skye

Metal jaws clamped down with brutal force, yanking you off balance. You crumpled to the forest floor with a sharp cry, the bear trap’s teeth biting deep into your calf. Pain radiated like fire, hot and unrelenting, as blood welled up, soaking your pant leg. 

Your tail thrashed in panic, ears flattening against your skull. You clawed at the dirt, trying to pull free, but the trap held fast, chains rattling against a buried stake. 

Tears blurred your vision, sobs escaping in ragged bursts: trapped; alone. The forest seemed to close in, indifferent to your plight.

Hours passed – or was it minutes? The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows that danced mockingly around you. 

Your leg throbbed, the bleeding slowing to a sticky ooze, but weakness crept in, sapping your strength. You tugged weakly at the trap again, whimpering as fresh pain lanced through you. 

That’s when you heard it: heavy footsteps, deliberate and unhurried, crunching through the underbrush.

He emerged from the trees like a shadow given form: Ryomen Sukuna, though you didn’t know his name yet. 

Broad-shouldered and towering, his frame filled the space between the trunks. His pink hair caught the fading light, spiked and wild, and his face bore tattoos that twisted across his skin. 

Crimson eyes scanned the area with predatory sharpness. He wore simple clothes: a black shirt stretched taut over his muscled chest, pants tucked into boots caked with mud. 

A hunter, you realized with a jolt, the rifle slung over his shoulder confirming it. 

His gaze locked onto you, and for a moment, the world stilled. Those eyes narrowed, assessing. You froze, ears pinning back, tail curling tight against your body. 

He was enormous, intimidating, his presence radiating a quiet menace that made your heart hammer. He stepped closer, boots thudding softly, and you shrank back, the trap’s chain jerking your leg painfully.

“What the hell…” He grumbled, voice low and gravelly, more to himself than you. 

Crouching a safe distance away, he placed his elbows on his knees, studying the trap. His eyes flicked to your face, then to your ears and tail, noting the hybrid traits without surprise. The forest was full of strays like you.

You whimpered, trying to scoot away, but the pain shot up your leg, forcing a gasp from your lips. Blood trickled anew, staining the leaves beneath you. 

“P-Please,” you whispered, voice trembling, “help…?”

Sukuna’s jaw tightened. He reached out slowly, gloved hands – rough from years of handling traps and rifles – testing the mechanism. 

The trap was one of his, set for bears that wandered too close to his territory. He hadn’t expected this. 

With a grunt, he pried the jaws open, the metal groaning in protest. You yanked your leg free the instant it gave, scrambling back on hands and knees, ignoring the fire in your muscles.

Freedom hit like a rush, but it was short-lived. 

Your injured leg buckled immediately, sending you sprawling. Blood smeared across the dirt as you tried to stand, leaning on a tree for support. 

Panic surged: you had to run. He was too big, too dangerous. Hunters like him didn’t take kindly to intruders, hybrid or not. Your ears flicked wildly, catching his steady breathing behind you.

You bolted – or tried to. The first step was agony, your calf screaming as you limped forward, tail streaming behind like a flag of distress. 

You made it ten paces, maybe fifteen, before your vision swam and your knee gave out. You collapsed against a fallen log, clutching your leg, sobs wracking your body. The forest spun, the pain too much, the blood loss making your head light.

Footsteps again, closer this time. Sukuna stood over you, arms crossed, his shadow engulfing you. He debated it then –  you could see it in the furrow of his brow, the way his eyes traced your trembling form. 

Leave her, a voice in his head probably said. She’s not your problem. The woods were cruel; strays didn’t last long. 

But something held him – maybe the way your ears drooped in defeat, or the blood pooling beneath you. With a heavy sigh, he shook his head. 

“Idiot,” he grunted, though whether to you or himself, you couldn’t tell.

Before you could protest, strong arms scooped you up, one under your knees, the other around your back. 

You stiffened, ears flattening, a startled yelp escaping as he lifted you effortlessly. His body was warm, solid, the scent of pine and earth clinging to him. 

“Don’t squirm.” He commanded flatly, voice devoid of warmth but not cruelty. “You’ll bleed out faster.”

You went limp in his hold, too weak to fight, your tail brushing against his arm. 

The walk to his cabin was a blur of jostling motion and throbbing pain, the forest fading into twilight. His log cabin loomed ahead, sturdy and isolated, smoke curling from the chimney. He kicked the door open with his boot and carried you inside, the warmth of a fire greeting you like an embrace.

The interior was sparse: wooden walls lined with shelves of jars and tools, a stone hearth crackling with flames, a worn couch and table. 

He set you down on the couch gently – surprisingly so for his size – propping your leg on a stool. You watched him warily, ears twitching, as he fetched a first-aid kit from a cabinet. His movements were efficient, no wasted energy.

He knelt before you, gloved hands peeling back your torn pant leg to expose the wound. It was ugly: deep punctures, torn flesh, but not broken bone. 

You winced as he cleaned it with antiseptic, the sting making tears well up. He worked in silence, his focus intense, those four eyes flicking between the injury and your face to gauge your pain.

“Hurts.” You whimpered, more to fill the quiet than anything.

“Yeah, no shit.” He replied curtly, wrapping the bandage tight. No more words. 

He stood, towering over you again, and pointed to a door. “Bedroom’s that way. Rest.” 

You nodded, hobbling to the small room with its simple bed and quilt. Exhaustion claimed you instantly, the pain a dull roar as sleep pulled you under.

The first week blurred into a rhythm of silence and necessity. Your leg healed slowly, the wound scabbing over under Sukuna’s reluctant care. 

He changed the bandages daily, his large hands surprisingly deft, but he never lingered. Meals appeared on the table: stew from rabbit or vegetables he’d grown in his garden, bread baked in his oven. You’d eat while he sat across, staring into the fire or sharpening a knife, the scrape of metal the only sound.

Awkwardness hung thick in the air. You’d catch him watching you sometimes, those crimson eyes giving him an unnerving depth, like he saw more than you wanted. Your ears would perk at his approach, tail flicking nervously, and you’d avert your gaze, focusing on the window where the woods pressed close.

One evening, as rain pattered against the roof, you sat by the fire, leg propped up, sketching idly on a scrap of paper he’d left out: simple lines of trees and your lost herd. 

Ryomen entered from outside, shaking water from his hair, his shirt clinging damply to his broad chest. He glanced at your drawing, pausing.

“You draw.” He noted, not a question.

You nodded, ears twitching. "A little, but I’m not any good. Helps... pass time."

He grunted, hanging his coat. "That yer herd?"

“Yeah… I lost them.” You whispered, tail drooping against your back.

Silence again. He poked at the fire, sparks flying. “Woods eat loners.”

You swallowed, the words hitting too close. “I know.”

He didn’t press, just ladled stew into bowls and handed you one. You ate in quiet companionship, the rain a soothing backdrop. His presence was a wall – impenetrable, but not hostile. 

Subtly, you noticed things: the way his shoulders relaxed slightly when you didn’t flinch at his nearness, how he’d leave extra blankets when nights grew cold.

By the second week, you could hobble around the cabin unaided, testing your leg on short walks to the door. 

The forest called to you, but fear kept you inside: fear of the wild, and oddly, of leaving this strange sanctuary.

Sukuna watched from afar, his debates internal now. Why keep her? But he did, fetching herbs from the woods to brew tea for your lingering ache.

One afternoon, sunlight filtering through the windows, you found him outside chopping wood. 

The axe rose and fell with rhythmic power, muscles flexing under his shirt, sweat glistening on his tattooed skin. You lingered in the doorway, ears perked, mesmerized by the controlled strength.

He noticed, pausing mid-swing. “Leg better?”

“Yeah,” you admitted softly, stepping out gingerly. The air was crisp, pine-scented. “Thanks... for everything.”

He wiped his brow, eyes meeting yours. “Don’t mention it.”

You smiled faintly, tail swishing. “What’s it like? Living here alone.”

A shrug. “Quiet. Suits me.” He resumed chopping, but slower, as if inviting the conversation. “You? Herd’s loud, right?”

"Comforting," you admitted, leaning against the porch rail. “But yeah, noisy. Miss it sometimes.”

He nodded once, axe embedding in the block. The silence returned, comfortable now, laced with unspoken understanding. You stayed there, watching him work, the slow thaw between you beginning to crack the ice.

Days stretched into the third week. Your leg strengthened, scabs slowly fading to pink lines. 

Interactions grew in tiny increments: a shared glance over breakfast, where he’d push the salt your way without asking; evenings by the fire, where you’d read an old book from his shelf while he whittled wood into shapes: abstract, fierce things that mirrored his character.

One night, thunder rumbled outside, echoing your long-ago storm. You woke sweating, ears flat, tail tucked, the dream of separation vivid. A creak in the hall: Sukuna, checking on you as he sometimes did silently.

“Bad dream?” He said from the doorway, voice rough with sleep.

You sat up, nodding. “Something like that. Just– got reminded of the herd again is all.”

He hesitated, then entered, sitting on the edge of the bed. His weight dipped the mattress, but he kept space between you. “You’re not alone now.”

The words hung, simple but weighted. Your ears lifted slightly, fluffy tail twitching. “I know.”

He stayed until your breathing evened, his presence a quiet anchor. No more words, but the gesture spoke volumes.

As the weeks waned, the awkwardness softened into something tentative, unspoken. 

You’d help with small tasks: stirring pots while he hunted, your tail brushing his leg accidentally, sending a jolt through both of you. He’d grunt apologies, but his eyes lingered longer, tracing the curve of your ears, the sway of your hips as you moved.

One crisp morning, you stood at the window, gazing at the woods. Freedom beckoned, but so did the man behind you, his footsteps approaching.

“Thinking of leaving?” he asked, voice low.

You turned, meeting his gaze. "Maybe. But... not yet."

A rare smirk tugged at his lips, tattoos shifting. "Good."

The crisp mornings gave way to warmer days, the forest awakening with a subtle shift in the air. Leaves unfurled brighter greens, and the underbrush hummed with the stirrings of life. 

You felt it too – a restlessness deep in your core, a warmth that bloomed unbidden as heat season edged closer. Your body, attuned to the rhythms of nature like the rest of your kind, began to respond. 

It started faintly: a flush creeping up your neck when you caught sight of Sukuna across the room, your doe ears twitching more frequently, your tail flicking in short, agitated bursts. 

You shifted in your seat during meals, crossing and uncrossing your legs, the wooden chair creaking under the subtle movements.

Sukuna noticed, though he gave no sign of it at first. 

As a human, his senses weren’t sharpened like yours, but the cabin was small, the air thick with shared space. Your scent – earthy and sweet, like wildflowers crushed underfoot – grew stronger each day, weaving through the smells of woodsmoke and stewed meat.

It lingered on the blankets you’d borrowed, clung to the air when you passed him in the narrow hallway. He caught it one evening while sharpening his knife by the fire, the blade gliding smoothly over the whetstone. 

You sat nearby, mending a tear in your sweater, your fingers fumbling slightly as another wave of heat flushed your cheeks.

He paused, the scrape of metal halting for a beat longer than usual. His eyes flicked toward you, then away, jaw clenching subtly. 

The scent hit him fuller now, stirring something primal he shoved down deep. He resumed sharpening, the rhythm faster, more deliberate, as if to drown out the distraction. 

“Pass the salt.” He began gruffly when you both reached for the bowl at dinner, his hand brushing yours briefly. 

The contact sent a spark through you, making your tail curl tight against your thigh. You pulled back quickly, ears flattening, a soft pink tinting your skin.

“Sorry.” You squeaked, voice barely audible above the crackle of the fire. 

You shifted again, tucking your legs beneath you on the couch, the movement drawing his gaze for a split second before he looked back to his plate. He grunted in response, forking into his venison without another word. 

The silence stretched, heavier now, laced with an undercurrent neither of you acknowledged. 

You could feel his awareness, the way his broad shoulders tensed when you stood to clear the table, your hips swaying just a fraction more than necessary as the warmth pooled low in your belly.

Nights grew warmer, the quilt too heavy some evenings. You tossed in the small bedroom, ears perked to the sounds of the cabin settling – the creak of floorboards as Sukuna moved about, the distant hoot of an owl outside. 

Your scent intensified with the rising temperature, seeping under the door like an invitation you hadn’t meant to send. He lay in his own room, staring at the rafters, the air thick with it. 

Human or not, it affected him: a tightening in his chest, a heat of his own that he ignored by focusing on the hunt planned for dawn. 

He rolled over, groaning into the pillow, willing sleep to come.

By midweek, the signs were impossible to miss. 

You found yourself lingering near him more, drawn by an instinct you couldn’t name. 

While he chopped wood outside, you watched from the porch, your flush deepening as sweat traced lines down his tattooed arms, his shirt clinging to the broad expanse of his back. 

Your tail swished restlessly, and you shifted your weight from one foot to the other, the ache in your leg long forgotten but replaced by this new, insistent pull. 

He glanced up once, axe pausing mid-air, his nostrils flaring almost imperceptibly. The scent wrapped around him, sweet and insistent, making his grip tighten on the handle.

“Need something?” He asked, voice rougher than usual, eyes locking onto yours – all four piercing, unreadable.

You shook your head, ears drooping slightly as you stepped back inside, the door clicking shut behind you. Heart pounding, you pressed a hand to your warm cheek, wondering if he could hear the rapid beat from outside. 

He swung the axe harder after that, embedding it deep into the block with each strike, the physical exertion a barrier against the growing tension.

Afternoons brought small tasks that amplified the awkwardness. 

You helped sort herbs he’d gathered – drying them on racks by the window – your fingers brushing his as you passed bundles. 

Each time, you flushed, shifting away with a quiet apology, your tail flicking against his leg once by accident. He froze for a heartbeat, the contact electric, your scent blooming sharper in the confined space. 

“Watch it.” He warned, not harshly, but stepping back to give you room. His movements grew more deliberate, putting distance between you under the guise of efficiency.

Yet he didn’t send you away. Meals remained shared, silences filled with the subtle dance of avoidance. 

One evening, as twilight painted the cabin in soft oranges, you sat by the fire, knees drawn up, trying to read but finding the words blurring. The heat simmered under your skin, making you shift restlessly, the couch cushions sighing under you. 

Sukuna entered from the porch, carrying a pail of water, his frame filling the doorway. Water dripped from his hands, and he set the pail down with a thud, the sound echoing your quickened breath.

He caught the scent again, stronger now, mingling with the damp earth on his clothes. It pulled at him, testing his resolve, but he crossed to the kitchen, back turned, pouring the water into a pot with unnecessary focus. 

You watched his shoulders, the way they rose and fell with controlled breaths, and felt your own flush spread, ears twitching forward. It was obvious, you knew – your shifting, the way your eyes lingered – but so was his effort to remain unaffected, the subtle clench of his fists at his sides.

“Cold out there?” You questioned softly, breaking the quiet, your voice laced with the warmth you couldn’t hide.

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes narrowing slightly. “Not really.” A pause, then he added, “you warm enough?”

The question hung, double-edged, and you nodded too quickly, tail curling around your ankle. “Yeah. Fine.”

He turned back to the stove, stirring whatever simmered there, the spoon clinking rhythmically. Neither pushed further, the tension coiling tighter in the unspoken space between you. 

Heat season loomed, promising more, but for now, it simmered in glances and silences, building like the fire before you.

The days blurred into a pattern of restraint. You’d catch yourself staring when he whittled by the window, the knife carving precise lines into the wood, his large hands steady despite the undercurrent. 

Your scent filled the cabin more each morning, greeting him upon waking, and he’d open the windows wider, letting the breeze carry it away – or so he told himself. 

But it followed him into the woods during hunts, a ghost that made his steps heavier, his focus sharper on the prey to distract from the pull back home.

One afternoon, rain returned, soft and steady, drumming on the roof. You paced the living room subtly, unable to sit still, the flush permanent now on your skin. 

Sukuna returned soaked, shaking off his coat in the entryway, water pooling at his boots. The fresh rain mixed with your scent, creating something headier, and he paused, inhaling deeply before schooling his expression.

“Wet out.” He pointed out flatly, hanging the coat and avoiding your eyes as he toed off his boots.

You nodded, shifting from foot to foot near the fire. “Smells like it.”

Your ears perked at his approach, tail swishing once before you stilled it. He moved to the hearth, adding logs with efficient motions, his arm brushing close enough that you felt the heat radiating from him. 

A shiver ran through you, not from cold, and you stepped aside, cheeks burning.

He didn’t comment, just stoked the flames higher, the warmth chasing the chill but amplifying your own. Dinner passed in near-silence, forks scraping plates, your leg bouncing under the table until you caught his glance and forced it still. 

Obvious wants hung in the air: yours in the flush and fidgets, his in the way he lingered at the table after, eyes tracing the fire instead of you.

As night fell, the rain a lullaby, you retreated to your room, the door a flimsy barrier. Your scent permeated everything now, a silent confession. 

Sukuna sat up later, alone by the dying embers, rubbing a hand over his face. Unaffected? Hardly. But he wouldn’t act – not yet. 

Heat season arrived without mercy, your body igniting from the inside out. 

You didn’t fully understand it – clueless to the full implications, your deer instincts overriding any sense of propriety. The cabin felt smaller, the air thicker, and every brush of fabric against your skin sent sparks racing through you. 

You paced the living room in nothing but one of Sukuna’s oversized shirts, the hem skimming your thighs, your scut wagging erratically behind you. Your ears flicked at every sound, and a persistent ache throbbed between your legs, making you shift your hips without thinking.

Sukuna watched from the kitchen, his eyes narrowing as you bent over to pick up a fallen book, the shirt riding up to expose the curve of your ass. Your scent flooded the space, heady and intoxicating, pulling at him like a tether. 

You straightened, oblivious, and stretched your arms overhead, the motion arching your back and pressing your breasts against the thin fabric. Nipples hardened visibly, and you let out a soft, unwitting whimper, rubbing your thighs together as you moved to the couch. 

He gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles whitening, forcing his gaze away. 

“Gonna cut wood.” He decided, voice gravelly, grabbing his axe and stalking out the door before the temptation grew any stronger.

Alone, the heat clawed deeper. You tried to distract yourself, but your body betrayed you: fingers trailing absently over your collarbone, down to the hem of the shirt, lifting it slightly as you sat on the floor by the fire. Legs parted just enough to ease the pressure, you rocked subtly, a flush painting your cheeks rosy. 

It wasn’t deliberate; you just needed relief from the fire building inside. When that failed, you wandered, drawn to his room by the familiar scent of him on the sheets. 

Climbing onto his bed, you buried your face in his pillow, inhaling deeply. The ache intensified, and before you knew it, your hips ground down against the soft mound of fabric, a desperate friction that made your tail flag up.

Tears pricked your eyes as the motion brought fleeting sparks of pleasure, but it wasn’t enough. You humped the pillow pathetically, soft sobs escaping as your body wept for more. Clueless to how vulnerable you looked – shirt hiked up, ass in the air, ears flattened in frustration – you kept moving, chasing the elusive release.

Outside, the axe bit into wood with rhythmic thuds, each swing a release for Sukuna’s pent-up tension. Sweat beaded on his brow, his muscles flexing under inked skin, but your scent clung to him even here, a ghost in the breeze. 

He worked longer than needed, trying to outrun the pull, but eventually, the pile of logs satisfied him enough to head back. The cabin door creaked open to silence: no soft footsteps, no shifting on the couch. 

“Sweetheart? Where are you?” He called, voice echoing off the walls. No answer. Frowning, he checked the kitchen, the porch, then pushed open his bedroom door.

There you were, on his bed, hips rolling against the pillow in desperate, uneven thrusts. Tears streaked your face, your doe ears trembling, tail flicking in distress. 

The sight hit him like a punch – your flushed skin, the way your pussy glistened with arousal, lips parted on quiet mewls. His cock twitched hard in his pants, blood rushing south as he stood frozen in the doorway.

“Kuna… mmh!” Your voice came out small, broken, as you lifted your head, eyes glassy with need. You didn’t stop moving, hips grinding down instinctively, but shame flickered in your gaze. “Help... please? It h– hurts…”

He crossed the room in two strides, the door clicking shut behind him. Towering over you, his broad frame cast a shadow, vermillion eyes dark with hunger. 

“Fuck, angel…” He growled low, sitting on the bed’s edge and pulling you up by your arms. 

You whimpered at the manhandling, body pliant in his grip. “W-Wait—”

“I’ve been holding back for weeks. Watching you tease without even knowing it, and that damn scent everywhere…”

His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing away tears, and he kissed you then: gentle at first, lips soft against yours, tongue coaxing your mouth open. You melted into it, mewling softly, your hands clutching his shirt as the ache pulsed hotter. 

He broke away, breathing ragged. “Gonna take care of you, sweetheart. But tell me if it’s too much.”

You nodded frantically, pleading with your eyes, and he eased you back onto the bed, stripping the shirt from your body. Naked now, you shivered under his gaze, but the heat made you bold – legs parting slightly, inviting him without words. 

He shed his clothes quickly, his thick cock springing free, veined and heavy, tip already leaking. Your eyes widened, clueless innocence mixing with raw want, and you reached for him tentatively.

“Gentle, pretty thing.” He murmured, praise lacing his voice as he settled between your thighs. 

His large frame loomed over you, the warmth of his body contrasting the cool sheets beneath. One hand stroked your hair, fingers tangling gently in the soft strands near your deer-like ears, which twitched at the touch. 

You felt exposed, your hybrid tail flicking nervously against the mattress, but his presence grounded you, making your core ache with need.

He didn’t rush to claim you fully. Instead, his free hand trailed down your side, tracing the curve of your hip, then dipping lower to your inner thigh. 

“So ready f’me, aren’t you?.” Sukuna said, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers through your spine. 

His fingers brushed against your slick folds, and you gasped, hips bucking instinctively toward the contact. “Mmf!” He chuckled softly, the sound dark and approving. “Easy, pretty. Don’t wanna hurt you yet..”

His thumb parted your pussy lips gently, exposing your clit to the air, and you whimpered, your antlers scraping lightly against the pillow as you tilted your head back. He watched your reactions closely, his crimson eyes intense, drinking in every quiver and soft sound you made.

“Tell me what you want.” He commanded, his tone firm but laced with that teasing edge that made your heart race.

“T-Touch me... please.” You breathed, your voice trembling with anticipation. 

Your hands clutched at the sheets, nails digging in as his finger circled your entrance, gathering your wetness. He pressed one thick digit inside slowly, the intrusion stretching you just enough to make you moan. 

It was nothing like his cock, but the sensation was electric, your walls clenching around him immediately.

“Like that?” Sukuna asked, his lips curving into a smirk as he crooked his finger, brushing against that sensitive spot inside you. 

You nodded, a whine escaping your throat, your tail thrashing side to side. He added a second finger, scissoring them carefully to open you up, his movements deliberate and unhurried. 

The stretch burned faintly, but it melted into pleasure as he began to pump them in and out, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing firm circles over it.

Your breath hitched, legs spreading wider to give him better access. “S-Sukuna... it feels... ah!” 

The words dissolved into a cry as he increased the pace, his fingers thrusting deeper, curling with each withdrawal to hit that bundle of nerves again and again. Wet sounds filled the room, obscene and intoxicating, your arousal coating his hand. 

He leaned down, his breath hot against your ear, nipping at the soft fur there. “You’re soaking my fingers, pretty girl. So tight and perfect for me.”

You arched into his touch, your breasts heaving with each ragged breath. His other hand left your side to cup one, thumb flicking over your nipple, pinching just hard enough to make you yelp. 

The double sensations overwhelmed you: his fingers fucking into your pussy, stretching and filling you, while his mouth descended to your neck, sucking a mark into the sensitive skin where your pulse fluttered wildly. 

“More... gimme– gimme more,” you begged, your voice breaking, hips grinding against his hand shamelessly.

He obliged, adding a third finger, the fullness making your eyes roll back. 

“Greedy little thing, aren’t you?” He growled approvingly, his fingers pistoning faster now, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit with every thrust. 

You could feel the pressure building, a coil tightening low in your belly, your deer ears flattening against your head as pleasure bordered on too much. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, not from pain but from the intensity, your body trembling under him.

“P-Please..!” You

“That’s it, let go for me.” Sukuna urged, his voice husky as he watched your face contort in ecstasy. 

He twisted his fingers inside you, rubbing relentlessly against your g-spot, while his thumb pressed harder on your swollen clit. The combination shattered you – your walls clamped down on his fingers, pulsing as the orgasm crashed over you like a wave.

“Mmh– Ryo!” You cried out, body convulsing, thighs quaking around his wrist as slick gushed over his hand, soaking the sheets beneath.

He didn’t stop immediately, drawing out your release with slow, gentle strokes until you whimpered from oversensitivity, your tail curling around his arm in a weak attempt to pull him closer. 

“Good girl,” he praised, withdrawing his fingers with a wet pop, bringing them to his lips to taste you. His eyes locked on yours, dark with promise.

He flipped you suddenly, manhandling you onto your hands and knees with effortless strength, your body pliant under his touch. You scrambled to steady yourself on the mattress, palms sinking into the soft fabric, knees spreading wider as your tail lifted instinctively, baring yourself completely to him. 

The cool air kissed your dripping folds, a brief respite before he positioned himself behind you, the head of his cock teasing your entrance. 

“You want it rough, pretty thing? Begging like that.” His voice was a gravelly command, laced with amusement and hunger.

Before you could respond, his hand came down on your ass – a light slap that stung just enough to make you yelp, the impact sending a ripple through your flesh. Heat bloomed across your skin, mingling with the ache between your legs. 

Then he thrust back in from behind, the new angle allowing him to sink even deeper, his cock spearing into you with a force that knocked the breath from your lungs. 

“Oh! Kuna… so– so big!” You sobbed in pleasure, the stretch more intense now, every inch of him pressing against your sensitive spots as he bottomed out.

Your arms trembled, threatening to give out as you pushed back against him, desperate to feel him everywhere. The slap had left your ass tingling, a warm contrast to the cool sheets, and you arched your back further, presenting yourself like the submissive hybrid you were. 

Ears flattening completely, you let out a string of moans, each one higher pitched as the pressure built anew. His hand moved to your antlers, tugging them firmly to guide your head up, forcing you to arch more, your neck straining in the best way.

“Hah, fuck, crying for my cock, hm? Such a good girl, taking it all.” Sukuna’s praise washed over you like liquid fire, igniting your emotions – pride in pleasing him, a deep-seated need to submit, to be his. 

He kept the pull steady, not painful but insistent, making you feel owned as he rutted into you. Each thrust was deliberate, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, the drag of his veined length against your walls making obscene squelching noises. 

Your pussy fluttered around him, juices coating his shaft and dripping down your thighs, the physical sensations overwhelming: the burn in your muscles from holding the position, the slap of his hips against your reddened ass, the way his cock throbbed inside you, hot and unyielding.

You rocked back to meet him, your tail brushing loosely against his thigh in an instinctive gesture of affection amid the roughness. The orgasm you’d felt building earlier surged closer now, coiling tight in your core, your clit throbbing untouched but stimulated by the indirect pressure of his invasions.

Sukuna’s breaths grew ragged, his hand on your hip sliding forward to press against your lower belly, feeling the bulge of his own cock moving inside you. 

“Shit, you’re tight... milking me so good.” He muttered, his voice strained with his own rising pleasure. He released your hair momentarily to deliver another light slap to your other cheek, the sound sharp in the room, making you clench harder around him. 

The duplicity – pain and pleasure – pushed you closer, your sobs turning into keening cries as the tension wound unbearably tight.

He tugged your antlers again, gentler this time, but enough to keep your gaze forward. His thrusts lost a bit of their rhythm, becoming erratic as he chased his release, but he didn’t let up on the depth, each one punching the air from your lungs. 

You felt him everywhere: the heat of his body over yours, the possessive hold, the way his cock pulsed with impending climax. 

Emotionally, it was intoxicating; you were his, completely, and the thought alone made your walls spasm.

“Gonna fill you up, angel. Pump you full until you’re bred, carrying my scent forever.” 

The words made you whine, clenching harder, and you came again: shaking, tears streaming as waves crashed over you. “Ah! I’m gonna– cumming!”

He chuckled, voice strained. “Fuck, listen to you. So desperate for my cum. Nghh– an’ you’re shy now? After slutting out on my—haah—bed?”

You hid your face in the pillow, flushing deeper, but your hips ground back, asking for more without words. He pulled out briefly, flipping you onto your back once more, hooking your legs over his shoulders. 

The position folded you, letting him drive in deep, balls slapping against your ass with each rough pound. His eyes – the prettiest, deepest red – locked on yours, wild and possessive. “Don’t hide, sweetheart. Want you looking at me when you cum again.”

Pleasure dumbed your mind, thoughts scattering into nothing but him – his cock stretching you, his grunts, the pull on your hair as he leaned down to capture your lips. 

You came a third time, crying out his name, body convulsing as he chased his own release. 

“That’s my girl.” He praised, thrusting erratically. “Milk me dry, pretty thing. Gonna breed this pussy.”

With a final, deep shove, he buried himself and came – hot spurts flooding you, his groan rumbling through his chest. You felt every pulse, the warmth spreading, and it triggered one last, shuddering orgasm from you, tears of pure bliss soaking the sheets. 

He collapsed gently atop you, still inside, peppering your face with soft kisses. “Good job, angel. Took me so well.”

You panted, cockdrunk haze settling, shying into his neck with a whimper. 

He chuckled tiredly, stroking your back. “Heat’s not over yet, sweetheart.”

a/n: I COOKED I COOKED SO HARD

dividers by @/uzmacchiato!

@cursed(your)wombz huh?

He had a pitch-black profile picture and a layout with nothing of note, a banner as equally colorless and unnotable, and a simple bio stating: 

I know what you want…

- C.

And beneath that was a link.

It stood out stark against the black background. You don’t click on it, of course- for fear of being something malicious, you’re avoiding it like you’d avoid a minefield. 

You’ve already heard one too many horror stories on here about such things. One click and you’d find your address posted somewhere. Instead, your eyes drop to the number of followers he had…and your eyebrows are immediately shooting up.

0 Following.

581k Followers.

Now that makes you blink.

Okay- alright, maybe it wasn’t the most astounding number you’ve ever seen throughout your expansive time on the Internet - but it was still niche celebrity-status. Especially on this app. Especially to be stalking an account like yours…where all you did was repost the stray picture of a pretty landscape or yell into the aether about your missing assignments for your friends to comment on. 

Now that was a little strange.

And so you’re scrolling down.

And you never quite know what you’re in for whenever you enter the realm of a person’s account—fanfiction with tags you never knew existed, one part of an argument on social media that really shouldn’t exist, mpreg. 

