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with a failing business, you really shouldn't be letting strangers in for free, especially when your shoddy little hotel should be closed to the public for christmas day.
alas. that bledding heart of yours couldn't turn away such a poor soul. sure, the guy had on a watch that cost more than everything you've ever owned, and his card had sounded like a metal pipe when you'd accidentally dropped it, but that doesn't mean anything. it'd been frigid outside, and if he had to stop at your quaint place, then his car likely ran out of gas.
poor, poor satoru gojo.
he's a kind man, though. he wouldn't dare inconvenience a gorgeous woman like you without a gift, right?
the least he can do is give you a big, fat tip.
"you would've been all alone on christmas," satoru says with a frown, and his fingers tear that soaked scrap of panty to the side. "a shame, really. good thing i showed up, hm?"
you mindlessly nod your head, his words flowing into one ear and right out the other. he'd spent the last thirty minutes pawing at you — first with a too tight hug, next his hand on your thigh and hips, then with a massage, and finally with him toying with your clit until you simply couldn't handle anymore.
sleeping with clients is prohibited. it's bad for business, you aren't likely to see them again, and it'd be a pr mess if it ever got out — not that anyone outside of this small town even knows this place exists.
still! it's the principle of it all.
although, clearly, that principle has been damned. your hips shift back, wiggling in an attempt to garner satoru's undivided attention.
and like a moth to a flame, his gaze drops from where you're sprawled out against the front desk and to that sopping cunt. it's a beauty, and even without his six-eyes, he can tell it's sensitive, needy, desperate.
"mr. gojo—"
"satoru," he corrects, and his finger drags through your folds, a string of arousal connecting his digit to your pussy. "messy girl."
your breath catches in your throat, and you tuck your scorching face away in your arm. "s-satoru. don't... don't tease."
satoru grins. "oh? what, you embarrassed now?" two long fingers slide right into your hole, and you groan, the arch of your back getting deeper.
fuck. it stings ever so slightly, even more so when he scissors his fingers. if his fingers are too much, then what of his cock?
you don't wanna know... do you?
you shake your head, but he only scoffs. "don't lie t'me, sweets. you are, and i really don't know why, considerin' you had no problem whining in my lap when i was touchin' that pretty clit."
the set of fingers begin to pump in and out. not too slow, not too fast, but just right, enough to have you moaning and drooling against your desk.
"there we go," satoru coos, and the praise goes right to your tortured clit, sending a jolt through your body. "that's what i wanna hear. louder, pretty girl — no one else is here."
of course not.
you start to rock back against his hand, shoving those fingers deeper and deeper 'til they hit that sweet gummy spot. "ngh, satoru!"
you couldn't resist being loud even if you'd wanted to, not when he's fingering you this good. he's a god damn pro.
that nearly unfamiliar pressure in your gut begins to build, hot and fast, and with it, moans and whines tumble free. you're loud, much louder than you've ever heard yourself, and where there should be shame... you only feel need.
"shit, i'm gonna—"
"cum," satoru finishes with a chuckle, and his thumb shifts, swiping enough slick to start rubbing that precious bundle of nerves. "don't hold back, 'kay? i wanna hear you."
his fingers piston quicker, and your hips work their hardest to patch his pace, walls squeezing against the digits to prolong the pleasure.
"you're so crude— fuck!"
with a cheeky little pinch to your clit, satoru's tipping you over the edge, leaving you writhing against the ruined desk and creaming all over his fingers. it drips down your thighs and onto his shoes, ones that are likely just as expensive as his watch.
a dreamy sigh escapes his parted lips, and if you could see his eyes, they'd be nothing but hearts.
you are so, so cute.
he eases you through the rest of your orgasm, letting you take as much time as you need to get yourself back to earth. that is, until he gets impatient.
two big hands grab your waist before satoru flips you over onto your back, earning a pretty gasp.
