so many fandoms, not enough time

It's been five years since your husband passed.

"I can be him."

One year since you returned to the jujutsu world.

"If you just let me. I can be him. You can call his name. Pretend he's touching you."

Six months since 𝓨𝒖𝒕𝒂 started pursuing you.

The setting sun over jujutsu tech glared you down as your back pressed into the bridge's wooden beams. Was Satoru's glare in the horizon? Was his judgement in the sky? Were his chastises whispered in the wind that kissed your cheek?

His eyes were above you.

His hair tickling your forehead.

His hands on you.

His. But not his. Not your husband. Not Satoru.

Just the man who wore his skin.

Yuta shedded his a long time ago. A miscalculation. A medical horror. Returning to his body became impossible and so, he remained in the man who was once yours. Now twenty three, and all he wanted?

You.

Before you, he stood. Looming over you the way that Satoru did. Caressing your cheek the way that Satoru did.

Whispering to you the way that Satoru did.

"I have his memories," he said, thumb tracing a familiar line on your cheekbone. "I know how he touched you. I know how he loved you. I can love you the same."

He leaned closer. Diminishing both the space between you and your shame.

"We can play pretend," he promised.

The same way Satoru had promised that he would come home.

The same way you had promised him that no one else would ever hold your heart, your body, your soul.

You broke your promise.

All it took was a kiss. From lips you remembered. From a mouth that worshipped you every day of your short marriage.

Your downfall were his hands. Familiar. Once yours. The wedding ring he still wore out of reverence for his sensei.

A kiss. A touch. A memory. That's all it took.

All it took for the sheets to welcome your back. For your thighs to welcome his head. Your hands greeting white hair that you once stroked so tenderly when the world caved in on him.

Your Satoru.

Not your Satoru.

Satoru's body.

Your Satoru's body.

Between your legs. Worshipping you. As he always did. With big, scarred hands spreading you apart. With a tongue that knew every inch of you. A voice that praised you.

The same way your husband would.

"So sweet, taste so so good, sweet girl," the groan soaked into your slick. An aphrodisiac of its own. Seeping into your veins. Dizzying your mind.

"Toru," you whimpered.

Toru.

Satoru.

Your Satoru.

He's not your Satoru.

But you moaned for him as if he was.

Tugged onto his hair. Ground into his face. Whimpered his name— as if he was.

Two orgasms on his tongue alone. Yuta proved that he had committed to his sensei's memories. He knew exactly how to fuck you on the pink muscle. Where to touch. What pressure.

His thumb stroked along your slit. Tracing the quivers as his lips occupied your clit. Sucking on its pulses and worming out another devastating orgasm out of you.

Three. You came three times.

The same number Satoru worked you up to before he kissed you. Held you. Fucked you.

Yuta committed to the routine. Kissed you. Spread your thighs.

Pressed his dick to your twitching cunt.

Shushed your cries.

Held you.

Fucked you.

Your body forgot, but your mind didn't. The stretch burned and tears pricked at your eyes— but your mind keened. Slipped. Soaked in the memory of him.

Of your husband.

Of Satoru.

As Yuta's hips engraved new memories into your thighs.

As his fingers blossomed new bruises.

As his mouth kissed you with a new hunger.

Your arms hugged around his neck. Breath stuttering. Voice breaking. Every plunge of his cock stroked the fire deeper into you. Unravelling your mind into a messy heap of tears and needy.

Rough pants fanned above you. His brows pinched at the centre. One hand gripping your thigh and the other cupped beneath your head. Yuta's thrusts were as nasty as Satoru's. Deep, fast, taking you apart from the inside out.

"That's it. There you go," he huffed, white lashes fluttering. "There's my girl."

"Sat— toru," you sobbed. Because maybe crying would make it real.

Maybe it'd wake you up from this terrible nightmare.

"You're doing so well, sweetheart." His voice slipped into your ear. Clenched your heart. Squeezed your cunt as your nails raked down his back.

"Toru," you whimpered. "T-Toru, toru please. I need— I need you. I need you."