Which was all fine and dandy to be quite honest- you just never expect to be met with the most beautiful man you’ve ever laid eyes on.

The first picture you’re seeing- pinned.

Posted just an hour ago. It’s a mirror selfie taken at a low angle; of a man with his body angled towards the lens and his phone covering his face. In nothing but a towel. With nothing but his chiselled body. His beefy arms flexed as he takes the picture, biceps rippled with a few veins—though still lean and almost smooth to the touch. Pierced nipples. Defined abs. Your eyes linger on the sparse dusting of dark hair leading below, below, below his fluffy white towel…

The picture cuts off just a few inches past his navel. You know because you’re enlarging it.

The photo is almost vampiric in nature.

Somehow. 

Dimly-lit. Beautiful—he clearly knew his angles and lighting. It’s slightly blurry and you can’t make out much of the man’s features - nothing more than the slender length of his fingers, silver rings, and the outline of his dark (perhaps brown?) hair. Touching his shoulders. From just above the hem of his towel, the amorphous blur of a tattoo snakes down his left v-line - and no matter how much you’re zooming in, you can’t quite figure out what it is. 

Something twists at the pit of your stomach as you’re latching your eyes onto the very obvious bulge he was sporting through the towel - very.

The flash created a shadow of his lengthy cock—oh. Hanging between thick thighs, heavy and needy. And it also illuminated the slight dampness clinging onto his body; perhaps he’d just gotten out of the shower, or was about to take on after a workout. 

Whichever scenario it was, both made your thighs clench- fuck.

Fingers slightly shaky, you’re exiting out of the picture and scrolling down for more. 

The next post is a video seemingly taken from the very same instance: it was from the point of view of the beautiful man. Facing downwards, as he zoomed the camera in on his bulge and ran one vein-covered, ringed hand down his abs- down his pelvis- down to that throbbing erection and squeezed himself through his towel. 

And then through your speakers echoes out the most pornographic moan. 

Thank goodness your dorm had thick walls. 

And that’s when you decide that you’ve seen enough.

Not enough as in enough enough to block this strange man and move on with your life- of course, not. As quickly as your fingers would possibly let you, you’re exiting out of the video and scrolling up to a bio that seemed to have more to hide than the first time you read through it. 

The link stands mockingly stark - almost winking at you - against the dark background. You think you know what it is.

And you click on it.

Suddenly, your laptop screen’s flooding with a gaudy pink color. A loading circle swivels in the middle of it for a few seconds, before you’re met with a logo in swooping, slanted black script: C4mBoyfriends. Better than that boy in your dms.

Rapidly, you’re opening up a new tab and typing in the name.

“C4mBoyfriends is an adult streaming platform that hosts webcam performers that choose to label themselves as male. Here they can stream live video, post photographs, and interact on forums with a wide array of paying viewers—for a range of content catering to specific niches or sexual roleplays. C4mBoyfriends, since its recent launch, has shot up in the industry as one of the most-visited adult sites and the safest for its performers. All cuts go to the performers themselves and the site runs on separate donations from its audience.”

Ah- you’d guessed right.

Excitement burbles at the pit of your stomach for a few seconds. You’re clicking back onto the tab with the pink logo, and finding that it’d stopped loading.

It was in the layout of a streaming device, with static images of ongoing streams on one side of the platform, and different pages listed out on top. But what took up the majority of your screen was the vision of the very same man from before- from the mirror selfie, from the video.

This time, it was a stream.

@cursed(your)wombz is streaming—#1 streamer on C4mBoyfriends [101 week streak]. [Only solo]. Your internet boyfriend <3

0 Subscribed.

820k Subscribers.

455k Currently watching.

This time, he had his towel lifted up and his hands fisted around his fat cock.

Perfectly angled. 

Your jaw drops. He was about eight- maybe more inches, though you weren’t in the state to count. Way too entranced by the way his veiny, ring-decorated hands were wrapped around his cock. Large. He was just so loooong and standing tall between wide-spread legs, shiverin’ every time he’s gliding his hand up and down. Up and down. 

Again and again.

Getting faster by the second before he arches-

The edge of his thumb’s reaching for his ruby-red crown—then smearing the glistening liquid that just kept on foaming from the top. He lathers it upon his palm and drags it down his hot erection, making every inch gleam underneath the off-camera lighting.

You’re clicking on a button to increase your volume.

And just in time, too, because then he snakes his left hand down and squeezes his heavy balls- letting out a botched groan that leaves your shorts oh-so-wet. 

Deep and guttural; there’s a slight quiver in them as he whispers. “F-fuck.” Just so full and sensitive—the man’s head tips backwards and his hips buck off the cushioned chair. Sluttily. As though he was fucking something invisible. It’s creaking ever-so-slightly as he settles back down, composing himself just a little bit before he starts cumming.

Pearly white droplets of cum. 

Beading from the very top of his shaft - where he was the most pink n’ angry - shaking as he empties out. Globs of it start to glide down his length, and a few more collect where his silver Prince Albert’s piercing was positioned right beneath his mushroomy tip.

You’re just letting your eyes linger upon that little heap of satiny sap, when the man thumbs upwards and smears that, too. Such a mess.

And you think that might be all- but then he’s reaching his non-dominant hand upwards and pressing down on his frothing cockhead. Stopping himself from cumming - and as he leans to the side, you swear you’re glimpsing the twinkle of even more piercings on the upper side of his shaft. Was that…a Jacob’s ladder?

You’re rendered so damn speechless that you almost don’t register him speaking- “Awwww, did my pretty sluts wanna watch me cum?” 

A shiver runs down your spine at the hitched tone of his voice- drunk on lust. He’s slightly slurring. So alluring, you almost catch yourself nodding.

“Well, too bad.” The man meanly snickers, before he’s suddenly reaching out with his non-dominant hand and angling it higher. The screen shifts to display that very same mouth-watering body from the picture—though, this time with the addition of a black-and-white mask that covered his features from forehead to his sharp jawline. 

The only opening in it was a concave cutout for his mouth - almost reminiscent of a Phantom of the Opera mask. In the background was a clearly expensive bedroom of a clearly expensive home - far different from your single dorm - an artwork that you couldn’t name on the wall behind him. Something like a photograph or a portrait. Something about it was so precise- so cinematic. Like watching a movie scene. He continues, “Because you know why? You don’t deserve it.”

There’s a flurry of comments on one side of the screen, so fast that you wonder how he reads it.

“Didn’t I tell you to spam me with your nastiest stories in the chat?” He asks, and from beneath his mask you catch the outline of dark eyes shifting down those hurried words. Those needy comments. “None of you are nasty enough, so none of you get to see me cum…”

You’re tearing your eyes off of him to peruse what they were saying.

@girrrrrrrrrrth: nuuuuuu please, curse! i’ll get on my knees!!

@vampzo333: me too ME TOO

@likezmenpregnant: My story about the body pillow wasn’t nasty enough? TT

@CCpervnextdoor: AWWWW I’m begging~

@Curse’swifey: I’LL PAY YOU EXTRA PLEASEEEEEEE

@Curse’swifey donated 500 cherries.

“Tch- what a desperate bunch. Just fucking look at yourselves…” And though his words weren’t in the least bit nice, you couldn’t deny just how badly he made your cunt twinge. 

Curse…that’s what his name was, huh?

You’re squeezing your thighs together- your sleep shorts were definitely soaked. 

Curse rolls out the kinks in his neck just a little, and stares down at the camera with a crooked grin. “But that’s not gonna be enough. I said to be nasty- so be nasty.” The active chat becomes nothing but a blur once more: pleas, donations, stories half-typed in their urgency. “And in return I’ll moan whatever name you want me to moan when I cum.”

Before you know it, you’re opening up the sign-up page in a new tab.

Keeping Curse’s livestream playing in the background as you zip through your details. You’re picking out a username for yourself: Ietsmakeamovie and hastily going back to the ongoing stream with your newfound handle. Was it too obvious to make it the same username as your other account? The one that he had stalked?

Fuck- you’re too wound up to think of something else at this point. You decide that you’ll change it later…

Luckily, Curse’s stream didn’t have a paying threshold before you could comment. And you’re jittery with excitement as you pull the laptop closer to yourself and start typing out something—hitting send before you could overthink it.

@Ietsmakeamovie: Seeing you is the first time I’ve gotten this wet.

Curse’s eyes drift down the chat, and he seems to latch onto something. Eyes widening just a fraction.

“The first time?”

Fuck.

You’re feeling a jolt at the way he addresses you - never expecting him to pick out that comment amongst tens of thousands of others that were uttering even filthier things. Curse leans in and speaks with his deep tone, “Those other boys didn’t know how to treat a perfect pussy like yours, huh? This is why they call me the Internet boyfriend, baby.”

@Ietsmakeamovie: Yeah.

@Ietsmakeamovie: Fuck, you’re so hot.

@Ietsmakeamovie: I don’t even wanna look away to touch myself.

You feel embarrassed typing it all out - but you console yourself with the notion that no one here knows who you are. And you don’t know anyone here, either.

Curse leans back and starts pumping his cock even harder—taking his left hand off the drivelling top. His milky-white precum is frenzied n’ sticks to his hand like glue, and the chat grows more and more excited as Curse’s actions do the same.

“That’s alright, baby, you don’t have to finger yourself.” He chuckles, eyes locked on the comments. “I’d be doing that for you if I was there.”

@Ietsmakeamovie: Wish you were. You’d reach so much deeper.

@Ietsmakeamovie donated 1000 cherries.

“Fuh-fuck—” He hisses, head throwing back in his chair. You take the time to admire the lines of his prominent Adam’s apple - the way it bobs every time he’s taking a shaky swallow. “No need to donate or anything, baby, just keep- ngh, talking t’me like this and that’s enough…”

@0003h0lesforCurse: holy shit. i’ve never seen him like this.

@CCpervnextdoor: Needy Curse I like it~

@bewbsRlife: KEEP GOING OP KEEP GOING!!

You giggle to yourself.

@Ietsmakeamovie: Enough to make you cum, Curse?

“Greedy, greedy girl…” Through the slightest gaps in his mask you’re catching the way his nose crinkles in amusement. A wolfish smile. “S’that what you all want?”

The chat explodes in agreement.

He cocks his head, “Movie?”

Was that your new nickname now? Hastily, you reply-

@Ietsmakeamovie: Mhm.

“Well then…” He grins, toned body arching off the chair. “Get ready for a show—” Darkened gaze narrowing at the comments, “And you better not take your eyes off of me for a single second- hump your damn pillows if you have to. I don’t care.”

Quickly grabbing your own puffy pillow, you’re stuffing it between your legs.

Right as Curse lets his head loll backwards- and his cum drizzles out of his cock. He’s been edging the poor viewers and overstimulatin’ himself for so fucking long now—all it takes is a few pumps to let the cascade of white coat his hands and his rings. Just the slightest bit of silver peaking through.

Hard and fast.

The man’s cockhead flushes even redder as he drags his high out deliciously. Every burst of dopamine. Every heaving pant. Every pretty moan escaping him. 

It seems to be ramming into him in waves- gooey ribbons of seed coat his digits. Getting smeared like a gloss across eeeeevery single inch, ridge, and vein—and since Curse’s pace was something furious, a few globs of cum splatter across the towel and onto his thighs. A mess that he’s seeming to love.

Because in the next few seconds, he’s wrung out just the final bits of pleasure in him- and is raising his cum-coated fingers up to his mouth and sucking. Staring straight into the camera lens as he does so.

You’re watching slack-jawed as those long, lacquered digits disappear between his lips. Finishin’ them off squeaky clean and letting his head tip to the side.

He mouths, “Movie—”

Part of your username.

Though you hadn’t asked for him to moan your name, as he’d promised to do to one of the viewers had they been nasty enough. And this special treatment…

Maybe he did it to every new viewer. Maybe he just liked how much you complimented him- though everyone else did, too. Either way, it’s perhaps what sets off the bursts of electricity between your legs—and soon enough you’re hurtling into a high you hadn’t even realized had been building up and up and up.

Your lashes flutter shut as the orgasm overtakes you. 

Hips ruttin’ away into the plushness of your pillow- you wonder just how much better riding him would be…

And that’s setting off a whole new layer of dopamine at your core, your cunt quiverin’ as white-hot pleasure makes your heartbeat throb in your ears. Chest pounding. Breaths heavy.

By the time you’ve finished pushing through your high, you’re coming to find that Curse had somewhat cleaned himself up with the towel and was bantering back n’ forth with the chat. He rests his head on one hand and sweeps his eyes down the usernames, “What happened to dear Movie, huh?” Curse pretends to pout. “The first stream wasn’t too much for her, right?”

@girrrrrrrrrrth: kekekeke you’re too freaky, curse!!

@CCpervnextdoor: So dirty~

@daddytoeknee: Must thank Movie for the show though…

Urgently, you’re gathering yourself and tapping a few buttons on-screen.

@Ietsmakeamovie subscribed to @cursed(your)wombz. 

@Ietsmakeamovie donated 2500 cherries.

@Ietsmakeamovie: It’d never be too much.

“Ahhh, there you are.” Such a beautiful smile smears across his face, and Curse’s leaning in to take a closer look at the comments. “And thank you for subscribing, same time tomorrow?”

You’re unsure whether that was directed at you or everyone viewing- but you’re chiming in agreement alongside the rest of the comments. And Curse reads through them, lingering for just a little while longer before he grins.

“Heh- bye, sluts.”

And he covers the camera, the stream cuts off. 

Yet your heart still thunders.

Ignoring the time at the bottom of your laptop screen, you’re then clicking on his profile and scrolling through what other videos he had…

.

.

.

It was your fault that you kept dozing off.

Honestly. 

You should have known better- and you know that you should’ve known better…but you couldn’t help yourself. After Curse’s initial stream, you spent some time browsing through the numerous photographs and short clips that he’d posted; there were even some saved streams that were each dirtier than the last—each with his attractive mask and his even more attractive voice, his sensual cock getting pumped over and over for the audiences.

And so you’d left a few comments, a few hearts.

Throughout all of them, you made the peculiar discovery that they were all more high-quality than the last. The standard of being the #1 on the site, you guess. But the lighting and angles were all just so perfect…

You’d watched them for just a little while- at least, what you’d thought was a little while. Because by the time you’re realizing that your laptop battery was dying, and your eyes were tired, you’re turning your head in the direction of the dorm windows and- fuck.

Why was the Sun coming up?

And so you’d rushed to get at least half an hour of sleep before you had to get up for your 8AM lecture. 

Professor Yaga taught Film 101 as though he was trying to scare everyone off it. Rigorous coursework and never-altered deadlines. Though you yourself wouldn’t consider him an unreasonable man, it was impertinent to be punctual and alert in his classes - and right now, you were feeling neither of those. 

By the grace of the universe, you’re somehow managing to stumble into class just two minutes after it starts. It’s not enough to rouse Yaga’s anger - and either way, you had made a name for yourself as one of his most avid students - though it does get you a sternly raised brow as you apologize and take the nearest open seat.

Just-so-happening to be in the very last row. 

At the very forgotten corner.

Right beside who you knew to be Yaga’s actually most avid student—Choso Kamo.

Had it been a race between the two of you - perhaps between the entire department - Choso would have finished five times before anyone’s even stepping past the finish line. You would’ve gotten second. And that wasn’t to diminish your abilities in any way - you’d long since proven yourself to be one of the best students this course had even seen - it’s just…Choso was a film nerd through and through. 

If there was anyone that could live up to such a title, then it was him.

Choso lived, slept, and breathed film and television. He could name any television show around the world with just a single frame, and most he could recite line-for-line. Oh, that? He learned Korean just to immerse himself in that scene in Parasite. That scene? It was from the 1957 Sri Lankan film Amba Yahaluwo, by the way did you know that Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom was filmed there, too?

Knitted vest. Hair in two messy space buns. 

Clunky glasses rested atop his nosebridge, and dark bangs covering most of his vision, you’d often see him tottering around campus with a column of books that was damn-near taller than him. And despite his towering demeanour - from your mental counting, Choso was around 6’2 or more - around most of the student body, he was the type that couldn’t meet your eyes no matter how many classes you shared with him.

Even now, as you seated right next to him and smiled- Choso softly yelps and turns away from.

You don’t take it personally, of course, as he was simply the shy type. And by the flush that rises to his high cheekbones, you know he - at the very least - doesn’t dislike you.

Situating yourself, you’re opening your bag and pulling out your laptop. Opening it- fuck.

The briefest flash of one of Curses’s previous streams—where he had his cock in his hands and his face contorted mid-ecstasy flashes across your screen. And you can’t slam your laptop shut fast enough- cracking it just the slightest bit to exit out of the numerous tabs, fingers nothing but a blur. Thank fuck your volume hadn’t been set on high.

Head ducked, you’re looking out from the corner of your eye to check whether Choso had seen anything. 

But if he did, he shows no indication.

Only keeping his back ramrod straight- his gaze ahead- his flush fiery as he listens to whatever Yaga was saying. 

And so you think you’re in the clear…for now…

Opening your laptop up once more, you’re logging onto your lecture platforms and attempting to forget about last night. Which was difficult when that smile upon Curse’s face, just beneath his mask - was the only thing running through your mind.

And before you know it, you’d been staring blankly at your screen for a few seconds—before Choso inches in just a centimeter closer. Unwilling to let himself take up even more space. He keeps his eyes trained ahead and his voice - fuck, you’d never heard his voice before but it was just so deep and measured, something you wouldn’t have expected out of him - low. 

Whispering to you, “H-he’s on Chapter 18 of Stone Butch Blues, we’re about to write a screenplay for the zoo scene.” 

“Ah…” You don’t know whether you’re more surprised at the timbre of his voice or the way he managed a proper sentence out to you. All your previous attempts at conversation throughout the semester had been futile—and you’d long resigned yourself to the idea that he was too nervous to ever talk to you. “Th-thank you.”

He doesn’t answer but nods in shy acknowledgement.

And as you’re opening up your file, you bask in the realization that Choso Kamo was actually hot underneath those glasses. If only you could see his features further…

Maybe you’re being a little delirious. Your eyes feel heavy. 

Heavy.

Heavier. 

Tap-tap-tap.

A shake.

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

A warm hand on your shoulder, by the time you’re opening your eyes- you’re looking up into even warmer, molten chocolate-colored ones. They were framed by fawny eyelashes and thick glasses that made his shy gaze seem ever-so-slightly amplified. 

You think you’re stunned for a few seconds before Choso speaks, “U-um…class is over.”

“Oh.” That makes you dart your head up and look around, noticing that most of the students had filtered in or were in the process of already doing so. “Oh, shit-”

You’d seriously slept through all that?

And Yaga had left you alive?!

No, you weren’t going to question this act of mercy—thank goodness for the last row, because he likely hadn’t been able to see you. Shooting upright, you’re grabbing all your things and hoping you hadn’t snored next to the sweet boy - “Thank you so much for waking me.” You’re turning towards him and saying, earnestness seeping into your tone. “Knowing me, I would’ve slept right through till next class. Might actually have been more convenient.”

He startles into a laugh then raises a hand up to his mouth and quietens himself down, “It’s alright.” You’re staring closely at the little bells of laughter, and he turns his eyes downwards. Bashfully admitting, “Happens to me too, whenever I stay up um- studying. Long night?”

You sigh, “You could say that…” Not a long night studying, but…

And as the conversation quietens down and Choso worries down on his bottom lip, you’re hiking your backpack up on your shoulders and saying. “Well, I guess I should be going then. Catch up on the recordings of the lecture and everything-” Turning, “See you ‘round—and thanks again.”

You make all of five steps before Choso finally gathers up the courage to call out-

“Wait—!”

Confused, you’re facing him once more. “Yes?”

And his hand was out, his fingers were slightly trembling. He was mouthing out the words as though still debating whether to speak them into existence - whether he was capable of. “I…we-” Eventually mustering up the courage once you give a reassuring nod, “When will we meet up?”

That makes you pause.

Was he…

“F-for the assignment.” Choso clarifies, a flush rising to his cheeks as he likely realizes he should’ve led with that. “Professor Yaga’s mid-semester project he always does…”

Ah—you’re clapping a palm on your forehead. How could you have forgotten? Yaga had announced at the start of the semester that about halfway through, the class would be paired up or put into groups to work on a collaborative project that contributed to about 50% of your grade. This semester, it was to write a full-length movie screenplay for a book or musical of your choice. And you’d been excited for it, in fact, but after the…activities of last night it’d completely slipped your mind that he’d be delving more into it this lecture.

And the poor boy stumbles through his explanation, “H-he let everyone choose their partners, and I wanted to wake you up but…you just looked so peaceful.” He fidgets with his fingers and flushes, “I th-thought one of your friends would come up here and choose you but-”

Probing him gently, “But?”

“B-but I’m afraid you ended up paired with me.” Choso just looks so genuinely apologetic- “I’m sorry- no one picked me either. I should’ve woken you up, but we can go talk with Professor Yaga about changing partners if you’d like-”

“Hey—wait.” You’re cutting off his spiel, something in your chest aching at the utterly devastated furrow between his brows. You take a step closer to him, “I would love to do the project with you, Choso. No need to talk to Yaga about anything.”

He looks up at you with wide, disbelieving eyes. “B-but your friends…”

“I don’t really have close friends in this class, anyway.” You smile, “I’d much rather do it with you.”

“Really—?” Breathed. As if he couldn’t believe it.

And it’s after some time - and a deep inhale - that he speaks again. Finally sinking in that someone would choose him of all people—that you would, that he speaks again. “And um- would you like to work on the script at my place?” Before you can answer, his breath hitches and his head shoots up. “N-not that I’m pressuring you into…it’s nothing weird, I promise! We can meet anywhere else you like- the library, your place- wait, no that’s weird, too…”

“Choso- Choso.” You giggle. And if this was anyone else then you would’ve assumed that they were putting the moves on you. “I’m okay with your place.”

.

.

.

The apartment was a fair distance away from the campus dorms. 

Which made sense, you suppose, given the fact that less than half the people there would be able to afford the rent on such a place—especially after tuition. The highrise dove into the clouds, its vermicular body scaled in glistening windows and gold-accented furnishings within. You got the distinct feeling of being swallowed whole as you entered through the widely-gaped entrance, with several doormen and security that eyed you up and down, bowed at Choso.

You thanked them and made your way - slightly speechless - through the hallways.

This was everything you could ever dream of, and you’re sure you spot the odd actor or two down in the lobby. As you’re getting into an elevator the size of your entire dorm room, Choso punches in one of the highest floor numbers and turns to you-

Throughout the bus ride here, you’d been the one chattering away. And so it surprises you once he finally speaks, “I-I’m sorry…my place is a bit of a mess.”

“Can’t be as bad as mine. I won’t judge.” Who cares about a mess when he lives in a place like this? You couldn’t wait to go inside…

He pushes his chunky glasses upwards and gives you a shy smile, “Thank you.” Looking down at his polished shoes, “You’re so sweet.”

“Thank you.” 

And you rise upwards in silence.

Soon enough, you’re finding yourself being led up to his massive apartment. He’s punching in the numbers of the code and setting his backpack down—telling you to make yourself comfortable. And you shuffle inside awkwardly; past the lavish furnishings and the alien-shaped lamps that all rich places seemed to boast. 

He leads you in the direction of the master bedroom - where Choso said that his film collection was vast and likely to reveal techniques that the two of you would be able to incorporate into your own script.

“I even have a copy of Momijigari- it’s one of my most prized possessions.” He shoots you such a charming smile, eyes twinkling behind his glasses, over his shoulder. Heading inside. 

And you can’t help but follow.

A single step inside his not-so-humble abode and you’re feeling a sudden sense of déjà vu wash over you, rendering you unsteady on your feet. Not quite sure why, you’re sweeping your eyes around the space: the high-quality camera equipment in one corner (not unusual to see for a film student), the chic furnishings, and then over to the empty wall space above the king-sized bed, something in you remained dissatisfied as they find nothing there but white plaster.

Choso notices that you’ve stalled behind and looks over at you curiously—he was taking a seat on the carpet, laptop opened up on top of the coffee table. “Something wrong? I’m sorry, I know it’s really messy but-”

“No, you’re good.” You shake your head, “It’s actually not messy enough.”

He smiles.

That night, you went home and wondered why Choso’s smile looked so familiar.

.

.

.

The musical that you’d chosen for your ‘adaptation’ was The Phantom of the Opera, suggested by you, of course.

And if there had been any connection to the masked man you’d been watching the night prior, then you were just glad that Choso had no idea.

It was far easier, given the fact that it’d already been adapted from the initial novel—though that only meant that Yaga would be critiquing yours even harder. 

So you had to strive to be more cinematic, than the others in your class, stronger in ways than the ones before you - and though you doubt you’d ever match up to Schumacher’s visuals, there was little doubt as to whether you’d be the best amongst the students. This was a screenplay made to impress, and in the week since you’d pored over it—and Choso Kamo’s mahogany coffee table typing away at it, you only grew more determined in the fact. And throughout the week, you’ve been flitting in and out of that very apartment of his.

Choso had been a lovely partner for the project - the best you could’ve ever asked for - and you’re coming to find that he was actually far more funny than anyone ever gave him credit for. Far more open. Far more active when it came to something he was passionate about.

And of course, you knew that he’d be sweet.

Despite his initial insistence that he could do the project himself, you’d taken up half the work. And you’d joined him in browsing through his massive catalogue of movies, in searching up screenplays to read, and in annotating them for techniques when starting to write yours.

You’ve come to make friends with one of the doormen by now. 

Just today you’d watched the 2004 Phantom of the Opera adaptation. And after a few hours of occupying his space and getting to know the nerdy boy a little better, you’d go straight back home to…Curse.

Whenever Choso made you feel tingly with his sweetness, Curse would amplify that heat to right between your legs. 

It’s been a week of getting to know Choso Kamo, and a week of having Curse splashed across your laptop screen—cock furiously hard n’ his moans echoing. He’d smile and utter your username whilst wearing his iconic mask and it’d be a high strong enough to follow into the day after. And often Choso would ask you what you’re so happy about.

Today, in particular, Curse had just finished one of his streams - cumming aaaaaall over the desk this time - when he’d settled himself back down and started chatting with the comments. Responding to one or two of yours.

You’re just about to joke about why he was sticking so long after his orgasm when he speaks once more- 

Voice somewhat serious, “Alright, now…settle down, settle down.” Curse waves his hand airily at the camera, throwing a middle finger up when the chat only gets more frenzied. “Tch- what brats you all are, would you wanna roleplay that someday?”

@vampzo333: YES PLEASE.

@likezmenpregnant: How about you be the brat…?

@Ietsmakeamovie: I would like that. 

@sixeyesorsixh0les: ^^

@0003h0lesforCurse: ^

“Fine fine…” Underneath the mask, he rolls his eyes fondly. “But I really do have something to announce-”

@likezmenpregnant: You’re pregnant.

@Ietsmakeamovie: I’m the father-

@Curse’swifey: NO MEEEEEEEEEEE!!

“I’m thinking of getting a partner for these streams.” He finally admits, rubbing his chin as though still in thought. And your heart stops-

@bipplruletheworld: so down.

@Cursenoticeme44: Omg yeeeeeeeeees!!

@daddytoeknee: YESYESYES.

The chat practically explodes, and you’re unsure what to feel about it—after all, you don’t know Curse and it’d be strange to feel a little possessive over his solo streams, however, you did have your preferences. But then again, you can’t help but imagine just how much hotter it would be to have two people- perhaps to see him make expressions he never has before…

Ultimately, you’re quiet as Curse leans in and scans the chat. His brows furrow just a little as he sweeps through the blurring usernames, “I dunno…I’m still thinking about it- I haven’t even asked this person, to be honest. I just wanted to know what you guys thought.” Nodding his head along or huffing out laughter at some of the comments, “Movie?”

You jolt—at being called out.

He wanted your opinion specifically? You suppose you did contribute to about half his comment section most streams.

But you stall as your fingers reach for the keyboard. 

Biting down on your lip and contemplating for a little while. Though he waits as patiently as ever-

@Ietsmakeamovie: I don’t mind!!

Something seems to wash over him as he reads your comment, nodding. “I see.” 

He moves onto something else and his expression was indiscernible. 

You’re flickering your eyes to the artwork behind him, the small corner of it peaking into the frame, and it suddenly hits you that it’s the theatrical poster of The Phantom of the Opera (2004).

.

.

.

It can’t be.

It can’t be.

It can’t be.

There’s something your brain was telling you that you’re absolutely refusing to believe—after all, how many people in the world loved The Phantom of the Opera? Hell, how many people in the world have watched The Phantom of the Opera?

That didn’t mean that everyone you came across had a secret identity as one of the hottest streamers on C4mBoyfriends.

You were being paranoid, you told yourself. You were being utterly silly- and the next time you’re going over to Choso’s apartment was the very next day. Which wasn’t entirely ideal, given how much you’d tossed and turned after Curse’s last stream conjuring up all the possibilities…but Yaga wouldn’t accept a request for an extension even if you were set on fire in front of him. And so you went.

The pit of your stomach twists as Choso swings the lavish wooden door open and gives you a beaming smile. So innocent. So sweet.

He shakily pushes his glasses up as he welcomes you in. “Come in—s-sorry if I took a while to get to the door, I’ve been doing some decorating recently.”

His nervous smile is what makes you find your voice. And you’re dubiously looking around the luxurious apartment, “You need to do some decorating?”

“Believe it or not, yes.” Choso huffs. “Would you like something to drink? Or maybe to eat? I checked out that bakery you recommended last time and you’re right- they have the best Danish pastries.”

“Actually, Choso…” You’re shaking your head, shooting him a grateful smile. “I’m good. I’d think I’d prefer to start right away, if that’s alright? I really wanna get to Act 2 today.”

“O-oh, of course—!”

And he’s sweetly guiding you inside, whilst you attempt not to look like you’re taking two steps at a time. Back to that familiar room. Back to that familiar desk. Back to that (somewhat) familiar bed which most certainly did not have an artwork from The Phantom of the Opera on it—

You open the door and the first thing you’re seeing is the familiar plane of that white mask. The Phantom. 

Choso follows behind you and catches you staring at the poster. Gravelly tone echoing from behind, “I told you I did some decorating.”

And you jump-

Swivelling around to find him bearing you a sheepish smile, “Sorry if I startled you.” He pushes those chunky glasses up, “Tea?”

“S-sure…” You breathe, if anything for a thing to occupy your mouth with. Wait- not like that—!

And as Choso disappears down the hall, you’re taking a seat on the bed you’ve sat on countless, countless times before without a single care in the world. Now you’re sinking into the very - the very - edge as though it’d swallow you whole.