"w-what are you—"
satoru grins, all pearly whites on display as he wraps your trembling legs around his waist. "you didn't really think that was the end of your gift, did you? oh, no."
he wastes no time unbuttoning his slacks, tugging them and his briefs down enough to let his cock spring free.
it's just as you feared — big and heavy and beautiful. pre weeps from his baby pink tip and drips onto the floor, and the sight is enough to make your dry mouth water. you can trace every protruding vein, count every throb.
satoru gives himself a few strokes before lining his head with your fluttering hole. "silly girl. i promsied you a big fat tip, didn't i?"
and he isn't in the habit of breaking his promises.
your friendly tutor being a hardcore munch certainly wasn’t on your bingo card for the year.
you weren’t even meant to be at this party. you’d planned to finally destress after a hellish week of finals by curling up with your ipad, a twelve episode anime, and a pile of snacks — a much deserved reward after the literal tears you shed trying to study and prep.
but, no. somehow, someway amongst hitch getting ready to go party and you scrunching your nose up at her, you’d ended up at some shitty frat party with poorly mixed alcohol and hot, horny bodies, no hitch in sight. it’s not really your thing — too many people and too little security — so of course the second you spot armin, a familiar face and your long-time tutor, you stuck to him like white on rice.
how were you supposed to know that he’d be the one having you bent over the guest bathroom sink, soft hands keeping your pretty legs spread just for him?
“armin, fuck...” you moan, teeth sinking into your glossy bottom lip. a futile attempt to muffle yourself, but he’s never been one to not give credit where credit is due.
armin’s knees ache against the awkward tile of the floor, but the pain is nothing in comparison to the taste of you, sweet and syrupy like the finest drizzle. he doesn’t waste a single drop of slick, the little metal ball in his mouth occasionally nudging your clit and coaxing even more wetness.
“f-feels good, right?” he asks and you can only nod, the typical softness of his voice practically dissolved underneath the needy hoarseness. those anatomy classes really did come in handy.
he pays deliberate attention to every single part of your pussy, almost like he’s got a reference image pulled up in his mind. not a single area goes unexplored — plush lips on your swollen clit, sucking until you mewl, pierced tongue shoved deep in your weak hole, slurping and thrusting all for the reward of your sweet voice.
everything about you is addicting to armin’s senses, a constant flow of pure dopamine, making him drunker than even the strongest of alcohols and higher than the hardest of drugs.
he’s insatiable when it comes to you.
“did you know,” slurp, “that the vagina has proteins in it?” another slurp, one that’s silenced beneath your moan, “i-i mean, it’s — ngh — not a lot, b-but... could help people meet their quotas.”
it’s pathetic and downright shameful how his inopportune fact-dropping makes your cunt throb, the pressure in your gut becoming unbearable. your thighs quiver in his grip, breaths catch in your hoarse throat — all typical, textbook signs that you’re going to cum. “don’t stop, ‘m sooo close. f-fuck, armin, god—”
he whimpers when you buck back against his face, slick smearing even more and knocking his thick glasses askew. nevertheless, he doesn’t stop, the tightness of his cargo pants be damned.
he doesn’t even stop when you cum with a cry, squirt spraying all over his face and the floor. he keeps his aching jaw slack to swallow every bit, too focused on the gorgeous mess between your legs to notice the growing darkened patch on the front of his trousers.
“armin!” you squirm, hips uselessly wriggling against the cool, smooth marble. you’re still trembling and twitching, the tsunami of bliss from your previous orgasm nowhere near done. “w-wait, slow down—”
armin shakes his head, tips of blonde hair tickling your skin as he leans back far enough to fix his glasses before delving back in. “i’m sorry, just let me test something, okay?”
not a single drop of apologeticness.
he makes you cum on his tongue twice more, all under the name of “research”. next time, he hopes to see if you’re just as tight on his cock.
It is CANON jjk was WRITTEN in 2018 about the future in 2023-2024 and 2025 It’s now 2024 2025 so jjk takes place NOW. This is SHOWN in the manga and anime.
