinkin' about, sweetheart? How I'd have you bent over that sink? How would I pull that wet hair back and make you watch yourself in the mirror while I fuck you slowly?"

Your breath stutters. "Toji.”

"That's right," he grunts, voice dropping lower, meaner. "Want you spread open on my cock, just how you like it.”

"Yes," you gasp, and he knows you're not just playing along. He knows that breathy little sound, the way it cracks in the middle. Your fingers are buried inside yourself right now, curling just right. "Wish you were here.”

"Missed you," you whimper, and he hears the wet sounds of your fingers moving faster, faster. "Missed your cock. Missed how full you make me."

"I'll be back soon," he promises, voice ragged. He's pumping his fist in rhythm with the sounds coming through the phone, the slick slide of your fingers, your desperate little gasps. "Gonna fill this pussy up so good. Gonna fuck you 'til you can't walk straight."

"You better," you gasp. "Please, Toji, I'm-"

"I know," he cuts you off, his own release coiling hot and tight at the base of his spine. "Let me hear it. Wanna hear you come for me."

Your soft moans echo through the speaker, and it sends him over. He comes with a guttural sound, thick ropes of it spilling over his knuckles, hitting the steering wheel, his thigh.

His hips jerk through it, muscles locked tight, eyes screwed shut as he pictures your face, your slick fingers, the way your thighs would shake against his hips.

"Who taught you to talk like that?” you questioned, a yawn escaping your lips.

"Don't worry about it." He glances down at the mess on his hand, the streak of white across his cargo pants. You snicked through the phone. "Clean yourself up, sweetheart. Don't want you fallin' asleep all sticky."

A soft laugh. "Sure."

The line clicks, and he's left in the dark again, the truck's stale air pressing in. But his skin is still humming, your voice still ringing in his ears. He looks at the picture one more time before he swipes it closed, tucking his phone back into his pocket.

A voice comes through his ear, “Fushiguro. Heres a small reminder. I can hear you in the fucking truck. With the earpiece in your ear,” Shiu’s voice laced with anger. It took everything in Toji not to laugh.

“Next time, take it off!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Hope you enjoyed the show.”

SUGURU ♡ GETO

The phone buzzes against the polished wood of the altar.

Suguru doesn’t look at it immediately. His fingers are steepled beneath his chin, dark eyes half-lidded as he listens to the droning supplication of a new follower, some desperate woman with trembling hands and a story about curses that he’s already forgotten.

The phone buzzes again.

He exhales slowly through his nose, patience thinning. His long fingers slide across the altar’s surface, retrieving the device with a languid grace that makes the woman’s voice falter mid-sentence. She watches him, wide-eyed.

The screen glows.

His thumb stills over the image, veins in his hand tightening as he registers what exactly he’s looking at. The new robes. The ones he had tailored for you personally, silk that cost more than these monkeys' monthly offerings. But you’ve adjusted them. The obi sits too low on your hips, loosened. The collar hangs open, exposing the slope of your shoulder, the pale column of your throat, the shadowed valley between your breasts where the fabric pools like spilled wine.

Miss you.

Suguru’s jaw ticks. His tongue runs along the inside of his teeth.

He looks up at the woman kneeling before him, her mouth still moving around words he no longer hears.

“We’ll continue this another time,” he says, and there’s no room for argument in his voice. The woman scrambles to her feet, bowing so low her forehead nearly touches the tatami.

He doesn’t watch her go. His attention has already returned to the phone, thumb dragging across the screen to pull the image up again.

He waits until the shoji screen slides shut, until the footsteps fade down the corridor. It rings once before you pick up. He hears the breath you let out, the way it shudders at the edges.

“Suguru.”

He leans back in his seat, the carved wood digging into his spine, and lets his voice drop to that register he knows makes your thighs press together. “Texting me in the middle of my work.”

“You said you liked the robes.” Your voice is light, “I wanted to show you how they fit.”

“Is that what you were doing?” His fingers trace the screen again, tracing the shape of your hip through the silk. “Looked to me like you were doing something else.”

He hears the soft exhale of your laugh, the rustle of fabric. He imagines you shifting where you’re sitting— probably his bed, he thinks.

“I was thinking about you,” you say.

“Yeah?” His thumb presses the speaker icon, sets the phone down on the altar beside him. The image stays up, bathing the dark wood in soft light. “Tell me exactly what you were thinking.”

“I was thinking,” you start, and your voice has dropped, gone husky in that way that makes his cock twitch against his thigh, “about the last time you had me in these. How you said the purple made my skin look…”

He remembers dragging the silk up your thighs, bunching it around your waist. You’d gasped when he pressed his mouth to the inside of your knee, your hip, the soft swell of your belly. He’d worked his way up slowly until you were trembling apart beneath him.

“I remember,” he says quietly.

“Suguru.”

“Did you get the robes wet, sweetheart? After you took that picture?” His hand moves without thinking, palm pressing against the front of his trousers. “Tell me.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then the unmistakable sound of fabric shifting. You’re moving, he realizes. Settling back against something. He can picture you perfectly, hair spread across his pillows, one hand still holding the phone, the other drifting down your stomach.

“Yes,” you breathe.

“Continue,”

“I thought…” Another rustle. Your voice goes tighter. “I thought you might tell me to touch myself. Since you’re not here to do it.”

Suguru’s eyes close. His thumb circles the head of his cock through the fabric, pressure just shy of enough. He can feel himself hardening fully now, pressing against the confines of his robes.

“Put the phone down,” he ordered. “Prop it up. I want to see you.”

He hears the clatter of the device being set against something. He picks his phone back up, switches to video.

You’re sprawled across his bed like an offering, the robes still half-on, half-off, the silk bunched around your hips in dark purple waves. One of your hands is pressed flat against your stomach, fingers just grazing the waistband of the robes. The other is beside your head, fingers curled into the sheets.

“There you are,” he purrs, watching you shiver at the sound of his voice. “Look at you. Gorgeous.”

“Come home,” you whisper, voice begging for him and his attention.

“Soon.” He traces your shape on the screen, wishing it were skin. “You know I would if I could. But I’ve got business to finish here.”

“More important than me?”

The question is teasing, but there’s an edge to it. He knows this game. “We have a mission.” He undoes the ties of his robes, letting them fall open. Watches your eyes go wide and dark on the screen. “But you’re the one who sent me that picture in the middle of my meeting. So you can wait a little longer, can’t you?”

You swallow. “How long?” There's a hint of disappointment underneath your tone.

“Patience, love, patience.” His hand wraps around his cock, gives it a slow, deliberate stroke. “Now. Show me what you were doing before I called.” Your thighs press together, but your hand slides lower, fingers hooking into the silk. You push the fabric aside, bare and wet, the folds of your cunt glistening in the dim light.

“That’s it.” His voice has gone rough, thumb swiping over his tip, collecting leaking pre-cum. Your fingers slide through your slick, spreading it, and a sound escapes your throat that he feels in his own. His hand moves faster, matching the rhythm you’re starting to build.

The room is silent except for the wet sounds of you touching yourself, the soft hitch of your breath, the occasional groan he lets slip.

“Wish that was me,” he says, watching your fingers circle your clit. “Wish I were there. I’d spread you open on this cock so slow you’d feel every inch. Make you beg for it.”

“Sugu-” Your voice breaks, hips lifting off the bed. “Please.”

“Please, what?”

“Please talk to me. Tell me what you’d do.”

He leans forward, eyes fixed on the screen. His hand hasn’t stopped moving, the rhythm steady and punishing.

“I’d start with that pretty mouth,” he says, voice low. “Been too long since I felt those lips around me. Let me fuck your throat until you’re crying.”

Your moan is desperate, fingers pressing harder against yourself. He sees your hips start to rock, chasing the pressure. “Then I’d put you on the bed. Just like that.” He gestures at the screen, at your sprawled, open body. “Spread these thighs wide and bury my face between them. Wouldn’t stop until you came on my tongue.”

You hummed, nodding your head to his words.

“Then, I’d press my cock up against your pussy.” He strokes himself faster, watching your face contort, watching your body arch off the sheets. “Fill you up so good. Make you take all of it. Every fucking inch. You’d be so tight around me, wouldn’t you?"

Your hand is a blur between your legs now, your other hand gripping your breast, pinching the nipple. Your mouth is open, sounds spilling out.

“You’d come for me,” he continues, his own breathing harsh, his hips starting to thrust into his fist.

“I’m so close-”

“Let go.” His voice cracks on the words, authority fracturing into something rawer. “Let go for me, sweetheart. Wanna watch you fall apart. Wanna see it.”

Your body seizes, mouth falling open in a soundless cry, and he watches your thighs clamp shut around your hand as you come, shaking, shuddering, your whole frame drawn tight as a bowstring before releasing.

The sounds you make are broken, beautiful, and he lets himself tip over the edge after you with a groan he doesn’t bother to stifle, spilling across his stomach, his hand, the edge of his robes.

“Mhm.” He’s cleaning himself with a cloth from the altar— he’ll have to have it sent to you later, but that’s for future Suguru. “I'll be back soon.”

You roll onto your side, face appearing in the camera, flushed and satisfied, and so beautiful it makes his chest ache. “I'll be here.”

“Good.” He picks the phone up and brings it close to his face. “Once our mission is complete, we will have all the time in the world."

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

KENTO ♡ NANAMI

Before he dies from exhaustion, he will curse his boss for eternity. Like any work trip, promises of a relaxed environment were thinly veiled lies of overtime.

Occasionally, you would send pictures of things you did throughout the day; those were the things keeping him going and preventing him from tossing his laptop out the window and quitting.

Nanami's tie hung loose around his neck, the top buttons of his shirt undone, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

His laptop glows dimly on the desk, spreadsheets bleeding into one another until they're nothing but a blur of numbers behind his tired eyes.

He should be reviewing the projections for tomorrow's meeting. Should be answering the emails that have piled up in the last three hours. Instead, his phone is in his hand, thumb hovering over the last image you sent.

It came through forty-seven minutes ago, a brief respite from the drudgery of quarterly reports. The notification had been innocuous enough-just your name, the little camera icon.

He'd opened it expecting another photo of the things to do that day, or the view of a cafe, or perhaps a plate of food you were enjoying without him.

You're angled in front of you, similar to a selfie you sent yesterday, except then you had more clothes on. You were wearing the set he picked out two weeks ago, the one he'd handed to the sales associate without a hint of embarrassment because he already knew exactly how it would look on you.

The lace is the color of dark wine, delicate straps cutting across the swell of your breasts, the matching panties sitting low on your hips. You've posed with one hand, making a small heart with two fingers.

His hand moves before his mind catches up, palm pressing against the front of his trousers where his cock has already begun to stiffen. He exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tight, and doesn't bother to stop himself.

He leans back in the chair, the leather creaking under his weight, and drags his zipper down with deliberate care.

His cock springs free, half-hard but thickening by the second as his gaze returns to the screen. He wraps his fingers around the base, a low sound catching in his throat at the familiar weight of his own hand.

The photo stares back at him, your eyes through the mirror meeting his, and he swipes his thumb across the head, spreading the bead of moisture already forming there.

He remembers unwrapping you from a similar set. How the lace had bitten into your skin, how you'd shivered when he'd traced the edges with his fingers before his mouth.

His grip tightens, fist moving in a slow, punishing rhythm. His hips twitch upward, chasing the friction, and his head falls back against the chair. The ceiling tiles blur above him, but he doesn't need to see the picture anymore. It's burned behind his eyelids, the curve of your breast, the delicate jut of your hipbone.

His breathing turns ragged, each exhale punched out of his chest. His thighs spread wider, heels digging into the carpet as he fucks up into his fist with increasing desperation. The slick sound of it fills the quiet room, obscene and urgent, and he doesn't care. Doesn't care about the meeting tomorrow, about the emails, about any of it.

