your boyfriend satoru just can’t wait to be alone ε-(´∀｀; )
your boyfriend has two fingers inside you, curled up against that spot that makes your hips jump, and he's not even looking at you.
satoru's other hand holds his wine glass, swirls the deep red liquid, takes a slow sip like he's not knuckle-deep in your cunt under the white tablecloth. the restaurant is dim, private, a few other couples scattered in the ambient candlelight, but the booth you're in is tucked into a corner, half-hidden by a velvet curtain. perfect for a brat like you.
you pressed your thigh against his under the table twenty minutes ago, a soft, innocent brush. then you let your foot slide up his calf. then you started tracing patterns on his inner thigh with your fingernail, light, teasing, watching his jaw tighten over a perfectly seared steak. he didn't react. not visibly. but his hand dropped below the table, gripped your wrist, and shoved your palm against the growing bulge in his pants. "you did this. you fix it." his voice was a low growl, barely above a breath.
you didn't fix it. you kept teasing, rubbing your thumb over the strained fabric, shifting in your seat so your dress rode higher, showing the lace edge of your panties. you whispered something about dessert, about how sweet you'd taste, and that's when he snapped.
so, now, his fingers are inside you, no preamble, no gentle warm-up. he only had to push your panties aside with a brutal efficiency, dragged his middle and ring finger through your wetness, and shoved them in deep. you gasp, bite your lip, try to keep your face neutral as the waiter passes. satoru's thumb presses against your clit, circles it slowly, and he leans close to your ear, breath hot, voice like gravel.
"you think you're so clever, don't you?" his fingers pump, a steady, punishing rhythm. "getting all wet under the table while i'm trying to eat. you love this. love being a desperate little slut in public where anyone could see."
you whimper, grab his thigh under the table, your nails digging into his slacks. he's so casual, so composed, while his fingers are relentless. he curls them, drags against your g-spot, and you have to bite down on a moan. your pussy clenches around him, and he huffs a quiet laugh.
"yeah, that's right. soak my fingers. you want everyone to know you're getting fucked right now?” he presses harder on your clit, circles faster. “want me to pull your panties off and stuff them in your mouth so you don't make a sound?"
you shake your head, eyes wide, but your hips are grinding against his hand, chasing more. he smirks, that infuriating, beautiful smirk, and adds a third finger. the stretch makes your toes curl in your heels. you're so wet you can hear it, a soft, obscene squelch every time he thrusts into you.
your breath hitches. you're close already, the heat coiling low in your belly, and he knows it. he always knows. he slows down, just when you're about to tip over, drags his fingers out until only the tips are inside.
"no. not here. not like this."
you want to scream. instead you glare at him, bottom lip jutting out, the perfect brat pout. "satoru, toru, please—"
"please what?" he goes back to drinking his wine, fingers still buried in you, but still. motionless. it's torture. "use your words."
you glance around the restaurant. no one's looking. the candle flame flickers between you, casting shadows across his sharp cheekbones. he looks so good like this, hair messy, tie loosened, eyes half-lidded and dark with want.
"please let me come," you whisper, quiet and desperate.
he tsks. "that's not how you ask."
"please… please, toru. i'll be good. i promise."
"you're never good," he says, but there's heat in his voice, a crack in his composure. "you're a fucking brat. my brat. and i'm gonna remind you exactly who owns this cunt."
with that, he pulls his fingers out, wipes them on the napkin, and stands. he tosses his napkin on the table, buttoning his jacket with one hand, and reaches down to grab your arm. you barely have time to stand before he's yanking you out of the booth, past the startled glance of the waiter, toward the back of the restaurant where the restrooms are.
the door to the single-stall bathroom slams shut behind you. the lock clicks. satoru spins you around, pushes you forward until your palms hit the edge of the sink, your chest pressed against the cold marble counter. the mirror in front of you reflects his silhouette, broad shoulders, wild eyes, the bulge straining against his trousers.
“you wanted my attention?” he growls, voice low, shaking with an edge of genuine anger—or arousal, you can't tell anymore. “you're gonna get it. every single inch.”
his hands find your hips, yank your dress up, bunch it around your waist. your panties are already pushed aside, your pussy slick and exposed, glistening under the harsh fluorescent light. he doesn't bother taking his pants off all the way, just unzips, shoves them down enough to free his cock. it springs out, hard and flushed at the tip, precum beading at the slit.
he doesn't warn you. he just lines himself up and thrusts in, one brutal, perfect motion, filling you completely. you cry out, a high, broken sound, and he slaps a hand over your mouth, his other arm wrapping around your waist to hold you steady.
“shut up. you think i want the whole restaurant to hear what a fucking whore you are?” he pounds into you, quick and dirty, no rhythm but pure hunger. his balls slap against your wet skin. the sink digs into your hips. the mirror trembles with each thrust. “you're lucky i don't bend you over the table out there and fuck you in front of everyone.”
you want to answer, but his hand is still tight over your mouth, muffling your moans into wet, desperate sounds against his palm. his pace increases, frantic now, messy. he's lost the cool composure from the table. now he's just a man, a boyfriend, completely undone by the way your cunt grips him, squeezes him with every stroke.
he leans down, presses his chest against your back, bites your shoulder through the fabric of your dress. “feel that? feel how hard i am for you? because you couldn't keep your fucking hands to yourself—“ he accentuates each word with a deep, grinding thrust. “—you had to push and tease and make me lose my goddamn mind.”
“mmph—“ you try to say yes, but it's lost.
his hand slides up, tangles in your hair, yanks your head back. now you're looking at yourself in the mirror, face flushed, lips swollen, mascara starting to smear. and behind you, satoru, teeth bared, sweat on his brow, fucking into you like the world is ending.
“love when you act out,” your boyfriend hisses, “because i love reminding you what happens when you do.”
his other hand snakes around, finds your clit again, rubs fast and hard. you're already on the edge, and this time he doesn't stop you. he wants you to fall apart on his cock, wants to feel you convulse around him.
“cum for me. now.”
his voice is a command, low and possessive, and your body obeys without hesitation. you shatter, a violent, shuddering orgasm that tears through you, makes your legs wobble, your knuckles white on the sink's edge. you clench around him, pulsing, and he groans, a sound so raw it's almost painful.
“that's it. fucking—fuck—“
he doesn't last much longer. he slams in deep, grinding against your ass, and you feel him spill inside you, hot and thick, painting your walls with his release. he stays there, buried, breathing ragged, his forehead dropping to the back of your neck.
for a long moment, there's only the harsh sound of your breathing, the drip of a faucet somewhere, the lingering heat between your legs.
then he pulls out slowly, carefully, and you feel his cum start to trickle down your inner thigh. he looks at the mess in the mirror, a mix of his and yours, and smirks.
“look at you. dripping.” he reaches for a wad of paper towels, kneels behind you, and cleans you up with surprising gentleness. “you think you learned your lesson?”
you meet his eyes in the reflection, still shaky, still wet, still wanting more. you shake your head, a tiny, defiant motion.
his eyes darken again, that predatory gleam returning.
“good.” he stands, tucks himself back in, adjusts his tie. “because i'm not done with you yet. after dinner, you're gonna come back to my place, and i'm going to fuck that bratty attitude out of you until you can't walk straight.”
satoru presses a kiss to your temple, soft and mocking, then opens the door and steps out, leaving you leaning against the sink, thighs sticky, heart racing, already counting the minutes until the check comes.
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suguru has got you pressed against the wall just inside the foyer, one hand splayed across the small of your back, the other gripping your thigh, hitched high around his hip. your dress is bunched up around your waist, the fabric of his slacks rough against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. he's already inside you—has been for the last thirty seconds, ever since he walked up behind you while you were checking your lipstick in the mirror, took one look at your reflection, and said we've got time.
he pushes deeper, a smooth roll of his hips, and you're convinced he's wrong about that. or maybe he's right. maybe this is the only thing that matters.
"suguru," you whisper, your voice already unsteady, "the reservation—"
"is at eight." his mouth brushes your ear, his breath warm. "it's seven forty-seven. we've got thirteen minutes." he punctuates this with a slow, deliberate grind, and your head thunks back against the wall. "plenty of time."
your boyfriend has always like this—calm, methodical, never a hair out of place even when he's fucking you against the hallway wall while both of you are dressed for a five-star restaurant. his tie is still perfectly knotted, his shirt still tucked. the only evidence of what he's doing is the way his composure cracks at the edges: the slight tremble in his hands, the barely-there hitch in his breathing.
"you have to be quiet," he says, and there's a hint of a smile in his voice, the barest suggestion of fondness. "we're already cutting it close. if anyone hears us, we'll never make it on time."
you want to laugh at the absurdity, but the words dissolve into a rush of air as he pulls out and thrusts back in, a little faster this time. the angle is perfect—he's got you pinned, your legs spread just enough, and every stroke hits that spot deep inside that makes your toes curl.
"seven forty-nine," he murmurs, as if he's keeping a log. "you're doing so well. so quiet for me."
the praise makes you clench around him, and he inhales sharply through his nose, a rare crack in his control. his hand on your back slides down, fingers digging into the curve of your ass, pulling you tighter against him.
"fuck," he breathes, the first time he's said anything close to a curse all night. "you feel—"
suguru doesn't finish the sentence. he doesn't need to. you feel it too—the tension, the heat, the way every stolen moment makes it better because it's stolen. he's not supposed to be ruining you right now. you're supposed to be sitting at a table, ordering wine, making polite conversation. instead, he's got your dress bunched under your tits, his cock buried to the hilt, and his forehead pressed against the wall beside your head, his composure finally fraying.
"seven fifty-one," he says, and his voice is strained now, the clock ticking louder in his head even as he chases his own pleasure. "come for me. come on, sweetheart. we've got two minutes to spare."
you shake your head, the build-up too close, too much. but he shifts his angle, hits that spot again, and the pressure in your belly snaps. you bite your lip to keep from crying out, your body shuddering against him, and he watches you fall apart with something like reverence in his dark eyes.
he follows a moment later, a low, choked sound that he buries against your shoulder. his hips stutter, grinding deep, and you feel him pulse inside you, the warmth spreading through you like a secret.
you stay like that for a long, breathless moment, catching your breath in the quiet foyer. then he pulls out slowly, carefully, and steps back to straighten his tie, as if the last ten minutes didn't happen.
"seven fifty-four," he says, and his voice is back to that calm, measured tone. "we can still make it if we leave now." he reaches out, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. "but you'll have to fix your lipstick."
your reflection in the hall mirror is a mess—smudged lipstick, flushed cheeks, dress wrinkled beyond repair. you look thoroughly debauched, and he's looking at you like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
"stop staring," you mumble, trying to smooth your dress. "you're going to make us late."
"worth it." he says it quietly, almost to himself, and there's that fondness again, bleeding through all his careful control. he takes your hand, laces his fingers through yours. "we'll take my car. i'll drive fast."
you follow him out the door, still trembling, still feeling him inside you. the dinner is going to be impossible. all you'll be able to think about is the way he looked at you, the way he said worth it, the way he fucked you against the wall and still had time to fix his tie.
your stepdad satoru teaches you his own special way ♡(˃͈ ˂͈ )
you’re bent over the desk, textbook open in front of you, equations and diagrams blurring into meaningless shapes. satoru is pressed against your back, his chest warm and solid, one hand braced on the edge of the table while the other grips your hip. his cock is buried inside you, thick and unyielding, stretching you in a way that makes your thoughts dissolve into static.
“come on,” your step-dad says, voice low and patient, the kind of tone a tutor uses when you’re missing something obvious. “that one’s easy. i literally just went over it. what’s the next step?”
you open your mouth to answer, but all that comes out is a broken whimper. his hips roll forward, a slow, deep grind that makes your eyes roll back. the tip of his cock presses against that spot inside you, the one that turns your brain to mush, and you forget what the question even was.
