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♡ content warnings: fem! reader, established relationship, toji is down bad, nsfw, praise. mdni
toji loved his wife.
that's an understatement, even; toji would go to the ends of the earth if it meant he could be yours. he wasn't quiet about it either; whenever someone brought up anything that you weren't even directly related to, you would cross his mind immediately.
it was a big surprise when the people around him found out he was married and absolutely obsessed with his wife. it wasn't hard to admit that toji didn't look married. aside from the band on his finger, which he showed no effort in hiding. not many could tell, or bothered to look hard enough.
his rough exterior and often dismissive vibe led others to think he was simply unmarried. however, when asked what he was doing after work, he simply responded, "can't. got plans with my wife."
every day he worked, or in the moments he was away from you, he couldn't wait to get back. to lie in your arms, breathe in your scent. everything about you he loved. his favorite part about coming home to you waiting for him is just as much as he waited to get back.
he waited hours to be with you. there was no way he wasn't on you the minute he got in the house. he was in his own home; there was nothing that could prevent him from being with his wife.
"toji?" you yawned lightly, voice raspy from your nap. "did you just get home?" he was kissing the bare skin of your waist, exposed from the large shirt you were wearing.
it was an old one of toji's that you had stolen from the laundry basket. there was no way he was getting it back, not that he minded anyway.
he simply hummed against your skin, continuing to kiss you, your skin still warm. the low, rumbling sound vibrated against your stomach. his mouth trailed up over the thin cotton of the stolen shirt to the swell of your breast. he didn’t answer with words.
one big, scarred hand slid up your side, the callouses catching on the fabric, and he bunched the shirt in his fist, dragging it up and over your head in one impatient motion. the cool air of the room kissed your skin for only a second before he was covering you again. he buried his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling deeply.
“missed you,” he grunted, the words muffled against your pulse.
his mouth found yours, all tongue and teeth. one thigh, thick and heavy as a tree trunk, shoved its way between yours, the rough denim of his work pants a delicious friction against your skin. you whimpered into his mouth, arching up, and he swallowed your sound, a low growl of approval from his chest.
he broke the kiss only to yank his own shirt off, the muscles of his chest and abdomen cording with the movement. the faint silver lines of old scars mapped a history of violence, in the soft lamplight, against the yielding softness of your body. he didn’t look away from you as he made quick and efficient work of his belt and pants, shoving them down just enough.
there was no more patience. that went away as soon as his key entered the lock. he hooked his hands under your knees, pushing them up and apart, opening you up for him. his cock, thick and heavy and already weeping, nudged against your pussy. he watched your face, watching your lips part, your eyes flutter. it was all so beautiful to him.
“you miss me?” he rasped, his gaze was tender in a way only you ever saw.
“yes,” you hummed, reaching for him, your fingers brushing through his hair. “missed you soo much, toji.”
a satisfied, almost smirk touched his scarred lip. “damn right.”
and he pushed in. not slow, not gentle, but with a single, devastating roll of his hips that buried him to the hilt. the breath was punched from your lungs in a sharp cry. he was so big, the stretch a sweet, burning ache that made your toes curl.
he held there, buried deep, his body trembling with the effort of his control, forehead dropping to yours. the room was silent except for your mingled, ragged breaths and the creak of the bed-frame.
“fuck,” he breathed, the word full of awe. “every damn time. like you’re made for me.”
then he moved. it was a relentless, driving rhythm, the kind only a man of his strength and certainty could deliver. each powerful thrust rocked you up the mattress, the headboard tapping a steady, urgent rhythm against the wall. the slap of skin on skin, the wet, filthy sound of him plunging into your slick heat, filled the room.
his hands were everywhere, possessive and guiding. one anchored your hip, his thumb digging into the soft flesh, holding you right where he wanted you. the other slid up to tangle in your hair, not pulling, just holding, a firm anchor as he fucked you into the sheets. your own pleas were a stream—his name, yes, more, please—desperate and exactly what he wanted to hear. he never knew how much he could like his name until it was you saying it.
“that’s it,” he groaned, his voice husky. his pace increased, each deep drive punching a gasping moan from your throat. "my beautiful wife," he moaned.
the word, spoken like that, from his lips. you clenched around him instinctively, and he saw stars, his eyes rolling back before he snapped his gaze back to yours.
he panted, a sheen of sweat making the defined planes of his chest gleam in the low light. he shifted then, dragging you with him, rolling until you were straddling him. he didn’t leave you, staying locked deep inside. the new angle made you cry out, him hitting a spot that made your vision blur.
“harder?” he asked, his hands settling on your waist, huge and spanning almost your entire midsection. he helped you move, lifting you and slamming you back down onto him, guiding the pace. “you got it. my wife wants a good fuck, she gets a good fuck.”
you rode him, impaled, bouncing on his thick cock, your hands braced on the solid wall of his chest. he watched you, green eyes devouring every flicker of pleasure on your face, every shudder that wracked your body. one of his hands slid down, calloused fingers finding your clit, rubbing rough circles.
it was too much. the way he filled your walls, the pressure of his fingers, the raw, adoring hunger in his eyes. the coil snapped. your climax ripped through you, a silent scream tearing from your throat as you convulsed around him, your inner muscles fluttering and clamping down on his cock in a relentless rhythm.
the sight of you, the feel of you, undid him. with a final, guttural roar of your name, he followed you over, his hips stuttering off the mattress as he emptied himself deep inside you.
he could have blue balls for 10 years straight if he got to be inside you, with you, and watch you come undone. when you finally went back to sleep, he made sure you stayed close to him. fingers massaging your scalp, listening closely to your breath.
♡ summary: he may not be some prince charming, but toji was determined to show you there are other ways to reach a happy ending.
♡ wc: 7k
♡ content warnings: fem! camgirl! reader, frog! toji, teasing (unintentionally), filming, brief mentions of starving (he is trying to switch back by starving himself), crèàmpies, toy usage, brief mentions of murder, jealousy, manhandling, running from it, choking, toji has a big d, fìngering, rough sex, tummy bulges, r is squeamish, overstim, petnames, praise, unprotected, multiple rounds, possessive elements, reverse cowgirl, backshōts, size difference, spánking, hair pulling, sqúriting, body worship, pwp, p slapping.
♡ a/n: apothecary diaries mention (empire one too lwk)
He was going to kill that bitch who put him in this predicament and then he was going to get you for actually thinking he was a frog and keeping him as your pet.
Unfortunately, Toji was transformed into a frog after fighting a sorcerer with a weird technique. They are no longer with us, but that's besides the point. Although the sorcerer is gone, he is going to kill the person who hired him for not telling him about that “small” technique. However, he will do that after collecting his check.
The biggest issue preventing him from getting his revenge was you, after finding him on your windowsill you collected him as a real frog. Coddling him, giving him food to eat, and making sure he didn't take a foot outside.
Those aren't even bad, if anything he could bask in the attention and free housing but unknowingly you have a terrible habit of teasing him.
He was so particularly frustrated both mentally and sexually.
It's torture, coming in from shopping or whatever you do outside, you undress at the door tossing your clothing into the hamper. Parading around the house in just your panties and bra or if he was lucky you would at least wear a shirt. Although it was a small relief, the shirt was thin as hell and you never wore a bra under so he could still see whatever was “hidden” underneath.
At night however was where his sanity was tested, in your bedroom he could hear the sounds of you streaming. At first, it sounds like those regular ones he saw on social media a few times until they would quickly shift into whatever perverted fantasy you wanted to reenact with your viewers. Even in his new form, his senses weren't dulled. He could hear each thrust, moan, and notification you got. Every few minutes you read one out letting the compliment go to your ego, thanking them, and teasing them on through the screen.
He has never seen you stream, fortunately, Toji doesn't think he would stay sane if he had to sit there and watch you get off. Perverts behind the screen begging to touch you or what they wanted to do to you didn't even compare to what he was thinking. Other than what he would do to the person who hired him, he made a promise to get you back for all the shit you were putting him through. With interest of course.
The issue was, Toji just had to figure out how the hell he was going to get out, or if he could. He tried starving himself to see if dying as a frog would transform him back, however realizing Toji’s suicidal mission you rushed him to the vet for a shot. Now you watched him eat, sitting in front of his terrarium. Occasionally you would eat with him, probably thinking it would make him feel better. In a way it did, he hasn't eaten with another person in years. It was a nice change but it would be infinitely better if he were in his human form.
“Jinshi? I'm home!” you cheered coming through the door with a bag from PetSmart, perhaps it was because he was a frog but the food wasn't half bad. Jinshi wasn't even his name but after seeing him you declared it instantly. He would much prefer to hear you screaming his actual name instead but he can work with this, for now. “I got you some more food, I hate touching it but if it's for you…” You pulled your face away from looking inside the bag.
“I was gone for so long, the cashier and I were talking, honestly kind of cute but I have a feeling he might recognize me.” you rambled, pulling out one of the bags full of bloodworms, with a heavily gloved hand and a big pair of tweezers you plucked a few out and dropped them in his habitat. Swiftly closing the bag tightly and putting the rest up into containers, you screamed loudly when one of them escaped.
“C’mon! Ugh, okay…” You tried hyping yourself up to pick up the worm off the ground. Even at its pace, you were somehow slower than it to capture it. If he were able to, he would've picked it up by now, maybe scare you with it, but still pick it up way faster than the 10 minutes it took you to. “Jinshi! I did it, did you see that?!” You were so happy that you even petted him a little bit from inside the terrarium.
He couldn't wait to get his hands on you. He was tempted to hop out and climb onto your hand knowing you would back out in fear, and finally make his grand escape. However, if he did do that, it wouldn't make his life easier. Then he would have to find somewhere else to live and it's not like he can do anything in the form he has taken now. Settling he gave you a ribbet as a reward for your bravery.
He would have to postpone your introduction to his cursed worm, if you would even see it. You can barely handle the small ones, this was closer to your size, you might pass out on the spot. You haven't gone screaming about ghosts, so he doubts it.
“Aww Jinshi, my sweet baby. I'm so happy I found you,” you said fondly, being extra gentle with his skin, even kissing the outside of the tank. Almost by instinct, he went to kiss it back but he couldn't so he stuck his tongue out and outlined the pink glossy imprint. It was the closest he was going to get to “kissing” you so he was going to take the opportunity.
Based on your insistent squealing, the act seemed to please you. What he didn't expect was tears to start falling from your pretty eyes, they were fat, coming down in laughter as you stretched your arms out to hug the tank.
“What would I do without you, Jinshi?” thoroughly happy you went into your room to begin your nightly escapades. Usually starting setup around sunset and continuing later in the night. He has never seen you go to work or even do something remote so he assumed you made a good amount from streaming.
“Hey guys, did you miss me? I surely missed you!” you greeted saying hello to the early birds. It was usually the same people, after a while he recognised some names but he didn't bother remembering them. “Digimonmaster66, thank you for the 5,000 coins!” Toji didn't know how much that was in real currency but the prick always started with that amount for every stream. Considering how happy you sounded when that notification came through, it had to be a substantial amount.
You usually spent the first 30 minutes or so talking to them about your day, sometimes mentioning that you had a frog. Today however you went into immense detail about Toji or “Jinshi” and how he just made you so happy. “He is so big for a frog-yes, I did name him after that!”
That was news to him, he didn't even know there was someone who inspired his new name. He remembers when you first saw him, completely and utterly terrified but then after a few glances that turned into long stares you opened your window. He only hopped in to see your reaction but instead of the fear he was sort of looking for, your eyes brightened up and closed the window behind him, effectively trapping the frog in your home.
He doesn't know what was going through your mind to keep a frog as a pet when you were scared of everything. Your trust in him was officially set when he ate a spider that found its way into your home, something in his mind was telling him to eat it. So he did not expect it to taste as good as it did. In that moment as he swallowed it you named him on the spot. “Jinshi, you saved me! I thought I would need to call my neighbor again,” you claimed, putting on your keys and coat, and placing him in a wet container, taking him to a pet store to get him things to get started with in his new home.
“Mmh you guys are so smart, just for that I think I'll get you guys a reward.” Your pitch was slower, a little more sexy as you thought of rewards for them. The real one who needed a reward was Toji, who would do you so much better than those twerps jacking off at the sight of your cleavage. They only got to see it when you turned the cameras on but him, but he got to see it every day. Just for him as you sat next to him by the window twirling a bit of your hair.
He has memorized almost every single pair of undergarments you owned, there were probably a few you weren't wearing out in your rotation but got to see them nonetheless.
“I have just the idea, brb.” you giggled, he could hear the rustling of clothing and zippers. By the time you were done, he could hear the vague sound of latex, maybe rubber? Whatever it was, it was squeaky. Hopping onto the bed you turned back on the cameras. “I saw this being requested in my inbox so much that I had to put it on to show you. I wasn't going to stream today but I got too excited.” he wants to see, shouldn't he get a reward too? Toji’s jealousy towards the audience only grew at each sweet moan he wished he could capture with his own lips, gasping as you described wanting to fondle their chests and show them ‘how good they were’ to you.
“Aww CursedCK thank you for the 6,000 coins, you see how happy you're making us.” You moaned, the nasty wet squelching he could only guess was you fingering yourself. The pace was slow, agonizingly slow, Toji would go faster. Piston his fingers so deep inside preparing you for his cock, watching you come undone beneath him. Make you scream louder than anyone else could, show you he is the only one to make you feel that way.
“You see how ready I am for you, I'm aching,” you whined, the bed rocking against the wall for a moment. There was silence for a bit until you let out a loud moan. “Mmhm, I couldn't wait any longer. You deserve it.” you giggled, the notifications went crazy one after another, barely milliseconds apart. That seemed to turn you on even more, whatever you were fucking yourself on was moving at a rapid speed, chasing your orgasm along with your audience.
“Fuck- so good, I'm so close.” Your voice was airy and light almost like you were asking. “Yes, yes! I want you inside, filling me till I can't go on anymore.” With a scream, you came. For most, the stream would end but today you were in a good mood, riding out the rest of your release, he could hear the sound of you pulling out what was inside. Catching your breath you thanked your viewers for helping you.
“40,000 coins, that's a lot. Thank you so much. I think I might cum again if I keep looking at it.” Considering you're the same person who almost cried when you saw Toji climbing the tank to escape, he thinks you just might. When he leaves he will need to look up the conversions, if it's good enough to make you nut then he might need to switch professions.
“Don't worry, I have something else for you.” Shutting off the cameras you walked into the living room, you dragged a large machine into your bedroom struggling just a bit to get off the ground. Muttering that you didn't want to scratch the floors. Toji could have sworn his brain short-circuited a little, you were wearing a leather set, similar to a dominatrix. Long black thigh-high boots and gloves even had the bunny mask sitting on top of your head. When you bent over for the machine he could see the slightest sliver of a jeweled plug in your ass.
Could it really get worse than this? Hearing you get off on a fucking machine, or what he assumes based on the sound and your comments about finally getting fucked from behind after so long. It was insufferable to listen to. Even worse that he couldn't see and everyone else could.
“I-I think we broke a record today, I feel a bit numb.” You were still catching your breath, the comments were getting spammed so those who wanted to get noticed would opt for sending coins instead. “Thank you DigimonMaster66 for being my top gifter today, I can't wait to show you how you've made me.” saying your final goodbyes closing the stream accepting the last few coins.
When you walked out of the room your legs were slick with fluids, Toji wanted to stick his tongue out and clean up the mess you made. If it weren't for this dreaded form.
As always you wore an old shirt with some panties, different from the leather lingerie set. They were still nice, more put on for comfort than to show off. “Jinshi? I thought you were asleep, baby?” Noticing he was still awake you made your way over to a bottle of water and vitamins in your hands. “I'm starting to think you have insomnia…Maybe I should get you checked out again?” Your voice was laced with concern rubbing on the tank like you were caressing his face. He would play nice for now, the veterinarian was a whole new hell unto itself.
“I'm not very tired myself, let's watch a movie, ‘kay.” You smiled plopping down on the couch as you scrolled through some of the movies. You gasped at one of the selections clicking on it immediately, “This used to be my favorite!” hurriedly clicking play the introduction scene started.
Toji didn't watch movies so as the animation played he wasn't familiar. If anything he was more interested in the plot, kissing a frog to break the curse. He didn't even think of that as an option to break out of this body. As ridiculous as it sounded he was tempted to test the theory.
All he needed to do was wait for his plan to be set in motion.
“Look Jinshi, isn't that so romantic? I was Tiana for 3 years straight for Halloween, maybe I can do it again this year. You can be my Naveen!” you giggled watching the marriage scene unfold.
“Ribbet.”
“I can even get you an outfit if they have that for frogs, would you like that?”
“Ribbet.”
“Okay, I'll stop talking.” The excitement was already boiling as you continued to watch the end of the movie, and by the last 10 minutes, you were out like a light. Snoring lightly on the cushions, the television playing similar movies.
The following days went by as usual but instead of streaming every other night like you would before now you were going out. Coming back hungover or not coming back at all. It was a stark difference from how you were previously, it's not like you were neglecting him, his food came on the regular, and his habitat was cleaned routinely. However, he couldn't help but feel like something was going on.
His suspicions were confirmed when you left earlier in the day dressing up all pretty even curling your hair and leaving out. You mentioned something about “this one might work out,” before leaving but he didn't quite know the context. The lock turned, but there wasn't one voice like usual, rather there were two. Yours he recognised but the other was unfamiliar, a man's voice for sure, his face however, was a little, but he couldn't remember where.
“Mmh- at least wait till we get inside,” you laughed, pulling him down to kiss you further. The man gripped you closer, feeling on your ass molding the fat within his fingers. You yelped as he lifted you from the ground, laying your body on the empty dining room table. He was sure to take his shoes off but they were scattered and not neatly put like the rest. How impatient.
As much as he wanted to, he couldn't take his eyes off the sight. It was unbearable but when else would he get to see you like this, it only became too much when you started moaning the other man's name. “Jeremiah,” you whined so sweetly.
No way you fucking a guy named Jeremiah. Was this your type, medium men who can't even hold you up for more than a minute? He couldn't watch this anymore, actually, he never wanted to see it again unless it was him enjoying the way your lips moved to say his name.
“Ribbet!” It was a lot louder than any of the other ones he had ever given you. It grabbed your attention immediately, your head snapping in his direction.
“Jinshi I'm sorry, I'll be quiet, okay?” you smiled, it was a little lopsided but with Toji’s presence now aware by the couple. You led Jeremiah to your bedroom. When he thought it couldn't get any worse, it did. Insanely so. Jeremiah lasted a total of 2 minutes and 2 seconds, before tapping out. No foreplay, rubbed your clit a little bit, before shoving his dick in. When he finally pulled out, he offered to cum on your stomach but you immediately declined.
If your streams were anything to go off of you were loud, you like to talk. But now you were quiet giving him a few noises, adjacent to sighs. It was a sad listen, you seemed so excited to. Toji could do you so much better. Watching the guy leave high and proud irked the fuck out of Toji— he remembered his face just in case he needed to add him to his shit list when he got out. It was the most pathetic fuck he's ever seen (heard).
Once you shut the door behind the guy making sure it was loud enough to send a message you hurried back to your room and gave yourself what you needed. Fucking yourself on a vibrator, it seemed to do the job. Orgasming within a few minutes, not loud but a lot louder than you were with Jeremiah.
Your mood for the morning after was shitty at best. A scowl was left on your face and you had a straight attitude. Feeding him a few bugs not even flinching when one tried to crawl out, even though they knew not to fuck with you right now. “We are never going to that PetSmart again.” Then it clicked, that's where Toji recognised him. The cashier there, his face was so plain no wonder it didn't ring a bell.
It was pitiable watching you mope around the apartment even wearing shorts, they must have really pissed you off. One thing he also noticed is that when you were done feeding him you didn't close the lip all the way leaving a small gap that he could escape out of.
Making your way back into your room playing a show on your surround sounds probably just letting it become background noise he could hear the slightest sound of you snoring. As much as it sucks to make his grand escape while you were grieving your crush, he had things he needed to do. Yours would be temporary, his condition however may become permanent if he doesn't do something about it.
It was easy getting out, his feet and hands easily gripped onto the glass as he climbed out. It felt weird being out of the cage for so long, it was freeing. This would be his first time coming this far into the home, sneaking under the door into your room where you slept. Approaching your body you had drool spilling out in the corner of your mouth, even ditched the shorts. He had to make this quick if it failed then he was fucked.
Landing on your chin, he brought his mouth to your sleeping one, not much he could really expect to touch lips. He stood there for a minute or so, but nothing happened. He didn't feel any different, no magical sparkles transforming him. Nothing.
He fell on your lower face, and he would be stuck like this. It was hopeless, he would need to get used to listening to you talking about getting fucked or getting fucked for the rest of his life. At least it was free, not a dime coming out of his account- his account. He still didn't get paid, that asshat is running amok thinking Toji let him off scotch free with a free hit.
He was so fucked.
He laughed to himself thinking about how he got himself here. At least it felt nice being skin to skin with you finally, he hates being so slimy all the time, now he got some air to dry up. He was just going to lie there until you realised and would take him back to the tank, maybe you would bring him into your room at some point. Until you started groaning, and struggling underneath him.
“Get off, you're heavy,” you grumbled, still half asleep. Toji obeyed, moving over onto the other side, his body weight making the bed bounce a bit on his side. Wait, body weight! Snapping up, Toji looked at his hands, flesh, veins, and actual fingers. It worked! Quickly grabbing clothing from your drawers, everything being way too small but he couldn't walk out bare naked, he would find himself in a different kind of jail. He really didn't feel like dealing with cops right now either.
The moonlight graced his skin in its glow, and he felt renewed. He was a man on a mission, first, he needed to pay a visit to that geezer who hired him in the first place.
___
10 days
Jinshi has been gone for 10 days now. You've tried searching everywhere for him, but nothing. You were heartbroken, you thought you were finally getting somewhere with him. He was hostile the first few weeks but he eventually started letting you touch him. Now he is gone, maybe forever.
You still kept his food, in hopes he would come back eventually but then you hated having to look at it. All it reminded you of was Jinshi. You could only hope he was doing good, finding happiness elsewhere if it wasn't with you. You hadn't streamed since he left, the vibe just wasn't right and to be honest, you were getting quite bored with your current content. Scrolling through your emails you saw brand offers and product testing but a certain email caught your eye. Another creator was offering to partner with you on each other's streams.
You hadn't thought about having someone else on stream with you, perhaps that's what you needed. The streamer wasn't exactly your type, he reminded you of Jeremiah, fucking bitch. Just thinking about him made you mad, he hyped himself up only to do that shit to you. You thought it was cute how he watched your streams, but it became too much when that was all he talked about. Couldn't even fuck you right. A tried and true, two-pump chump.
It had been even quieter without Jinshi, although he was very quiet, his presence filled the empty space of your large penthouse. It got lonely sometimes, with no one else to talk to you decided perhaps it was time to say hello to your awaiting viewers.
Setting up you only wore a simple tank top and some shorts, nothing dressed up. They want you to take it off anyway, not that you were mad. Going naked in your apartment was normal, you only wore a shirt sometimes because you felt bad for Jinshi having to watch you naked. The stream started up, your regulars coming in fast. Streaming fed your ego graciously making you feel less lonely than you were.
“Hey, did you miss me? Oh, thank you DigimonMaster66 for the 5,000 coins." Some comments were asking how you were doing other more graphic things about wanting you to take your clothes off. “You always know how to make my day!” The guy was a whale spending almost 8 thousand dollars per stream and that doesn't even include private tips and chats. The most was 15 thousand and that was a few months ago when you cosplayed as his favorite digimon on stream. He was truly your favorite, others tried topping him but no one could.
“Oh, welcome SSKiller0T, oh…oh my gosh. Thank you!” Your mood was instantly improved when you received the 20,000 coins, someone knows how to enter a stream. Today you didn't plan on doing anything, just talking, viewers who have seen you before understood, others maybe not.
“Actually I am pretty sad. Jinshi, my frog, ran away. I am just so upset. We were doing so well, and even worse this guy I was talking to couldn't satisfy me.” You were leaning way into this bit, being dramatic enough for your viewers to feel bad. If they were still going to jerk off, you might as well give them a voice to do it with. “You ruined me for everyone else, now I can only get off with you.” That rubbed your viewers the right way because the gifts were coming in, even getting a notification that someone brought an item off your wishlist. If you were going to grieve the loss of your pet then at least you could profit off of it, maybe use it to hire a team to find him.
“SSKiller0T, you're really going in it today. Who knows, if you do good I might add you to my sweethearts list." He was constantly donating, making his presence known. Even your top-gifter was noticing and was trying to “up” him in tips. Who were you to stop friendly competition, all it was doing was filling your pockets.
You let them battle it out while you spoke to your other viewers, asking about them and what they would like to see. Knowing it would most likely be the next stream. All of it was clique stuff, they usually said this stuff. “Actually I was thinking of starting an OnlyFans, so then you guys could see me and not miss a stream. I will still stream but it's good for people who are in a different time zone or working hard for me.” It was just a suggestion but the comments seemed to enjoy the idea immensely. Flooding your comments with yeses.
“Okay then sounds like a deal then, I'll let you go now. I have work to do!” Waving goodbye you need the stream quickly. As expected DigimonMaster66 was your top-gifted but only by 1 coin. How petty. However, the newcomer came a close second. They were 10,000 coins away from breaking your 70,000 coin record. Not too shabby for someone who has joined your stream for the first time. Hopefully, he would be back in the next stream.
Getting to work you spent the next few days filming content for your new OnlyFans. Most of it would be uploaded so you wanted at least a week's worth of content for the page. It felt different not filming in front of an audience, hopefully, they would like the change.
____
You really missed Jinshi, out of habit you would let your presence be known when coming home but there was no one else with you anymore. “Jinshi I'm home!” you said in vain. Sometimes you hoped to see him where you found him on your windowsill. Unfortunately for you, there was a weirdo following you outside the shop, you noticed him in the store following you out. You picked up your pace debating calling an Uber but you didn't want this freak following you. Staying in the busier streets hoping that would deter him but he came up to tap your shoulder.
You yelped in fear, your hand instinctively reaching for the pepper spray. “It's you, I knew you looked familiar but it really is you!” The man looked at you with a relieved look on his face as he grabbed you by the shoulders. Pulling the spray out of your bag you had it almost out till a man came up behind him pulling him away from you.
“Watch the fuck out, loser.” The man was much bigger than the guy who approached you. Pushing him out of the way, he looked between you and the staring passersby he ran away in the opposite direction. “You alright?” your mysterious savior asked, bringing his attention to you.
You nodded, thanking him profusely for helping you. Although you planned on peppering the fuck out of the asshole either method worked. At least one saves you a trip to the police station. He was hot, like really hot. Offering to walk you back home you accepted letting the handsome stranger walk with you home.
Other than his pretty face he wasn't a half bad talker either, listening to you rant about anything. It was nice, and reminded you of your sweet Jinshi. The scar on the corner of his lip garnered your attention making you wonder what could have happened. It was a little sexy, made you wonder what it would feel like on your lips.
His presence was comforting and familiar even though you had never met him before. You're sure you would remember him if you'd met before. When he laughed at your jokes your face would heat up, the arm he had on the small of your back didn't help much either.
At your apartment you expected him to leave at the entrance but he followed you upstairs, maybe you should have stopped him but at your door, you shyly kissed him on the corner of his mouth where his scar was at. You didn't want your interaction to end here. Something about him made you want to invite him in, even if he was a stranger you'd never met before.
No risk, no reward, right?
“You're so tight, baby, no one's treating you like you should, are they?” he cooed fingers curled up inside your walls. Leading him into your apartment you expected him to get straight to business for a quick fuck but after spending so much time running his mouth up and down your body he was being patient.
You shook your head, your back arching off of the bed as the pads of his fingers pressed into the g-spot. Once finding it he didn't leave it alone, pistoning his fingers inside of you at a delicious speed. His palm is flat against your clit making you closer and closer. Bringing his mouth to your nipple, twirling his tongue around the bud. “Doing so good, don't cum just yet,” he ordered taking as much of your tit into his mouth. You nodded a little out of it, all you needed was to cum.
Rolling your hips to meet his fingers, he smelled good. If he is this good at fingering you couldn't wait to get him inside of you, put Jeremiah to shame with his sorry ass. Changing your position he brought you to his lap, your body facing the already set up camera. You don't remember leaving it there, hopefully your guest didn't mind.
“Password?”
“What?” You focused your eyes on his hands opening your laptop, opening it right to your streaming page. “How-” you yelped as his fingers hit that sweet spot again. He repeated himself again, sucking hickies on your neck. Naturally, you rocked your ass against his hard cock, the imprint was big. You wanted it inside.