His thumb swipes over the tip again, and he groans. He's close, the pressure coiling hot and tight in his gut, and he imagines it's your pussy wrapped around him, your body riding his cock. He imagines the way you'd look down at him through your lashes, how you'd let him guide your pace.

His cock pulses, a thick string of precome dripping down his knuckles, and he uses it to slick the way, his strokes turning sloppy, relentless.

His orgasm hits him like a freight train, his hips jerking off the chair as he spills over his own fist in hot, pulsing stripes.

His jaw is clenched so tight it aches, a broken sound rattling in his chest as he works himself through it, every muscle in his body locked taut until the last wave finally, mercifully passes. Even then, it wasn't enough.

When his torment ended, and he finally made it back home. Arriving through the door, you body pressed up against him, hugging him tightly.

You lips pressed against his cheek, littering his face with your soft lips. He'd never admit he came to your picture till nothing came out.

“I missed you so much, Ken!”

“Missed you too,” he smiled, breathing on your neck. Lifting you from your feet, letting your legs wrap around his hips. You giggled into the air, fingers combing through his hair.

He loved your laugh, but he needed to feel you, be inside you, and hear your moans in his ear. He imagined it enough; he needed the real thing.

SATORU ♡ GOJO

The house was quiet, a thing you once thought impossible in the Gojo household. However, with the absence of its head, the silence was unbearable.

You missed your husband dearly, out saving the world, yet you couldn't help but be jealous of the curses who got to see him more than you did.

You carried around one of his blindfolds that he thought went missing when really you stole it, hoping it would make him stay home, even just for a minute longer. You brought the black fabric to your nose, breathing in the remnants of him.

You needed him so bad. Your fingers slipped under your panties. Pretty lace ones that you hoped to show off to Satoru when he got back, that was supposed to be 4 hours ago, and you were growing impatient.

The black fabric pressed against your face, and you inhaled. Your fingers found the wet heat between your thighs before your brain could catch up. The lace of your panties was already damp. You dipped beneath the waistband, middle finger sliding through slick folds, and your eyes fluttered shut.

The memory of him was a bruise you kept pressing. The way his huge hands would bracket your hips, fingers denting the soft flesh there. The cocky slant of his smile right before he did something stupid. His weight, always too much and never enough.

You circled your clit, slow at first. Your hips rolled up to meet your own hand, and it wasn't right— his fingers were longer, thicker, knew exactly how to curl to make you scream, but you worked with what you had. A soft whine escaped your throat. You were so wet, just from the thought of him.

You pushed two fingers inside, gasping. Not enough. Your palm ground against your clit as you fucked yourself on your own hand, imagining it was him. The way he'd hold you down, one palm flat against your lower back, the other wrapped in your hair. The way he'd laugh, his cock twitching inside of you before he unloads himself inside you.

"C'mon," you breathed, not even sure who you were talking to. Yourself. Him. The empty room. "C'mon, 'Toru, please-"

Your fingers worked faster, sloppier. You were close, that familiar heat coiling tight in your belly, your thighs beginning to tremble. You bit your lip hard enough to taste copper, riding your own hand like it was him, like he was finally fucking home, filling you the way you needed.

Had you been paying attention, you would've noticed the increase of cursed energy, objects falling from the walls, and space crackling around the space, stilling the particles in the air.

You froze, eyes snapping open.

Satoru loomed over you, his blindfold missing from his face and his pale hair falling into his eyes. He tilted his head, slow and deliberate, watching your fingers still buried inside your soaked cunt. A mocking grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"My poor baby."

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You tried to pull your hand away, embarrassment flooding through you, but he caught your wrist. "No, no," he murmured, pushing your fingers back down. "Don't stop on my account. You were so close, weren't you, baby?"

Your mouth went dry. "You- you teleported?!"

"Mmh." He leaned down, and the warmth of his breath ghosted over the shell of your ear. "Just got finished. Was checking on you through the cameras, thought you were sleeping." His teeth grazed your earlobe, and you shuddered. "Imagine my surprise when I see my pretty wife saying my name. So lonely without me, I know, I know." He holds your head against his, caressing your hair.

"Don't-"

"Shh." His finger pressed against your lips, trailing down your chest, down to your lace waistband. "I was wondering where that blindfold went."

Your cheeks burned. "I missed you."

"I can see that." His eyes dropped to where your fingers were still buried in your cunt, your slick coating your knuckles. He let out a low whistle. "It's on me, should've come home on time, I'm sorry."

"You were supposed to be home four hours ago, Satoru."

He wrapped his hand around your waist. "Four hours," he repeated, bringing your fingers to his mouth. His tongue darted out, tasting you. "Apologies won't do."

He sucked your fingers clean. You watched, transfixed, as his eyes stayed locked on yours. When he pulled them out, a string of saliva and your own slick connected his lips to your knuckles.

"Up."

You didn't move fast enough. He grabbed your hips, pulling your body on top of his. The blindfold slipped from your neck, and he caught it, tucking it into your bra with a soft laugh. His cock pressed against his pants, a heavy, insistent line of heat that made your mouth water.

"Four hours," you repeated. "Do you know what four hours feels like when you're not here?"

He opened his mouth to answer, something that would make you want to hit him, but you were already moving. Your hands fumbled with his belt, impatient. The metal clinked, and you yanked it free, tossing it somewhere across the room where it hit the floor with a sharp clatter.

"Eager much?" he breathed, but the amusement in his voice was strained. His hips lifted into your hands as you worked his pants open, and the sight of him springing free made your cunt clench around nothing.

He was already leaking, a pearlescent bead of precome glistening at the tip, and you wanted to taste him so badly it hurt.

But you needed him inside you more.

You didn't bother with your panties; you just pushed them aside, the fabric pulling against your slick folds, and positioned yourself over him. His hands found your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there.

"Look at you," he murmured, and his voice had gone low, rough. "So fucking wet for me. Were you thinking about me the whole time?"

You sank down onto him in one motion.

The stretch was everything. Your body opened for him like it had been waiting, like it had been starving, and the sound you made was embarrassingly loud— a punched-out whimper that turned into a moan as he filled you.

His tip pressed against your cervix, exactly what you craved, and your hands braced against his chest as you tried to catch your breath.

Satoru's head fell back against the headboard. His grip on your hips tightened, and you watched his jaw clench, the muscles in his neck corded with restraint.

"Fuck," he gritted out. "Fuck, baby, you're-"

You didn't let him finish. You lifted yourself, slow, savoring the drag of his cock against your walls, and slammed back down.

His eyes snapped to yours, "Oh, we're doing it like that?"

You didn't answer. You couldn't. Your voice had fled, replaced by guttural need, so feral that it clawed up your throat and came out as a broken moan. Setting a brutal rhythm that made his thighs tense beneath you. Each time you took him to the hilt, his hips would twitch up to meet you, and the impact sent shockwaves through your spine.

"I missed you, too, honey." His voice was strained. His hand guided your movements, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise, the other gripped the headboard. The wood was cracking under his fingers, but neither of you was worried about it.

"Y-you're always fucking l-late," you groaned, your hand cupping his chin, fingers pressing into his jaw harshly.

"I-I know, I know. I'll be better for you, baby." He promises, hips rutting against your ass. You leaned forward, palms flat against his chest, and rode him harder. The angle changed, his cock hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes, and you cried out. The sound echoed off the walls of the too quiet house, and you didn't care.

"You said-" Your voice broke as you slammed down again, tears welling up in your eyes. "You said four hours, Satoru. Four hours of nothing. No texts, no calls, just-" His thumb found your clit, and whatever you were going to say dissolved into a sharp gasp.

"You're right," He circled the swollen nub, and your hips stuttered in their rhythm. "Tell me how wrong I am." The wood behind him snapped in half, splintering above him. Instinctively, he holds up the board, pushing it against the wall.

"You're a-always lying, just to get what you want. I was worried about you, Satoru. I can never know if you're okay. " Your thighs were burning, slick with sweat and your own arousal, and every nerve in your body had condensed to the place where he was splitting you open.

He nodded in agreement, accepting the words falling from your lips. "And you broke the fucking headboard!" You rode him faster, harder, your nails raking down his chest. The muscles there tensed beneath your fingers, and he let out a sound half laugh, half groan.

"It's my fault," he breathed. "I'm sorry, baby."

"Yes," you sobbed. "'Toru!" His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back. The sting made your cunt clench around him, and he felt it, his hips bucking up into you with renewed force.

"That's my girl," he growled, and the praise was a drug, flooding your system with heat. "Gonna take what you need, yeah? Ride me, wifey."

You nodded, or tried to— his grip on your hair made it difficult. Your hips were moving on their own now, a frantic, punishing rhythm that had his cock punching into you again and again. The headboard started to knock against the wall, a steady thump-thump that matched the beating of your heart.

You fell forward with a startled cry, your chest hitting his, and Satoru's arms wrapped around you immediately. You walls constrict around his cock as you came. He followed soon after, cum painting your insides white.

The headboard hung at a sick angle, one side completely detached from the frame, and you stared at it with wide eyes.

"Baby," he breathed, and when you lifted your head to look at him, his expression was wild. "Baby, that was the hottest thing you've ever done."

Before you could respond, he flipped you. His weight pressed you into the mattress, one huge hand bracing beside your head, the other finding your thigh and hitching it up around his waist. The new angle drove him even deeper, and your back arched off the bed.

"'Toru- "

"Shh." He pulled back, his gaze fixed on where your bodies were joined. "My turn. You've got to play. Now I'm gonna take what's mine." His fingers dipped into your bra, pulling the black blindfold from between your tits. "Wear this too." He wrapped the fabric around your eyes.

"Oh," His cock twitches alive inside of you. "That's really hot, wifey."

“You always got some smart shit to say, your mouth is always moving. I don't think you know how to stop,” he laughed mockingly, waving you off like you were a fly buzzing in his face.

You sucked in air deeply, hoping the influx of oxygen to your brain would bring back the peace before he showed up.

“I don't think your dumbass can even get what I'm saying, did the balls to your face smooth out your brain too?” The people around you were starting to notice the heated tone shared between the two of you. Your friends were trying to calm you down by offering to step out and get some fresh air before anything else is said.

It's not like this was something new; every interaction you have had with Satoru turns into a verbal disagreement.

Your face was starting to get hot, and if you got any more heated than you already were, your entire day would be ruined, other than the embarrassment of arguing with Satoru in a Chick-fil-A, but also him destroying the rest of your day. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction, both for your own sake and for the sake of your pride.

“Yeah, let's go, my food tastes like shit now anyway.” You snatched your tray, stood up, and made sure to shoulder-check him harder than to be ever considered an accident. “Bitch,” you grimaced, realizing all the eyes on you.

That white-haired freak for sure said something, but you were out of the building before you could hear it. You've heard enough from your friends assuring you that 'he wasn't worth your time'; you knew that well enough.

Satoru was a dickhead, and you weren't going to let him play in your face. Nothing wrong with a girl defending herself, you argued.

To be fair, he wasn't that much of an issue in your everyday life. Seeing him outside of games or parties. Unfortunately, your circles overlapped enough for it to be an inconvenience. And you cared too much about school pride to avoid his arena entirely.

And he was there, always there. Front and center, soaking up attention he didn't deserve.

Nevertheless, during basketball season, you would have to get in those bleachers and watch as the team poured an exorbitant amount of money into the University's pockets. At games, you prayed he would get leveled by a player twice his size on the other team. Silently cheering when his coach would cuss him out about a relatively minor mistake.

Truly music to your ears, though you couldn't hear what he was saying to him. Those were only your small moments of joy that would be quickly ruined when the stadium would roar his name after a three-pointer.