“uh-huh,” he murmurs, amused. “that’s what i thought. c’mon, baby. i know you’re smarter than this. you aced your last exam. what happened? you lose all those brain cells the second my dick goes in?”
you grip the edge of the desk, knuckles white. “i—it’s… i can’t—”
“you can’t?” he repeats, and there’s a teasing lilt in his voice. he pulls back almost all the way, letting just the head of his cock stay inside you, and you feel the emptiness ache immediately. “that’s a shame. i was really proud of you for figuring out the load distribution on that beam. but i guess if you can’t even remember the basic formula, maybe you don’t deserve to cum tonight.”
you shake your head frantically, a desperate noise escaping your throat. “no—no, i remember. it’s… moment… moment equals force times distance, and then you—you—”
his hand leaves the desk and slides around to your front, fingers finding your clit. you jolt, hips bucking, and the words die in your throat.
“and then you?” he prompts, circling your clit slowly, deliberately. “go on. i’m listening.”
“you—you sum the moments about the—the point of—” you gasp as he pushes back in, filling you again in one smooth motion. the stretch is blinding, too much and perfect, and the sentence fractures into a moan.
“the point of what?” he asks, not missing a beat. his voice hasn’t changed—still calm, still patient, still utterly in control. he starts thrusting again, a steady rhythm that rocks the desk and rattles the lamp. “come on, sweetheart. you had this down before i even touched you. now you can’t even finish a sentence.”
you want to cry. you want to beg. the textbook is just a blurry smear of ink and numbers, and all you can feel is him—the heavy drag of his cock inside you, the wet sounds of your pussy gripping him, the way his balls slap against your oversensitive clit with every thrust.
“dad—please—” you manage, voice wrecked.
“please what?” he leans forward, chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing your ear. “please stop teaching you? or please keep going until that pretty little head is empty and all you can think about is daddy’s cock?”
a sob breaks from your throat. you don’t know which one you want. both. neither. all you know is that you need him to keep moving, keep fucking you, keep making you forget everything except the feeling of being split open on his too-big dick.
“that’s what i thought,” he murmurs, approving. he picks up the pace, fucking you harder now, and the desk groans under both your weight. his hand leaves your clit and grabs a fistful of your hair, tugging your head back. “look at the problem. read it out loud.”
your eyes try to focus on the page, but the words swim. “th-the… structure is subjected to… to a uniformly distributed load of… of—”
“keep going.”
“—of twelve kilonewtons per meter, and the… the support at a is a pin, and at b it’s a roller—” you choke on a moan as he hits that spot again, and the rest of the sentence dissolves into a whine.
“and then?” he urges, tightening his grip on your hair. “don’t stop now. you’re doing so good. just a little more and i’ll let you think about something else. like how good it feels when i fill you up.”
your mind is a storm of sensation and broken thoughts. the equation, the forces, the moments—they’re all tangled up with the feeling of his cock stretching you, the heat in your core, the slick sound of your pussy taking him. you force the words out, one by one.
“you… calculate the… the reactions first… sum of forces in y… equals zero…”
“good girl,” he purrs, and the praise cuts through the haze like a blade. your pussy clenches around him, desperate for more approval. he groans, feeling it. “yeah, you like that, don’t you? like when daddy tells you you’re smart while he fucks your brains out.”
you nod as best you can with his hand in your hair. “yes—yes, i love it—”
“then keep going. finish the problem. and if you get it right, i’ll let you cum.”
the promise sends a shiver through you. you stare at the page, forcing the numbers to make sense. your hands tremble as you pick up the pencil, but satoru’s thrusts are relentless, each one jarring your hand and making your line wobble.
“i—the reaction at a in the vertical direction is… is…” you scribble a calculation, praying it’s right. “thirty-six kilonewtons upward… and at b it’s… it’s the same… because the load is symmetric…”
“almost,” he says, and there’s a note of wicked delight in his voice. “you forgot the moment. there’s a couple moment at support a from the pin. that’s not a two-force member when it’s pinned—think, baby.”
your brain shorts out. you can’t think. you can only feel the way his pace quickens, the way his breathing turns ragged, the way his cock pulses inside you. he’s close. you can feel it in the way his hips stutter, the way his grip on your hip tightens.
“i—i don’t—please, i can’t—”
“yes you can,” he says, but his voice is strained, losing that cool control. “just one more thing. the moment at a. what is it?”
you shake your head, tears spilling onto the textbook. “i don’t know—i don’t know, please, just let me cum, i need it—”
“wrong answer,” he says, and slams into you, a deep, brutal thrust that makes you scream. “but i’m feeling generous.”
he fucks you through your orgasm, one hand still in your hair, the other pressed flat against your belly, holding you down against the desk. your vision whites out, every nerve firing at once, and you can’t even form words—just incoherent cries that fill the room. your pussy convulses around him, milking his cock, and he curses, hips hammering into you as he comes.
hot cum floods you, deep and thick, and the feeling of being filled pushes you into a second smaller wave of pleasure, your body too sensitive to handle it. you sag against the desk, boneless, barely supported by his hold.
he stays buried for a long moment, breathing hard. when he pulls out, his cum drips down your thighs, mixing with your own wetness. he lets go of your hair, and your head lolls forward onto the textbook, smearing equations with tears and sweat.
“not bad,” he says, voice casual again, as if he hadn’t just fucked you into oblivion. he reaches past you and taps the page. “but you forgot the moment at a. see? it’s right there. if you’d just paid attention to my lesson, you would’ve gotten it.”
you can’t even lift your head. all you can do is whimper as he smooths your hair back from your face, a gesture almost tender.
“don’t worry,” he adds, and you hear the smile in his voice. “we can try again after you rest. i’ve got all night to make sure you learn this equation. and every time you get it wrong, i’ll just have to teach you another way.”
your body shudders at the promise. you’re already sore, already aching, but the thought of him doing this again—the praise, the degradation, the way his cock fills you until you can’t think—makes you clench around nothing.
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your boyfriend satoru is almost too big to fit 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 ﮳﮳ᐢ) !
you’re on your back, legs spread wide, shaky breaths escaping your lips as satoru kneels between them. his cock is already slick with precum, a thick, heavy weight that rests against your stomach whenever he leans forward. you’ve done this before—enough times to know the ache that comes after, the way your body protests and craves him in equal measure. but tonight, something’s different.
“you okay?” he asks, voice low, teasing, but there’s a genuine edge to it. his thumb traces circles on your hip, grounding you.
“yeah,” you whisper, even though you’re not entirely sure. you reach down, fingers wrapping around his shaft. even half-hard, he’s massive—your hand can’t close around him, can’t even get halfway. your palm slides over velvety skin, feels the pulse kick under your touch. he hisses, hips twitching forward.
“gotta warn you, baby,” your boyfriend says, thumb pressing into your wetness, gathering some of the slick mess. “i’m not gonna be able to hold back tonight.”
you nod. a part of you wants this, wants to feel him split you open, wants that desperate, overwhelming fullness even if it hurts. you bring your other hand between your thighs, spread yourself open, show him how wet you already are, the way your hole flutters in anticipation.
“put it in,” you breathe.
satoru lines himself up, the fat head nudging against your entrance. it’s just the tip, and already you feel the stretch, the burn of being filled past what’s natural. he pushes, slow, inch by inch, and you gasp, back arching off the bed. your walls clench around him, trying to accommodate, but it’s too much. he’s too big.
“fuck,” he grunts, sweat beading on his brow. “you’re so tight. you’re fighting me.”
it hurts. it hurts so good. you can feel your inner muscles pulling against his girth, can feel the resistance, the way your body tries to deny him entry even as you beg for it. he stops when he’s about halfway in, breath ragged.
“i can’t—you’re not gonna take all of it,” he says, voice strained. “it won’t fit.”
“i don’t care,” you whimper, hands gripping his forearms. “just—please. i need it.”
he takes a breath, then pushes harder. you cry out as he forces another inch in, the pain sharp and bright, mixed with a pleasure that makes your toes curl. he’s buried deep now, but still not all the way. you can feel the empty space inside you, the part of him still outside, and it drives you crazy.
satoru starts to move, shallow thrusts at first, pulling out just enough to let your body adjust before pressing back in. each time, the stretch is remade, your cunt screaming in protest and welcome. your moans turn into a steady stream of incoherent pleas—faster, more, harder, please—and he obliges, picking up the pace.
but his cock is too big. no matter how much you want it, no matter how wet you get, you can’t take him fully. your body tells you in little spasms, in the way you clench and release without rhythm, in the tear tracks that streak your cheeks. he sees them, slows down.
“too much?” he asks, and his thumb wipes at your cheek.
“don’t stop,” you choke out. “don’t stop.”
so he doesn’t. he fucks you with everything he’s got, hips snapping against yours, the wet sound of your pussy taking what it can filling the room. you can feel every ridge of his cock, every vein, the way he pulses inside you. your hands rake down his back, leaving red marks, and he growls, fucks you harder.
it’s not long before you come. the orgasm builds like a wave, cresting over you as he grinds against that spot inside you that makes your vision go white. your legs clamp around his waist, pulling him deeper, and you scream into his neck as you come undone, pussy clenching around him in violent pulsing waves.
but he doesn’t stop.
“s-satoru, wait, i’m still—” you gasp, overstimulated, sensitive, raw. the feeling of him still moving inside you after your orgasm is almost too much, a pleasure so intense it borders on pain.
“i know,” he says, and he’s not cruel, but he’s relentless. “one more. just one more for me, baby. you can do it.”
you’re shaking, trembling, your thighs quivering as he thrusts. the overstimulation amplifies everything—the stretch, the friction, the fullness. every brush of his cock against your walls sends jolts of electricity through your nerves. you’re crying now, a mix of ecstasy and exhaustion, but you don’t tell him to stop. you can’t. you need this, need him to use you until you’re nothing but a sobbing, cum-drunk mess.
he watches you fall apart, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. his hand snakes down between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, swollen and oversensitive. he rubs circles, light and fast, and you arch off the bed again, a broken moan tearing from your throat.
“that’s it,” he murmurs. “come on. give me another one.”
your second orgasm is less explosive but longer, a drawn-out, messy affair. your entire body feels like it’s on fire, every nerve ending lit up, as you cum around his too-big cock, still buried inside you, still moving. you feel his rhythm stutter, feel his heat spill inside you, deep and hot and endless. he groans your name as he cums, and the feeling of being filled by him, even though he never fit completely, is the final push you needed.
he pulls out gently, careful not to hurt you, and you both collapse on the wet sheets. his cock is still hard, still slick with your combined fluids, and you can see the way your entrance gapes, the redness, the evidence of what you’ve done. he kisses your forehead.
“you okay?” he asks again, softer this time.
you don’t have the breath to answer, so you just nod, curling into his chest. you feel the soreness already settling in, the dull ache that will bloom into something more tomorrow. but right now, you still feel him inside you, even though he’s not. that phantom fullness.
he’s still hard, pressing against your thigh. you can feel his breath quicken, and you know he’s not done yet. “one more,” he whispers, and the words are a command and a plea, all at once. “please. i need—again. i need you to take it again.”
you should say no. you should tell him you need a break, that your body can’t handle another round. but the way he looks at you, desperate and hungry, and the way your pussy still clenches around nothing, aches for him despite the pain—it overrides any sense.
“okay,” you whisper. “okay. but go slow.”
“i will,” he says, and he’s already positioning himself, already pressing the head of his cock against your overworked entrance. you hiss at the immediate stretch, the burn returning with a vengeance. he pushes in, inch by inch, and you can feel every fold of your cunt being forced open, made to accommodate him even though it never will.
your cries turn into sobs as he bottoms out—or rather, as he reaches the point where you can’t take any more. he strokes inside you, slow and deep, and the overstimulation is a living thing now, a fire that consumes you from the inside out. every nerve is screaming. your clit is so sore you can’t bear the thought of touch, yet when he reaches down and pinches it, you scream, a mix of agony and bliss.
your boyfriend fucks you like that, slow but punishing, milking your oversensitive body for all it’s worth. you’re a mess of tears and sweat and cum, legs trembling, hands fisting the sheets. he doesn’t stop until you’re choking on another orgasm, this one weak and painful, barely a shudder before you’re done.
he follows close behind, spilling into you again, his cum mixing with his own before it leaks out around his cock. he stays buried for a long moment, breathing hard, before pulling out. you’re left lying there, empty and shattered, your cunt fluttering, trying to hold onto something that’s too big to stay.
satoru collapses beside you, pulling you close. “that was—fuck.” he laughs, a low, exhausted sound. “you’re amazing.”
you can’t find the words, so you just press a kiss to his chest and let the slick, messy aftermath settle around you both, the ache of being stretched beyond your limit a warm, persistent throb that promises to haunt you for days.
you wake to the weight of him already pressing into the mattress beside you, the heat of his body seeping through the thin sheet. the morning light filters through the blinds, casting pale stripes across the room, and satoru is propped on one elbow, watching you with those half-lidded eyes that make your stomach clench. he doesn't say anything for a long moment, just traces a lazy finger down your collarbone, over the curve of your breast, stopping to circle your nipple until it stiffens under his touch.