“I thought you missed me? Don't want to show your viewers your sweet frog anymore?” Like ice dumped on your head, you froze up, snapping your head behind you towards him. He had a smug grin on his face, the scar following his lips.
“What a-are you talking about?” trying to form coherent sentences but it just felt so good. He went on to describe things you only told to the frog going into graphic detail about your daily life, how you talked to him, and how terrible your last hookup went. It was ridiculous, the man with his fingers 6 inches deep inside of you was your pet, your frog that ran away. “That makes no sense.”
“Don't worry about it, we have all the time in the world for that baby,” he said, kissing your cheek, like you were under a trance you shakily typed in your password. The page opened to your dashboard. Navigating to set up for streaming, your camera was connected making it easier to click play. “You read my mind, good job.” he rewarded you by letting you ride up that high you were chasing. Walls clutching around his digits as you came.
“Say hi,” still intoxicated from your orgasm you wave lazily to the camera. The comments were flooded especially with the abrupt stream. Spreading his fingers toward the camera gooey clear fluids coating them, he sucked them dry groaning at the taste.
You exceeded his expectations greatly, all the times he imagined what you would taste like didn't compare to this. It was addictive. It was almost worth being stuck as a frog for a month and a half. Almost worth watching sorry losers jerk off to what they wish they could have. He simply wanted to show them what they would never have. You cried when his hand came down to lightly slap your pussy bringing your attention back to him, the gifts were already coming in. The loud chimes are adding to your arousal.
“You see how wet she got, soaking my pants.” There was a large dark spot where your cunt leaked, the comments were crazy asking for a close-up or begging to edge you. “No, no, she needs to be filled up.” He shook his head, lifting your body so that he could take off his sweatpants. Nodding you pressed a finger to your hole a string of clear fluid followed. Holding you up the tip kissed your clit as he rubbed it across. He was soaking his cock with your lips, you whined each time he missed the entrance dragging out each action.
“Fill me up, please.”
“Toji,” he whispered in your ear, the head of his cock slamming into you. You gasped for air holding onto whatever to keep you grounded. It did take long for him to bottom out. His arms were still holding you up, keeping you from getting all of him. Giving just enough time to adjust he lifted you up thrusting back inside. His calloused finger rubbed your clit making the filthy squelching in the room even louder.
It was too much, drool was starting to fall from your mouth. Unable to close your mouth to be quiet, if your neighbors didn't hear you before they were definitely hearing you now. Tears threatened to spill from your eyes, each thrust he would go deep till you could see the faint bulge of his cock poking through your stomach.
“You see that, all me right there,” you screamed when his palm pressed down on it as he continued fucking you dumb. Whatever he did to turn back you wished he had done it earlier, all this time with him and you were missing out on dick like this.
Feeling that familiar coil grow in your core, you kissed Toji's chin, which was soft. Hickies started to bloom in the places you sucked at, leaving your own mark on him. Who knows if he runs away again?
Shattering your body leaned forward your toes curling inwards. “S-slow down.” You bit your lip, his pace didn't slow chasing his own orgasm. You tried to push back but his stronghold on you prevented you from doing so.
“Where ya’ want it?” he gripped your thighs, drawing sweet moans from your throat. His voice was low and raspy, pulling you further into him.
“You did say you needed to fill me up,” you tried holding on feeling another orgasm coming on. “Don't go back on your word.” he let out a low grunt one arm taking both of your legs to hold you up. Grabbing you by the cheeks squishing them roughly, forcing you to look into your laptop and the scene.
You almost forgot about your audience, drowning out the notifications too distracted by Toji.
Slamming you down on his cock he moaned loudly into your neck his seed painting your walls white. Twitching you hadn't even realized you came, the sheets below you thoroughly soaked in your release. Even the laptop screen was wet.
Lifting your head up making you look straight into the camera. Seed leaking onto the sheets, and your eyes rolled in the back of your head. “Sorry ass Jeremiah and Digi- whatever the fuck his corny ass name is, wish they had you like this,” he growled stuffing his cock impossibly deeper.
“You do, you do Toji,” you yelped, looking toward the laptop at him, that alone was making him get hard again.
“That's right.” he grinned, biting your neck, there was a red mark, any harder it would've drawn blood. It hurt like a bitch but somehow you didn't mind it. Even after insulting your top gifter, a tip came in from DigimonMaster66. “You don't remember your manners now?”
“Thank you, D-DigimonMaster66!”
“That's my girl, now bend over, gotta make up for all those times you teased me.”
Roughly pushing your head into the mattress with an oof, not one did his cock leave your insides. Sucking him back in each time his hips even threatened to leave you. In your bliss, you didn't hear him say something to you earning a hard slap on the ass.
His hand left a red handprint on your left ass cheek, burning substantially. “You like that?”
Slap!
“Don't just nod, let me hear you.”
“Yes,” you choked out your hands reaching for the edge of the bed for balance. The sheet was starting to come off, not giving you much grip on it. “I love it!”
Rubbing his hand up your spine, feeling each ridge. Toji pulled out, cock wet in your mixed fluids, he rubbed it against your ass smearing the liquids. Your hole clenched around nothing, the loss of his dick making you whine. Arching your back deeper, looking back at him, he was admiring his work. Marveling at your wrecked hole.
“Take a picture, it'll last longer-” pulling you by the hair, so your face was in frame. He was too tall so it only showed his traps and below. Thrusting back into you, not giving you a chance to breathe. His thrusts were hard, the skin to skin echoing throughout the room. The force rocked your body forward.
“Fuckin- attitude.” Letting your hair go you tried pulling back from his hips but he grabbed your neck. Similar to a warning his hand only sat that daring you, ‘run from it and watch what happens.’ Tears threatened to spill from your eyes, it was all so much. You would have never thought Toji would be so rough in bed, maybe it was your punishment for bringing another man over. To be fair you thought he was just a really cute frog, not a really hot guy who happened to be turned into a frog.
“Smart ass mouth of yours, suck.” Opening your mouth wide he stuck two on his fingers in your mouth. Mimicking how you would around his cock you took them as deep as he would allow. He groaned, throwing his head slightly back as you moaned around his digits. “Eyes up, princess.”
Looking back at the camera, you were sure you looked a mess, much different than how you started earlier. Tear-stained cheeks, running mascara, hair messy from his rough handling, and lip-bitten lips. Your audience was loving it though, probably the most wrecked they have ever seen you. “Oh- don't stop, yes there, oh my god.” You cried his fingers releasing from your mouth to let you breathe. His balls slapping at your clit, was the perfect combination to your euphoria.
His grip on your throat tightened, restricting some of your airway, and your eyes were starting to roll back no matter how much you tried to keep your eyes on the camera. It was too good, you felt like you were losing your mind.
Your body jerked instinctively pulling away from cock when you came, it earned you a slap on the ass making you cum even harder. “T-toji, too much,” you begged in choked sobs. Your pussy was becoming numb and the constant stimulation was overwhelming.
“I'm almost there, hold on just a bit longer,” he said sweetly, removing his hand from your throat to your hips. His controlled thrusts turned erratic as he chased his orgasm, you were definitely going to have bruises by the morning but they would be so worth it.
With a loud groan, he came inside you. He stayed inside for a moment before pulling out, cum dripping out of your hole. You shivered at the sensation, your knees were starting to give out so you lay flat on your stomach.
Rubbing on the globes of your ass, you could feel Toji getting hard, again?! What the hell is with his stamina? Still catching your breath you turned over a bit to look at him, ugh he was so sexy.
“Give me a minute,” your refractory period wasn't that long but you still needed a moment to get feeling back in your lower half.
“Take your time, like I said we have all the time in the world.”
࣪₊˚☆ synopsis: you spent your life missing a man up in the stars. a shame he only came back down when you weren't there anymore. but as gojo picks up the pieces of you he left behind, he finds moving on is a lot harder when it appears you might not have either.
⊹ pairing: teacher!choso x f!reader x astronaut!gojo
࣪₊˚☆ wc: 19.0k
⊹ content: mdni, HEAVY ANGST + SMUT, make sure to read part one first! gojo is once again suffering with no relief, heavy tension, intense jealousy and insecurity all around, mentions of character death, mourning, anxious avoidant attachment, reader is an emotionally constipated mess beware, a lot of choso pov, conflicting feelings, kissing, piv sex, oral sex (f! receiving), aftercare, choso whimpering, choso LOVES his girl more than anything okay, parenting, proposals, breakups and makeups, some domestic fluff, uncomfortable conversations and confrontations, marriage, bittersweet endings, if you want comfort, not much to be found here once again i'm afraid
࣪₊˚☆ art cr: @yotume div cr: @/decomposedmaw
The ghost waiting at your grave wasn’t yours.
Not much older than he looked in that photo still tucked in the top drawer of your dresser, but rather than the brilliant smile plastered on his face back then, your former fiancé was grimacing. Leaning against the closest tree, head leaning back against the bark as he stared up at the sky accusingly.
As if he had anyone other than himself to blame for choosing anything over you.
Choso bit his tongue, reminding himself that in the end, he was the one who won, the one who got to spend his life with you – and if it hadn’t been for Gojo being an idiot who left you behind, he wouldn’t have gotten his wife. His kids – whether by blood or bonds. His grandchildren.
Gojo had given it all to him.
One foot dragged a little slower than the other, but he made his way to the grave, bending down on aching knees to place a bundle of lilac by your gravestone. Apollo came by once a week to clean it, the one next to it left dingy in comparison.
It had always been you who insisted on upkeeping it – but well, your son didn’t exactly share the same sentiment for his biological father.
Especially now that he was here.
“Lilacs?” Gojo grumbled behind him. The morning sun wasn’t very warm, the breeze in the air making him shiver as he reflexively fiddled with his wedding band.
“Her favorite,” Choso shrugged, glancing back at his…well, not competition anymore. It was irritating how attractive he was. Made it obvious why you’d fallen so hard – and never seemed to fully snap back out of his spell. That icy intelligent stare refocusing onto where he was still kneeling by your plot, making it clear he didn’t think he deserved that position.
Gojo was holding onto his own flowers, long fingers clasped tight around thin stems. Forget-me-nots. He felt a sick shift in his stomach, a familiar ache returning to the forefront of his mind at the reminder that the two of you still had something he’d never been able to touch. The peace he thought he’d finally managed rippled by his reappearance.
Choso didn’t want to let it get ruined though.
Clearing his throat as he gestured to the flowers, “She never forgot about you.”
Even though part of him had always hoped you would.
“Her favorite color was blue,” Gojo blurted out, and Choso felt his eye twitch. Mouth barely able to hold onto thin neutrality as he resisted reacting.
“When I was with her, it was purple,” he evenly replied, pushing off the ground to stand up straight. You wouldn’t even let him paint the kids bathroom blue. Skipped every shade of it to pluck out a soft lavender, smiling as you offered it to him.
“Well, I guess you just know her so much better than I do,” Gojo scoffed, white brows pinching together tightly as he walked over to place his flowers by Choso’s.
It was hard not to cringe.
Jealousy used to burn him up inside, gnaw at him endlessly at night no matter what you whispered or how tightly he held you in his arms. But now, seeing the man who was responsible for it teetering on a knife’s edge, miserably mourning your memory the same way he was, just sorta made all those harsh edges of his own hurt soften with unexpected sympathy.
“She wouldn’t want you to waste the rest of your life waiting by-”
“You don’t know that,” Gojo snapped at him, before immediately wincing, probably realizing how he sounded. “That was childish, I’m-”
“Don’t worry about it,” Choso waved it off.
Truthfully, he didn’t know what he’d do if he was in his shoes.
Except for maybe not leaving to start with.
“I used to be terrified I’d wake up one day and you’d be waiting at the front door,” he added, not sure if being candid would help him any, or if it just felt good to get it off his chest.
“I wish I was,” Gojo openly admitted, defined jaw clenched tight.
Up close, Choso could make out the curve of his cheekbones, a little too hollow to be healthy. A haunted quality etched into every line, every feature of his face. Not getting enough to eat. Probably not getting enough sleep either.
Struggling to cope with his new circumstances.
Displaced in time and space.
And still there was one thing they both had in common.
“I miss her,” Choso softly spoke, throat constricting as a lump started to take shape, blocking his breathing as he steeled himself. He wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not in front of him.
“Yeah,” Gojo awkwardly agreed. “Me too.”
“Do you want to go out for lunch later? Talk about her?” He offered, shoving down his own discomfort to extend an olive branch.
Hope blooming when Gojo hesitantly accepted it, nodding with just a short bob of his head.
“Can you bring some photos of her?”
And a couple hours later, they were sitting across from each other in a corner booth of a restaurant he used to take the twins and Yuji to with you, plates pushed to the side as they poured over photo albums, fingers tracing over the glossy plastic protecting your pictures.
Choso paused over an old one, back when the two of you first started dating, where you were sandwiched between Apollo and Artemis, smiling at him from behind a snowcone in a roller skating rink. It was supposed to be a playdate for the kids, but it kinda felt like one for him too. Holding your hand skating, making conversation over the loud bass of the obnoxious music blaring, and blushing when you nearly fell and sent him tumbling down on top of you. He could still remember that flutter in his chest when he helped you up, your fingers gripping onto his forearm and his own splayed across your side, lovestruck at the way you looked up at him with those pretty eyes, a temporary tattoo of a butterfly stuck to the bottom half of your cheek courtesy of Artemis and crinkled when you laughed.
He didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone so gorgeous.
Snapping photos of your side profile and the kids racing around the arcade section, glued to your side and feeling like a dumb dog lapping up every little sliver of affection you tossed down to him.
Devouring every ounce of it, feeling like he’d been stuck in a drought, wandering in a desert without you as he watched you help Yuji calculate how many tickets he’d need to get a ridiculous stuffed animal from behind the prize counter, Apollo tugging at your pants and pleading for you to play air hockey with him after Artemis went back to skating.
It had been a good day.
A great one.
The five of you together had felt like a family far before you actually became one.
“They look like they’re having fun,” Gojo muttered, tapping the picture of the little boy who looked so much like him.
It was strange, honestly, a little uncomfortable how much Apollo had grown up to resemble him.
And now Apollo was older than him, his dad damn near the spitting image as him at that age.
Not that he’d admit it.
No, his stepson had done everything he could to diminish the similarities, running as far from his dad’s shadow as he could while his sister found the light in it.
“We had just started dating back then,” Choso wistfully exhaled, reminiscing about how naive he’d been back then.
How easy things had been.
Artemis had filled your former fiancé on the basics. A rough history lesson on the years he’d spent in space. A vague outline of your life since he left.
But he didn’t know how much Gojo really knew.
“You seem pretty close,” Gojo commented, his mouth pressed in a thin line as he flipped the page to a photo Mrs. Geto had snapped of the five of you at a soccer game, Apollo still in his uniform and beaming at the camera while you leaned into his side for the shot.
“It, uh, was a little rocky,” he admitted. “Mostly because she was still in love with you.”
And you had been terrified of falling out of it.
“I think she was scared of falling for me too,” Choso added, leaning back against the leather seat, still able to shut his eyes and bring himself back to the first night he confronted you about it.
Standing in your kitchen, putting plates in the dishwasher as you wiped the crumbs off the table, all three kids watching a movie in the living room, throwing popcorn at each other and giggling while you cleaned up after dinner.
Another night where everything had revolved entirely around the kids, picking up after them and playing, breaking up their bickering or dragging them around from place to place.
He had felt like a fucking asshole for having any kind of complaints, but when the most the two of you managed was a handful of makeout sessions you had to sneak in, a brief foray to second base that ended in less than a minute when Artemis burst into the bedroom crying about a skinned knee, frustration had begun to build.
Choso didn’t mind waiting, if that was what you wanted.
Taking however much time you needed if the idea of being intimate was still too much.
But you weren’t saying anything. Avoiding the conversation every time he tried to bring it up, switching subjects or shifting back to the kids like you were searching for an excuse not to be close with him.
To not move to the next step together.
He wanted to take you on real dates. To spend time with you one-on-one. Be a couple instead of just coparents.
“Can we talk?” Choso cleared his throat, shutting the dishwasher and fixing the settings without looking over at you.
“Yeah?” He could tell you were nervous already, voice cracking on just a single word.
“I, uh, just was thinking that we haven’t gone on a real date, y’know?” He started, peeking back at you just to see how stiff you were suddenly standing, shoulders squared as your mouth parted in surprise.
“I mean, I guess,” you awkwardly replied, biting your bottom lip as you avoided his stare, turning your attention away, and he could already anticipate how many seconds he had left before you’d offer to check on the children or change the topic.
“Are you avoiding being alone with me?” He bluntly asked, a tiny bit stunned himself at the way the words just fell out of him.
“No, no,” you stammered it out, repeating yourself as you shook your head. “It’s just, it’s hard to find time with the kids, it’s not you-”
It was the fact he wasn’t actually their father.
But he didn’t say that. Didn’t bring him up.
“I don’t want to rush you,” he tried to clarify, stepping closer and reaching out. Desperate to feel some kind of connection even when he suspected he might only end up freaking you out. “If you’re not-”
“What if I, um, ask Suguru’s mom to watch all of them next weekend?” You offered before he could explain his concerns, cutting him off with the words he wanted to hear.
“You’d do that?” Choso asked, heart thumping against his rib cage as he contained the hope he’d been clinging onto since the first day he met you.
“Yeah,” you nodded, smiling at him softly as he ran his hand over your arm, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead.
He hadn’t looked then.
But part of him wondered now, what he would’ve seen if he had. Would the smile reach your eyes?
Still, you kept your word.
Dropped all three of them off to be babysat for the night a week later, got all dressed up in a little purple dress that left him swallowing his drool throughout the entire dinner, clumsily opening doors for you and paying the check despite his dismal teaching salary.
You laughed at his jokes, leaned across the table and let him trace circles over your knuckles with his thumb over white wine.
Choso didn’t go on dates often.
But he hadn’t met anyone who made him feel like you did. Warm and fuzzy and frustrated and so entirely wrapped up in every word that left your lips that it was driving him mad.
Practically vibrating just from your touch, the way your fingers delicately intertwined with his when you led him back up to your front door, electricity he might just be imagining buzzing between your body as his as you leaned back against the the frame, giggling when you accidentally bumped into the bell.
He could see that nervous glimmer in your eyes.
Shared his own sea of anxiety over how tonight would end when everything inside him was aching for it not to.
“So,” you started, sucking in your bottom lip for a second as your unsure stare met his.“Are you gonna come in?”
Choso felt like he was going to black out.
Sure that he was going to blink and wake back up in his bed. Alone. Exhausted. Craving you so goddamn much he could hardly contain it.
And before he could hold himself back, he was cupping your pretty face and kissing those lips that constantly lingered in the back of his brain.
The rest was a blur. You kissing him back and looping your wrists around his neck. Shutting the door behind both of you and stumbling back to your bedroom, clothes hitting the floor while his chest strained to catch his breath.
And when your back hit the bed, he was sure this had to be heaven.
“You’re so fucking gorgeous, god, I can’t fucking believe you’re mine-”
He didn’t even realize he was rambling until your mouth collided with his again, your soft thighs wrapping around his waist as his cock pressed up against your entrance.
You were already wet, which felt like far more of an accomplishment than it should.
Pride sparking in his chest as his pre-cum unhelpfully leaked out onto your skin.
“Condoms are, um, in my drawer,” you blinked when you broke the kiss, swallowing hard as you tilted your head towards your nightstand.
“Okay,” he nodded, a little too eagerly as he climbed off to grab it, yanking open the drawer to find a sealed box.
Brand new.
Did you actually buy it for him?
Or was he being delusional?
He ripped open the top flap, but before he put one on, he looked back at you, feeling a little bit like an idiot for thinking with his dick instead of his brain.
How could he forget about foreplay?
Choso tossed a condom on the bed, walking back around to the edge of it before getting on his knees and yanking you down by your thighs until that pretty pussy of yours was right there in front of him.
Ready to be prepared.
“Can I taste you first?” He asked, not entirely selfless in his request.
He wanted to bury his tongue inside you. Get the whole experience rather than rush into it and risk cumming in just a couple clumsy minutes.
You nodded, maybe a little unsure yourself.
As rusty at this as he was.
You had confided in him before you hadn’t dated anyone since him. But Choso had no clue whether or not you’d actually been with someone else – even if it was just a hookup.
His fingers trembled as they slid over your pliable thighs, pulling them closer as he shyly leaned in to tentatively take his first lick.
But all it took was a taste.
And a handful of minutes later, he was nuzzling his nose as he sucked and lapped like a man starved, cock throbbing and twitching as he resisted the urge to cum every time you moaned and whined for him.
Pausing to ask if you were okay a couple times before he got too tangled up in balancing your pleasure and his.
Your fingers laced through his hair, tugging at his roots to keep him going, thighs clamping down on his head as he swirled his tongue around hungrily.
It honestly felt like a crime you’d kept it from him for so long.
He could spend the entire night like this.
Solely devoted to you.
Trying out every little thing, pushing and pressing and prodding at every spot inside you until he made a map of your likes and dislikes.
But you were prying him off, ignoring his deep whine as his glossy lips froze in a panicked pant, ready to plead his case to convince you to let him have a teesny more time.
“Are you alright?” He asked, swallowing hard as his own saliva and your slick dripping down his throat. Pretending he didn’t notice the rings gleaming around your neck, the diamond one you’d switched from your fourth finger to a dainty chain. Daring him to remember that you weren’t supposed to be his.
“I-I’m fine,” you murmured, chest heaving with every breath, making the necklace bounce with it. “Good.”
“Please,” he began to beg, brows knitted together tight. Desperate to make you his. For tonight, at least. “I just want-”
“I want all of you,” you half-whispered, like you could hardly believe it.
He couldn’t either.
Brain still lagging by the time he was sheathing his cock inside the condom, squirting lube on his hand and stroking his shaft before slowly starting to slip his way in you.
No resistance. No more holding back. No more hoping for something he didn’t know would ever happen.
Just you and him here together.
It was perfect.
You were perfect.
Your warmth, your touch, your scent, god, every last detail was far better than he ever dreamed it.
His thrusts were precise, dragging in and out all slow and deliberate so he could study the way your face scrunched up in pleasure, watch your lips part and purr his name like a prayer.
“C-Cho,” you groaned, raking your nails down his shoulder blades, not enough to sink into his skin, but more like a soft graze.
“Y-you like that?” He stuttered over his own words, not coming off nearly as confident as he liked.
You were nodding, your head on a bobble as your mascara-laden lashes fluttered.
He was shuddering, whimpering right as his cock pressed all the way in, bumping into the back as your walls squeezed down on him.
Nothing had ever felt so good.
He wasn’t sure anything ever would again.
Fucking you all soft, hips sliding smoothly against you, grabbing your hands and pinning them over your head so he could kiss you as much as he liked. Tongue slipping into your mouth, tracing your teeth, exchanging whines just for the other to swallow.
Pressure building and twisting in his core, terrible tension he couldn’t resist, trying to break him before he could make you finish.
Rushing to rub your clit, murmuring into your mouth and practically begging you to cum for him.
You were hurting.
He still thought he could heal you.
Intoxicated by your face when you unravelled for him, cumming into the condom twice as hard as usual hearing your breathy moan, half-collapsing on you as his knees went weak.
Choso might’ve been more embarrassed if he wasn’t so enticed by every little shiver and shake of your body, absolutely enveloped while he left kiss after kiss across your soft skin.
Talking to you in a soft voice, pulling your body back up the bed and flipping over so you could be on his chest.
It didn’t take long for you to drift off like that.
He didn’t blame you.
Between work and the twins, you barely had time to take care of yourself. You rarely got restful sleep.
He was feeling it call to him too.
Peace. Contentment.
Heat lingering underneath his cheek as he held you close, brushing your hair back from your face as you dreamed. Your mouth curled up, a pretty smile reflexively forming as your fingers tightened around his side.
Some sliver of him sort of wanted to wake you, to ask what occupied your mind when you slept so soundly. But he just craned his neck down to nuzzle his nose in your hair, pulling you up another inch or two closer to cradle your body against his.
And then you said it and shattered the illusion completely.
“Satoru.”
One sleepy word. Three soft syllables.
And you broke him in a way he wasn’t sure he could repair.
He stilled beneath you, heart lodged in his throat as he resisted the urge to throw it up. Flush it down the fucking toilet as he tried to lie to himself.
Swear that you didn’t mean it – even if your subconscious did.
That he wasn’t even here.
But fuck, that look on your face, so relaxed, so raw, it made something inside him snap.
What the hell was he thinking?
He couldn’t do this.
Slowly, he slipped out from underneath you, making sure to tuck the pillow under your head and cover your bare body back up with the blanket before he padded silently over to his discarded clothes.
Choso couldn’t take just being your consolation prize.
But the idea of going home and never coming back to you felt pretty fucking unbearable too.
He didn’t want you to know he felt like this either.
Hated the idea of you seeing him spiral into doubt.
His feelings were his responsibility. He couldn’t put anything else on you – be another burden on your shoulders. He just needed time.
Yeah, that was it. To think this through.
Figure out if you were really ready for this. If he was ready to be what you needed while knowing he wasn’t who you needed.
Choso had only managed to get his socks and boxers back on when he heard rustling behind him.
You were sitting up and staring, eyes wide and worried as you watched him wordlessly.
“I need to get Yuji,” he lied, sweat sticking to his forehead and plastering his bangs down as you blinked at him.
“Why?”
One word, and he nearly cracked. Changed his mind and caved in.
“I forgot that we’re supposed to go see Sukuna in the morning,” he excused, shrugging his shoulders. “I should probably pick him up and head home.”
“You’re going home?” Your voice was wound tight, but you didn’t call his bluff.
“I should, yeah,” he muttered.
You didn’t fight him on it.
Just covered yourself with the blanket as you got up to grab some clean clothes from the closet. Not looking directly at him when you got dressed, mumbling under your breath that you’d let Suguru’s mother know you were picking the kids up as you sent her a text message.
She answered the door with a soft smile for both of you, murmuring that the kids were still asleep as she let both of you in.
“I’ll go get them,” you yawned, walking past her – and all the framed photos of men who weren’t around anymore.
“Would you like some tea while she wakes them up?”
Choso always had trouble saying no.
Ending up in the kitchen, a deep line imprinting on his palms from the bite of the sharp counter’s edge as she poured him some fresh tea.
She glanced up at him with tired eyes, holding out a steaming cup he timidly took. She wasn’t a fool. Probably figured it out from your text alone that something was up.
“Can I ask you something?” He started, readjusting to lean against the kitchen cabinets as he looked at the ticking clock on the wall.
“Of course,” she nodded, a fondness in her gaze that he knew wasn’t reserved for him either.
You had told him about her son. Your fiancé’s friend.
Commenting quietly a month after he had met her that you thought he reminded her of him.
“Do you think I’m wasting my time?” He asked, keeping his voice down as he felt all the muscles in his face involuntarily clench. Mouth twitching in a tight line as he voiced the thought haunting his mind.
Was he just a moron for standing here wishing for someone who didn’t want him back?
He didn’t want to be a placeholder.
“Wasting your time doing what? Waiting for her to stop loving Satoru? Or for her to start loving you?” She asked, tilting her head to the side knowingly.
His mouth opened, but no sounds came out.
Unsure what question he really was trying to ask once she said the silent parts out loud.
“She’s never going to stop loving Satoru,” Mrs. Geto calmly said, no malice or condescension, just stating a fact Choso already knew. “But you’d have to be blind to not see how far she’s fallen for you.”
He hoped she was right.
Would rip his heart out of his chest and hand it to you if it made it true.
Artemis stumbled in first, sleepily rubbing her eyes and clutching a stuffed animal to her chest as the boys trailed in after her. You were behind them, but you weren’t looking at him.
“What’s happening?” Apollo grumbled, leaning all his weight against your leg as Yuji scampered over to his big brother.
“We’re going home,” you answered, your voice coming out all breathy, familiar heat still curling hot in his stomach just at your pitch . “And Yuji’s going home with Choso.”
“But I thought we were-”
“No buts,” you huffed, wrangling your kids towards the door without looking at him once.
He knew that he might’ve screwed things up.
Still, he didn’t think it would still be so tense a full week later.
That when he didn’t text you good morning, you wouldn’t either. No more dinners for five. Or carpooling to school. No more cozying up on your couch while the kids fell asleep halfway through a bad movie.
The distance didn’t make him feel any better.
It only made him miss you more.
Staring at the stars outside his window and wishing that he was home with you. Even if there would always be a ghost haunting its halls. Looming over the two of you no matter how much love he had to offer you.
Was the man you loved before him still out there somewhere?
Craving you the way he was now?
Sympathy he hadn’t anticipated surged inside him, daring him to fully empathize with someone he wanted to hate.