You’d hate to admit it out loud, but Satoru was a good player. Annoyingly good. If it weren't for his shitty personality, you would rock the number 8 jersey with Gojo on it, too, like half of the student population. Unfortunately for you, you knew the real Satoru.

Behind the flashy smile and school records, he was the biggest asshole you had the misfortune of ever meeting. You don't even remember how it started. It might have been some snarky remark. Just wrong place, wrong time. Nevertheless, what you do know is that you couldn't wait till you graduate and never see him again.  You prayed that no professional teams would pick him; however, with his stats, that was not happening.

A girl can dream.

Just when you thought your day couldn't get any worse, a party you didn't really want to go to with way too many athletes and frat boys to be a party free of drama. When you walked in, you avoided any of the large clusters of people, hoping not to get pulled into whatever they had going on.

One very large group seemed to be blocking the entire walkway. Your excuse me's were in vain as you tried to work your way around them. Either being swallowed by the music or completely ignored, none of them moved; the group somehow grew larger.

A cluster of tall bodies pressed so tightly together you couldn't see past them. Your final straw was when one of them pushed into you, stomping their giant foot on your shoe. You yelped in pain, pushing the man forward harshly, alerting him of your presence.

The man jerked forward from your shove, realizing that he had stepped on someone, he turned around, starting to apologize. "Sorry about-" lo and behold, it was Satoru Gojo.

You should have recognized the height; however, you were more worried about getting past this wall of people and not about ridiculously tall partygoers. He looked you up and down, dragging his eyes lazily over your figure.

"You alright?" his tone was almost sarcastic. Teetering on the edge of faux sincerity and cockiness that sent you over the edge.

"Move, you're blocking the doorway." You scowled, forcing yourself not to punch him in the nose. This is your second time seeing him this week, which is already too much. He scoffed, stepping aside, and muttering something that made his equally lame ass entourage snicker.

Oh, to have the audacity of a man.

"Excuse me?" You whipped around, grabbing the attention of those who were laughing seconds ago and their little jester. One of them made a face as though they were caught, turning around to avoid your gaze.

"Always mad, for what?" he spoke casually, tilting his head just slightly, like he was studying a wild animal through glass. It's always a man wanting to show out in front of his little friends— groupies in this instance. You don't even know how they like the prick so much. They acted like being in his orbit would get them VIP seats at the WAG table.

“The fuck you say to me?” It was rhetorical; you heard what he said loud and clear. You just wanted to see if he had the balls to say it again. He laughed, a genuine laugh. Coming right from his throat, right in your face.

“Grown ass man acting like a fucking kid. Grow up,” you spat, walking in your previously intended direction before you ended up being held up in a police station. Twice today, you have ignored the incessant urge to become violent with Satoru. You were quite proud of yourself.

You saw your friends leaning over the counter of the bar, your group peeking over with bright smiles on their faces, like they had found a full chest of buried treasure.

Well, you wanted to smile too, rushing over, you looked over as well. Standing on the tips of your toes to get over. Behold, it was the holy trinity, the BBC combo. Weird ass name, but damn did it work. Buzzball, Beatbox, and Cutwater. Six sets of them lay out on the counter.

“Pretty ain't it?” Yuki smiled smugly, like she was some alchemist; she poured some of each into a red solo cup. She swished it together to mix and chugged it in one go. Yuki was at every function as though she was paid to attend; how she was passing any of her classes was a mystery to you.

Getting to work, Yuki made 8 cups of the concoction and offered it up on the counter. “Bon appetite!” Taking a cup yourself, you chugged it down. The combo would at least get you in a better mood than previously and, at worst, make you do things you wouldn't do sober.

“Someone's excited,” one of your friends commented, noticing how quickly the cup was emptied. You blew her a simple kiss, offering your cup up for more.

A solid 10 minutes and 3 cups later, you were definitely feeling something; your friends were talking like crazy about absolutely nothing. By the 15-minute mark, your buzz dulled into frustration instead of warmth; any other time, it would get you that warm, fuzzy feeling that blanked out all the negatives.

“Where are you going?” Utahime asked, her words slurring as she tapped on your shoulder. Seeing how red her face was getting, this was not her first few drinks by a long shot.

“I'll be back, I'm going to the bathroom,” you reassured her, sliding off the stool and making your way to the bathroom. The lights were far too dim to check your makeup, and you also had to pee. On your way up the stairs, you ignored most faces that passed— no one familiar. No one that mattered.

Your legs dragged up the steps, feet getting heavier with each movement, and you groaned, holding onto the mahogany railing. Thankfully enough, the bathroom was right up the step, with three short knocks making sure that no one was inside, you opened the door and closed it shut behind you.

The bathroom was much, much cleaner than any party house you've ever seen. No sanitary products on the floor or even remnants of past functions.

You took your time fixing your makeup, blotting away that faint shine with powder. Reapplying your lip combo with practiced ease. It had been a while since you had the BBC combo; you'd learned your lesson not to do so after a particular incident. Your stomach rolled just thinking about it, uninvited flashes of Satoru’s sweaty face pressed against your stomach.

Absolutely tragic.

Washing your hands longer than necessary to distract yourself. You noticed the soap smelled especially good; it was in a dispenser, so you couldn't even see the brand. It smelled similar to peaches and mango. Hands down, the best party house bathroom you've ever been in. The last one didn't even have a real sink.

Shaking off your hands of water you had made your way outside, looking off to the side, blocking your way was none other than Satoru himself. He should really save that skill for the court.

Leaned up against the wall with no care in the world other than the girl in front of him. Expression half-focused and half-entertained, it was clear exactly where the night was going to go. Poor girl, didn’t even know what she was getting herself into. You should've minded your business. Should've walked down the stairs and left her to heartbreak or disappointment waiting.

But your mouth moved faster than your brain.

“Better off not wasting your time,” you said smoothly. “Asshole can't even get his dick up.”

The girl snapped her head toward you, eyes wide and offended on instinct. That comment seemed to straighten Satoru up, embarrassment flickering across his face before he could mask it. “Yo! The fuck is your issue?” Satoru groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose like you were the problem.

“Next time, move out of the way,” you shrugged. Your night wasn't ruined, but you sure as hell wouldn't give up the opportunity to ruin his. The look of embarrassment on Satoru’s face was pure gold.

“Just disrespectful as fuck.” he snickered, shaking his head in disbelief. The girl was obviously getting uncomfortable and looking for ways to get from between you two.

“What comes around goes around,” you laughed a little too loudly, but you wanted your point to come across clearly. “Which one is she? The eighth girl you've tried talking to tonight?” you lied, counting dramatically on your fingers.

“I got to go, ‘kay? I'll talk to you later,” the girl mumbled before practically sprinting down the steps. There was no way she was texting him back. A slow, smug smile pulled across your lips.

Mission accomplished.

“Get off my dick,” Satoru spat, stepping closer. “I don't need a random bitch watching my every move like a fucking weirdo.”

His height suddenly felt like a wall when he leaned down slightly.

“I'm not one of your weird ass fans, and no one wants that weak ass dick,” you snapped, “call me a bitch again and watch what happens.” You threatened.

“You didn't seem to mind my limp dick when we were fucking.” he said, voice low, each word enunciated with infuriating clarity. You winced slightly at his words, your stomach twisted at the faint, blurred memory.

“I'll never do that lame ass shit again, worst shit in my life. Couldn't even call that fucking.” To be honest, you barely remember what happened, especially if it was good or not. The problem with that BBC combo it can hit or it won't.

Funny how the last time you drank that concoction, it led you to one of the worst moments of your life. Brief flashes of the night and the aftermath of you waking up with Satoru snoring in your bed, and your body disgustingly sticky. It didn't help that Satoru was in his birthday suit, didn't even bother putting on boxers, nasty freak. Believing this was some messed-up nightmare, you forced yourself to lie back down.

Unfortunately, after an hour of lying in bed, you realized that it was indeed not a dream; you had fucked Satoru Gojo. As much as you wanted shit on him for his "game", you barely remembered anything. Too embarrassed to confront the elephant in the room, or bed. You decided to pretend to sleep, hoping Satoru would share the sentiment and leave quietly and quickly.

It was agonizing waiting for him to get out, not only did you have to wallow in your own shame, but also listen to the same man you promised to never sleep with, butt ass naked in your bed! It was an experience you never wanted to repeat.

His snoring slowed down and eventually stopped signaling his wake, finally. He rose from the bed, yawning, but it was quickly interrupted once he noticed this was not a familiar room and definitely not his bed. You froze instantly as he leaned over you, checking to see who he was lying next to. "Oh my god…" he gasped.

He gently pushed a piece of hair from your face to confirm. He cupped his hands to his face, inhaling sharply. He sat there for a moment before gathering his things scattered on the floor and getting out of your apartment.

Thankfully, he spared you and, particularly, himself by leaving. A few weeks after the incident, both of you acted as though the other did not exist, a brief moment in time where being in the same room did not result in an argument.

That was ended when you had accidentally grabbed his frappe order that was almost identical to yours.

Until now, the affair was never mentioned. It brought back all the shame and embarrassment, yet knowing that you could make even a dent in Satoru's enormous ego, it was almost worth it.

"You wish," he scoffed, shaking his head, "So loud, had your neighbors looking at me crazy. Keep lying to yourself." He shrugged nonchalantly. Nonchalant was everything Satoru was not. The man could barely contain himself when he got something from a vending machine.

"I'm not lying to anyone; I don't know how many girls are lying to you. You suck. Ever heard of 'faking it'?" You used hand quotes emphasizing your point. Patting him on his shoulder, "I felt bad." That seemed to hit him as he pushed your hand off his shoulder, irritated.

"I suck?" he pointed to himself, exasperated.

"Do I need to repeat it? You suck." before you realized you were being pulled into an empty room right across from the stairs. The party’s chaos faded into a dull roar as the door clicked shut behind you, the noise replaced by the hush of anticipation.

Your heart hammered as you realized how close you were standing, breaths mingling in the close air. You snatched your hand away, instantly watching as he closed the door behind him. "The fuck is your deal?!"

"I suck, right? Show me?" You looked around, confused. He can't be serious…or could he? You would like to say that the alcohol was clouding your brain, but that wasn't the case; you were clear-headed. Either prove that Satoru sucks or protect the remaining dignity you have by leaving.

Then you remember all the times he's berated and humiliated you, and you couldn't blame it on the alcohol this time.

Sitting on the leather couch in the room, this was an impossible opportunity to absolutely destroy Satoru's pride and hopefully get him to shut up, forever. You were so close to diamonds, all you had to do was take the final dig.

He looked at you, a little shocked, ruffling his white hair, realizing the situation he was actually in. "What? You scared?" You taunted, preparing to get off the couch, calling his bluff. He pressed your thighs down, preventing you from getting up. He lowered down to his knees, the position surprising you; however, you kept a poker face.

His hands slid up your waist, yanking your miniskirt up, revealing your panties and bare thighs. The coldness of his fingers made you jump as he spread your legs apart, hooking his hands around your butt, yanking you down towards his face. You let out a small 'oh,' as he lifted your legs to his shoulders for a better angle.

Satoru's hands massaged your thighs affectionately, kissing the inner up to your panties, licking a strip up the gusset. His tongue was hot compared to his fingers; the contrast was distracting.

You gasped loudly as he started to suck on the fabric, holding onto your thighs roughly. You bit your lip in resistance as he continued, swirling his tongue around the outline of your clit. "Freak," you mumbled, leaning your head back in faux boredom.

Your comment seemed to tick him off as he pushed your panties to the side, neglecting the previous affection for harshness. Spitting on your pussy, attentively watching the saliva dribble down onto the leather cushion.

Diving right in, he put a hand on your lower stomach, pressing his tongue flat over your pussy. Using the muscle to vigorously tongue your clit, you bit your lip, trying to stifle the moans coming from your throat.