“morning,” your boyfriend murmurs, voice rough with sleep, and the word is a promise.
you shift, stretching into his hand, and he takes that as permission. the sheet falls away as he leans down, mouth replacing fingers, tongue flat against your nipple before he sucks it between his lips. a soft gasp escapes you, hand finding its way into his white hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp. he hums against your skin, the vibration traveling straight to your cunt, and you feel yourself already starting to slick up.
his free hand slides down your stomach, over your hip, fingers dipping between your legs. he doesn't rush, doesn't push, just traces the line of your slit through the damp fabric of your underwear, collecting the wetness that's already beading there. “fuck, you're soaked,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you, that lazy grin spreading across his face. “been dreaming about me?”
you don't answer with words. you hook your leg over his hip, grinding your clothed cunt against his hand, and he takes the hint. his fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, tugging them down your thighs, and you lift your hips to help. he tosses them somewhere off the bed, not caring where they land, and then his hand is back, naked this time, two fingers sliding through your folds, collecting your wetness before he presses them inside.
the stretch is sweet, familiar, and you buck into his hand as he curls his fingers, finding that spot that makes your vision blur. he watches your face, that grin never quite leaving his lips, but his eyes are dark, hungry. “that's it,” he coaxes, pumping his fingers in and out, thumb pressing against your clit in slow, deliberate circles. “let me hear you.”
you're already breathless, hips moving in time with his hand, and when he adds a third finger, the pressure makes you gasp. he's not rushing, taking his time, working you open at a pace that's almost cruel. you can feel yourself clenching around his fingers, your body begging for more, and he knows it. he knows exactly what you need, and he's going to make you wait.
“satoru,” you whine, and the sound comes out broken, desperate.
“yeah?” he leans down, lips brushing your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “want my cock, don't you?”
“yes,” you gasp, and he pulls his fingers out slowly, deliberately, dragging them through your wetness one last time before he brings them to his own lips. he curls his tongue around them, tasting you, and the sight makes your cunt clench around nothing.
“god, you taste good,” he mutters, and then he's shifting, kneeling between your legs, his cock already hard and leaking against his stomach. he doesn't bother with his boxers, just pushes them down enough to free himself, and the first sight of him in the morning light makes your mouth water. he's thick, flushed, the head slick with pre-cum, and the way he strokes himself once, twice, before lining up with your entrance is almost too much.
he doesn't push in right away. he just rests the head against your soaked folds, sliding it through your wetness, teasing you both. your hips lift, trying to take him, but he holds still, that grin turning wolfish. “what's the hurry? we've got all morning.”
“i need you,” you say, and it's not an exaggeration. your whole body is aching for him, your cunt clenching on air, your nipples hard and sensitive against the cool air. you reach down, wrapping your fingers around his shaft, guiding him to where you need him most, and he finally gives in.
satoru pushes in slow, inch by inch, and the stretch is everything. your walls part around him, welcoming him, and the feeling of being filled so completely makes you moan. he doesn't stop until his hips are flush against yours, his balls pressing against your ass, and he stays there, letting you adjust, letting you feel every inch of him buried inside you.
“fuck, you're tight,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours. “always so tight for me.”
you wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, and that's all the encouragement he needs. he pulls out almost all the way, just the tip still inside, and then snaps his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth motion. the sound that escapes you is part moan, part scream, and he does it again, and again, building a rhythm that has the bed creaking beneath you.
the morning air fills with the sounds of your bodies meeting—wet, obscene, perfect. each thrust hits deep, the head of his cock pressing against that sensitive spot inside you, and you can feel your orgasm building already, coiling low in your belly. he's not holding back now, his pace quickening, his breath coming in ragged pants against your ear.
“look at me,” he commands, and you do, meeting those blue eyes that are almost black with lust. “i want to see your face when you come.”
his hand finds your clit, thumb pressing down in tight circles, and that's all it takes. the orgasm crashes over you, sudden and overwhelming, your back arching off the mattress, a cry tearing from your throat. your walls clench around him, milking his cock, and he groans, fucking you through it, not slowing down for a second.
“fuck, that's it,” he growls, and you can feel him thickening inside you, feel the twitch that means he's close. “gonna fill you up. gonna pump you so full.”
you're still trembling from the aftershocks when he buries himself one last time, hips stuttering, a guttural moan escaping his lips as he comes. you feel it—hot, wet, pouring into you, filling you in a way that makes your oversensitive cunt clench again. he rides it out, grinding against you, making sure every drop is buried deep.
when he finally stills, his weight settles on top of you, his cock still twitching inside you. he kisses your neck, your jaw, finally your mouth, and the kiss is lazy, spent, tasting of salt and morning breath.
“good morning,” he mumbles against your lips, and you laugh, the sound weak and breathless.
but he's not done. you feel him stirring inside you again, already half-hard, and he pulls back just enough to look at you with that familiar, wicked grin. “round two?”
before you can answer, he's moving, shifting his weight, rolling you onto your stomach. your knees find the mattress without prompting, your body already remembering this position from countless other mornings. he settles behind you, his chest pressing against your back, one hand bracing on the bed beside your head while the other guides his cock back to your slick, well-fucked cunt.
he pushes in with one smooth motion, and the angle is different, deeper, hitting a spot that makes your fingers curl into the sheets. he starts slow at first, drawing out each thrust, letting you feel every inch of him dragging along your walls. the wet sounds come back, mixed with your choked moans and his low curses.
“you take me so fucking well,” he grunts, one hand moving from the bed to grip your hip, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to leave bruises. “you love feeling my cock in you, don't you?”
“yes,” you gasp, pushing back against him, meeting his thrusts.
he reaches around, hand sliding down your belly, fingers finding your clit again. you're already so sensitive from the first orgasm that the touch makes you gasp, but he doesn't relent, rubbing you in tight circles as he fucks into you. the pleasure is almost too much, bordering on pain, and it only makes you wetter.
his pace quickens, his breathing growing ragged. the headboard starts knocking against the wall with each thrust, and he doesn't care. you can't care, either—all that exists is the feeling of him inside you, his hand on your clit, his breath hot on your neck.
“gonna come again,” he says, his voice strained. “gonna come inside you and you're gonna take it all.”
“i will,” you manage, and the words are your undoing. his hips slam against yours, once, twice, and then he's shuddering behind you, a low moan torn from his throat as he spills into you again. the feeling of his cock pulsing inside you, the heat of his cum filling you, tips you over the edge, your own orgasm washing through you in waves, your cunt milking him dry.
he collapses over you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his lips trailing lazy kisses along your spine. you're both panting, slick with sweat, the room smelling of sex and morning light.
after a long moment, he pulls out slow, and you feel the rush of his cum leaking out of you, dripping down your thighs. he watches, his hand coming down to push some of it back inside, his fingers gentle but deliberate.
“stay,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “let it soak in.”
you laugh, the sound soft and content, and roll onto your back to face him. he looks debauched, his hair a mess, his lips swollen, his chest flushed. he's beautiful in a way that makes your heart ache.
satoru grins, sliding back up to capture your mouth in a slow, deep kiss. his hand traces down your side, resting on your hip, thumb stroking the damp skin. “breakfast,” he says against your lips, “or another round?”
your legs are shaking, your cunt sore and full of his cum, and the thought of another round sends a shiver through you. but you can feel his cock against your thigh, already stirring again, and you know your answer before you speak.
“another round,” you whisper, pulling him down to you.
he laughs, the sound muffled against your mouth, and this time when he enters you, it's slow, gentle, a different kind of claiming. the morning stretches out before you, and neither of you is in any hurry to let it end.
your bestfriend satoru swallows an aphrodisiac (´∀｀=)
you hear the door slam open before you even register the sound of keys hitting the floor. satoru stumbles inside your apartment like the floor is tilting under him, his tall frame swaying, white hair messy and sticking to his forehead. his blindfold is gone, those bright blue eyes glassy and unfocused, pupils blown wide. sweat glistens on his neck, soaking the collar of his black shirt. he looks wrecked already.
"satoru?" you start, rising from the couch. "what the hell happened to you?"
he doesn’t answer with words. instead he crosses the room in three unsteady strides and grabs you, hands hot and trembling as they yank you against him. his mouth crashes onto yours before you can push him back, tongue sliding in deep, desperate. he tastes like something sweet and chemical, and the second his body presses flush to yours you feel it—the thick, rigid line of his cock straining against his pants, grinding into your hip like he can’t control it.
"fuck—satoru, wait," you gasp when he finally lets you breathe, but he’s already spinning you around and bending you over the back of the couch. his fingers hook into your waistband and yank your pants and underwear down in one rough motion, exposing you. cool air hits your skin for only a second before two long fingers drag through your folds, testing how wet you already are from the sudden closeness.
you’re not nearly as wet as he’d like so he fumbles your clit, circling it with his thumb and making you squirm.
"can’t—can’t stop," he pants against the back of your neck, voice hoarse and shaking. "something… someone slipped it in my drink. feels like i’m burning. need you. need inside you right now."
you try to twist around but his chest pins you down, one arm braced beside your head. you feel him fumble with his zipper, hear the fabric rustle, and then the blunt head of his cock nudges against your entrance. he’s huge, hotter than normal, throbbing so hard you can feel the pulse against your skin.
"satoru, stop—i’m your best friend, this isn’t—"
he pushes in anyway.
your mouth falls open on a broken sound as he sinks deep in one long thrust, stretching you wide around him. he doesn’t give you time to adjust; he starts fucking you immediately, hips snapping forward with frantic, uneven strokes that slap skin against skin. every thrust forces a wet sound out of you, your pussy clenching around him involuntarily. his free hand slides under your shirt, palm rough as it squeezes your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple until it stiffens.
"been wanting this for years," he groans into your hair, voice cracking with the aphrodisiac haze. "every time i came over here… every time you smiled at me… wanted to bend you over just like this. fuck, you’re so tight. taking me so good."
you claw at the couch cushions, trying to form words between the relentless pounding. "satoru—ngh—slow down—"
he doesn’t. he fucks you harder, the couch creaking under the force. his cock drags against every sensitive spot inside you with each brutal stroke, the head kissing your cervix on the deepest ones. sweat drips from his chin onto your back. his balls slap against you with every thrust, heavy and full. you can feel how swollen he is, how the drug is making him throb and leak inside you already.
he pulls out suddenly only to flip you onto your back on the couch cushions. your legs are shoved apart and he’s back inside you before you can catch your breath, folding you nearly in half as he leans over you. his mouth finds yours again, messy and hungry, teeth nipping your lower lip. one of his hands slides between your bodies to rub tight circles over your clit, forcing pleasure to spark even as you’re still trying to process what’s happening.
"gonna fill you up," he rasps, eyes half-lidded and wild. "can’t hold it—need to cum in you. been holding back forever."
his pace turns sloppy, desperate. the wet slap of his cock driving into your soaked pussy fills the apartment. you feel yourself getting closer despite everything, walls fluttering around him. he notices and doubles down, rubbing your clit faster while his hips grind in deep, rolling motions that press against your front wall.