But he couldn’t hate him.
And he couldn’t stop himself from loving you.
So he sent you a text Saturday morning, typing and deleting a variation of the same ten words before finally hitting send.
He wasn’t lying when he said that Yuji missed the twins. Choso just didn’t know how to tell you how much he missed you too.
But you replied back that he could bring him over if he wanted, and he refused to miss the chance to reconcile. To fix things before they ended up broken.
Choso thought you might be a little upset. Confused by the sudden space between you.
But you barely even glance at him when you opened the door, speaking only to Yuji as you directed him to the backyard, nodding along to his endless chirping about what he learned in school yesterday before he ran out to join the twins.
The morning sun wasn’t too harsh yet, your side profile illuminated in the soft rays as you stepped out with them, wearing one of your favorite faded shirts he suspected belonged to him, the chain of your necklace peeking out underneath the color.
“Are you going to say it?” You broke the silence, your stare focused solely on Yuji and Apollo chasing each other and laughing.
“Say what?” He repeated, running his fingers through his hair, attempting to not sound as nervous as he felt.
You scoffed, low and soft, your mouth curling down as you looked down at the grass around your bare feet.
“I guess this is it then?” You asked, refusing to so much as glance his way. Leaning against the wall with your arms tightly folded across your chest like you were trying to protect your heart. “We’re over?”
His own practically fell through the fucking floor as he processed what you just said.
“What?” The question came out wounded. His throat drying out as he forced himself to exhale, “Why-”
“I don’t want to waste your time,” you coldly replied, but he could hear how much you were struggling too.
Oh god.
You must have overheard the first part of his conversation with Mrs. Geto.
“That’s not what I meant,” he defensively started, panic pulsing through him as he reached out to touch your arm. But you recoiled, flinching fast like his fingers would burn you.
“I thought things were okay,” you murmured, shaking your head like the very notion was stupid now. “Was it the sex? Was I not good enough for you?”
“No, no, I swear-”
“Then what?” You snapped, finally looking back at him, your beautiful face scrunched together in pain. Big tears welling up in your pretty eyes that you were trying to blink away.
For a second, Choso froze, stunned that he could be the reason for that. That you cared enough about this, about him to cry.
His mouth stuck open in a moronic ‘o’ as he stumbled for the right thing to say to stop your relationship from unraveling.
“You had your fun and fucked me. I’m just not what you wanted, right?” You were half-whispering, keeping your voice down to not alert the kids. Bottom lip quivering as you continued, “I don’t know why I thought you’d stay.”
Fuck.
This was not how this was supposed to go.
He was supposed to be smoothing things over, not losing you over nothing.
“No, baby, no,” he insisted, grabbing your hand before you could retreat even further away. “You are everything I’ve ever wanted.”
You tried to pull your hand out of his, but he wasn’t the kind of fool who would let you walk away.
“The sex was amazing, god, you’re amazing,” Choso rambled, rushing through his words as he felt a frightening surge of anxiety at the idea of you thinking he was just using you like some scumbag. “I just, I thought everything was perfect, and after you dozed off, you said his name and I-”
“What?” You faltered.
“You were in my arms, and you called out for him,” he murmured, attempting to suck air in his lungs as he inhaled sharply.
A tear slipped down your cheek, and before you could burst into sobs, he was pulling you back against his chest. Enveloping you in his embrace, arms wrapped around you as your body wracked with the weight of your sorrow.
“M’sorry,” you cried, your voice muffled as your tears left damp spots in his shirt. “I-I-”
He was stroking your hair, swallowing the lump in his throat at the sound of your broken voice.
“It’s okay,” he soothed, pressing your head against him to make sure the kids wouldn’t have to see you crying.
Not when you tried so hard to be strong for them.
Built a life around being there when their father hadn’t been.
“I didn’t mean-” You started again, and he only pulled back to wipe the tears away beneath your eyes, thumb slowly dragging over your cheekbones. “I just haven’t had sex with anyone since-”
“You don’t have to apologize when you didn’t do it on purpose,” he reassured you, feeling that hole in his own heart chisel just a tad wider at your acknowledgement he’d been the first man to fuck you since him. “I just needed some time to sort out my own feelings.”
“You’re still going to leave,” you mumbled, wiping your nose on your forearm as you tried to step back and recoil back.
“I’m not,” he promised, cupping your cheek. “I’m just scared of being his stand-in. A shitty replacement for the real thing.”
You stared back at him, taken a little aback before you shook your head, leaning into his palm. “You know you’re not.”
He didn’t though.
How was he supposed to believe he wasn’t second place when you wore the proof of who was first around your neck every day?
But he couldn’t point that out.
Not when he knew that he wasn’t being fair.
Your former fiancé had been gone for years. It wasn’t a bad breakup, or like you lost him in some tangible way.
You had no closure. No answers.
Just an empty hole in your heart that Choso was doing his damndest to fill.
He glanced back at the children, clueless as they played in the sandbox, Artemis threatening to dump a bucket on her brother while Yuji dared her to do it.
And his chest fucking spasmed at the idea that there might be another life where they weren’t his family.
Where you weren’t his.
“I’ll always love Satoru. I wouldn’t have the twins without him,” you admitted, sniffling a little as you pulled yourself back together. “I wouldn’t have you either.”
He didn’t know what to say to that.
Aware that you were right, but having a hard time finding it in himself to be grateful.
You were a gift.
Choso just couldn’t decide how to feel about the sender.
“I love you,” you spoke so softly to him though, so tenderly despite how scared he could sense you were just saying the words out loud. “I’m sorry it took me so long to say it.”
“I love you too,” he promised, leaning down to press a soft kiss against your lips.
To seal it.
“I think we just have to work on talking to each other,” Choso added after you started to pull away, slipping a hand around your back to keep you close. “Communicate better before it turns into this.”
He didn’t want to be the reason you cried. Be the one who broke you.
“Yeah,” you mumbled an agreement, relaxing into him before looking back over to the twins and Yuji. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“And then what?” Gojo interrupted his story, shoving a fry in his mouth with an annoyed frown. “You guys lived happily ever after?”
Wouldn’t that be sweet? If it had been so simple?
If you’d both stuck to what you swore?
“Uh, not exactly,” he muttered. “I mean, most of it was great. But we did have a pretty bad patch.”
Gojo freely glared at him, like he was offended at the concept of him having anything to complain about.
“Why are you looking at me like it’s my fault?” Gojo huffed.
Some childish part of him wanted to retort that it was.
That he spent his life fixing the damage he’d done to you by getting on the damn spaceship.
But Choso had made his peace with that long before you were his wife.
“You’re the one she married,” he bitterly added, jaw locked with barely concealed contempt he wasn’t bothering to hide without Artemis around.
Apollo didn’t even want to entertain him at all, only tolerated seeing him when his sister dragged him around to family gatherings and brunches, excited to have someone to chatter about science stuff the rest of them couldn’t comprehend.
Choso didn’t blame either of them.
“You know, she didn’t say yes the first time I asked her to marry me,” Choso confessed, twisting his own wedding band around a wrinkled finger.
You broke up with him, actually.
He had tried to dull the memory over the years. Make the edges of it less sharp, enough that it didn’t taint you in his mind.
But it still stung.
No matter how much time had passed. No matter what he knew now that he hadn’t then.
Choso had spent weeks planning it.
Debating on all the different ways to do it before finally deciding that he should do something as a family. Show you how much he loved you and the twins.
He didn’t want to just be your live-in boyfriend.
He wanted to be the step-dad to your kids. Your husband. To slip a ring on your finger and swear to love you for the rest of his life.
To never leave.
He settled on making the kind of meals usually reserved for holidays, buying candles and balloons, buying a pack of rose petals to scatter on the bed. Picking out a ring he hoped you’d like and saving enough money to afford a second if you didn’t.
Waiting for the perfect opportunity to get you out of the house long enough to set everything up only for you to hand it to him on a silver platter.
You were distracted when he got home from work, chewing on your lip as you dropped your phone in your purse and murmured that you needed to go run a couple errands while he tried to hide his excitement.
Maybe, if the kids hadn’t rushed over and started tugging on his jeans, distracting him with what they’d done at school, he might’ve seen your face before you walked out the door.
Maybe it would have all played out differently.
But he didn’t, and he’d never get to know what could’ve happened instead.
Roping the kids into the plan was perhaps a mistake.
But he wanted the twins' permission before he proposed.
“I need to ask you two something,” he hummed, ruffling Apollo’s hair as Artemis squinted suspiciously at him.
“What?” She murmured, glancing between him and Yuji, who was practically bouncing up-and-down with excitement he couldn’t contain.
“I would like to ask your mom to marry me,” he admitted, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he measured their reactions.
Apollo threw his arms around his leg, looking up at him with those bright blue eyes, absolutely elated. “So you’re gonna be our dad?”
“It would make me your step-dad,” he replied as calmly as he could, still trying to respect the man who made them – even if he’d never gotten to watch them grow. “And that’s up to your mom.”
You lived together. You told him you loved him.
He never thought no was really an option.
“If it makes mom happy,” Artemis murmured, a little more reluctant as she nodded.
“That’s all I want,” Choso softly replied, smiling at her.
She looked like a little version of you. Acted like one too sometimes. Slower to trust. Sweet underneath it all. She wanted to seem strong, but she was still soft underneath it all.
Choso had overheard her on the playground telling her one of the other kids swinging that her daddy was up in space, swearing that he’d come back after the child called her a liar.
He felt pretty fucking shitty for his silent hopes that her father would stay up there.
Did it make him an awful person? To want a place in your life that badly? Unsure if you would really pick him if your first choice became an option once more?
He did what he did best though.
Push down his anxieties and pray he never had to find out.
“Who wants to help set everything up for her?” He asked, forcing his brightest smile as his ring sat impossibly heavy in his pocket. Weighing his heart down like a lead balloon, threatening to bury it as he tried to swallow the fear that he might fuck this up.
But the chorus of ‘me’s and the bright faces of the kids that had all started to feel like his own was enough for him to forget about it and focus on you instead.
Getting all the details right as he devoted himself to the dinner, letting the kids lay out the tablecloth and set the plates up – although he had to stop Yuji from accidentally setting his hair on fire when he snuck the lighter out of the drawer to light the candles Choso had set out.
But eventually, everything was in its place, the lights adjusted and the food set out, the children all changed into nicer clothes as the twins talked about how they’d all be siblings soon.
“What do you guys think?” Choso grinned, wiping his palms off on the apron before taking it off.
“She’ll love it,” Apollo optimistically smiled, one of his front teeth missing from where it’d fallen out the week before and traded in for five dollars from the tooth fairy.
Choso really hoped you would.
It was too late to change anything, because they all heard the familiar sound of your key turning in the lock, the creak of it swinging open. The front door thudded shut, and he was pretty sure his heart was going to explode if it started pounding any harder.
“Are you guys hungry?” You called out, your voice wavering, bordering on exhausted, pride flaring in Choso’s chest at how happy you’d be to see the spread on the table, to see the way the kids were all eagerly holding their breath, glancing between each other and nearly bouncing out of their seats. “We could order pizza or-”
You stopped speaking the second you saw it.
Froze in the open doorframe, your eyes going wide as you scanned over the scene. All the food and the fancy tablespread and the flickering candles, the way the kids were holding in giggles as he stepped forward to bridge the distance between you.
“What is-”
Choso got down on his knees mid-question slipping a hand in his jeans to clumsily grab the crushed velvet box, blinking a little too fast, mouth opening too soon as he struggled to remember the speech he rehearsed a thousand times in the mirror over the last month.
“Um, I, uh,” he paused, spit thick in his throat that he had to swallow before continuing, “I love you, and I love our family, and I can’t imagine living the rest of my life without you or the twins in it. Will you make me the happiest-”
“I cannot believe you,” you interrupted him, shaking your head as you stepped back, your face blank, mouth hanging open as you sucked in a shallow breath.
“What?” He blanched, barely even processing the words that had just left your lips as your expression shifted to anger, of all things.
Brows scrunching together as you scoffed, fingers trembling as you pointed down the hall. “My room. Now.”
The kids looked at each other, awkwardly slipping into dining chairs as if they were the ones in trouble, but Choso didn’t know what to say to soothe them when it felt like his heart was shattering too.
Humiliation burning his cheeks as he put the ring box back, getting up off the ground and following you like some dejected puppy, hoping for his owner’s love. But the moment you were alone, the second you shut the door behind him, the way you were staring at him was closer to a stranger.
“What the hell did you think doing that in front of my kids?” You asked, and he couldn’t comprehend what the fuck he’d done that was so bad in your book.
“We’ve been talking about marriage for like, a year,” he argued, indignation he didn’t know how to handle boiling up inside his chest at your attitude. Glaring like he had done something so absurd to deserve it, your rejection leaving a sour taste in his mouth he didn’t think would be going away any time soon.
“We?” You hissed, hurt written all over your face before you wiped it and replaced it with thinly-veiled resentment. “You were the one who kept bringing it up.”
His jaw dropped.
“Are you kidding me?” Choso deadpanned, disbelief wracking through his body as he felt a shot of adrenaline begin to course through his veins, fingers flexing into a fist before he forced them to relax.
“I was just trying to keep you happy, I didn’t think that you were serious about it,” you said, turning away from him as you buried your face in your hands for a second, breathing hard like you might be on the verge of a panic attack.
Instinctively, he wanted to reach out. Hold you close and let you crumble while he whispered soft words to coax you through it. But he stayed still, nails digging into his palm as he found himself fuming at you for the first time ever.
“What the fuck?” He spat, his voice starting to raise as you recoiled back even further. “Why wouldn’t you say something? Why the hell would you just let me think you wanted it too?”
That you wanted him?
“Don’t shout at me,” you huffed, mouth still quivering as you folded your arms tight across your chest.
“What happened to communication?” He demanded, thinking about the fight the two of you had.
How you’d sworn that you loved him and didn’t want to lose him.
And now here you were, refusing to meet his eyes, mouth pressed in a thin line as you held your tongue.
Something he didn’t know he’d been holding back snapped when he realized you weren’t going to reply.
“Oh, I get it,” he grimaced, brows knitting together in frustration as his disappointment bubbled into disgust with himself for not seeing it sooner. “You don’t want to marry me because I’m not him.”
He knew the second he said it that he couldn’t take it back.
“That’s not fucking fair and you know it,” you snapped at him, and a bitter voice in the back of his head pointed out that you were only speaking up now that he brought up your real fiancé.
“You’ll wear his ring every day and not mine,” he retorted, doubling down rather than backing out of his accusation.
He thought you’d yell back.
That you would fight him on it. He wanted you to fight him on it. To finally let every thought you kept from out so the two of you could get out of this frustrating limbo. He didn’t care if it dropped him in hell.
He just wanted to get somewhere with you.
But you shut down.
Silently staring at the floor, chest heaving as you dug your own fingers into your side.
“I really am just a fill in for you,” Choso continued, trying to get any kind of reply out of you.
And still, you somehow found the only one he didn’t want.
“Get out,” you whispered.
“What?”
“Get out.”
Everything that had been boiling seconds before abruptly stopped, the pot ripped off the burner and left him stranded in hot water as his senses finally snapped back into place.
You had never kicked him out before.
What the hell had he done?
“I’m not trying to hurt you, I just, I want to understand,” he tried to backpedal, holding his hands out and stepping forward just for you to not even glance up at him.
“I need a break,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, sounding like you were a world away.
“From this conversation? Or us?” He blanched. You were supposed to be throwing your arms around him right now. Telling him you loved him and discussing what season your wedding should be in. Not fucking dumping him.
“This is just too much,” you muttered.
What the fuck was that meant to mean?
He felt helpless as he stared at you, the way your head was hanging down, shoulders slumped as you shut him out.
“I’ll take the twins somewhere and you can get your stuff,” you added, getting up and walking around him, making up your mind without even giving him a chance to talk this out.
Watching you walk away, dumbfounded as you slipped out the door, the conversation over before it had even properly begun.
“Are we going to be a family now?” Apollo’s hopeful voice carried through the door down the hall, and Choso rested his head against the door, wishing the conversation had gone another way and still too upset to think of a reasonable way to reach you.
To break through the barriers you were haphazardly throwing back up.
“Yuji and Choso aren’t going to live with us anymore, baby,” you softly said back.
Fuck.
You were supposed to be his wife.
Not his ex-girlfriend.
“You’re a fucking moron.”
Said the jerk that left a pregnant you to go to fucking space.
“You’re one to talk,” Choso commented, mouth curling down as he grabbed his glass to take a sip, the sight of his own aged hand reminding him that he was definitely too old for starting fights like this.
“So she really dumped you?” Gojo grinned, irritatingly white teeth on display as he leaned forward, looking directly at him instead of the photo albums.
“Not for that long.”
“You should’ve fought for her more,” Gojo pointed out, before almost immediately stopping himself, brows scrunching together like he realized what he was saying and who he was saying it to.
“I thought she didn’t want a future with me,” he shrugged. “Not when she was still thinking about what one would’ve looked like with you.”
Always stuck in the same position.
Torn between wanting your heart and wishing that he wasn’t second-place in it.
“If I could’ve been there,” Gojo started, genuine remorse bleeding through, and Choso remembered once again why he’d never been able to bring himself to loathe the man you loved.
Because they both loved you.
“I know,” Choso murmured. “I sorta wished sometimes that you would just show up if it meant she would be happy.”
𖥔 ݁ ˖
You weren’t sure you had ever been so fucking miserable.
Breaking up with Choso had nearly broken you.
You hadn’t seen him since you came back home to find every trace of him and Yuji gone. Hadn’t said his name since you had to explain to Apollo that you were going to switch him over to a new soccer team for the summer. Artemis had asked if you were happy, giving you that look like she could see through the stories you tried to keep up for them. All you could do was twist the necklace and tell her that her and her brother were all you ever needed.
But she had wanted to go to a sleepaway space camp for the summer, and you couldn’t bring yourself to say no when everything you would have planned with Choso had fallen through. So she was hours away, gone for weeks while Apollo was busy with his own soccer camp and sleepovers with friends from school.
When he was home, he was just complaining about how much he hated the older kids in the 9-12 group he’d gotten stuck in, muttering under his breath that his old team was better.
You sort of thought if you stayed busy with him, you could forget about all the other stuff.
Shut out the awful spiralling that started in your head every time you laid down in your cold, empty bed and rolled onto your side to see the unwrinkled spot next to you.
Picturing your pretty dark-haired man there, his eyes lazily opening and noticing you staring before pulling you into a warm embrace. Waking up in a daze from a dream where your blue-eyed boy was still holding onto you, murmuring that it was all just a nightmare and to go back to sleep.
Now you didn’t have either of them.
God, you couldn’t even pull yourself together enough to send a video message to Satoru like you used to, staring at the unused webcam when you got ready every day and lacking the strength to even sit in front of it and say something. Couldn’t bring yourself to call your therapist either, cancelling appointments over text and shrugging your shoulders to swear that you were fine.
You wanted to believe that you could heal from this. That there was still real happiness to be found somewhere between the lines of hurt and heartache.
But it didn’t feel like it when you pulled into the parking lot for one of Apollo’s exhibition tournaments and he started bouncing around in the backseat swearing he was sure you passed by Yuji.
Shit.
God, you were sure that he wouldn’t be here.
Yuji was in so many sports, and Choso usually coached younger kids anyway, so what the hell-
“Can I please go say hi, mom?” Apollo begged as you stopped the car.
“Of course, sweetheart,” you nodded, going ahead and practicing your smile when the muscles to make it were a little rusty.
The second you had slung your chair over your shoulder and opened the door for Apollo, he was sprinting over to the grassy area, Yuji’s voice calling out his name as a boy you didn’t recognize protectively puffing up his chest as he stepped between the two of them.
“Who’s this, brother?” The boy asked, looking back to Yuji as he stepped out from around him.
“Apollo, are you playing?” He chirped, his loose soccer jersey swaying as he rushed over.
“Yeah,” he nodded, deflating the moment he noticed how close Yuji was with his new friend. “My team kinda sucks though.”
There really weren’t many feelings worse than watching your kid go through something you didn’t know how to help them with.
Seeing the shock scrawled all over their face the second they thought they were replaceable.
“You think we’ll play against each other then?” Yuji asked, grinning with a gap in his teeth, one that must have fallen out this month.
“We’ll definitely beat you,” the other boy boasted, and you knew you shouldn’t hate a kid, but you sorta did.
And then you looked up, glancing around just to see Choso approaching – but he was too busy talking to a blonde to notice you with his brother. Her hand on his forearm, leaning forward as he spoke all seriously about something, flipping her hair over her shoulder as she listened intently to every word.
You hated her.
Almost as much as you missed him.
But you couldn’t deal with either emotion. Had no way to defend or deflect it, just putting your hand on Apollo’s shoulder and nudging him away, “Sorry, but, uh, I should get him to start his drills. It was good to see you, Yuji.”
You didn’t stay long enough to see what kind of accusatory stare he’d give you for breaking his brother’s heart. Or run the risk of Choso coming over and catching you clinging to the remnants of your relationship by letting Apollo hang around Yuji. Rushing off to find the right field, a sick feeling spreading across your stomach, filling your lungs and choking up your throat as you set up your chair and tried to tell yourself that the chance of Yuji playing against Apollo was slim considering how many teams there were here today.
But luck hadn’t decided to grace you today.
Because standing across the field twenty minutes later, in his stupidly attractive jersey and shorts, Choso was tying half his hair up off his face, bending over to listen to Yuji before looking over to see where Apollo was sitting on a bench, a cap hiding the steaks of white from the sun as he kicked his feet and waited for the game to start.
You saw the way his mouth pulled tight. How his jaw clenched before he looked over to the sidelines, starting to scan it before you looked back down in your lap, pretending to be interested in something on your phone instead of staring at him.
Just one game.
That was all, you told yourself.
You could make it through that.
But fuck, it would have been so much more bearable if she wasn’t a few seats away once it started.
Loathing didn’t quite cover the jealousy simmering inside you at the way her pretty blonde hair cascaded down her back and gleamed in the sun, how freely she bounced and cheered, clapping her hands together and calling out Yuji’s name in a chipper voice along with her own kid.
The one who called Yuji brother.
That was how it was now.
Choso wanted a happy family. So he started one with some other soccer mom, huh?
It had only been two fucking months.
How the hell could he just move on like that?
Maybe you broke it off, but he could have at least pretended to be bent out of shape about it when he had said he wanted to marry you.
Were you just not that serious? Had the past few years really meant that little to him?
Every time she cheered for Yuji felt like a fresh stab.
It was hard to hold back your annoyance when Apollo was struggling on the field too, all his older teammates refusing to pass the ball to him on the rare chance that he got to play.
And then came the moment that her kid knocked Apollo down, big tears welling up in his blue eyes as the ref called it and his coach had to pull him off the field for good. He tried not to cry. To hold it in and not seem like a baby in front of the big kids.
But rage was boiling inside you, injustice at how fucking unfair everything always for you.
You were trying to fight for your kids.
It wasn’t like you had someone other than Suguru’s mother to rely on. Not really.
No one else understood.
Knew what it was like to lose your whole world and then have to hold it together anyway. To never get closure and still be expected to just move on like nothing happened. Like you weren’t reminded of what you were missing every moment of every day.
Apollo’s team lost. And you were still trying to be the mature adult you knew he needed you to be as you folded your chair back up and slung it over your shoulder, hurrying over as he nursed his scraped knee, still trying not to sob as he bottled it all in.
But Choso beat you there.
Kneeling down on the ground and putting a bandaid over it as he smiled at your son softly. You used to love the way he cared for your children like they were his own. But now you were second-guessing if maybe that was just who he was, that it never had anything to do with you.
“-did great out there, okay? You should be proud of yourself,” he spoke gently, using all the right words as you tried not to wince. But Apollo smiled, wiping his tears away with the back of his hand, ignoring the dirt and grass sticking to it before throwing himself at Choso in a big hug.
Arms wrapped around his neck before you could move forward fast enough to pry him off. Choso patted his back, but you were already trying to pick him off yourself, swallowing the pain threatening to close your throat.
You couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think straight.
Clouded with so much distress it felt like someone had embedded sharp shards of glass in every fiber and muscle of your body, limbs robotically moving as you mentally replayed what your last conversation had been.
“Can we go out for ice cream? Please? Like we used to?” Apollo blurted out, and you hated that you knew he would hold the refusal that was about to leave your lips against you.
Choso opened his mouth to reply, hesitating as your eyes actually met his for the first time, and you wondered if he could see the hurt in yours as the lump in his throat bobbed.
“Choso!” The blonde called out, her tits bouncing in her shirt as she waved to him. “Time to pass out snacks!”
“Choso’s busy, sweetheart,” you said, picking Apollo up, his long legs dangling as he kicked, trying to get put back down. Trying to save yourself from the scene of him begging for attention from a guy who wasn’t his father.
Even if you both wanted him to be.
He watched you leave.
Didn’t try to make you stay.
That wasn’t who he was, you guessed.
No, he just wanted to throw a ring at you on the second worst day of your life and toss the fact that you’d lost the father of your children back in your face when you were on the verge of a breakdown.
Apollo pouted the entire way back to the car, his little nose scrunched up as you pulled out of the parking lot, muttering that he didn’t want to play soccer anymore.
You tried to talk him out of it, saying that the next game would be better.
But you didn’t know if he believed you.
Not with the way he was dramatically staring out the window the rest of the ride home, switching between having arms folded across his chest and fidgeting with the seatbelt.
“I know you’re upset, but-”
“I’m fine,” he stubbornly insisted, shaking his head. He had his cap back on, unable to make out any of his white hair underneath it as his blue eyes looked up at you through the mirror. “Are you?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” You asked, even though you knew he wasn’t stupid.
He wasn’t as scientifically minded as Satoru, or Artemis, but he read you like a book. Saw in between the lines without you having to say anything.
“I want to sleepover at grandma’s house,” Apollo murmured, diverting his stare as you swallowed your pride and shrugged.
“Okay,” you muttered. “I’m sure she’d like that.”
Suguru’s mom had never said no to either of the twins.
And when you brought him over in the evening, watching him run straight back to the spare room she made for them, hearing faint rummaging and rustling noises as he pulled out toys to play on his own.
“I take it the game didn’t go so well?” She asked, fine lines and wrinkles really starting to show on her soft, tanned skin. Wisdom you wished you had even a small sliver of in her kind smile as you flopped down on her couch.
“Choso was there,” you muttered, your stupid heart stuttering just saying his name.
“Oh?” That piqued her interest.
She always liked him. Told him that he was good for you. Good for the kids.
But you could see how much he reminded her of Suguru. Always chalked it up to her seeing some of her son in him.
“He already moved on,” you bitterly huffed.. “Some other soccer mom was practically all over him. God, her kid even called Yuji brother.”
“Honey, are you sure? Did you speak to him?” She started, trying to be careful with her words as you scoffed louder.
“No, but-”
“Have you spoken to him at all since you broke up?” She pressed, and you could only shake your head.
What the hell were you supposed to say? You were broken up.
It wasn’t like you had his number blocked.
But he hadn’t reached out either.
“That boy loves you,” she insisted. “He wouldn’t just-”
“He left me,” you muttered.
Well, you left him.
But if he loved you, he wouldn’t have let you leave. Just stood there when you walked away.
You had made that mistake before. You let Satoru go. Trusted him to come back.
He didn’t.
And you were the one who had been stitching yourself back up every time his memory tore your heart back open.
But how were you supposed to marry a man who couldn’t tell when you had come undone? That you were falling apart in front of him?
“Did you want him to stay?” She asked, and you knew the answer instantly, no matter how hard it was to actually say it.
Of course you wanted him to stay anyway.
Even though knowing that felt like betraying Satoru.
“I should go home,” you murmured, picking yourself back up off the couch and snagging your purse from the floor as you threw a long look down the hall to where Apollo was, debating on peeking in to tell him good night before deciding against interrupting him. “Just, uh, call me when I should come get him.”
Or just walk next door.
The house was horribly quiet.
Your footsteps echoing as you returned to your room, the silence following wherever you went as you stripped and showered, scrubbing your skin raw with soap and sighing at your blurred reflection in the fogged-up mirror after you got out feeling no fucking cleaner than you had when you stepped in.
Truthfully, you didn’t really want to look at yourself anyway.
Clinging to the towel you wrapped yourself in, staring at the clothes in your closet as you searched for something to hide yourself in, settling on an oversized hoodie you’d bought before either man you were wrecked over.
Throwing on pajama shorts too, wondering whether or not it was worth wasting an hour scrolling through shows and movies searching for stuff to watch or giving up and crawling into bed when you heard a knock on your front door.