You pushed his head closer, burying him between your thighs. You were so absorbed in chasing your own release that you almost forgot that it was Satoru eating you out. He pressed further down on your stomach, feeling the way your breathing was speeding up. With a drawn-out groan, you were seeing stars, clutching his white hair as you came.

Just as you were coming down from your high, he just had to remind you he was there. He looked up toward the wall at a clock, "That's three minutes and 32 seconds." he grinned proudly, " I still suck, huh?" He laughed, giving your pussy a light slap as he pulled your soaked panties back in place, snapping the band against your sensitive skin.

"J-just shut up." Still catching your breath, your mind was too clouded to come up with an ample comeback. He shrugged, licking his lips and wiping your remaining juices and his saliva from his mouth and chin.

"Yeah, whatever."

Just as you were about to get up, you realized the wet puddle under you and how your ass was soaked. "Give me your shirt." You almost felt bad for the poor sofa, soiled by your fluids.

"Why?" He looked at you, crazy, as though you were asking him to go out with you. You groaned, turning around and pointing towards your ass and the very wet couch.

"This is your fault," you accused, offering your hand out for his shirt. Obediently, he pulled it off, revealing his unsurprisingly well-built body, a waste of physique. Taking the shirt you used it to wipe the fluids from your butt and dab the small puddle on the couch.

As you pulled your skirt back in place, you hadn't realized Satoru was staring, obviously giving you an up-down. Disgusted, you threw his soiled shirt at him, the wet garment landing right on his face. "You're so weird."

"That makes two of us," holding the shirt up, he examined the damage before chucking the polo in the garbage next to the door.

"We have nothing in common." You scoffed quickly, denying his allegation. You didn't think he could navigate anything that wasn't a basketball court. He mumbled something under his breath.

You would have said something, but you would prefer not to see what other tricks he has up his sleeve, or lack thereof.

You walked past him, opening the door to leave the crime scene before anyone caught you together. You'd rather not be seen with him anymore today, or ever. He followed closely behind, closing the door behind both of you. Making your way to the stairs, Satoru was interrupted by one of his buddies, who stopped him in the hall.

"What's up, man? Where the hell is your shirt, bro?" You paused by the steps, waiting for the prick's response. You'd kill him right here and now if he dared to say anything about what transpired in that room.

"Had to throw it away, someone soaked it." Whipping your head around, you glared at him; his eyes made contact with yours, amused.

"…Beer?"

"Yeah, you could say that," he smirked, watching as you rushed down the stairs, preferring not to be in his vicinity any longer. Navigating the crowd was a struggle on its own; unlike Satoru’s entourage, they did hear your “excuse me,” and moved out of the way.

Down the stairs, your friends were in the same spot. Utahime was over the counter, begging for another shot. She couldn't even handle her alcohol well, a total lightweight. Her eyes lit up when she noticed your presence, calling out your name.

"You were gone furr soo long," her words slurred, touching the sides of your face with both hands, squashing your cheeks together. "Was there a line?" you nodded, lying about a long line outside the bathroom.

"No surprising the one upstairs is so nice, I used it earlier," Yuki added, tucking the rest of the alcohol under the counter away from Utahime. Thankfully, the conversation shifted to unrelated things and stuff that you missed.

After a while of people watching and useless drama, it was time to go. The party was lame as hell, and the music sucked big time. Whoever was on aux needed to delete this playlist and burn it. Your friends echoed these sentiments as you ordered an Uber for yourself. "We are going to that bar down the street, they have this drink that has the fog coming out, hella cool. You coming?"

You paused, you really didn't want to go out again, and honestly, you felt disgusting. Your panties were still wet, and although Satoru's shirt helped, your thighs were still damp.

"Nah, I'll skip out this time." They pleaded for a bit for you to go with them, realizing you wouldn't be joining them and that all of your Uber rides were almost outside. They relented and let you leave, peppering your face with kisses as you entered the Uber.

—

As you expected, Satoru was lips sealed about what occurred. The little interactions dwindled to almost none. Now you only saw his retched face on court. Watching the way he dribbled the ball, his feet quickly maneuvering across the court.

Your team was honestly getting whooped this past quarter. They had a strong start, but after a few bad calls and players getting pulled out and in, it wasn't looking good.

In hopes of bringing the score up, the coach brought Satoru back in. He was breaking through their defense, getting the ball a few minutes after getting on the court.

Just as he raised his arms to make a shot, a player checked him in the shoulder. A collective “Ooh” filled the bleachers watching as their star boy was knocked to the ground. You snorted. Honestly, you should start betting money on these games. Your prayers may work.

The way these people bet their left arm on these games, especially championships, it might be lucrative.

The referee intervened, and both teams argued their case, but it was obvious that the other player did it on purpose. Seeing how Satoru’s face scrunched up and stormed off away from the referee back to his coach, it wasn't considered a foul. The game was called back on with the players on the court, Satoru included.

The fall didn't seem that bad, but his right shoulder was significantly red. A bruise was sure to form.

The Gojo fan club was not happy with the decision, people arguing with eachother about whether or not it was a foul. The player who did it was benched and switched out with someone else, but he didn't seem a bit mad about it.

The clock ran as both teams attempted to get to eachother baskets, with unnecessary shoving and ball hogs. Satoru was fumbling the ball like he had a severe case of butter fingers.

With 20 seconds down on the clock, a point guard on the opposing team passed the ball around like a hot potato. Landing in their players' hands only got a split second before going back to the point guard, who landed a basket.

Once the timer ran, people left the court to eat overpriced pretzels and hot dogs. $7.50 for a hot dog is outrageous! Following Utahime, a fellow Gojo hater, to a relatively short line at concessions, the game was too suspenseful to leave early for concessions, so the outside was packed.

“We should definitely come to more of these.” Utahime beamed, scrolling on her phone for replays. Laughing at Satoru fumbling the ball on the court, letting it roll in the opposing team's hands. “You know what's crazy, they aren't even ranked.

And the score is 27-20, first game of the season, we might lose,” she snickered. A D1 team losing to an unranked school is embarrassing for your school, but you were cheering for the other team to begin with. It's not like your team never loses; it's rare, but it happens.

“We? Who's we?” you laughed, “I don't recall us being on the court?!” you joked, realising you were next in line. Both of you ordered a box of popcorn and a drink; unfortunately, the pretzels were still being heated.

Taking your orders, both of you headed back to your seats. You got there early, so the seats weren't half bad. Getting to see that number 8 jersey eat dirt in 4k was worth it.

People started filling back into their seats, food in hand, and their anger from the previous quarter satiated. Both teams came in, huddling up with their coach. Probably giving them a pep talk about the last quarter. They would need to bring the score up by 7 in order to tie, at least.

The buzzer went off, and the players assembled on the court. Some new players on the court, including Suguru Geto, you were familiar with him since you had an English class with him your Sophomore year. A cool guy, but anytime he was around, Satoru would soon follow. Once there was a group project, and Satoru just had to bring Suguru his wallet and phone.

You were shocked to see someone like Suguru, friends with Satoru, of all people. Unfortunately, the more you got to know both of them, the more you realized they were the same person in different fonts. Suguru just happened to be more likable.

You made sure to keep your interactions strictly school-related.

“I was wondering when they would put him on the court, him and Gojo are insane on the court, bro,” someone mused behind you, probably drunk based on their voice level.

If you could hear them from your seat, you were sure whoever they were talking to could hear them as well. They weren't wrong; they were great on the court, probably holding out in case they ended up in the shitty position they are in now.

The ball moved throughout the court, the opposing team using the same technique right before the last quarter ended. It was so obvious the easy way they passed the ball, attempting the corner and shot.

As their center passed the ball, to the point guard Suguru swept in and intercepted it and passed the ball straight to Satoru half-court. Satoru weaves through his block and makes a half-court shot to the hoop. The ball flew in the air, rolling around the rim. The arena was full of anticipation of whether it would go in. A loud bounce to the ground through the hoop, sending a roar throughout the arena.

You jumped in your seat a little, transfixed on the game. You didn't think it would be such an exciting one, considering who they were going against, but Utahime wanted to hang out, and you had discounted tickets.

Seeing how the second quarter went, you were expecting Jujutsu to get their asses handed to them. But dunk after dunk, you were quickly proved wrong.

The game went by pretty fast. It seemed your team pulled back up and started acting like a Division 1 team. The ending score was a blowout of 40-27; you kind of felt bad for the other team. You knew Kyoto was unranked. They weren't doing the first 2 quarters terribly, but they just didn't adapt to the play.

“Damn, they got whooped, should've put me on coach!” Utahime laughed, gathering her things from the seat. You wiggled your legs, waking them back up after sitting for so long.

Thankfully, they had cushions on the seats, so it wasn't as bad as it could've been. Looking down at the court, you made eye contact with Satoru, your eyes locking in on cerulean ones. You stared back, confused. What was he looking up here for? He lifted his arm and flexed his bicep.

Your face immediately scrunched up in disgust. Something is honestly wrong with him. His shoulder was wrapped in a bandage; you hadn't even realized it during the game.

“Oh my god, what the hell is he flexing at?” Utahime gagged, hurrying you out so she could escape from the show off. “He needs to put that shoulder down before he gets put on the bench for the season,” she warned, rubbing her temple, an attempt to erase the image from her memory.

“It just started?”

“I know, he only got one more year left, if he wants to go pro, he'd better watch it.” The pros were already looking at Satoru if the news wasn't enough, and all the scouts filling the seats were waiting to snatch him up at the draft.

“That's if he is going to go pro anyway, knowing him, his ass is gonna be someone's sugar baby,” she laughed, tossing her half-empty popcorn in the trash. It wasn't even fresh and was stale and cold. $8 for some cold popcorn should be illegal.

“He's not going to go pro?” you asked, a little shocked. Utahime used to be friends with him and Suguru and went to school with them since middle school. A horror story of itself. You've known them for three years and already hate them; you couldn't even imagine nine years.

“No, I don't think so, at least,” she shook her head, “His family wants him to graduate and take their company, or something, I don't know.”

"That's- that's his choice, I guess.” You rolled your eyes. Family pressure and all, but with his talent, you never expected it. You can't expect anything with him, but the point still stands.

Utahime agreed, you're sure she's thinking the same as you, but there are too many fans of his for y'all to set up your Gojo hate club stand.

Heading out of the area, both of you took the shuttle back to the car. It was an annoying journey, and honestly, for how long it took, an Uber might be worth it. Making it in the car, you drive her back to her apartment. Blasting music as Utahime rolled down her window, hot from singing the lyrics. “I'm turning the AC on, I'm getting hot,” she said, fanning her face as she turned the air on.

“Please, it's like 30 degrees, and I'm hot as hell,” you agreed, making sure she put it on high. Pulling into her parking garage, she hands the guard her card so that you'll be let in. It's a nice apartment, and it's near school. You didn't live too far from her, so you would be her ride sometimes, but she usually rode with Shoko, as they were roommates.

“Oh, are you still coming to our game night? I do gotta warn you, Suguru and Satoru are coming.” She asked, holding the door open as she was getting out. Shivering at the even colder temperature in the parking garage.

“They are?” you sulked, rolling your eyes. You forgot that Shoko was still cool with them, family friends apparently.

“Her friends, not mine, she promised that if they start being weird, they are getting right the fuck out,” she reassured. It seemed that might be her rule, but it's whatever.

“So in the first five minutes?” you laughed, she let out a groan, complaining that she didn't want to hear them talk about basketball for an hour again, like last time.

“I swear to you they had like 6 people hypnosed as they were talking about it, I can't do it again.” You weren't surprised; it is their job, kind of. “But, besides that, it's not just them, Nanami will be there, so he might cancel out their bullshit,” she held her hands up like she was praying before climbing over the seat and kissing your cheek goodbye.