"cum for me," he begs, voice breaking. "please—let me feel it."
your orgasm crashes through you without permission, pussy pulsing and squeezing around his thick length. he groans loud and broken, hips stuttering as he buries himself to the hilt and starts cumming. thick ropes of cum flood you, hot and endless, the aphrodisiac making him pump more than usual. it leaks out around his cock with every tiny thrust as he keeps moving through it, milking himself inside you.
but he doesn’t soften.
he pulls out, flips you onto your stomach again, and pushes back in from behind before the aftershocks even fade. his cum squelches out with the new angle, running down your thighs. he fucks you through the mess, one hand fisting your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.
"still so hard," he whines against your shoulder. "drug won’t let me stop. need to fuck you again. need to breed you."
you’re oversensitive now, every drag of his cock sending sparks up your spine, but he doesn’t slow. he uses your body like he’s been starving for it, hips snapping in that same frantic rhythm. his free hand reaches around to play with your clit again, forcing another orgasm out of you even as you whimper from the intensity.
this time when he cums he stays buried deep, grinding his pelvis against your ass while he fills you a second time. more cum spills out, dripping onto the couch. he’s panting like he’s run a marathon, but his cock is still rock hard inside you.
he pulls you up onto his lap without pulling out, your back to his chest, and starts bouncing you on his length. your legs dangle uselessly as he uses his strength to lift and drop you, impaling you over and over on his cum-slick cock. his mouth latches onto your neck, sucking marks into the skin while one hand returns to your overstimulated clit.
"love you," he confesses between thrusts, voice wrecked. "always have. couldn’t say it before. now i can’t stop saying it while i’m inside you."
you cum again, clenching around him so hard he curses and follows right after, adding a third load deep in your pussy. the overstimulation makes your vision blur. he keeps moving even through his orgasm, short shallow thrusts that push his cum deeper.
finally he lays you down on your side on the couch, spooning behind you, and slides back inside for what feels like the hundredth time. his thrusts are slower now but still deep, almost lazy, like he’s trying to stay connected. one arm wraps around your waist, hand resting possessively over your lower belly where he’s fucked so much cum into you.
"sorry," he whispers against your ear, even as he keeps rocking into you gently. "can’t stop yet. still burning. still need you."
you feel him swell again inside you, the drug refusing to let him soften completely. he fucks you through one more slow, deep orgasm for both of you, cum leaking out in thick rivulets down your ass and onto the cushions. his breathing is ragged, body trembling from exertion and the aphrodisiac still raging through his system.
satoru stays inside you even after, cock twitching with aftershocks, arms wrapped tight around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. his lips press soft kisses along your shoulder, a stark contrast to the rough fucking from minutes ago.
"i love you so fucking much," he mumbles sleepily against your skin, voice hoarse. "mine now. even if you hate me tomorrow."
outside the window the city lights blur through the glass. inside, the only sounds are your mingled breathing and the occasional wet drip of his cum escaping your well-used pussy. satoru’s heartbeat pounds against your back, still too fast, still affected, still hard enough that you know this night isn’t over yet.
your mouth is full and your knees ache against the polished wood floor.
kento's cock stretches your throat, thick and heavy on your tongue, and you've already been at this for what feels like forever. your jaw is starting to burn but you don't slow down, can't slow down, not when you feel how hard he is, not when you hear the way his breathing hitches above you.
there's a shuffle of papers. a pen clicking. he's still working.
the bastard is still working.
you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper, gagging slightly as the head of his cock bumps the back of your throat. your eyes water but you don't pull away. you don't even try. instead you swallow around him, feeling his whole body twitch in response.
"fuck," he breathes, barely audible over the hum of the office lights.
your hands grip his thighs through his tailored slacks. you can feel the muscle tensing beneath the fabric, the way he's fighting to stay still, to stay professional, to pretend like he isn't getting his dick sucked under his desk during work hours.
but he is. and you're going to make sure he can't ignore it.
you pull back, letting his cock slide out of your mouth with a wet pop. a string of saliva connects your bottom lip to the tip of his dick, glistening in the low light. you lick it up deliberately, swirling your tongue around the sensitive head before pressing a kiss to the slit.
"keep going," kento murmurs, more plea than demand.
you take him back in, but slower this time. agonizingly slow. you drag your tongue along the underside of his shaft, feeling every ridge and vein, tasting the salt of his skin and the bitter hint of precum already beading at the tip. your lips reach the head and you suck lightly, just enough to make him gasp.
"good girl."
that two words breaks something in you. you take him all the way down, throat relaxing, nose brushing against the coarse hair at the base of his cock. his whole body shudders and you feel his hand land on the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. not pushing, not forcing. just holding.
you bob your head, finding a rhythm. your spit makes everything slick, makes it easy to slide your mouth up and down his length. you glance up through your lashes and catch a glimpse of him — head tilted back, mouth slightly open, glasses askew. he looks completely wrecked and you've barely even started.
you pull off again, gasping for air, but you don't give him a break. your hand wraps around the base of his cock, stroking him firmly while you run your tongue over his balls. he jerks, a sharp intake of breath, and you feel his fingers tighten in your hair.
"like that?" you murmur against his skin, mouthing at the sensitive spot just behind his balls.
he doesn't answer. he can't. his breath is coming in ragged, uneven gasps and you know, you know he's close.
you take him in your mouth again, all the way to the hilt, and you swallow around him as you pull back. once, twice, three times. each motion pulls a choked sound from his throat.
"i'm gonna—" he starts, but the words die.
you don't stop. you can't. you want this, want to feel him fall apart, want to taste every last drop of his release. you suck harder, faster, your hand working in tandem with your mouth until his hips buck up involuntarily and you feel his whole body go rigid.
he comes with a strangled moan that he tries to stifle behind his hand. hot cum floods your mouth, thick and bitter, and you swallow greedily. you don't miss a drop. when you finally pull away, licking your lips clean, you find him slumped in his chair, chest heaving, glasses completely fogged up.
"you're going to get me fired," he says, but there's no heat in it.
you grin, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "worth it."
he reaches under the desk, pulls you up by your chin, and kisses you slow and deep. you can taste yourself on his tongue.
"lunch break," he says against your lips. "my office. one hour."
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riding your boyfriend satoru for the first time (o^^o)
you're already halfway down when you realize you might have bitten off more than you can handle.
satoru's cock stretches you open inch by inch, and even with all the prep—his fingers, his mouth, the way he worked you open on the bed of his dorm room until you were dripping and begging—it's still a lot. he's big. you knew that from the way he'd felt against your thigh, from the way he'd groaned when you'd wrapped your hand around him earlier. knowing and feeling are two very different things.
"easy," he murmurs, and his voice is lower than usual, rougher. his hands are on your hips, thumbs pressing into the jut of bone there, but he's not guiding you. he's holding you steady. letting you set the pace. "easy, sweetheart. breathe for me."
you do. shaky inhale through your nose, slow exhale through parted lips. your thighs are trembling where they're bracketing his hips, knees pressed into the mattress on either side of him. he's propped up against the headboard, shirt long since discarded, hair a mess of white silk falling into his eyes.
he looks wrecked already, and you've barely started.
"that's it," he says, and there's a strain in his voice that wasn't there before, a tightness around the edges. "you're doing so good. just—take your time."
you sink lower. another inch. the sensation is overwhelming—full, hot, stretching you in a way that borders on too much. your fingers dig into his shoulders, nails leaving crescents in his skin. he hisses, but it's not from pain.
"fuck," he breathes, head falling back against the headboard. "fuck, you're tight."
you pause, breath catching. "is that bad?"
"no." he laughs, but it comes out strangled. "no, it's not bad. it's—" he grits his teeth, jaw working. "it's a lot. in a good way. keep going."
you push down further, and finally, finally, you're seated fully in his lap. his cock is buried to the hilt inside you, and you feel impossibly full, stretched around him, your body struggling to accommodate his size. you stay still for a moment, just breathing, just feeling.
his hands slide up from your hips to your waist, palms warm and slightly sweaty. he's looking at you with an expression you can't quite read—hunger and wonder and something softer mixed in.
"okay?" he asks.
you nod, swallowing. "okay."
"good." he shifts beneath you, and you feel him twitch inside you, making you gasp. his lips curl into a smirk, but it's strained, his composure crumbling at the edges. "now move when you're ready. however you want. i've got you."
you start slow. experimental rolls of your hips, testing the angle, the friction. each movement sends sparks through your nerves, makes your breath stutter. his hands guide but don't push, his thumbs tracing lazy circles on your skin.
"like that," he says, voice rough. "just like that."
you find a rhythm. rocking forward, grinding down, the wet sound of your bodies meeting filling the quiet room. his head falls back again, eyes fluttering shut, and you watch his throat work as he swallows.
"you feel incredible," he rasps. "god, you have no idea how good you feel."
you pick up the pace, bracing your hands on his chest. the new angle makes him hit deeper, and you moan, head dropping forward. he takes the opportunity to lean up, catching your mouth in a kiss that's all tongue and teeth and desperation.
when he pulls back, he's breathing hard. his bangs are plastered to his forehead. there's a flush spreading across his chest.
"you're doing so well," he says, and his voice cracks on the last word. "fucking—perfect. you're perfect."
you roll your hips harder, chasing the friction, the pressure building low in your belly. his hands grip your waist tighter, and you can feel him fighting the urge to take over, to flip you and fuck you into the mattress.
"close?" he asks.
you nod, too breathless for words.
"me too." he laughs, shaky. "fuck, me too. you're gonna make me—"
he cuts himself off with a groan, his hips bucking up into you despite himself. you gasp at the sudden depth, your walls clenching around him.
"sorry," he grits out. "sorry, i just—you feel too good. i can't—"
his composure is crumbling. the infuriatingly cocky sorcerer is falling apart beneath you, his breathing ragged, his hands shaking where they hold you. he's babbling now, half-words and broken praises, telling you how good you are, how tight, how perfect.
"come for me," he gasps. "please. i need to feel you—"
you do. the command, the desperation in his voice, the way he's barely holding himself together—it pushes you over the edge. you clench around him, a broken moan falling from your lips as pleasure rips through you.
he follows a second later, with a groan that sounds almost pained, his hips thrusting up as he spills inside you. you feel every pulse, every hot rush of him filling you, and it draws your own orgasm out until you're trembling and spent.
you collapse against his chest, both of you slick with sweat, breathing hard. his arms wrap around you, pulling you close, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
"holy shit," he mutters.
you laugh weakly. "good?"
he tilts your chin up, kissing you slow and deep.
"perfect."
a/n: requested by a lovely anon it was so much fun 2 write hihi
sucking toji off because he made you jealous (˶˃⤙˂˶)
the job takes exactly eight minutes longer than it should.
you know this because you've been counting. back pressed against the passenger seat of his black sedan, arms crossed tight over your chest as you watch him lean against the chain-link fence outside that rundown warehouse. he's got that grin on his face—the one that says he's enjoying himself way too much for someone who's supposed to be gathering intel on a target. the woman he's talking to is young, pretty in that desperate, cheap way that hangs around betting parlors. she's touching his arm. laughing too loud.
toji's wearing that black shirt you like, the one stretched thin over his shoulders, sleeves rolled up to show the corded muscle of his forearms. he knows exactly what he's doing. the way he tilts his head, the lazy drag of his thumb along his bottom lip as he listens to her ramble. he's fishing for information. you know this. you knew this before you even got in the car.
doesn't make it sting any less.
he finally saunters back, sliding into the driver's seat with a satisfied grunt. the car smells like him—cigarettes, gun oil, cheap cologne. he doesn't look at you as he turns the key, engine rumbling to life.
"she buy it?" you ask, voice flat.
"bought it, wrapped it, put a bow on it." he glances at you then, dark eyes glinting with amusement. "what's that face for?"
"nothing."
he laughs, low and rough, and pulls out of the lot. "jealous? cute."
you don't answer. just stare out the window as the city bleeds past in smears of neon and headlights. he keeps talking—something about the target's schedule, a drop point, easy money—but you've stopped listening. your jaw is tight. fingers digging into your own arms.
he notices. of course he notices. toji doesn't miss much.
"hey." his hand lands on your thigh, warm and heavy. squeezes once. "i'm just doing my job. you know that."
"i know."
"you're still mad."
"i'm not mad."
he huffs a laugh, shaking his head. "stubborn."
the car pulls up to his place—a rundown garage he calls a lab, where he tinkers with weapons and stores his gear. he kills the engine and reaches for the door handle, but you don't move. you're watching him. waiting.