Body just resting on the plush comforter before-

“Hey, so I also have coffee if you would prefer?” Comes Choso’s sudden voice.

And you’re startling once more- “Just tea is fine, thanks.” Barely managing to get that through your lips, you’re watching as he disappears…as the sound of his footsteps echo…

Before darting off the bed and now heading towards the camera equipment you’d noticed in the corner the first time you’d been here. What you’d assumed to be part of another one of his classes or personal projects. Now, you’re leaning in and wondering with just which camera he showed his pretty cock off to millions, at just what height of his tripod he made your cunt so heated. 

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck this was real.

Now, you’re noticing things in the room that you’d never noticed before. Like the ring light kept underneath his bed, and the dresser in the corner with numerous rings- those weren’t costume props or anything. They were pure silver.

Heavy.

Heavy, like the pit in your stomach—excited and swirling. Just trembling at the tips of your fingers - ever-so-slightly - you’re reaching out as though to touch it, as though to feel the alternate version of Choso that you knew longer than you knew Choso-

“Ah, so you’ve realized.”

And then his voice permeates the room.

The room that suddenly seems smaller, the room that suddenly seems to rise ten degrees in temperature - though goosebumps skitter across your skin. And almost as though in a horror movie, you’re turning in slow motion to face the bespectacled man who was now holding up a tray of steaming hot tea. 

He walks over soundlessly and sets it on the coffee table with a slight click! And besides that, Choso walks over to the dressing table and puts his silver rings on.

One by one.

His eyes hold court with yours through the mirror, “How long?” Voice a deep timbre. 

You’re taking a step closer without even realizing, “Um…just last night. Just now- actually.”

He chuckles and you realize he’s asking how long you’ve known about Curse.

“I-I found you by chance. About a week ago, actually…” And then you say what’s been on your mind ever since you had, “Ever since you liked and unliked my repost.”

“Ah, a rookie mistake.” Choso comments. “I should have known better than to stalk using my public account.” And with all rings now put on and glinting in the lighting of his bedroom, Choso shuffles through his jewellery tray to pluck his earrings in and one eyebrow piercing. And then…one lip piercing—a lip ring that twinkles mischievously as he smiles.

He rises and you think you’ve never quite appreciated his built frame. 

His deep eyes as they’re locking in on you. Echoing out, “Though…you really can’t say much- can you, Movie?”

And though you knew that he knew- you can’t stop the zaps of electricity running through your body. 

Sputtering out, “Yeah-” Your fists clench and you’re looking up at the object of both your fantasies and your secret interest these past few days - melded into one. “Yeah, I really can’t. Choso you’re so…”

“Different?” He fixes his glasses, “Though I really am shy, I can’t deny that- especially around you. But it helps to be a little more antisocial when I’m around idiots.”

He leans in closer- so close that his scorchin’ hot breath wafts across your features. You have no idea how you’d diminished such a distance so soon…

“And if my memory serves me right-” Choso taps on the edge of his chin, in mocking thought. “-I seem to remember that Movie agreed to have a partner on my stream.” You shiver. And he looks at you adoringly, “So how about it? Wanna make a movie, baby?”

You step a little closer. 

“Only if I get to match wardrobes.”

He chuckles and picks you up to spin you around-

And then it’s getting to work. And then it’s shuffling through his closet to find a mask that matches his own. 

He stretches on the rubber a bit and brings it to you—“I bought this one when I first started, but it ended up being too tight- I think it’d be just the one for you.”

It was. It fit perfectly.

And then he paces around the room and starts to set up- before Choso’s gaze catches you hovering around the bed, and then he’s clicking his tongue and forgoing the tripods altogether. With just the professional lights and the high-quality camera, Choso places the camera on top of the coffee table. Facing the foot of the bed - everything and anything could be seen.

Just with a few clicks he’s started the stream.

And with just a little nudge he’s urging you to sit next to him. 

“Hello, my little sluts—” Choso- or should you say Curse croons towards the camera. On one of his monitors you can see him being projected there - waving, in his knitted vest that clashed with his mask. You stand off awkwardly out of sight from the camera. He smiles. “As you can see, things are a little different today…”

@girrrrrrrrrrth: uuuuuu change of angle!! change of angle!!

@bewbsRlife: ARE WE GETTING A SURPRISEEEEEEE??

@likezmenpregnant: Pls be pregnant, Curse <3

“No- no, I’m not pregnant.” He laughs, “But I have been thinking about what we talked about last night.”

@bipplruletheworld: omg this can’t be…

“And guess what? I did what you guys told me about- and I talked to her.”

@bipplruletheworld: yessssssss

@yoyoyoureinmypuss: I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS ONE^^

@bewbsRlife: WOOOOOO-

@daddytoeknee: Omg where’s Movie, Ik she’d love this- heh. Imagine this WAS Movie though…

“So, my little sluts…” Choso announces, “I’d like to introduce you all to my new partner—” And he’s reaching out and clasping your wrist, looking up to check for reassurance before continuing. Miming whispering to the camera, “And this is her first time on stream, so be nice…”

You’re sheepishly walking into their view. 

Slightly bowing your intrusion into the stream, “Th-thanks for having me?”

“Isn’t she cuuuuute?” He asks the commenters, and there’s a flurry of agreements. You’re even spotting a few questions about your name n’ interests, even kinks, amongst those - all of which Choso waves off with a laugh. “Now now—we can have the Q&A later. For now, let’s get to the fun part…”

@Curse’swifey: FUCK THAT’S MY FAV PART-

@2coolforcond0ms(i’mavirgin): Movie you’re missing out on a historic moment uwu

And the fun part consisted of clamoring onto the bed as fast as lightning. Letting the mattress dip n’ creak its protests out as Choso sits on it with his back turned to the camera, then lovingly pats his manspread thighs as a signal for you to climb on. Meaty muscles. Thick enough for you to want to sink your teeth into- how could you never have noticed?

Perhaps because this was the polar opposite of how he acted when he was on campus - always keeping to himself, never taking up too much space. Now he was practically vacuuming it all up so you had nowhere else to sit.

And you were more than happy to climb onto Choso Kamo’s lap.

Sitting your ass down on his readily-awaiting seat. From under your skirt you feel something hot—and throbbing between his legs. Cylindrically shaped and curved to the left.

Just the slightest movement makes his rock-hard erection twitch underneath- and you’re whimpering at the lewd sensation. At the way he drips out a hefty dollop of precum that seeps through his trousers and sticks to the front of your panties, making you gasp—“Ch-Cho-”

“Shhhh.” Choso wraps a hand ‘round your throat and cuts you off. 

And before you know it, he’s bouncing his knees to get you to slide your drippin’ pussy up and down his bulge. Up and down. Turning towards the camera, “Ya hear that?” Up and down. “My girl’s so needy- she’s already begging for it. But I dunno if she deserves it, huh?”

@bewbsRlife: I MEANNNN

@theh0rniestsoldier: i’m feeling mean today…

@daddytoeknee: Give her your mouth!!

“Mouth? I love that idea.” Choso titters.

And then he’s giving a teasing slap on the side of your ass cheeks—smack! 

“Please-”

“Sit on my face now, baby.” He purrs, eyes flickerin’ with pure need underneath his mask. Then leaning in to whisper in a loooow tone for only you to hear. “You know Choso, but let’s see if you can handle Curse.”

Then he leans back on the bed - his head pointing in the direction of the camera. 

And you’re shuffling up Choso’s toned, brick-hard body—straddling your knees upon either side of his head, veerin’ your hips right atop that pretty face. You’re sitting - right in front of the camera. Though nothing was revealed…yet. 

And Choso’s digging his tongue up to you instantly- he isn’t even making it past the fabric of your panties. But that doesn’t stop him from lettin’ his tastebuds take a looooong, luxurious lick of your swollen pussy.

Right down your sopping wet slit. 

Suddenly, the room echoes with one of his pornographic moans- the very same ones you’d listened to night after night through your laptop speakers. Now they’re even louder, and somehow even sexier, sending electricity shooting straight up, up, up from your core.

And even more treacherous was the way you’re feeling something cold…and metallic at the very middle of Choso’s tongue. Rock-hard. It takes whatever’s left of your rationality to realize that it’s a silvery tongue piercing smack-dab where his tastebuds kissed your pussy. Scraping alongside where you were most sensitive. 

Instantly; your head tips back and saliva starts bubbling at the sides of your lips. “Fuh-fuck…” And before you know it—you’re starting to drag your throbbing pussy up n’ down his features.

Short, barely-there jerks of your shy, shy hips.

And Choso chuckles huskily to himself at the cute way you were yearnin’ for his mouth. But what you didn’t expect was for him to reach one ringed hand up and squeeze the left side of your hips.

Your only warning.

Before he’s suddenly tightening his hold on you and reaching one more hand up- snaking it beneath your skirt like some pervert. Choso edges towards your throbbing cunt and places one good slap—

It’s the resounding smack! of skin-on-skin that makes you halt more than anything.

Jaw-dropped. Thighs quivering. The white-hot pleasure runs through your spine and leaves you barely hearing his roughened words, a tone lower than you knew his voice to be- as though drunk on the delicious taste of your pussy already. “Greedy, greedy girl…” Choso tuts, “Don’t tell me you’re trying to enjoy yourself without letting our dear audience in on the fun?”

Oh, shit.

You’re letting your head snap to where the camera was positioned and blinking its one gluttonous eye. Comments flooding the screen of the monitor so fast that you couldn’t read them-

You’d completely forgotten about the stream for a second. 

“I—oh, I um.” 

Yet another harsh smack! “Forgot, huh?” Amusement seeps into Choso’s words, as though he’d already guessed the situation.

You admit, “M-maybe…”

“I’m afraid I can’t blame you, baby.” Smack! “Curse’s mouth is too good, huh?” He yammers on and on, his tongue nudging deeper, his rippling tastebuds skidding into every ridge- as if trying to fuck you through your damn panties. “This pussy’s too good–she’s purring f’me already. Hear her?”

And you’re not sure why- but you’re nodding to whatever he says. “Y-yes—fuck.” 

“Mhm. So why don’t we let our lovely audience hear, too, huh?” You’re barely given the time to register his suggestion, before Choso husks out a command. “Lift your skirt up, baby.”

Your thighs squeeze around his head at the notion-

And your fingertips touch the short hemline of your skirt.

@Cursenoticeme44: Holy shit.

@theh0rniestsoldier: i’ve been waiting for thisssssssssss-

@daddytoeknee: WOW.

@girrrrrrrrrrth: bby’s so needy!!

@R€4leater: munch Curse #canon

The chat explodes as you let them bear witness to Choso’s face stuffed between your pretty legs- he’s redly-flushed and ravenous. They could see the slightest glimpse of his nose n’ the way he’s driving it between your sodden pussylips, diving and diving, they could see the glossy layers coating your cunt—and the way Choso’s pink lips come up to suck on it. 

Those handsome cheeks of his hollow out, as he’s makin’ out with your pussy through your panties.

Like a man starved.

Long canines slightly nippin’ at your folds- almost wolfish in mannerisms.

“Oh p-please…” You’re quivering atop him. You don’t even know what you’re begging for—just that it feels so good to have him veering his tongue hungrily against your cunt like this. And you wanted more.

More, more, and more.

Choso’s holding onto your restless hips with a clammy hand- he’s stuck to you almost like adhesive. And he guides your hips - he fucking slows them down - whilst you continue moanin’ and shaking atop his raw mouth. Glistening wet tongue extending even more than its usual length to slide-slide-sliiiiide your panties to the side-

And you’re gasping at the sudden whiff of cold bedroom air against your naked pussy. “Ch-” A spank. “I mean- fuck, Curse?”

“Mhm, m’here, baby.” He drawls out. Slightly slurring with all the extra globs of your pussy juices - pooling straight into your mouth, n’ Choso reaches up and smooches your soft swollen folds to smear it all around. Like some gloss. “M’here aaaaaand- so are 820k sluts that wanna watch you break.”

“B-break?” You’re gaping, “I thought you were just gonna- ngh, eat me out…?”

“Baby, Curse never ‘just’ does anything.” And you’re shocked to find him sliding his tongue out, tipping his head back to refer to the camera on the coffee table. “Isn’t that right, fuckin’ pervs?”

@daddytoeknee: Hell yeah.

@0003h0lesforCurse: duhhhhhhhhh

@yoyoyoureinmypuss: YOU’RE THE BEST CURSE

@Fishygurodad: Fuck, her pussy’s divine.

“Heh…” Choso smiles into your cunt, “And so whaddaya say? How many slaps before I stick my tongue in her?”

@vampzo333: 3

@bbynohuuuuzz: 14

@Ilikepr1menumbers: 29

“Since m’feeling nice- read your favorite one out, baby.” He murmurs.

To which you’re unable to do anything but- you tilt your upper half just the slightest bit closer to the monitor and pick out the first one you can read through the blur of words and numbers:

@Fishygurodad: Until she cries.

Oh.

Your blood runs cold.

Your cunt grows heated.

And before you can either rectify your recitation or beg for mercy—Choso doesn’t hesitate before fixing the rings on his fingers to be slightly higher than before. Making sure they’re in line of him planting one- two- three good, loud spanks on your sobbin’ cunt. “O-oh my god- fuck, mmm, oh my god.”

Until the skin of his fingertips seems to redden, and your pussylips feel raw - “How about that?” He asks- not from you, but from the viewers.

@daddytoeknee: I don’t see her crying yet…also idkkkkk I’m getting Movie vibes.

@girrrrrrrrrrth: movie would’ve loved this-

And then it’s one after the other. Again and again, Choso’s emblazoning the rude outlines of his rings against yours - until you’ve fucking memorized the ridges n’ patterns of the one ring on his middle finger with the carving of an octopus. 

Tentacles flared out.

“Shit, not that damn ring again.”

And as he’s doing so he can’t help himself- fuck, he can’t heeeeelp himself. His canines dig into the sticky fabric of your underwear like a damn dog - and throughout the duration of what his hands were doing, you’re hearing the sharp riiiiip of fabric tearing—!

Soon enough, your panties are tattered and ruined in Choso’s maw- just from his mouth. He spits it out and continues swerving his thickened tips inwards to give a loving pinch on your clit—and you can’t help but burst into peals of shrill, needy cries. Both pain and pleasure mixing as he doles out a final swat-

Before Choso swipes your pussylips apart and spits- the glutinous glob of his saliva landing directly on your hole. He doesn’t give it the time to seep back out—instead, he’s surging up and shoving his face between your legs.

This time, without the barrier of your panties in the way. 

@CCpervnextdoor: HE FUCKING RIPPED IT OFF WITH HIS MOUTH??

@bewbsRlife: HOLY SHIT CURSE-

@Fishygurodad: Shiiiiit, I’d do the same ngl.

And then Choso’s shoving his tongue inside and slurpin’ all around your wet hole like a damn animal…

In and out.

In and out.

Probin’ into slippery sweet spots.

Chin hitting the back of your slit. Plastic mask rubbing against your clit. 

Choso’s pierced tongue was going absolutely fucking wild inside of you. He wastes no time before gripping either side of your cute hips and slammin’ your pussy down onto his mouth- hard and fast. The perverted nerd is slashing his tongue inwards, smearin’ apart your glue-covered folds. As deep as he could go. He doesn’t care if it hurts, he just needs to make sure that loooong slick muscle of his tastebuds were scrapin’ every inch of your walls.

With the curved tip of it, he flexes it against a sweet bundle of nerves. Making you buck with a pitchy moan of his name—“Ch-Cuuuurse—!” And the sensation was made even more delicious with the way his orb tongue piercing presses in contrast against your hot cunt. “It feels so good, Curse.”

“I already know.” Choso pipes up- cocky in all the ways you never knew he could be. “I already know- but what about those fuckers watching, huh?”

“W-well…” Spit drivels down your chin, and you’re struggling to keep your eyes focused to read the urgent chat. 

@bipplruletheworld: they’re so HOT!!

@NERDSAREMYBABYGIRLZ: OHHHH WHAT A MUNCH

@daddytoeknee: Me next <3

And it was clear that they were seeing the effect he had on you- how could they not?

Your eyes were dazed and teary, your thighs were shaking like leaves in the wind, Choso was making your body twitch—just from the way he’s reeling his entire tongue out. And breathing out steadily and slowly against your twitchin’ pussylips, freezing cold air that leaves you even wetter on top of him.

He’s unfastening his mouth - leaving it wiiiiide open for all the satiny ribbons of your slick to enter his gullet. And once you’re done- that isn’t enough riling you up.

Choso leaves a good slap on your folds and asks, “So…what about it?” Muffled through his mouthfuls.

“They agree- they agree—” You’re keening out. Star-struck, seeing pleasure burst behind your shuttered eyelids at the sudden stinging. “Fuck- you’re the hck! best I’ve ever had, Curse.”

“I agree.” He hums. And as if this entire ordeal wasn’t sinful enough, Choso’s swashing around the silky-smooth sap he’d collected from your leaking pussy. Letting the flavor seep into his tastebuds, before he’s then spitting again on your pussy. A semi-opaque layer of lewdness that coats your inner thighs in a sheen that catches the lighting. 

Perfect on camera.

You’re squeezing your wettened thighs together and creating an audible squelch!

“Awwww, look- this pussy agrees, too.”

The gooey addition startles you- and you rut.

Only straight down onto his awaiting fingers.

@girrrrrrrrrrth: oh, shit is he…

@legsopenforcurses: With the rings on, too!!

@likezmenpregnant: My show is onnnnn

It’s such a fucking mess for him to navigate- even with his own fingers. Soon enough, you’re arching your back as you feel him intrude a single ringed digit between those utterly swollen pussylips of yours—almost difficult to find your snug hole between them. You’re damn lucky that Choso’s fingers were slender as well as incredibly lengthy.

Because he’s circlin’ your tight orifice a few times - only a few times - before inserting the sections of his finger. Quirking just right and hitting the exact bundle of your nerves.

That infamous g-spot that made you yelp once he starts and keeps on hitting.

And his rings- oh, fuck, his rings.

Just so chunky and textured. They were the perfect designs to press up against your walls and massage them stupid- every drag meant that you’re feeling them dig into ridges n’ crevices you hadn’t even known existed. 

Hitting and hitting. Curling his dexterous finger and scraping- “Fuuuuck, oh my god.” The doughy tip of his finger soon becomes damn-near molded to the area where it was, and your eyes flicker to the back of your head as you continue anglin’ your hips so he could hit it perfectly. “Right there, Curse- r-right there.”

“I know.” Choso rolls his eyes - at least what seems like it underneath his mask. “That’s why I’m hitting it. Honestly…is my girl dickmatized?” He utters as he sucks on your clit—ultimately erupting a sobbing slurp! that makes him nod. “Mhm, I think my girl’s dickmatized.”

Tipping his head back before you can refute his claims. He then addresses the audience-

“Whaddaya think, my little pervs? Dickmatized already…maybe I should go easy on her, huh?”

@olderandR4w: nooooooooooo

@yoyoyoureinmypuss: NEVER.

@Fishygurodad: Go even harder.

“Tough crowd.” And with that said, Choso’s stuffin’ in just a few more fingers. Each with their own numerous rings and sopping wet sounds accompanying them—slurp!

One. 

Two.

You’re counting about three of his prolonged digits pushin’ your tight walls to their limits, rubbing your sweet spots raw with his constant bashing rhythm, before lustful fogginess coils around your brain. And it’s around here that Choso catches onto the glazed look in your eyes and chuckles—

“Ohhhh, you really are dickmatized.” He hums to himself, though you’re sure the professional mic picks it up either way. “And so soon, too. Probably hasn’t had a good finger-”

A fourth being added so that he can scissor apart your velvety channel whilst still multi-tasking with his other fingers to ram into your g-spot.

“-or even a good mouth on ‘er…” To emphasize his point, he presses a dramatically loud kiss upon your clit. One that’s making you bounce n’ bounce your hips atop his clammy face, and grind your throbbing nub down on his pointed nose. The addition of his mask just makes that cool touch even more lecherous. “My poor girl.” Choso still mutters out despite the way he’s gluing your cunt to his mouth. He pulls away from your clit with a loud pop! “What do you think, my slutty audience?”

At the slurring question you’re letting your head down to watch him. “Ch…Curse, what’ve you got on your mind-”

“M’just asking what else you deserve, baby.” He coos. And questions them once more, “How about a little quiz? Which parts of Curse are going to make my poor, poor girl feel the best? A). My fingers. B). My mouth. Or…”

And he pretends to listen to your noisy wet pussy once more.

“Or C…”  You could practically feel the grin plastering against your needy pussy. The way his eyes narrow in sinful amusement beneath his mask- you didn’t have to see his full face to know that Choso was enjoying this perhaps way more than he should. “—all of the above.”

And it was futile to think that they would answer anything else.

C floods your vision.

You’re letting your mouth droop, and your gaze meet Choso’s own between your legs- but you’re finding that you don’t have to say a thing for him to already know the answer.

And as expected, he gives a final roll of his tongue atop your clit - before munchin’ on your aching cunt once more. This time, he’s tunneling his fingers deep into your cavern whilst still licking inside with his prolonged tongue—when stretched out, Choso’s tongue could reach almost as deep as his fingers could.

Your cunt was being stretched-out to lengths you never thought about before.

Not only were Choso’s fingers thicker than yours, but his tongue was something ravenous- no matter how much you’re flinching in sensitivity, he isn’t slowing down. “Mmm-” He groans, barely breathing through even his flared nostrils. You’re hit with the distinct feeling that he thinks he doesn’t even have to breathe as long as he had you on him like this - “Mmm, hold still.”

Taking advantage of the fact to lavish your sensitive inches with kiss upon kiss. To grind his nose down purposefully on your clit. To glide his metallic piercing across those hidden spots. To bash your poor g-spot in again and agaaaain with his fingers before his tongue’s coming to the rescue to soothe the slightly raw sting-

So it’s not long before you’re throwing your head back and cumming.

Perhaps the strongest you’ve ever felt when you’re in the throes of your high.

You barter your hips forwards and keep up a steady pace - one that’s making Choso hit the exact spots you wanted him to during the peaks of your high. The utmost peaks. “Shit—shit, just like that.” Breathless. “K-keep going, baby, it feels so good.”

And he doesn’t even answer - too caught up in fucking you through your orgasm.

In the way you shudder above him. In the way you’re only getting even sweeter by the second-

Bodyheat raising a few degrees in temperature; your heart sings and the bed creaks with how much you’re jostling from above. This was even better than touching yourself to videos of him, there were so many thrills of bliss that he’s wringing out of you- like he’d wring out of himself during his solo videos. 

With both his fingers and his tongue, slurpin’ and sliding. Those doe-like eyes of his are edging straight to the back of his skull as he feels your drenched walls cleeeeench around his pierced tongue, as though it’s the best thing he’s ever fucking felt. And you’re acting on impulse - you really are - because the coffee table was positioned right beside the foot of the bed.

And all you had to do was reach your arm out to grab the simple camera there. Turning it into your point of view as Choso’s sweaty brown bangs stick to his forehead, as sweat trickles down his temple, as he lets out soft yet unyielding moans whenever you’re squeezing your thighs around his head.

@cockycockowner: no homo but that’s the most beautiful man i’ve ever seen.

@theh0rniestsoldier: woah he’s PUSSYDRUNK

@Fishygurodad: Show me his POV.

@daddytoeknee: Don’t you know that she’s his girl now smh?^^

@daddytoeknee: Movie-core- wya ml??

Choso cocks his head and keeps making out with your pussy in all the ways that make your toes curl—pleasure elongating from your orgasm and spreading into every part of you. Your vessels, your cells, your atoms.

They’re all buzzing with pleasure and still aching for more once Choso finally pulls away with a loud pop! of his lips releasing. 

When they do, you’re sneaking a look down at him and noticing just how red n’ swollen they were. Even the skin around his jaw was flushed with the constant ramming contact. And the viewers are just gobbling it up - subscribing bells keep dinging here and there, and everywhere. 

Just a single look at his stats on-screen reveal that Choso’s climbed up to 870k just since you’d started this stream.

And it’s after a little while - after he’s had his fill - that the dark-haired man finally taps at the side of your thigh to gesture for you to get up. Though, even then, he’s tightening his grip on your body—going against his own fucking instruction to press a final few open-mouthed kisses before he’s done.

He chases after your pussy with his maw for a little- before he’s finally sitting up.

And it’s only then that he seems to notice the camera in your hand, blinking his glazed eyes a few times to make sure he isn’t dreaming things up. Once it finally registers, the most attractive grin spreads across his face. “You changed POVs?”

“Had to.” You admit, “I wanted them to see how pretty you are…”

“Guess you finally learned about sharing, hm? Greedy girl.” He chuckles darkly to himself. And then he starts looming closer, “But you realize that the show’s not done yet, right?”

You gulp.

@Fishygurodad: Fuck her already, damn!! I’m only here for her.

@2coolforcond0ms(i’mavirgin): Hate to admit it, but he’s lowk right. I think I’ve discovered I’m bi…

@vampzo333: ^^

@girrrrrrrrrrth: ^^

“So impatient.” He looks at the monitor, reading the chat and tuts. “Honestly- so ungrateful. I should end the stream right here and fuck her on my own terms.”

There’s a frenzied flurry of comments- all of which you were sure were begging for Choso not to stop and bashing that one commenter for attempting to start a revolution. To which you’re only giggling and handing over the camera to him.

Choso - as the expert - then positions it somewhere by the edge of the fluffy pillows: where they’d be able to see the expanse of both your bodies and where you’d soon be connected…

And then you’re shedding your clothes in a hurry- making it to your smart blouse before he’s reaching a hand up and tearing through it. The buttons hit the floor, and at your noise of displeasure Choso merely lets out a half-delirious giggle. 

He leans in and whispers, “I-I have a Phantom of the Opera t-shirt I’d love for you to wear.”

The change in demeanour gives you utter whiplash, and you can’t help but stare at him open-mouthed.

“What?” Choso asks, next moving on to shrugging off his own fabrics. They’re landing on a heap beside the bed, and your lips slightly part at the display of his red-hot erection—it’s just as large and sensual as all those streams had proven him to be. Polished strawberry top. Slender veins along the middle. 

A happy trail of dark brown - nearly black - glistened with the splattered remnant of his precum. Just like the gleaming mess across his chin, mouth, and cheekbones that Choso wore like a medal.

He was slightly longer than even on camera- and even prettier up-close. Way up close- he shuffles his body up yours n’ fucks your tits a few times to dollop out glistening translucent precum across yours tits.

“Lighting’s not the best here.” Choso explains- or at least attempts to pin an explanation onto that. Onto something he’s clearly been wanting to do for so long. “Had to highlight ‘em, baby.”

You scoff, “It’s just…” Throwing a cautious glance at the camera, you lower your voice. “You’re so different from how you are in real life.”

“Oh? And how did you expect me to be, huh?” He positions himself between your legs - wrapping both of them around his waist. Before then thinking better of it and throwing them even more lewdly around his neck instead—his plush priggish tip kisses your entrance. “Did you expect me to be like…”

He trails off.

He doesn’t need to complete the rest of his sentence- and you don’t think you’d have heard him even if he tried.

Because in that very moment, Choso’s jerking his pale hips back a mere few inches—then plopping his globular tip between your pussylips and push-push-puuuuuushing. Fucking past the initial restraint of your first ring of muscle, he’s funneling in some thick inches that make your heels bang against the muscles of his back.

And he doesn’t even seem to notice.

He doesn’t even seem to breathe as he’s letting his cock swerve inside. Get suctioned inside. Get his Prince Albert’s piercing crept down your sensitive innards. Get gobbled up between your greedy legs-

You clench ‘round him and Choso throws his head back with a low, broken moan.

“Oh p-please—” He’s babbling out through unsteady pink lips, a lazy line of dribble starting up from one corner of his mouth. Those long lashes of his flutter as he’s reaching one bulky hand up to grip the headboard, and placing his right one on your hips- keeping you steady.

Fingers trembling. Muscles rippling.

@likezmenpregnant: Woah…make him do that again…

@sixeyesorsixh0les: SUBBY CURSE HELLO??

@whimperwhiteboywhimper: oh I am SO here for this

@Fishygurodad: Whatever…

Your eyes bulge once his throat cracks with what sounds like a whimper—“Please it feels so good.” And though you couldn’t quite make it out, even the chat seemed stunned as Choso punctures out a broken stutter of his hips. Delving a few inches into your goopy insides- though not enough to bottom out completely, as you’re still too wound-up for him to fit completely. And you’re able to pinpoint exactly where he’s using the orbed metal of his first piering. With more to come…“Ngh- oh.” Broken noises emanating into your eardrums and the mic. “It f-feels shooooo good, baby.”

Choso’s head drops into the crook of your neck, and there - and there - you’re feeling his cheeky grin.

And suddenly you’re understanding.

Oh—he was toying with you.

And he was doing it in a way that’d completely fooled you- and perhaps all of his viewers, too.

But before you’re able to open your mouth to bite back something at him, Choso staggers his hips back and gives you a vicious jackhammer with his cock, “O-ohhhhh, my god—” Your toes curl atop his shoulders, slippery with sweat. He hadn’t even rammed all the way inside yet, and yet the slightly left-leaning angle of his shaft was driving you wild.

Big and thick.

Running the slick globe of his tip down your walls, Choso probes a direct hit to that spot you loved so much. And he knew you loved it so much—he’d mapped out your entire pussy earlier, of course.

And yet, he’s still gasping as though the pearls gates of heaven had descended right here and there. He’s letting his sweet caramel eyes widen convincingly as he peers down at you, “I-is that…the spot, baby?”

@Curse’swifey: HE sounds SO NGH.

@daddytoeknee: Daddy likey…

@daddytoeknee: Also Movie would’ve really LOVED this, huh?

You hiss, “Curse, you should already know-”

“But how could I know—?” He exclaims. “This is my first time, after all…” Then Choso’s plastering his clammy tattooed hips - with a snake on the side - to yours, as though the two were connected by the force of the world’s strongest magnets: pulling and pushing, pulling and pushing. Every single battering ram of his mazing cocktip ends up lodged against your sweetly bruised g-spot, marking his circumference out with the sheer pace at which he was hitting it. 

“Shit—” Your nails clench on the sheets, and feeling jealous- Choso guides them to fist his hair instead. “Shit, right there. It f-feels so good-”

“There?” The once-nerdy man breathes out in awe. Disbelief every single time - or at least the mocking imitation of one. Swipin’ a line of precum down your nervy spot once more, “Th-there, baby—?”