His thumb found your clit, your back bowed into the pleasure. Another sob shook from your lungs. Reaching out for him. Not Yuta. Not his body. Him.

But it was Yuta who cupped your face. With Satoru's hand.

Yuta who bottomed out. Fucked you deeper. With Satoru's cock.

Yuta who whispered to you. With Satoru's voice.

"I'm here." He lied, so sweetly.

As his hips drove faster— and faster. Grinding into all of the sweetspots that Satoru knew. That were now at his disposal.

"I'm here, I'm right here, sweetheart." He lied, so gently.

As he hugged you close. Took you higher— and higher. Perfectly choreographed to the memory he committed to.

Playing with your clit, with Satoru's fingers.

Praising you, with Satoru's words.

Kissing you, with Satoru's lips.

"I'm gonna cum," you cried, and he licked your tears away. Cradled your face. Whispered tenderly.

"Cum," eyes so blue, eyes once yours, stared deep into your soul. Deceived you with promises that had already been broken. "Cum for me. Cum for 'toru, baby. C'mon."

The heat, the need, the memories— they all rushed into a knot that snapped in the pit of your stomach. Your eyes rolled back. Body arched. Tensed.

"Satoru— t-toru. Toru, miss you. I miss you."

You sobbed his name when you came.

Clung to his shoulders.

Squeezed his cock.

But you knew.

That it wasn't him that held you.

Wasn't him that smacked his hips into yours.

Wasn't him that groaned deep, even if it was his voice.

Wasn't him that stilled, that moaned your name, that filled you to the brim and kept pumping as you shook with whimpers.

Eyes so blue. Eyes once yours.

But in your heart, you knew. Satoru was dead.

Knew that the thing wearing his skin wasn't him.

And that the only one who caressed your face, kissed you, told you that he loved you— wasn't your husband.

But Okkotsu Yuta.

inumaki x fem!reader

you are a barista at a café that inumaki visits every afternoon! one day, he wrote down his number on a little piece a paper and gave it to you before running out the door. being curious and seeing the opportunity to get to know the guy you taken a liking to, you text the number.

a/n: NOT QUITE SURE IF I LIKE THIS BUT IT WILL HAVE TO DO 😢😢😢 also!!!!! the messages are on different days…(besides image 7 and 8) i forgot to show date which i apologize for 💔

living in tokyo, you’ve grown accustomed to the nightly gauntlet of the lone commute via foot: unwanted stares, slurred “hey, cute girl,” and the occasional “come join us, yeah?” from men drifting along the sidewalks. aggravating to say the least, yet largely harmless—provided the pace stayed brisk and eye contact remained nonexistent.

most of it tapered off once megumi fushiguro started accompanying your walks. you chalked it up to the simple social logic that a male companion acts as a deterrent for drunks, opportunists and pervos alike. the thought never crossed your mind that megumi’s resting expression is actually terrifying to the average passerby; why would it? when your boy is nothing but soft sighs and gentle touches in private.

tonight, however, the walk back from the cinema is interrupted by a trio of men, loitering outside. crude comments are hurled your way, heedless of the fact that your boyfriend is right there beside you, your arm looped through his while his hands remain tucked in his pockets. and while megumi seems peeved, you both opt for silence, quickening your pace with the tacit agreement that confrontation isn't worth the energy.

“hey,” he says suddenly, stopping short in front of a familymart. he pulls a few bills from his wallet and presses them into your palm. “go get yourself something. i’m going to check the alley.”

you stare down at his hand, which is still covering yours. as if reluctant to let you go.

“…what for?”

a slight tilt of his chin indicates a dark, narrow gap wedged between two apartment buildings. “might be a nest of fly heads there. won’t take long to exorcise.”

-

by the time the cashier is bagging your chips and soda, the earlier unpleasantness has already begun to fade. it’s only a glance through the glass storefront that brings the memory rushing back. across the street, illuminated by the jaundiced glow of a streetlamp, stands that spiky-haired silhouette of the one you so adore. two men lying crumpled on the pavement, the third (made recognisable by the red sukajan) is attempting to crawl away as megumi advances with unnerving calm.

Just another day shortly after the Shibuya incident.