"coming in?" he asks.
you unbuckle your seatbelt slowly. deliberately. you don't get out of the car.
instead, you climb.
the center console digs into your knee as you swing your leg over, settling into his lap with your back to the steering wheel. he raises an eyebrow, caught off guard for once. the hunter's instincts flicker, then settle into something darker when he sees the look in your eyes.
"oh," he says, voice dropping an octave. "so that's how it's gonna be."
you don't answer with words. you answer by reaching down, palming the growing bulge in his jeans. he's already half-hard—the bastard gets off on making you jealous, you know that now. the realization should make you angry. instead, it just makes you want to ruin him.
his breath catches when you work his belt open, metal clinking in the quiet of the car. the leather of the driver's seat creaks as he shifts, letting you work. you pull his cock out—thick, heavy, already smearing a bead of precum across his stomach. he hisses when your fingers wrap around the base.
"thought you were mad," he says, but there's no bite in it. his hand finds your hip, grips hard enough to bruise.
"i'm not doing this for you." you lean down, lips brushing against the tip. "i'm doing this so you remember who you come home to."
his laugh dies in his throat when you take him in your mouth.
you don't start slow. you're too wound up for that. your lips seal around the head, tongue swiping across the slit, tasting salt and want. he groans, deep and guttural, and his hand slides from your hip to the back of your head. he doesn't push. just rests it there, fingers threading through your hair as you sink lower.
he fills your mouth completely, stretching your jaw. you breathe through your nose, adjusting to the weight of him on your tongue, then pull back with a wet sound before taking him deeper. his hips twitch. that vein on the underside of his cock pulses against your tongue.
"fuck," he mutters, head falling back against the headrest. "you're trying to kill me."
good.
you set a rhythm—slow descents, hollow-cheeked pulls, your hand working the base in time with your mouth. precum slicks your lips, makes the slide easier. the car windows are fogging up, the world outside forgotten. there's only the wet sound of your mouth on his cock, his breathing getting rougher, his fingers tightening in your hair.
he's getting close. you can feel it in the way his thighs tense, the way his hips start to fuck up into your face with shallow, desperate thrusts. you double down, taking him all the way to the back of your throat, holding there until your eyes water.
"shit—" his voice cracks. "i'm gonna—"
you don't pull away.
he comes with a guttural groan, hand fisting your hair as his hips buck. hot pulses fill your mouth, thick and bitter, and you swallow around him, working him through every last spasm until he goes slack beneath you.
you pull off slowly, dragging your tongue along his length, tasting the last traces of him before wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
he stares at you, chest heaving, dark hair plastered to his forehead. that lazy grin returns, softer now.
"damn," he breathes. "maybe i should make you jealous more often."
you slide back into your seat, buckling your belt with a satisfied smirk.
shared between bf!toru & pervyneighbour!toji (〃ω〃)
you're on your hands and knees on the bed, ass lifted high, face pressed into the rumpled sheets. satoru's behind you, gripping your hips so hard his fingernails are leaving half-moon impressions in your skin. his cock is buried deep inside your pussy. the sound of his balls slapping against your clit is wet and obscene, mixing with your desperate moans.
but you're not empty in front.
the neighbor—toji, that lopsided grin he gave you every time you passed his door—is kneeling in front of your face. his cock is thick, veiny, already slick with your saliva from the minutes before. he grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head up.
"open that pretty mouth," he growls. you do. your lips part and he shoves himself past them, not waiting, not easing in. he's salty and bitter and so deep you gag immediately. "yeah, that's right. choke on it."
behind you, satoru laughs—a short, breathy sound that's more insult than amusement. "look at you, toji. already shoving your dick down her throat like a desperate virgin. didn't anyone teach you foreplay?"
toji doesn't pull out. he holds himself there, letting you struggle. letting your throat convulse around his cockhead. "foreplay?" he snorts. "she's been sucking me off for ten minutes while you were still fumbling with the condom, satoru. don't talk to me about foreplay."
satoru slams into you harder, making your body lurch forward, forcing toji's cock even deeper. you squeal around the shaft. drool spills down your chin.
"yeah? at least i'm actually fucking her. you're just using her face like a fleshlight." satoru's hands tighten on your waist, fingers digging into your flesh. "she's my girlfriend, asshole. don't forget that."
toji finally pulls back, letting you gasp for air. a string of saliva connects his cock to your lips. he smears it across your cheek with his thumb. "your girlfriend, huh? then why's she moaning louder for me? tell her, slut." he slaps your cheek lightly, more teasing than pain. "who's making you feel better, me or your boyfriend?"
you can't answer. your mind is white static, filled only with the sensation of two hard cocks claiming different parts of you. satoru's thrusts are punishing, driving you forward onto toji's waiting length. they're using you like a bridge. a joint. a toy.
satoru leans over your back. his chest is hot and sweaty against your spine. his lips brush your ear. "don't answer him. he's just jealous because he knows i'm the one you come home to." he bites your earlobe, hard enough to make you yelp. "tell me, baby. is his cock better than mine? or does he just talk a big game?"
toji pulls your hair again, tilting your face up. "don't lie. i felt how wet you got when you first saw me at the door. your boyfriend might have the key to your apartment, but i've got the key to that tight little cunt of yours."
"fuck you," satoru hisses. "she's just easy. you're nothing special."
"easy? she begged me to fuck her. said you were too boring in bed." toji grins, showing teeth. "didn't you, sweetheart? wanted a real man."
you shake your head frantically, but satoru's grip on your hips tightens and toji shoves his cock back into your mouth, cutting off any denial. the world narrows to two points. the fullness in your throat and the fullness in your cunt, the rhythm of their thrusts syncing up in a dance.
satoru's pace quickens. he's close, you can feel it in the way his breath hitches, the way his fingers bruise your skin. "take it," he grunts. "take every drop, you filthy little whore. i want to feel you cum around my cock while you gag on his."
toji pulls out of your mouth just long enough to spit on your tongue. "swallow that. show your boyfriend what a good cocksucker you've become."
you do. you swallow both his spit and the shame burning in your chest.
satoru reaches around, fingers finding your clit, rubbing rough circles. "you're going to cum for me, right now. i don't care if he's in your mouth. this is mine." he pinches your clit, and the shock of pleasure jolts through you. "this pussy is mine. say it."
but you can't speak with a cock in your mouth. toji answers for you. "sounds like denial to me, satoru. she's dripping for me. look—" he reaches down, fingers sliding between your thighs, collecting your wetness. he brings them to his lips, tasting. "sweet. she's practically begging for my cum."
"don't touch her there," satoru snarls, smacking toji's hand away. "that's my territory."
"your territory? she's got three holes, genius. you can't guard them all." toji laughs, low and mocking. "besides, you're the one who invited me over. thought you could share, huh? thought you could prove something?"
satoru's thrusts falter for a second—just a second—and you feel the tension in his body. "she wanted it," he mutters, more to himself than anyone. "she asked for it."
"and you gave her to me." toji's voice drops, cruel and satisfied. "that makes you the cuck, not me."
"shut the fuck up and fuck her." satoru resumes his rhythm, harder now, punishing. his hand leaves your clit and grabs a fistful of your hair, pulling you back onto his cock. "you like being the meat in our sandwich, don't you? two cocks. one slut. that's all you are right now. a hole for us to use."
toji slaps his cock against your cheek, leaving a wet trail. "look at me when i fill your mouth." he waits until your eyes meet his—glassy, desperate—then slides back in, hitting the back of your throat again. "good girl. now take it like the whore you are."
they find a rhythm again, in-out, back-forth, a perfect mechanical piston of flesh. your knees are burning on the sheets. your jaw aches. your pussy is raw and open and so fucking close to cumming it hurts.
satoru's voice is strained. "i'm gonna cum inside you. fill you up. and you're gonna keep his cock in your mouth while i do it. i want you to taste my cum on your own tongue when i pull out."
"romantic," toji drawls. "you always finish with poetry like that? no wonder she needed a real man."
"real man? you can't even last five minutes without bragging. you're just a mouth with a dick attached."
"coming from the guy who needed his girlfriend to arrange a threesome because he couldn't satisfy her alone."
"i could satisfy her just fine. i just wanted to see you beg for a turn."
"you wish. i fucked her first. i'll fuck her again. and you'll watch."
their insults blur together, a soundtrack of testosterone and ridicule. you don't care anymore. you just need to cum.
and then you do.
satoru's fingers find your clit again, and the pressure builds, tighter and tighter until it snaps. your body convulses, pussy clenching around his cock, throat clamping around toji's. you scream into the flesh in your mouth, muffled and broken, as waves of pleasure crash through you.
satoru follows, groaning as he buries himself deep. he spills hot and thick inside you. his hips stutter, grinding against your ass as he rides out his orgasm.
toji pulls out of your mouth with a wet pop, stroking himself twice before he shoots ropes of cum across your face—your cheeks, your lips, your closed eyes. it drips down your chin, mixes with your drool.
"perfect," he breathes, watching you. "look at you. a mess."
satoru pulls out slowly, his cum leaking down your thighs. he flops onto the bed beside you, breath ragged. "she's mine," he says, but it's weaker now.
toji stands, still hard, still grinning. "keep telling yourself that." he grabs his discarded shirt, wipes his hands. "same time next week?"
satoru doesn't answer. he just pulls you against his chest, sticky and spent, and kisses the top of your head.
and despite everything, despite the insults and the cruelty and the way they used you like a battlefield, you can't help but smile.
your snow leopard hybrid boyfriend satoru gets the zoomies (・∀・)
the first crash happens at 2:17 in the morning.
you know this because the sound is so loud, so violent, so utterly destructive, that you jolt awake with your heart in your throat and immediately slap around your bedside table for your phone like a woman being hunted.
your screen lights up: 2:17am.
from the living room comes a second crash. then a thump. then the unmistakable sound of enormous paws skidding across hardwood.
you stare at the ceiling, questioning your life choices.
“toru.”
silence, too much silence.
you sit up slowly, clutching the blanket to your chest. “satoru.”
a blur of white and grey shoots past the bedroom doorway making you blink. then two seconds later, it shoots past again in the opposite direction.
oh.
oh, no.
“satoru, are you having zoomies?”
there is a pause. then a deep, chirping trill echoes from the hallway, sealing your fate.
you groan and fall back against the pillows.
because snow leopard zoomies are not like house cat zoomies. house cat zoomies involve little claws, frantic hallway laps, maybe one knocked-over cup if the cat is feeling malicious. snow leopard zoomies involve a creature the size of a very expensive couch launching himself through your apartment like a furry missile with abandonment issues.
another thunderous thump shakes the wall and you finally throw the blanket off and stumble out of bed.
the hallway is dim, silvered by moonlight sneaking through the blinds. somewhere in the apartment, claws click against the floor as satoru scrambles for traction.
then he appears.
a massive snow leopard skids around the corner, fluffy tail whipping behind him like a banner. his pale blue eyes are enormous, pupils blown wide. his ears are perked. his mouth is slightly open in what can only be described as a deranged little grin.
he freezes when he sees you.
you freeze too.
“hi,” you say slowly.
his tail gives one excited lash.
“no.”
he crouches.
“satoru, no.”
his back end wiggles.
“do not pounce on me.”
he pounces anyway.
though not fully. even in his most unhinged animal form, some part of him is always careful with you. he lands short, front paws slapping against the floor right in front of your feet, shoulders low, tail lashing. then he springs backwards, head tossing like he’s challenging you.
you look down at him and he looks up at you. then he lets out the smallest, most ridiculous chirp.
you cover your face.
“you woke me up because you want to play?”
another chirp.
“at two in the morning?”
his whiskers twitch and you sigh.