Something breathy- octaves higher in his tone. “Yes- yes there-”

“There-” Choked up and ruined. Husky grunts hatching in the back of his throat. There was something there in his words that you couldn’t quite pinpoint—a sort of undertone of primal need, primal amusement as he ruined your pussy with his speedily pap-papping hips, but acted as though he had no idea what he was doing. Every single syllable uttered was met with a thorough whack of his curved cockhead against your particular spot- “There there there there- there-”

“Fuh-fuuuck-”

“So this g-spot’s really m-mine now, baby?” Choso asks. 

You whine, back arching off the mattress. “Yes-”

“Does she really have my mark on it now?”

“Yes…?” Eyes shooting open as you’re half-registering his question in your hazed brain. He bores his dark eyes down at you intensely. And as though to emphasize his point, you’re feeling his perfectly round tip squeezing into your throat by the next few thrusts. Deeper and deeper.

His Jacob’s Ladder starting to ease its frigid way past your entrance and glide across the roof of your cunt. It was a sensation like nothing you’ve ever felt before. 

Choso probes even more, “I-is she really shaped to the shape of my cock now?” 

“Cho—ngh.” Quickly shutting your cockdrunken self up. Quickly reaching a ringed hand up to squeeze your throat- before he’s languidly snaking his way up to squeezing your pretty cheeks together.

Smushing your face in a way that was almost disrespectful- though, not that you were in any state of mind to call him out on it. And there’s a mean inkling in Choso’s tone as he coos, “Awww, b-baby, why aren’t you answering me?” Another rude slap! of his hips make your own sear in flames- that damn strength of his. Those damn piercings of his. “Is your poor, poor Curse not good enough?” 

Before you can answer, he’s looking at the blinking camera. 

“My babies, my girl doesn’t love my cock anymore…”

“I do—I do-” 

Squeezing his doughy-soft restraints - those contrastingly mean fingers of his - around your cheeks. He’s managing to smush your mouth shut and make you echo out the most pathetically pleading whines—as he fucks you. Determined and targeted.

The glossy rotund edge of his tip presses against your g-spot a few more times before you’re managing to make yourself take a peek at the comments on the monitor. 

Almost too far away- almost too blurry with the tears in your eyes. 

@Curse’snewestharem: Awwwww poor bby </33

@CCpervnextdoor: I would LOVE your cock, Curse!!

@girrrrrrrrrrth: is it just me or is he teasing us?

@Fishygurodad: ^^Yeah, he’s totally a fraud.

@Curseswombmommy: ^^girl shut up

“Th-they really think you’re oh-so-innocent…” You’re whispering up at him. Overstimulated tears in your eyes.

Breath hitching every time he’s surging his tattooed hips forwards and hitting that one spot particularly hard. Though there was never such a thing as too hard…

And Choso’s shooting you a secret smile - one just between the two of you - before morphing his expression into that of picture-perfect innocence. Roleplaying the demeanor of his nerdy self on campus, mixed with the utterly sultry—sexual way he was draaaaagging his lengthy cock in and out of your cunt.

Eventually, Choso’s emptying his inches out n’ bruising the bottom of your pussy. All of his nine - you seriously felt nine throbbing inches - inches shaping out the in-betweens of your legs. All of the beaded barbells of his Jacob’s Ladder massaging inside- the slitherin’ feeling of them making themselves at home. Zig-zagging and slithering. 

He feels the sponginess of your cervix and presses a hand down on your abdomen just to make sure, before changing that excitement into one of almost-genuine bafflement- “I-I really bottomed out?” Choso’s pinkish bottom lip juts out and quivers dramatically.

“Of course, you did.” You’re ready to scoff-

But whatever sarcastic sound was in the back of your throat gets quickly dissolved at the sight of Choso with genuine tears in his eyes. Glistening. “But I never- ngh, never thought I’d be able to.” He puts some more merciless pressure on your stomach that makes you buck—

And the only thing you can do is let your head tip back into the pillows.

The only thing you can do is let out a few mottled moans as he rubs over the small tummy bulge he was fucking into you. Pushing his palm down so that he could feel it. 

Whispering out, “I-I never thought this pussy would claim my cock as- ngh, hers, hm?” And for the moment there, you’re completely sure that he isn’t talking to you. Rather, your pussy that was sobbing out squelches after every one of his jackhemmerin’ thrusts. “And it’s not too big, right?”

“N-never—”

“Because m’just a nerd with a- hngh, biiiiiig fuckin’ cock.” How pitiful, right? He’s letting his long, dark lashes flutter as Choso avoids meeting your eyes—as though in shyness. He drills his hips even deeper - one unforgettable strike after the other following every word he spoke. “Just a big- fat- fucking- cock-”

“Please—!” Eventually, your arms reach upwards and you’re grabbing ahold of whatever part of him it is you could reach first. Which just-so-happened to be his bulky deltoids.

Choso’s brows genuinely seem to furrow at the lewdness of you digging your nails into his muscles, leaving your marks for everyone and anyone to see even after this stream has ended. And so he continues in his faux-innocent tone, “Oh? Did that feel good, baby?”

Purposefully slidin’ his cock across your g-spot so that you’d have to cry out. “Y-yeeees—”

“I didn’t even know, baby.” His mouth hangs open, and the most lustrous squelches! echo between your two connected bodies. Your cunt n’ his precum were making such messes…“I had no idea…”

His Jacob’s Ladder leaves your channel feeling raw n’ overstimulated- you feel raw and overstimulated. 

And you’re laid-out on the bed dazed and feeling so fucking good as Choso’s picking his pace up even more, you notice for a split-second that his hands have moved. No longer was he holding onto your cheeks n’ watching you squirm—now, the nerdy man hooks both hands around your sweaty thighs and pins them close to his body.

Holding them in place as he leans down, down, dooooooown until the caps of your knees hit your tits. 

You’re keening at the stretch, and a searing burn spreads from between your pussy and along your hamstrings. How did he even hide such strength underneath those soft knitted vest? Such a body?

Before you know it, you’re being pressed into your first-ever mating press.

And Choso gapes as though he was just as bewildered as you, “O-oh…did I do that?” He’s fucking asking you—however, when your stunned expression bears no answer, he turns and asks the same question from the camera. The bursts of replies obviously agree n’ tease him. And he’s shaking his head ever-so-slightly, “Did I really bend you in- heh-” A slight chuckle escapes him. “—half, baby?”

And what else can you do but nod and nod and nod—? 

“I think this is called a…breeding press?” He cocks his head ever-so-slightly, before shaking his head. “No wait- a mating press.”

“A m-mating press.” You’re repeating lamely.

“I c-can’t believe I’ve folded you into a mating press, baby.” Choso nearly snarls at himself, his hips accelerating until that rouge-tipped cock of his was almost nothing but a blur. “Can’t believe—s’like my body is moving before my mind, ngh. My fat cock’s not hittin’ you too deep, right, my girl?”

“Not in the l-least…”

And he really was long enough to make each and every probe feel as though it was slam-slam-slamming into your throat- the capped crown of his shaft was entering crevices n’ crannies you hadn’t even known you possessed. All marked out precisely by the silvery orb of his Prince Albert’s. 

Just then, after your answer, Choso reaches his left hand up to wrap ‘round your throat - and then hauls you back down to meet his slapping hips.

A thrust even harder than the ones before it.

Your breath gets snatched out of your lungs, dissipating into the heady air filled with the contact-riddled sounds of sex. Hard and fast. Only getting harder the longer you have your ankles looped ‘round his neck—“Not too hard, is it, baby?” Chosos asks you once more.

And you don’t have anything to spit out besides, “Oh f-fuck off.”

He gasps dramatically-

Well, not exactly dramatically. But in a way you knew was fake, and in a way that sends the chat exploding into comments.

The nerd pouts cutely, “Well, that’s not very nice…”

You’re rolling your eyes—right before Choso’s genuinely sending them rolling with his two fingers clamped around your clit. Using the silvery edges of his rings, he runs a few massages that end up with you sobbing and blabbering out your pleasure. 

@Curse’swifey: FUCKKKKKKKKKK they’re both so hot. THEY’RE BOTH SO RUINED.

@peepeesarebetterfictional: they both look like they’re gonna cum soon hehe

@bewbsRlife: CUM CUM CUM CUM CUM

Biting back. “I would argue th-that that’s not very nice, either.”

“But m’just trying to make my gorgeous girl cum…” And from where he’d been looming his pretty face above yours, Choso then lets his head droop down between your tits. During his ravenous pace, he’s roverin’ his mouth all over to kiss and suck at your tits, your nipples.

His cold lip ring drags across your left areola- and he catches onto the way you’re shivering. Before Choso then grabs your nipple between his lips n’ hollows his cheeks out sucking—“Promise m’just trying to make you feel- hah, good.” He mutters, slightly muffled. “Promise I just wanna fuck my cock raw if it means making my lifelong crush feel good…”

“Cho- Curse, are you…?” Your eyes widen.

And his own flap droopily a few times, “Hmmm?”

And that proved it.

That proved it.

Because Choso Kamo could be pretending to be a stuttering, panting, blushing mess on your heavenly cunt all he wanted- he could pretend to be pussydrunk out of his mind. But at the end of the day, it was impossible to hide when pretend turned into something…more. 

When the cocksure streamer that’d been driving you wild all this time morphs into the contentedly pussy-whipped nerd you expected him to be deep down inside.

His eyes genuinely glazed and blinking longingly.

His hair drenched in sweat.

His skin flushed with need- and only flushing even more fiercely the longer he kept his eyes on you. 

Without much ado, you’re throwing your hands around his neck and tuggin’ him as far as he could crane his neck when his entire body feels like collapsing onto you and into your maddening pussy. 

Choso pistons his hips slightly upwards to hear the slurp of his Jacob’s Ladder sliding across your walls, and he grooooans—

“Curse, baby…” You hum.

“Mhmmmm?” He replies with half-lidded eyes. Barely focused.

This was the big, bad #1 streamer on C4mBoyfriends? As though sensing your thoughts, Choso’s fingers grow a little more frenzied on your clit. “I need you to cum inside, okay?”

He jolts at the idea- that sinful, sinful idea. Before chuckling, “Never had any other plan, baby.” And then he turns to the camera, “What do you think, fuckers? Think my girl deserves to cum?”

@Fishygurodad: Yes.

@Curse’swifey: YES.

@likezmenpregnant: Yesssss~

@girrrrrrrrrrth: yesyesyes.

@daddytoeknee: Hell yeah-

He’s holding out a little longer to make sure there wasn’t a single ‘no’ in there - and had there been one, you’re sure that Choso would have stopped and edged your incoming orgasm until it was a wave of complete agreement.

Luckily for you, they liked you.

And all he does now is press down harder on your g-spot from inside, lingering, and massage a pretty heart on your clit once more, lingering—before a final, thorough stroke is all it takes for you to hurtle into your second high of the night.

For you to arch your body into his chest, and shutter your eyes. “Ch-Cho…” 

Barely a whisper. He’s crashing his mouth into yours to make sure that secret between you two isn’t revealed. And you’re moaning deeply into Choso’s mouth as you cum—“Feels so- oh. It feels so…”

“Mhmmmm.”

Unable to even find the words.

The only thing you can do is riiiiiide out the massive wave of your high. It’s torrential; pure bliss floods your system from head-to-toe, and no matter how much you’re squirming your overstimulated hips, Choso only succeeds in batterin’ away his pierced cock into eeeevery single hidden sweet spot inside of you. The ones that prolonged your bliss and left spikes of euphoria leading up to your brain.

Your cunt clenched so tightly around his cock- almost as though you didn’t want him to even pull out. And Choso’s sweaty head drops once more into the crook of your neck as he cums with a shudder.

The knot between his brows deepening, the bedsheet around his knees bunching up as he surges his body upwards. Almost animalistically.

Choso bottoms out his furious, twitching cock and keeps it there- “Oh, fuck…” It didn’t sound like he was acting once his bawling red divot starts splatterin’ out more milky white wads. Deeep in the back of your pussy, right where your womb was, Choso puddles out his ecstasy in long ribbons. “Oh fuck fuck fuck—fuck. Always knew it’d feel this good.”

Wave upon wave.

Toes curling. Eyes scrunching shut.

If you thought his moans were sensual before, then you weren’t prepared for the ones your pussy was able to drag out of him - ragged and hollow utterances of your name. Over and over like a broken record, like a mantra.

He’s fucking into you to milk them out of his hefty balls- then fucking you again just to pump those webbed wads right back in. From the top of his rotund tip and dooooooown to the tufts of hairs at his base. All nine inches of him being used to stuff you till the brim—

You’re sure your insides look like an utter fuckin’ mess by the time he’s slowing his tattooed hips down ever-so-slightly—still shaking from the aftermath of his orgasm. This was far stronger than anything he’s ever experienced before. 

Drunkenly, you’re blinking your eyes up at him. “Always?”

He smiles, “Ever since our first lesson of Film 101.” Admitting, he lovingly wipes off a bit of his cum you were foaming between your pussylips. “You referenced Pride and Prejudice when talking about the best lines of dialogue of all time, and I-I’d been a goner since then.”

“Corny…” You snort. Though you can’t help the flutter of your heart.

“So um- coffee after this?”

“It better be dinner.”

He laughs in agreement. “Also I bought a vibrating piercing the other day and have been dying to try it…”

Your eyes widen.

And once you’re helping him pull out- Choso reaches for the camera and gets a good shot of the cum leaking between your legs. Before you’re both waving at it, “Thank you for joining us, today—this was the most fun I’ve had on stream yet- heh.”

You’re shooting the camera a pretty smile, too.

And Choso kisses the corner of your cheeks, “Until next time. This has been Curse and Movie.”

@girrrrrrrrrrth: holy fuck??

@Curse’swifey: WAIT WHAAAAAAAAAAAAT NO WAY-

@bewbsRlife: HOLD ON-

@CCpervnextdoor: SAY SIKE RN?

@bipplruletheworld: oh my god that’s amazing.

@likezmenpregnant: Oh, a love story for the ages~

@yoyoyoureinmypuss: YOU TWO LOOKING FOR A THIRD??

@Fishygurodad: Damn.

@Fishygurodad: Hmu when he messes up.

@daddytoeknee: Stfu he won’t.

@daddytoeknee: Also I totally called it <3

A/N. I did NOT plan to have me inserted and beefing with Toji Fushiguro but here we are-

you haven't seen these people in years—since you were eighteen, maybe. or was it nineteen? or maybe you misplaced three years like losing keys in the backseat of your memory. three years gone or ghosted or gutted, and the rest of your twenties? a blur, a flatline, a running joke with no punchline. just echoes and static and flashbacks—those little bastards. they don’t knock. they just crash through the windows of your mind like bricks wrapped in nostalgia and needles.

it hurts. god, everything hurts in ways that don’t even make sense. the snow touches your shoulder like it’s mad at you, like it’s saying see, even the sky is tired of you. the new shoes—stupidly expensive, laughably uncomfortable—are bleeding you dry. you bought them for this night, this mess, this spectacle. to look nice. to look tolerable. to look like someone who isn't unraveling from the inside out.

for him.

just enough so he wouldn’t see the fracture line running down your cheekbone, wouldn’t hear the hollow behind your laugh. wouldn’t notice the earthquake that lives behind your eyes when you look at him. wouldn’t feel the way your silence is just a scream dressed in pearls.

you’re dressed like survival in disguise. pain tucked under perfume. sorrow smudged into mascara. you wish to show up as a whole cathedral of ruin, praying no one sees the fire in the pews.

the light turns green, and your legs, traitorous things stitched with old want, begin to move—without command, without caution—dragging you into the inevitable. they betray you in the same way hope does: sweet at first, then rotten. step by step, as if the concrete is whispering his name beneath your shoes. like the street remembers. like it knows. and you walk anyway, don’t you? not because you’re brave, no, but because your cowardice is a circle—you flee, only to find yourself back where it began. in front of him. again. like always.

and you know. god, you know. it will hurt. you know the burn behind the smile, the silence after hello, the flash of something once-called love rusting between forks and glass cups. but knowledge does not equal prevention. pain has no respect for intelligence.

so you stand now at the restaurant door—old, wooden, slightly warped as if it too has weathered too many reunions, too many entrances full of trembling bones. your hand rises but pauses, midair, suspended like a sentence you’re too afraid to finish. your reflection in the glass pane stares back: fractured, familiar, wearing a coat that doesn’t keep the cold out. eyes hollowed by memory. lips pressed into the shape of regret.

you exhale.

you push the door open, and it groans like it’s in mourning.

warmth spills over you—artificial, suffocating. laughter somewhere deep inside, silverware scraping porcelain, wine glasses clinking like tiny guillotines. your feet drag you forward again, your voice caught in your throat like a scream that never learned to fly.

“reservation under… zero-eight,” you say, numbers dry and brittle on your tongue.

the host nods. nods like this is normal. like your heart isn’t gnawing on its own ribs. like you aren’t the walking ghost of a former self wrapped in wool and shaking. he leads you through the labyrinth of tables, past strangers who have no idea the war you’re waging with each breath, the riot in your blood, the cathedral collapsing quietly in your chest.

and then—there.

the table.

your purgatory.

six people.

six ghosts.

six knives shaped like love.

shoko and her cigarette already half-burned, eyes bored, but soft at the edges like she still forgives you. utahime with posture stiff, but there’s a flicker of worry in her glance. nanami, neat as always, time etched into the corners of his mouth, and yet you can tell he still measures you in silence. haibara, a smile that hasn’t aged, so bright it hurts, like nothing ever broke. geto, the same, but not. eyes darker, smile thinner. a part of him still stuck in the version of you that left without explanation.

and then—

him.

satoru.

gojo satoru.

the beginning and end of all your stupid poems.

his hair is different, maybe. or maybe the light just hates you tonight.

his eyes—

his eyes.

still that impossible shade, like snow learning to burn. they find you, instantly, like they never stopped searching. like they always knew you'd walk through that door again, dragged by memory’s leash.

your knees threaten to fold, your throat to burst.

this is it. this is the table where your past sits, polished and painful.

and you— you’re the ghost arriving late to your own funeral, wondering if anyone will say your name without venom. you take a step forward. the floor doesn’t collapse. you take another. still standing. the world, somehow, keeps turning.

no one says anything yet. they just look. and the silence says what words never could :

you left.

you broke.

you hurt us.

and still—we missed you.

god help you. you missed them, too. more than air. more than peace. enough to walk into the fire again and beg it to remember your name.

but they are warm. impossibly warm. warm in a way that feels like standing too close to a memory you once tried to bury under cynicism and time. they open to you not with hesitation or punishment, but with something far more dangerous—forgiveness. as if your silence hadn’t carved holes into them. as if absence doesn’t rot love like fruit left out in the sun.

shoko is the first to rise—slowly, gracefully, like a tide you didn’t expect to come back. her eyes flicker with a light that could be joy or just the flare of the cigarette burning soft between her fingers. it doesn’t matter. her gaze holds you, tender and bone-deep, and then she moves—no warning, no ceremony—and pulls you into a hug that breaks something inside you with the soundlessness of a tree falling in a forgotten forest. bone-crushing, spine-shaking, a hug that says you’re back, and i hate you for it, and i missed you anyway.

you gasp, or maybe you weep. maybe it’s the same thing now.

utahime follows like muscle memory, arms wrapping around you with a gentleness you never thought you deserved. she smells like citrus and tired days and unspoken loyalty. no one says anything. but she holds you long enough that you almost believe the time apart hadn’t been a chasm with no bridge. then haibara, sweet, unkillable haibara—bursts like sunlight through a crack. he throws himself at you, laughs loud and bright like a matchbox exploding. he squeezes too tight and talks too fast, and he’s everything you remember: a child built of joy and sugar and grief that never stuck to his skin long enough to leave scars. you laugh—god, you laugh. something you thought you buried in the dirt with your better selves.

and it feels like—

old time.

a dream held up by thin wire and memory glue.

you are smiling. god help you, you're smiling. especially when geto—that devil-saint, all sly eyes and poison-dipped words—leans in with a smirk already dancing on his lips. he says something stupid, something petty, something wonderfully cruel in that teasing way only he ever could.

you scoff. roll your eyes. hit his arm.

the ache in your chest swells like a tidal wave at the edge of cracking.

and then he hugs you. tightly. all arms and warmth and history. he kisses your cheek and it leaves a phantom of something lost.

you could almost cry.

you almost do.

and even nanami, who has always worn restraint like a religion, lets something soft escape his composure. a quiet sigh. a small nod. and then— he, too, hugs you. brief. precise. meaningful in the way only nanami can be. his kiss on your cheek is clinical and affectionate, like checking for a pulse on a ghost.

you almost forget where the pain lives.

until you see him.

gojo satoru.

he hasn’t moved. hasn’t spoken. just watched. his eyes—those goddamn eyes, galaxies stitched with winter and war—are still locked on you, like he’s trying to figure out whether you’re real or some hallucination born out of a long-starved dream. you look at him, and it’s like looking directly at a solar flare.

and all you can give him is a smile—fragile, fleeting. a ghost of a thing.

a nod.

just that.

because even that feels like setting yourself on fire.

you cannot touch him. you cannot be touched by him.

because skin to skin with gojo satoru is not touch—

it’s combustion. it’s standing in the center of a burning house and pretending you don’t know the flames by name. you are afraid. not of him—but of what he awakens in you, the old hunger, the tender rot, the ache you never healed.

you stay where you are, still smiling, still nodding. like a sinner bowing at the altar of everything they once destroyed. and he, still silent, still watching, smiles back. a twitch of lips. a flicker of sorrow. a word unsaid.

you are a spark hovering too close to the dynamite. and the reunion goes on. but your heart—it stays paused in that breath between him and you. between almost and never again.

you shrug your coat off with the kind of grace that shouldn’t carry weight, but somehow does—like a monarch shedding its wings before crawling into the dirt. and it shouldn’t mean anything. it’s just a coat. it’s just fabric. but to him, it’s the gates of eden creaking open again. it’s the first light after exile.

and gojo satoru—the strongest, the brightest, the most untouchable—falls. not gently. not sweetly. he plummets.

again.

again.

again.

as if the heart isn’t a one-time bomb but a ritual of detonation, and yours is the trigger he was built to press.

he watches you. really watches you. like a starving man studying a banquet he can no longer touch. like a god exiled from his own temple. your skin glows beneath the weak yellow restaurant lighting—gold, soft, unreal. the kind of softness that memory overexposes with time until it hurts to remember. and fuck, he remembers.

your wrist.

your collarbone.

the delicate shell of your ear.

the way your hands twitch when you're nervous, the way your lips press together when you're trying not to cry. he remembers the sound of your breath hitching under his name like a prayer that never reached heaven.

his fingers curl slightly where they rest on the table, knuckles paling from the pressure. they twitch, like beasts trapped behind glass, aching to roam again across familiar land—your skin. the old kingdom. the fallen empire. he used to know every inch like scripture. and now he doesn’t even have the right to blink too long in your direction.

his lips are sealed into a taut, flat line. but they betray him anyway, trembling like they remember the softness of your name on their altar. they remember your taste, your voice, the way you used to say i love you without actually needing to say it. they remember too much.

and it isn’t memories pelting him now—it’s architecture. full-fledged walls slamming down around him, one after another, building a goddamn mausoleum of what once was. in front of him, behind him, above and below—you, you, you. your memory is spatial. it has mass. it breathes. it’s a fifth dimension he never learned to escape.

even the floor groans under the weight of it. like it's preparing to crack open, to split wide and suck him under into some subterranean exhibit of you. every laugh fossilized. every moan etched in stone. a museum of sins and sacred things alike. you—his relic. his ruin. his religion. just. . . his.

his chest feels too tight for lungs. ribs caught fire long ago, and they’re burning clean now, white-hot, holy. and all these years of silence—of stillness—of pretending not to bleed in the absence— and you walk in like nothing happened. like god didn’t die inside him when you walked away.

you still have him.

that’s the real horror. not that you’re here. not that you’re close. but that you still hold the switchblade that carves his name into the inside of your mouth, even if you never say it again. he wants to laugh. wants to scream. wants to run until his bones snap from trying to carry this ache that has no language.

instead, he just stares. because what a fucking joke.

after all this time—

after all these years—

after all that silence—

he still wants to build a home out of your shadow.

but you don’t need to know that.

the table breathes. you swear it does. its bones groan beneath elbows and glasses and the weight of everything left unsaid. your coat now hangs limply behind you like the ghost of an apology you’ll never give voice to. you sit, and the chair creaks as if even inanimate things remember your weight, your shape, the way your absence once haunted the fibers of every place you left behind. the table trembles slightly when your fingers graze the edge—your touch too holy for wood, too cursed to leave untouched.

they talk first. of course they do. how else to dam the ocean threatening to collapse the room?

shoko leans in, the scent of smoke already woven into her sweater like a second skin. “you still hate parties?” she mutters, a smile twitching at her lips, lazy and weathered. “or is this your way of showing growth?” you scoff softly, eyes flicking down. “maybe i missed suffering.”

“you always did like dramatic exits,” utahime cuts in, eyebrows raised but fondness softening the edges. “figured you’d at least like a dramatic entrance, too.“

“you got both,” haibara chirps, voice too bright for the dim lighting. “you disappeared like a magician and then showed up out of nowhere. like a cursed trick!” you laugh. you actually laugh. and god, it sounds foreign in your own mouth. “i’m full of surprises, no?” you whisper.

geto watches you over the rim of his glass, something wolfish curling around his smirk. “you look good,” he says, and it’s not a compliment—it’s a tease, a jab, a soft knife for old wounds.

you glare, but it doesn’t land. “still an asshole.”

he leans in and plants a kiss on your cheek. “only for you.”

you wipe the spot with mock disgust. “gross.”

“affection,“ he shrugs, like it’s nothing. like he didn’t cradle pieces of anger, annoyance to his best-friend’s heart. like the years didn’t warp everything between you into both ache and fondness.

nanami is quiet but not cold. his eyes are still the same—sharp, clear, painfully perceptive. “i’m glad you came,” he says simply. his words feel like bridges being rebuilt, slowly, plank by plank. glass of wine between his fingers, eyes golden behind the rim of his glasses.

you nod. “me too.”

and you mean it. even if your lungs beg to collapse.

then there’s silence. the kind that swells. thick. pregnant with all the unsaid years.

you don’t need to look to feel him— he is a language carved into your bones, a prayer you never meant to memorize but find yourself whispering every time silence clutches the air.

gojo satoru. your once lover. your unfinished poem. the echo of god’s laugh wrapped in white hair and ruin.

he is too much for the room— not because of his height, but because he exists like a collapse, a star falling in reverse, an entire sky crashing into your lungs with every breath you steal. his presence bends gravity, pulls the blood up to your cheeks as if shame is a kind of worship.

your stomach knots— not in fear, but in recognition.

like the sea remembering a storm or a violin string remembering the hands that once made it sing and scream and break.

maybe he was too big for your heart, maybe that’s why you gave up loving him— five years of building a house in a field of landmines, five years of loving a god with no church to bury your prayers in. five years of being the altar. . . and never the offering.

but fuck—

maybe you don’t know. maybe you never knew. maybe you forgot, or maybe you refused to believe that gojo satoru, the man who grins like war and walks like divinity, would let you— you, with your flint-forged teeth and your flame-slick tongue— sink into the softest part of his neck and draw blood like an oath.

he’d bare his throat not out of weakness, but reverence. as if you were the altar and he the lamb, as if your rage was holy and your pain a hymn. he’d let you gnash at his skin, tear through flesh like scripture rewritten, if only to die at your feet— glorious and ruined, a monument of want, spilling his devotion in the red language he never dared speak aloud.

and even then— even as death circles like a vulture over the carcass of his once-beating heart, he’d smile, stupid and soft, and whisper to the silence, “i’ll come back. i swear to every god that ever spat me out, i’ll come back— just let me hear her voice again.”

because love like that doesn’t rot. because your name tastes like resurrection on his tongue. because hell, to him, isn’t fire or chains or suffering— it’s a world where he can’t touch you. where your laugh doesn’t live in his ears like prayer.

and fuck.

you’ll never understand, will you?

what it means to be worshipped so quietly, so violently, so utterly— by a man who would destroy the heavens just to carve you a seat on his ruined throne.

maybe that’s why you walked away. maybe that’s why the hole he left in your ribs still howls like an animal during winter. a hunger not for food, but for the way he used to say your name like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

and now, he sits. close enough to touch. too far to reach. you dare not turn your head. you fear your eyes might betray you, that they might look at him the way a desert looks at rain— with desperation, with longing, with a kind of madness only absence can plant and let bloom.

and he—

he does not speak. but he burns. he is fire in every quiet moment.

he is the ghost of the man you loved and the god of the man you could never stop. you don’t need to look to feel him. he’s already inside every room you enter, every breath you steal, every line of poetry that tastes too much like ache.

and still— your ribs whisper his name like a country mourning the flag it had to lower. like a home that remembers who once set it alight

and called it beautiful.

he doesn’t say anything at first. doesn’t move. just watches you. his gaze, not sharp like a knife, but aching like a prayer long abandoned by its god.

you finally risk it—meet his eyes.

and you swear the earth forgets to spin for a second.

“…hey,” you say.

and it’s nothing.

a whisper.

a crumb of sound.

but to him, it might as well be divine thunder.

because it’s your voice, after all this time. still soft. still yours.

he blinks.

his voice comes out lower than usual. slower. like it had to travel through fire.

“…hey.”

and that’s it.

that’s the whole damn apocalypse. two syllables shared across a battlefield of broken years. you don’t touch.

not yet.

your fingers stay folded in your lap like caged birds. you don’t dare get too close. you’ve seen what fire does to paper. and right now, he’s a wildfire dressed in a suit. but you see it in him—the way his throat works around words he’ll never say,

the way his fingers twitch like they’re mourning the absence of your skin, the way his eyes drink you in with hunger and grief braided together. and somewhere deep in your ribs, you wonder how long you’ll last before you burst into flames, too. because, you’re fucking obsessed with standing by the smoke just to get burn. eating your skin alive, your soul, and maybe death can do you and home him together.

maybe that's what brought you here— after the dinner plates were cleared, after the laughter was rinsed from the corners of everyone’s mouths, after the ghosts at the table stood and decided it would be good, a good idea, to drown what couldn’t be spoken in neon light and fermented poison. the reason? blurred like rain on old glass. gray like grief. black like closed eyes. blue like the bruise of memory blooming too soon, too fast.

bar-hopping, they said. for old time’s sake. for the ruin. for the memory of what you used to be when the world was less cruel. maybe they missed you. maybe they wanted to stitch you back into the tapestry you tore yourself from. or maybe—just maybe—they wanted to press salt into every wound you thought had healed, using gojo satoru as both knife and bandage. punishment draped in nostalgia. revenge kissed in the shape of reconciliation, a justice, a soft, smiling revenge with music too loud and drinks too bitter.

or maybe— maybe it was punishment in disguise. a blade dipped in sugar. because how dare you vanish? how dare you vanish and still wear his name like a wound you never stitched?

you didn’t ask. you didn’t want to know.

you just… ended up here. with the weight of old laughter in your coat

and gojo satoru sitting alone at a table like a war-torn monument left in the middle of a city too afraid to rebuild. his hair is no longer immaculate, no longer kissed by the arrogant sun. it's disheveled,

sacrificed to the cold wind and some dark thought he wouldn’t dare speak out loud.

his cheeks are flushed— not the pink of joy, no— but the bloom of something frozen and fermented, winter’s mouth pressed too long against his face and liquor swimming inside the boy who always hated its taste. his tolerance was never there— always a child before the bottle, always glass in the hands of fists too drunk with grief.

you approach. and his head lifts like it’s a dream stirring awake.

his eyes soften. a broken smile tries to rise but fails halfway. you sit across from him. a round chair. a round table. two broken halos facing each other over spilled liquor and wasted years. your fingers brush against the glass; it’s sticky, like guilt, slick like all the things you never said. and it clings to you like the past— like him.

he blinks. slow. as if your silhouette might vanish with the next gust of wind. “you’re really here,” he slurs, softly, like prayer, like disbelief wrapped in threadbare hope. “for hours i thought i was dreaming.”