A flicker of relief slipped in, thinking that Suguru’s mom must be bringing Apollo back, that maybe he changed his mind and you could offer to let him stay up late watching whatever movie he wanted together as you scurried back towards it.
You didn’t even ask before pulling it open, but you stopped in your tracks the second you saw who was on the other side.
“Hey,” Choso greeted, the single word shoved out unceremoniously as you just stood there and stared.
“What are you-”
“She, uh, called me,” he muttered, jutting his thumb over to the house next door. He had changed into an outfit you missed seeing him in. A sweater you used to steal of his, thick and cozy, in your favorite shade of purple. Jeans that were well worn. His hair was a little damp too, bangs framing his handsome face as the dim lighting made his dark eyes hard to read. “If you want me to go-”
“You didn’t speak to me today,” you pointed out, not that you made the effort to talk to him either. Picking a fight in the first five seconds.
“I didn’t think it was a good idea,” Choso sheepishly answered, and before you realized it, you were stepping aside, letting him back in. Although, you guessed it was better than letting half the neighborhood hear you bicker.
“Yeah, I’m sure your new girlfriend wouldn't be happy with you talking to your ex,” you defensively said, gritting your teeth as he shut the door behind him. Throwing you a confused glance before he fully turned to you with his thick brows all pinched together.
“What are you talking about?” He shook his head dismissively.
“Did you think I wouldn’t see the new soccer mom all over you?” You snapped at him. Your jealousy was plain to see, painfully obvious as the words came out all wounded and weak.
“Are you talking about Yuki?” He asked, his lips parting as you imagined her mouth meeting them.
“Oh, is that her name?” You spat it out, backing away as you resisted the urge to roll your eyes. “She’s pretty, huh?”
Did he think she was prettier than you? That he upgraded?
The worst part was you could barely recognize yourself right now.
You didn’t want this to be you. Petty and pathetic and pining over something you were trying to damndest not to want.
Since when were you so insecure? So jealous that you were starting an argument with Choso because you couldn’t get a fucking grip on yourself?
“She is,” Choso agreed, and you wanted to throw up.
Ruin his sweater like he ruined your day.
You didn’t know what face you made, but whatever it was, however wrecked you must have seen before you could recover, he softened. Unlocking his jaw as his eyes crinkled, exhaling slowly.
“I’m not into her like that,” he added. Treacherous respite rippled through your body, but you held onto your anger, resisting everything you instinctually wanted to do around him. “But, we’re not together anymore. We can see other people without-”
“You proposed to me two months ago,” you pointed out, but the accusatory tone didn’t really do much when it came out half an octave too high. A horribly familiar lump was growing in your throat, heat crawling up your cheeks dangerously close to your eyes. “If you actually loved me, you wouldn’t just move on like we were nothing.”
“I’m not just moving on, it’s just,” he paused, budding frustration threatening to boil over as he took a small step closer. Standing in front of you as if he was the victim, like everything was all your fault for being the fucked up one in your relationship. “I should be allowed to heal however I need to heal.”
For a second, you couldn’t stand him. His maturity. His rationality. The way he was still collected when it felt like someone had plucked out all your seams and left you to crumble.
Tears you couldn’t stop welling up, a choked sound coming out before your broken words, “I’m sorry I was such a horrible girlfriend you have to do so much healing.”
“I’m healing from your rejection,” he clarified, but you couldn’t stop yourself from crying, rubbing underneath your eyes as you tried to stop yourself, scoffing a little as you tried to reel yourself back in.
“You had an out from the beginning,” you sniffled, although it sounded more like a huff. “I told you I didn’t want to waste your time.”
He recoiled at the reminder, and panic sprung back up, hot and bright, burning your throat. You wanted to take what you said back.
But you were too stubborn to say that.
“Our relationship wasn’t wasted time,” he muttered, and there was a hint of remorse in his tone. Disappointment that things didn’t work out the way either of you wanted. “But this argument is.”
You were about to throw out a retort, ask him what that was supposed to mean, but then he was walking away, sweater stretched across his broad back as he started towards the door, and you were bridging the gap between you, snagging his sleeve to stop him.
“You’re just going to leave again? Like that?” You asked, voice quivering as you forced your stare to harden. He looked down at you like it was taking everything inside him not to give in too.
“You wanted to break up,” he murmured, and you bit down on the raw spot you chewed in your cheek, ignoring the taste of blood on your tongue as the temptation to take it all back grew harder and harder to resist. “I was stupid to think that maybe we could talk things through tonight.”
He began to slip away again, and impulsively, you were pulling him down by his sweater, your mouth crashing into his to reclaim him in a manic kiss.
You sort of thought he would push you away.
Tell you that he was really done this time. Through with you and all the baggage he’d have to bear being yours.
But then his calloused palm was cupping your cheek and he was kissing you back twice as hard, returning the fever with his own heat. It seared through you, fried your nerves as his tongue slipped past your lips, his nose nudging against yours while his body pressed up against yours. Clumsily forced back a few steps until you were both falling on the couch, sandwiched between his heavy chest and the stained cushions.
Having sex with your ex was almost always a mistake.
But you couldn’t bring yourself to let Choso go.
“I hate how much I love you,” he muttered when the kiss broke, and your pulse picked up, self-loathing sinking into you as it struck you how much your fuck-ups were fucking him up too.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, weak and almost whimpering as your apology came out sincere this time.
You weren’t even sure which crime of yours you were apologizing for.
Breaking up with him to begin with. Forcing him to bear the weight of your burdens. Being too emotionally constipated to communicate what was haunting you without turning it into a fight.
“Show me then,” Choso dared, his usually low voice dropping down to damn near dangerous while his intense stare narrowed, studying your face for some sign that you meant it.
And then you were tethering your fingers through his hair, pulling him back down for another rushed kiss, shutting out all the thoughts of how many sins you were trying to atone for.
You spent so long trying to be strong for the twins. For Choso. For yourself.
But you were so tired. So exhausted from expending all your energy putting on a show pretending to be fine when you just kept failing.
Couldn’t you just let it go for a little bit? Let yourself love Choso without holding back?
His hands were slipping underneath the soft fabric of your hoodie, phantom shivers racing down your spine as he nudged your thighs further apart with his knee. You could feel each finger, how they tentatively ghosted across your side up to your chest, greedily grabbing a handful of one of your breasts, nothing shy or reserved about it.
No soft questions of if it was okay, or if you wanted more, just taking what he wanted.
And you were willing to give it.
To let him have all of your body when you struggled to hand over your heart.
Kissing him came easy. His palms pressed so firmly against your skin, pulling at the soft muscle and tender flesh, his lips fitting so nicely between your own as his nose nuzzled against you. The connection you had been fighting was too intense for you to resist his pull, the intimacy that used to terrify you slipping its tendrils around you and wrapping around you so tight you didn’t think you’d ever be able to escape the hold he had on you.
He pulled away, and you were left chasing the kiss, craning your neck up, whining and missing him the moment his mouth wasn’t on yours.
That was the truth, wasn’t it?
You had missed him the moment he stopped being yours. You were used to loneliness. To being lost in your head and longing for someone.
So why the hell did it feel so different with him? So visceral and raw to accept that he might move on if you couldn’t give him what he wanted? What he deserved?
“You don’t want me but you don’t want me to go,” he accused, and you were shaking your head, pulling him back down by his hair as you locked your thighs around his waist.
“I do want you,” you admitted, brows knitting together tightly as you practically begged him to believe you.
Your heart and your head might both be a mess.
But you could pick out that brutal fact between the wreckage any day. If you didn’t want him, it wouldn’t hurt half as bad as it did right now to see him hurt.
Like he was concerned you could change your mind (or maybe before he changed his), his grip slid back down to your hips, pulling you up some so he could get your clothes off. Adjusting down so he could shimmy your shorts and panties down your thighs in one go,
You awkwardly lifted your arms, and he was half-ripping the hoodie off of you, but the moment it was off, he was flipping you over in one rough move, one hand on the back of your neck to press your face into your throw pillow.
He left his clothes on.
All his shields still up when it came to you.
Your body trembled, cool air hitting your ass as you heard the rustle of him pulling down his pants behind you.
Usually the sex was slow with him. An hour long affair of foreplay and making out, rolling around the sheets before taking turns giving each other head, drawing out an orgasm or two before he actually fucked you, or you even rode him.
You were in uncharted territory.
On the outskirts of his heart instead of taking up space inside of it.
He ran his other palm over your ass, slowly trekking over your spine and letting out a low exhale you couldn’t decipher. You tried to look back at him, but the fingers on the back of your neck kept you firmly in place, sinking in a little deeper to get you to stay.
You shouldn’t be soaked. But you could feel the dampness leaking down your thighs, your hips aching to wiggle a little and entice him into just fucking you into feeling something other than sorry for yourself.
There was no prep.
Just him tentatively testing how wet you were with his swollen tip before smoothly sliding in, a drawn-out hiss leaving his throat at the way your warmth wrapped around him the same way it had a thousand times before.
You wanted him to kiss you again. Would even settle for a handful of pecks pressed to your shoulder blade or a few tracing up your throat.
But you didn’t feel like you had the right to make any kind of requests from him right now.
“C-Choso,” you whispered, your voice muffled into the pillow as your walls clamped down around him mid-thrust, squeezing as he shoved his way past the first ring of resistance.
“Don’t,” he murmured, and if he didn’t already feel so good inside you, you might’ve broken down from that single word.
Don’t what?
Call out for him?
“Not unless you’re mine.”
You knew what he was asking of you. To give him the pieces of you that you were still desperately clinging onto. To let go of the ones that were someone else’s.
His mouth hovered over your shoulder, so close to touching and still so far away, a little squeak escaping as his cock rubbed right into a spot he knew was sensitive.
“When you close your eyes, are you picturing me? Or him?”
The raw sound of his voice ripped through you, painfully piercing your heart as his hips pinned you to the cushions. Bottomed out and buried inside like he was aching to claim you completely and utterly as his own, his teeth finally skimming over your throat as a moan involuntarily slipped out.
“You,” you half-whispered, and you could see his face in your head now, dark and dreamy and dragging you over the coals of a fading fire. The fight you used to have in you, the one that kept you dreaming for the life you lost, dying out.
Choso had fire of his own. It was tamed, controlled, where the flames wouldn’t hurt if they licked your skin. A warm hearth you could curl up by without fear of being burned.
“Promise me,” he grunted, the springs beneath you creaking as he thrusted right where he knew you’d crumble and crack, your pleasure memorized like it was his favorite book.
“It’s you,” you echoed, a whimper echoing in your living room as his back pressed flat against your own, his hand moving your hair off the nape of your neck so he could kiss you again. Mouth leaving a messy trail of kisses, each consecutive one making the invisible thread in your stomach tense and tighten, pulled taut as he pounded you into the couch with no mercy.
“I said promise,” he groaned just before biting down, your wrecked whine just making his cock twitch as his free hand slipped around your side, roughly beginning to rub your clit like you weren’t already on the brink of breaking.
“I p-promise,” you stammered, clawing at the cheap pillow for grip, each of his thrusts threatening to make you jolt. But he didn’t stop fucking into you faster, no matter how hard you were clamping down around him, thighs trembling and toes curling at the force of his rough strokes.
So stuffed you thought you were going to snap, strangled noises buried into the pillow as his thick fingers worked your sensitive bud, his mouth littering your neck with what you hoped were love bites.
Even if he wasn’t fucking you the way he usually did, Choso was still Choso.
Still made sure you came first, waiting until your breathy gasps turned into a broken moan, shuddering as he painted white splotches across your vision, cumming and crying his name, ruined and half-limp underneath his body.
Hiding your face in the pillow as hot tears welled up in your eyes, knowing it would probably leave damp spots after this was over.
Were the two of you still over?
Now probably wasn’t the time to ask.
He pulled out at the last second, hand furiously pumping his cock, cum spurting out to spill all across your bare back as you started to come back down to earth from your climax.
Waiting for him to say something first, shutting your eyes as you struggled to catch your breath, the metal of your necklace pressing hard into your chest as his weight shifted. Carefully moving off of you instead of collapsing like he used to. Sometimes you could spend half an hour afterwards just with his body melting onto yours, playing with each other’s hair or listening to him murmur about whatever was on his mind. Letting him trace pretty shapes over your skin while he swore he adored you.
“I got some in your hair,” he mumbled instead.
Oh.
Right.
“We can shower,” you offered quietly, turning your head to the side, but still barely able to make out any of him in your peripheral vision.
You thought he’d turn you down.
Leave anyway now that he fucked you.
“Okay,” he agreed.
There was no big conversation. No emotional breakthrough under the hot water.
Choso cleaned you with the same attention he always had. Scrubbing your skin with the loofah, massaging your scalp when he washed your hair.
Taking care of you like a lover.
Even if you didn’t deserve it.
You knew you should have a proper conversation. Address what had landed you here, adjusting the water and pretending not to notice the ghost in the room.
But then the shower was over, and he was stepping out first, tying a towel loosely around his defined hips, water droplets still clinging to his happy trail as he handed you your own towel wordlessly.
Was this just how things were going to be from now on?
You watched him in the steamy mirror as you dried yourself off, searched him for remorse before he bent over to pick up his phone from the pocket of his discarded jeans.
“Yuji wants me to pick him up from Todo’s,” he muttered, looking back at you with an uncertain expression.
“Oh,” you muttered, stomach twisting with discomfort you once again didn’t want to vocalize. Todo. Wasn’t he the one that belonged to the blonde? “So Yuki’s place?”
And despite what he said earlier, a poisonous part of you whispered that he might be going over to just repeat what he’d done with her instead.
That perhaps he had just picked up those moves from being in her bed.
“Yeah,” he casually confirmed with a small nod.
You didn’t know what to say.
How to bring up your insecurity when you couldn’t even commit to him how he wanted in the first place.
So instead you deflected, biting down on your bottom lip before tilting your head to the side, “Do, um, you wanna come back over tomorrow?”
Surprise registered on his face, and he slowly nodded.
“What time?”
He was at your door the next afternoon while the kids were off at camp.
And the one after that.
Keeping your bed warm for an entire week, fucking you into your mattress like he was hoping to leave an imprint by the time he finished. To permanently press the shape of your bodies into the sheets, mold it around both of you while he molded you around him in everything from mating presses to reverse cowgirl. Any position where he could make a point in seeing how hard you would cum for him. Even in the shower afterwards when he was supposed to be cleaning you up.
Kissing you from the moment he crossed the threshold to the time he left. Desperate ones that gave away the craving you both shared, the hunger that seemed to spread and sink you further into starvation.
You didn’t know what this was.
What your relationship with him would be once the summer camps were over and you wouldn’t have the time to spare for having steamy sex with your sorta-ex.
“Shit,” he groaned, throwing his head back, the outline of his Adam's apple bobbing hard in his throat as you stole a glance over your shoulder at him. On your hands and knees, cum sticking to your ass and connecting your skin to his cock as he came a few seconds after you. His muscled abs glistened in the fading daylight, toned ridges and divots on display as he finished fucking his frustrations out on you doggy-style.
Pulling out instead of using condoms, the risk of it making your stomach flutter all funny even if you had a hard time imagining yourself ever having another kid.
You knew he wanted one though.
Another conversation you’d been avoiding.
But before you could even consider broaching it, your phone started to buzz beside the bed, and he was leaning over to pick it up for you, face softening as he held it out.
“It’s Artemis,” he muttered.
“Shit, okay,” you blinked, climbing off the bed in a hurry to grab your robe off the back of your desk chair, hastily throwing it on and tying it around your waist before rushing back to take it.
You barely got to speak to her since she’d been so busy with her space camp.
Answering before it could end, biting your lip as the facetime automatically connected, the image of her all fuzzy and blurred for a few seconds before becoming clear.
“Hi, sweetheart,” you greeted, heart rapidly thumping in your chest as you made sure she wouldn’t be able to see the rest of your room.
“I missed you, mom,” she grinned.
Artemis had a light in her eyes that you missed. That spark, that gleam of excitement that was infectious, smiling easily back at her as she pushed a planetary model in front of the camera to show off.
“Check it out. Do you like it?” She beamed, proud of her work as you instinctively thought of what Satoru would make of it. How he’d probably grin and goad her into going over every detail. How happy he’d be that she was into the same stuff as him.
“I love it,” you promised, nodding along as she started rambling about how they were learning about worm holes earlier, bouncing up and down as you tried to not let the sinking pit in your stomach swallow you up with how much she reminded you of her father.
But if he was really still here, would he be here to see this? Or would he still be choosing work over the three of you?
You were so distracted, you didn’t hear Choso creeping back up until you felt the weight of him against your back, bending over to rest his chin on your collarbone as he saw Artemis’ project on your phone.
“You made that all by yourself?” He asked, and you could see his soft smile on your screen, admiring her work like she was his. The pretty picture of a perfect father.
“Choso?” Artemis blinked, mouth falling open and nose scrunching up in surprise as she looked back at you with sheer confusion.
You stammered something out, a weak excuse about her brother calling, ending the call before you had to actually answer her reasonable questions about what you were doing with him. Turning back the second you were sure she wouldn’t overhear, scoffing as you shook your head at him.
“Why did you do that?” You asked, blowing a short puff of air out of your nose as his palms settled on your hips.
“Do what? Talk to Artemis? We’re back together,” He said it as if it was obvious, and you reflexively wanted to refuse. To sabotage the slice of heaven you were living in for the past week.
“I never said that.”
The moment those four words left your lips, you wanted to put them back.
Freezing as his hands fell away from you, loathing yourself for letting this happen, seeing how hard and fast he recoiled from you.
“I’m such a fucking moron,” he muttered, turning around and grabbing his sweater from the bed, pulling it over his head as your body seized with dread. “You’re just using me. You never wanted a life with me.”
“No,” you breathed the word, but you were already sure it was too late. You screwed it up again. “I didn’t-”
“Stop with the stupid lies,” he shook his head, not believing you.
“Stay, please,” you half-whispered, the slowly-growing guilt gripping your heart encasing it completely. “I wasn’t trying to-”
“To what?” He interrupted.
“I panicked,” you weakly explained, an excuse forming on your tongue about not wanting to confuse the kids anymore, but he wasn’t about to let it go this time.
“Why don’t you want to marry me?” He bluntly asked.
No room for wiggling out of the conversation or wishing it away when it meant watching him walk out your door again.
You had to be honest.
No matter how much your brain was trying to convince you that you were just jinxing it. Cursing him to follow the same fate as your former fiancé by saying the words out loud. Condemning yourself by tying yourself down to someone you were scared would slip away too.
“The day you proposed,” you hesitated, holding your breath as you swallowed hard. “While you weren’t here, someone from NASA stopped by that afternoon to tell me Satoru had officially been declared dead.”
You didn’t know why it had even surprised you.
All the years he’d been gone, the excuses his old coworkers had offered started to dry up, the same old stories they sold you not holding the same hope.
And now they were admitting there wasn’t any.
Satoru was dead to them.
And you didn’t even really get to be a widow.
“I went to his grave after you got home, but I just, I don’t know how to say goodbye to him,” you muttered, thinking about how it felt to sit there knowing his body would never be buried by his headstone. About the life he deserved and never got. Where he got to be a father and a husband and be a family. “And then you came home and pulled out the ring, and it was like everything was happening all over again.”
The memory of it was a blur, your head a complete mess as an awful as intrusive thoughts threw everything you were terrified of straight in your face.
Telling you that you were just replacing Satoru. That he would hate you if he knew you had moved on. Insisted that if you said yes, Choso wouldn’t stick around either.
So scared that he’d leave you too, that you nearly lost him anyway.
“Baby, if you had told me-”
“I know,” your voice broke, body trembling as he wrapped a warm arm around your shoulders to tug you into a tender embrace. “I should’ve said something. But I didn’t know how to bring it up and I just shut down, and-”
“If I had waited, would you have said yes?” He asked, and you couldn’t answer straight away.
Was it a betrayal to Satoru to say yes?
Or were you losing the best thing in your life by clinging onto the ghost of a man who hadn’t loved you enough to listen and stay in the first place?
“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I don’t want another proposal if it ends in losing the person I love.”
Looking up at him anxiously, waiting for the foundation you were standing on to crack and crumble – for him to prove you right. For the world to rip him away now that you admitted that you loved him enough to fear living without him too.
“The only way you’ll lose me is if you keep pushing me away,” he comforted you, and you wanted to cry.
“I don’t want to push you away,” you mumbled.
“Then let me in,” he whispered, pulling you onto the bed and placing you on his lap. Letting you curl up on him, holding you tight like he was trying to make it clear he wasn’t going to let you go.
Your sniffles turned into soft sobs, all the tears you’d been holding in, all the mourning you’d been rejecting released the moment you had someone to lean on.
“Are you still seeing your therapist?” He pressed, and you hung your head lower.
“No,” you confessed through the tears. “I haven’t been since we broke up.”
“You need to go back,” he softly goaded, and you knew he was right. That you were only hurting yourself the more you held it all in.
“Could, um, you go with me?” You muttered, unsure and anxious as you searched his face for some sign that you weren’t making a mistake, rubbing the damp streaks off of your cheeks as he nodded.
“If you want me there,” he muttered.
And you could finally admit to yourself that you did.
That you wanted there when you went to sleep, and when you woke up, and for everything in between.
“I want you here for everything,” you whispered.
“I’m sorry that I didn’t see what you were going through-”
𖥔 ݁ ˖
“So what? The second she thinks I’m dead she decides to marry you?” Gojo interrupted his retelling of it, Choso’s mouth finding it hard not to frown at how much he sort of reminded him of you. Seeing the bits of his personality that had melted into yours, picturing how the two of you might have worked together if the positions were reversed.
“It wasn’t like that,” Choso muttered.
“That’s what it sounds like,” he retorted.
His phone vibrated on the table, Artemis' name flashing on the screen before Gojo snatched it off and shoved it in his pocket.
“You can answer that,” Choso muttered, shrugging his shoulders. It was a little uncomfortable sharing a daughter, but she was too grown for him to say anything about it. And between the twins, she was the one who always had a soft spot for the father she lost to the very thing she was studying.
Of course she was going to be excited that he was home.
Even if some things were better left in her imagination than in real life.
Choso had never planned on meeting him. Never considered what he might actually be like.
Although he did find it a little annoying that he was somehow even more obsessed and in love with you than he ever conceived.
“I’ll call her back later,” Gojo answered, but there was a nervous glint to his eyes as he cleared his throat before picking up his fork to shove some food in his mouth, still talking mid-chew. “How long, exactly, did it take for you to marry my-”
He nearly said fiancée.
But Gojo corrected himself, clearing his throat, “Her.”
“Your friend’s mother, she, uh, got cancer a year later,” Choso muttered, still a little haunted by the look on your face when she announced it. At the hard memories always attached to the good ones. “The doctors thought she only had six months to live.”
“Oh,” Gojo muttered, a crease forming between his brows on his pretty, wrinkle-free face.
“It changed things.”
If it hadn’t been for her, he wasn’t sure if the two of you would’ve found your way back together at all.
It had been her birthday. All of you over at her house, the kids playing in the living room while you helped her clean up. Choso was supposed to be keeping an eye on the twins and Yuji, but he was within earshot of your conversation, beating a level that was too hard for them on the game console she’d bought them last Christmas.
He nearly died the second he heard the words terminally ill leave her mouth, using every ounce of his self-composure not to snap his head around and ask all the questions he was itching to know. But then the kids would notice, and the idea of the twins realizing that they were about to lose the closest thing they had to a grandparent was enough to make him hold onto his cool. Force his face into a neutral expression as he clicked buttons haphazardly.
“You can get a second opinion, or, or-” You were stumbling over your words, in denial as Mrs. Geto tutted at you.
“Sometimes, it’s just a person’s time,” she softly said. “I’ve lived a long life. A happy one.”
Choso glanced back right as your entire face fell, devastation obvious in every line etched into your skin, shaking your head hard as you rejected it.
You tried to speak, but nothing came out.
“I want to be with my husband and son,” she said, and you were trying so hard not to cry. Eyes watering with tears you were quick to blink away. “I’ve made my peace with it.”
Choso knew you. Could see how hard you were resisting the urge to say that you wanted her here too.
“Don’t give me that look, dear,” she lightly said, reading you like an open book too. “All I want now is to know that you’ll be okay when I’m gone. All three of you.”
You might not be her daughter. But you were damn near close to it after nearly a decade of leaning on each other for support.
“You know Choso takes good care of us,” you softly replied, your voice barely audible as you sniffled. Rubbing your face from the spot you’d frozen in, lip still quivering.
“He does, doesn’t he?” She knowingly said, and you were nodding.
“He’s great,” you reiterated, and even when the timing was terrible, he couldn’t help but feel a small flicker of gratitude at hearing you speak about him like that. On you counting on him.
“Not great enough to marry?”
He almost flinched.
A game over screen flashing across the TV as the kids groaned in unison, little fingers poking and pushing and telling him to try again.
“I don’t need his last name to know I love him,” you muttered.
“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t marry him,” she argued, and Choso felt his chest constrict, wondering whether or not he should even be listening when she started talking about Suguru, so fondly, recounting a memory of his father, her husband, the weight of her missing them present in every syllable. “Even if it hurts sometimes, I wouldn’t take any of it back.”
You knew what that felt like.
Choso could see the contemplation scrawled across your face, struggling to keep his focus on the game as Mrs. Geto continued.
“You’ve known him longer than Satoru, sweetheart,” she guided, touching your shoulder tenderly as he caught a glimpse of you chewing on your lip. “He loves you just as much.”
It wasn’t a competition.
Even if sometimes did feel like he was fighting a phantom for your love.
“He would understand if you went all in with him,” she spoke gently. “All any of us have ever wanted is for you to be happy.”
You were about to start bawling, but you held it in, nodding along like you knew she was right. And Choso was already planning on sending her a gift basket the next day with all her favorite foods and snacks, including a note promising to make time to take her to any appointments she needed.
“I loved Satoru like he was my own too, but even if they came back tomorrow, I don’t know if he’d be the one that’s right for you now, dear,” she gently goaded, guiding you as you sucked in a sharp breath.
Choso waited for you to shake your head, to tell her that she was wrong.
But you didn’t.
And he was still thinking about what you were thinking that night. You told him about her illness after the kids had fallen asleep in their beds, sitting up with a pillow pressed against your chest as you gave him that look you always did when you were deep in thought.
He pretended not to know, just wrapping his arms around you to offer whatever comfort you needed. He wasn’t going to push. Press about marriage just because you had spoken with Mrs. Geto about it.
Truthfully, he didn’t expect anything to actually come of it.
He understood your reservations. Those fears you were still working through with your therapist.
So you caught him off guard when you looked up at him with wide eyes and nervously asked, “Do you still think about marrying me?”
“Of course I do,” he answered a little too fast. “But I understand why you don’t want to.”
He would take a forever of being your boyfriend than a future where you weren’t anything to him.
“Why do you want to?” You asked, the question coming out slightly stilted, a hint of something he had a hard time placing. It wasn’t dismissive. Not completely curious, more like, searching for confirmation from him.
“You already know I’m in love with you,” he murmured, reaching over to brush his fingers across your cheek. “And how much I love our family.”
You and the twins. The way you readily accepted Yuji as their sibling. Loved his little brother without hesitation.
“I want to grow old with you. Spend as many moments of our lives together as we can. Watch the kids graduate and get families of their own,” he mumbled, finding more confidence with each sentence as you leaned into his hand. “I want to write cheesy vows and say them in front of all our friends. I want Yuji to be my best man and Apollo to carry the rings while Artemis tosses flower petals down the aisle.”
And fuck, when you were looking at him like that, like you wanted all of it and more too, he nearly melted on the spot.
“I want to see you in a white dress, walking towards me while I cry at how beautiful you are,” Choso whispered, his gravelly voice standing out in the soft silence, the sound of crickets chirping through the cracked window as a breeze filtered in. “But really, I just want you to choose me. Forever.”
He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life waiting and wondering if he was the one you wanted.
You swallowed hard, your hand reaching over to graze against his fingers affectionately.
“Ask me again,” you breathed.
He stared for a moment, barely believing what had just left your lips. But the moment it sunk in, he was rushing off the bed, nearly stumbling towards his nightstand, pulling it open and rummaging through everything to find the ring box he tucked in the back when he moved in with you again.
You sat on the edge of the bed, a ghost of a smile curling up on your lips as you watched him hurry to get down on one knee and pop open the box, revealing the ring you didn’t get to see last time.
“Will you marry me?”
Gojo looked like he was about to puke over the photo album in front of him.
There you were, standing in your wedding dress, Choso’s hand slung on your waist as you leaned into him. Mrs. Geto was by your side, using a walker as her illness left her struggling to get around the way she used to. Yuji clinging onto the leg of his tux, grinning and sticking his tongue out at the photographer by his new step-siblings. Artemis and Apollo were in front of you, your bouquet in her hands while Apollo beamed at the camera, proud of himself for doing a good job not tripping or falling with the rings.