“you are so lucky you’re cute.”
that, apparently, is permission. because satoru bolts.
he rockets down the hallway, hits the rug, slides halfway across the living room, then scrambles upright with all the dignity of an apex predator who has absolutely no business living in an apartment with polished floors. his paws thump wildly as he tears in a circle around the coffee table.
you follow him into the living room, yawning.
the damage is not as bad as you feared.
one cushion on the floor. one throw blanket dragged halfway across the room. a decorative bowl overturned but not broken. the remote has vanished, likely sacrificed to whatever ancient spirit possesses snow leopard hybrids after midnight.
satoru crouches behind the couch so only his ears are visible.
you narrow your eyes. “i can see you.”
the ears flatten.
“you are the size of a small horse.”
his tail flicks up from behind the couch.
“yes, i can see that too.”
slowly, dramatically, he peeks over the back of the couch. his big blue eyes blink at you. once. twice. then he ducks down again.
you stand there, arms crossed, trying very hard not to smile.“are we playing hide and seek?”
he chirps.
“you’re very bad at it.”
he pops up again, offended. you take one step toward him but then he vanishes.
the next second, he bursts from the side of the couch and races past you so closely that his tail brushes your calves. you yelp and grab the armchair for balance.
“satoru!”
he skids near the kitchen, turns too sharply, and bumps his hip into the cabinet. a soft thud. he pauses immediately.
you gasp. “oh my god. are you okay?”
satoru turns to look at you. for one sincere second, you are worried. then he flops dramatically onto the floor on his side. all four paws limp. tail still.
dead to the world.
you stare at him. “be so serious right now.”
nothing.
“satoru.”
his ear twitches, the only indication that he’s heard you.
“you cannot fake your own death because you bumped your butt.”
he releases a long, tragic huff.
you walk over and crouch beside him. “poor baby. did the mean cabinet attack you?”
his eyes remain closed, but his tail thumps once.
“devastating. should we sue?”
another tail thump.
you reach out and rub his side, fingers sinking into thick, impossibly soft fur. “my brave boy.”
his purr starts instantly. deep, smug, and utterly shameless.
“oh, i see. this was a scam.”
he rolls onto his back and your mouth falls open.
“do not show me your belly as a distraction.”
his front paws curl against his chest. you stare at the white fluff of his stomach. he blinks up at you.
you last for all of two seconds.
“fine.”
the moment you touch his belly, his paws close around your wrist. gently. carefully. like a trap made of velvet and enormous claws he would never use on you.
“you big baby.”
he kicks lightly at your forearm with his back paws. not enough to hurt, just enough to play.
“are you bunny-kicking me?”
he makes a pleased little sound.
you laugh, tired and helpless, as he bats at your sleeve, catches your hand, releases it, then catches it again. each time you pull away, he follows with laser focus, head tilting, whiskers forward.
it’s so deeply unfair that something so dangerous can be this cute.
you wiggle your fingers and his pupils grow wider.
“no biting.”
he opens his mouth anyway.
“toru, come on.”
very slowly, with exaggerated innocence, he closes his mouth around your sleeve instead of your hand.
you gasp. “you little criminal.”
he tugs and you tug back. his paws clamp around your wrist again.
the two of you enter what can only be described as the world’s lowest-stakes tug-of-war, except your opponent is a giant snow leopard with supernatural strength and the emotional maturity of a spoiled house cat. he could win instantly.
instead, he lets you pull your sleeve free just enough to think you have a chance, then tugs it back with a delighted chirp.
“you are enjoying this way too much.”
his tail sweeps across the floor and you make the mistake of laughing.
satoru freezes. his head lifts. his ears perk.
you know that look.
“no.”
he launches up.
you scramble backwards, but he is already moving, bolting around you in one fast, fluffy circle before darting back into the hallway. his paws thunder against the floor again.
zoomies: resumed.
you stay on the floor for a moment, dizzy with sleep and laughter, listening to him tear through the apartment with the unrestrained joy of a creature who has remembered he possesses legs.
he does three laps.
then four.
then something falls over in the bedroom.
“satoru!”
he reappears in the hallway with one of your slippers in his mouth.
you gasp. “drop it.”
he freezes and the slipper dangles from his teeth.
“drop. it.”
his ears flatten.
“don’t you dare.”
slowly, very slowly, he lowers the slipper to the floor.
you soften. “good boy.”
his tail gives an enormous, happy flick. then he picks it up again and runs.
“are you serious?!”
by the time you catch up to him, he has dragged the slipper onto the rug and is lying with both front paws planted over it like a dragon guarding treasure. his chin rests on top. his eyes are half-lidded with satisfaction.
you stand above him, hands on hips. “that is mine.”
he purrs.
“give it back.”
he presses his chin more firmly onto the slipper.
“you have three beds, two blankets, and an entire closet of stolen hoodies to nest in.”
his eyes flick toward you.
“do not act impoverished.”
he rolls his cheek against the slipper and you soften despite yourself. because of course. of course it smells like you.
“oh,” you say quietly. “you missed me?”
his purr falters for half a second. then grows softer.
the zoomie-bright energy in him shifts. still playful, but less frantic now. he blinks at you slowly, once, then again, the universal cat language of trust, affection, love.
and your heart twists.
“baby,” you murmur. you lower yourself onto the rug beside him.
satoru immediately abandons the slipper and presses his massive head into your lap.
“there he is,” you whisper, scratching behind his ear. “my poor neglected boy.”
he huffs.
“you slept beside me for four hours.”
he huffs again, more offended this time.
“sorry. my poor, tragically abandoned boy.”
that seems to satisfy him.
he melts into your lap as much as a giant snow leopard can, purring so deeply you feel it through your legs. his body is still buzzing faintly with leftover energy. every now and then, his paw twitches like he’s imagining another sprint. but mostly, he’s here. heavy and warm and soft beneath your hands.
you stroke along his face, over the bridge of his nose, down to the plush fur under his chin.
his eyes flutter closed.
“sleepy now?”
he refuses to answer.
“all that chaos and now you’re tired?”
his tail curls around your ankle.
“mm. thought so.”
you keep petting him until the last of the wildness drains out of his body. the apartment goes quiet again except for the soft rumble of his purr and the distant hum of the fridge. moonlight spills across the rug. the overturned cushion lies forgotten near the couch.
satoru nudges your hand so you scratch under his chin.his back paw kicks once making you pause.
he opens one eye and you smile.
“still does that, huh?”
he goes very still.
“your little foot,” you clarify.
his ears flatten.
“no, ‘s okay, it’s cute.”
he grumbles, then presses his face into your stomach to hide.
you laugh softly and bend over him, kissing the top of his head. “don’t be embarrassed. i love your little foot.”
the shift happens against you.
one moment your arms are full of dense fur and enormous warmth, and the next, that warmth folds inward, reshaping itself in a shimmer of pale light. paws become hands. the heavy body across your lap becomes long limbs and bare skin beneath an oversized sleep shirt. soft rounded ears become white, triangular snow leopard ears tucked into messy hair, and his thick spotted tail remains curled around your ankle like he is not quite ready to let go.
satoru ends up half-sprawled over you in hybrid form, face buried in your stomach, arms wrapped tightly around your waist.
“don’t call it my little foot,” he mumbles.
his voice is scratchy with sleep.
you grin. “but it was little.”
“it was not little. nothing about me is little.”
“it kicked.”
“lies.”
“it kicked twice.”
“you’re being mean to me after i almost died.”
“you bumped your hip on a cabinet.”
“yeah, violently.”
“the cabinet is fine.”
he lifts his head just enough to glare at you. his cheeks are pink. his ears are still slightly flattened from embarrassment, though one of them twitches when you reach up and smooth your thumb along the base.
“don’t try to distract me by being cute,” he says.
“i think that’s usually your move.”
“and yet here you are, weaponizing tenderness.”
you cup his face and he goes quiet.
his eyes soften immediately, all the leftover mischief giving way to something sleepy and open.
“hi,” you whisper.
his mouth curves. “hi.”
“zoomies over?”
“for now.”
you smile. “that’s ominous.”
“i’m a mysterious creature.”
“you stole my slipper.”
“also mysterious.”
you continue. “you tried to eat my sleeve.”
“affectionately.”
you laugh, and his tail gives a pleased flick around your ankle.
then his expression changes. not very dramatically. just enough that you notice the soft drop of his gaze, the way his fingers curl into the hem of your shirt.
“couldn’t sleep,” he finally admits.
your teasing fades.
“yeah?”
he hums.
“bad dream?”
“not bad.” he shifts closer, resting his cheek against your stomach again. “just woke up and you were asleep, and everything was quiet, and then i got restless.”
you run your fingers through his hair. “so naturally you caused property damage.”
“barely any property damage.”
“pretty sure the remote is missing.”
“the remote knows what it did.”
you smile, but your touch stays gentle.
satoru’s ears relax slowly beneath your hand. in hybrid form, he can hide behind words better. jokes. grins. that bright, unbearable charm of his. but his tail always gives him away. right now, it’s curled around you like a question.
you tug lightly at his shirt. “come here.”
he obeys instantly, crawling fully into your lap despite being far too tall for that to make sense. he folds himself around you with the determined lack of shame of someone who has never once believed in personal space. long arms around your waist. face tucked into your neck. ears brushing your jaw.
“you are heavy,” you wheeze.
“strong mate,” he murmurs.
“absolutely not. do not caveman me at two in the morning.”
“strong beloved.”
“better.”
his laugh is warm against your skin.
for a while, the two of you sit there on the rug in the moonlight, tangled together beside the couch. you scratch slowly at the base of his ears, and he makes a sound so soft it’s almost embarrassing. his tail slides over your lap, heavy and plush. every time your fingers pause, it flicks against your thigh in complaint.
satoru lifts his head, looking very pleased with himself.
his hair is a mess. his ears are perked again, alert and fluffy. there is still a faint wildness in his eyes from the zoomies, but it has gone soft around the edges. domesticated by your hands. by your lap. by the sleepy warmth of being loved without needing to ask for it.
you brush your thumb over his cheek.
“you feeling better?”
satoru leans into your touch before he can pretend not to.
“yeah,” he says softly. then, after a beat, “you always make it quiet.”
your chest aches. “is that good?”
he looks at you like the answer is obvious. “it’s my favourite.”
you pull him closer.
he comes willingly, melting against you with a sigh that sounds almost like his old purr. maybe it still is, buried somewhere deeper in his chest. you feel it when he presses close, a faint vibration of contentment.
“bed?” you murmur.
he shakes his head against you. “couch.”
“we’ll wake up sore.”
“worth it.”
“you say that because you’re going to sleep on top of me.”
his silence is damning.
“satoru.”
“i had a very active night,” he whines.
“you had zoomies.”
“exactly. athletic recovery is important.”
you roll your eyes, but when he pulls you down with him onto the rug first, then onto the pile of fallen blankets and couch cushions, you let him. it becomes less of a couch nap and more of a nest, one he constructs with great seriousness by dragging the blanket over both of you and tucking his tail around your legs.
finally, when you’re tucked against him and his arms are snug around you, the apartment settles. no more crashing. no more skidding paws. no more stolen slippers. just satoru breathing softly beside you, one ear pressed slightly crooked against the cushion, his tail twitching slower and slower as sleep creeps back in.
you scratch under his chin one last time and his foot kicks. only once. but his eyes snap open.
you stare at him.
he stares at you.
“don’t,” he warns.
you press your lips together.
“i said don’t.”
“i’m not saying anything.”
“you’re smiling.”
“i’m allowed.”
he narrows his eyes, then tucks your head under his chin so you can’t look at him anymore.
“go to sleep.”
you laugh quietly against his chest. “goodnight, my big baby boy.”
he groans. “awful. cruel. unlovable.”
“you’re very lovable.”
his arms tighten around you. a second passes in silence. then, very quietly, “yeah?”
you soften. “yeah.”
his tail curls happily around your calf.
“good,” he mumbles.
and with the last of his wild little midnight storm finally gone, satoru falls asleep wrapped around you, warm and heavy and impossibly soft, like the whole apartment was only ever meant to be a place where he could run himself breathless and still end up safe in your arms.
suguru teaches you the correct way to worship >^_^<
"do you want to learn?" suguru asks, and his eyes meet yours again, dark and endless and utterly consuming. "do you want me to teach you how to worship properly?"
yes. the word is right there, burning on your tongue, ready to spill out. but you hesitate, because somehow saying it feels like crossing a line you can't uncross, like stepping off a cliff into an abyss you can't see the bottom of.
he waits. patient. unhurried. he knows what your answer will be. he's known since the moment he caught you lingering in the shadows, trembling and wide-eyed and full of hunger you didn't have a name for yet.