“i’m here,” you murmur, barely. the syllables fall from your mouth like old leaves.

he chuckles. a sound that should’ve been joy but dies somewhere in his throat. he takes another sip, then rests his arm on the table,

lays his cheek on it, and looks at you with eyes that are lakes about to flood. his gaze crashes into yours. soaking you. drowning you. and still, you don’t look away.

you copy him. arms folded, chin resting. you tilt your head, just enough to fall deeper into those irises— that endless, violent blue. blue like bruises you never healed from. blue like sky you prayed to and never got an answer.

“you’re so pretty,” he whispers, like it hurts to say it. like your beauty has always been the blade pressed to his neck. “so stop looking at me like that.”

“like what?” you ask, voice a breath, as your finger ghosts across his cheek, wiping away the tear before it commits the crime of falling.

his eyes flutter shut. he hiccups. his smile— god, that crooked smile— it still lives in some unholy cathedral in your chest. “with pity in your glassy eyes,” he mumbles, “all i am to you is a tragedy, right?”

you don’t answer. what answer would suffice for a man who once held your soul like scripture and shattered it like a mirror? you scoff—because you want to laugh, you want to scream, you want to throw the table over and shout, you idiot, you beautiful, stupid man—

don’t you know i have a whole goddamn forest growing inside my ribs, and your name is carved into every tree? don’t you know every breath i take still tastes like your fingertips? don’t you know that i built an entire religion around forgetting you and still ended up praying to your absence?

so you don’t answer. you hum. quiet and dangerous.

because this stupid man— this stupid, beautiful, broken man—

has no idea. no fucking idea that you have a whole goddamn forest living inside your ribs, and every tree bears his name carved deep in the bark, like devotion, like desecration like you never stopped loving him, you just ran out of air.

and still, he looks at you like he’s begging to be forgiven for sins he never understood. and still, you look at him like you’re begging him to sin again.

he pushes himself up with the weight of a thousand silences pressing on his spine, hands trembling slightly as he steadies himself by folding his arms on the table like a man trying to keep his ribs from spilling open, like a man holding the crumbling temple of his own heart together with nothing but the memory of a touch he hasn’t felt in years—his head tilts, just slightly, as if he’s still searching for your warmth in the air between you.

his smile weak and war-torn, barely stitched together by the ghost of better days, and those eyes—those impossibly blue eyes, rimmed red with exhaustion and something far crueler than grief, the way soft snowfall turns into frostbite when you’re not looking—he looks at you like time has never moved, like this is still 3 a.m.

and your limbs are tangled in the dark, in sheets still warm from laughter, in promises still half-whispered and whole-hearted, as if the world hasn’t split open, ended, collapsed in on itself three separate times and somehow rebuilt without you by his side, as if his voice isn’t still the saddest sound you've ever known, a symphony of mourning wrapped in velvet and regret, and when he breathes in—sharp and jagged—it stumbles out as a sob, a soft implosion of a man who’s forgotten how to survive you.

you hum—barely, like your voice has to climb out of a grave to answer him—and nod, slowly, gently, with lips twitching at the corners as though caught between kindness and cruelty, because you know the smile will undo him, and it does, it always has; and oh, gojo satoru, the man who once held up the sky just to keep you from crying, now hates himself so profoundly he can feel the hate as something physical, tangible.

sitting in the hollowness of his chest like wet ash, like an ache so ancient it must have been born before language, a feeling that writhes in his ribs like some caged animal desperate to escape, to crack bone and tear through skin, to burst out and land in your lap just to scream—here, here, here is the broken wreckage you left behind, the useless cage I still carry like a shrine, because you refused to come home and now this, this is all I have: splintered bone and empty halls echoing with your absence.

he takes another breath—another knife dragged down the center of his throat—and his lips tremble, they falter, they fail, and then the first tear falls, silent and warm, like summer rain on a ruined battlefield, and he doesn’t bother wiping it away because he’s tired of pretending he’s anything other than devastation.

and he lets out a breath that could’ve been a laugh in another life but now comes jagged, frayed, a desperate sound clawing its way out of grief, and his voice cracks open like glass, “why am i annoyed to hear you’re doing well?” he asks with a bitter chuckle that tastes like rust and old wine and dying stars.

even the night outside holds its breath for his answer, because everyone knows it’s not really a question—it’s a confession, it’s a plea, it’s the sound of a man trying not to drown in the idea that you’ve moved on, that you survived him, that you found a way to bloom without the soil of his love beneath you.

like a wounded dog with its ribs pressing against the silence, you whimper—no sound made noble, no dignity left to guard your chest as it tightens like a locked gate beneath your skin, breath hitching on thorns of memory that refuse to die, and the tears fall down your cheeks in steady surrender, not like rivers, no—like wounds reopening themselves because healing would mean forgetting, and forgetting would mean killing what little warmth you had left—“can you just forget about me?” you beg, as if he hasn’t made a home of your name in his lungs, as if his heart doesn’t echo in your syllables every time it beats.

and he looks at you with those eyes, red at the corners, drunk and broken and somehow still holy, and replies, not with anger, not with grace, but with the simple clarity of a man who has built his life from the ruins you left, “how can I forget about you?” his voice cracks around the truth like old glass. “we are married.”

and you shatter.

not because you didn’t know.

not because you forgot how his hands used to tremble when he touched you like he feared you were too good for this world. but because something deeper than your bones still remembers being loved by him, being known by him, being made a whole new language in his presence.

and now your flesh, your skin, your very name no longer feels like your own, as if he branded you gently, kindly, beautifully, and you—ungrateful creature—still asked if you could bite him, if you could take blood and memory from a man who gave you the universe and called it yours.

“it was a joke, ’toru,” you whisper, voice raw, breaking like the spine of an old book, “we were eighteen.”

but he only smiles—no joy, only ruin—because tears, tears, tears, and they don’t stop. not from you. not from him. not from the night itself.

he shakes his head slowly, like sorrow is pulling strings in his neck, like grief has turned him into a puppet of devotion. “no,” he whispers, and his voice is so fragile it could collapse if you breathe wrong. “no, it wasn’t a joke for me.”

and then, like a child showing a scar, he raises his hand, fumbling and drunk, as he shows you his ring finger. the ring. your ring. his ring. the one that bound your souls together before either of you understood what eternity could cost.

“I never took the ring off,” he says softly, touching it like it burns and comforts all at once.

and it feels like the world tilts, spins the wrong way, because people—they always say you'll have many versions of yourself at eighteen, that you'll fall in love again, that your heart is a traveler and not a prisoner, that you’ll learn to love better, wiser, gentler.

but how do you love again when your body still barks like a loyal dog for the hands of the man you abandoned, when every smile at another feels like betrayal because your soul remembers, because even your shadow aches for the one you walked away from—not out of cruelty, but fear?

“why not?” you sob, because it’s all you have left. all you can say. the question you scream into your own pillow every night.

and he looks at you, eyes shining like the last stars before morning, his voice swollen with alcohol and truth, “because you told me not to.”

and there it is—your ruin. your miracle. your grave. your home. all in one sentence.

you sob—no, you collapse, inwardly, violently, like a cathedral folding in on itself, like your ribcage can no longer carry the weight of all the ghosts living inside it, like grief has nested in your sternum and refuses to leave—and your hands press hard against your lap, as if anchoring you.

as if your own flesh could offer forgiveness, or at least a moment of silence from the storm within, and you close your eyes with the desperation of a prayer, hoping—no, begging—that if you shut them tightly enough, you’ll wake up in your apartment, alone, wrapped in the artificial safety of solitude, and call this night a nightmare, a fever dream stitched by guilt and memory.

but no.

when your eyes open, the cruel mercy of reality stares back in the form of him—his gaze soft, impossibly soft, as if you hadn’t ripped his throat open with your silence, hadn’t buried your goodbye into the marrow of his bones and left him to bleed and stitch himself up in the dark with trembling hands and a heart too faithful to curse you for the pain.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper through the wreckage of your sobs, your voice a broken seashell echoing with waves of regret, and still—still—he smiles.

not the kind of smile meant for joy.

but the kind that feels like watching the sun set over a battlefield.

warm. soft. broken.

“you are mean,” he says, not cruelly, not accusingly, but like he’s reciting a truth he carries gently, like a wound he tends to every night just to keep it alive, just to remind himself it was real.

and you—coward, runner, storm-disguised-as-woman—you tell him, “that’s why you should forget about me.”

as if forgetting were a door he could choose to close. as if your name didn’t linger in every breath he took. as if memory didn’t wear your face and your voice wasn’t embedded in every “good morning” he never says anymore.

he chuckles, bitter and hoarse, head shaking with a sort of surrender that feels too old for his age, and for a moment he pulls away from the table, just long enough to wipe his endless tears with the back of his wrist—like a child who’s learned not to ask for comfort—and then he returns, folding his arms again on the table like a man returning to his altar.

“you know…” he begins, voice cracking under the weight of unspoken years, “as you can see right now, day by day—literally, day by day—I’m dying a little more inside.” and then his eyes find yours, not with blame, not with bitterness, but with the kind of love that bleeds and never dries—“still, i love you.”

and you sob—god, you sob.

like every part of you finally understands what you’ve done. like the music can’t drown out the screaming in your chest anymore.

you reach for him—trembling, reckless, human—your hand crossing the table like a confession, your fingers cupping his cheek with the tenderness you once buried, your thumb wiping tears that never asked to be seen, and through it all, you whisper the only truth you think you have left, “i’m a horrible woman.”

and his skin doesn’t flinch. his eyes don’t turn away. because in his world, even your worst version is still the only home he knows.

his cheek leans into your palm like it remembers the shape of your hand, like skin itself carries memory deeper than bone, like even after everything—after the silence, after the vanishing act, after the years where your name was a wound he nursed behind closed doors—his body still believes you are warmth, even if your love came with fire.

he doesn’t speak right away.

he just breathes—ragged, trembling, like the act itself is difficult beneath the weight of your touch—and you realize then how delicate this moment is: him, holding himself together like wet paper in a storm, and you, the storm that never stopped.

“you’re not horrible,” he murmurs, voice low, reverent, not forgiving but true—a truth he speaks the way someone confesses their final prayer—“you were just scared.” and that breaks you in a way nothing else ever could.

because fear was the reason you ran, wasn’t it?

not hate. not indifference. just fear. fear that his love was too soft for your jagged edges. fear that one day you’d rot in his garden, unworthy of his sunlight. fear that someone so golden would crumble trying to hold someone like you.

but he never crumbled.

no—he stayed. waited. kept the door unlocked, the light on, the ring on his finger. like his love had no expiration date. “you say that,” you whisper, throat burning from all the saltwater you’ve held back, “but look at you. you’re not even whole anymore.”

and he laughs, bitter and sweet, like a song played out of tune, “i was never whole to begin with. not before you, not after you. i think i was always meant to love you in pieces.”

you cry harder.

not the quiet kind. the kind that trembles your shoulders. the kind that makes your hands useless. the kind where your ribs feel like glass and every inhale feels like bleeding.

he watches you, not with pity, but with that same unbearable tenderness he’s always reserved for you, the kind that says, i know you’re the reason i’m in ruins, but i’d still choose this ruin over any peace without you.

you look at him, eyes red, breath shaky, mascara in smudges and heartbreak etched across your face like a painting only he could love.

“what do you want from me, satoru?” you ask, voice almost a whimper, like a child lost in the middle of a battlefield. “after everything… why do you still want me?”

and he doesn’t even pause.

he just blinks slowly, his own tears still quietly falling, and answers like it’s the easiest question in the world, “because it was never about wanting you. it’s that i am you. i don’t know how to exist in a world where you’re not part of me.”

and somewhere deep inside, something in you breaks open, gentle and violent all at once—

like spring thawing through winter.

like a dam finally giving way.

you can feel the slickness between your legs, but it’s not from you, not even close, just the remnants of whatever lube he’d half-assedly applied before shoving himself inside without so much as a proper touch or a whispered word that might have made this feel like anything other than a transaction gone wrong. 

the room smells like him, like unwashed laundry piled in the corner by the dresser and the faint, stale cigarette smoke that lingers on the curtains even though he swears he quit, mixed now with the sharp, intimate musk of sweat and sex that hangs heavy in the air, making your stomach twist in a way that has nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with the growing knot of embarrassment and annoyance tightening in your chest. 

your heart is still pounding, but it’s not from the thrill of it all, it’s from the sheer disbelief that this is how it’s ending, your legs still spread awkwardly beneath him, the fabric of your skirt bunched up around your waist like some forgotten afterthought, your shirt twisted and half-unbuttoned so that the cool draft from the window brushes against the exposed skin of your breasts in a way that feels more exposing than seductive.

you clear your throat, the sound rough and dry in the quiet of the room, your voice coming out smaller than you want it to as you finally manage to push the words past your lips. “that’s it?” you ask, the question hanging there between you like a challenge, your eyes still fixed on that damn ceiling stain because looking at him right now feels like it might make the whole thing even more pathetic than it already is. “did you… did you cum?”

he shifts then, his head lifting slowly from where it had been buried in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and damp against your collarbone as he pulls back enough for you to finally meet his gaze. and there he is, naoya fucking zenin, with that sharp, angular face of his all flushed and smug, his pale green eyes gleaming with a self-satisfaction that makes your blood boil even before he opens his mouth. his hair is a mess, dark strands sticking to his forehead from the sweat, and that smirk curls across his lips like he’s just won some grand prize, like he thinks he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to your body when all you feel is a profound, aching emptiness where something—anything—should have been building.

“oh, baby,” he drawls, his voice low and laced with that arrogant drawl that always makes him sound like he’s doing you a favor just by existing in the same room as you, his hand coming up to cup your cheek in a way that’s supposed to be tender but feels more like a claim, his fingers slightly clammy against your skin as he strokes his thumb along your jawline. 

“that was incredible. the best, right? i knew you’d feel like that around me. you were so fucking tight, squeezing me just right. women always say i ruin them for anyone else after one night, and now you get it. this is what you’ve been missing, huh? best night of your life, i bet.”

his words keep spilling out, a steady stream of bullshit that fills the space between you as he props himself up on one elbow, still half-draped over your body, his free hand trailing down your side in what he probably thinks is a sexy caress but just makes your skin crawl with irritation. 

he’s going on about how he could tell from the way you looked at him at that party last weekend that you wanted this, how he’s been thinking about fucking you since he first saw you moving into the building next door, how his cock has never felt better than when it was buried inside you, and all the while that smirk never leaves his face, his eyes half-lidded like he’s reliving every second of his thirty-second performance in his head and coming out the hero. 

the fan keeps spinning, the blades cutting through the air with a soft whoosh that does nothing to drown out his voice, and you can feel the heat of his body radiating against yours, the stickiness where your thighs press together, the way your own pulse is thrumming in your ears now, louder and louder as the seconds stretch out and his monologue drags on.

you frown, the expression deepening with every word that tumbles from his mouth, your brows knitting together so tightly it almost hurts, the annoyance bubbling up from somewhere deep in your gut like a slow-building storm that’s been gathering since the moment he’d pulled you into his apartment with that cocky grin and a half-empty bottle of whiskey. 

the sheets beneath you are damp and twisted, clinging to your back in uncomfortable patches, and the faint taste of his mouth from the sloppy kisses earlier lingers on your tongue, bitter and unfulfilling. you can hear the distant sounds of the city outside his window, car horns blaring faintly through the thin glass, the occasional creak of the old building settling, but inside this room it’s just his voice, his arrogance wrapping around you like a noose that’s getting tighter with every self-congratulatory sentence.

finally, you can’t take it anymore. your hands come up, palms flat against his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat under your fingers, the slick sheen of sweat making your skin slide against his as you shove with all the strength you can muster. 

he topples back onto the bed with a surprised grunt, landing on his back beside you, the mattress bouncing once from the impact as he stares up at you with wide eyes, confusion flickering across his features before it twists into something offended, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. the sudden absence of his weight leaves you feeling strangely exposed, the cool air of the room hitting your bare skin all at once, raising goosebumps along your arms and thighs as you sit up abruptly, the world tilting for a second from the rush of blood to your head.

you tug your skirt down roughly, the fabric catching on your hips as you yank it into place with jerky movements, grumbling curses under your breath that come out in a low, heated mutter, “fucking hell, what a waste, this asshole thinks he’s god’s gift.”

your face burning hot now, a deep flush creeping up your neck and across your cheeks that could be from embarrassment or pure annoyance, you’re not even sure anymore. the material of the skirt feels cheap and rumpled against your thighs, still slightly damp from where his release had smeared, and you can feel the faint sting of friction where he’d been, a reminder that’s more irritating than arousing. you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, the wooden floor cold against your bare feet as you stand up, your knees a little unsteady but holding as you plant your hands on your hips, staring down at him with a glare that could cut glass.

he’s sitting up now, propped against the headboard, his frown deepening as he looks at you, his naked body sprawled out like he still thinks this is some kind of victory lap, his cock soft and glistening against his thigh in a way that makes you want to look anywhere else. “what the fuck is your problem?” he snaps, his voice losing some of that smooth arrogance and edging into defensiveness, his eyes narrowing as he crosses his arms over his chest like that’ll protect his bruised ego.

you don’t answer right away, instead reaching for your shirt that’s tangled at the foot of the bed, pulling it over your head and smoothing it down with sharp, precise movements, your fingers fumbling slightly with the buttons as you fix them one by one, the cotton soft but feeling restrictive now against your still-sensitive skin. 

you throw him a few sharp glares over your shoulder, each one laced with the growing fire in your chest, and then the words burst out of you, loud and unfiltered, echoing off the walls of his small apartment. “you didn’t even last sixty fucking seconds!” you scream, your voice cracking a little at the edges from the sheer volume, the frustration pouring out like a dam breaking. “sixty seconds, naoya! i could’ve counted them on one hand and still had time left over!”

he opens his mouth to retort, something about how it’s not his fault you’re so hot or whatever bullshit he’s about to spew, but you’re already moving, grabbing a tissue from the nightstand and wiping between your legs with quick, efficient swipes that do little to erase the dryness, the lack of any real arousal making the whole cleanup feel clinical and humiliating. 

“my pussy isn’t even wet yet,” you continue, your tone biting as you toss the tissue aside and adjust your clothes one last time, the words coming faster now, fueled by the heat in your face and the way your hands are shaking just a little from the adrenaline. “like, not even close to dripping wet. that was the worst sex i’ve ever had in my life. no foreplay, nothing—just you shoving your dick in like it was some kind of prize and expecting me to thank you for it. i’m not even sure that counted as sex. it was over before it started.”

naoya’s face twists then, the offense hitting him like a slap, his cheeks flushing a deeper red as he scrambles to sit up straighter, his mouth opening in a string of indignant protests. “what the hell are you talking about? you were moaning, i heard you, don’t act like you didn’t want it, you little—” but you’re done listening, the sound of his voice grating against your ears like nails on a chalkboard as you snatch your bag from the floor, the strap digging into your shoulder as you sling it on, the weight of your phone and keys inside it a familiar comfort in the chaos of the moment.

you don’t give him a chance to finish, turning on your heel and storming toward the door, your footsteps heavy on the creaky floorboards, the faint scent of his apartment clinging to your clothes as you yank the handle open with a sharp twist. the cool air of the hallway hits you like a wave, fresher and less suffocating than the thick atmosphere inside, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead in that cheap, institutional way that makes the narrow corridor feel even longer and more isolating. the carpet under your shoes is worn and slightly sticky in places, the distant murmur of a television from another apartment drifting down the hall, and you pull the door shut behind you with a decisive click that echoes softly, leaving naoya’s offended sputtering cut off on the other side.

the hallway light flickers once above your head, a weak, buzzing pulse that makes the shadows jump along the peeling wallpaper, and you’re still standing there with your back pressed to naoya’s door like you’re waiting for the wood to swallow you whole or for him to yank it open and drag this nightmare back into round two. your chest rises and falls too fast, breaths sharp and shallow, the taste of his mouth still sour on your tongue even though you’ve already swallowed three times trying to wash it away. the strap of your bag digs into your shoulder hard enough to bruise, but you don’t move to adjust it; moving feels like admitting defeat, like letting the embarrassment win.

then the door flies open behind you with enough force that the knob bangs against the stopper and rattles the whole frame.

“you’re not seriously walking away after saying that shit,” naoya’s voice slices through the stale corridor air, low and dangerous now, all the post-orgasm smugness stripped down to raw, wounded pride. he’s pulled on a pair of gray sweatpants—hastily, crooked at the waistband—and nothing else, skin still flushed and gleaming under the fluorescent glare, dark hair falling into his eyes as he steps halfway into the hall, one hand braced on the doorframe like he’s physically holding himself back from grabbing you.

you don’t turn around right away. you let the silence stretch, let him feel how small the hallway suddenly is with both of you in it. when you finally pivot on your heel your expression is flat, almost bored, even though your pulse is hammering so hard you can feel it in your fingertips.

“i already said what i said,” you tell him, voice quieter than before but no less cutting. “you want me to repeat it slower?”

his jaw flexes. he takes another step forward, bare feet silent on the threadbare carpet, close enough now that you can smell him again—that mix of sweat, sex, and the faint cedar of whatever body wash he uses that suddenly makes your stomach lurch. “you’re acting like i forced you in here,” he says, each word bitten off. “like i didn’t feel you grinding back against me the second my hands were on your hips. don’t play the victim now just because your ego can’t handle that i finished first.”

you actually laugh—a short, ugly sound that bounces off the walls and makes the couple down the hall probably pause their late-night drama. “my ego?” you repeat, stepping toward him instead of away, closing the gap until you have to tilt your head back to hold his stare. “you think this is about ego? you shoved inside me dry, naoya. dry. no fingers, no tongue, no nothing—just your dick and thirty seconds of jackhammering like you were trying to win a race. and then you collapse on me like you just climbed mount fucking everest and tell me it was the best night of my life.” your voice stays level but every syllable is soaked in acid. “that’s not ego. that’s basic fucking anatomy. you didn’t even get me close.”

his nostrils flare. for a second you think he might actually yell, but instead he leans in, voice dropping so low it’s almost intimate, the kind of whisper that’s meant to bruise. “you were wet enough for me to slide in, princess. don’t lie to yourself. i felt it. tight little cunt gripping me the second i bottomed out. you can act all high and mighty now, but your body was begging for it.”

the words hit exactly where he wants them to—low, humiliating, meant to make you second-guess yourself. and for half a heartbeat they do. your thighs press together on instinct, the faint sticky reminder of him still there, cooling, and you hate how part of you wonders if he’s right, if maybe you were—

no.

you shove the doubt down hard.

“you felt what you wanted to feel,” you say, slow, deliberate. “because the second you pushed in i went dry again from how much it fucking hurt. you think a little natural lubrication at the start means i was dripping for you? that’s not arousal, that’s biology. you skipped every step that actually matters and then acted shocked when i didn’t come. newsflash: women aren’t vending machines. you don’t just insert tab a into slot b and expect fireworks.”

he scoffs, but the sound is thinner now, less certain. “you’re unbelievable. most girls would kill for five minutes with me, let alone—”

“most girls probably lie to your face so you’ll leave them alone faster,” you cut in. “because the alternative is standing in a hallway at one in the morning arguing with a guy who can’t last long enough to make eye contact while he’s inside them.”

that one lands. his eyes narrow to slits, green gone almost black under the shitty lighting. he takes another step, crowding you back until your shoulders hit the opposite wall, the cool plaster a shock against your shoulder blades through your thin shirt.

“say that again,” he murmurs, voice velvet-wrapped razor. “go on. tell me i’m shit in bed one more time. see what happens.”

you don’t flinch. you tilt your chin up instead, close enough now that you can count the faint freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose, see the way his pupils are blown wide—not from lust anymore, but from the same furious adrenaline that’s making your own hands tremble at your sides.

“you’re shit in bed,” you say, each word slow and clear, like you’re reading it off a flashcard. “you fuck like a frat boy who just discovered porn. fast, sloppy, zero finesse, and then you have the nerve to act like i should be grateful you bothered to show up. you didn’t even ask if it felt good. you just assumed. that’s the part that pisses me off most—you didn’t even care enough to check.”

you didn’t wait for respones, heels clicking against the linoleum as you head for the stairwell instead of the elevator. behind you, naoya doesn’t follow. he just stands there—frozen, breathing hard, pride in tatters—while the fluorescent light keeps buzzing overhead like it’s laughing at both of you.

you don’t look back.

not once.

the stairwell door clangs shut behind you and the sound rings in your ears all the way down to the ground floor, each step louder than the last, carrying you away from his apartment, away from the sticky sheets, away from the man who still thinks he’s the best you’ll ever have.

and for the first time all night, your legs feel steady.

the stairwell door slams shut behind you with a metallic clang that reverberates down the concrete steps like a gunshot in an empty warehouse, the sound chasing you as you descend, heels clicking unevenly against each worn tread because your legs still feel rubbery, unsteady, the faint ache between your thighs a constant, nagging reminder of how little naoya actually managed to accomplish. 

the air in the stairwell is colder than the hallway, carrying that institutional chill of old concrete and faint traces of industrial cleaner mixed with the ghost of cigarette smoke from someone who probably sneaks down here on smoke breaks, and every breath you take feels sharper, cleaner, like it’s finally washing some of his scent off your skin even though you can still feel the tacky residue of him drying between your legs, the cotton of your underwear clinging uncomfortably where it’s damp in all the wrong ways.

by the time you push through the heavy fire door at the bottom and step into the underground parking garage, the fluorescent tubes overhead are buzzing louder, harsher, painting everything in a sickly yellow-green wash that makes the concrete look even more stained and the rows of parked cars look like sleeping beasts. your own little hatchback sits where you left it—third row from the entrance, under the flickering exit sign—paint chipped along the driver’s side door from that one time you misjudged the pole too close, and right now it looks like the only safe place left in the entire city. you fish your keys out of your bag with shaking fingers, the metal cold and biting against your palm, and when the locks chirp open you practically throw yourself inside, slamming the driver’s door so hard the whole frame shudders.

the interior still smells faintly of the vanilla air freshener you hung from the rearview mirror last month, sweet and artificial, clashing horribly with the musky, salty remnants of naoya that cling to your clothes, your hair, your skin. you toss your bag into the backseat with enough force that it bounces once against the upholstery before sliding to the floor, then you drop your forehead against the steering wheel, the cool plastic pressing into your skin as a long, guttural scream rips out of your throat—raw, frustrated, embarrassingly loud in the confined space of the car. the sound bounces off the windows, muffled only slightly by the closed doors, and you keep screaming until your lungs burn and your throat feels scraped, until the noise dissolves into a series of shorter, angrier shouts that end in a choked sob-laugh hybrid you immediately hate yourself for making.

your hands fly up to your hair, fingers tangling in the strands you’d spent forty-five minutes curling earlier tonight, the soft waves now frizzing from the humidity of his apartment and the sweat of disappointment. you rake through them viciously, pulling hard enough that your scalp stings, messing the whole style into a chaotic halo as if ruining your appearance will somehow punish the night for turning out this way. “fucking naoya,” you hiss through clenched teeth, the words wet and venomous. “fucking arrogant piece of shit zen’in spawn who can’t even last long enough to make it worth taking my panties off properly.”

you lean back in the seat, head thumping against the headrest, eyes squeezed shut so tightly that white spots dance behind your lids. memories flash in rapid, humiliating succession: the way he’d smirked when he opened the door shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his narrow hips like he’d already won before the game even started; the sloppy, too-hard kisses that tasted like cheap whiskey and entitlement; the way he’d pushed your skirt up without preamble, without even sliding a hand between your thighs to feel if you were ready, just assuming—always assuming—that his mere presence was enough to get you soaked. you can still feel the blunt stretch of him forcing his way in, the brief burn that turned into nothing but friction because there was no slick, no build-up, no care, just him chasing his own finish like you were an afterthought with a pulse.

you groan again, long and low, the sound vibrating in your chest as you slump further down in the seat until your knees bump the underside of the dash. the dashboard clock glows 1:47 a.m. in dull green numerals, mocking you with how little time has actually passed since you walked into his apartment thinking—hoping—that tonight would finally live up to the hype he’d built for months. 

you’d showered twice before coming over, shaved everything, picked out the pretty black lace set that makes your tits look obscene, spritzed that expensive jasmine-and-amber perfume you only use on nights you actually want to feel desired. you’d even painted your nails a deep, glossy red because you thought maybe he’d notice, maybe he’d take his time peeling the polish off with his teeth or something equally filthy and romantic in that delusional way you sometimes let yourself imagine when you’re alone in bed.

instead you’re here, in your car that still smells faintly of yesterday’s coffee spill, makeup smudged under your eyes, underwear damp with his cum and none of your own arousal, hair wrecked, pride in shreds. “goddamn it,” you whisper, voice breaking again. you reach over and twist the key in the ignition; the engine coughs to life with a familiar, comforting rumble that vibrates up through the seat and into your bones. the heater kicks on automatically—too warm, too fast—and the vents blast dry air that smells like dust and old rubber, but you don’t turn it down. you need the noise, the motion, something to drown out the loop of humiliation playing in your head.