“She’s glowing,” Gojo murmured, tracing over your face down to the wedding dress, face twisting up in pained tension. Maybe thinking of what his photos might have looked like with you.
All his plans wrecked by his own confidence that the world would bend to what he wanted.
And before Choso could really react, tears welled up in his blue eyes, his jaw clenched tight as he tried to hide the fact he was crying at the photo.
“She was pregnant,” Choso explained, feeling himself getting choked up too thinking about that year. “It wasn’t planned.”
Honestly, when you told him, stepping out of the bathroom with a positive test, that nervous glint of pure fear in your eyes as you held it out, he was sure you were going to tell him you didn’t want it.
That you could marry him, but you would draw the line at having his kid. Sure that you wouldn’t want to put your body through it again, especially ten years after having twins.
But you just anxiously asked if he wanted it, if he thought the two of you could really handle it.
“How was it?” Gojo asked, a surprising sincerity to the question. Genuinely wanting to know, maybe because he missed his chance to go through it with you. Only got a handful of videos you sent when you were pregnant. Didn’t get to be there for the sonograms, or the appointments, or the birth.
Missed buying baby clothes and painting a nursery. Picking out names together.
Although, it had been you who suggested naming her Keso, after one of his brothers who passed when he was younger.
“It was hard, sometimes,” he admitted. The later months especially. Your anxiety picking up the closer your due date came, convinced that something would go wrong, going to see your therapist every other week until your delivery date. “But our daughter was healthy, and I was there to help her recover.”
Choso never left you once.
Was there for every diaper change and late night feed. Comforted every time he picked up his little girl relief he hadn’t expected blooming in his chest at having one that looked like him. He had told himself it wouldn’t matter. That he would’ve loved a little girl that looked like you too. Especially since he already adored Artemis.
But it was nice to know that strangers would see his girl and know she was absolutely his.
Gojo had only met her once since she came back at a big family dinner, and she was too preoccupied with her own husband and kids now to care about the man her mother once loved, just offering him an awkward smile before going back to talking to Artemis.
He was wiping his face, pretending like he hadn’t been crying as he flipped the pages back in the photo album, finding one where you were sprawled out in the backyard on a towel and smiling at the camera, shielding your face from the sun. Artemis was laying next to you, her head buried in a book.
“Can I have this one?” He asked, and Choso wanted to say no.
Not let him have any more pieces of you than he’d already stolen.
But it was hard to actually say no when he knew there was a second copy of the photo underneath, reluctantly nodding. “I suppose.”
“I’m glad she got to move on,” he mumbled, not that it sounded even remotely truthful. The only thing there was regret. “That she could forget about me.”
“I meant what I said,” Choso sighed, turning more serious as he looked into those frustratingly familiar eyes. He loved you too much to hate him. Loved Apollo and Artemis too much to loathe the man he had to thank for them. “She never forgot you.”
Gojo was the one who was struggling to swallow the fact he had to share your heart with someone else now.
“Yeah,” he dismissively muttered, lips pressing together.
“When she got sick a few years ago, her memory started to go too,” Choso reluctantly broached his least favorite subject, recalling the long months of watching you waste away. “Eventually, she forgot almost everything. Except you.”
Gojo didn’t know what to say.
Sitting there stunned as he stared at Choso, finding it too hard to meet his eyes and turning his attention to the wedding band still on his fourth finger.
“She couldn’t remember the twins or our grandkids. But she still talked about you. Called me your name a couple times when I helped her get out of bed. Looked up at the sky and told everyone who visited that you were up there,” Choso admitted, his voice wavering as he tried his damndest not to hold it against you. To remember all the decades that had come before that when you were more than happy to be his. “Swore that her husband was just with the stars for a little bit before he’d come back for her.”
He wasn’t quite as emotional as he had once been. But it was hard to not break down at the fact that he’d lost you long before you passed away.
That in the end, he hadn’t carved himself deep enough into you to be the one you recalled.
Sure, you still had moments of clarity. Rare days where you were almost like your old self, where you’d kiss him and hold him and swear you loved him more than anything.
And those were enough. You were enough. Even when there was barely anything left.
“We both loved her,” Choso murmured, although love didn’t seem like a big enough word for it. He had a feeling that Gojo would understand anyway. Know what he was trying to get at here. That they’d both felt the full spectrum of emotions, the highest highs and the lowest lows that came with worshipping you. “And lost her too.”
“Yeah,” Gojo whispered. “I guess we did.”
“I don’t know what’s worse,” Choso exhaled, taking one last sip of his drink. “Losing her all at once like you or seeing her disappear piece by piece.”
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, and Choso looked up to see the way his face had scrunched up, his brows furrowed as he twisted around the wedding band he started wearing too. The one you bought for him once upon a time.
“You don’t need to apologize,” Choso shook his head.
If anyone understood what it was like to miss you, it was him. Even if he spent most of his adult life despising him to some degree.
But Gojo was still staring at him with guilt he hadn’t anticipated. Like he knew everything was his fault and he didn’t know how to fix it.
Choso contemplated telling him that there wasn’t anything left to fix.
It wasn’t like he could go back in time to change anything. And even if he could, Choso wouldn’t change a single moment. Not when he’d gotten you. Gotten his daughter – and two bonus kids.
His life had been filled with your warmth and laughter and a million smiles he wouldn’t trade for anything.
Even if the ending had been a bit lackluster. Even if he had to spend the next ten years on his own wishing you were still around.
“I’m going to Apollo’s place,” he announced. “His daughter brought her baby over.”
Awkwardly extending an invitation even if his son wouldn’t exactly be thrilled at having the father that was now younger than him around.
“Oh,” Gojo said, his mouth curling down like he knew it too.
Recognized where he wasn’t wanted.
It might be too late for Apollo. But he still had time to get to know the rest of his family if he stopped focusing on the past and learned to live in the present.
“Don’t you want to come spend some time with your great grandson?” Choso asked, his voice coming out gravelly as his knee ached with the effort of standing. Gojo’s stare flicked down at his lap, towards the pocket he shoved his phone in.
And even though Artemis didn’t share his physical features, he recognized that distracted look of hers in Gojo now, like he was working out a problem too complex for anyone else to solve.
“I’ll, uh, catch you guys there later,” he excused, running his thumb over the edge of the photo.
He didn’t have the energy left in him to convince him to come.
Gojo would just have to learn for himself how little time there was left with the people he loved in this life.
Choso supposed he should consider himself lucky. At least he got to spend most of his by your side.
It wasn’t jealousy that plagued him as he collected his photo albums, the proof of every year you’d given him while Gojo was gone, but pure pity.
If only he had the foresight to realize how misplaced his empathy was.
But even if he had, he wasn’t the one who could turn back time.
a/n: this was also a commission by the super creative and inspiring @dayanim !! i love her and her big brain sm :3
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♡ summary: A real vacation, away from the stress and people. All inclusive with a private beach, beautiful skies, and even prettier guys. It was perfect!
♡ wc: 3.2k
♡ content warnings: fem! rich! reader, staff! gojo, use of alcohol, oral (f. receiving), big díck gojo, plot?what plot?, vacation, reader is down bad, ovulating, overstim, unprotected, p in v, creampíes, praise, slight exhibitionism, sex on the beach, massages.
♡ a/n: I want to go vacay again so bad ૮◞ ◟𑁬∘˙˚ (I am very happy to be able to use the p w/o p tag :D)
You paid for peace. For quiet. For a room that smelled like eucalyptus and lavender and had a personal plunge pool outside the bathroom door. For fresh fruit, you didn’t have to cut yourself. For the sun. For space.
You paid to not hear your name unless it was coming from someone who had absolutely nothing to do with your job.
And it was worth every dollar.
The beach was technically private, but it felt personal. The ocean wasn’t roaring, just humming, like background music. A warm breeze slid over your skin as you lay out, your skin dewy from the sunscreen you reapplied in slow, self-loving circles, stretched across a cushioned lounger with no meetings, no heels, no schedule. Just the sand beneath you.
The private beach felt like your personal fantasy carved into a postcard, and the cherry on top? Beautiful skies—and even prettier guys.
Well, guy. Singular.
The white-haired one.
You hadn’t caught his name; somehow it never came up, but you clocked him the moment you stepped off the shuttle and into the airy lobby. He was tall, toned, and unfairly attractive in that model kind of way, with a lopsided smile that could probably bankrupt you if he wanted. He worked the beachside part of the resort—bartending, towel service, checking on guests. There was something playful and aloof in the way he lingered when he spoke to you, something that made your stomach dip…and not just from the endless margaritas.
You’d tried to keep it subtle—your wandering glances, your slightly suggestive thank-you’s. But the truth was, the moment your hormones got wind of the proximity of that man and this heat? Your body went rogue. Nothing wrong with a vacay fling, even if it was probably one-sided.
Now here you were, two days into your stay, half-sprawled across a cushioned lounge chair, letting the sun toast your skin while lazily pretending to read the same page of your romance novel over and over.
You reapplied sunscreen to your arms, the bottle sticky in your hand. You could feel the heat radiating off your back, reminding you how long you’d been lying here. Just as you were debating whether to brave the awkward gymnastics of doing your own back, movement from the corner of your eye caught your attention.
There he was. Perfect timing!
“Hey!” you called out, lifting your sunglasses with one hand to get a better look at him. The sight was even more rewarding than usual. His white hair looked almost silver under the sun, and the short-sleeved white uniform he wore did absolutely nothing to hide the strength in his arms.
He turned his head and gave you a soft grin, walking over.
“Everything alright?” he asked, eyes sliding briefly to the book in your lap and then back to your face.
“I was wondering,” you said, shaking the bottle of sunscreen, “if you could help me rub the rest of this in? I can never get my back properly.”
He took the bottle from your hand without hesitation, fingers brushing yours. “Of course,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting a smile. “That’s what I’m here for, right?”
Turning over on the chaise, you shifted your head to the side so you could peek at him, not so discreetly. The side cushion was more comfortable anyway, two birds with one stone.
The first touch sent a small jolt up your spine. His hands were cool, slick with lotion, but they warmed quickly against your sun-drenched skin. He started with your shoulders, working the lotion in slow, broad strokes—palms gliding, fingers pressing just enough to make your breath hitch. You didn’t expect his touch to be so intimate. Not inappropriate, just lingering. Familiar, almost.
“Oh wait,” you murmured, reaching behind to fumble with the knot at your back. “I should untie this.” Your nails scraped together as you struggled with the slick strings. He was already moving closer.
“Let me,” he offered, voice low and steady. And with one simple tug, the knot fell loose. The straps dropped harmlessly to your sides.
“Thanks,” you said softly.
He didn’t respond with words, just continued his careful work, hands now gliding lower. Down your shoulder blades. Across the curve of your spine. The silence between you buzzed with something more than just shared air. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting yourself lean into the sensation. His hands were strong but considerate, slightly calloused, probably from working with his hands all day. They lingered on the small of your back, thumbs grazing the top of your hips in teasing, circular motions. “Lower,” you mumbled, surprised at how hoarse your voice sounded. He hummed a little, maybe satisfied with the praise or maybe just enjoying himself. Either way, you weren’t mad.
“Right here?” he asked, as his hands moved lower, massaging the top of your glutes. His thumbs flirted with the edges of your bikini bottoms, and your legs instinctively pressed together.
Your breath hitched. “Yeah…there.”
He stayed there a beat longer than necessary. Maybe two.
You bit your lip, half-turning your head. “You always give this kind of service?” he chuckled, still focused on your glowing skin.
“Only to my favorites.”
“Mmm, keep going,” you smiled. “So thoughtful.” He did. Down your back, over your sides. His palms were warm now, smoothing over you like he was trying to memorize something. You arched a little, involuntarily, and you knew he caught it.
The pads of his thumbs grazed your lower back, flirting with the curve of your hips, inching close to the bottom of your swimsuit.
Your voice came out softer this time. “A little lower.”
He didn’t speak. Just adjusted his position, the heat of him is closer now. His hands slipped just low enough to make you hold your breath, sliding over the round of your ass in one slow, full stroke.
You felt the corner of his mouth tilt. “You like that?”
Your breath caught. “Don’t play.”
“Who’s playing?” His hands didn’t stop. He massaged like he meant, like he wanted to see how far you’d let him go without pulling away.
You stayed still. Mostly.
“Is this allowed?” you whispered, more to yourself.
“I won’t tell if you won’t,” he smirked, fingers trailing slowly up your side, grazing just under your ribs. You could feel your pulse between your thighs, your body aching in that low, hormonal way you hadn’t felt in ages. You hadn’t expected to want someone so bad on this trip—and definitely not someone who was supposed to be off-limits.
His hands found the strings of your bikini bottoms and untied the strings, his eyes never leaving yours. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop him. He kissed down your spine, the curve of your waist, your hip. Every motion unhurried, each one stretching seconds longer than the last.
Pulling you by your hips up onto your knees on the lounge, one of your legs dangling off. He peeled the bikini bottom off, dipping in between your thighs. The moment his mouth met your heated skin, a shudder ripped through you, your fingers twisting into the cushioned lounger beneath you. His tongue was relentless, lapping at your slick with a hunger that made your thighs tremble. The sound of him, wet, obscene, greedy— sent a fresh wave of arousal crashing through you, your back arching instinctively, seeking more.
"Fuck" you gasped, your voice breaking as his lips sealed around your clit, sucking hard enough to make your vision blur. His hands, those damn hands, slid under your hips, gripping hard, yanking you closer until his nose brushed against your sensitive skin, his breath hot and uneven against you.
He didn't just taste you, he devoured you. His fingers twitched with restraint. Now, nothing was holding him back. His tongue dragged slow, torturous circles around your clit before flattening against it, pressing down just enough to make you see stars.
"You taste even better than I imagined," he murmured against you, the vibrations sending a jolt straight to your core. The fact that he thought about it made you impossibly wetter. His fingers dug into your thighs, spreading you wider, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there, leaving little marks you'd feel later. “I could tell you wanted this since day one.”
You couldn't deny it, not when your body was reacting like this, not when every flick of his tongue had your legs shaking, your breath coming in ragged pants. The sun beat down on your skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat pooling low in your stomach, tightening with every sinful stroke of his tongue.
Then his fingers joined, two slipping inside you without warning, curling just right, and you whined, your hands gripping the pillow. He groaned against you, the sound muffled but unmistakable; he liked that. Liked how responsive you were, how easily you came apart for him.
"That's it," he coaxed, his voice rough, his lips brushing against your clit as he spoke. "Let me hear you. Let me feel how much you love this."
And you did. You couldn't stop the noises spilling from your lips, the broken "yes, yes, fuck" as his fingers pumped into you, his thumb circling your clit in tight, relentless motions.
The pleasure built so fast it was dizzying, your body coiling tighter and tighter until you came with a cry. Your thighs shaking, your toes curling as the orgasm tore through you. He didn't let up, didn't give you a second to recover— just kept licking, kept fucking you with his fingers. Drawing out every last shuddering wave until you were gasping, oversensitive, your hands pushing weakly at his head.
"Too much!" you whimpered, but he only chuckled, pressing one last, filthy kiss to your inner thigh before pulling back, his lips glistening, his eyes dark with satisfaction.
"Can't get enough baby," he murmured, dragging his thumb through your slick one last time before bringing it to his mouth, sucking it clean with a smirk. "Not when you taste this good."
Your chest heaved, your skin flushed and sticky with sweat and sunscreen and him. You should've been embarrassed, should've been scrambling to cover yourself, to regain some semblance of dignity. But all you could do was stare at him.
The moment his fingers slipped out of you, you felt the loss like a physical ache, your body clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled again. His smirk was downright sinful as he licked his lips, dragging the flat of his tongue over his bottom lip like he was savoring the last drop of you. The sight sent a fresh pulse of heat between your thighs, your skin prickling with the need to have him closer, to feel more.
"Turn over," he directed, voice rough, his hands already guiding your hips before you could process the command. Your body obeyed before your mind caught up, rolling onto your back, the lounger creaking beneath you. The sun blazed overhead, but all you could focus on was the way his gaze raked over you. Your chest rising and falling rapidly, your nipples pebbled under the fabric of your bikini top, holding it in so it wouldn't fall. The mess he'd made between your thighs glistened under the sunlight.
He tugged your bikini top down slowly, his thumbs brushing over your nipples as he bared you completely. The breeze ghosted over your exposed skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his mouth when he leaned down, sealing his lips around one peaked bud. You gasped, back arching off the lounger, your fingers tangling in his hair, soft, surprisingly silken. He sucked hard, his tongue flicking over the sensitive peak in torturous little circles.
"You're such a tease," you groaned, your hips lifting off the cushion, seeking friction, seeking him.
He chuckled against your skin, the vibrations making you squirm. "Impatient," he teased, his free hand sliding down your stomach, fingers dipping between your folds without hesitation. You were so wet, so swollen. His fingers slid through your slick with obscene ease, gathering it before dragging his fingertips in slow, maddening circles around your clit.
"You're dripping," he groaned, his voice thick with want. "All for me, huh?"
You rolled your eyes, your breath hitching as his fingers pressed harder. His touch is just shy of rough, just enough to make your thighs tremble. His mouth moved to your other nipple, teeth grazing the peak before sucking it deep, his fingers never stopping.
"Please," you finally choked out, your voice wrecked. Not really one to beg, but it seems he brought out many new things about you.
"Please what?" he grinned, pulling back just enough to watch your face as his fingers slid lower, dipping inside you just barely—just the tips, curling enough to make your hips jerk.
"I want you, don't wanna wait.”
His grin was wolfish. "Since you asked so nicely," you hadn't noticed his shirt was unbuttoned, revealing how ripped he was under the button-up shirt. You heard the sound of his zipper, the rustle of fabric. “It's Satoru, by the way.”
Oh god.
The blunt head of his cock nudged against your entrance, and you whimpered, pushing back against him instinctively. "Eager," he teased, his hands gripping your hips as he pressed forward, his cock stretching you open in one slow, relentless thrust.
You choked on a moan, your fingers clawing at the cushion beneath you as he bottomed out, his hips flush against your ass. He was huge, thick, pulsing inside you, filling you completely.
"Fuck," he hissed, his voice strained. "You're so tight." He didn't give you time to adjust, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in, the force of it driving you forward, your hands pressed against the chest and the back of the chair for leverage. You cried out, the pleasure so intense, your walls fluttering around him as he set a brutal pace. His hips snapping against yours with every thrust, hitting your sweet spot deliciously as you cried his name.
"Look at you," he growled, one hand fisting in your ass, gripping just enough to make your back arch. "Taking me so fucking good. Bet you'll remember my name now."
You could only moan, your words lost in the haze of pleasure, your body moving with his, meeting every thrust with a roll of your hips. His hand gripped your thigh, his other hand sliding around to your front, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles.
The double stimulation was too much; your orgasm built again, faster this time, your body coiling tighter and tighter. "Come for me," he demanded, his voice rough, his thrusts growing erratic.
You shattered.
Your climax hit you like a freight train, your body clamping down on him as pleasure exploded through you, your cries muffled against the lounger. He fucked you through it, wiping the tears off your cheeks. “Where do you want it, baby?”
“I-inside!”
He let out a low moan, his own release hitting him hard. His hips stuttering, cock pulsing inside you as he came with a groan, his fingers digging into your skin as he filled you, hot and deep.
For a moment, the only sounds were your ragged breaths and the distant crash of waves. Then he leaned down, his lips brushing your ear as he murmured, "Still think I'm just here for towels and massages?"
You laughed, breathless and spent, your body still thrumming with pleasure. "Best. Massage. Ever."
He smirked, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before pulling out, the loss of him making you whimper. "Good," he said, his voice smug. "Because we're far from done."
━━
Being back at work after your vacation was a change. Looking out the large window, you reminisced about the villa, and especially your little fling. The entire trio, he would come and eat you out till you cried whenever he found you, be it on the window reader or by the door if he was particularly impatient. And fuck you into whatever surface was nearest.
God, you missed him.
It's been 8 months since your short but sweet vacation. You debated giving him your number, but by the time you were packing up and checking out, he was nowhere to be seen. Hopefully the next time you visited he would be there as well, until then you would continue life like you hadn't lost the best dick and head you've had.
Although you spent most of your time working, you did try to make time with your friends and go out on the weekends you were free. Downtown was your hotspot, especially the clubs, the best you've ever been to; lucky you were cool enough with the bouncers to get in free.
The music was good and the drinks were better. Tending your sweet cocktail, you enjoyed the buzz you were getting. Thankfully, you weren't the one driving tonight; however, next week, you were back on duty.
Realizing you finished your drink, you started to find your friends dancing up against the other groups of people on the floor. Over all the heads of people, your eyes caught one single head of white hair. Your heart stuttered as you walked towards them, pushing past tipsy dancers.
It couldn't be him, but you couldn't help but check. Fixing your hair, making sure there weren't any strange pieces around your face that shouldn't be. The height alone was a dead giveaway; not many guys were over 6 feet with white hair, even with dim lighting, you had a gut feeling that it was him.
Tapping his shoulder, ready to see a stranger's face and not the face that's been appearing in your late-night fantasies. Bracing for disappointment, you started preparing an apology.
Your name fell from familiar lips, the way he said it sent a shiver up your spine. You stared in shock, and he gave you a tight hug, kissing you on the cheek.
“It really is you.” you hugged back, breathing in the scent you'd dreamt of. He laughed, pulling you by the waist to his side. He started introducing you to his friends, explaining he was on vacation, even taking you to their booth. Both of you clicked like you hadn't seen each other in almost a year.
Your leg kicker up over his, letting his hands twirl your hair in his fingers. Leaning down toward your ear, moving the hair away from it, kissing the sides. You decided to ask the question sitting in the back of your mind. “How long are you here for?”
“A week,” he smirked, looking at your face, cerulean eyes peeking from those gorgeous white lashes. You were familiar with that glint in his eye, the way they twinkled put you under a trance.
“Are you going to leave without a goodbye this time?”
“I’m sorry about that, baby. Can you forgive me?” he smiled against your hand, kissing it. “Might not want to leave.”
♡ a/n: inspired by this tiktok, yk I had to double itttt
Satoru typed on his laptop—big, bulky, probably one of those nerdy gaming ones. You tried not to stare, but your side glances betrayed you anyway.
His fingers moved fast, long and capable, skilled, that's for sure. You needed to stop.
Half the class period had already passed, and you were supposed to be paying attention to Professor Yaga. Instead, you were shoving down thoughts of last week, trying not to replay it on a loop.
That night, he had been all over you— flirting, touching, the way he whispered in your ear. And now? He was sitting a few seats ahead, focused, completely…normal.
What the hell is with the switch-up?
—
The lab was quiet. Another experiment gone wrong— his sixth attempt— and Satoru Gojo did not fail six times. Period. The word alone was foreign to him. Chemicals he shouldn't have gotten ahold of. A lab he had full access to. He was like a kid in a candy shop, and if anyone could pull this off, it was him.
Failed. Again.
Sleep pulled at him harder than it should have. Just an hour. His body could handle three days without sleep—one hour would be fine. When he woke, drool had smeared weeks of data into illegibility. He groaned, dabbing at the page. And then he froze. Beakers that had been meticulously cleaned now had fingerprints. Ones he didn't place.
Someone else had been here.
Listening, Satoru whipped his head around the room, eyes trying to catch anything in sight. Slightly panicked, no one else was meant to be here; if there was, he would be royally fucked. Facing the intruder, seeing a mirror reflection of himself, wherever his shirt had gone, along with his pants, and everything else.
Stopping in his tracks, he patted his body, making sure he was indeed wearing clothes and not raw dogging it in a lab.
Staring like a deer in headlights, Satoru watched as he(?) clenched his finger, moving his appendages like they were new and getting accustomed to them. Except it wasn't Satoru moving, but someone else who looked exactly like him.
Identical.
"Yo, what the fuck?!" the voice called out, the same to his, but had a little bit of an edge to it, not noticeable to the average listener. "Who are you?"
"I should be saying the same to you..." His eyes narrowed approaching the figure cautiously, like a stray cat on the streets that was particularly aggressive.
It was almost impossible for him to have a doppelganger who looked this similar to him, and it's not like he had a secret twin hiding somewhere; he hoped not, at least.
Satoru tried coming up with some sort of explanation, anything to explain the man before him. "A clone...perhaps?" he mumbled.
"So that's your what, hypothesis?" Satoru, the clone, asked, catching onto Satoru's drift. "What the hell is with this red and blue goo anyway?" he scoffed, wiping the remaining off of his skin.
"How did you get in that?"
"I woke up with it," he said as though the answer was obvious. "You seriously think I would roll around in mystery shit for fun?" he rolled his eyes.
Satoru finally came to the realization that perhaps it was not something out of this world coincidence, but rather his own calculated mistake in his own.
A wicked grin spread across his face. Either he has finally lost his mind from inhaling copious amounts of chemicals, or he has done something even more wonderful!
Life, not only a new life but an existing life of himself!
He couldn't possibly let this scientific breakthrough slip through his fingers. Life with his replica was uneventful, to say the least. It was hell trying to get his new experiment back home with him. Satoru told himself it would be worth it in the end, so he persevered.
For science!
He let Satoru 2.0 do what he wanted, being like himself in most aspects. Habits, diet, and build were similar. Intelligence surely differed in more ways than one. Satoru 2.0 seemed to lack the knowledge he had. He wasn't disappointed, not in the slightest; this only aided his research.
A few days in, and he had 8 pages of notes on the clone. He didn't know if or when this experiment would end. Satoru was going to make the most of this.
Personality was different; the man before him was crude and lacked the reserve Satoru had. It was like he came from a different universe. Satoru groaned in his seat, getting a headache from all the hypotheses filling his head. He'd resorted to calling him Satoru 2.0—referring to someone who wasn't technically someone else by his own name only confused his thoughts.
All Satoru 2.0 did was complain.
Satoru suspects he only does it to provoke him. It was working. He heard his own voice in his head enough, hearing it externally while his thoughts were running amok, too fast for him to grasp; his eye twitched.
"Is this what you do all day?" Satoru says, head dangling off the bed. Satoru had spent most of the day studying and documenting whatever Satoru 2.0 did. It was obvious he was itching to get outside.
Satoru didn't want to risk being out the same time and people catching on that there were more than two Satorus. They were completely different; he would be appalled if others thought they were the same person.
"Pretty much... I mean, sometimes I play D&D or a quick battle of Digimon." Satoru shrugged.
"Dude, you're seriously lame as hell," the other grimaced. "I thought your closet was the only depressing thing in here," he acts as though he isn't wearing his clothes. Sure, it was styled differently, lacking one of Satoru's flannel shirts, which he threatened to burn if it came close enough to touch his skin. "I am starting to doubt we are the same person."
"Based on our DNA results and the corroborating information, I can assure you that we are the same person." He said matter-of-factly, his clone groaned loudly, stopping whatever scientific rambling that Satoru was about to proudly go on.
"C'mon, bro, let's go out, what's the Greek life out here?" he sat up, a mischievous grin on his face."Ya' know-"
"Don't need it." Satoru quickly responded. He has never been much of a partier, much less into fraternities. There was no substantial appeal to him. Dirty, crowded houses of inebriated peers did not seem attractive in the slightest.
Alcohol dulled the senses anyway; he preferred to stay aware. The taste alone was revolting.
"Fine, stay here cooped up in here like some city rat. I don't care, but I am losing my fucking mind in here." Satoru 2.0 whined, staring outside the window.
He knew there was a party today, reading one of the texts on Satoru's phone, prompting his continuous whining. Satoru was skeptical about what his clone would do; they shared the same appearance, and he would prefer keeping his clean slate reputation on top of his stellar grades. "Imagine what kind of research you could get out of this."
"Research? What kind?" Intrigued, Satoru whirled his chair around, giving his full attention.
"You're the genius here, think about it." He wasn't wrong; there was substantial research to be found when his replica interacted with others besides himself. A change of environment was an essential scientific process.
"It's a win-win. I get to get the fuck out of here, and you get to analyze or whatever you do," he bargained, hand pushing his hair out of the way, a habit Satoru quickly wrote down. Perhaps Satoru 2.0 wasn't completely asinine.
"Fine, but you must report back everything. Interactions, behaviors, everything."
"Whatever, whatever." Satoru 2.0 lost no time readying himself, taking Satoru's spare phone. He seemed to work the technology just fine.
—
When he arrived, he didn't expect his nerd ass counterpart to know more than 4 people, himself included. To his surprise, a man with brown hair met him at the door, thoroughly shocked to see his face.