You waved her off, watching as she got onto the elevator safely before driving off.

The game night was on Sunday, so you were sure you had plenty of time to mentally prepare.

—

Obviously not prepared enough.

“You're a fucking cheater, that's what.”

“My dick, you're trash at this game, bro, it's Jackbox!” You flexed your muscles, posing for your 3rd consecutive win. “Another dub for me.” Taking a bite out of your cupcake, it was an easy game. The dumbass even voted for your prompts a few times. You adjusted the crown on your head, flaunting it in his face.

“Yeah, whatever,” Satoru rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. He is such a child, it pissed you off how immature he is. He acts like he is the only one who lost the game when there are 8 other players who also lost.

Only ever thinks of himself. You don't see what people see in him, other than the way he shoots a ball, and he doesn't even want to do that.

So fucking annoying.

“Alright, alright, cool it down. We can just play something different; we've had enough rounds of this.” Shoko suggested, noticing how you were about to get started. Unlike Satoru, you can finish what you start.

Pulling out some Uno cards and the blank cards, writing something on them, and hiding them from the rest of you. Haibara tried peaking over but was quickly swatted away. “You'll see if it gets pulled.”

Playing dealer, Utahime shuffled the cards and passed them out to each player, putting half the deck down with one card facing up. With all seven cards, you kept a poker face as you beamed. Three draw fours and two wild cards. Utahime was the GOAT.

“Did you even shuffle these?” Suguru asked, rearranging his cards.

“Obviously,” she stated shortly, whistling at her own cards. “Anyway, who's going first?” With a few orders suggested, it was decided that Suguru would go first since he wanted to get rid of his cards so badly.

The game was slow at first, not a single draw, not even a skip. That was until Suguru called Uno, putting down a blue skip card on Satoru.

“You traitor, I thought we were in this together!” Satoru gasped dramatically, watching his turn go to Nanami. Suguru simply shrugged, placing his card face down on the carpet.

Finally, people started bringing out the good cards, giving Suguru thirty cards once Mei asked if they could stack the draw fours. Suguru was quick to say no, but that was quickly overruled once Haibara placed a draw four down.

“There's no way all of you had draw fours,” he held his cards together in a stack, not even bothering to spread them.

“Shouldn't have betrayed me.”

“It was one skip, I have thirty cards!”

“Sucks to suck.” Satoru patted him on the shoulder, holding only four cards. Obviously, Suguru was out of the game unless he could switch around, which was highly unlikely.

You'd love to see someone turn the game around with a whole deck in their hands. Many betrayals later and eight cards in your hand, Nanami took the win, putting down his final card, shuffling hands with Mei, who had only one card left, and took his twelve cards.

“Thank you, thank you.” Nanami bowed as you crowned him the winner, taking the one that was previously in your head from Jackbox. You were shocked that you lost with the cards you had. Unfortunately, you used them early instead of just pulling cards.

“Don't get too cocky, I'll just win it back next game,” you challenged, crowning yourself. He laughed, making sure the crown was firmly on his head. The second game continued; you didn't have cards as good as the previous game, but they were still good.

Putting down your last reverse and calling Uno, hoping no one would change the color, or worse, get you to draw cards.

“Uno!” Utahime called excitedly, putting down her second-to-last card.

“Yo, does anyone have another reverse?” Satoru asked, getting ready to place his card, and everyone shook their head. Shrugging, he placed the white card with writing on it. “What, bro, Shoko, you have doctor handwriting!” he laughed, trying to read the card but ultimately failing. He was right, for once, Shoko’s handwriting was absolutely atrocious, and trying to decipher it gave you a headache.

“My handwriting is not that bad, it says sudden death, everyone is now down to two cards, draw one, if you are at Uno,” she said as though it was obvious. Seeing the new chance at a win and to recover from the last game, Suguru surrendered all his cards except two.

“Not that bad?!” Haibara laughed, looking at the card, making sure what she said was true, but he couldn't pick out the number 2. “No wonder you are in med.”

“Not too much on my girl, she's gonna be my kid, doctor, I need her handwriting to be as doctorly we possible,” you admitted, hugging her tightly. She thanked you, kissing the side of your cheek.

“Poor kids.” Satoru quipped, putting his other cards in the deck. Of course, he couldn't keep his fat mouth shut, just when you were slightly okay with his presence.

“Ugh, can you shut the fuck up? Just because you have a bad case of butter fingers doesn't mean the rest of us do.”

“Here she goes,” he groaned, “we still whooped their asses, so it seemed my butter fingers worked just fine,” he said, using air quotes.

“Can you not? I'll kick both of you out,” Shoko warned, pointing to the door.

“It's good, I'm sure a lot of people don't mind my butter fingers,” he laughed, getting a chuckle out of the group. You gagged, motioning with your finger. “That too,” he grinned.

“You're so disgusting, I can't believe anyone would ever let you near them.” You rolled your eyes, realizing the irony, once Satoru burst out laughing, wiping tears from his eyes.

It was not that funny. You rolled your shoulders, not letting him get under your skin.

He acts as though he is getting paid to ragebait.

Biting your tongue, you kept your mouth shut the rest of the game, or else Shoko may beat your ass for choking Satoru. Holding in the urge, you waited patiently for your turn, placing your card down.

You had a wild card, you had a chance at winning until Shoko put down a draw two with a sympathetic apology. Accepting defeat, you let the rest of the game go out with Shoko taking the win. At least it was her and not him.

Nanami passed the crown onto Shoko, who swept the last round with great fanfare. After a few games of table tennis and a short game of Monopoly that was quickly won by MeiMei, you would've been a close second had you not sold your boardwalk to Suguru for 800. At the time, it was worth it, but in retrospect, it sold your game.

As midnight started to roll around, Haibara and Nanami left, claiming they had an early class, along with MeiMei, who had work. Throwing away empty cups and packaging up all the games, all that was left were a few blankets and Utahime’s PlayStation.

“Just leave it, I might as well leave it out here anyway.” Utahime yawned, wrapping a loose blanket around herself. Folding the fuzzy blanket, you placed it at the edge of the couch. Suguru and Shoko were having a conversation of their own in the kitchen, cleaning up remnants of the charcuterie board.

“Alright, I'm heading out, I'll see you later!” you announced, putting on your coat. They wished you goodbye. Shoko offered to walk you down, but you declined. They were still cleaning up, and she would get distracted too easily and end up not doing it until next week. The elevator ride was quiet, the day’s noise fading into the background.

When the doors slid open, you braced against the chill that crept into the parking garage, heels echoing against the damp concrete as you made your way toward your car. Holding your keys tight, your car was already running since you activated remote start on the elevator. At least your car won't be as cold. Pausing, you heard footsteps behind you, not too far behind.

It's not unusual for someone else to be down here, but you didn't appreciate how they were so close behind you. Speeding up, you hoped it would create some distance, but the steps didn't get any farther.

Doing a quick look around to see who it is, you could defend yourself, but you needed to see if they could outrun you to your car. Your face instantly dropped, scrolling on his phone, of course, it was Satoru. He is nothing to be scared of. Dropping your guard, you unlocked your car door, your hands latching onto the handle. Satoru followed right behind before looking up and staring between the two cars.

“That's you parking like this?” he scoffed, unlocking the door to his vehicle. Of course, he drives a Mercedes. Trashy fits trashy. There's no Shoko to stop you in the parking garage.

“Keep saying shit, and I'm hitting your shit,” you warned. He scoffed, dangling his keys, urging, begging you to hit his car. Continuing to talk, he doesn't have to worry, you've got something for him.

—

Finally quiet, you don't have to hear that agitating voice anymore. Sure, there was some moaning here or there, but you made sure to shove your panties deep enough down his throat that it was muffled. Grinding your hips, relishing in the sensation. A sharp, stinging slap landed on your ass, the sound cracking through the humid air of the room. You gasped, your rhythm faltering.

His throat hummed, rolling your eyes, you reluctantly removed the soaked garment from his mouth. “What?”

"Keep going. Or are you already tired?" You clenched around him, a silent, petty retaliation, and were rewarded with a faint, sharp hiss of air through his teeth. A victory, however small. You wish he had a mute button. You began to move again, your thighs burning as you rose and fell, the slick, wet sound of your bodies meeting filling the silence he'd just broken.

The stretch was still a brutal, breathtaking ache, a feeling of being split open on the thick, unyielding length of him. Your own juices, a traitorous flood, made the slide easier, coating him and dripping down to soak the sheets beneath his hips.

You dared a glance down. Satoru's head was tipped back against the pillows, his white hair fanned out like a halo. His eyes were half-lidded and fixed on the place where your bodies joined. A faint, infuriatingly beautiful smirk played on his lips.

"Look at that," he murmured, his voice a lazy taunt. "Making such a mess. You're dripping all over me, and you're not even halfway there." His hands, which had been resting idly on your thighs, came up to grip your ass. His touch wasn't gentle; it was rough and controlling. His thumbs dug into the soft flesh of your cheeks.

"You're so fucking- irritating," you managed to pant out, your voice strained. The smirk on his face widened. Leaning forward, forcing his cock impossibly further inside. Your back met the sheets as he pushed your knees back towards your shoulders, folding you in half, exposing you completely.

The new angle was devastating, a ruthless, deep invasion that had you seeing stars. Each thrust was a deliberate, punishing act, aimed with cruel precision.

"Fuck- Satoru!" Your protest was weak and breathy. “If you don't shut up, I will get up and leave,” you warned, clenching your fist around the sheets below you.

He saluted you, holding his hand up to his forehead. Grabbing the discarded panties, he stuffed them back in his mouth. He grunted, his rhythm never faltering.

Tears welled in your eyes, a mixture of overwhelming sensation and sheer, undiluted hatred for the man pounding into you. A single traitorous tear escaped, tracing a hot path down your temple and into your hairline. He drove into you harder, faster, the bedframe slamming against the wall in a frantic, jarring rhythm.

The sounds were obscene—the wet, slapping union of your bodies, your choked sobs, his low, controlled grunts. You were unraveling, coming apart under his relentless, detached scrutiny, and he was savoring every second of your pleasure.

You squeezed your own eyes shut, trying to block him out, to retreat into the purely physical sensation. But it was impossible. His presence was a brand, searing into you.

The scent of his cologne, clean and expensive now, mingled with the raw, salty smell of sweat and sex, was inescapable. The feel of his hands, bruising on your hips, was an unfortunate reminder of who was fucking you.

If only it weren't for that god-awful mouth of his.

A low, guttural sound vibrated in his chest, muffled by the lace. You forced your eyes open. A thin string of saliva had escaped the corner of his mouth, glistening against the dark fabric.

It dripped, landing with a warm, wet splat on your abdomen. The sight sent a fresh wave of heat through you. The clear fluid dripping from your panties was absolutely ruined after this. There goes another pair.

Your fingers wrapped around the fitted sheet, his movements became less rhythmic, more desperate, a frantic pistonning that was all friction and need.

The brutal stretch was now a familiar, welcome burn, a feeling of being so completely filled there was no room for thought, for his voice, for your own hatred.

His hands left your hips. One slid up your sweat-slicked thigh, a strangely intimate gesture that made you flinch, before pushing it towards the bed, spreading your legs further. The other hand found your clit, his thumb circling with a brutal, practiced efficiency that was anything but tender.

A broken, ragged cry was torn from your throat. Your nails, which had been gripping the sheets, now scraped down his chest, leaving angry red trails in their wake. The pressure in your core tightened, coiling into a knot of pure, unbearable tension.

You were close. So close. And he knew it. His hips began to piston upwards to meet your frantic descents, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, more precise. The muffled grunts from behind the panties took on a sharper, more urgent edge. You could feel the quickened heartbeat beneath your splayed fingers.