It is CANON Gojo was BORN in 1998. This is SHOWN in the manga and anime.
It is CANON Gojo was a KID in 2006. This is SHOWN in the manga and anime.
It is CANON Geto was a KID in 2006. This is SHOWN in the manga and anime.
It is CANON Geto first noticed his cursed energy in 2007. This is SHOWN in the manga and anime.
It is CANON Gojo went to HIGHSCHOOL in 2012.This is SHOWN in the manga and anime.
It is CANON Nanami went to HIGHSCHOOL in 2012.This is SHOWN in the manga and anime.
It is CANON Geto went to HIGHSCHOOL in 2012.This is SHOWN in the manga and anime.
It is CANON Gojo had JUST turned 18 in hidden inventory. It’s SHOWN in the manga and anime.
It is CANON Nanami had JUST turned 17 in hidden inventory. It’s SHOWN in the manga and anime.
It is CANON Geto had JUST turned 18 in hidden inventory. It’s SHOWN in the manga and anime.
It is CANON Gojo became a teacher in 2018.This is SHOWN in the manga and anime.
It is CANON Geto was working his cult in 2018. This is SHOWN in the manga and anime.
It is CANON jjk takes place in 2023-2024 2025 This is SHOWN in the manga and anime.
It is CANON jjk takes place NOW..
It is CANON Gojo is 27 NOW in 2024
It is CANON megumi is 18 NOW in 2024
It is CANON Nanami is 26 NOW in 2024
It is CANON Geto is 27 NOW in 2024
It is CANON Gojo is turning 28 next year in 2025 It’s SHOWN in the manga and anime.
It is CANON Megumi is turning 19 next year in 2025. It’s SHOWN in the manga and anime.
It is CANON Nanami is 26 in 2025. It’s SHOWN in the manga and anime.
It is CANON Geto is 27 in 2025. It’s SHOWN in the manga and anime.
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he doesn’t even have to open his eyes to know you’re staring at him, soft fingertips tracing gentle lines down his thick arm. he doesn’t really get why you think you need to be so tentative — he’s a light sleeper. you could breathe wrong and he’d be awake.
“... hm?”
a pause, one that stretches for far too long, especially for you, and toji sighs. “wha’s wrong? get yer period or somethin’?”
he can hear the faint rustling of you squirming in the sheets, though he can’t see the way your thighs press together, how your panties are damp with slick, or the small, recently used vibrator resting on your nightstand.
it’s just not scratching that itch. nothing is, currently — at least, nothing you yourself can do.
you swallow. “no. i, um... i know you’re tired, a-and it’s late, but—”
“doll.” your lover rolls over, cracking open both emerald eyes to peer at you. you’re gorgeous, even in an oversized t-shirt and a little bit of crust in your eye.
my pretty girl.
“what? tell me what ya want,” he says, and his voice is extra deep and gruff with sleep. it really shouldn’t, but the sound of it only makes more heat pool low in your gut, and you shift a little.
“i’m horny,” you blurt, and toji blinks.
that’s it? with all that fidgeting you were doing, he thought you were gonna drop a bombshell on him.
he rubs at his face with a groan before rolling onto his back and pulling you right up onto his chest. one big hand taps your thigh, and now he can tell just how needy you are. “put ‘em on the side of my head.”
you oblige and slowly lower the rest of your weight right onto his face, a blissful sigh leaving your lips the second his nose bumps against your clit protruding through the soaked fabric of your underwear. a shudder dances down your spine, and toji snorts.
“greedy,” he murmurs, delivering an almost chastising swat to your ass, even as his other hand tugs that scrap of fabric to the side. “if ya want me, then ya can have me.”