"S-Satoru?! No way— I didn't think you'd show up!" Haibara said, a name Satoru soon learned as he led him into the house. A smell Satoru had savored after he's been stuck in that lame apartment. It was just as good hearing his own name rather than 'Satoru 2.0'.
"You look so different, man, what's with the switch up?" he asked, pouring him a concoction from a jug into a red solo cup. "Almost didn't recognise you," he laughed.
Satoru shrugged, taking the cup and throwing back half of it in one go. The burn was welcome. "Needed a change of pace. Been cooped up too long."
Haibara's eyes went wide. "Dude, you never drink. Last time someone tried to get you to take a shot, you gave them a twenty-minute lecture on ethyl alcohol's effect on synaptic transmission."
"People change," he smirked.
The party was everything Satoru had been craving. Bodies pressed together, bass vibrating through the floorboards, the sticky-sweet smell of cheap alcohol.
This was living. This was what that lab rat was missing out on while he categorized his fucking beakers by size and color. He genuinely did not see the allure; while he nerded out over aspects of life, he would be living it out in this strange place.
He'd been working the room for about an hour, charming his way through clusters of people who apparently knew "Satoru" but couldn't quite place this version of him. The glasses were gone, for one.
Rolling the sleeves of the plain black t-shirt he'd found in the original's disappointing wardrobe. The shirt was too big on him—well, on them technically—but he'd made it work, the fabric draping in a way that suggested he'd just thrown it on without caring, which he had.
"Yo, 'Toru!" A voice cut through the noise, and he turned to find a guy with black frosted tips waving him over to a corner where a group had gathered around someone sitting on a couch. "Get over here, man. We're doing shots."
Now that caught his attention.
He sauntered over, pushing through the crowd with the easy confidence that apparently didn't come standard with his model. The weirdo probably would've stammered something about germ theory and backed away slowly. Fucking nerd.
And then he saw you.
You were sprawled across the couch, tiny skirt riding up just enough, legs stretched out with a red solo cup balanced on your thigh. Your eyes met his, and something sparked recognition, sure, but something else too. Interest.
"You're in my spot," he said, grinning down at you. Your long nails tapped the cup nervously, eyes glancing around as if you didn't know he was talking to you.
Your eyebrow furrowed. "Pretty sure I was here first."
"Yeah, but I'm prettier."
The laugh you gave him was worth the corny line. "You wish, Gojo."
So you knew his name, that's even more Interesting. Dweeb hadn't mentioned anyone worth mentioning, or anyone at all other than a scientist, but here you were, looking at him.
He was pretty sure you were not one of the figures Satoru spent hunched over his desk reading about. He dropped onto the couch beside you, closer than necessary, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours. "You gonna save me a shot, or what?"
You held up the cup between your legs. "Come get it."
—
Satoru left his seat, kneeling, spreading your legs as he placed the shot in between your thighs, your skirt hiking up to reveal more of your thighs. You almost didn't recognise him in his new get-up or attitude.
"Don't be shy, baby." He smirked. You didn't even know the dorky little shit could ever be like this. So charming, sexy.
His hands covered the tops of your thighs, head dipping lower to the plastic red solo cup rested in-between the the flesh.
He buried his head in your thighs, slurping the liquid from inside the cup. It was too much. He was really putting on a show. He was hot, and he knew it, just as much as he knew the answers to all the professor's questions.
Taking up all the class time he could, taking up as much space in between your ever-so shaky legs. It made you wonder if this was even the same guy, thought interrupted by his finger groping your thighs.
Your mind started to glitch, wondering what he would look like if there weren't as many people here, if your panties and skirt were off, and him licking up the wetness in your panties and not the cheap alcohol.
Fuck, you didn't even care if the others watched. You wouldn't usually get down in front of so many people, so suddenly, even. Did it really count as a record if you already knew him, spending most of the semester staring at his hair?
He was good eye candy, especially in a class you barely understood. Satoru wasn't your typical pick, well, not previously. The nerd thing was cute and all, but seeing him like this was making your pussy flutter.
His cerulean eyes look up at you, not behind a pair of thick glasses, watching you watch him. As if he were seeing your reaction.
The tips of his ears were tinged pink, even brighter in contrast with his bright white hair. You wanted to touch him so bad, take him away so that you could get the real thing.
Holding back, you lean your head back, holding your hand over your mouth to stop from saying something stupid or worse. The display was bordering on pornographic, which didn't bother you; you've done worse in worse places.
Satoru picked up the rim of the cup, tongue going up the sides, placing it flat to the rim.
Fuck...
The rest of the party blurred after that. He stayed glued to your side, hand finding your waist, then your thigh, then your waist again, like he couldn't decide where he wanted to touch but knew he needed to be touching you somewhere.
You learned things about him—about this side of him—that didn't match the guy from class at all. He reminded you of the frat guys you used to mess with, a lot smoother and a hell of a lot cuter.
You never met one who wasn't a dick for brains, at least.
But when you asked about class, about Professor Yaga's lecture on cellular biology, he went quiet for a beat too long before deflecting. "Don't wanna talk about school at a party, babe. That's against the rules."
That was suspicious to say the least, you would've thought, given the chance to 'nerd off', he'd take it happily. You brushed it off even as the thought lingered in your head.
You should've noticed then. Should've caught the discrepancy. But his hand had slipped lower, thumb tracing circles on the inside of your thigh, and rational thought had packed its bags and left the building.
He grinned, sharp and wolfish. "Made me wanna find out if you taste better than cheap vodka." You fell back onto the seat, pulling him with you.
When you mentioned you wanted a change of scenery, eyelashes falling low as you played with the thin chain around his neck. A move you have performed more times than you can count. Realisation dawned on his face as he led you to a car outside.
"Only one way to find out."
He didn't need more encouragement than that.
His mouth found your neck, teeth scraping against the sensitive skin there while his hands worked your top. Impatient. Desperate. Like he couldn't get you naked fast enough. You felt the same way, fingers fumbling with his belt, his jeans, needing to feel him, all of him, right now. Your patience was shorter than the skirt you were wearing.
"Fuck, you're so soft," he groaned against your collarbone, pushing your top aside to reveal the lace underneath. His thumb traced the edge of your bra, teasing, watching your face for every reaction. "Been thinking about these tits since I saw you on that couch. Wanna put my mouth all over 'em."
"Then do it."
He did.
His mouth was hot and wet and perfect, sucking marks into the swell of your breasts before finally, finally pulling down the lace and taking your nipple between his lips. You gasped, back arching off the bed, and he hummed in appreciation, the vibration making you squirm.
"That's it," he murmured against your skin. "Love how responsive you are. Gonna make you feel so good, baby."
His hand slid down your stomach, past the waistband of your skirt, fingers dipping between your thighs. You were already wet. "Fuck. You're soaked."
"Do something about it, Toru," you managed, breath hitching as his fingers found your clit through your panties.
He laughed, low and dirty. "I like the way you think."
He pulled back then, settling himself between your legs with a purpose that made your stomach flip.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of your thong, dragging them down your legs slowly, agonizingly slowly, watching the reveal like it was the best thing he'd seen all night.
"Pretty," he observed, running a thumb through your folds, spreading your wetness. "So fuckin' pretty."
He ate pussy like he was getting a grade for it. His tongue worked you with a rhythm that bordered on cruel, soft and teasing one moment, firm and demanding the next.
His fingers joined in, two of them sliding inside you with an ease that made you moan, made your hips buck against his face.
"You like that?" he asked, words muffled against your cunt. "Yeah, I can feel how much you like it. Squeezing my fingers so tight, baby." You couldn't form words, could only moan and grip his white hair—so soft, you'd wondered about that.
It was methodical in its intensity, thorough in a way that reminded you, absurdly, of how he answered questions in class. It made you wonder where he learned this from.
But there was nothing academic about the way he moaned against you, the way his tongue delved deeper, the way he looked up at you with those impossible blue eyes while he worked you toward the edge; you couldn't help but gush around him.
You never would have thought Satoru to be a messy eater; you didn't think him to be an eater at all, to be honest.
"Close," you gasped. "Fuck, 'toru, l'm close-"
He doubled down, fingers curling to hit that spot inside you while his mouth sucked your clit, and you shattered, crying out his name as you came on his tongue.
He didn't stop, didn't let up, worked you through every wave of it until you were shaking, oversensitive, pushing at his head. Both of you were interrupted by the ringing of his phone, tempted to ignore it till he saw the name displayed at the top. Picking up the phone, much to your dismay, he started typing viciously, irritation visibly growing on his face.
"Hate to say this, babe, but we gotta cut this short, 'kay." He grumbled, shutting the phone off and stuffing it in his back pocket. He licked up the rest of your release and pulled up your panties and skirt skillfully. You exited his car satisfied but thoroughly confused as he drove off with a wink and a wave.
What the hell?!
—
When he got back to the apartment, Satoru was waiting up like an excited puppy, notebook in hand. "Well?" he asked, practically vibrating. He wouldn't be surprised if he got off on research results."What did you observe? Any notable behavioral differences in the subjects? Did anyone suspect—"
"You really pick the worst time to call. I was in the middle of something super scientific." He pouted, "I got laid," Satoru announced, just to watch his counterpart's face crumple.
"You WHAT? The experiment was for observational purposes only, not for—"
"Relax, nerd. I didn't actually sleep with anyone." He tossed himself onto the sofa, grinning at the ceiling. It was not a total lie; he didn't sleep with anyone, as close as he was to doing so, until Satoru called. "But I did meet someone." he technically met a lot of people.
Satoru's pen stopped moving. "Who?"
The replica started describing you, leaving out some details like the body shot and eating you out; the dork didn't need to know everything. "I talked to her tonight. Got her number."
"She's in my Bioethics class…you're kidding?"
"Relax, I'm not gonna steal your girl. She seemed pretty into us, bro." he leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
Satoru blinked behind his glasses, as if that thought never crossed his mind. "She did?"
"Oh yeah, super into you, can't believe you didn't hit that yet." he paused, "You know if you like her, I got you a hell of a start. If not, this may help your experiment."
"I never said that." Satoru shook his head, thinking for a moment. "I guess it wouldn't hurt..."
"I am great, I know." He pulled out the phone, scrolling to your contact. "Here. Text her tomorrow. Ask her to study or some shit. Don't know how far your nerd-ass will make it though."
"My nerd-ass has worked perfectly fine for twenty-two years."
"Yeah, and look where it's gotten you." Satoru gestured vaguely at the apartment, the stacks of books, the half-finished experiments, the single bed in the corner. "Alone with your Digimon cards."
"They're not cards, they're- you know what, never mind." Satoru took the phone, staring at your name. "And you're sure she... she seemed interested? Unwilling participants are never fun."
"Bro." He laughed, just slightly. "Take my word, she's interested as hell."
ー
It took a week for Satoru to say anything to you. Guys like him, you assumed he would be texting by the time you were pulling your panties back up.
Hey, it's Satoru. From class. I know this is random, but I was wondering if you wanted to study together sometime? There's a coffee shop near campus that's pretty quiet.
You stared at the message for a solid thirty seconds. After the party last week, you'd half convinced yourself it was a dream. But here he was. Texting you.
Sure, it pissed you off that he was now texting you, but you typed back, fingers moving with speed. He never bothered saying anything to you all semester; you were suspicious, to say the least.
If this was his way of getting into your pants, you'd give it a chance. Less blatant than many other attempts to get with you. It's better than a dick pic, you were curious about what was under those khakis though…
When were you thinking?
His response was immediate. Tomorrow? Around 2? I'll send you the address.
Tomorrow. He wanted to see you tomorrow.
Although you were planning on going shopping, checking out the new clothing store that opened at the mall. You'd been waiting for them to open, but you could postpone your shopping trip.
You spent the next twenty-four hours in a state of barely contained anticipation. It's not like this was your first dick appointment, but you knew what to expect. Satoru was different than your usual types.
A café wasn't your typical spot, but you could work with it. Changing your outfit four times before settling on something casual but cute and easy to take off.
The coffee shop was exactly the kind of place you'd expect him to like: quiet, filled with the smell of old books and fresh espresso, cozy corners with overstuffed chairs. You spotted him immediately, tucked away at a table near the window, laptop open, glasses perched on his nose, looking so fucking adorable.
"Hey," you breathed, sliding into the chair across from him.
He looked up, and for a moment, his expression was polite. "Hey. You came."
"Of course I came. I said I would."
"Right. Yeah. Of course." He pushed his glasses up, a nervous habit you were starting to find endearing. "I, uh- I got you a drink. I didn't know what you liked, so I got you a vanilla latte. That's what most people seem to— but if you don't like vanilla I can get you something else, I just didn't want you to have to wait in line and-"
"Satoru." You couldn't help but smile. "Vanilla latte is perfect. Thank you."
"Oh. Good. Good." He nodded a smile, stretching his lips slightly. "So, um. Bioethics. Chapter six?"
You studied together for two hours, and somewhere between discussing utilitarian approaches to medical resource allocation and him explaining the difference between deontological and consequentialist ethics with hand gestures that somehow helped you understand the concept further.
Your leg bounced under the table. His change from the other day was confusing. It was like whiplash trying to deal with the thoughts racing through your mind. The most repetitive one being, what the hell?
He looked so cute in his flannel and glasses, much different from the other day, but still hot. You wanted to pounce on him till you forgot his name.
You didn't do that, obviously. But you thought about it.
"Same time next week?" he asked as you packed up.
"Yeah," you said, a little confused. No offer to head to the back or to his place. "Same time next week." You couldn't believe you spent two hours getting ready to study.
The texts started slowly at first. Him sending you articles he thought you'd find interesting. He sends memes that make you laugh. Gradually, they became more frequent.
Good morning texts. Goodnight texts that made your heart clench. No unsolicited nudes or any flirtatious messages, it was puzzling.
When the coffee shop that both of you frequented was closed, and he offered that you come over instead, you took the opportunity immediately.
His apartment was huge, much more than an average college student would be able to pay for. You didn't question it, slipping your heels off. He led you inside to the couch, where he had an area set up for both of you to study.
Today, he had ditched the flannel and wore a crewneck sweater. You scooted a little closer to him on the couch. He looked through the textbook trying to find a particular page. Humming when he finally found it.
Throughout the study session, you took the first step and gradually touched him. You thought it was the alcohol that made him so bold; you can work with shy guys.
At first, his hands, your nails tracing over his veins, and then his hair, playing with the short hair of his undercut. He didn't seem to mind in the slightest, letting your hands wander where they wanted.
You did as little as graze his collar, and he was nose deep in your panties, now his little playboy exterior missing, and he was acting like you weren't even there.
"And this…" He paused, laughing slightly. "You're not even listening."
"I am." You lied, making eye contact with him. You haven't been listening for about an hour now, responding with hums. You liked the sound of his voice as he explained topics. You'll have him go over them later anyway, not like you'll be listening then either.
"Then what did I say?" He asked, putting a page through the textbook before closing it shut. He waited for a moment for your response, "See, I knew you weren't listening, starting to think you didn't come over just to study," he stated simply.
Duh, you don't usually put this much effort in, not like you ever had to anyway, men are easy.
"If I didn't?" you leaned in closer, tilting your head just slightly. Your eyes glancing down towards his plump lips, you didn't even get to kiss him last time. Lifting from your knees, you kissed him on the side of his mouth.
He froze, mind visibly thinking about what to do next. It was simply a test, but he pulled you closer onto him, practically on top of his lap. His lips were soft, tongue exploring the inside of your mouth.
You moaned into his touch, hips grinding against him. You broke away, a string of saliva connecting your mouths. You traveled down your neck, leaving hickies in your wake.
It's immediate, the way his hips buck up into you, his bulge pressing right against your core through both your clothes, and he groans in the air, the fresh mark you're sucking into his throat.
One hand squeezing your ass while the other is splaying across your lower back, pressing you harder against him. His touch was awkward, like he didn't know where to touch.
You roll your hips experimentally, whimpering when the friction hits just right, and his whole body tenses beneath you. His head falls back against the couch cushion, exposing the long column of his throat, and you watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows thickly.
Those bright blue eyes behind his glasses crack open just to stare up at you, pupils blown so wide the blue is barely visible.
"That's it," he breathes, and his hands are pushing up the hem of your shirt, leading his hands as you shove the thin fabric off over your head.
Bringing his hands to your breast— just barely shaking against your lace-covered tits. You don't even bother with the clasp— yanking your bra down, spilling your tits out into the open air, and his mouth is on them before you can process the loss of fabric.
Wet and hot and desperate, tongue dragging over your nipple while his fingers work the other, pinching and rolling. He lacked the same technique you seen before, instead slobbering over your tits.
His sweater is in the way. Too much fabric, too soft, too there when you need to feel his skin, see what has been hiding under his baggy clothes. You tug at it, and he pulls back just long enough to rip it over his head, white hair staticky and wild, and god—he's huge. Broad shoulders, thick chest, arms that make you feel tiny even straddling his lap like this.
You run your hands down his pecs, over the faint trail of hair disappearing below his waistband, and he shudders.
That phone call better have been worth it for him to take this from you.
"Yeah, touch me," he huffs, grabbing your wrists and pressing your palms flat against his stomach.
You grind down again, and his hips stutter up, his thick length pressing against your clothed cunt in a way that makes stars pop behind your eyes.
The friction is everything—denim rubbing against denim, the seam of his jeans catching right on your clit as you rock against him. His hands fly to your hips, guiding, controlling, forcing you down harder and faster until you're both panting.
"Shit-" He chokes, head dropping forward to watch the place where your bodies meet. You follow his gaze and see the way his cock strains against his jeans, the dark spot of pre-cum already soaking through, your hips move in frantic little circles trying to get more pressure exactly where you need it.
"'Toru-"
"I know, I know." He leans up to catch your mouth again, all spit and tongue and messy, open-mouthed kisses that leave both of you gasping. His hands slip down, grabbing your ass and spreading you open over his lap, and the new angle makes you see white.
You're grinding right against his length, the ridge of it catching your clit with every roll of your hips, and you can feel the coil tightening low in your belly.
He must feel it too—how close you are—because his grip turns bruising, forcing you to keep the pace even when you're shaking. "Don't stop," he stutters against your lips.
You nod frantically, unable to form words, too focused on the pressure building and building and building.
His teeth sink into your bottom lip, and that's it—the coil snaps and you're coming undone on top of him, grinding through it while he groans against your mouth and his hips jerk up helplessly beneath you.
Your vision goes spotty, coming down from your high gradually. Slumped against his chest and trembling, you feel him shake beneath you. Look down and see his jaw clenched, veins prominent in his neck, eyes squeezed shut.
"Your turn," you whisper, and you meant to sound sexy, but it comes out wrecked. Neither of you had heard the door open, and the figure standing there watching the scene unfold.
"Damn you actually did it…" Satoru stood by the door with a shocked grin on his face. You froze, your cloudy haze clearing up at the sight of two Satorus. "Y'know, I was about to complain about how dumb your classes are, but…" he whistled.
Were you losing your mind?! Sure, your orgasm was pretty damn good, but nowhere near hallucinating.
Panicked, you climbed off of Satoru, whose hands you had to swipe off of you. Satoru's nonchalance wasn't helping, as you tried covering yourself from the man at the door.
"You have the worst timing…" Satoru groaned beside you.
"You're one to talk. I was in the middle of working my magic when you decided to call over some bullshit, payback bitch."
While the two of them went at it, you were left completely dumbfounded. "Satoru?" Both of them answered, "What the hell is going on? You have a twin?" Two Gojos, standing in the same room, looking at you with expressions that ranged from inconvenienced to proud.
You stared in shock at the two men. Well, not one but two Satorus, according to both of them. That would explain why the weird behavior and why he looked so different when you saw him outside of classes and studying. "So... you're the same person?" you examined, looking between them.
"Pretty much, Alstein over here mixed the wrong shit up," he affirmed. "I wouldn't say 'same', I am nothing like him," Satoru replied, denying any accusation that he was anything like his replica.
You nodded cautiously. You may not be the smartest person in the world, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that this was insane.
"And you're just…... okay with this?" you asked, gesturing between them. "With him running around pretending to be you?"
Satoru shrugged. "It's been useful for research, when he's not trying to burn my flannels, at least. I wouldn't say he was pretending to be me, when he technically is me." He looked back at the other man, "on a biological level at least." He added scornfully. The other didn't fail flipping him off, picking up on his more than arrogant tone.
"They're an abomination against fashion." Satoru 2.0 shuddered dramatically. "Seriously, wear something else, your taste is ass."
"I like flannels."
"Again, zero fucking taste."
You couldn't help the exasperated laugh that escaped. It was absurd, standing here with two identical men arguing about fashion choices like one of them hadn't created an entire clone of himself. If he wasn't lying at least.
"So all those times at the parties, and the car," you said slowly, looking at the clone. "That was you."
"Guilty." He didn't look regretful at all, pretty proud himself. "There's no way this virgin has these skills, babe," he gestured, poking his tongue out playfully.
"The car?" Satoru looked between you, "What happened in the car?"
"The first time I got out, ate her out in the car, before you woefully interrupted." Satoru sighed, reminiscing on the moment as his eyes looked toward your breast, his gaze was anything but polite.
"You couldn't have said something two weeks ago; now I have to go back and add that to the data log." Satoru glared, rubbing his temples.
"Don't get distracted, assholes. I would have preferred not getting involved in this 'experiment'." You used your fingers to add quotations around experiment. "And all the study sessions?" You turned to the real Satoru.
"Correct." That would explain why he wasn't as eager to get in your pants compared to his counterpart.
"And the texts?"
They exchanged a look. "Uh," Satoru mumbled. "That was... both of us. Sometimes."
"Bro- babe," the other started, "think about it, you're like a research assistant, y'know." He tried to make the situation seem better than it was. You couldn't deny it; it was pretty fucking cool that he made a clone of himself, but that didn't negate the fact that you were just an unknowing subject in their schemes.
"Is that what this is? Research?" Both of them nodded cautiously. You should storm out, block them, and pretend this never happened. Go to the mall as you would have, instead of messing with these two. But then the cruel thought of missing out on two Satoru's crossed your mind.
You had worked hard fake studying to get in Satoru's pants, and his little clone wasn't half bad at giving head. Groaning, you prayed you would not regret this. "Fuck it, you better credit me in your paper."
You've already made it this far.
"You'll be in the acknowledgements, I promise," Satoru—the real one—grins, surprised by your response, and it's that same infuriatingly charming smile that made you get onto his couch and car in the first place. "But uh, we might need to collect a little more data first."
His clone's already moving before you can process the words, sliding onto the couch behind you while the original stays in front. You're trapped between two identical bodies, two sets of impossible blue eyes watching you with matching intensity.
"Wait—" The protest dies in your throat when four hands find your skin simultaneously.
The one behind you—Satoru, you need to start calling them something—drags his nose up the curve of your spine, breathes hot against your vertebrae. "Smell so good," he murmurs against your shoulder blade.
The real Satoru cups your face, tilting it up to meet his gaze. His thumb traces your swollen bottom lip, and you hate how your body responds, how your nipples peak under the clone's wandering hands. "I—" You gasp when his mouth closes over the junction of your neck and shoulder, sucking hard enough to bruise. "Fuck."
"That's not a no." The real one's eyes crinkle with amusement. He leans in, kisses you slow and deep while his twin—clone—whatever—works his way down your back. Teeth scrape against your shoulder blade, your spine, the dip just above the swell of your ass.
You break the kiss with Toru— you decided to call him that. He didn't seem to mind— his hands spread your cheeks apart, when you feel his breath against your sensitive rim.
"Look at that," one murmurs, and you can hear the grin in his voice. "She's already dripping. You think she wants my mouth here, too?"
"Only one way to find out." Satoru's watching over your shoulder, eyes darkening as his replica drags his tongue through your folds from behind, a long, slow stripe that makes your knees buckle. You missed his tongue.
"Fuck-" The word punches out of you as Toru's tongue circles your clit, then dips lower, presses against your entrance, then lower still—"Oh god, what are you—"
He answers by licking into you from behind, tongue flat and hot against that tight ring of muscle, and your brain short-circuits completely.
"That's it." Satoru's got his forehead pressed to yours, watching your eyes go wide and glassy. "Lay back." You don't have a choice—Satoru's hands guide you down until you're flat on the couch, and then they're positioning you however they want, rolling you onto your stomach and pulling your hips up until you're on your knees with your face pressed into the cushions.
"Perfect," someone breathes. Could be either of them. "Look at this view."
Something slick and cool drips down your crack—lube, you realize, lots of it—and then fingers are spreading you open, exposing you completely.
"Who wants first?" Satoru's voice, from somewhere to your left.
"She squirted on my face already. You owe me." Toru's right behind you, and you feel the thick head of his cock nudging against your wet folds.
"That was your choice. You could've fucked her anytime."
"And miss watching her come apart on my tongue? Never." He pushes in just an inch, just the tip, and you whimper into the pillow, your hole clenched around nothing, anticipating him. "But now I want to feel that tight little pussy squeezing me while I fill her up."
"Greedy," he scoffs. "Fine. But I get her mouth." Satoru's on his back now, cock standing wet and ready. Your mouth waters, tongue flicking at the slit before taking him into your mouth. He moaned, your tongue swirling around his cock expertly.
Toru, behind you, groans against your cunt, the vibration shooting straight up your spine and making you moan around the real Satoru's cock. Your thighs tremble on either side of that beautiful face, and you feel his tongue curl inside you.
"Shit—" Satoru's head falls back, hips twitching, and you feel him hit the back of your throat. "Y-you're amazing." You hum around him, sending vibrations to his cock, only making him gasp louder.
Toru pulls his mouth away just long enough to gasp, "Don't make him cum too fast, babe." Then he's diving back in, tongue stiff and pointed, fucking into your dripping hole while his nose bumps against your hole with every movement.
You're caught between them, suspended in pleasure. Every time you try to focus on sucking Satoru's cock, the clone does something devastating with his tongue that makes your throat clench and your vision blur.
Every time you try to rock back against that perfect mouth, the other pushes your head further down, cock hitting the back of your throat.
"Look at me." Satoru tugs your hair, just enough to drag your eyes up to his. They're almost completely black, pupils blown wide behind his thick glasses, cheeks flushed. "That's it. That's so fucking good."
Behind you, his replica's hands grip your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises. He pulls you down onto his face like you're nothing but a toy for his mouth, tongue plunging deep, then retreating to lap at your clit in quick, cruel circles.
You come with a broken scream around Satoru's length, your entire body convulsing, and you feel Toru behind you groan against your pulsing cunt, feel him drink everything you give him like it's the finest thing he's ever tasted.
Close, Satoru tried to pull your head off of him, you stay planted, he cums down your throat in warm spurts.
His thighs twitching under your grip, it didn't taste bad, slightly sweet even. "Jesus Christ." He falls back against the couch cushions, chest heaving. "That was-"
"Not done." Satoru's voice was determined. He's sitting up now, pulling you into his lap, and you feel his cock—still hard, still leaking— press against your soaked folds. " I'ma show you how it's done, virgin."
Satoru's eyes light up despite his recent orgasm. "How many times- I'm not a virgin." He leans forward, cups your face, kisses you slow and deep— the taste of his cum still lingering.
You nod frantically. "Fuck me, Toru." Hands finding his condom-covered cock, making slow strokes. At least he knew better.
"God- love your voice, baby." Toru's hands guide your hips, and you sink down onto him in one long, wet slide. "Ohhhh fuck- yes so tight, so fucking tight-"
You can't help the sounds you make, can't help the way your head falls back and your mouth drops open. The stretch was dizzying but so delicious. You hadn't been fucked good in weeks, savoring the feeling of his cock stretching your walls. He's so thick, so deep, and the angle lets him hit somewhere inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyes.
"Look at that." Satoru's voice is awed. He's stroking himself again, already hardening at the sight of his twin fucking you slow and deep. "How perfect she looks stretched around our cock."
Our cock. The word shouldn't make you wetter, shouldn't make you gush on his length until he groans and grips your hips hard enough to bruise. But it does.
God, it does.
"Don't cum in two pumps, virgin."
"N-not a virgin, dickhead." Satoru groaned. "Ride her." Watching with hungry eyes. "Want to see you fuck her properly, or I'll do it myself."
The other obeys instantly—because of course he does, they're the same person, they share the same brain, the same desires. Even if they deny it, they are two sides of the same shiny coin. "You wish," He lifts you easily, almost casually, and starts bouncing you on his cock like you weigh nothing. "Like this?" Each word punches out of him with every thrust. "Like- fuck watching her tits bounce?"
"Yeah." Satoru's hand moves faster on his cock. "Just like that. Harder."
"We'll give him something actually useful to report, baby."