“even that albino freak from art major is better than him,” you mutter, half to yourself, half like you’re confessing it to the dashboard. gojo satoru—tall, lanky, always wearing those stupid round sunglasses indoors, always doodling dicks and cats on the margins of his sketchbooks during lectures—had somehow managed, in one fumbling, tipsy hookup behind the campus art building last semester, to make you come so hard your vision whited out and your thighs shook for twenty minutes afterward. 

he’d taken his time, tongue first, fingers second, whispering filthy praise against your clit until you were crying actual tears and clawing at his stupid white hair. and his dick—god, that pretty, flushed, perfectly proportioned cock that curved just right and hit places you didn’t even know you had—had looked almost delicate compared to naoya’s aggressive shove-and-grunt routine. a nerd. a goddamn art-nerd with paint-stained fingers had out-fucked naoya zenin without even trying.

you laugh again, bitter and short, the sound swallowed by the low hum of the engine as you merge onto the wider boulevard. streetlights flash past in rhythmic pulses, illuminating your reflection in fractured glimpses: mascara tracks on your cheeks, lips swollen from too much kissing and not enough pleasure, eyes glassy with frustration and leftover adrenaline. your hands are so tight on the wheel that your wrists ache, but you don’t loosen your grip. loosening anything right now feels dangerous, like the anger might spill out and drown you.

“all i’ve got left is my vibrator,” you grumble, voice thick with disgust—at naoya, at yourself, at the whole stupid night. “at least that stupid pink thing knows how to make me come. doesn’t talk shit, doesn’t smirk like it invented sex, doesn’t finish in thirty seconds and then tell me it was the best i’ll ever have.” you flick the turn signal even though there’s no one else on the road at this hour, the clicking sound oddly soothing in the quiet cabin. “i got all pretty for nothing. smelled like a fucking dessert for nothing. wasted thirty minutes on eyeliner wings that are probably raccoon-level smudged now. for nothing.”

the city slides past in slow, neon-streaked silence—convenience stores glowing like aquariums, shuttered ramen shops with their red lanterns swaying gently in the night breeze, the occasional taxi cruising by with its roof light off. you keep driving, away from his building, away from the sticky sheets, away from the memory of his smug face when he thought he’d ruined you for anyone else. the heater is finally warming the car properly now, the air thick and almost cozy despite everything, and you crack the window an inch just to feel the cold bite of february air against your flushed cheeks.

you’re still pissed.

you’re still embarrassed.

the road stretches out ahead, dark and empty, and for now that’s enough.

you keep driving.

the boulevard is quiet at this hour, almost unnaturally so for tokyo, the usual late-night hum of delivery scooters and distant karaoke spilling out of izakayas replaced by the low, steady thrum of your engine and the occasional soft whoosh of wind slipping through the cracked window. 

streetlights slide across the dashboard in slow golden arcs, painting fleeting stripes of light over your knuckles where they grip the steering wheel too tightly, the leather warm now from your palms and faintly sticky with the nervous sweat that hasn’t quite dried since you left naoya’s building. the heater is still blasting, too hot against your bare thighs where the skirt rides up again from all the shifting in your seat, but you don’t turn it down because the warmth is the only thing keeping the cold knot of frustration in your chest from spreading further. 

you’re maybe ten minutes from home, the familiar turn toward ebara just a few blocks ahead, when the first warning comes.

it starts small, almost easy to ignore: a faint stutter in the rhythm of the engine, like someone tapped the accelerator pedal once and let go too quickly. you frown, ease off the gas a fraction, then press it again—smooth, normal, nothing. you tell yourself it’s nothing, just the old car complaining about the cold february night, the way it always does when the temperature drops below ten degrees. 

but then it happens again, sharper this time, a hiccup that makes the whole chassis tremble for half a second before settling. your heart gives a single hard thud against your ribs. you glance at the dashboard: fuel gauge half full, temperature needle sitting pretty in the middle, oil light dark. everything looks fine. everything should be fine.

“come on,” you mutter under your breath, voice barely louder than the music. “don’t do this to me tonight. not tonight.”

you ease into the right lane anyway, just in case, fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against the wheel. the next stutter is worse—longer, rougher, the engine coughing like it’s choking on something thick and wet. the rpms drop suddenly, the car lurching forward once before the power cuts completely. 

the steering wheel goes heavy under your hands, the power assist vanishing in an instant, forcing you to brace your arms and wrestle it straight as the vehicle coasts, momentum bleeding away faster than you expect. the engine is silent now, eerily so; only the faint whistle of tires on asphalt and the soft ticking of cooling metal fill the cabin. warning lights bloom across the dash like christmas ornaments gone wrong—check engine blinking yellow, battery icon glowing red, some vague exclamation point you’ve never bothered to memorize.

“no, no, no, fuck—no—” the words spill out in a panicked rush as you guide the dead weight of the car toward the shoulder, the curb coming up too fast, gravel crunching under the tires with a gritty scrape that sets your teeth on edge. you manage to pull mostly off the road, the front wheels dipping into the shallow gutter, the whole car listing slightly to the right so that your body slides against the seatbelt. when it finally rolls to a complete stop the silence is deafening, broken only by your own ragged breathing and the distant hiss of traffic on the overpass a block away.

you sit there for a long moment, hands still locked around the wheel, staring at the dark stretch of road ahead where the streetlights thin out into pools of orange before disappearing entirely. the heater has died with the engine; already the warmth is leaching out of the cabin, replaced by the creeping february chill that seeps through the seals around the windows and makes the hair on your arms stand up. outside, the wind picks up, rattling a discarded plastic bag against the chain-link fence that borders the empty lot to your left, the sound sharp and lonely.

“perfect,” you whisper, the word bitter and small. “absolutely fucking perfect.”

you twist the key in the ignition once, twice, three times—each attempt met with the same dull click-click-click of the starter solenoid trying and failing to engage. nothing. not even a cough from the engine. you let your head fall forward until your forehead rests against the wheel again, the plastic cool now, grounding. a laugh bubbles up, dry and humorless.

“of course. of course the night ends like this. get humiliated by naoya zenin, scream in your car like a lunatic, and now the piece-of-shit honda decides it’s had enough too.” you drag both hands down your face, smearing what’s left of your mascara even further, not caring. “happy valentine’s day to me, i guess.”

you sit up straighter, force yourself to breathe slower, deeper. the air inside the car is already starting to feel stale, heavy with the scent of cooling electronics and the faint chemical tang of whatever fluid is probably leaking somewhere under the hood. you pop the hood release anyway—habit more than hope—and shove the driver’s door open.

the cold hits like a slap. february air in tokyo at two in the morning is sharp, almost metallic, carrying the faint diesel stink of distant trucks and the clean bite of frost that hasn’t quite settled yet. your skirt is too short for this, your legs bare and immediately goosebumped, the thin straps of your heels sinking slightly into the gravel shoulder as you step out. you hug your arms around yourself, shivering once, hard, then walk around to the front of the car.

the hood groans when you lift it, the prop rod cold and greasy under your fingers as you jam it into place. in the weak glow of the streetlight you can see steam—thin, ghostly wisps—curling up from around the edges of the engine block, smelling faintly sweet and wrong, like burnt sugar mixed with hot metal. you don’t know enough about cars to diagnose anything beyond “this is bad” but even you can see the problem: a thin, dark ribbon of fluid dripping steadily from somewhere near the bottom of the radiator, pooling on the asphalt in a slow, spreading stain that catches the light like spilled ink.

“radiator,” you mutter, because naming it makes it feel less overwhelming. “great. radiator. because why not add coolant everywhere to this shitshow.”

you step back, gravel crunching under your shoes, and pull your phone out of your bag with numb fingers. the screen lights up your face—1:58 a.m., battery at twenty-three percent, no new messages because of course there aren’t. you open the maps app anyway, zoom in on your location: a long stretch of industrial backroad between ebara and the next major intersection, no convenience stores, no gas stations, no twenty-four-hour anything for at least a kilometer in either direction. the nearest train station is a thirty-minute walk, and you’re in heels, in february, after the worst lay of your life.

you lean against the side of the car, the metal already losing heat, cold seeping through your shirt and into your spine. the wind tugs at your hair again, whipping strands across your cheek, and you don’t bother pushing them away. somewhere far off a dog barks twice, sharp and lonely, then falls silent. a single car passes on the main road—headlights sweeping across the trees, taillights fading red—without slowing.

you close your eyes for a second, just breathing, letting the cold burn your lungs until it hurts. when you open them again the world looks exactly the same: broken car, dead engine, ruined night, you standing alone on the side of the road in clothes that suddenly feel too small, too thin, too everything.

“okay,” you say aloud, voice steadier than you feel. “okay. roadside assistance. tow truck. whatever. just… get home. shower. vibrator. sleep. tomorrow this will be funny. or at least less pathetic.”

you unlock your phone again, thumb hovering over the call button for your insurance’s emergency line, but your eyes catch on the battery percentage again—twenty-one percent now—and something in your chest twists tighter.

you’re not crying.

you’re not.

but the cold is making your eyes water anyway, and the wind is loud enough to cover the small, frustrated sound that escapes your throat as you slide down to sit on the curb, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around your shins, skirt tugged down as far as it will go.

the night stretches on around you, indifferent, endless, the broken car ticking softly as it cools beside you like it’s sighing in agreement.

you wait.

and wait.

and the road stays empty.

the curb is cold and unforgiving beneath you, concrete rough against the bare skin of your thighs where your skirt has ridden up again despite your best efforts to tug it down, small pebbles pressing sharp divots into your palms as you brace yourself and stare at the cracked screen of your phone. 

the battery icon in the top right corner is a mocking red sliver now—nineteen percent—and the time reads 2:04 a.m., each glowing numeral feeling like another minute stolen from whatever scrap of dignity the night hasn’t already taken. wind snakes under the hem of your shirt, chilling the damp patches of sweat that still cling to the small of your back, and every few seconds a distant truck rumbles past on the overpass, the low vibration traveling through the ground and up into your bones like a reminder that the city is still moving while you’re stuck here, motionless, useless.

you scroll through your contacts with numb, clumsy thumbs, the names blurring together in the dim light—mom (do not call after midnight), dad (same), best friend miwa (probably passed out after her shift), roadside assistance (wait time estimated forty-five minutes and climbing according to the website you checked earlier). your finger hovers over the insurance hotline again, but the thought of explaining this whole disaster to a bored operator in a call center somewhere makes your stomach twist tighter. then your gaze snags on a name you added only last month, simple and unadorned in your list: toji.

toji fushiguro. the mechanic who lives in the narrow two-story house right next to yours, the one with the perpetually oil-stained driveway and the chain-link fence that sags in the middle like it’s tired of standing up straight. the man who’d fixed your dad’s ancient corolla last month when the alternator died in the middle of a rainstorm—had come out in the downpour without a word of complaint, black hair plastered to his forehead, broad shoulders blocking most of the streetlight as he worked under the hood with steady, economical movements. 

he’d barely spoken then, just grunted acknowledgments when your dad thanked him and accepted the cash with a curt nod before disappearing back into his garage without so much as a goodbye. scary-looking, undeniably—scar slicing through one dark eyebrow, eyes the color of wet concrete, built like he could bench-press the car he was repairing if he felt like it—but he hadn’t charged extra for the after-hours work, hadn’t leered when you’d brought him a towel and a bottle of water, hadn’t made you feel small or stupid for hovering awkwardly while he worked.

you stare at his name on the screen, thumb frozen half an inch above the call button.

it’s two in the morning. he’s probably asleep. deep asleep, sprawled across whatever bed he owns, maybe shirtless because the man always seems to run hot even in winter, sheets kicked to the foot of the mattress, one thick arm thrown over his eyes to block the streetlight that sneaks through his blinds. 

if you call now he’ll wake up groggy, irritated, maybe angry—might answer with a rough “what” or “this better be fucking important” growled low enough to make your stomach drop. he might curse you out for waking him, might tell you to handle your own shit, might hang up before you can even explain. the thought makes heat crawl up your neck despite the cold, embarrassment mixing with the leftover frustration from naoya until your chest feels too tight.

but the alternative is sitting here until dawn freezes your ass to the curb, or walking the kilometer-and-a-half home in these stupid heels with no coat, skirt too short, phone about to die, every shadow on the empty road looking longer and darker than it should. you swallow hard, the taste of old lipstick and regret bitter on your tongue.

“fuck it,” you whisper to the night air, voice cracking on the second word. “one way to find out what kind of man he really is.”

your thumb presses down before you can talk yourself out of it again. the screen lights up brighter for a second, then the call connects with a soft electronic trill that sounds obscenely loud in the quiet. you lift the phone to your ear, heart slamming against your ribs so hard you’re sure he’ll hear it through the line. one ring. two. three. each one stretches longer than the last, the silence between them thick with dread. you’re already preparing the apology you’ll leave on his voicemail—sorry it’s so late, car broke down, i didn’t know who else to—

click.

a beat of nothing.

then his voice, rough with sleep and gravel, cuts through the speaker like a blade.

“who the fuck is this?”

you flinch even though he can’t see it, the words hitting exactly as hard as you’d feared. his tone is low, edged with irritation, the kind that comes from being yanked out of deep rest without warning. you can picture him—propped on one elbow in the dark, hair a mess, scar pulling tight as he frowns at the phone, maybe already reaching to hang up.

“it’s—it’s me,” you stammer, hating how small your voice sounds. “your neighbor. from next door. the—the girl whose dad’s car you fixed last month.”

silence again, longer this time. you can hear him exhale through his nose, slow and deliberate, like he’s deciding whether you’re worth the energy it’ll take to stay awake.

“...yeah?” he finally says, still gruff but the sharpness has dulled a fraction, replaced by something closer to wary curiosity. “what happened?”

you swallow again, throat dry and clicking. the wind picks up, tugging at your hair, carrying the faint metallic scent of impending rain. headlights flash in the distance—another car passing without stopping—and you hunch your shoulders against the sudden gust.

“my car broke down,” you say, forcing the words out in a rush before you lose your nerve. “radiator, i think. it just… died on me. i’m on the side of the road maybe a kilometer from the turn to ebara. it’s late, i know, i’m sorry, i just—my phone’s dying and there’s no one else and i didn’t want to wait for a tow that might take hours and—”

you cut yourself off, realizing you’re rambling, the cold making your teeth chatter on the last few syllables.

another long breath from his end. you hear sheets rustle, the faint creak of a mattress as he sits up, maybe swings his legs over the side of the bed. the mental image is so clear it’s almost embarrassing—bare feet hitting the floorboards, the low grunt he probably makes when his back protests the sudden movement.

“you alone?” he asks, voice quieter now, more focused.

“yeah. just me.”

“you warm enough?”

the question catches you off guard. it’s practical, not soft, but there’s no mockery in it. you glance down at your bare legs, goosebumps risen in tight rows, the chill settling deeper into your joints.

“not really,” you admit, quieter. “it’s… pretty cold out here.”

a pause. then the sound of him moving—fabric shifting, keys jingling somewhere close, the soft thud of boots hitting the floor.

“stay put,” he says, the words clipped but not unkind. “don’t wander off. i’m comin’.”

“you don’t have to—”

“i said stay put.” his tone brooks no argument, but it’s not angry anymore—just firm, decisive, like he’s already made up his mind and the conversation is over. “five minutes. maybe less if the roads are empty.”

before you can thank him or apologize again the line goes dead, the abrupt click leaving your ear ringing in the sudden quiet.

you lower the phone slowly, screen dimming as the call ends. nineteen percent becomes eighteen. you lock the screen, hug your knees tighter to your chest, and stare at the dark stretch of road ahead where the first faint glow of headlights is already appearing in the distance—steady, approaching, growing brighter second by second.

the wind dies down for a moment, leaving only the soft ticking of your cooling engine and the rapid thud of your own heartbeat.

you exhale a shaky breath that clouds white in the cold air.

and wait.

the cold has settled deeper into your bones now, a persistent ache that starts in your toes where the thin straps of your heels have rubbed raw spots against your skin and creeps upward until even your teeth feel chilled when they clack together. sitting on the curb stopped helping minutes ago—the concrete leeches heat faster than it gives any back—so you push yourself up with stiff, protesting joints, brush the grit from your palms, and retreat back inside the car, pulling the driver’s door shut behind you with a dull thunk that echoes too loudly in the empty night. 

the interior is no longer warm; it’s merely less frigid than outside, the trapped air still carrying the faint vanilla ghost of your air freshener mixed with the sour undercurrent of your own disappointment and the lingering musk of naoya that clings to your clothes like an unwanted guest. you pull your knees up onto the seat, skirt bunching uncomfortably around your hips, wrap both arms around your shins, and press your forehead to the cool curve of your kneecaps, trying to conserve whatever scraps of body heat remain. the dashboard clock glows 2:09 a.m. in dull green; every second feels heavier than the last.

you close your eyes and count your breaths—slow in through the nose, slow out through the mouth—until the shivering eases into something manageable, until the sound of your own pulse in your ears becomes louder than the distant city hum. the windows have started to fog from your breathing, small patches of mist blooming and receding with each exhale, blurring the dark world outside into soft, watercolor smears of orange streetlight and black asphalt. 

you don’t dare turn on the interior light; the battery is already dying and you’re not sure the alternator will even let the dome bulb flicker anymore. so you sit in the dim, cocooned in semi-darkness, listening to the occasional tick of cooling metal under the hood and the soft whistle of wind finding gaps around the weatherstripping.

true to his word—almost unnervingly so—the first sign of him comes exactly five minutes later.

twin beams slice through the fogged windshield, bright enough that you flinch and squint even through closed lids. headlights, high and steady, sweep across the empty lanes before settling on your crippled car like twin spotlights. the jeep’s engine has a deeper, throatier growl than your little hatchback ever managed, a low rumble that vibrates through the ground and up into your seat as it slows, then stops perhaps ten meters ahead, nose pointed toward you. the high beams flick down to regular, then flash once—brief, deliberate—before the engine cuts with a final soft cough. silence rushes back in, broken only by the faint metallic pop of a cooling exhaust somewhere under the jeep’s hood.

you hesitate for half a heartbeat, heart suddenly loud again, then shove the door open and step out into the bite of the night once more. gravel crunches under your heels as you round the front of your car, arms crossed tight over your chest, trying to look less like a shivering, half-dressed disaster and more like someone who has any semblance of control over this situation.

toji fushiguro unfolds himself from the driver’s seat with the same economical grace you remember from last month—long legs first, then the rest of him rising to his full, intimidating height. he’s wearing faded dark jeans that sit low on narrow hips and a plain white t-shirt stretched across the broad planes of his chest and shoulders, sleeves pushed up to mid-forearm despite the cold. 

no jacket. no hesitation about the temperature. in his left hand swings a battered black toolbox, metal catching faint orange glints from the streetlight overhead. his dark hair is sleep-mussed, longer strands falling across his forehead, and the scar that bisects his left eyebrow pulls slightly as he glances your way—once, assessingly—before his gaze slides past you to the open hood of your car.

he doesn’t smile. doesn’t frown either. just looks bored, like being dragged out at two in the morning to rescue a neighbor is mildly annoying but not worth getting worked up over.

you stand frozen for a second, suddenly hyper-aware of how you must look: mascara smudged into faint raccoon rings, hair wrecked from angry fingers earlier, skirt too short for february, legs bare and goosebumped, heels sinking into soft shoulder gravel. he walks past you without a word, boots scuffing quietly, and stops at the open hood you hadn’t bothered to close earlier. the prop rod is still wedged in place; thin wisps of steam have mostly dissipated now, leaving only the sharp, chemical-sweet scent of antifreeze hanging in the air.

he sets the toolbox down with a muted clank, pulls a small flashlight from his back pocket, clicks it on—bright white beam cutting through the dark—and leans over the engine bay without preamble. you shuffle closer, stopping a respectful step behind his right shoulder, close enough to see the play of light across rusted metal and rubber hoses, close enough to catch his scent when the wind shifts.

and it stops you cold.

he smells… good. unexpectedly, unfairly good. not like motor oil or garage grime or the stale sweat you’d braced yourself for. he smells like clean cotton warmed by skin, like the faint sweetness of laundry detergent—something simple, maybe lavender or eucalyptus—layered over the deeper, sleep-heavy musk of a man who was in bed less than ten minutes ago. no trace of the acrid bite of solvents, no black crescents of grease under his nails when the flashlight beam catches his hands. 

his fingers are long, knuckles scarred in places but clean, nails clipped short and pink at the edges. even his forearms, dusted with dark hair, look freshly scrubbed. he must have washed up quickly before leaving the house. the realization makes something warm and confusing flicker low in your stomach, cutting through the cold and the embarrassment for one disorienting second.

he doesn’t acknowledge you staring. just keeps working—methodical, unhurried—probing hoses with careful fingers, shining the light along seams and fittings, occasionally grunting low in his throat when something displeases him.

“when’d it start actin’ up?” he asks without looking at you, voice still rough from sleep but calmer now, focused.

you swallow, throat dry. “maybe… ten minutes ago? it stuttered first, like it couldn’t catch its breath, then just… died. no warning lights before that. well—not really. check engine came on right at the end.”

he hums, noncommittal, and reaches deeper into the engine bay, thick fingers tracing a coolant line until he finds the split you’d seen earlier. the flashlight beam lingers on the dark ribbon of fluid still dripping slowly onto the asphalt.

“radiator’s toast,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “cracked right along the seam. probably been weepin’ for weeks, you just didn’t notice till it gave up.”

you nod even though he isn’t looking. “i… haven’t really checked fluids in a while. dad usually does that.”

another grunt. he straightens slightly, plays the light across the rest of the engine—belts, battery terminals, alternator—then clicks the flashlight off and slips it back into his pocket.

“can’t fix it here,” he says finally, turning his head just enough to meet your eyes. his are dark, unreadable in the low light, but there’s no mockery there, no irritation anymore. just fact. “need to tow it back to my place. got the lift, the parts bin, the proper clamps. this roadside patch job’ll just leak again in an hour.”

you look up at him—really look—taking in the way he towers without trying, shoulders blocking most of the streetlight behind him, casting you in his shadow. the white t-shirt clings slightly where he’s started to sweat from leaning over the warm engine, outlining the hard lines of his chest and the faint dip of his sternum. you have to tilt your head back to hold his gaze.

“can’t you… get the tools now?” the question comes out smaller than you intend, almost hopeful. “i mean—if it’s just a couple things—”

he studies you then. slowly. deliberately. his eyes drag from the top of your messy hair down over your smudged makeup, your crossed arms trying to hide how badly you’re shivering, the too-short skirt, the bare legs trembling in the cold, the ridiculous heels sinking into gravel. the appraisal isn’t leering; it’s thorough, clinical, like he’s cataloging damage the same way he cataloged the cracked radiator. when his gaze returns to your face there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile, more like the ghost of one.

“nah,” he says, voice low, almost gentle in its finality. “your ancient little shitbox is gonna need more than a quick patch. new radiator, flush the system, pressure test the hoses, maybe new thermostat while i’m in there. that’s hours, sweetheart. not fixin’ it on the side of the road at two in the mornin’.”

the endearment lands soft, casual, like he didn’t even mean to say it. your face heats anyway, a sudden rush of blood that has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the way his voice wraps around the word—gravel-rough and warm at the edges.

he reaches past you, close enough that his arm brushes your shoulder, close enough that you catch another clean-cotton breath of him before he steps back. he closes your hood with one firm push; the latch catches with a metallic clunk.

“i’ll tow it,” he says, already turning toward his jeep. “you ride with me. warmer in the cab than waitin’ out here for a tow truck that’ll charge you triple for the hour.”

you hesitate—only for a second—then nod, arms still wrapped tight around yourself.

“okay,” you whisper. “thank you.”

he doesn’t answer. just jerks his chin toward his jeep, then heads back to his toolbox, leaving you standing there in the cold, heart thudding too loud, the promise of heat and the faint, clean scent of him lingering in the air long after he’s walked away.

you snatch your bag from the backseat in a single frantic tug, the zipper catching on the seat fabric for a split second before you wrench it free, the canvas slapping against your hip as you kick the door shut with your heel. the lock beeps twice—feeble, almost defeated—and you don’t wait to confirm it took; you’re already half-running, half-stumbling after him, bare thighs flashing cold in the february bite, heels sinking and catching on loose gravel with every hurried step until you’re close enough to smell diesel and warm rubber radiating off the jeep’s undercarriage.

toji doesn’t acknowledge your approach at first. he’s already crouched at the rear bumper, thick fingers feeding the flat black tow strap under your car’s front crossmember with the same calm economy he used last month on your dad’s corolla. the nylon whispers against asphalt as he pulls it taut, metal hook clinking once when he seats it, then again when he gives the whole length a single, testing yank—hard enough that your dead hatchback rocks forward an inch on its flat tires before settling. 

satisfied, he straightens to his full height in one fluid motion, shoulders rolling under the thin white cotton of his t-shirt, the fabric pulling tight across the slabs of his back for a heartbeat before he turns and walks to the driver’s side without a word. the jeep’s door opens with a heavy, metallic groan; he slides in, long legs folding into the footwell, toolbox thudding onto the rear bench seat behind him.

you scramble around to the passenger side, yank the handle, and climb up—the step is higher than your little car’s, forcing you to brace one hand on the warm leather seat and haul yourself in. the cab envelops you instantly: heated air thick with the clean, sun-dried-cotton scent that clings to him, undercut now by faint traces of motor oil on his skin and the sharp bite of antifreeze still hanging in your clothes from earlier. the door thunks shut, sealing the world outside into a dull murmur.

he twists the key. the engine catches with a deep, throaty bark that vibrates up through the floorboards and into your ass, settling low in your pelvis like a second heartbeat. the tow strap tightens with a soft whine of stretching nylon; your car jerks once behind you, then follows docilely as he eases off the clutch and pulls onto the empty boulevard.

“thanks again,” you say, voice still scraped raw from the cold and the earlier screaming. “i mean it. i was about ready to sleep on the curb.”

he glances over—slow, deliberate—the dashboard lights carving green and amber across the hard planes of his face, catching on the scar that splits his left brow and the faint stubble shadowing his jaw. that same half-smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“hm,” he rumbles, the sound vibrating low in his throat. “shoulda called before you froze your pretty ass off. next time don’t wait till you’re blue.”

you huff a small, tired laugh and sink deeper into the seat, letting the heater vents blast warm air across your goosebumped thighs until the shivering finally eases into faint trembles. the ride settles into a surprisingly easy quiet—not tense, not heavy, just… present. the jeep eats distance with steady confidence, tires humming over expansion joints in soft, rhythmic thumps, the occasional flash of sodium streetlight sliding across the windshield and painting liquid gold streaks over toji’s forearm where it rests on the gearshift. 

you keep your eyes forward, mostly, pretending to watch the dark storefronts slide past, but you feel him looking. subtle at first—peripheral glances that linger a beat too long on the way your skirt has ridden up again, exposing the soft inner curve of your thigh, the faint red indentations where your heel straps have bitten into skin. his gaze traces the line of your bare legs, slow and unhurried, then flicks back to the road like he never deviated. he doesn’t comment. doesn’t leer. just watches. and the silence grows thicker, warmer, charged with the unspoken weight of every stolen glance.

several blocks pass before he speaks again, voice low and casual, like he’s asking about the weather.

“so what were you doin’ out this late anyway?”

the question hits like a cold finger dragged down your spine. naoya’s smug, post-come grin flashes behind your eyes—the limp weight of him collapsing on top of you, the arrogant drawl of “best night of your life, huh?”—and you groan, loud and theatrical, dropping your head back against the headrest until it thumps.

“god, why now?” you mutter, dragging both hands down your face hard enough to smear what’s left of your mascara. “i was finally starting to forget that disaster of a night and you just yanked it right back into my head.”

toji chuckles—deep, rough, the sound rolling through the cab like gravel under boots. “that bad?” he asks, smugness curling the edges of every syllable. “what happened—some kid break your heart, princess?”

you roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts, twisting in the seat to face him fully, arms crossing tight under your chest so the motion pushes your tits up against the thin fabric of your shirt.

“more like someone almost broke my pussy trying to ram his dick in like it owed him money,” you snap, words spilling out uncensored and bitter. “hooked up with this arrogant fuck who’s spent months talking like his cock was gonna rearrange my guts, make me scream for god and see the entire fucking galaxy in one thrust. i finally caved—got pretty, smelled like sex and dessert, the whole performance—and what do i get? thirty seconds of dry, jackhammer bullshit. no foreplay, no clit, no nothing. he comes before i’m even wet, collapses on me bragging about how i’ll never forget it, and i’m lying there staring at the ceiling wondering if that even counted as sex.”

silence for two heartbeats. then toji exhales through his nose—sharp, amused—and the corner of his mouth lifts higher.

“poor fucker,” he mutters, voice dark with laughter. “all that big talk and he can’t even last past the warm-up. that’s what’s wrong with you kids now—mouth writes checks the dick can’t cash. don’t know the first thing about treatin’ a woman right.”

you raise both brows, arms still crossed, body angled toward him now so your knee brushes the center console and your skirt rides even higher. heat prickles under your skin—not embarrassment anymore, but something sharper, hungrier. you tilt your head, letting your gaze drag deliberately down the line of his throat, over the broad stretch of his shoulders, the way his t-shirt clings to the hard ridges of his chest when he breathes.

“oh yeah?” you say, voice dropping softer, teasing, testing. “and you’ve got it all figured out, huh? go on then—tell me. what would toji fushiguro do to treat a woman right? because it sounds like you think you could do better.”

he doesn’t answer immediately. his jaw flexes once, the muscle jumping under stubble, and his fingers tighten around the steering wheel until the leather creaks. the jeep slows for a yellow light, then rolls to a full stop, engine idling low and steady beneath you. he turns his head—slow, deliberate—and meets your eyes dead-on. the dashboard glow turns his irises almost black, pupils blown wide in the dimness, and the smirk is gone now, replaced by something heavier, hungrier, that makes your cunt clench on nothing.

“first,” he says, voice gravel-rough and unhurried, “i wouldn’t shove my cock in dry like some horny teenager who just discovered porn. i’d take my fuckin’ time. spread those pretty thighs wide, pin ’em open with my shoulders so you can’t close ’em even if you wanted to. lick that little clit slow—long, flat strokes till you’re dripping down my chin, till you’re shaking and whining and trying to grind on my face. only when you’re soaked, when you’re begging for it, would i even think about sliding in.”

your breath hitches. you can feel the heat pooling low in your belly, the dampness starting to slick the gusset of your panties despite everything. you shift again—deliberately this time—letting your knee press firmer against the console, letting the skirt ride up another inch so the lace edge of your underwear peeks out.

“and then?” you whisper, barely audible over the engine.

his gaze drops—openly now—to the exposed skin, to the way your thighs press together like you’re trying to trap the ache. when he looks back up, the hunger in his eyes is unmistakable.