"Don't stop," you gasped, the words barely audible, a plea and a threat all at once. He nodded, a desperate moan muffled. He held your gaze, unblinking, as the world dissolved into a white-hot static. Your orgasm ripped through you not with a sweet release, but with a violent, seismic convulsion.

It was a seizure of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, a raw, screaming unraveling of your very self. Your back arched violently against the hand in your hair, a silent scream trapped in your throat as your vision whited out.

You clenched around him, a series of ruthless, involuntary spasms that milked him. Through the haze, you felt his own control finally snap. A sharp, choked sound was stifled by the fabric in his mouth. His body went rigid beneath you, his hips slamming up one last, final time, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled into you with a hot, pulsing rush. His grip on your thigh tightened painfully, his other hand still working your oversensitive clit with a relentless pressure that prolonged the agonizing, exquisite waves of your climax until you were sobbing, pushing weakly at his wrist.

For a moment, there was only the sound of ragged breathing and the frantic hammering of your own heart. The room stank of sex and sweat and him. You could feel the rapid, heavy thud of his heartbeat against your skin.

His hand loosened on your thigh, his fingers uncurling to stroke the damp skin. You looked up at him. The infuriating smirk was back, though it seemed a little looser, a little more genuine. A thin trail of saliva had dried on his chin. He looked wrecked, and beautiful, and utterly, insufferably pleased with himself.

With a grimace of disgust, you reached out, hooking a finger into the side of the soaked lace in his mouth. You pulled. It came free with a wet, sucking pop. He worked his jaw, licking his swollen lips. "Fuck," he breathed, his voice hoarse. He looked up at you, his gaze traveling over your flushed, tear-streaked face, your heaving chest. "You're a nightmare."

"Don't ruin it," you shot back, your own voice raw.

You moved to get off him, but his hands shot to your hips, holding you in place. You were still joined, still connected, and the movement sent a fresh, oversensitive jolt through you. You hissed.

"Not yet," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. His thumbs stroked the sharp bones of your hips. "I'm not done looking." You wanted to argue. To slap that look off his pretty face. But a deep, pervasive lethargy was seeping into your bones. The fight was gone, drained out of you along with everything else.

So you stayed there, impaled on his cock, enduring his leisurely, post-coital inspection. You focused on the feeling of him still inside you, the slow, soft pulse of him beginning to soften. Breaking the silence, his voice was a low rumble. "You cry pretty." He said it like an observation, a neutral fact.

"You're so weird," you mumbled, the insult lacking any real heat.

"I know." He shifted beneath you, a slight, deliberate movement that made you gasp. “I think you're a big fan of butter finger weirdos.”

You didn't deny it. Denial was a game for when you had your clothes on. Here, naked and spent, the truth was a physical thing, a sticky, cooling reality between your thighs.

You liked winning. You liked the brutal, honest physics of the friction. You liked the way he could, for brief, stolen moments like this one, be quiet. Finally, his grip on your hips loosened. You took the opportunity to push yourself off him, wincing at the slick, messy sensation as you separated.

You didn't look back at him as you swung your legs over the side of the bed, your body feeling heavy and used. You stood on shaky legs, wanting nothing more than a shower so hot it would make your skin steam.

You heard the rustle of sheets behind you as he sat up. You could feel his eyes on your back, on the marks you knew his hands had left on your ass and hips. “You're such a player,” he accused, feigning his face as though he had been used. Your wobbly legs and ruffled hair beg to differ.

“Whatever.” You rolled your eyes, putting on your clothes scattered on the floor; your panties were a no-go. Soaked on the bed leaves a dark patch on the sheets. Commando it is.

“You sure you don't want a ride?” he asked, lifting from his spot.

“No, I can drive myself.” Grabbing your keys off the bench at the end of the bed. It was noticeably crooked, not in the position it was when you entered the room. Pushing it back into the place you opened his bedroom door, making your escape.

Throwing on some underwear and a robe, tossing the tied-up condom in the trash, Satoru followed behind you. Urging him that you could get to your car on your own, he followed you all the way down, not leaving until you got in your car.

You should hold up on your promise and scratch up his car, but you'll save that for another day. One where your back isn't trying to murder you.

The world outside felt different, quieter, as you drove home in the early morning darkness. In the shower, you let the hot water wash away the night, trying to scrub off memories that stubbornly clung to your skin.

By the time you collapsed into your own bed, the sun was starting to rise, painting the ceiling in pale hues of regret and relief.

—

What was supposed to be a one-time thing became a pattern, days blurring together until you stopped bothering to make excuses for why you were at Satoru’s place again. It was easier to let the routine happen. You told yourself it was just convenience, but the lines between hate and habit were starting to get messy.

Satoru would be tolerable for a few days before he started to piss you off again, but the dick was good. The only thing was, he couldn't seem to stop leaving marks on you.

Once Utahime found a hickie on the back of your neck, the day you decide to wear an off-the-shoulder top, too. You hid it behind your hair, hoping no one else saw it except her. Flaunting around a hickie was not a badge you wanted to wear. Obviously, she didn't automatically assume it was Satoru of all people. Instead of cheering you on for finally getting laid after so long.

It felt weird now that you've had Satoru’s fingers 6 inches deep inside of you, seeing him play basketball with the same hands.

It made you think what it would be like to be in the bleachers watching him play, but not as some hidden fuck buddy, but as his. That thought sent a revolting shiver up your spine, you don't think you could last being his girlfriend, or worse wife. You didn't want to end up just a “basketball player's boo,” not when it took you so much work to get to this point.

He wasn't boyfriend material.

Sometimes he would look up and see you in your seat, where you would look back and wave, partially back to his game but also as a greeting. It was strange and unfamiliar, knowing you didn't hate him as much as you did a few weeks, even months ago.

“Satoru?” you called out, pausing before speaking up again. “Are you…thinking of going pro?” you asked. You didn't even know if it was something you should be asking; he was pulling up his briefs, turning back toward you. Conversations were usually brief, with no comments on the other's future.

“Like after I graduate?”

“Yes,” you groaned as though it were obvious, you have no idea why he acts stupid. “Like as a career,” you said it slowly, hoping it wouldn't come out like you were getting ready to ask him out. Absolutely not. The question has been bugging you every time you saw him, all this work and talent, and he doesn't want to go professional. You were sure there were plenty of teams waiting for him. Maybe then, after a few years, you could brag about how you used to mess with him. Far into the future, when your dislike is far away from him.

“Why?” he grinned, holding your shoulders tight. Based on his tone, you knew he was about to say something stupid. “You know... there's something I’ve been wanting to try, so-”

“I would rather mop the ocean, no dumbass,” you sighed, slapping him on his chest. You already knew what he was about to say, and you would die if you heard those words come out of his mouth. “I'm just curious,” you admitted.

Accepting your response, he rolled over, wrapping his arm around your waist, massaging the flesh beneath his fingers. It was a type of affection you became accustomed to after you ended up staying over for a few nights.

This was the second time this week that you've been in his bed. “Yeah, at first I didn't want to, but it's fun,” he confessed, yawning into your skin. His breath was hot but reassuring.

Maybe he wouldn't be such a waste after all. If this went on long enough, you might be able to get free tickets to games.

—

The first time it happened was an accident. A collision of convenience and contempt that should have been a one-off.

Satoru thought that adding you to his schedule would disrupt it greatly, but after two months of finding himself wrapped in the same sheets as you, the scent of your shampoo and your shared sweat clinging to his pillows, it didn't seem like it was ending anytime soon. He wasn't mad about it either.

At first, he'd been hesitant to believe that he would ever, in a million years, hear you make a sound that wasn't a cheese grater to his ears, much less one that was panting his name, begging for more.

The bed chemistry was like no other. It was an efficient language all its own. He'd let you call him all sorts of things if it meant he got to feel your warm, slick walls wrap so tightly, so lovingly around his cock.

It was on a Tuesday, three weeks in, that he made the connection. He had a major exhibition match that evening, one he'd been oddly tense about. The pressure was a low hum under his skin, a rare and unwelcome sensation.

You'd shown up at his apartment under the guise of picking up your lip gloss or something, one he didn't remember you leaving. A familiar routine of crowding you against his front door and your mouth finding his in a furious kiss, and letting him eat you out partially naked on his couch.

Later, on the court, he felt untouchable. His movements were fluid, his reflexes preternatural, his mind clear and sharp.

Every shot was perfection. He dominated the game with effortless grace that left coach Yaga stunned. Driving home, the high of victory still thrumming in his veins, he replayed the day. The only variable, the only change in his routine, had been you.

He tested the theory. The next practice match, he fucked you in his shower beforehand, your body braced against the cool tiles, his hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise.

He played like a god. The following week, before a grueling two-hour training session, he'd made you cum twice with his mouth in the back of his car, tasting your release on his tongue. His stamina that day was legendary. It became his secret. His lucky charm. Not you, specifically. He'd never grant a person that much power, but the act itself. The raw, physical expenditure.

The way your body responded to his, it drained the restless, aggressive energy from him and left only a cool, focused calm.

The sun was high, casting sharp, clean lines of light across the disheveled sheets of his bed. He was soaking up the feel of your skin like a sponge, unable to resist the urge to leave his mark on the canvas of your body.

He slid one hand down the delicate dip of your spine, a sweeping gesture, while the other pressed down firmly on your lower stomach. The pressure was intimate, invasive, making him groan as he felt the shape of himself moving deep inside you.

"Fuck," you whined, your feet pressing into the mattress, toes curling as you tried to ground yourself. The sound, the sight, the feeling.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Firm. Insistent.

“Did you hear that?” you gasped. He pressed harder, grinding the heel of his hand against you. A ragged moan was torn from his throat as your gummy walls clenched around him in a sudden, violent spasm, a direct, visceral reaction to the pressure.

"They'll go away," he breathed, his voice rough. "Just like that." You just panted, a broken, wet sound, turning your face into the pillow. He didn't like that. He wanted to see it.

To see your features twist and change because of him. He drilled into you relentlessly, the headboard tapping a steady, insistent rhythm against the wall.

Snaking his hand around your throat, he held onto it lightly, not cutting off air, just applying enough pressure for you to feel the weight of his control, the potential of his strength. Your eyes, wide and dark, flew to his.

He saw the shock, the fury, and beneath it, a thrilling, undeniable flicker of surrender. "Look at you," he murmured, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse under your jaw. With a scream that was half-sob, half-triumph, you cried out, your release flooding his sheets, your body convulsing around him.

The sensation was too much, rhythmic clenching of your inner muscles pulling his own orgasm from him with brutal efficiency. He followed you over the edge with a low, guttural groan, spilling his cum deep inside the condom, his hips stuttering through the last few, shallow thrusts.

The sunlight felt obscenely bright, illuminating the sheen of sweat on your bodies, the mess you'd made of his bed. He shifted his weight off you, but didn't pull away completely, one arm slung possessively across your waist.

This was the part he tolerated. The quiet aftermath. The way your body, spent and pliant, seemed to fit perfectly against his.

As usual, you pulled your body up, slipping on your clothes, he would've enjoyed the view a little longer had another knock come at the door. “They're still there?” you said, a little surprised by the determination to see Satoru.

Pulling up your leggings, “I have plans," you snapped, seeing how he was still oogling at you, “I don't have time."

"Plans?" he drawled, lacing his fingers behind his head. The picture of indolent satisfaction.

You shot him a glare over your shoulder as you fastened your bra. "Friends, actually. Something you probably wouldn't understand the concept of."

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, standing up, stretching with an obnoxious display of his muscular frame, making sure you were looking. He knew you were.

You hated that you did. You pulled the shirt over your head, your face emerging with your hair a mess, your lips still swollen from his kisses. You looked thoroughly ruined. It was a better look on you than the usual annoyed expression you reserved for him.