You're nothing but a toy between them, a perfect little hole for them to share, and the realization should horrify you, but instead it sends electricity crackling through every nerve. Toru fucks up into you brutally, no gentleness now, just pure need, and you can feel every inch of him dragging against your walls.
"Oh god—oh god, I'm gonna-"
"Not yet." Toru's hand wraps around your throat—not tight, just present. You hear Satoru move. Feel the couch shift. Then his mouth is on your shoulder, teeth sinking in, and his hand joins his twin's on your hip, fingers intertwining.
"Please-" It comes out broken, desperate. "Please, I need-"
"I know what you need." Toru's thrusts are losing rhythm, getting sloppier. "Feel that? Feel how close I am? Want to come?"
"Yes—yes, please-"
"Come with me, babe." He releases your throat, hand sliding down to press against your clit, circling roughly. "Come on my cock."
The command snaps something loose inside you. You come, clenching down so hard, Toru roars, and you feel him pulse inside you, hot and deep and endless. In front of you, Satoru comes, his release splashes across your stomach, warm and wet and marking you.
"So you can ejaculate…interesting," Satoru commented, noting it in his head to write down later.
You can't speak. Can't move. Can't do anything but slump between them, trembling, completely and utterly ruined. But they're not done with you yet. "Bedroom." Satoru's voice has an edge to it now, dark and hungry, that makes your pussy stir despite itself. "We're not done. Not even close."
The other lifts you easily, still half-hard inside you, and carries you toward the hallway. "Agreed. Need to try some things. Not the only one with hypotheses, dork."
"For science, of course," they say in perfect unison.
And despite everything—despite the ache in your knees and your juices dripping down your thighs and the absolute madness of this situation—you laugh. Then moan as the movement shifts his cock inside you. "For 'science', right…" you agree weakly.
They laid you out on Satoru's bed. The sheets are cool beneath your overheated skin, a brief respite before they're on you again—one on each side, bracketing your body with their heat.
Toru's already mouthing at your neck, sucking marks into the sensitive skin while his hand trails down your stomach. "Want to try something," he murmurs against your pulse. "Want to see if we can make you squirt together."
Your breath catches. "Together?"
Satoru grins, that familiar, charming smile, made infinitely more dangerous by the context. "He fucks you from behind. I'll be in front."
"It's basic physics," Toru adds, nipping at your collarbone. "Double the stimulation, double the pleasure. Or whatever."
"Quadruple, technically." Satoru's hands on your stomach, fingers intertwining. "Since there are two of us."
"Sure-" You swallow, try again. "Just get inside of me."
They move with the kind of synchronization that only comes from being literally the same person. The clone one positions himself at your back, cock brushing against your ass, while the real one lifts your hips and settles in front of you, his length sliding through your soaked folds teasingly.
"Ready?" Satoru says behind you, his voice is strained, barely holding onto control.
You answer by taking him deep into your pussy, moaning around him, and that's all the invitation the other needs. He pushes in in one smooth motion, seating himself completely against the other, and the world narrows to the feeling of being utterly, impossibly full.
His cock stretches you perfectly, reaches places you forgot existed, and every thrust presses him against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl.
Above you, Toru groans and thrusts deeper into your cunt. "Oh fuck-"
"Can feel her clenching around me." his thrusts are measured at first, controlled, like he's savoring every inch. "Every time you move, her pussy squeezes me l-like a fist."
They find a rhythm eventually— two bodies moving as one, using you between them. "Look at that." Satoru's voice is reverent. He's pulled back just enough to watch, to see both cock disappearing into you over and over. "Look at how well she takes us. Like she was made for this."
Toru's thrusts are getting harder, faster, and less controlled. "Fuck—she's getting tighter—she's close."
"And I'm the 'virgin', sure." But Satoru's eyes are half-lidded, his hips stuttering. "Want to feel her come on both of us at the same time."
The words alone might be enough to push you over. But then Satoru reaches down, fingers finding your clit and circling brutally, and Toru tangles his hand in your hair and holds you deep. You cum gasping.
You feel Toru moan above you, feel him pulse hot and deep inside your clenching walls. Satoru follows a second later, glasses crooked on his face, hips jerking as he paints your walls, and you realize neither wore a condom. Had it been any other moment, you would've cussed both of them out and broken their dicks off, clone or not.
When you finally come down, you're shaking. Actually shaking, muscles trembling uncontrollably as they ease you onto your back and arrange themselves on either side of you.
The day blurs into night in a haze of pleasure. They take turns— sometimes literally, swapping positions so seamlessly you can't tell who's inside you anymore.
Sometimes they're both inside you, one in your cunt and one in your mouth, or one fucking you while the other watches and whispers filthy things in your ear.
—
You're in the shower— finally, blessedly cleaning up— when the curtain slides open and two identical bodies crowd in behind you. The water's hot, the steam thick, and their hands are everywhere at once.
"Thought we'd help." His voice is innocent, but his cock pressing against your ass is anything but.
"Make sure you get really clean." One in front of you, hands soaping up your breasts, your stomach, sliding lower between your legs.
You lean back against the other's chest, let the water cascade over you while the clone's hands grip your hips, steadying you as you lift one leg over the real one's shoulder, then the other. He supports your weight easily, holding you suspended while the others cock aligns with your entrance.
"Look at that," the one holding you breathes. "She's gaping a little from earlier."
"Let me see." Behind you, peers over your shoulder. "Oh. Oh, fuck. She really is."
The one holding you—you think it's the real one, but honestly, they keep switching, and you're too fucked out to tell—tilts his head. "I bet we could both fit."
"What?" Your voice comes out strangled.
The other behind you hums thoughtfully, his thumb tracing down your spine, over your tailbone, pressing gently at your tightest ring of muscle. "He's right. You're so warm and stretched already from 'Toru fucking you."
"Oh, I'm not 2.0 anymore? You got real influence, baby." Toru is holding you nuzzles against your inner thigh, tongue darting out to taste where the others' cum is still dripping from you despite the shower washing it away. "You can take more. You're a greedy girl, aren't you? Wanting both of us?"
Toru's cock slides between your cheeks, not entering, just... resting there, hot and heavy against your tightest hole while Satoru's tip nudges at your weeping cunt.
"Whatcha think, sweetheart?" They ask in unison, and the effect is devastating.
"Please put them inside me. Both of you."
"See? Told you she'd say yes."
Toru, behind you, laughs, and the sound vibrates through his chest pressed against your back. "You owe me twenty bucks."
"You bet on whether I'd beg for you at the same time?" You're indignant for approximately half a second before his cock notches against your ass, and Satoru lines up with your cunt, and all higher brain function evaporates. They don't push in together. That would be too easy, too merciful. Instead, they take turns.
Satoru slides in first—just the tip, just enough to make your eyes roll back as your abused cunt clenches around him greedily. Then he stops, holds perfectly still while the other behind you presses forward, stretching your pussy inch by agonizing inch.
You cry out. The water swallows the sound, but they feel it, feel every vibration of your body as you're stretched wider than you've ever been.
"Shh, shh, you're okay." The one in front kisses your forehead, your nose, your lips, all tender and sweet, while his twin works his cock deeper into your ass. "You're doing so well, sweet girl. Taking us both. So fucking p-perfect."
Toru's hips meet your ass with a wet slap. "I'm in. Fuck, she's tight. She's so fucking tight around me."
"I know." he starts to move, shallow thrusts that have his cock sliding against the other's cock. One thrusts while the other holds still, then they switch, then they figure out how to move together, opposite directions, so one is pushing in while the other pulls out. "I'll be sure to write that down."
You're nothing but a moaning, drooling mess between them, held upright by two sets of strong arms, fucked from both ends by identical cocks in identical bodies with identical grunts falling from identical lips.
"Want to move to the bed," you manage to gasp out. "Want to see it. Want to watch."
They exchange a look over your head that communication thing that's so unsettling when you're not being split open on their dicks, and then you're being lifted, carried, still connected, still filled, water dripping everywhere as they maneuver you out of the shower and down the hall to the bedroom.
Satoru lies back on the bed, pulling you with him so you're straddling his hips, his cock still buried deep. The clone kneels behind you, positions himself, and pushes back in with a groan.
"Look down," Satoru whispers. "Watch us fuck you."
You look.
Between your legs, two identical cocks disappear into your body, your own flesh stretched thin around them. When they move—and they do, immediately, finding that rhythm again—you can see the bulge in your lower stomach, can see the way their cocks press against each other through you.
"That's me," Toru breathes, reaching around to press on that bulge. "That's my cock right there, fucking into your pussy. Can you feel it?"
You nod frantically, tears streaming down your face, drool dripping onto his chest. "I can feel both of you. I can feel—oh god, I can feel every-"
"Good." Satoru's hands grip your hips, start bouncing you on his cock while the other fucks into you from behind. "Want you to feel us for days. Want you to sit on his cock tomorrow and still feel me stretching you open."
The other laughs, breathless and wrecked. "Possessive much?"
"Shut up and fuck her."
He does. They both do. They take turns being gentle and rough, one whispering sweet praises while the other fucks into you like he's trying to split you in half.
They switch positions—you on your stomach, you on your side, you on top of one while the other takes you from behind—and through it all, they never stop talking.
"You're taking us so well, sweet girl."
"Look at that pretty pussy gripping my cock."
"Can you feel him twitch inside you? He's close, I can tell."
"Shut up, you're closer dickhead."
"Y-you're both-"
You come first, finally, spectacularly, squirting around their cocks while they fuck you through it, both of them groaning at the added wetness, at the way you clench and flutter around them. Satoru follows seconds later, filling your cunt with hot ropes of cum that leak out around his cock immediately.
Toru pistons into your pussy twice, three times, before he stills and you feel him emptying himself deep inside you.
Between their bodies, with their cum leaking out of both your holes onto the ruined sheets, you think maybe sharing isn't the worst idea in the world.
"Round whatever in an hour?" you ask hopefully. Both groan, but they're grinning. You settle back against the pillows, feeling thoroughly used and utterly satisfied. "I'm serious about that credit in your paper." At first, you didn't care that much; it wouldn't hurt having your name down in the history books.
Satoru slides his glasses on after cleaning the lenses. "You'll be the co-author, baby."
"I'm here too, ya know."
"Why would I credit you?" You close your eyes, letting their bickering wash over you like white noise. But looking at the two of them, still arguing while their hands never stop touching, you, one drawing circles on your hip, the other playing with your hair.
♡ content warnings: fem! reader, established relationship, toji is down bad, nsfw, praise. mdni
toji loved his wife.
that's an understatement, even; toji would go to the ends of the earth if it meant he could be yours. he wasn't quiet about it either; whenever someone brought up anything that you weren't even directly related to, you would cross his mind immediately.
it was a big surprise when the people around him found out he was married and absolutely obsessed with his wife. it wasn't hard to admit that toji didn't look married. aside from the band on his finger, which he showed no effort in hiding. not many could tell, or bothered to look hard enough.
his rough exterior and often dismissive vibe led others to think he was simply unmarried. however, when asked what he was doing after work, he simply responded, "can't. got plans with my wife."
every day he worked, or in the moments he was away from you, he couldn't wait to get back. to lie in your arms, breathe in your scent. everything about you he loved. his favorite part about coming home to you waiting for him is just as much as he waited to get back.
he waited hours to be with you. there was no way he wasn't on you the minute he got in the house. he was in his own home; there was nothing that could prevent him from being with his wife.
"toji?" you yawned lightly, voice raspy from your nap. "did you just get home?" he was kissing the bare skin of your waist, exposed from the large shirt you were wearing.
it was an old one of toji's that you had stolen from the laundry basket. there was no way he was getting it back, not that he minded anyway.
he simply hummed against your skin, continuing to kiss you, your skin still warm. the low, rumbling sound vibrated against your stomach. his mouth trailed up over the thin cotton of the stolen shirt to the swell of your breast. he didn’t answer with words.
one big, scarred hand slid up your side, the callouses catching on the fabric, and he bunched the shirt in his fist, dragging it up and over your head in one impatient motion. the cool air of the room kissed your skin for only a second before he was covering you again. he buried his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling deeply.
“missed you,” he grunted, the words muffled against your pulse.
his mouth found yours, all tongue and teeth. one thigh, thick and heavy as a tree trunk, shoved its way between yours, the rough denim of his work pants a delicious friction against your skin. you whimpered into his mouth, arching up, and he swallowed your sound, a low growl of approval from his chest.
he broke the kiss only to yank his own shirt off, the muscles of his chest and abdomen cording with the movement. the faint silver lines of old scars mapped a history of violence, in the soft lamplight, against the yielding softness of your body. he didn’t look away from you as he made quick and efficient work of his belt and pants, shoving them down just enough.
there was no more patience. that went away as soon as his key entered the lock. he hooked his hands under your knees, pushing them up and apart, opening you up for him. his cock, thick and heavy and already weeping, nudged against your pussy. he watched your face, watching your lips part, your eyes flutter. it was all so beautiful to him.
“you miss me?” he rasped, his gaze was tender in a way only you ever saw.
“yes,” you hummed, reaching for him, your fingers brushing through his hair. “missed you soo much, toji.”
a satisfied, almost smirk touched his scarred lip. “damn right.”
and he pushed in. not slow, not gentle, but with a single, devastating roll of his hips that buried him to the hilt. the breath was punched from your lungs in a sharp cry. he was so big, the stretch a sweet, burning ache that made your toes curl.
he held there, buried deep, his body trembling with the effort of his control, forehead dropping to yours. the room was silent except for your mingled, ragged breaths and the creak of the bed-frame.
“fuck,” he breathed, the word full of awe. “every damn time. like you’re made for me.”
then he moved. it was a relentless, driving rhythm, the kind only a man of his strength and certainty could deliver. each powerful thrust rocked you up the mattress, the headboard tapping a steady, urgent rhythm against the wall. the slap of skin on skin, the wet, filthy sound of him plunging into your slick heat, filled the room.
his hands were everywhere, possessive and guiding. one anchored your hip, his thumb digging into the soft flesh, holding you right where he wanted you. the other slid up to tangle in your hair, not pulling, just holding, a firm anchor as he fucked you into the sheets. your own pleas were a stream—his name, yes, more, please—desperate and exactly what he wanted to hear. he never knew how much he could like his name until it was you saying it.
“that’s it,” he groaned, his voice husky. his pace increased, each deep drive punching a gasping moan from your throat. "my beautiful wife," he moaned.
the word, spoken like that, from his lips. you clenched around him instinctively, and he saw stars, his eyes rolling back before he snapped his gaze back to yours.
he panted, a sheen of sweat making the defined planes of his chest gleam in the low light. he shifted then, dragging you with him, rolling until you were straddling him. he didn’t leave you, staying locked deep inside. the new angle made you cry out, him hitting a spot that made your vision blur.
“harder?” he asked, his hands settling on your waist, huge and spanning almost your entire midsection. he helped you move, lifting you and slamming you back down onto him, guiding the pace. “you got it. my wife wants a good fuck, she gets a good fuck.”
you rode him, impaled, bouncing on his thick cock, your hands braced on the solid wall of his chest. he watched you, green eyes devouring every flicker of pleasure on your face, every shudder that wracked your body. one of his hands slid down, calloused fingers finding your clit, rubbing rough circles.
it was too much. the way he filled your walls, the pressure of his fingers, the raw, adoring hunger in his eyes. the coil snapped. your climax ripped through you, a silent scream tearing from your throat as you convulsed around him, your inner muscles fluttering and clamping down on his cock in a relentless rhythm.
the sight of you, the feel of you, undid him. with a final, guttural roar of your name, he followed you over, his hips stuttering off the mattress as he emptied himself deep inside you.
he could have blue balls for 10 years straight if he got to be inside you, with you, and watch you come undone. when you finally went back to sleep, he made sure you stayed close to him. fingers massaging your scalp, listening closely to your breath.
just when you thought you finally had sukuna nailed down, figured him out, he twists that belief around and swallows it whole, completely. the man can't possibly handle being one-upped, even in the comfort of his bedroom chambers.
a broad hand splayed possessively over the trembling bulge of your stomach. the other pair of hands moves down, calloused thumbs spreading apart your sticky, well-used folds, exposing you to the cool air of his chambers.
"you took one so well," he muses, his breath slightly uneven. "let's see how you handle the other.” the other? you're too foggy to process his words until you feel it. the thick, rested weight of his second cock nudging against your soaked entrance, already stretching you anew.
what the fuck?!
along the veined, heated length of the cock buried inside you, a seam parts. then another, on the one pressing insistently at your core. not wounds, but lips. full, cruel, and slick. knowing smiles against your inner walls, and your eyes fly wide. your hands grasp onto his stomach, your body planted atop of him.
“my- lord?!”
"quiet woman,” he hushes, “just feel." they move. it's not a thrust, at first. it's slow, deliberate, sinuous undulation. the mouths(?), tongues-forked, hot, and broad, lapping flat strokes against the most sensitive parts of your clenching walls.
one suckles greedily at the swollen patch of flesh just inside your entrance, while the other finds that deep, spongy spot his tip was battering earlier. it's too much. it's everywhere. it's inside you. he unravels every sane thought you've ever possessed, with just a few flicks of his tongues. “fuck… it's too much, m-my lord!”
"it's never too much," sukuna corrects. he began to move his hips, a shallow, grinding roll that pushes the cocks deeper, making those wicked mouths kiss and suck at parts of you that you didn't know you could feel. the snake-like tongues wiggle their way up your pussy.
you are going to die. you are sure of it. your heart will give out, overwhelmed by the tsunami of pleasure crashing through your system. this is genuinely insane. it almost made you wonder if there was a place for sukuna’s victims after being terrorized with his cocks. wherever it is, you are sure you will end up there soon.
every nerve is alight, singing a chorus of pure, unadulterated rapture. it feels divine, a blasphemous paradise found only in the hell of his embrace.
the coil in your belly, which never truly unwound, too focused on pleasing sukuna. not wanting to lose his attention amongst the plethora of other concubines. a silent, open-mouthed scream tearing through you as you gush around him, fluids leaking onto his crotch, making the hairs at the base throughout soaked.
“my, my, look at that, woman,” he cooed, his veins straining underneath the tattoos. the vibration of your orgasm triggered his own. a guttural roar that shakes the very foundations of his bed.
you feel the hot flood of his cum, and the mouths on his cocks drink it down greedily before spilling what they can't hold back into your depths, filling you far past the point of capacity. subconsciously, you let out ‘thank yous’, your body losing its former strength. a set of arms catches your body pulling you back forward.
♡ summary: after years of struggling a pretty flyer and promising results leads you to best treatment of your life!
♡ wc: 6k
♡ content warnings: fem! reader, protected, chokíng, overstím, squírting, pet names, crying, size diffs, edging, praise, p in v, spanking, toys, its pretty much a glōry hole service (kind of), anonymity, masks, blindfolds, reader has anorgasmia, 3somes, multiple rounds, oral, rough, double pen, backshōts, bruising, groping.
♡ a/n: last one of the year!!
The persistent buzz getting stronger with each press of the button. You closed your eyes, focusing on the sensation. Your legs spread, gliding the wand through your soaked folds. The silicone head slipping through the slick evidence of your arousal. The pressure built, a familiar, tantalizing ascent.
So close…
Your spine arched as the core tightened. It was like a rubber band being pulled back, the tension coiling in your pelvis, waiting for that final, glorious snap. You pressed the vibrator hard against your clit, your breath hitching, expecting that sweet, sweet orgasm you'd been dying for. The peak was right there; you could taste it.
Almost…
You waited for a moment, relaxing your body, offering it up to the sensation. Seconds ticked by. Then minutes. The tension didn't break; it just... dissolved, seeping away like smoke. The frantic buzz against your now-overstimulated nerves just felt irritating.
"Fuck!" You groaned to the empty room.
Frustrated, you hurled the still-buzzing vibrator across the room. It thudded against the wall, then hit the floor with a pathetic clatter-bzzzt. Every time. Every. Single. Time. Just when you were on the precipice of reaching an orgasm, it ghosted you. It was like a curse had been put upon you, condemning you to forever hike the base of the great mountain but never plant your flag at the summit.
It was getting so bad that your irritability was through the roof. Yesterday, you dropped your phone and cried yourself to sleep over the cracked screen protector. Last week, during ovulation, you'd craved the very feeling you couldn't have so intensely, you'd thrown a full-blown, foot-stomping fit in your kitchen over an empty box of cereal. It was embarrassing. Humiliating, even. Your own body was a troll.
You've tried everything. Toys, sex, fingers, even medication. Nothing worked; you were at a complete loss. Another failed hookup was your final straw. The guy claimed he could do it, and for one shining, delusional moment, you'd believed him. But like every other time, the smoke disappeared, and you were left overstimulated and some random lapping desperately at your clit.
"The doctor will see you now."
The nurse led you to an office that smelled of antiseptic and vanilla. Behind the desk sat a woman with long, messy brown hair and dark circles under her eyes that looked like they hadn't seen a full night's sleep since the first iPhone came out.
She glanced up, offering a faint, professional smile that didn't quite reach her exhausted eyes. "Have a seat. I'm Dr. Ieiri." She seemed to be reading your file, or possibly the takeout menu buried beneath it. "So, tell me a little about what's going on."
You'd heard of Dr. Ieiri. Online forums, friends of friends spoke her name in hopeful tones. She was apparently a "magic" doctor who could fix the unfixable. It had taken months of spiraling to finally book this consultation. Maybe it was stubborn hope, or maybe it was the last pathetic shred of your pride finally waving a white flag.
You explained your "issue," giving a clinical and slightly tragic summary of your sexual history. You sounded like a malfunctioning appliance. Unit fails to complete cycle. Error code: Bliss Not Found.
Dr. Ieiri listened, nodding slowly, her pen tapping against the desk. When you finished, she leaned back. "Based on what you've described, persistent difficulty achieving orgasm despite adequate stimulation. It sounds pretty textbook, possibly a severe case of Anorgasmia. Situational, likely psychogenic in origin, given your history of near success."
You felt your shoulders slump. Another label. Great…
"It is treatable, though," she continued, and you let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding. "We can start a conventional treatment plan. Cognitive behavioral therapy, sensate focus exercises, and possibly adjusting any medications you're on. It's effective, but it takes time and consistent effort."
A long road. You'd been on a long road. It was paved with disappointment and dead-end vibrators.
She paused, her eyes drifting past you to a brightly colored flyer pinned to a corkboard on the wall. It was at odds with the sterile environment. She looked... hesitant. "Or... we could pursue a different treatment modality. It's rather... extreme. Not my first recommendation. But the efficacy rates are...remarkable. Some patients report success in a matter of hours. Even minutes."
Your spine straightened so fast you almost heard a crack. Minutes? After years? Your internal skeptic screamed that this was where they sold you magic beans, but the desperate, orgasm-starved part of you perked up. "Is it like... surgery?" You weren't opposed. At this point, you'd let them wire you up to a car battery if it promised results.
"No, no surgery," Dr. Ieiri said. She let out a small, dry chuckle. It wasn't a funny-haha sound; it was the sound of professional embarrassment. With a sigh, she reached over, unpinned the flyer, and slid it across the desk to you. It was glossy. Too glossy for a medical office.
'Orgasm Inc.’
‘Ignite your match today!'
Beneath the headline was a stock photo of a ridiculously attractive, diverse group of people laughing while holding sparklers. The design was sleek, modern, and infuriatingly vague.
"What... is this?" you asked, turning the flyer over as if the back would have a disclaimer like ‘This is a joke, please seek real help!'
"It's an adjunct program I run through the clinic," Dr. Ieiri explained, her tone carefully neutral. "For patients with treatment-resistant anorgasmia or erectile dysfunction. The philosophy is... direct intervention." She ran a finger down to the bottom, to the microscopic fine print you needed a magnifying glass to read. "We facilitate highly curated matches based on bio-compatibility and psychosexual profiling. Essentially, we find your ideal... catalyst."
So that was the 'but.' Not as scary as you'd imagined, but it just sounds like a very fancy, medicalized hook-up service. As if reading your mind— a terrifying skill for a doctor to have— she continued.
"It's not Tinder," she said bluntly. "We screen up to twenty candidates who fit your stated preferences. Then we run a full panel: genetic compatibility screenings to assess pheromonal response, comprehensive bloodwork to rule out physiological barriers, and a battery of psychometric tests to gauge temperament and... stylistic alignment." She sorted through some papers on her desk, finding a flowchart that looked like it was for launching a satellite, not getting someone off. "We consider everything from vaginal pH compatibility to neurotransmitter profiles. The goal is to guarantee a match on a biological and psychological level before you're ever in the same room."
She finally met your gaze, her tired eyes serious. "It is, for lack of a better term, a targeted, therapeutic intervention with a very high success rate for breaking the cycle."
You stared at the smiling sparkler-holders on the flyer. 'Ignite Your Match.’ It was ridiculous. It was humiliating. It was the most clinical proposition for sex you'd ever heard. And after a lifetime of failure, it was also the most hopeful thing you'd seen. A slow, slightly unhinged smile spread across your face. "So," you said, tapping the glossy paper. "What's the copay?"
—
This was your absolute last resort; if this didn't work, you would be an orgasmless woman for the rest of your sad, frustrating life. The paperwork alone was insane—a small novel of disclaimers, psychological evaluations, and physical consents. They took full-body scans, vials of blood, swabs from places you'd rather forget. You signed your name until your hand cramped. Then, the waiting. A full month, they said, to track your cycle with precision and to gather suitable participants.
A month of lying awake, aching, wondering if your body was even capable of the release everyone else seemed to take for granted.
The day arrived with clinical sterility. You were instructed to shower with their specially formulated, scentless soap, then smooth their hypoallergenic lotion over every inch of your skin. A nurse administered a sharp, cold shot to your hip. "It suppresses ovulation and neutralizes any known STDs for forty-eight hours," she explained briskly. Not FDA-approved, but revolutionary. Consider it a technological condom.
The thought was dizzying. That such a thing existed and wasn't public knowledge... but then, Orgasm Inc. wasn't a typical service. It was a medical-grade glory hole service. A last-chance salon for the pleasureless like you. The price was staggering, but your insurance, convinced it was a "therapeutic treatment for anorgasmia," covered most. The remainder was a sobering chunk of your savings.
Another nurse, her smile kind but detached, led you down a softly lit hallway to a room that felt like a cross between a spa and a laboratory.
The centerpiece was a plush, queen-sized bed, but it was pushed flush against the wall, which held a generous, padded opening-a hole just large enough for the lower half of a body to slip through. It was cozy, nice sheets, thankfully, the gown they gave you wasn't like the thin hospital ones, but similar to a cotton gown you had at home, aside from the open back side.
She placed a small, smooth remote in your palm. "Your control. This silver button," she said, guiding your thumb to a cool, metallic circle, "is your emergency stop. Hold it for three seconds, and the session terminates immediately. All participants are removed, and incoming ones are halted. You are in charge." Her finger moved to a bright orange button. "This requests additional lubrication. Use it freely."
Finally, she tapped a pink button. "This one extends a participant's time. Each session is five minutes. If you feel you are close to climax and need more time with that specific partner, press the pink button. It grants one five-minute extension, per participant, per session." A few more nurses walked into the room with a blindfold and water in hand, along with a few snacks. You were instructed to lie on the bed, sliding your lower half through the hole. It cut off right below your waist as nurses adjusted the bed to fit your height to be comfortable, as your feet dangled on the bed on the outside.
"Initial lubrication," a nurse announced. You flinched as a cool, slick gel cascaded over your folds and your rear hole. Expert, gloved fingers spread it, massaging it into your inner lips, circling your clit, pushing a generous amount inside your entrance. The clinical touch was jarring, but the lube was warming quickly.
"Remember, orange for more," she reminded you.
As they finished, you asked, "The pink button... what if I want to extend more than once?"
"The system allows for one extension per participant. It encourages... decisiveness." With that, they retreated. The last nurse fitted the plush blindfold over your eyes, plunging you into a velvety, absolute black. "This enhances tactile sensitivity and removes visual distraction. Focus on the feeling." The door clicked shut, leaving you in silence, your heartbeat loud in your ears, the remote a lifeline in your clenched fist.
The first sound was the subtle swoosh of a door opening on the other side of the wall. A presence. Guy #1.
His touch was hesitant. A soft, dry thumb stroked once, twice over your clit. His fingers were smooth, manicured. He traced your outer lips, dipping just inside to gather wetness before circling your entrance. He seemed to be studying you. For a better angle, he hitched your thigh up, his grip polite. One finger, then two, slid inside you, curling gently. They were... adequate. A medium length, a timid exploration. It felt nice in a distant way, like a polite massage, but it lit no fire.
Hearing a soft, stuttered breath, you felt the blunt, semi-soft head of his cock nudge against you. He squeezed your thigh—a warning?—and pushed in with a shallow thrust. He was fully hard now, but only just. A comfortable, unremarkable size.