"yes," you breathe finally, and the word comes out ragged, desperate, full of all the things you've been too afraid to name.
"then kneel."
the command is quiet, but it resonates through you like a bell, like a prayer, like something inevitable. your body moves before your mind catches up, legs folding, knees meeting the cold stone floor. the impact sends a jolt through you, grounding you, reminding you that this is real, that you're here, that you've chosen this.
he looks down at you, and the approval in his eyes makes your stomach tighten with something that feels almost like triumph.
"good," the priest says for the third time, and each repetition of the word feels like a mark on your skin, a claim, a possession. "you learn so quickly. it's beautiful to watch."
he steps closer, close enough that his robes brush against your shoulders, that you can feel the heat of him radiating down like sunlight. he reaches out, and his fingers card through your hair, gentle at first, then fisting at the roots, tilting your head back further, exposing your throat to him completely.
"worship begins with submission," he says, and his voice is soft, almost tender, even as his grip tightens just enough to make your breath catch. "with accepting your place. with understanding that you are here to serve, to please, to offer yourself up as a vessel for something greater than yourself."
suguru's thumb strokes along your temple, a gesture that might be soothing if not for the intensity in his eyes, the way he holds you like you're something precious and something disposable all at once.
"repeat after me," he says. "i am yours."
your throat constricts. the words feel huge, too big to fit past your lips. but his grip in your hair tightens, just slightly, and the flash of pain sends heat pooling low in your belly.
"i am yours," you whisper, and the words feel like a key turning in a lock.
"i exist to serve you."
"i exist to serve you."
"i offer myself freely, without reservation, without shame."
your voice trembles but you repeat the words, each one carving itself into your chest, reshaping you from the inside out. when you finish, his grip loosens, and his hand slides down to cup your cheek with devastating gentleness.
"perfect," he murmurs. "you're perfect."
suguru guides you forward, and you go willingly, crawling on your knees until you're positioned between his legs, looking up at him from this new vantage point. the stone is cold against your knees. the candlelight flickers across his features, casting half his face in shadow, making him look like something out of a dream—or a nightmare, depending on your perspective.
"now," he says, and his voice drops even lower, intimate and dark, "let me teach you the next lesson."
his hand finds your chin again, tilting your face up. his other hand moves to the tie of his robe, loosening it with deliberate slowness, giving you time to watch, to anticipate, to feel the weight of every second stretching out between you.
"worship takes many forms," he says as the fabric parts, revealing the smooth expanse of his chest, the defined lines of his abdomen, the trail of dark hair that disappears below his waist. "prayer. sacrifice. offering." his robe falls open completely, and you see him, hard and waiting, the sight of him making your mouth go dry and your thighs press together. "but some of the most powerful worship is done with the mouth."
"you want this," suguru says, not a question. "i can see it in your eyes. in the way your lips part. in the way your thighs press together on the stone floor."
you nod, unable to form words.
"then ask for it."
you swallow hard. "please—please let me—"
"let you what?" his voice is silk over steel, patient and cruel. "use your words, little one. tell me what you want."
"let me take you in my mouth," you whisper, the words burning on your tongue. "let me worship you."
his smile is slow and dark. "that's better."
he steps closer, close enough that his cock is inches from your face. you can smell him—warm skin, salt, the faint trace of incense. your hands clench in your lap.
"open your mouth," he commands.
you obey instantly, lips parting, tongue resting flat. he guides himself to your lips, not pushing in, just letting you feel the weight of him against your bottom lip.
"take me in," he says, his voice dropping lower. "slow. i want to feel every inch as you take me inside."
you lean forward, parting your lips wider, and let the head of his cock slip past them. the taste of him floods your senses—warm, slightly bitter, intoxicating. you close your lips around him and your tongue darts out instinctively.
"that's it," he breathes, his hand coming to rest on the back of your head. "just like that. now take more."
you slide forward, taking him deeper, feeling him press against your tongue, then toward the back of your throat. you gag slightly and pull back, but his hand holds you steady.
"breathe through your nose," he instructs, his voice calm, hypnotic. "relax your throat. you can take all of me. i know you can."
you try, forcing yourself to relax, and when you move forward again, he slides deeper, filling your mouth completely. your eyes water but you don't pull away. you look up at him, and the sight of his half-lidded eyes, the slight flush on his cheeks, sends a thrill through you.
"good girl," suguru murmurs, and the praise makes your cunt clench. "now move. set a rhythm. let me feel your devotion."
you start to bob your head, finding a slow, steady pace. your hands grip your own thighs, desperate for something to hold onto. his hand in your hair guides you, not forcing, just directing.
"faster," he says, and you obey, your pace quickening. "deeper. yes—just like that. don't stop."
the sounds fill the chamber—wet, obscene, punctuated by his soft groans and your muffled whimpers. he tastes like need, like power, like everything you've been missing.
"look at me," he commands, and you lift your gaze, meeting his eyes while his cock is buried in your throat. "i want to see your eyes when you come undone."
you moan around him, the vibration making his hips twitch. his grip tightens in your hair.
"you're so beautiful like this," he says, his voice rough. "so desperate to please. tell me—" he pulls back slightly, letting you breathe, but only for a moment before pushing back in. "tell me who you belong to."
you can't answer with your mouth full, so you hum around him, the sound desperate and pleading.
"say it," he insists, pulling out completely, leaving you gasping, a string of saliva connecting his tip to your lips. "say it, and i'll give you what you need."
"you," you choke out, your voice wrecked. "i belong to you."
"good." he strokes himself once, smearing the moisture across his length. "now open again."
you do, and he guides himself back into your mouth, this time setting a punishing pace, fucking your throat with deep, steady thrusts. tears spill down your cheeks. your nose is pressed against his pelvis. but you don't pull away. you take it all, because this is worship, this is surrender, this is exactly what you asked for.
suguru's breathing grows ragged, his hips stuttering. "don't stop," he grunts. "don't you dare stop until i—fuck—"
he buries himself deep, and you feel him pulse against your tongue, hot cum flooding your throat. you swallow, desperate to take it all, and he groans, long and low, as he spills himself into you.
when he finally pulls back, you're trembling, your lips swollen, your face wet with tears and saliva. he strokes your cheek with his thumb, gentle now, almost tender.
"you did so well," he murmurs. "perfect little devotee."
and you know, as you kneel there, breathless and ruined, that you'll do anything to hear those words again.
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impromptu girls' night in with true form sukuna as your boyfriend (*´▽｀*)
the girls’ night was supposed to have five people. instead, it has one person, one charcuterie board, four unopened sets of pink pyjamas, six nail polish bottles, three sheet masks, a bowl of strawberries, and sukuna standing in the doorway looking like he has discovered a new form of human weakness.
he takes in the fairy lights, the fuzzy headbands, the tiny skincare jars, the folded pyjamas patterned with little cherries, and the plate of cheese arranged into a flower. his mouth twists. “what ritual is this?”
you look up from your phone, where the last cancellation text is still glowing. “girls’ night.”
sukuna looks around the room again. there is a pause. “then where are the girls?”
you pick up a cube of cheese and eat it. “unavailable, so they said.”
his eyes narrow, not with pity, but with the particular irritation of a man who has just learned people were invited somewhere and failed to appreciate snacks. “fools,” he says.
“it’s fine,” you mumble quietly.
“the cheese has been arranged.”
“i know.”
“there are uniforms.”
“they’re matching pyjamas.”
he steps farther into the room, all towering muscle, markings, and four crossed arms. he looks deeply out of place among the pink blankets and pastel bottles, like a war god has been accidentally summoned into a sleepover commercial.
as he gets closer, you hold up a fuzzy pink headband with cat ears with a sulky look in your eyes. his eyes sharpen immediately. “no.”
“i didn’t even ask!”
“you were thinking it.”
“you don’t know that.”
“i know your face.”
that shuts you up for exactly three seconds. then you smile. sukuna’s expression darkens. he knows that smile, that smile usually means inconvenience. humiliation. something involving modern technology, glitter, or both.
“absolutely not,” he says.
“girls’ night needs at least two people.”
“i am not a girl.”
you shrug, unfazed. “honorary then.”
“dangerous words.”
“beloved honorary.”
your boyfriend pauses. you can see the exact moment the word beloved enters him like a poorly aimed arrow. his face does not change much, because sukuna’s expressions are generally variations of displeased, murderous, and bored enough to commit violence. but one of his lower hands uncrosses. then crosses again, like it has betrayed him.
“i will sit,” he says finally.
you beam, lighting up. “yay!”
“do not cheer.”
he sits on the floor because the couch is too small for him and because the last time he sat on it, one of the legs made a cracking noise so dramatic you both had to stare at it in silence. even seated, he looks absurdly massive, knees bent, shoulders broad, four arms arranged with terrible dignity.
you place the cat-ear headband on his head and sukuna goes still. the soft pink ears sit against his hair, one slightly crooked. you press both hands over your mouth. his eyes lift slowly to yours.
“choose survival,” he says. “because i’m warning you.”
a tiny sound escapes you. “you look beautiful, kitty.”
he tsks, a hilarious sound when he’s wearing cat eyes. “wrong.”
“handsome.”
his expression relaxes by one terrifying millimetre.
“handsomely beautiful,” you correct with exaggeration.
he considers that for a moment. “i suppose that’s acceptable.”
this is how sukuna becomes part of girls’ night. not willingly, exactly. but not unwillingly enough to leave.
you start with snacks because that is safest. sukuna inspects the charcuterie board like it is an enemy formation. he does not understand why the crackers are fanned out, why the grapes are still on the vine, why honey needs its own tiny spoon, or why cheese comes in so many unnecessary textures. he does, however, eat almost all of it.
“so you like brie?” you observe.
“i am judging it.”
“well you’ve 'judged' half the wheel.”
“i needed to be thorough.”
he reaches for another strawberry with one lower hand while his upper arms remain crossed, as though he is above the entire situation. the effect is ruined when he dips the strawberry into the chocolate sauce you bought for everyone and hums, very quietly.
you freeze. his gaze snaps to you. “what.”
you press your lips together. “nothing.”
“speak and regret it.”
"it's just," you clear your throat to not laugh, “you made a happy noise.”
“i made an evaluative noise. i'm evaluating.”
“a happy evaluative noise.”
he points the half-eaten strawberry at you. “continue this path and i will feed you the headband.”
you wisely move on to skincare. sukuna eyes the sheet mask packet with immediate suspicion. “that is wet.”
“yes.”
“and cold.”
you nod. “also yes.”
“and you put it on your face voluntarily for no reason.”
“for beauty.”
“your species deserves extinction.”
“your face is dry.”
“my face has survived centuries.”
“and now it can survive hyaluronic acid.”
he stares at you. you stare back. his cat-ear headband sits proudly on his head. eventually, with the resignation of a man accepting the worst curse known to mankind, he lowers his face.
the sheet mask does not fit him. not even close. you try very hard to make it work, smoothing it over sharp cheekbones and around his markings, but one side keeps peeling up and the mouth hole sits in a way that makes him look personally offended by hydration. you lean back to admire him.
sukuna sits motionless, enormous and monstrous and damply moisturised, pink cat ears perched above his scowl. you make a strangled noise.
“do not,” he says.
you have to turn around for a full ten seconds. when you face him again, he has used one hand to pick up a cracker and is trying to eat it around the face mask.
“sukuna!”
he pauses. the cracker is halfway to his mouth. “what now.”
“you can’t eat with the mask on!"
“watch me.”
“no, you’ll get serum on the cheese.”
he lowers the cracker slowly, looking more insulted by this than by any actual threat you have ever seen him receive. “your rules are tyrannical.”
after fifteen minutes, he removes the mask by peeling it off with two fingers and holding it away from himself like a slain creature. you tell him to pat in the serum. he raises all four hands.
“gently,” you warn.
he begins patting his face with the intensity of a warrior applying battle paint. slap. slap. slap. slap.