"You know, for someone who claims to hate the sound of my voice, you're awfully responsive to it when it's telling you how wet you are."

Walking out of his bedroom to the front door, he followed closely behind, fumbling to put on briefs and sweatpants. One shoe on, and pointed a finger at him.

"Do not. Start."

“C’mon, can't you just cancel, you know I wanted to try this thing where you hang-”

"I'd rather tell them I have a contagious skin disease," you retorted, shoving your other foot into your shoe. You grabbed your purse from his coat hanger and slung it over your shoulder. "Good luck with your game, I guess.” You unlocked the door and yanked it open.

“Satoru, the fuck were you doing! We have pre-game-” Suguru was standing there, his fist raised to knock again. He blinked, his dark eyes sweeping over the scene with the swift, analytical precision of a seasoned strategist.

The assessment took only a second, but the damage was done.

Suguru's jaw went slack for a fraction of a second before his composure slammed back into place, his expression shifting from impatience to stunned comprehension.

"Oh, my god." You pinched the bridge of your nose. Pushing past the statue-like Suguru, who was holding a cardboard tray with two drinks: black coffee and an iced cappuccino slathered with whipped cream. The movement was so abrupt it nearly sent the tray flying.

"This," Suguru began to laugh, his voice laced with a world of exasperation, "was not on my parlay."

Satoru shrugged, stepping back to let Suguru in. Suguru moved to the couch, placing the tray on the low table before sinking into the cushions with a weary sigh. He handed the sickeningly sweet iced cappuccino to Satoru,

“You think Yaga is going to get mad if I drink this?” Satoru asked, taking a long sip. It didn't replace the hydration he needed, but it satiated his sweet tooth.

“Yo! Don't change the subject, I didn't know you were together,” Suguru laughed, snatching the remote from Satoru to keep him on track. “And yes, Yaga will be pissed,” he answered.

"Together?!" Satoru gasped, recoiling as if struck. He looked at Suguru as though he'd just suggested the Earth was flat, one hand flying to clutch his own heart dramatically. "Have you finally lost it?"

“Fwb?” Suguru tried again, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees.

“Fuck no,” Satoru scoffed, taking another sip of his drink. “I would never be friends with her evil ass.”

Suguru studied his best friend.“So if she got with another dude, you wouldn't care, you don't like her at all?” Suguru asked, trying to understand what was going on.

Satoru fell silent. He stared into the swirling brown and white of his drink, actually thinking about it. He imagined you in the library, laughing at something some other guy said.

He pictured some faceless stranger's hands on your waist, his head bent close to your ear, sharing something only you would hear. He imagined you calling out for someone else's name while they embraced your skin. It didn't bring him joy, nor anger.

He tried to imagine the opposite, taking you on a date, holding your hand in public, calling you his girlfriend.

The concept was so revolting, so suffocatingly domestic, it almost made him gag. “That poor guy,” he said with mock pity, “I am not claiming her.” he let out a snort.

He paused, a thoughtful look crossing his features. "But I have been playing better. My stats are up since...would it really be worth it?” he mumbled to himself, grimacing at the thought of staying with you for the rest of his basketball career.

If being with you meant he would get a boost, he might be less opposed to taking your hand.

“Whatever works for you, now get up, we are going to be late.”

His pine and forest scent, usually calming, was now thick and heady with musk, wrapping around you like a possessive cloak.

"Must not be doing a good enough job," he taunted, one broad hand splaying across your lower belly, pressing down. You could see it, the faint, obscene bulge of him moving inside you, highlighted by the neon sign across the street. "Starting to get jealous…”

"Hush,” you moaned, the words dissolving into a gasp as he changed the angle, hitting a spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids, “J-just fuck me, Toji."

A dark chuckle rumbled through him. "Your wish, baby."

His pace turned punishing; each drive aimed to obliterate thought. The window rattled softly in its frame. You would be a little worried if your mind weren't clogged with his scent and overwhelming pleasure. You don't think you could come up with a good response for paramedics if the window breaks. His other hand fisted in your hair, not enough to hurt, just enough to grip, to tilt your head back against his shoulder. You were pinned between the unyielding glass and his immovable body.

The knot began to catch now, a delicious, stretching burn with every retreat, a triumphant. It was the sensation that unraveled you, that made marriage certificates and shared bathrooms seem like a fair trade. This was the core of him, the primal, undeniable truth that bypassed all your annoyances.

"There it is," he snarled, his breathing becoming ragged gusts against your neck. His arm around your middle became a vice, pulling you flush against him as his hips stuttered. "Gonna lock you up, fill you up—so tight."

You couldn't speak. You could only keen a high, broken sound as the knot seated itself fully, an impossible, perfect stretch that bordered on pain and transcended into blinding pleasure. He was embedded, tied to you as his body tensed like a drawn bow.

The first hot jet of his release hit your deepest walls, and you shattered, your own climax ripping through you with silent, convulsive force. He growled, a raw, animal sound of satisfaction, pumping into you through every pulse of your fluttering pussy. You could feel it, the hot, claiming flood, the way your stomach felt fuller, the way his knot kept every drop sealed inside.

His lips brushed the sweaty junction of your neck and shoulder. “If I see another pair of dirty briefs on my floor, I'll kill y-you…”

RYOMEN ♡ SUKUNA

The sound of skin striking skin was a vulgar drumbeat over the hushed, respectful silence of the court. This either was your worst or best idea to ever come across your mind. Or whatever remains of it as Sukuna pumped your insides full of seed, you weren't sure there would be much of you left. “What is wrong, woman, speak.”

All you could muster were weak nods, your throat sealed by a chokehold of pleasure. It was too much! Both cocks filled your cunt in an agonizing stretch, a fullness that bordered on violence. Your ruin was displayed for all to see, Sukuna's silent subjects watching with detached, attentive eyes from the shadowed edges of the hall. The heat of their collective gaze was a secondary brand against your skin, almost as sharp as the one his hands were leaving on your hips.

A thick, calloused thumb swiped roughly across your bottom lip, dragging you back to the present, to the searing red eyes locked on your face. "Shall I repeat myself?” He gave a deliberate, rolling thrust upwards, a motion that made you see stars and your body bow backwards, a silent scream etched on your face. The twin heads of his cocks ground against opposing, sensitive walls, a dual-point assault that had tears welling in the corners of your eyes.

His nostrils flared, drinking in the scent of your distress and slick. “Pathetic. You come to my throne, dressed in nothing but my scent and your own audacity, and now you play the overwhelmed omega." One large hand left your hip to fist in the loose fabric of the kimono you'd stolen, yanking it down to expose your shoulder and the curve of one breast to the watching court. "You wanted an audience. Now you have one.“

He began to move in earnest then, a ruthless, piston-like rhythm that had your body jolting forward with each drive. The ornate wood of his throne groaned in protest beneath your combined weight, a creaking counterpoint to the wet, slapping sounds of your union.

His cocks moved in a devastating tandem, as one retreated, the other pressed forward, ensuring there was never a moment of respite, only a constant, stretching repetition.

"Don't be rude." His grip on your chin was iron, forcing your gaze to the sea of shadowed faces. Your blurred vision could barely make them out, but you felt their attention like a physical weight, a humiliation that somehow coiled tighter in your belly, hotter and more desperate.

A particularly brutal upward thrust stole the air from your lungs. Your head fell back, a broken moan finally tearing free. It seemed to ignite him further.

"There it is," he snarled, his own composure fraying. His hips stuttered, losing their imperial rhythm for a sloppy, frantic pace. The sweet, spiced scent of him thickened, becoming overpowering, a command that made your very bones feel liquid.

His free hand slipped between your thighs, his thumb finding your swollen clit with unerring, cruel accuracy. The added stimulation was a lightning strike. Your internal walls, already stretched and fluttering, convulsed around him in a vicious, rippling squeeze.

A guttural, punched-out "Fuck!" burst from his lips. His jaw went slack, those crimson eyes rolling back before pinning you with a look of primal triumph. Deep within, you felt the first hot, thick pulse of his release, followed immediately by the insistent swelling at the base of both shafts-twin knots, beginning to inflate and lock him inside.

The sensation triggered your own shattering climax. It was less a wave and more a seizure, a white-hot detonation that ripped through you with silent, breathless intensity.

Your cunt clamped down on him in rhythmic, brutal pulses, milking the endless, scalding rush of his seed as it flooded you, a claiming so profound you felt it in your teeth.

Definitely your best idea yet.

KENTO ♡ NANAMI

“Honey, O-oh,” he groaned, gripping your hips even tighter, filling the room with his pheromones. That scent sun-warmed lemons, a tinge of rosemary, thick and heady, as he drove up into you from where he stood between your spread thighs on the kitchen counter. The forgotten sandwich you'd been making for lunch was now a mess of scattered lettuce and torn bread on the floor.

His tailored trousers were a dark puddle around his polished shoes, his belt buckle a cold, hard bite against the soft underside of your ass with every deep, claiming thrust. You were braced against the cold marble, your back arching, fingers scrambling for purchase against the sleek surface.

"Missed me that much?" you panted, the words dissolving into a sharp cry as he angled his hips, that thick, familiar ridge of his cock dragging over a spot that made your toes curl against his suit-clad thighs.

"Bedroom was too far,' he rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly thing that vibrated through your chest where he leaned over you, his formal shirt straining across his broad shoulders. "It's been so long since I’ve seen you.”

He punctuated the confession with a rolling grind, the base of his cock, already swollen with the promise of his knot, pressing insistently against your desperate, fluttering entrance. Your slick was a filthy, generous soak between you, the sound of it obscene and perfect in the kitchen.

“It’s been 4 hours-”

"That's too long," Nanami breathed, his usually stoic face etched with a raw, freaky hunger that made your inner Omega sing. He released one hip to slide a large, calloused hand up your side, thumb brushing the swell of your breast. "Needed my perfect wife, my omega.”

He pulled almost all the way out, the head of his cock catching on your rim, before slamming back in with a force that rocked you up the island. A ceramic salt shaker teetered and fell, shattering on the tiles. You didn't care. All you could see was the blown-out black of his pupils, his scent full of need.

"So sweet,” he grunted, his rhythm growing more frantic, less refined. The polite, meticulous alpha was unraveling. “Don't ever want to leave your side, ever.”

You clawed at his shirt, popping a button. “Yes, yes, Kento, please- I want it, want your knot-” He crushed his mouth to yours, swallowing your pleas. The kiss was all teeth and shared breath, a far cry from his usual chaste pecks. He tasted like the coffee he'd had at work. When he broke away, his lips were slick, and his breath was coming in ragged puffs.

He murmured something you didn't hear clearly. “My wife. Taking me so well.” He shifted his grip, hands sliding under your thighs, hiking them up higher over his arms. The new angle was devastating, his cock spearing into you.

You were babbling, a stream of yes and alpha and more as the pressure built, coiling tight in your belly. His thrusts became shorter, harder, his hips stuttering. You could feel him swelling, the thick, delicious bulge of his knot beginning to catch and stretch you even wider with each punishing drive.

Your climax tore through you, a silent scream breaking into a shattered cry as you clenched around him, your body milking his own release. With a guttural groan that was pure animal satisfaction, he buried himself to the hilt, his knot finally locking, with an intense, full-to-bursting pressure that had you seeing white.

Hot pulses of his cum flooded you, a relentless, claiming heat that seeped into your very core. You could feel it, the overflow already starting to trickle down, sticky and warm where your bodies were joined. He held himself there, pressed deep, his forehead against your collarbone, his big body trembling with the force of it.

He nuzzled your scent gland, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there. "Ruined my shirt," he observed, his voice husky and spent. You laughed, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles on the previously pristine shirt. “I'll just change it, don't worry.”