“c-c’mon, baby, shit, ya gotta be quieter,” satoru coos, one big hand fisting the back of his sweat, musk soaked jersey and tugging you up. he’s got you bent over the hotel sink, the cool marble a delicious contrast to your hot, sticky skin, and it only makes you clamp down tighter around him, drawing a pretty moan from his kiss-bruised lips.
he tucks his face into your neck, tongue slipping out to work in tandem with his lips as they suck another hickey onto your already marked skin. you smell divine — a heady mix of his natural musk and just the right amount of your sweet, flowery perfume.
just having you wear his jersey (washed or not) is usually enough to get satoru at least half a chub in his pants, but having you smell like him? oh, his balls are heavy, and he has to keep thinking about his coach’s shitty toupee to resist busting a nut.
that guy really should just go bald before—
“mm, fuck, ‘toruuu—” every roll of his hips sends another wave of his scent into your nose like he wants to drown you in it, make it the only smell you only remember. a beautiful blend of you and him, more effective than any shitty, tiktok shop pheromone perfume on the market.
satoru groans, jaw going slack against your neck as he jackhammers into you, obscene squelches and conjoined sounds echoing in the spacious bathroom. forget being quiet — if his teammate next door hears them, then oh well.
“more,” you huff, “‘m so close, oh my god—”
more?
satoru can do more, especially when you’re doing him the heavenly favor of wearing his used jersey. of course he can.
with a mind of its own, his hand goes to your front, taking a pebbled nipple between his slender fingers and rolling it through the almost silky fabric. you clench down yet again, a moan stuttering its way out of your throat like a broken siren’s call.
and, in this case, satoru is just an idiot sailor.
he tries to oblige, he really does, but when you sound and look and are so sweet, so perfect, he really can’t hold it in for much longer.
satoru pulls out just a fraction of a second before he cums and pushes the damp fabric of the jersey up and out of the way, creamy ropes spraying all over the dip of your spine as his toes curl.
you’re never far behind him, and it only takes a few shallow thrusts to tip you over the edge, back arched and eyes rolled back as he presses apologetic kisses all over your neck and the exposed parts of your shoulder.
“sorry, sweets,” he murmurs. “felt too good.”
so for every game after, satoru swaps your clean jersey for his dirty one, slipping it over your head before tugging you into his hotel room and shutting the door.
and if you keep one? well, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right?
you don’t know what it is, what’s slipped through a crack in the thick wall around his mind, but something is different. he has you folded into a filthy mating press, legs only being held up thanks to a pair of squeezing hands as he repeatedly slams into you, pushing the previous two loads of cum deeper and deeper into your overstuffed pussy.
your nails rake red, thin stripes down sukuna’s broad back, and instead of tutting like he usually would and smacking your ass, he just groans.
he is gone.
“hah— don’t tap out now, woman. t-this... this is your fault,” he huffs, and you barely manage to glare at him through the haze of lust, vision blurry with overstimulated tears. “thought we agreed to no kids, yet you insisted on playin’ with those stupid brats.”
sukuna swears he doesn’t have a paternal bone in his body. he can’t stand kids with their sticky hands and constant crying and stupid, unintelligible babble. they’re like little leeches — sucking people dry and weary, but it’s “okay” because they’re “cute and don’t know any better”, according to you.
bullshit, he thinks. or, well, thought.
because the second he saw you playing with one, a bright, warm smile on your face as the little rascal served you a plastic carrot and a radish, his cold, dead heart crumbled.
he could almost imagine that tiny brat not belonging to the neighbor, but to you two, with pink hair like his and gorgeous eyes like yours. a sweet little princess, the curve of her gummy smile matching yours as she babbles out insane demands.
oh, he has to have it. he needs it, needs a darling babygirl to dote on, needs to make you a mama. you’d be so pretty, tummy all nice and swollen, skin glowing and hormones all over the place. sukuna would help you through it all, too — the cravings, the crying and anger, the aches and nausea, and especially the neediness.
he’s not one to be obedient (he answers to no one and lives for himself), but, well, he can’t disappoint his wife.
whatever you say goes. that’s how it is, even if sukuna’s pride would prefer that he not admit it.