“stop!” you shriek, grabbing two wrists while laughing so hard you nearly fall into his lap. “you’re not supposed to fight the skincare.”
“you said pat.”
“not assault.”
“well, be more precise next time.”
you end up doing it for him. sukuna sits still as you kneel between his legs and gently pat serum into his face. his skin is warm beneath your fingers, smooth where you expected roughness. he allows you to touch his cheeks, his jaw, the bridge of his nose. allows, because everything with sukuna is permission disguised as endurance.
he complains the entire time. sort of.
“this is inefficient,” he says, while lowering his head so you can reach better.
“your hands are cold,” he says, while one of his own settles at your waist to keep you steady.
“humans invented too many liquids,” he says, while his thumb absently strokes your side.
you pretend not to notice. he pretends not to be pleased. next comes nail polish. this is where girls’ night becomes a military operation.
sukuna has twenty nails. twenty. you realise this at the exact same time he does. you look at his hands. he looks at his hands. then he looks at you.
“no.”
“yes.”
“ten.”
“twenty.”
“five.”
you raise an eyebrow. “that’s even worse.”
“one.”
“twenty, sukuna.”
he mutters something old and ugly under his breath because he stands no chance against you, never has and never will.
you hold up the polish options: baby pink, pearly white, cherry red, shimmery lilac, peach gloss, and glitter. he points to red immediately, almost horrified with every other option.
“of course,” you say, "red for the big bad scary man."
“it is the only respectable colour.”
you shrug. “the glitter would have been nice. brings out your eyes.”
you paint his first hand with exaggerated care. his fingers are long, thick, deadly. his nails are dark and sharp, and the glossy red spreads over them so beautifully that you gasp before you can stop yourself.
sukuna’s eyes flick to you. “what.”
“baby, you’re serving.”
“serving what.”
you giggle. “don’t worry about it.”
“i will worry about anything said in my presence.”
“i' meant you look good.”
“obviously.” he says it like arrogance, but two of his hands shift a little closer to you, ready for their turn.
it takes longer than expected because he keeps forgetting his nails are wet. he reaches for a grape. you hiss. he freezes. he scratches at his jaw. you shout his name. he stops with all four hands suspended in the air, looking deeply inconvenienced by beauty.
“this is ridiculous,” he says.
“you agreed.”
you blow gently across his nails to dry them. he goes quiet. very quiet. you look up. he is watching your mouth with an expression so focused it almost makes you forget he has pink cat ears on. almost.
“don’t make that face,” you say.
“what face?”
“the face like you’re about to be inappropriate during nail care.”
he snorts. “then do not breathe on me.”
“i’m drying the polish,” you say. “it’s necessary. you’re so dramatic.”
“you are holding my hand hostage.”
“all four of them, actually.”
his gaze drops to where your fingers cradle one of his palms. for a moment, he says nothing. then he offers you the next hand. “continue.”
by the time you finish all twenty nails, sukuna looks devastating. annoyingly devastating. the glossy red suits him too well. regal, sharp, almost obscene against the black markings and thick veins of his hands. you add glitter to one nail on each hand while he is distracted eating another strawberry. he notices three seconds later.
“what is this.”
“an accent nail.”
“remove it.”
“no.”
he lifts one hand toward the fairy lights, watching the glitter catch in the light. there's a silence for a long moment as he stares.
you smile slowly. “you like it.”
“i am assessing.”
“you like it.”
“i am assessing favourably.”
“that means you like it.”
“your vocabulary lacks nuance.”
you add glitter to the other three hands. he lets you. then comes lip gloss. you do not originally intend to involve him. you only pick up the tube for yourself, swipe the soft pink gloss over your lips, and press them together.
sukuna watches. you notice. he looks away too late.
“want some?”
“no.”
“it’s strawberry.”
“i am not a child.”
“you ate the strawberry chocolate sauce with a tiny spoon.”
you hold up the gloss wand. he leans back slightly. not out of fear. out of dignity trying to escape. you follow. he stares. you smile. eventually, very slowly, he lowers his chin.
“one layer,” he says.
you apply the gloss carefully. it is ridiculous. it is perfect. sukuna’s mouth, usually cruel and sharp and used to saying terrible things, now shines faintly pink under your living room lights. he looks like violence dressed for a sleepover.
you stare. he narrows his eyes. “what.”
“pretty.”
“choose another word.”
you think. “glossy.”
“worse.”
“kissable.”
that shuts him up. very briefly. then he leans closer, eyes dark with challenge. “then test it.”
you almost fall for it. almost. instead, you press one finger to his chest.
“no. you’ll ruin the gloss.”
he looks genuinely offended. “you decorated me and now deny inspection?”
“you can inspect later.”
“unacceptable.”
“girls’ night rule.”
“i hate girls’ night.”
“you love girls’ night," you say. "you want to marry girls' night."
he growls. he is still wearing the cat ears.
you take twelve photos. he allows one officially and eleven accidentally because his nails are wet and he cannot snatch your phone without risking the manicure. this may be the most powerful you have ever felt.
in the first photo, he looks furious. in the second, he looks furious but moisturised. in the third, he is holding a strawberry with two fingers, nails red, glitter flashing. in the fourth, you lean into frame grinning while sukuna stares at the camera like he plans to curse the lens. in the fifth, he is definitely looking at you instead of the camera.
you save that one twice.
“delete them,” he says.
“no.”
“i will destroy the device.”
“your nails are wet.”
his eyes narrow. you watch him remember his own imprisonment.
“this power has corrupted you,” he says.
when the polish finally dries, sukuna inspects his hands with what he clearly believes is detached indifference. he turns one wrist. then another. flexes his fingers slightly. watches the red catch beneath the fairy lights. you sit beside him, chin in your hand.
“well? what do you think?” you lean in. “do you love them?”
“they’re adequate. they will do.”
you laugh softly. “for your next conquest?”
“for my next girls’ night.”
you gasp. he freezes. you freeze. slowly, sukuna looks at you. “i misspoke.”
“no take-backs,” you sing happily.
“i said nothing.”
“you said next girls’ night.”
“that was an auditory hallucination.”
“you want another one,” you continue you tease with a smile.
you have always been his weakness so sukuna only sighs. “next time, i want better cheese. and i want black polish.”
you grin so hard your cheeks hurt. he scowls down at you, pink gloss still shining faintly on his mouth, red nails resting at your waist, cat ears sitting proudly askew.
“do not look so pleased,” he says.
“you’re my best girls’ night guest.”
“i am your only girls’ night guest.”
“and somehow the prettiest.”
his scowl deepens. his arms tighten. his thumb strokes once over your hip.
“flattery will not save you.”
“from what?”
he looks at your glossy mouth. then back at your eyes.
“inspection.”
you laugh, but he is already leaning in, careful of his nails and completely uncaring about the lip gloss now.
by the end of the night, the fruit board is destroyed, the cheese is gone, four pyjama sets remain untouched, your phone is full of blackmail photos, and sukuna has strawberry gloss smeared at the corner of his mouth. he insists he hated every second. he also asks, with great seriousness, where one purchases black glitter polish.
satoru can’t help but fuck u behind a tree ☆〜（ゝ。∂）
satoru’s hands are already on you, rough and frantic, shoving the hem of your sundress up your thighs before you've even fully registered the shift in his mood. one moment you were walking through the park, hand in hand, the late afternoon sun dappling through the leaves, and the next he's pulled you off the path, yanking you behind the broad trunk of an ancient oak.
"’toru—" you whisper, half protest, half thrill, but his mouth cuts you off, hot and demanding against yours. his tongue slides into your mouth, tasting of the soda he'd sipped at the food truck, and his fingers bunch the fabric of your dress higher until it's bunched around your waist. the cool air hits your bare thighs, your dampening core, and you gasp into his kiss.
he breaks away, breath ragged, and his eyes—those impossibly blue eyes, usually so lazy and teasing—are dark with hunger. "can't wait," your boyfriend mutters, his voice low and rough, the words slurred with want. "need you. now."
you're pinned against the rough bark, the texture scratching through the thin cotton of your dress, but you don't care. the risk of being seen—the distant sounds of children laughing, a dog barking, footsteps on the gravel path—sends a sharp pulse of adrenaline straight to your cunt.
his hand slides between your legs, two fingers pressing against the soaked fabric of your panties. he groans, a sound that vibrates through his chest and into yours. "fuck, you're already so wet. were you thinking about this the whole time? walking next to me, pretending to look at the flowers, but really just wanting my cock inside you?"
you can't deny it. your hips push into his hand, a silent plea. "yes," you breathe, and the admission makes him smirk—that infuriating, gorgeous smirk that makes your knees weak.
satoru hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and yanks them down, not bothering to take them off completely, just enough to bare you to the cooling air. the fabric snags on your ankle, but you don't care. nothing matters except the thick, hard length of him pressing against your hip through his jeans.
he makes quick work of his belt, the clink of metal loud in the quiet of their hidden spot. his cock springs free, already slick at the tip, and he pumps himself once, twice, before guiding it to your entrance.
"you gotta be quiet," he whispers, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and uneven. "unless you want someone to hear. want them to hear how good i fuck you?"
the challenge sends a shiver down your spine. you shake your head, but the thought—the possibility of being caught, of someone stumbling upon them, seeing you spread open for him—makes you clench around nothing.
he pushes in.
a single, smooth thrust that fills you completely. your mouth falls open, a silent cry of pleasure, and your nails dig into his shoulders. he's big, always so big, stretching you in that perfect way that makes your vision blur. he bottoms out, his hips flush against yours, and stays there for a moment, letting you adjust, letting the sensation sink in.
"so tight," satoru murmurs, his voice strained. "like you were made for me."
then he starts to move.
slow at first, shallow thrusts that make you feel every ridge and vein of him as he slides in and out. he's not being gentle—there's nothing gentle about the way he grips your hip, the way his other hand presses against the tree beside your head, steadying himself. but it's deliberate, controlled, each stroke designed to drive you insane.
you bite your lip to keep from moaning, but a whimper escapes anyway. he shushes you softly, but the sound only makes you wetter. the fear of exposure is a living thing, coiling in your belly, heightening every sensation. the rough bark scrapes your back through the dress. the heat of his body seeps into you. the faint scent of his cologne mixes with the earthy smell of leaves and soil.
he quickens his pace, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate. "fuck, you feel so good," he groans, his forehead dropping to yours. "could fuck you right here, right now, with the whole world walking by, and i wouldn't give a shit."
his hand leaves the tree and finds the hem of your dress, pulling it up further until it's bunched around your neck, exposing your breasts to the open air. he doesn't bother with the bra—he just pushes the cups down, freeing your nipples, and immediately takes one into his mouth.
the sensation is electric. his tongue laps at the sensitive peak while his hips keep up their relentless rhythm, driving into you harder, deeper. you arch into him, your fingers threading through his white hair, tugging at the soft strands as a wave of pleasure builds low in your belly.
"satoru—baby, i'm close," you gasp, the words barely audible.
he pulls his mouth away, breath hot against your skin. "not yet. not until i say."
but his body betrays him. his hips lose their rhythm, slamming into you with a frantic urgency that tells you he's close too. his hand slides down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and pressing down in tight circles.
that's all it takes.
you come undone, a silent scream caught in your throat as your walls clench around him. the orgasm rips through you, sharp and blinding, and you feel him follow a second later—a hot rush of cum filling you, his groan muffled against your neck as he pulses inside you.
for a long moment, there's only the sound of their ragged breathing, the rustle of leaves overhead, the distant hum of the city.
he pulls out slowly, and you feel their combined release trickle down your thigh. he tucks himself back into his jeans, then reaches down to pull your panties back up—not because he cares, but because the act is tender, a silent aftercare.
"you okay, sweetheart?" he asks, his voice soft now, the teasing lilt gone.
you nod, still catching your breath, still trembling. he presses a kiss to your forehead, then your lips, soft and lingering.
"good," satoru says, and then the smirk is back. "because i'm thinking we should find a bench next."
a/n: eeek thank uu 4 reading mi first post ! feedback & reblogs r appreciated ^ - ^