SUGURU ♡ GETO

This has to be love; he's in love. For the first time in his life, he was seeing hearts in his eyes. The scent of you was everywhere, filling his lungs; digging itself into his skin. His rut makes his senses even more sensitive.

He had you folded over the edge of the bed, his big body a mountain at your back, pinning you down into the mattress. One of his hands gripped the meat of your hip hard enough to bloom bruises you'd wear tomorrow. His cock was a brutal, relentless piston, carving a deep, slick path into your pussy, over and over.

You could only cry out his name; the sound punched out of you with every drive of his hips. He was hitting a spot so deep it made your vision blur, each thrust sparking white behind your eyelids. The wet, filthy noise of your joining was obscene, a rhythmic squelch that seemed to feed him.

“My alpha, Suguru!” you choked out, fingers scrambling against the rumpled sheets.

A low, approving growl vibrated through his chest and into your spine. His hand left your hip, sliding around your front, dipping low, his calloused fingers finding your clit with unerring accuracy. The dual assault was too much-the deep, stretching fullness, the clever, circling pressure—and a broken cry tore from your throat.

The knot at the base of his length was already swelling, a thick, insistent pressure that stretched you wider with every pass. The promise of it, the certainty, tipped you over the edge. Your climax ripped through you, a seismic wave of sensation that clenched violently around his driving length, and you sobbed his name into the mattress.

The feeling of your tight, fluttering channel squeezing his knot pulled a ragged, almost wounded sound from him. "Fuck! Fuck, yes.”

He stilled, buried to the hilt, his body a trembling, sweating weight atop you. His lips found the gland at the nape of your neck, scenting you, marking you in the most primal way, and he began to cum. It wasn't gentle. It was a violent, pulsing flood, hot jets of it painting your walls, so deep and so much you felt your belly cramp with the overwhelming fullness. He groaned, long and low and utterly spent, his hips giving tiny, aborted rolls against your ass to pump every last bit of himself into you.

He kissed you, deep and slow and filthy with the taste of shared exertion. When he finally broke away, he rested his forehead against yours, his long black hair falling around you like a curtain. “Let's get married.”

“We are…”

SHIU ♡ KONG

Shiu's hand was already high on your thigh, his thumb stroking possessive circles through the silk of your dress.

"Park the car, Shiu. Now."

A low, rough sound escaped him, part laugh, part growl. He swung the wheel hard, tires kissing the curb of a darkened side street. Before the engine's shudder died, he was on you. He muttered something in Korean against your lips, his hands already pushing the sleek fabric of your dress up your thighs.

Too many people. His fingers, blunt and demanding, hooked into the sides of your panties and tore them clean away. The sound of ripping lace was obscene in the quiet car. “I hate those get-togethers, so useless when I could be doing much better things.”

He didn't bother with his belt, just unzipped his slacks and freed himself. His cock sprang heavy and thick against your thigh, already weeping, the vein along the underside pulsing visibly. The head, a ruddy, flushed purple, nudged against your soaking entrance. The primal, needy ache in your core clenched around nothing, slick coating him instantly. “Shiu, hurry,” you whined.

"I know, I know," he hissed, sassy even in his urgency. His hand smoothed up your back, a contradictory, gentle gesture as he guided you onto him with a single, brutal thrust. The stretch was immediate, breathtaking, a delicious burn that made your eyes roll back.

"Ah, you take me so perfectly. Every fucking time." Each deep, grinding drive of his hips rubbed that delicious upward curve of him. Your nails are scoring down the crisp cotton of his shirt. You were unraveling, the coil in your belly winding tighter with every brutal, perfect stroke. The scent of vanilla and wilderness was all-consuming.

He leaned back, pulling you with him so you were straddling his lap, his length buried to the hilt. The new angle was deeper, more intimate. He watched, dark eyes glazed with lust, as your breasts strained against your dress. With a deft, rough movement, he tugged the neckline down, his mouth latching onto a peaked nipple, sucking harshly.

"Shiu... please," you begged, your hips stuttering in frantic circles.

"Please what?" he teased, his tongue circling the aching bud. "Use your words, baby."

“Knot me,” you whined, the omega need raw and undeniable in your voice. "I need it... need you to fill me up.” A feral grin spread across his lips.

“I love the way you think.” His thrusts became shorter, harder, more purposeful. You could feel him swelling at the base, the telltale thickening of his knot beginning to press against your already-stretched entrance. The sensation pushed you over the edge. Your orgasm ripped through you, a scream from your lips as your cunt clamped and fluttered around him, milking him desperately.

With a choked, guttural curse, he buried his face in your neck, his hips giving a few final, jerking thrusts before he shoved forward, locking himself inside you. The knot popped past your rim, a glorious, unbearable fullness that had you gasping.

“Don’t tap out on me, you asked for this.”

SATORU ♡ GOJO

It was like the heavens blessed Satoru, cursing you in the way. When checking you cycle, Satoru failed to tell you his rut fell on the same week. He was already a stamina demon, but his rut was like nothing else; once you spent 4 days in bed rest after a week of straight sex. It was great…in the moment.

The aftermath was like getting run over by a semitruck and thrown off a cliff. Your heat and his rut at the same time might just kill you.

“Isn't this great, wifey!” Satoru grinned through his delusion. “You and I experiencing this t-together?” All he received was a desperate moan in response. Your body moving in instinct, hips chasing that delicious high. “I know you love it too.”

He's so fucking weird.

His hands are everywhere, big and possessive, mapping the desperate arch of your back as you rut against him like an animal. The air is thick with the smell of sex and him - that sharp, ozone-crackle of his cursed energy, gone wild and musky with rut. It clogs your throat, becomes the only thing you breathe.

"Say it," he growls, the playful lilt gone, sanded down to something raw and demanding. One palm splays over your lower belly, pressing down, and you feel it-the obscene, almost full stretch of him inside you, a hard, tangible lump beneath his hand. "Say you love it."

"Who's jokin'?" He nips your earlobe, a sharp, playful sting. One hand slides up from your waist, fingers splaying over your lower stomach, pressing down. A choked cry punches out of you. There, under his palm, you can both feel it-the faint, impossible bulge of him, the outline of his greed distorting you.

"Lookit that. Already halfway there. My perfect little omega, takin' me like a champ. Gonna marry you all over again when I'm done. Gonna fuck you so good you'll say 'I do' screaming." You can't. Your words are just wet, fractured sounds against the column of his sweaty throat. Your hips stutter, a broken rhythm, and he seizes control, his own powerful thrusts slamming up to meet you, nailing that deep, blinding spot with terrifying accuracy. It scratches an itch in your brain you didn't know existed, turning your vision white at the edges.

"C'mon, sweetheart," he pants, his voice a rough whisper against your ear. His teeth graze the lobe, a promise of a bite. "You're so pretty when you're dumb for me. Almost as pretty on our wedding day." He punctuates the sentence with a brutal upward drive that makes you see stars, your body bowing backwards. "Could do that, over and over again.”

He's delirious, fever-hot, and talking nonsense, but the image of you in white, trembling and ruined by him at the altar, sends a filthy shock straight to your already pulsing core. You clench around him, a tight, involuntary spasm, and he barks out a laugh that's half groan.

"Oh- knew you liked that idea." His other hand fists in your hair, not pulling, just holding, anchoring you in the storm of him. His hips piston up, the slick, meaty sound of your bodies meeting filling the room. "My good wife. Takin' me so deep, fuck- look at you."

He guides your own trembling hand to join his on your stomach, forcing your fingers to press into the soft flesh. You can feel him. The thick, relentless slide of his cock is imprinting itself on you from the inside out. A tiny, visible bulge with every unforgiving thrust. Your jaw goes slack, drool beading at the corner of your mouth.

Satoru watches it happen, his bright blue eyes, usually full of mirth, now darkened with a feral, hungry intensity. He swipes his thumb through the spit at your lip, then brings it to his own mouth, sucking it clean without breaking eye contact. "Messy," he murmurs, the word vibrating against your skin. "I love it, love you.”

The pace turns punishing. He's not letting you ride him anymore; he's fucking up into you, using his grip on your hips to slam you down onto him, over and over, the bedframe screeching in protest. Each impact jolts a choked whimper from your lungs. You're so full, stretched to a burning, glorious ache, the relentless friction on your clit pushes you higher, higher.

"Gonna come," you rasp, the first coherent thing you've said in what feels like ages. “ ‘Toru, please, I'm gonna-”

"Yeah?" he snarls, his own control fraying. His breaths are ragged gusts against your cheek.

"Do it. Come all over my cock. Make a mess for me. Then I'm gonna fill this sweet pussy up 'til it's dripping. Gonna pump you so full you'll feel me for days." He nuzzles into your neck, his voice dropping to a possessive, guttural rasp. "Maybe put a baby in you this time. A little Gojo, how fun."

The vulgar promise, your orgasm detonates, a seismic wave that seizes every muscle, milking his cock in frantic, pulsing ripples as you convulse against him. A broken keen is the only sound you can manage.

"Fuck, fuck," he chokes out, and you feel him swell, feel the hot, sudden gush as he follows you over. It's endless, pump after thick pump flooding your clenching walls, so much it seems to have no end, a scalding rush that has you sobbing from the overwhelming fullness.

"Wow," he breathes, a playful, wicked light returning to his crazed eyes. He dips a single finger into the mess, gathering it up. He holds your dazed gaze as he brings it to his lips, licking it clean with a slow, deliberate swipe of his tongue. A low, satisfied hum rumbles in his chest. “You taste so sweet on your heat.”

Round... something. Six? Seven? The numbers bled together after the sun set for the second time (you think). The concept of a bed was abandoned hours ago. He'd taken you against the balcony doors, the cool glass a shock against your fevered front while he burned at your back.

Then, on the floor of the shower, water didn't even turn on, his knees grinding into the tile. The dinner table bore the brunt of his hunger next, your palms squeaking against the glass. Now, you're in the hallway, halfway to nowhere, his body a crushing, magnificent weight on top of you. You think he transported both of you, no idea if it was intentional or not. The plush runner is bunched under your back. He's got you in a mating press so deep your soul feels rearranged. His hands pin your wrists above your head, his white hair plastered to his forehead, those blinding blue eyes wild and unfocused, seeing only you, through you.

"Gonna fill you up," he snarls, the words raw and ragged. "It'll take." There's no finesse now, just a relentless, pounding rhythm that shakes the pictures on the walls. Your body seizing around him, a tight, fluttering fist sucking his cock in with each thrust.

You come with a broken scream, your back arching off the floor, every nerve ending detonating. It triggers his own collapse. A guttural roar tears from his throat, a sound of pure, unraveling instinct, as he buries his head into your scent gland, breathing in the source of your scent. It's a flood, a searing rush that feels endless, painting your insides white, overfilling you until hot, sticky rivulets leak out around the still-throbbing junction of your bodies.

The light is wrong. It's not the soft grey of your bedroom dawn, but the bright, accusing yellow of the midday sun slicing through the formal living room curtains—a room you never use. You wake up cold and stiff, drenched. Dried sweat, sticky patches of other things, and a scent that is overwhelmingly, unabashedly sex.

You're tangled in what was once a sheer curtain, now ripped from its rod and wrapped around your legs like a shroud. Satoru is a mountain of bare, scarred flesh half-sprawled across the velvet settee, one leg dangling off, his face pressed into a cushion. A shattered vase lies in a puddle of old water by the antique writing desk. You have no memory of this room. The last concrete memory is of his teeth on your shoulder in the hallway.

Satoru groans, shifting. A crust of dried white streaks lines the inside of his thigh. His eyes slit open, that devastating blue cloudy with confusion. He scans the ravaged room, the evidence of their frenzy, then his gaze lands on you, shivering and painted in the same filth. “So that's where you went.”

He's cleaning this for sure.