“then i’d fuck you deep,” he says, each word measured, filthy. “slow at first—let you feel every thick inch stretching that tight little cunt open, let you feel how much bigger i am, how much deeper i can go. i’d grind right against your cervix, roll my hips so my pelvis catches your clit on every thrust. make you come once like that—clenching and crying around my cock—before i flip you over, yank your hips up, and pound you from behind till the headboard dents the wall. rough. hard. till your legs give out and you’re drooling into the sheets and all you can say is my name.”

the light turns green. he doesn’t move right away. just holds your stare, lets the promise hang thick between you.

you swallow hard, throat clicking. your nipples are tight against the fabric of your bra, aching, and the damp spot between your legs is growing impossible to ignore.

“big talk,” you manage, voice unsteady but still teasing, still pushing. “you sure you can back it up?”

he smirks again—slow, dangerous—and finally eases off the brake. the jeep rolls forward, smooth and predatory.

“keep runnin’ that mouth when we get home,” he says quietly, eyes back on the road but voice low enough to vibrate through your bones, “and you’ll find out exactly how well i back it up.”

the rest of the drive is silent again.

but this time the silence crackles.

you blink once, hard, like the words physically smacked against the inside of your skull and rattled everything loose. your mind goes flat-line blank for a full second—nothing but white noise and the sudden, obscene pulse that kicks low in your cunt, so sharp and immediate it feels like your clit just throbbed once in warning that it might decide to squirt right here on his heated leather seat if you don’t get a grip. 

heat floods your face, your chest, the backs of your thighs where they press against the warm upholstery; your nipples pebble so tight against the lace of your bra that every breath drags the fabric across them like sandpaper. 

the mental image he just painted is too vivid, too filthy, too perfectly tailored: his broad shoulders pinning your thighs open, rough stubble scraping the tender skin of your inner thighs while his tongue drags slow, deliberate stripes up your slit; the stretch of him sinking in deep, inch by thick inch, grinding until your cervix feels bruised and your clit is mashed against his pelvis on every heavy roll; flipping you over, yanking your hips high, pounding so hard the headboard dents drywall and your knees give out and you’re drooling into cotton sheets that smell like him—clean laundry and motor oil and raw male sweat.

he said “you.” not “her.” not “a woman.” you. every single time. like he was describing exactly what he’d do if you spread your legs for him tonight. like he was already picturing your wrists pinned above your head, your back arched off his mattress, your cunt clenching around the fat head of his cock while he tells you to take it deeper, louder, wetter. the realization hits like a second pulse between your legs—hotter, wetter, more insistent—and you feel the slick gather suddenly, soaking the gusset of your panties until the lace clings uncomfortably to swollen folds.

you choose to laugh.

it comes out awkward, breathy, cracking at the edges like you’re trying to force air through a throat that’s suddenly too tight. the sound bounces off the jeep’s interior—too high, too shaky, ending on a little gasp when your thighs press together on instinct and trap the ache. “you’re… so funny,” you manage, sarcasm dripping but thin, barely covering the way your voice trembles. you turn your face forward again, fast, staring at the dark ribbon of road ahead where streetlights slide past in long golden smears, sulking hard now because the fantasy is already rooting itself behind your eyes and you know—bone-deep know—that you will never get fucked like that by him. 

not tonight. not ever. he’s your neighbor. older. scary-looking. the kind of man who fixes cars and minds his own business and probably has women half your age throwing themselves at him without you ever needing to ask. you’re just the college girl next door who called him at two a.m. because her shitty hatchback died and she was too proud to admit she was scared and cold and still sticky from the worst thirty seconds of her life.

toji chuckles again—low, rough, almost fond—like he can read every single spiraling thought you’re trying to bury. the sound vibrates through the seat, through your spine, settles warm and heavy in your lower belly. he doesn’t push. doesn’t tease further. doesn’t say another goddamn word. just lets the silence stretch, thick and deliberate, lets you stew in it.

and you do.

you stew hard.

the rest of the drive is torture wrapped in quiet. the heater hums softly, blowing warm air that smells faintly of him—cotton warmed by skin, the barest trace of clean sweat from when he leaned over your engine earlier—across your bare legs until the goosebumps smooth out but the heat between them only builds. 

every time the jeep hits a small dip or expansion joint the seat shifts under you, pressing the damp lace of your panties harder against your swollen clit, sending little shocks of pleasure-pain up your spine that make your breath hitch. you keep your arms crossed tight over your chest, nails digging half-moons into your biceps, trying to focus on the rhythm of the tires, the occasional flash of headlights from oncoming cars, the faint ticking of the cooling tow hitch behind you. anything but the man beside you.

but he’s impossible to ignore.

his presence fills the cab like smoke—broad shoulders taking up space, thick forearm resting on the gearshift so close you can feel the heat radiating off his skin, the slow flex of his fingers when he downshifts around a corner. every so often his gaze flicks sideways—not obvious, not leering, just… checking. 

tracing the line of your throat where your pulse is jumping, the way your chest rises and falls too fast, the way your thighs keep pressing together like you’re trying to smother the ache he put there with nothing but words. he doesn’t comment. doesn’t smirk again. just watches, lets you feel the weight of his attention, lets you imagine what those big, scarred hands would feel like wrapped around your hips, yanking you back onto his cock while he growls low in your ear that you’re taking him so fucking well, that your tight little cunt was made for this, for him.

by the time the familiar street comes into view—narrow, lined with squat two-story houses, his chain-link fence sagging in the middle, your own porch light flickering weakly—the silence has turned syrupy, electric, almost unbearable. he pulls into his driveway slow, gravel crunching under the tires, the towed car rolling to a gentle stop behind you with a final metallic sigh.

the jeep rolls to a final, gentle stop in the narrow driveway, gravel crunching one last time under the tires before the whole vehicle settles with a soft metallic sigh. your towed car rocks once behind it, then stills, the tow strap going slack between the bumpers like a cut leash. toji reaches for the key and twists—engine dying with a low, reluctant growl that fades into thick silence broken only by the faint ticking of cooling metal and the distant bark of some neighborhood dog too far away to matter. 

the headlights stay on for another three seconds, washing the front of his house in pale yellow, painting long shadows across the sagging chain-link fence and the oil-stained concrete slab that serves as his garage apron. then he kills them too. darkness rushes back in, softer now, lit only by the weak orange glow of the streetlamp two houses down and the faint blue-white flicker of your own porch light next door.

he doesn’t move to get out.

instead he shifts in the driver’s seat—broad shoulders turning just enough to face you, one thick forearm braced casually on the top of the steering wheel, the other resting loose on his thigh. the position opens his body toward you, chest wide, legs spread comfortably in the footwell, the white t-shirt stretched tight across his pecs rising and falling slow and steady. 

he watches you. not blinking. not smiling at first. just looking—dark eyes steady, unhurried, taking in the way you’re still hugging your arms across your chest like armor, the way your bare thighs press together on the warm leather, the way your breath keeps coming a little too fast, a little too shallow.

then the corner of his mouth lifts. slow. deliberate. that same dangerous half-smirk from earlier curling higher.

“still sulkin’?” he asks, voice low and rough like he dragged it up from somewhere deep in his chest.

you snap your head toward him instantly, eyes narrowing even as heat crawls up your neck again. “i’m not sulking.”

he hums—long, skeptical, the sound vibrating through the quiet cab. the smirk deepens, tugging at the scarred corner of his lip. “sure you’re not.”

three pounding heartbeats pass. three seconds where the air between you thickens until it feels like you’re breathing through honey. three seconds where the fantasy he planted earlier flares back to full, obscene life behind your eyes: his tongue flat and hot against your clit, lapping slow until your thighs shake around his head; the blunt head of his cock nudging your entrance, stretching you open inch by thick, unrelenting inch while he growls low in your ear that you’re so fucking tight, so wet for him, gonna take every goddamn bit.

his fist twisting in your hair, yanking your head back so he can watch your face while he slams into you from behind, hips snapping hard enough to bruise, cockhead kissing your cervix on every thrust until you’re sobbing his name into the pillow and your cunt is clenching so hard it milks him dry. the images hit so vivid, so sudden, that your clit throbs once—sharp, needy—and a fresh gush of slick soaks the already-drenched lace between your legs.

he sees it. maybe not the thoughts themselves, but the way your pupils blow, the way your lips part on a silent gasp, the way your thighs clench tighter like you’re trying to trap the ache he caused.

“you curious?” he asks, quieter now, voice dropping into something darker, more intimate.

your eyebrows lift before you can stop them. “about what?”

he doesn’t answer right away. just keeps watching—steady, patient, predatory—while irritation starts to flicker in your chest because he’s dragging this out, making you wait, making you squirm without even touching you yet. seconds stretch. your pulse hammers in your ears, loud enough that you’re sure he can hear it. finally he leans in a fraction closer, forearm still braced on the wheel, close enough that you catch the clean cotton-and-warm-skin scent of him again, undercut now by the faint salt of anticipation.

“about my cock,” he says simply. filthy. matter-of-fact. like he’s asking if you want sugar in your coffee.

you gulp. audibly. the sound loud in the quiet cab. heat explodes across your cheeks, down your throat, pooling low and molten between your legs until your clit feels swollen and oversensitive against the sticky lace. a nervous chuckle bubbles up—high, shaky, cracking at the edges—but before you can force out a sarcastic retort or deflect or do anything to regain control, his hand moves.

fast. sure.

long fingers wrap around your bare forearm—not hard, not bruising, just firm enough that the heat of his palm sears through your chilled skin. he pats his own thigh once—twice—thick muscle flexing under faded denim—and tugs.

your body obeys before your brain catches up.

horny, traitorous thing that it is.

you crawl over the center console in one awkward, eager scramble—knee catching on the gearshift, skirt riding up to your hips, bag tumbling forgotten to the footwell—until you’re straddling the space between his spread thighs. he guides you with that same steady grip until your back thumps softly against the passenger door, legs draped sideways across his lap, ass settled against the hard ridge of his zipper. the position leaves you half-turned toward him, chest rising fast, skirt bunched around your waist so the damp lace of your panties is pressed right against the rough denim covering his thigh.

his left hand stays on your bare leg—palm flat against the inside of your knee, fingers splayed wide enough to span most of your thigh, thumb brushing slow, absent circles over the sensitive skin just below where your skirt ends. the other hand lifts to your cheek—calloused fingertips rough against your flushed face, thumb dragging once along the corner of your mouth, then higher to trace the arch of your cheekbone. he tilts your face toward him with the gentlest pressure, forcing you to meet his eyes.

deep green. almost black in the low light, but when the streetlamp flickers through the windshield you see it—forest dark, moss and pine and shadowed earth, pupils blown so wide there’s barely any iris left. the scar slicing through his lip pulls when he breathes out slow, the point of his nose sharp enough to cast its own small shadow across his cheek in the dimness. 

stubble shadows his jaw, darker along the throat where his pulse beats steady and strong under tanned skin. up close he smells even better—clean cotton warmed by body heat, the faint bite of soap, the underlying musk of a man who was asleep thirty minutes ago and is wide awake now because of you.

he doesn’t speak right away. just looks. lets you look back. lets the silence stretch until it’s thick with everything unsaid, everything he already promised, everything your cunt is already aching for.

your breath shudders out—shaky, needy—and his thumb presses firmer against your cheek, holding you there.

“still think i’m just talkin’ big?” he murmurs, voice gravel-low, lips barely moving. “or you finally gonna let me show you how a real man fucks?”

the words land like a fist to the gut—dirty, direct, dripping with intent. your thighs clench on instinct, slick sliding hot and messy against the denim under your ass. you can feel him now—thick, heavy ridge of his cock pressing up through his jeans, already hard, already straining against the zipper like it’s trying to get to you.

you open your mouth. nothing comes out at first.

then, barely a whisper, “…maybe i am curious.”

his smirk returns—slow, victorious, filthy.

“good girl,” he says.

and his hand on your thigh slides higher.

you don’t know who moves first—whether it’s the slow tilt of your chin into his palm or the way his thumb drags once more across your lower lip, parting it just enough that your breath hitches and your tongue flicks out to taste the salt of his skin—but suddenly your mouths crash together in the dim cab of the jeep, messy and hungry and inevitable. 

his lips are firm, warm, tasting faintly of mint toothpaste and the lingering bitterness of sleep, and the moment your tongue slips past the seam of his mouth he meets it with his own—thick, slow, deliberate—coiling around yours in a wet, sliding fight for control that has your head spinning. you moan into him without meaning to, the sound swallowed by the heat of his mouth, and your arms come up on instinct, wrapping tight around the thick column of his neck, fingers sinking into the dark, slightly damp strands at his nape, tugging hard enough to make him growl low in his throat.

the kiss deepens—teeth grazing, tongues tangling, saliva slicking the corners of your mouths—until you’re both breathing ragged through your noses, chests heaving against each other. he breaks first, but only to drag his lips along the line of your cheek, teeth catching the soft swell of the apple and biting down—not hard enough to break skin, just enough to sting sweetly—and you gasp, sharp and surprised, the sound turning into a shaky whimper when he soothes the bite with a slow, flat swipe of his tongue. 

his mouth moves lower, mapping the sharp edge of your jaw with open-mouthed kisses, sucking gently at the sensitive spot just below your ear until your head tips back against the cool glass of the passenger window, exposing more throat for him to claim. he follows the invitation without hesitation—lips trailing hot and wet down the column of your neck, teeth scraping lightly over your pulse point before he latches on, sucking hard enough to pull blood to the surface in a blooming hickey that throbs in time with your racing heart.

you push your chest up into him without thinking, tits straining against the thin fabric of your shirt, nipples so hard they ache every time the cotton drags across them. he doesn’t miss it—his free hand slides up your side, rough palm skimming the curve of your waist, then higher until his thumb brushes the underside of your breast, teasing the stiff peak through layers of lace and cotton until you arch harder, chasing the friction. 

his mouth keeps moving—kissing, biting, licking a slow path down the center of your chest until he reaches the dip of your sternum, tongue dipping into the hollow there while his teeth graze the delicate skin above your cleavage. every small bite sends sparks racing down your spine, makes your hips twitch forward against the hard ridge of his thigh, grinding your soaked pussy against denim in desperate little circles.

“fuck, listen to you,” he murmurs against your skin, voice gravel-rough and thick with want, breath hot where it fans over the wet marks he’s left. “sound so goddamn pretty whining for me already. bet you’re dripping through those little panties, huh?”

you can only whimper in answer—high, needy, embarrassing—and he chuckles low, the vibration rumbling through his chest into yours. his hand on your thigh finally moves—slow, torturously slow—fingers walking up the soft inside until they reach the lace edge of your underwear. he doesn’t push the fabric aside. doesn’t rip it off. just cups your pussy through the thin black material, palm hot and broad, the heel of his hand pressing firm against your clit while two thick fingers trace the outline of your swollen lips through the soaked lace.

you gasp—loud, broken—hips jerking up into his touch on instinct. the pressure is perfect and nowhere near enough, the lace dragging rough against your oversensitive clit every time he flexes his fingers, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that make your thighs tremble and your breath hitch in short, desperate pants.

“toji—” his name spills out like a plea, cracked and breathless, and the sound seems to please him because he hums deep in approval, the vibration traveling straight to your core.

“that’s it, baby,” he praises, voice low and filthy against your throat. “say my name just like that again. love how fuckin’ needy you sound when you’re humping my hand like a little slut who hasn’t been properly touched in forever.”

he doesn’t rush. doesn’t tear the panties off or shove his fingers inside you like you half-expect, half-crave. instead he keeps the pace agonizingly slow—rubbing the flat of his palm in lazy circles over your clit, letting the lace soak up more of your slick until the fabric clings transparently to every fold, outlining the puffy shape of your lips and the hard nub of your clit beneath. every drag of rough cotton against swollen flesh sends jolts of pleasure-pain up your spine, makes your toes curl inside your heels, makes your fingers tighten in his hair until you’re pulling hard enough to sting.

“look at you,” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear now, hot breath making you shiver. “so wet i can feel it through the denim. bet if i pulled these panties to the side you’d be dripping down my wrist, huh? all messy and swollen from just my mouth and my hand. poor little cunt’s been neglected so long it’s crying for attention.”

you whimper again—louder this time—hips rolling up into his palm in helpless little thrusts, chasing more pressure, more friction, more of anything he’ll give you. the wet spot on his jeans is growing under your ass, slick seeping through lace and denim alike, and the obscene sound of fabric sliding against soaked fabric fills the cab every time you grind down.

“please,” you gasp, voice cracking on the word. “toji—please—”

he nips your earlobe, teeth sharp, then soothes it with his tongue. “please what, sweetheart? use your words. tell me exactly what this greedy pussy needs.”

his fingers press harder—still over the lace, still torturing you with the barrier—and you cry out softly, back arching off the door, tits pushing into his chest.

“need—need you to touch me,” you manage, words tumbling out in a rush. “inside, please—fuck, just—stop teasing.”

he chuckles again—dark, pleased—and finally hooks one finger under the edge of your panties, dragging the soaked lace to the side with agonizing slowness until cool air hits your dripping folds and makes you shudder.

but he still doesn’t push inside.

just lets the pad of his middle finger trace the length of your slit—once, twice—collecting your slick until his finger glistens in the faint streetlight glow coming through the windshield.

“so fuckin’ wet,” he murmurs, almost reverent. “this all for me? after one bad fuck you’re this desperate for a real cock?”

you can only nod—frantic, needy—hips chasing his finger when he pulls it away just enough to make you whine.

“good girl,” he says again, voice thick with approval. “keep making those pretty sounds. gonna take my time with you tonight. gonna make you come so many times you forget anyone else ever touched this cunt.”

and then—finally—his finger circles your clit once, bare skin on bare skin, slow and slick and perfect.

your whole body jerks like you’ve been shocked.

and he smiles against your throat—slow, predatory, victorious—because he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

and he’s only just getting started.

his finger is right there—barely a breath away from sliding between your slick folds, the pad of it already grazing the sensitive outer edge of your entrance where everything is swollen and dripping and aching for more—when your hand shoots down on instinct, fingers wrapping tight around his thick wrist and halting him mid-motion. the sudden stop makes your whole body jolt, clit throbbing angrily at the denial, a half-whine-half-gasp spilling from your lips before you can swallow it back.

toji freezes. his deep green eyes snap to yours, brows knitting into a deep frown that pulls the scar on his lip taut. the hand still cupping your cheek tightens just a fraction—not painful, just enough to remind you he could pin you if he wanted—while the other stays trapped between your thighs, heat radiating off his palm like a brand against your soaked cunt.

“what the fuck are you doin’?” he growls, voice low and edged with frustration, the rumble vibrating straight through your chest where you’re still pressed against him. “thought you wanted this. thought that greedy little pussy was finally gonna get what it’s been crying for.”

you swallow hard, chest heaving, trying to steady your breathing even as your hips twitch once—traitorous—against his unmoving hand. “calm the fuck down, you big impatient bastard,” you snap back, the insult coming out breathy and ruined but still sharp enough to make his eyes narrow further. “i do want it. i want it so bad i’m shaking. but not like this.”

he exhales through his nose—sharp, annoyed—the sound almost a snort. “not like this,” he repeats slowly, mocking, thumb flexing once against your cheek like he’s debating whether to squeeze or stroke. “then how, princess? spell it out before i lose my fuckin’ patience.”

you meet his glare head-on, chin lifting even as your thighs tremble around his wrist. “grab the wet tissues from my bag,” you say, voice steadier now, demanding in a way that surprises even you. “they’re in the side pocket. now.”

toji stares at you for a long beat—jaw ticking, nostrils flaring—then lets out a low, muttered curse under his breath. “un-fucking-believable,” he grumbles, but he leans anyway, long arm stretching across the console to fish through your bag on the floor. 

the movement makes his thigh flex under your ass, the hard length of his cock shifting against your hip through denim, reminding you exactly what’s waiting once this little detour is over. he finds the small pack of wet wipes, yanks it free with more force than necessary, and drops back into the seat with a grunt, holding the packet up between two fingers like it personally offended him.

“happy now?” he asks, sarcasm thick enough to cut.

you snatch the packet from him, tear it open with your teeth—plastic crinkling loudly in the quiet cab—then press one damp cloth into his palm. “wipe me,” you order, voice dropping lower, more serious. “i don’t want any trace of that other guy on me when i finally feel your cock. not a single fucking drop. i’m too disgusted to let it stay.”

his eyes darken instantly—pupils swallowing the green until they’re almost black—and for a second you think he might actually growl. instead he just glares, hard and unblinking, the muscle in his jaw jumping like he’s chewing glass.

you can’t help it—you chuckle, soft and a little mean, leaning in until your lips brush the shell of his ear. “what? you wanna eat my pussy with someone else’s cum still leaking out of it? that your kink, toji? tasting another man’s load while you tongue-fuck me clean?”

he makes a rough, disgusted sound in the back of his throat—half growl, half scoff—and slaps your pussy once, open-palmed and sharp enough to make you yelp and jolt forward against his chest. the wet smack echoes in the cab, stinging sweetly across your swollen clit, sending a fresh gush of slick down your thighs.

“fuck no,” he snaps, voice gravel-rough and pissed. “i don’t share. not even leftovers.”

you laugh again—breathless, delighted—while he hooks two fingers into the crotch of your black lace panties and yanks them down your legs in one impatient tug. the fabric drags over your skin, soaked and clinging, until he pulls them free of your ankles and tosses them onto the dashboard with a wet slap. they land in a crumpled heap right in front of the windshield, dark patch visible even in the low light, obscene proof of how turned on you’ve been all night.

he unfolds the wipe—cool, alcohol-scented, slightly medicinal—and presses it between your thighs without preamble. the first swipe is firm, clinical almost, dragging from your entrance up over your clit in one long, slow pass that makes your hips buck and a broken moan tear from your throat. he doesn’t linger, doesn’t tease; just methodically wipes every inch—outer lips, inner folds, the sticky trails that have already started drying on your inner thighs—until the cloth comes away glistening but no longer carrying anyone else’s scent.

“better?” he asks, voice flat, sarcastic, but his eyes are locked on your cunt like he’s cataloging every twitch, every fresh bead of your own arousal that wells up the second he pulls the wipe away.

you nod, biting your lip hard enough to taste copper. “much better. now i’m only dripping for you.”

he tosses the used wipe into the footwell without looking, then grabs a fresh one and finishes the job—wiping the crease of your thighs, the sensitive skin where leg meets hip—until you’re clean, glistening, and shivering from the cool air and the way his knuckles keep brushing your oversensitive clit with every pass.

when he’s done he balls the wipe up, throws it after the first, and finally looks back at you—eyes dark, hungry, the earlier irritation melted into something hotter, more dangerous.

“there,” he says, voice low and rough again, thumb dragging once along your freshly cleaned slit just to watch you shudder. “no one else’s mess. just this tight, needy little cunt waiting for my cock.”

his fingers flex against your thigh—spreading you wider across his lap—while his other hand slides up to fist gently in your hair, tilting your head back so he can see every flicker of want on your face.

“now,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours, breath hot and mint-sharp, “you gonna keep making demands, or you gonna let me fuck you stupid like i promised?”

your cunt clenches hard on nothing at the words—empty, aching, ready.

you whisper against his mouth, voice wrecked:

“fuck me stupid, toji. please.”

he smiles then—slow, predatory, victorious—and the hand in your hair tightens.

“atta girl.”

the moment the last damp wipe hits the footwell with a soft, wet thud, toji’s hand returns—slow, deliberate, no more hesitation—cupping your freshly cleaned pussy like he’s claiming territory he’s already mapped out in his head. his palm is hot, rough from years of wrench grips and calluses, the heat of it searing straight through your bare skin and making your clit jump under the lightest brush of his thumb. 

he doesn’t push inside yet; instead he drags the flat pad of his middle finger along your slit in one long, languid sweep—gathering the fresh flood of your arousal that’s been building since he first whispered those filthy promises—coating his skin until his finger glistens in the faint orange streetlight bleeding through the windshield.

you shift instinctively, thighs falling open wider, skirt bunched uselessly around your waist like a forgotten belt. the new angle spreads you completely—lips parting on their own, clit peeking out swollen and flushed, entrance fluttering around nothing—and toji lets out a low, approving hum that vibrates straight into your chest where you’re still half-pressed against him.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, voice gravel-thick and pleased. “open wide for me, baby. let me see how pretty this cunt looks when it’s begging. good girl—fuck, look at you dripping already.”

he taps your pussy three times—light, sharp little smacks right over your clit that make your hips jerk and a soft, startled gasp spill from your lips each time. the wet slap of skin on skin echoes faintly in the cab, obscene and intimate, and every impact sends bright sparks racing up your spine until your toes curl hard inside your heels. then he pulls his hand away completely—leaving you clenching on nothing, aching, empty—and lifts those two slick fingers to your mouth.

“open,” he orders, low and commanding, thumb pressing gently but firmly against your lower lip until you part for him.

you obey without a second thought—lips wrapping eagerly around his middle and ring fingers, tongue swirling instinctively to taste yourself: salty-sweet, musky, unmistakably you. the flavor coats your mouth, warm and slick, and you suck harder—hollowing your cheeks, swirling your tongue between the digits like you’re trying to clean every drop—eyes fluttering half-shut as you moan softly around the intrusion.

toji watches with dark, hooded eyes, the scarred corner of his mouth twitching upward. “fuck yes—suck like you mean it. taste how wet you are for me. that’s all you, baby. only you.”

he lets you work for a few long seconds—lets you bob your head shallowly, lets your tongue drag along the underside of his fingers—before he slowly pulls them free with a wet pop. a thin string of saliva connects your lips to his fingertips for a heartbeat before it snaps; he doesn’t wipe it away. instead he brings those same fingers to his own mouth—slides them past his lips, sucks once, deep and deliberate—eyes locked on yours the whole time so you see the way his throat works, the way his tongue curls around his own digits to taste what you left behind.

then he drops his hand again.

“watch,” he whispers, voice rough and intimate against the shell of your ear. “watch my fingers disappear inside this tight little hole.”

your right arm drapes over his broad shoulder—fingers sinking back into the dark strands at his nape, tugging lightly just to feel him grunt—while your right arm stretches back, hand gripping the top of the steering wheel for leverage, knuckles whitening as you brace yourself. you force your eyes down—watching, mesmerized—as two thick fingers part your folds again, sliding slow and slick along your entrance before pressing in.

the stretch is immediate—perfect, burning sweetly—your walls fluttering around the intrusion as he sinks knuckle-deep in one smooth, unhurried glide. you moan—long, broken, the sound catching in your throat—and bite down hard on your lower lip to muffle it, teeth sinking into soft flesh until you taste copper. 

the jeep is still parked right in his driveway; your house is literally next door, porch light still flickering weakly, your parents probably asleep but close enough that a scream could carry on the cold night air. the thought makes your cunt clench harder around his fingers—shame and thrill twisting together until you’re trembling.

“shhh,” he breathes against your throat, lips brushing the fresh hickey he left earlier. “not too loud, sweetheart. don’t want mommy and daddy hearing how their little girl’s getting finger-fucked in the neighbor’s truck like a needy slut.”

his fingers curl—slow, deliberate—pressing up against that spongy spot inside that makes your vision white out for a second. you choke on another moan, thighs shaking, hips rocking forward to meet every shallow thrust he gives you. he doesn’t speed up; just keeps that torturous rhythm—curl, drag, curl, drag—letting you feel every ridge of his knuckles, every callus scraping your sensitive walls, every time your own slick coats his palm and drips down his wrist.

“fuck, listen to her,” he mutters, almost to himself, free hand sliding up to palm your tit through your shirt, thumb circling your nipple until it’s a hard, aching point. “this pussy’s sucking me in so greedy. bet you’d take three fingers just as easy, huh? bet you’d cry so pretty if i stretched you wide enough for my cock.”

you whimper—muffled against his shoulder now, teeth grazing the cotton of his t-shirt—hips canting up in helpless little rolls, chasing the pressure, the fullness, the slow-building heat that’s coiling tighter and tighter in your belly.

“toji—” his name comes out wrecked, barely audible, but he hears it.

he presses deeper—fingers scissoring just enough to make you feel the burn—then pulls back only to thrust in again, slow and deep, thumb finding your clit and rubbing messy, firm circles over the swollen bud.

“yeah?” he whispers, lips brushing your temple. “you close already? gonna come all over my hand right here in my driveway? go on—let me feel it. squeeze those pretty walls and soak my fingers. show me how bad you needed this.”

your back arches—head thumping softly against the passenger window—eyes squeezed shut as the pleasure spikes sharp and bright, so close you can taste it.

and he just keeps going—slow, relentless, filthy—murmuring praise and degradation in equal measure against your skin until you’re shaking apart in his lap, biting your own arm to keep quiet, coming so hard your vision blurs and your cunt pulses around his fingers like it’s trying to pull him deeper forever.

he doesn’t let you come.

his fingers stay buried deep—two thick digits curled just right against that swollen, spongy patch inside you that makes your toes curl and your breath hitch every time he presses—but he keeps the rhythm maddeningly slow, deliberate, almost reverent. every thrust is measured: in to the third knuckle, twist, drag out until only the tips remain, then sink back in with the same unhurried patience, letting your walls flutter and clutch around him like they’re trying to pull him deeper, keep him there forever. 

the wet, obscene sound of your slick coating his hand fills the cab every time he moves—soft, sticky schlick-schlick that would be embarrassing if it didn’t feel so fucking good, if it didn’t make your hips roll up in helpless little circles chasing more even though he won’t give it to you.

you’re trembling in his lap—one hand fisted in the dark hair at his nape, the other braced white-knuckled on the steering wheel—thighs spread so wide your muscles burn, skirt rucked up around your waist like a belt you forgot to take off, heels scraping uselessly against the floor mat every time your body jerks. the cool glass of the window presses against your shoulder blades through your thin shirt.

the heater vents still blow warm air across your bare legs, carrying the clean-cotton scent of him mixed now with the sharp, intimate musk of your own arousal and the faint metallic bite of the night outside. every slow curl of his fingers drags a fresh gush of slick down his wrist, dripping onto the leather seat beneath you until there’s a dark, wet patch spreading under your ass, warm and sticky against your skin.