“b-bet... fuck,” he groans, a dollop of drool escaping his slack jaw and landing somewhere on your already-slick skin. “bet you wanted kids all along, didn’t you? wanted me to make you a mama?”
the lingering in the aisle whenever you two go shopping, how you looked almost sad to leave that little snot, the constant baby videos on your feed... you’re just so damn obvious.
“yesss... fuck, yes!” you squeeze down around him, right on that sensitive crown, and you swear you hear the beginnings of a whimper in sukuna’s throat. “w’na be a mommy, ‘kuna—”
... damn you, woman.
sukuna’s hips press flush against yours, the sheets tearing from where he’s gripping, and a long, rough yet ever so needy groan spills from his open mouth as he dumps another load into you, hot and gooey.
“don’t lie next time,” he adds after a moment, breaths hard and heavy. “we’ll have as many brats as you want.”
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he doesn’t bake sweets often, but when he does, just for you, they’re always so tasty! a perfect amount of sweet and well-baked, though, sometimes, you swear you can taste a little saltiness :c
sukuna tells you not to worry about that.
you don’t need to know that he milks himself dry trying to produce that stupid drizzle for you, hands tugging his throbbing cocks to get every last drop into the measuring cup, or that he has to keep himself hard with your dirty panties and a photo of you in lingerie that he’s never quite gotten over, despite ripping said lingerie to shreds a couple of weeks ago.
it’s a tough job, one filled with grunts and groans and the very, very occasional whimper when his angry-red tips are beyond sensitive and his balls are empty. that you definitely don’t need to know.
it’s all worth it, though, when you finally take a bite, a soft, content moan leaving your full mouth and a happy twinkle in your bright eyes. something about the sight makes sukuna’s cold, cursed heart thump, especially when you praise him.
“these are really good! you should make sweets more often, ‘kuna,” you say in-between bites, and he can only scowl and flick your forehead.
“you’re so greedy. they aren’t that easy to make.”
yet, a couple of days later, there’s another fresh batch waiting in the kitchen. anything for his wife, right?
And im like 🥰🥰😊😊🥰🥰 ughh sorry baby girl in my tummy, you gotta fight your daddy for the milk 😆 anyways! I love your writing sooo much! I wish you all the best author! Take care of yourself out there💖
... okay, well, he has multiple serious problems, but you’re worried about one in specific. caleb’s greed regarding you is nothing new — whatever you’re willing to offer, he’s willing to take — but you really didn’t think he’d become so obsessed.
he’s got you propped up on a mountain of pillows like a queen on her throne, one hand running up and down your side while the other is busy with the sopping mess between your legs, fingers pumping in and out at a deliciously slow pace.
“c-caleb,” you moan, and his cock gives a happy twitch in his sticky briefs, “the milk is ‘posed to be for the baby, not you.”
your beloved only hums, the deep vibrations making your back arch and chest push further into his face as he suckles and nibbles at your puffy, sensitive peak, breast milk dripping onto his tongue. tastes like heaven. “she’s not even here yet. plus, gotta teach ‘er ‘sharing is caring’ early on, right?”
ugh. you regret giving him those pregnancy books.
your eyes narrow in a weak glare. “that isn’t how that works...” not that he’s at all worried about that right now. his pupils are blown to high hell — pitch-black leaving only a thin ring of violet.
he just can’t get enough.
even in your ire, caleb is sure you’re the most gorgeous thing to ever exist. face and body softer from the pregnancy, that swollen bump that he hasn’t quit touching since the day it became prominent, the furrow in your brow and the small but definite pout on those plush lips.
oh, he’ll never grow tired of worshipping you. he swears it.
“mm, really? didn’t know you were such a stickler for the specifics, pips.” his thumb swipes through your folds, gathering more than enough slick to rub small circles on your clit. you’re practically a waterpark down there, and he isn’t sure whether it’s due to your hormones or the fact he’s feeding from you.