He stayed still, letting you adjust, though the clock was ticking. The faint crinkle of pubic hair against your skin. The blindfold made every sensation hyper-real. The slight throb of his pulse inside you, the minute tremble in his thighs. He began to move, a shallow, polite rocking, his thumb returning to your clit in timid circles. His pace quickened, becoming earnest but clumsy. There was no rhythm, no building tension, just the frantic, instinctual pistoning of a man chasing his own finish.
Was he a virgin?
The thought was depressingly clinical. His breathing hitched, his movements turned jagged, and with a choked-off grunt, he slammed deep, his sweaty palms slipping on your thigh. You felt the hot, internal pulse of his release, the quick, diminishing twitches of his oversensitive cock before he slid out, leaving you empty and vaguely wet. A soft chime signaled his time was up. Thank god.
You were given a 10-minute break in between each participant for your body to readjust and for the nurses to reapply more lube. You definitely needed it after Guy #1.
The next man walked in, and you were already prepped from last time, so he would have more time actually inside of you. You knew immediately he was different. No tentative touch. Large, rough hands grabbed your ass, kneading the flesh, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp.
He lifted both your legs as if you weighed nothing, hooking your knees over his forearms, jerking your hips forward to meet him. You scrambled for purchase on the sheets. You felt him, the heavy, thick drag of his cock along your drenched slit. He was huge. A broad, mushroomed head pressed insistently against your entrance, and then he sheathed himself in one brutal, unforgiving thrust.
You cried out, your body bowing, unprepared for the sudden, burning stretch. He held still for a shuddering second, letting your walls flutter wildly around the invasion, before pulling out almost completely. Your hole clenched around nothing, aching. He muttered something, a low, blurred rumble lost to the soundproofing.
SMACK. A sharp, stinging pain bloomed on your ass cheek. You'd listed "impact play" as a mild interest on your form, but you didn't expect any of the participants to actually do it.
He drove back into you, setting a ruthless, pounding pace. The blindfold grew damp with involuntary tears. Your moans were raw, echoing in your private room. You wrapped your legs around his waist, seeking an anchor, but his grip on your hips was iron, controlling every jolt and drive. It hurt, a deep, radiating ache, but beneath it, a coil of pure, shocking pleasure tightened. He was hammering against a spot inside you that made stars burst behind the blindfold. Your pussy grew obscenely wet, each thrust producing a filthy, squelching sound.
That precious, unfamiliar precipice began to build again, higher and sharper than before.
When his thick fingers found your clit, rubbing rough, tight circles, you instinctively tried to buck away. He only hauled you back, impaling you deeper, your hips meeting his with punishing force. Tears soaked the mask. You were babbling, begging into the void.
The alarm chimed. He didn't stop. He didn't even slow. He held you on his cock, a silent, demanding question. With a trembling hand, you found the remote and mashed the pink button.
A gratifying squeeze on your ass. He used the bonus time mercilessly, flipping you onto your stomach with a grunt. Your legs gave out, but he held your hips up, his thrusts now a wild, animalistic pounding. The slap of his balls against your oversensitive clit was relentless, pushing you to a mindless brink. You stuffed a fist in your mouth to muffle your screams, drool slicking your chin. He was destroying you, rearranging you, hitting that glorious spot with brutal precision.
Your body began to lock up, a tidal wave gathering in your core—so close, so close-and with a final, brutal slam, his rhythm fractured.
You felt him swell, pulse, and then he was pulling out, his hot release striping your back and thighs in thick ropes. The final chime sounded. He gave your throbbing pussy two patronizing, sticky taps before the door swooshed shut. He was gone. You were left shattered, trembling, and so agonizingly unfinished. #2 really knew how to show up and show out.
The break was a blur of gentle cleaning, a new blindfold, and cool water sipped through a straw.
The next several participants blurred into a montage of mediocrity. #3 was efficient but detached. #4 had a terrible rhythm. #5 was forgettably average. Guy #6 was a nightmare, fumbling, half-soft, actually prodding at your urethra before correcting himself.
You missed #1's nervousness and knowing what the right hole was. You craved #2's brutal competence. None of them brought you back to that cliff's edge.
Participant #10 was anatomically shocking. The stretch was beyond full; it was a burning, pressure-filled intrusion. He spent four of his five minutes just trying to seat himself fully inside you, and the sensation was less of pleasure and more of being split open. You saw white behind your eyes, but from pain, not passion. You were so close to pressing the metallic button until time ended. The chime was a rescue.
Participant #14 was a surprise. No immediate penetration. Instead, you felt hot breath, then the flat, wet stroke of a tongue from your ass to your clit. He ate you with slow, languorous devotion, lapping up the mixed juices, circling your entrance, sucking your clit into his mouth until your thighs shook. He made you writhe, made you sob with need, and just as the coil threatened to snap, he slid inside a smooth, thick length.
He fucked you with deep, grinding rolls of his hips, but the shift from oral to penetration disrupted the fragile build-up. The chime sounded with you hovering frustratingly near, but not over. He kissed your inner thigh and was gone.
Hope was a dying ember. You were sore, overstimulated, and despairing. Only three left. You shifted onto your back, tired of the faceless anonymity, your body feeling used and no closer to its goal.
The door opened. Guy #17.
He didn't try to get inside of you immediately. His hands, warm and sure, smoothed up your inner thighs. His touch was gentle, like #11, but there was an authority to it, a knowing pressure that made your spine arch off the bed.
You spread your legs wider. You felt him lean close, the heat of his body, the scent of clean skin and warm musk. The thick, silken head of his cock tapped your clit, then dragged slowly down through your slick folds, coating himself.
He took his time, exploring. A hand patted your calf, guiding it up over his shoulder. His grip was firm, possessive. The blunt tip pressed against your swollen entrance and just... stayed. Teasing. Circling. Your breath hitched; impatience warred with a sudden, thrilling anticipation.
As if sensing your frustration, he finally pushed forward—not with a thrust, but with an inexorable, slow invasion. An inch, then a retreat. Another inch, deeper this time. He was stretching you with a perfect, delicious pressure, filling you with a thick, curved length that seemed designed for you. It was overwhelming in the best way, the stretch walking the perfect line between pleasure and pain, the curve rubbing against walls that had been ignored all day. A broken moan fell from your lips.
He established a rhythm-deep, rolling strokes that grew steadily in power. His hand slid under your hips, angling you, and every thrust now rubbed that glorious inner spot with unerring accuracy. This wasn't just fucking; it was a conversation. Your body spoke in hitches and clenches, and he answered with deeper pressure, a faster pace. Fluids leaked from you, making a wet patch beneath your ass. You were babbling again, nails scrabbling at the sheets.
And then, as his thumb found your clit, applying just the right amount of friction, the universe detonated. It started as a tight, fluttering deep in your core, a spark that became a wildfire. Your vision whited out behind the blindfold. Your back arched violently, a raw, guttural scream tearing from your throat as your pussy clenched around him in rapid, agonizingly sweet spasms.
It was endless, wracking you with waves of pleasure so intense they bordered on pain. You were cumming. Finally, finally, finally. You sobbed through it, your body convulsing, milking his cock as the ecstasy slowly, slowly ebbed. He paused, buried to the hilt, letting you ride the seismic aftershocks. But as you trembled, spent, you felt him begin to move again, chasing his own end. The chime sounded. You didn't hesitate. Your thumb, slick with sweat, found and held the pink button.
A low groan from the other side of the wall. His movements became more urgent, more possessive. You were overstimulated, raw, but the sensitivity was a new kind of torture. With a few more deep, grinding thrusts, another orgasm was ripped from you—a surprising, gushing release that soaked his pelvis and the sheets beneath you. You squirted, body seizing, a weak scream catching in your throat.
Before you could even go limp, he flipped you onto your back. His mouth was on you, hot and demanding, licking up your own release from your stomach, sucking marks onto your hips.
You were a quivering, oversensitive mess, and he was everywhere. You felt him swell, throb, and with a final, deep plunge, he came inside you, his pulsing heat triggering a third, smaller, shockwave of clenching pleasure that left you seeing stars. He collapsed over you for a second, his weight a delicious anchor, before carefully pulling out. A gentle, almost reverent kiss was placed on your pubic bone. Then silence. He was gone.
He had broken the dam. The last three participants were a blur of delirious, easy climax. #17 had you shuddering with two deep thrusts. #19 merely pressed the head inside, and you came with a shattered cry, your body now a hair-trigger. By the time #20 entered, you were floating in a hypersensitive haze, cumming almost continuously, barely aware of his departure. Sleep overcame you as you drifted into a long-awaited slumber.
You awoke in a soft, private recovery room, your body clean, swaddled in a fresh gown. A gentle ache hummed between your legs, a satisfied, full feeling. A nurse checked your vitals, beaming. "Congratulations. A remarkably successful outcome." almost made it sound like you were pregnant.
Dr. Ieiri entered, clipboard in hand, a genuine smile on her face. "Hello. How are you feeling?"
"Pretty great," you murmured, voice hoarse.
"Still a little tired."
"That's the shot. Its effects include mild lethargy. It will pass." She reviewed your chart. "I must say, your physiological responses were our most pronounced to date. You've effectively recalibrated your system."
She went over aftercare, hydration, rest, and a follow-up in two weeks. Then, she leaned forward. "As per your contract, the reconnection offer stands. If you wish to meet with any of the participants again, through our secured channels, you may."
Your mind, still foggy, flashed with immediate, vivid sense-memory. You met her gaze. "Is there a limit to how many I can revisit?"
Her eyebrow arched, a flicker of amusement in her professional demeanor. "Most select one. But no, there is no technical limit."
A slow, tired, but deeply satisfied smile spread across your lips. "Then yes, I would." Why pick one when you could pick two!
—
"Aren't you eager..." he mused, the voice a low, raspy vibration against the humid air of the room. The scar at the corner of his lips—a pale, ragged slash-stretched with his smirk as his thumb and forefinger pinched your damp cheek, forcing your lips into a tighter, more desperate 'O' around his girth. You answered with a hum, a deliberate, throaty sound that traveled directly down the shaft buried in your mouth, making the thick vein along its underside pulse against your tongue.
Your eyes, blurry and wet, weren't just watering from the strain. They were swimming, tears tracking through the sweat at your temples from the overwhelming, glorious stretch of your jaw and the relentless, wet heat between your thighs where another mouth worked you over. It was hard to focus, hard to even remember your own name, not that you were allowed to use it here anyway. The rules were clear: masks on, no names.
Anonymity was the price for the kind of soul-shattering pleasure they'd dangled before you. You resorted to using their numbers from last time, assuming who was who. The black-haired man above you #2, you mentally labeled him, tightened his grip in your hair. He guided your head down, sinking himself deeper until your nose pressed into the coarse, dark curls at his base.
Your throat bulged obscenely around him, a visible lump working as you fought your gag reflex, surrendering to the sheer size of him. In the flickering of candlelight, his body was a landscape of muscle, the shadow of old scars crisscrossing his ribs and shoulders.
Beneath you, the white-haired man #17 was a study in contrasts. Just as tall, those plump, sinfully soft lips were sealed around your clit, sucking with rhythmic, devastating precision, while his fingers, long, curled inside you, finding that spongy spot with accuracy. His chuckle against your most sensitive flesh was a low tremor that made your entire body convulse, a silent scream trapped around the cock in your mouth.
You sucked in earnest then, your cheeks hollowing sharply, drawing a ragged groan from #2. You felt it rumble through his pelvis. You braced your palms on his rock-hard thighs, nails biting into skin, lowering your head further in silent, begging submission.
He obliged. With a grunt that was half curse, half prayer, his hand fisted in your hair, holding you immobile as his hips gave a short, sharp jerk. Hot, salty spurts hit the back of your throat. #2, sensing the climax above, doubled his efforts, his tongue a frantic, circling brand as his fingers pistoned. Your own orgasm ripped through you, which made your knees buckle, and your walls clamp viscously around his thrusting fingers.
You moaned around the pulsing cock, the vibrations milking him for more as you tried desperately to swallow, cum and saliva escaping the corners of your stretched lips to drip onto his still-hard shaft, gleaming in the low light. "Good girl," #2 breathed, his voice wrecked, as he finally pulled you off with a soft, wet pop.
He swiped his thumb through the mess on your chin, pushing the collected release back past your lips. "I couldn't wait to get another taste of this," #17 said, his face glistening with your arousal as he licked a broad stripe up your inner thigh, not wasting a drop. "Can't believe they only give us ten minutes in the rounds. That was a fucking tease," he pouted.
You gasped for air, your body humming, nerve endings screaming. "That's why we're here, isn't it?" you managed to rasp, voice starting to go raw, turning your head to press a soft, filthy kiss to the head of #2's cock where it lay, heavy and semi-soft, against his thigh. He hissed in pleasure.
"You're right," #17 agreed, but he parted from your cunt with obvious reluctance, his breath hot on your flesh.
Before you could orient yourself, #17 was there, his hand capturing your chin, his mouth crashing onto yours. His tongue plunged in, tasting of you and salt, a distracting invasion. You moaned into the kiss just as you felt the broad, blunt head of #2's cock, already iron-hard again, nudge against your dripping, well-used entrance.
You missed that stretch, that glorious, burning fullness. Your body recognized it, welcomed it, sucking him in greedily as he sheathed himself to the hilt in one smooth thrust.
The air left your lungs in a punched-out sob against #17's mouth. He pulled back, a silver string of saliva connecting your swollen lips. His smirk was pure wickedness. He leaned back on his elbows, spreading his legs in a vulgar, inviting display, his own cock lying thick and eager against his stomach. Following an instinct you didn't know you possessed, you slid from #2's lap, pulling #17's thighs toward you. You left a trail of darkening bruises along his inner muscles, your jaw protesting, but the desperate need to taste him. You took one of his heavy balls into your mouth, rolling the weight on your tongue, while your hand massaged the other.
A soft, approving whistle came from above. #17 watched, his blue eyes dark behind his mask, as you licked a long, slow stripe up #17's shaft before swallowing just the plush head. It was the opportunity he needed. His hands landed on your hips, and he drove back into your cunt, the force making you sink deeper onto #2's cock, taking him fully into your throat.
#2 set a punishing, piston-like pace, his balls slapping against your ass with wet, sharp cracks. "Nuh uh, don't lose focus, baby," #17 growled, his own hand tangling in your hair, fucking upward into your mouth in a perfect, synchronized counter-rhythm to the man pounding into you from behind. He pushed a hand into the small of your back, forcing your spine into a deeper arch.
You tried to keep up, to suck and clench and take, but it was a losing battle. A coil was winding tight in your belly again, a pressure building under the dual assault. #2's relentless slaps on your ass, the skin burning, flowering into a hot, red map of his possession. It was him, you were very sure now.
You snaked a trembling hand down between your own legs, your fingers finding your swollen, slippery clit. You circled it once. "Fuck- you should see the way she's sucking me in," #2 groaned above you, his head thrown back. He used his free hand to spread your ass cheeks wide, using your own flesh to bury himself deeper. "Wanna get to see what she looks like cumming around my cock."
"B-best thing ever," #17 stuttered, his rhythm faltering for a second, lost in the memory. Holding your head up, watching your face contort. He pushed your head down now, until his cock was a solid in your throat, and held you there until stars burst behind your eyelids before pulling back just enough for you to gasp.
#2's slap on your cheek was the final spark. It landed with a crack that echoed in the room, a bright, shocking pain that detonated the pleasure coiled inside you. Your cunt clamped down on #17 in a series of brutal, milking spasms, sucking him deeper as you shook. "Just like that!" he groaned, and his own control shattered.
He held you down, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself in hot, pulsing ropes down your throat. You swallowed desperately, around him.
But #2 didn't stop. His thrusts into your mouth remained brutal, even as you came down from your high. He dug his thumbs into the dimples of your lower back, a silent warning not to retreat. You would be bruised tomorrow, inside and out, a walking testament to this night.
Blinking through the haze, you fondled #17's balls with your free hand; he was still miraculously hard in your mouth. With a final, guttural moan, #2 climaxed, his release painted your already-ravaged cunt with a fresh, searing heat. He leaned back to watch it leak out of you. Your nails, which had been clutching #17's thighs, left deep, red crescents in their wake, companions to the hickies blooming there. As #2 finally pulled out, you lifted your head, showing #17 your tongue, clean of his spend.
"Swallowed it all," you slurred.
A wide, breathtaking grin split his face behind the mask. "That's my girl."
Your body was a boneless, trembling. #2, still buried inside you, wrapped a strong arm around your stomach and lifted you from the bed. #17 wasted not a second. The moment #2's cock slipped free with a wet, obscene sound, #17 was there, sheathing himself in your soaking, cum-slicked cunt.
The stretch was still breathtaking, still a delicious, burning fullness. You slumped against #17's chest, only to feel the blunt pressure of a tip once more at your entrance, now slick and loose. There was no way. They couldn't both...
Before you could even form the thought, #2 pushed. Low, broken sound tore from your throat as he breached you, his cock sliding in alongside #17's, stretching you to an impossible, mind-bending degree. You felt them both, every inch, rubbing against each other inside you.
"Oh my god—" It was a sob. They moved. Not in sync at first, a disorienting, overwhelming push-pull that made you see white. Then they found a rhythm—#17 pulling out as #2 pushed in, a continuous, rolling wave of penetration that hit that perfect, spongy spot with every single stroke. Your hands flew to #17's chest, finding it surprisingly full and soft under the hard muscle, holding on for dear life.
"I knew you could do it, baby," #17 breathed against your ear, his voice thick with awe. "Just like that." He captured your mouth again, swallowing your ragged, continuous moans.
Your pussy was stretched beyond anything you'd ever imagined, a sweet, dizzying ache that tipped into ecstasy. You began to move your own hips, fucking back onto them, chasing that feeling again.
You'd pay triple.
Your climax, when it came, wasn't a sharp peak but a flood. Your cunt gushed, a hot rush of fluids that soaked their cocks and thighs, your body convulsing in an endless wave of pleasure. "To think you could get any tighter-" #2 gasped, his hand snapping to the back of your neck.
His release followed instantly, triggered by your spasms, filling you with a fresh, scalding rush. #17 wasn't far behind; your clenching walls were too much. With a loud cry, he joined him, his cock twitching violently against its counterpart as he painted your already-overflowing pussy.
You were utterly spent, a ragdoll panting between them, your senses drowned in the smell of sex, sweat, and lust.
#2 pushed his hips flush against your ass, sealing his cum inside with a filthy, wet squelch. "Can't let any fall out, ya know," he chuckled, his voice a low rumble against your spine. His thumb hooked at your stretched entrance, feeling the mix of their releases seep out despite his efforts.
"How do you think they'll let us stay in here?" you mumbled, consciousness fading at the edges.
"No idea," #2 murmured. "Probably 'til we drop."
#17's eyebrow rose above his mask. You felt his smirk. "Loser is a rotten egg," he taunted, his voice regaining its playful edge.
Not one to back down, #2 laughed, the sound vibrating through you. "You're on."
—
This time, you didn't awake in a sterile recovery room. You awoke to warmth, and weight, and the slow, steady rhythm of two sets of breathing. Were squished in a tangle of limbs in the center of the ruined bed. One man, #17, his shock of black hair tickling your cheek, had an arm thrown possessively across your waist, his face buried in your neck. The other, #2, was spooned behind you, one heavy thigh hooked over yours, pinning you in place. The masks were gone, discarded somewhere on the floor, a clear violation of the contract.
You tried to shift, to lift your head, but the iron-bar arms around you only tightened, pulling you deeper into their sweaty embrace. And you felt the insistent, hardening press against your thigh. It was disgustingly icky.
A slow, sated smile spread across your face as you closed your eyes again. This was truly your best decision ever!
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Handyman!Toji proves your door is especially sturdy!
Doomscrolling would be your downfall.
You'd have just scrolled past the video and watched another GRWM instead. At least you would be adding items to your cart instead of staring at your handyman’s crotch.
You didn't mean to; you pulled your eyes away to look at the textured ceiling of your home. Those damn pop quizzes at the end of his videos, much to your own shame, you scored at least a 7/8.
He's definitely a D.
It didn't help that he was hot as hell; watching him work had to be another form of edging.
He has been working on the door for about 10 minutes, muscles moving under his t-shirt as he drills in the last screw.
“Seems good,” he says, swinging the door, making sure it wouldn't break down at the slightest touch.
“You think? I'm just worried it will scrape the floor again, you know?” you looked up at him, your fingers caressing the newly put-up door. “I put a lot of stuff on my door, it would really suck for it to go back to being the same.”
“Ya’ saying I didn't do it right?” he questioned, checking the hinges.
You shook your head, “No, no,” laughing slightly, getting a little closer to him. “I just think we should check first.”
The door creaked slightly against your bodies. His cock filling your insides, you get an A+ because he is definitely a D. Possibly a D++ if he keeps fucking you like this.
Each thrust punches the air from your lungs, your nails digging into his shoulders through the sweat-damp fabric of his shirt.
The muscles beneath your palms bunch and roll with every movement, corded forearms caging you in as he leans his weight against you.
"This is what you needed?" he grits out, fucking the words into you. His free hand comes up to grip your jaw, forcing your watery eyes to meet his. "Pretty little thing like you, callin' a handyman out just to get her cunt stuffed?"
The rough denim of his jeans scrapes against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. Your leg tightens around his waist, heel digging into the firm curve of his ass, trying to pull him impossibly deeper. “Answer me," he demands, thumb pressing into the soft flesh of your cheek.
"Yes," you gasp, the word torn from you. "Yes, fuck, want it-"
A dark chuckle rumbles in his chest. He drops his hand from your jaw to grip your other thigh, hoisting you up entirely. Your arms lock around his neck on instinct, and he uses the new leverage to fuck up into you, the door groaning in protest with every brutal drive of his hips.
Your cunt clenches at his words, a fresh gush of slick easing his relentless pace. He groans, a deep, animal sound that reverberates through his chest and into yours. Sweat slicks his skin, salt on your tongue when you lean in to taste the column of his throat.
The new angle has him reaching places you didn't know existed, your toes curling, a high-pitched keening escaping your throat. He's so thick, the constant drag of his cock stretching you perfectly, the sting of it blending with unbearable pleasure.
"Feel that?" he mutters, voice strained, jaw tight.
"Feels pretty sturdy, huh?" You can only nod, words gone, your brain static and white-hot pleasure. Your orgasm builds low in your belly, a coil tightening with every punishing thrust. He feels it too, the way your walls start fluttering, the desperate, frantic edge to your moans.
"Gonna cum," he warns, but it sounds more like a threat. His pace turns sloppy, hips stuttering as he chases his own release.
"Cum on my cock, get your money’s worth." His thumb finds your clit, pressing down in rough, unforgiving circles.
It's too much, but exactly enough. Your back bows off the door, a scream caught in your throat as your orgasm rips through you.
Your cunt seizes around him, milking his cock with violent pulses, and the guttural curse he lets out is the only warning you get before he pulls out. Hot spurts of cum cover your thighs, his hips grinding against them as he rides out his own release.
His forehead drops to your shoulder, heavy breaths fanning against your collarbone, the thick column of his throat working as he swallows. Those green eyes rake over your disheveled form, lingering on the way his cum drips down your inner thigh.
"Door's good," he says, voice back to that low, steady timbre. He turns, heading for the door, and pauses with his hand on the knob. "My number's on the fridge if you need anythin' else fixed."
♡ content warnings: fem! reader, oral (m. receiving), established relationship, gojo is down bad, nsfw, lip fetish, praise. mdni
Satoru loved your lips.
Every time he looked at you, they were the first thing to steal his attention. The way they moved when you spoke slow, soft, sometimes animated, he could watch for hours. He wanted to. Your voice was a plus to keep staring at them.
And when you ate? God. Watching your lips wrap around a cherry, sucking the juice from the fruit, made his cock twitch. It wasn’t just lust—it was obsession. The way your mouth moved was pure artistry, and he was your most devoted audience.
The first time he kissed you, he still remembers every second. You were shy, hesitant, barely offering him a fleeting kiss. But he dove back in—hungry, eager, needing more. The way your lips parted when he kissed your neck. The way you bit his bottom lip playfully after short pecks. The way you straddled him, letting your hands wander across his biceps, his chest, like you were mapping out something sacred.
You were perfect. But your lips? They were divine. A gift, sent straight from heaven just for him.
Still, nothing, nothing compared to the sight of your lips wrapped around his cock.
Your big, glassy eyes stared up at him, tears clinging to your lashes, lip gloss messy at the corners of your mouth and streaked across the base of his cock. You left your mark on him, and it was fucking masterpiece.
If he could frame the moment, he would.
He let his index finger trail down your throat, slow and deliberate, feeling the shape of his cock pressing from the inside. The visual alone nearly made him lose it. But he held on, knuckles white, jaw clenched just to keep seeing your mouth on him.
Fingers tangled in your hair, he gently pulled you back. Your lips slipped off with a soft, wet pop, and his hips nearly buckled. Fuck. That sound. That look on your face. Pupils blown wide. Mascara smudged. Lip combo ruined. And you? Still so obedient. So ethereal. Waiting for his next move.
But something was missing.
Your lip combo was smeared beyond recognition—glittery color bleeding past the lines of your mouth. He smiled, dragging the tip of his cock across your lips. You leaned in, kissing it tenderly, leaving another wet kiss mark smudged, claiming him.
Yeah, he wasn’t going to last much longer.
Not with you kneeling so sweetly between his thighs, not even questioning what he was doing or what he was about to do.
“Say ah,” he murmured, stroking the base of his cock with one hand, the other resting possessively on your jaw.
You opened wide. “Ah,” you echoed, tongue out, ready for him.
That was all it took.
He let out a choked, guttural moan as he came—spurts of thick, hot cum spilling onto your tongue, dripping from your lips, trailing down your chin. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t close your eyes while keeping eye contact. You took it all.
“Good girl.”
He used his thumb to smear the cum from your chin across your lips, mixing it with what was left of your gloss. You giggled softly, rubbing your lips together to even out the application, like it was just another part of your routine.
Satoru could have died right then.
The thought—twisted, intrusive—snuck into his head. What if he mixed his cum with your lip gloss? The Fenty one. He liked the shimmer in that one. Maybe then you’d wear him everywhere.
He’d dwell on it later.
Not now. Not when you were leaning in again, pressing sweet, open-mouthed kisses along the side of his cock.
♡ summary: debuting into high society attracts a plethora of eligible suitors, but there was only one you wanted to betroth. yet his heart seems to be with another.
♡ wc: 8.6k
♡ content warnings: fem! reader, widower! gojo, regency era au (sorry for any inaccuracies), pining, jealousy, marriage, oral (f. receiving), unprotected piv, naoya zenin courting, courtship, virgin r, age gap (r is 20 & gojo is 25).
♡ a/n: this was very bridgerton inspired, that garden is in bloom, baby
Prepped, primed, and ready like a precious jewel set into a crown. Since birth, you were taught everything a young girl of high status should know, how to bag a husband.
It was an art as precise and crucial as miniature portraiture. Ladies, especially those of high status, must be prepared for the arrangements that would soon come, if they were lucky, within a year of debuting onto the marriage market.
For an event and a season so important, it is unsurprising how society pays close attention to any interaction, any glance held a moment too long, any dance that strayed from polite conversation. You had understood early that those on the instep had nothing better to do than be in others’ business.
Gossip was as rich as their pockets.
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.
♡ a/n: waiter! waiter! my lobster is too buttery and my steak is too juicy!
TOJI ♡ FUSHIGURO
“C’mon what did you say earlier?” he grinned, his biceps holding your legs tighter. “It's not even that big?” he mocked raising his voice to a high and annoying pitch. You definitely did not sound like that but you were too distracted by Toji dragging his cock through your folds.
Holding your legs up to your chest angling his cock to your stomach measuring how far it would go. “See that?” he spoke in your ear, “Since I'm so small, you can take it, right?”
“I never sa-” you screamed as he entered without warning, as he glided your body down onto him. You had never taken all of him at once, you could barely breathe. It felt like he was puncturing your insides.
The air punched out of you in a ragged, broken sound. It was too much, a deep, splitting stretch that stole your vision in white sparks. The coarse hair at his base a rough reality against your ass.
"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.
"I-it was a letter, Kuna!" you moaned into the pillows. Your voice was muffled under the pressure of his hand keeping you still.
"Seduction, no less, I-I have duties that you cannot seem to let me attend to." He grumbled, soft groans slipping through his pursed lips.
You couldn't help that he got turned on by your handwriting! It kind of concerned you the lengths and distances he would go.
The parchment lay crumpled beside your head, ink bleeding into the silk sheets where his clawed thumb had pressed too hard, too eager.
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."
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