(likely both. you’re just as debauched as him, even if you don’t like to show it.)
“oh, god— ‘m not,” you huff as your hips buck up into his hand, pushing those slender fingers deeper, right into places you’ve never dreamed of reaching alone. your thighs tremble, and he knows exactly what that means. “y-you’re just wrong.”
caleb tuts, as if reprimanding himself on your behalf. “oh, i’m sorry, honey. i’ll let you teach me about it and get me right when we’re done, yeah? just lemme finish my meal real quick.”
he ups his pace all around — mouth working faster as his hand abandons your waist to massage and squeeze your breast, fingers curling right at that spongey spot before they start to thrust faster, his own hips barely resist the urge to grind against the bed or hump the air.
“y’know how i am about lettin’ food go to waste.”
he certainly isn’t going to waste this. your milk is rich and sweet, a taste he wouldn’t be able to find and wouldn’t dare seek from anyone besides you. which, in his opinion, is exactly how it should be; the only ones allowed to experience this is him and your child.
hey, he’s never quite been in the habit of sharing.
he knows patience is a virtue. you tell him that all the time when he gets all antsy because he can’t touch you, can’t be right by your side where he belongs, but choso really can’t help it!
you’re just so soft and warm — practically heaven incarnate, a goddess among men, and yet you two are separated by hundreds of miles.
life isn’t fair.
it especially isn’t fair when you look so good in all the photos and videos you send, or whenever you post on your story. no matter the lighting, no matter the outfit, whether it be something business casual for work or an oversized shirt with no bra, you look absolutely divine.
his favorite ones are when you’re wearing nothing but skimpy lingerie, the thin scrap of fabric for the panties pushed aside as your fingers carefully work at your throbbing clit before trailing through the sopping mess that is your folds and slipping inside of you with a moan tumbling from your delicate lips.
“c-cho... come over soon, okay? miss you.”
he misses you too. more than you could ever and likely would ever know.
but that alone is enough to get choso hard like a damn diamond, and it doesn’t take your boyfriend long to prop up his phone and pull that fat cock from his sweats.
“hah, fuck... m-miss you too, baby.” he spits on it, letting the wad roll down his shaft before his big hand smears it around with a pump. “ya don’t know what you do to me, i swear... got me harder than a rock.”
or maybe you do know. maybe you do know how many times a day he uses even innocent photos of you to get off, how the mere sound of your voice is enough to get his dick stirring in his pants. maybe you like it.
he hopes you do.
choso’s thumb brushes over his leaking divot, and he groans, breathy and rough, just how he knows you like it. “gonna come home this weekend,” he huffs. “come home and— mm, shit— and give ya want ya want. love you s-so right even the neighbors will know my name, ungh—”
that makes his cock twitch, a hefty spurt of pre dripping down onto his hand. the limb is practically a blur as he fists his cock, head thrown back against the headboard and exposing the sharp jut of his adam’s apple.
you’d be so pretty rendered stupid bouncing on his cock, drooling rolling down your chin, hair mussed and soft body flushed. whining and moaning, that snug cunt milking him with every greedy lift and sink of your hips, tits bouncing with nipples perky enough to suck...
choso is a weak, weak man.
“oh, god, oh fuck! ‘m gonna cum, baby, please—”
his teeth sink into his bottom lip, worrying at the pink flesh as he all but fucks his hand raw. his breath stutters in his chest, and maybe it’s the fact that he knows you’ll see this that has choso cumming fast and hard.
buckets of white practically paint his toned stomach and black sheets, and all he can do is whine your name again and again, an airy, desperate mantra.
and hours later, when you’re just about ready to go to bed, there’s a knock at your door, gentle but all too familiar. when you open it, there stands choso, a sheepish smile on his face with his suitcase beside him.
“cho,” you scold, even as a smile nearly splits your face in two. “you said this weekend. it’s thursday.”
“i know.” he wraps his arms around and draws you to his chest like a magnet, dropping his head to nuzzle into the side of your neck. “i couldn’t wait.”
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“hey, baby.” scar stretched wide with his grin. “let me in, yeah?”
you should say no. you know you should, especially with rumors of vampires running around at night, sucking stragglers dry or turning sweet neighbors into viscous beasts. it’s not safe, and it’s beyond rare for toji to genuinely ask for permission.
but maybe you’re touch-starved or ovulating or something, because you let him in, a small smile on your face and heat pooling between your thighs.
you might regret it in the morning, when the sun makes your skin bubble and the smell of garlic makes you gag, but not now, not when toji is rutting into you from behind, one thick arm wrapped around your marked neck. each thrust batters that weeping tip against your spongey cervix, and you swear he’s trying to fuck you through the damn mattress.
hell, maybe he is.
he was strong before — at least six feet of unadulterated muscle with the smarts to match — and he’s always been rough in bed. it’s just how he is.
now, though?
he’s like an animal.
“hnngh, t-toji—” you moan, drool dribbling down your chin and landing on that thick, pulsing bicep. your head is light, thoughts swamped beneath sheer pleasure, and each breath that passes through your swollen, parted lips is accompanied by a slight wheeze.
his head is right beside yours, dark fringe falling in front of his eyes as toji nips at the lobe of your ear, pearly incisors nearly piercing the tender skin. nearly, but not quite. after all, he’s never been in the habit of actually hurting you.
by no means is he a good person, and you know it, but even he knows where to draw the line.
toji chuckles, low and gravelly in your ear. “mmf, shit, what’s wrong, doll? can’t take it? t-too much for ya?” his hand trails down your front, delivering a swift swat to your drooling mound, and you yelp.
music to my damn ears.
his rough fingers glisten with your slick, and it’s almost sinful how quickly saliva rushes to his mouth, threatening to spill past his lips. you can hear him gulp, almost feel his adam’s apple bobbing.
the squelches following the next three smacks are lewd and loud, pussy sobbing, and you can’t tell whether it’s for more or for him to stop. honestly, it doesn’t even matter, not when every drag of his throbbing cock through your walls has your eyes rolling back and tears pooling on your waterline.
“filthy thing,” he tuts. “got all this vampire shit goin’ on, and here you are, moaning like yer in heat.”
like he isn’t groaning and moaning, broad chest plastered right against your slick back, as if toji can’t stand to be apart. it’s hard to tell where you end and he begins, and he intends to keep it that way.
you shake your head, mind scrabbling to smack together a coherent sentence. hard to, though, when every snap of his hips jumbles you up. “y-yeah, ngh, but you’re here too.”
toji cocks a brow. smart girl.
but he can’t have you thinking too hard. he shifts his hips, angling the crown of his cock to hit that sweet spot and push any intelligent thoughts right out of that pretty head.
“couldn’t leave ya by yourself, ma. ain’t— fuck... ain’t safe,” he groans, and his dick gives a happy twitch inside of you when you clamp down on him like a vice.
he’ll be damned if something happens to you.
the bed creaks beneath you two, and if you could hear over the sound of slick skin slapping against skin and both of your noises, then you’d probably hear wood splintering.
oh, well.
you’re so close it almost hurts, an insistent tightening in your gut that has you digging into the sheets. “ah, f-fuck... right there, mmngh—!”
toji doesn’t stop, only letting his pace grow sloppy when you cum, tears streaming down the side of your face and squirt spraying the sheets. your teeth sink into the meat of his arm, a mix of blood and drool trickling down his pale skin, and he cums right then and there with, if you had a sliver of coherency, what you swear is a whimper.
he’s emptying his balls — hot ropes of cum fill your womb like he has a point to prove, mouth laving at your shoulder. “mm, s-shit, pretty girl... fuck.”
he hasn’t cum that hard in months. must be that new vampire blood.
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