“that’s it,” he murmurs against your throat, lips brushing the fresh bruise he sucked there earlier, voice so low it vibrates straight through your chest. “just feel it, baby. feel how deep i’m in you. no rush. no need to chase. let me treat this pretty cunt like it deserves—like it’s the only thing that matters right now.”

you whimper—soft, broken, muffled against his shoulder because you’re still terrified your parents might hear if you get too loud, even though the windows are fogging now from your combined breathing and the jeep is parked far enough from their bedroom window that maybe, just maybe, you’re safe. but the fear only makes it hotter—makes your walls flutter harder around his fingers, makes your clit throb every time his palm grinds against it on the downstroke.

he shifts his wrist angle—barely—and the next thrust hits that spot dead-on, slow and firm, holding there for a long second while his thumb circles your clit in lazy, feather-light strokes that keep you hovering right on the edge without ever letting you tip over. your whole body locks up—back bowing, thighs shaking, a choked sob catching in your throat—and he just hums in approval, free hand sliding up under your shirt to palm your breast, rolling your nipple between rough fingers until it’s so hard it hurts sweetly.

“look at you,” he breathes, lips dragging along your jaw until he can nip the soft skin under your ear. “fuckin’ goddess in my lap—spread open, dripping, taking my fingers so perfect. you were made for this, weren’t you? made to be fucked slow and deep until you forget your own name.”

you nod frantically—teeth sinking into your lower lip again to keep quiet—hips rocking in tiny, desperate circles that match his rhythm, grinding down every time he pushes in, trying to take him deeper even though he’s already so far inside you can feel him against your cervix on every slow plunge. the stretch is perfect—burning just enough to remind you how thick his fingers are, how much fuller his cock will feel later—and every drag out leaves you clenching around nothing, aching, empty, only for him to fill you again with that same torturous patience.

“toji—” his name comes out wrecked, barely a whisper, cracked on the edges from how hard you’re biting back moans.

“yeah, baby?” he answers, voice rough and warm against your skin. “tell me how it feels. tell me how much better this is than anything you’ve had before.”

“s-so good,” you gasp, head falling back against the window with a soft thump. “so full—fuck—your fingers are so thick, stretching me just right—please don’t stop.”

“not stopping,” he promises, curling again—slow, deliberate—holding the pressure until your eyes roll back and a fresh wave of slick coats his hand. “gonna keep you right here—right on this edge—until you’re shaking so hard you can’t think. until this pussy’s so sensitive even breathing on it makes you come. you’re my little sex goddess tonight, sweetheart. gonna worship you slow until you’re crying for my cock.”

his thumb presses firmer against your clit now—not rubbing, just holding steady pressure while his fingers keep that deep, lazy rhythm—curl, drag, curl, drag—building the heat in your belly higher and higher without ever letting it crest. 

your thighs tremble violently around his wrist; your nails dig into his scalp hard enough to sting; your other hand grips the steering wheel so tight the leather creaks under your palm. every nerve ending feels lit up—clit throbbing in time with your heartbeat, walls fluttering helplessly around his fingers, slick dripping down his wrist and onto his jeans in warm little rivulets.

he leans in—lips brushing yours in the softest, filthiest kiss—tongue tracing the seam of your mouth until you open for him, letting him lick inside slow and deep while his fingers never falter.

“you’re doing so good,” he whispers against your lips, breath hot and mint-sharp. “taking it so pretty. gonna keep you like this all night if i want—slow, deep, making you feel every goddamn inch until you’re begging me to ruin you.”

you sob quietly—muffled against his mouth—hips grinding down harder, chasing the impossible edge he refuses to give you yet.

and he just smiles—slow, predatory, utterly in control—fingers curling again, thumb pressing just a little firmer, keeping you suspended in that perfect, torturous pleasure where you’re worshipped, adored, fucked like something sacred and filthy all at once.

“that’s my girl,” he breathes. “let me take care of you.”

his fingers never lose that slow, deliberate rhythm even as your body starts to betray how close you are—walls fluttering faster around the thick intrusion of his middle and ring fingers, slick gushing in fresh, warm pulses every time he drags them out only to sink them back in knuckle-deep with the same patient cruelty. 

the jeep cab feels smaller now, air thick and humid with the mingled scents of your arousal, his clean cotton skin, the faint metallic bite of cooling engine parts outside, and the sharp, intimate musk rising between your spread thighs. every slow curl of his digits presses the callused pads right against that swollen, spongy ridge inside you—the spot that makes your vision flicker white at the edges and your breath hitch into tiny, desperate gasps you can’t quite muffle against his shoulder.

your hips roll in helpless little circles now, grinding down to meet every measured thrust, chasing the pressure even though he’s controlling the pace, controlling everything. the wet, obscene schlick-schlick of your cunt swallowing his fingers fills the quiet space between your ragged breaths; slick coats his palm, drips in slow, warm trails down the inside of his wrist, soaks into the denim stretched tight over his thigh until the dark patch under your ass grows wider, warmer, stickier against your bare skin. 

your clit throbs angrily under the steady, unhurried pressure of his thumb—still not rubbing, just holding firm, letting the heat and the slight friction of his callus keep you teetering right on that razor edge without ever letting you fall.

then he curls again—deeper this time, slower, deliberate—fingers hooking just right, pressing hard and unyielding against that perfect spot while the heel of his hand grinds forward at the same moment, mashing your clit against the rough pad of his thumb.

your whole body locks.

a broken, trembling whimper spills out of you before you can stop it—high and cracked and so needy it embarrasses you even as it makes your cunt clench violently around his knuckles. your thighs shake hard around his wrist; your nails rake down the back of his neck hard enough to leave red trails under the dark strands; your head tips back against the fogged passenger window with a dull thump, mouth falling open on a silent scream because if you let the sound out it’ll carry straight through the thin walls of the house next door.

“toji—” the word comes out wrecked, barely a whisper, trembling on every syllable. “i’m—fuck—i’m gonna cum—i’m so close—please. . .”

he doesn’t answer with words at first.

instead his thumb finally moves.

not slow anymore.

fast.

hard.

tight little circles over your swollen clit—relentless, precise, the rough pad of his thumb dragging wet friction across the oversensitive bud in rapid, merciless strokes that match the sudden quickening of his fingers inside you—still deep, still curling, but now pumping faster, slick sounds turning louder, wetter, filthier as your cunt gushes around him in frantic little spasms.

“that’s it,” he growls low against your throat, voice thick with dark satisfaction, lips brushing the racing pulse under your jaw. “let it happen, baby. come all over my fuckin’ hand—make a mess on my lap like the greedy little slut you are. i wanna feel this tight cunt squeeze me while you squirt. go on—give it to me.”

your legs start shaking violently—muscles jumping and twitching uncontrollably, heels scraping uselessly against the floor mat, thighs trying to snap closed around his wrist even as he forces them wider with the sheer strength of his forearm braced between them. your head jerks forward on instinct—forehead colliding with his in a clumsy, desperate bump, noses brushing, breaths mingling hot and ragged between your open mouths—and you can’t hold it back anymore.

the first wave hits like a fist to the gut.

your cunt clamps down hard around his fingers—walls spasming, fluttering, pulsing in violent, rhythmic contractions—and then you’re squirting.

hot.

messy.

uncontrollable.

clear fluid gushes out around his knuckles in forceful, rhythmic spurts—splashing against his palm, soaking his wrist, drenching the front of his jeans in warm, sticky pulses that keep coming as long as he keeps rubbing your clit in those fast, punishing circles and keeps curling his fingers against that spot inside you. your voice cracks into a shaking, high-pitched cry you try to muffle against his mouth—half sob, half moan—legs trembling so violently they jerk against his thighs, heels kicking once, twice, uselessly against the dash.

“fuck yes—look at that,” he groans, voice rough and reverent, thick with filthy pride. “squirtin’ so pretty for me—fuckin’ drenchin’ me, baby. . . good girl, such a good fuckin’ girl—soakin’ my jeans like you can’t stop. keep goin’. . . ride it out—let every drop spill.”

he doesn’t stop.

his thumb keeps circling—faster now, slick with your release, dragging obscene wet sounds from your overstimulated clit—while his fingers pump through every pulsing contraction, coaxing more and more out of you until the squirt turns into weaker, shuddering little sprays that still soak his hand, still drip in warm rivulets down his forearm and pool on the leather beneath you.

then he pulls his fingers free with a wet, filthy pop—your cunt clenching desperately around nothing—and delivers three sharp, open-palmed slaps right over your spasming pussy.

smack.

smack.

smack.

each one lands wet and loud—palm connecting with your swollen, sensitive folds, sending bright shocks of pleasure-pain racing up your spine, making your hips jerk and another weak spurt of squirt spray free, arcing briefly before splattering against his wrist, his jeans, the seat. the sting blooms sweet and hot across your clit; your whole body convulses—back bowing hard against the door, head knocking back against the window again, a broken, shaking sob tearing from your throat as the overstimulation crashes through you like a second orgasm layered right on top of the first.

“there she is,” he murmurs, voice dark and pleased, rough palm rubbing slow, soothing circles over your dripping cunt now—spreading the mess, smearing your release across your folds, your clit, your inner thighs. “fuckin’ perfect. look at this sloppy little mess you made—all over my hand, all over my lap. such a good girl—comin’ so hard you squirted like a fuckin’ fountain. proud of you, baby. so fuckin’ proud.”

your legs won’t stop shaking—violent little tremors that make your heels rattle against the floor mat, thighs quivering around his wrist where he’s still cupping you possessively, palm hot and slick and grounding. 

your chest heaves—breaths coming in short, ragged pants—tears of overstimulation prickling at the corners of your eyes, smudging what’s left of your mascara into dark streaks down your cheeks. you can’t speak—only whimper softly, wrecked and trembling, forehead pressed to his again, noses brushing, lips trembling against his as aftershocks ripple through your core.

he kisses you then—slow, deep, filthy—tongue sliding into your mouth to taste the salt of your tears, the faint copper of your bitten lip, the lingering sweetness of your own arousal still on his fingers from earlier. when he pulls back his eyes are almost black with hunger, pupils blown, scar pulling tight as his mouth curves into that slow, dangerous smirk.

“breathe,” he whispers against your lips, thumb brushing a tear track from your cheek. “you did so good. took it so pretty. now catch your breath—’cause i’m not done with you yet.”

his hand stays between your thighs—cupping, soothing, possessive—while the other slides up to cradle the back of your neck, keeping your forehead pressed to his, keeping you close, keeping you his.

your eyes meet his in the dim, fogged glow of the jeep’s interior—his dark green irises blown wide and glassy with hunger, yours glassy too, still shimmering with the aftershocks of that brutal, gushing orgasm that left your thighs trembling and your cunt still pulsing weakly against the cool air. 

between one ragged breath and the next a laugh bubbles up out of you—high, shaky, almost delirious, the sound cracking at the edges like thin ice under too much weight. you’re high on it, high on him, high on the filthy wet mess you made all over his lap and the way he’s still cupping your oversensitive pussy like it’s something precious and filthy at the same time.

“let’s move to the back,” you whisper against his mouth, voice wrecked and breathy, lips brushing his as you speak. “please—more room—wanna feel you properly.”

toji hums low in his throat, the sound vibrating straight through your chest where you’re still pressed to him. it’s not quite agreement, more like dark amusement laced with promise. “yeah?” he murmurs, scarred lip curling just enough to show teeth.

“greedy little thing. already want more after squirting all over my jeans like that?” his thumb drags once—slow, deliberate—through the slick mess between your folds, making your hips jerk and a soft, broken whimper slip out before he pulls his hand away completely. “alright, baby. back it is.”

he doesn’t ask twice.

one thick arm hooks under your thighs, the other banding tight around your lower back, and he lifts you like you weigh nothing—effortless, possessive—your bare ass leaving a sticky smear of your own release on the leather as he maneuvers you both out of the passenger seat. cold february air rushes in the second he shoulders the driver’s door open.

it bites at your flushed skin, makes your nipples tighten painfully against the thin fabric of your shirt, but you barely register it because his body heat is wrapped around you like a furnace. he steps out into the gravel driveway, boots crunching once, twice, then carries you around to the rear passenger door like you’re something he’s claiming right there in the open night air next to your parents’ sleeping house.

the door slams shut behind him with a heavy, metallic thud that echoes too loud in the quiet street—he doesn’t care, doesn’t even glance toward your porch light flickering weakly twenty feet away. instead he drops you carefully but firmly onto the wide leather bench seat in the back, your back hitting the cushion with a soft bounce, skirt still rucked around your waist, thighs slick and trembling, heels dangling uselessly off the edge. 

the cabin smells like sex now—your release, his clean cotton skin, the faint leather-and-diesel musk of the jeep itself—and it’s thicker back here, more enclosed, more private even though anyone could walk by and see the fogged windows rocking gently.

before you can even catch your breath he reaches between the front seats, thick fingers finding the lever under the passenger headrest. one hard yank and the seatback collapses forward with a mechanical clunk, folding flat to join the rear bench and create one long, makeshift bed that stretches from the tailgate almost to the dashboard. more room. dark, intimate space. perfect.

you don’t wait.

your hands are already moving—palms sliding up the hard, warm planes of his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat under the thin white cotton, the faint ridges of old scars beneath the fabric, the heat pouring off him like he’s running a fever. you lean in slow, deliberate, lips brushing the side of his throat first—soft, open-mouthed kisses along the thick tendon there, tasting clean sweat and skin and the faint trace of soap he must have used before he came to get you. 

higher. you drag your tongue along the sharp line of his jaw, then behind his ear, where the skin is softer, warmer, more sensitive. your teeth catch the lobe—gentle at first, then harder—biting down just enough to make him hiss through his teeth and his big hands flex hard on your hips.

“dirty old man,” you whisper right against the shell of his ear, voice low and teasing, still shaky from coming so hard. your breath fans hot over damp skin. “fucking a girl half your age right next to her house… in your car… like some filthy secret. what would my parents think if they knew?” your hand slides lower—slow, taunting—fingers tracing the hard ridges of his abdomen through the t-shirt before dipping to palm the thick, straining bulge in his jeans.

he’s so hard it makes your cunt clench again—hot, heavy, throbbing under denim like it’s trying to punch through. you squeeze once—firm, deliberate—feeling the fat length twitch and swell even more in your grip. “what if they walked out right now and saw you with your hand between my legs earlier? saw me squirting all over your lap like a desperate little slut? bet you’d love that—bet it’d make you even harder.”

his breath stutters—just once—but it’s enough. a low, rough growl rumbles out of his chest, vibrating against your lips where they’re still pressed to his neck.

“keep talkin’ like that,” he mutters, voice gravel-thick and dangerous, “and i’ll fuck you so hard the whole house hears the jeep rockin’. won’t even care who knows.”

you laugh again—soft, breathless, wicked—and your fingers move to his belt. the metal buckle clinks quietly in the dark cab as you work it open, leather sliding through loops with a slow, deliberate rasp. button next—pop—then the zipper, teeth parting one by one until you can finally slip your hand inside.

no underwear.

just hot, velvety skin stretched tight over steel.

your palm wraps around him and you gasp—sharp, genuine—right into his ear.

he’s thick.

thicker than you expected, even after feeling him through denim. your fingers can’t quite meet around the base; the shaft pulses hot and heavy in your grip, veins ridged and prominent under silky skin, the fat head already slick with pre-cum that smears sticky against your palm when you give one slow, experimental stroke upward. he’s burning—fever-hot—and so hard it feels almost violent, like he’s been aching for this since the second you called him at two in the morning.

“fuck—” the word slips out of you on a shaky exhale, lips brushing the sensitive spot behind his ear again. “you’re so big… so fucking hard… been like this the whole drive?”

he grunts—low, strained—hips flexing once into your hand before he catches himself, forcing stillness.

“since you climbed in lookin’ like that,” he rasps, voice rougher than gravel. “short skirt, no coat, mascara smudged, smellin’ like sex and bad decisions. been fightin’ not to bend you over the hood the second i saw you shiverin’ on that curb.”

you stroke again—slow, deliberate—thumb dragging over the slick slit at the tip, spreading pre-cum in lazy circles until he hisses and his fingers dig harder into your hips. you keep your grip loose but firm, sliding from base to head and back again, feeling every thick vein, every twitch, every time his cock jumps in your palm like it’s trying to fuck into your fist.

“dirty old man,” you whisper again, teasing, lips grazing his earlobe before you nip it once more. “gonna ruin me with this fat cock right here? gonna stretch me open until i can’t walk tomorrow? or you just gonna let me play with it… feel how much you want me… while i tease you until you’re begging?”

he laughs—dark, dangerous, the sound rolling through his chest and into yours.

“keep your hand right there, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and filthy against your temple. “play all you want. stroke it slow. feel how hard you got me. but when i finally get inside you—” his hand slides up to fist gently in your hair, tilting your head back so he can look down at you, eyes black with hunger, “—you’re gonna take every thick inch, and you’re gonna thank me for it while you’re cryin’ on my cock.”

your cunt clenches hard at the words—empty, aching, dripping fresh slick down your thighs even after coming so hard—and you squeeze him again, thumb circling the sensitive head, spreading more pre-cum until your palm is slick and shining.

“promise?” you breathe, voice trembling with want, lips brushing his jaw.

he leans in—mouth hovering over yours, breath hot and mint-sharp.

“promise.”

and he lets you keep playing—slow, torturous strokes under the open fly of his jeans—while his hands roam your body like he’s memorizing every inch he’s about to claim.

your cheek presses warm and soft against the hard plane of his chest, right over the steady, heavy thud of his heartbeat that feels like it’s trying to punch through cotton and skin to reach you. the fabric of his t-shirt is slightly damp now—your breath, his sweat, the lingering heat of everything that’s happened in this cab—and it clings faintly to your flushed face as you nuzzle closer, inhaling the clean, warm scent of him mixed with the sharp, intimate tang of your own release still drying on his jeans and your thighs.

your fingers are already wrapped around the thick base of his cock, still hidden inside the open fly of his jeans, but you don’t want it trapped anymore. slowly—deliberately—you tug downward, easing the heavy length free until it springs out into the cool air of the cab. the sudden exposure makes it twitch hard in your grip; the fat head is flushed dark, glistening with a thick bead of pre-cum that wells up at the slit and slowly starts to drip, stringing down the underside of the shaft in a slow, obscene trail.

you curse under your breath—soft, reverent, almost shocked.

“fuck… toji.”

it’s thicker than your hand can fully encircle, veins prominent and pulsing under velvety skin, the weight of it so substantial that it feels almost unfair, like nature gave him too much and forgot to balance the scales. the shaft curves just slightly upward, heavy and proud, the head broad and blunt, already slick enough that your palm glides smooth when you give one slow, testing stroke from root to tip.

a breathless chuckle spills out of you—high, a little delirious—as you tilt your head back just enough to meet his eyes again.

“stupid question,” you murmur, voice still wrecked from coming so hard, “but… is this heavy? like—walking around with a cock this big all day? doesn’t it just… drag you down?”

he lets out a low, rough hum that vibrates straight through his chest and into your cheek. the corner of his scarred mouth twitches—half amusement, half dark promise.

“feel it yourself,” he rasps, voice gravel-thick and low enough to make your cunt clench again on nothing. “maybe on your tongue. see how much it weighs when it’s sittin’ on that pretty mouth.”

before you can answer he moves—efficient, unhurried. one big hand reaches down, unbuckles the belt the rest of the way with a soft metallic clink, then yanks it free of the loops in one smooth pull. the leather whispers against denim as he shoves jeans and boxers down his thick thighs in the same motion—far enough that his cock bobs free completely, heavy balls hanging low, the whole length now exposed and throbbing in the dim cabin light filtering through the fogged windows.

he doesn’t bother kicking the jeans off all the way; they bunch around his knees, forgotten.

then he shifts—knees planting on either side of your hips, the leather creaking under his weight as he climbs over you. he doesn’t drop down, doesn’t crush you under his bulk; he balances on his knees, caging you in with the sheer size of him, thighs bracketing your waist, forearms braced on either side of your head so his face hovers inches above yours. your back sinks deeper into the flattened seat, head resting against the cool curve of the passenger door, hair fanning out messy across black leather.

his eyes never leave yours—dark, unblinking, pupils blown so wide the green is almost gone.

he reaches for the belt still dangling from his hand. slow. deliberate. he loops the worn leather around your throat—not tight, not choking, just snug enough that you feel the weight of it, the faint scrape of the buckle against your collarbone when he fastens it like a makeshift collar. the end dangles between your breasts, cool against heated skin.

“better?” he asks, voice low and playful, thumb brushing once along the edge of the leather where it kisses your pulse. “your night not entirely ruined now?”

the reminder of naoya hits like cold water for half a second—his smug collapse, the thirty-second disaster, the hallway screaming—but it dissolves instantly under the heat of toji’s gaze, under the heavy, throbbing weight of his cock resting hot against your lower belly, smearing pre-cum in a sticky line across your skin.

you swallow—feel the belt shift with the motion—and your voice comes out soft, honest, still trembling at the edges.

“so much better,” you whisper, eyes locked on his, never wavering. “god—this is so much better. i should’ve just… shown up at your door instead. should’ve knocked and begged you to fuck me. should’ve let you ruin me months ago instead of wasting my night on that arrogant piece of shit.”

his mouth curves—slow, predatory, pleased.

“yeah?” he murmurs, leaning down until his lips brush the shell of your ear, breath hot and mint-sharp. “should’ve come crawlin’ to me with that short skirt and those pretty tears in your eyes. i’d have had you spread out on my bed the first time you walked by in those little shorts, watchin’ me work in the driveway. would’ve fucked you slow and deep until you forgot how to say anyone else’s name.”

his cock twitches against your stomach—hot, heavy, leaking more pre-cum that pools in the dip of your navel—and you can’t help it; your hand finds him again, wrapping around the thick shaft, stroking slow and firm from base to tip, feeling every vein, every pulse, every time he throbs harder in your grip.

“still playin’?” he asks, voice darker now, hips flexing once into your fist like he can’t help it.

you nod—small, needy—thumb circling the slick head, spreading the mess until your palm glides smooth and wet.

“just feelin’ you,” you breathe, lips brushing his jaw. “feelin’ how hard you are… how thick… how much you want this.”

he groans—low, rough, the sound vibrating through both of you—and his forehead drops to rest against yours again, eyes half-lidded, watching your hand work him with slow, torturous strokes.

“keep goin’,” he mutters, voice strained but still in control. “stroke it nice and slow. get it nice and wet. ’cause when i finally slide inside you, baby… you’re gonna feel every goddamn inch.”

your cunt flutters at the promise—empty, aching, dripping fresh slick onto the leather beneath you—and you keep your hand moving, slow and deliberate, savoring the weight, the heat, the way he throbs and leaks for you like he’s been waiting just as long as you have.

the night is far from ruined.

it’s only just beginning.

toji shifts higher—slow, deliberate, the leather creaking under his knees as he repositions himself until his thick thighs bracket your ribcage, caging your chest without dropping his full weight. his knees press into the flattened seat on either side of your ribs. the heavy length of his cock hovers right above your sternum now, flushed dark and glistening, the fat head brushing feather-light against the swell of your cleavage with every slow breath he takes. he’s close enough that you can feel the radiant heat pouring off him, the faint musk of clean skin and pre-cum filling the narrow space between your faces.

he reaches down with one scarred hand, fingers curling around the dangling end of the belt still looped snug around your throat. the leather creaks softly when he tugs—once, firm but controlled—pulling your neck up just enough that your head lifts off the door, forcing your gaze to lock with his. your lips part on a shaky inhale; the collar tightens fractionally against your pulse, not choking, just reminding, possessive.

his other hand wraps around the base of his cock—thick fingers barely meeting around the girth—and he guides the swollen head forward until it taps once, twice, against your lower lip. wet. hot. heavy. the slick bead of pre-cum smears across your mouth like gloss, salty and warm, stringing between your lips and the blunt tip when he pulls back an inch.

“open,” he orders, voice low and rough, gravel dragged over velvet. “suck. be a good little slut for me.”

the words hit like a spark straight to your clit—your cunt clenches hard on nothing, fresh slick leaking out to pool beneath your ass on the already-soaked leather. you don’t hesitate. your lips part wider, tongue flicking out first to taste the salty slit, swirling slow around the broad head before you lean up as far as the belt allows and take him in.

the stretch is immediate—jaw aching sweetly as you work the thick crown past your lips, tongue flattening along the underside to cradle the pulsing vein that runs the length of him. he’s so heavy on your tongue, so thick you can feel every ridge, every throb, the way the head nudges the roof of your mouth and presses against the back of your throat before you’ve even taken half. 

pre-cum coats your tongue in thick, salty bursts; you swallow around him instinctively, throat fluttering, and the low, guttural groan that rips out of his chest makes your nipples tighten painfully against your bra.

“fuck—there you go,” he rasps, hips flexing just enough to push another inch deeper, careful not to choke you yet but making sure you feel every bit of him claiming your mouth. “look at you—pretty little mouth stretched wide around my cock like you were made for it. good girl. suck harder. make it messy.”

the belt tugs again—sharper this time—guiding your head up and forward so you take more, so the head nudges deeper until your eyes water and your throat spasms around him. drool spills from the corners of your mouth, slick and warm, dripping down your chin and onto your chest where it soaks into the fabric clinging to your breasts. you hollow your cheeks, tongue swirling messy circles around the sensitive underside, sucking with wet, obscene pulls that make filthy, slurping sounds fill the cab.

his free hand slides into your hair—fingers twisting at the roots, holding you steady while he rocks shallowly, fucking your mouth in slow, controlled thrusts. not deep enough to gag you yet, just enough to let you feel the weight, the heat, the way his cock throbs and leaks more pre-cum every time your tongue drags along the slit.

“that’s it,” he growls, voice strained, hips rolling in tiny, torturous circles. “take it like the greedy slut you are. bet this cunt’s dripping again just from havin’ my dick in your mouth. bet you’re clenchin’ around nothing right now, wishin’ it was your throat i was stretchin’ instead.”

you moan around him—vibrating down his length—and the sound makes him curse under his breath, fingers tightening in your hair until your scalp stings sweetly. your hands—still trapped at your sides—flex uselessly, nails digging into your own palms because you want to grab his hips, pull him deeper, make him lose that iron control he’s clinging to.

he tugs the belt again—gentle but insistent—pulling you off his cock with a wet pop. a thick string of saliva connects your swollen lips to the glistening head; it snaps when he guides himself to slap the heavy length against your tongue once, twice, leaving shiny streaks across your mouth.

“look at me,” he murmurs, voice darker now, rougher. “eyes up. let me see how fucked-out you already look just from suckin’ me off.”

your lashes flutter up—eyes glassy, tears clinging to the corners from the stretch, lips shiny and swollen—and whatever he sees there makes his cock jump hard against your tongue.

“fuck,” he breathes, almost reverent. “perfect. now open wider, baby. gonna feed you more. gonna make sure you taste every inch before i finally slide into that tight little cunt and ruin you for good.”

the belt stays taut in his fist—keeping your neck arched, keeping you exactly where he wants you—as he guides the head back between your lips, slow and deliberate, letting you feel every thick centimeter as he sinks deeper again.

and you take him.

greedy.

messy.

like the good little slut he told you to be.

toji’s hips pull back slow—deliberate—until the thick head slips free from your lips with a wet, obscene pop. a thick rope of saliva stretches between your swollen mouth and the glistening tip before snapping, dripping down your chin in warm, sticky trails that soak into the collar of your shirt and pool in the hollow of your throat. 

he doesn’t give you time to catch your breath; his scarred hand wraps around the base of his cock—fingers barely meeting around the girth—and he starts stroking himself right above your face. slow, firm pulls from root to tip, the slick sound of pre-cum and your spit filling the cab every time his fist glides over the swollen head.

“look at me,” he growls low, voice rough with restraint. “eyes up, baby. watch how hard you got me.”

your gaze is already locked on his—glassy, unfocused, pupils blown wide like you’ve been drugged on the taste and weight of him. your cheeks are streaked with tears from earlier gags and the sting of overstimulation, mascara smudged into dark, messy rings under your eyes, lips puffy and shining with spit and pre-cum. you look wrecked. cockdrunk. exactly where you want to be.

your attention drops to the heavy, full balls hanging low between his thighs—skin taut, dusted with dark hair, flushed darker from how swollen they are. you lean forward as far as the belt around your throat allows, tongue flicking out first to trace the seam where they meet his body, then flattening to lap slow, broad strokes along the underside of one, then the other. 

the skin is hot, velvety, tasting faintly of clean sweat and musk and him. you suck one into your mouth—gentle at first, then harder—hollowing your cheeks, tongue swirling lazy circles while you keep your eyes lifted, never breaking contact with his dark, hooded stare.

he groans—deep, guttural—the sound rolling through his chest and vibrating straight down to where your cunt is still throbbing and empty. his free hand twists tighter in your hair, fingers knotting at the roots, and he yanks—hard enough that your head snaps back and thumps against the passenger door with a dull thud. the impact jars through your skull, but the haze you’re floating in is so thick, so syrupy with want, that it barely registers as pain. just pressure. just another spark that makes your thighs twitch and your clit pulse.

“fuck—look at you,” he mutters, stroking himself faster now, the wet schlick-schlick of his fist echoing in the tight space. “suckin’ my balls like they’re the only thing that matters. greedy little mouth. keep goin’. lick ’em clean.”

you obey—tongue dragging slow, filthy paths over every inch, sucking the other one into your mouth until your cheeks hollow again, eyes never leaving his. tears spill fresh down your cheeks—not from discomfort, but from how full your senses are, how completely consumed you feel by the taste, the scent, the sheer heaviness of him.

he tugs the belt again—sharper—pulling your head forward until your lips brush the base of his cock.

“open wider,” he orders, voice dark and low. “gonna feed you all of it this time.”

your jaw drops—aching, stretched—and he doesn’t ease in slow. he pushes—firm, relentless—until the thick head breaches the back of your throat and keeps going. your nose presses flush against the coarse dark hair at his groin; the musky scent of him floods your senses, overwhelming, intoxicating. 

you gag hard—throat convulsing around the fat head buried deep, eyes watering instantly, fresh tears spilling over—but he doesn’t pull back. he holds you there, hips locked, cock throbbing against the tight, spasming walls of your throat.

“fuck—yes,” he groans, the sound raw and ragged, head tipping back for a second before his gaze snaps back down to you. “feel that? throat squeezin’ me so tight—fuckin’ perfect. breathe through your nose, baby. little sluts like you know how to be good cocksuckers. show me.”

you struggle—chest heaving, nostrils flaring as you force air in shallow, desperate pulls through your nose. every inhale drags more of his scent into your lungs; every exhale makes your throat flutter around him, milking the head in rhythmic spasms. drool spills from the corners of your mouth in thick rivulets, dripping down your chin, soaking the belt, pooling on your chest. your hands—still pinned at your sides—flex uselessly, nails digging into your palms.

he keeps himself buried—letting you adjust, letting you choke and flutter around him—while his thumb brushes a tear track from your cheek almost tenderly.

“good girl,” he praises, voice low and thick with pride. “takin’ me so deep. breathin’ through it like I told you. such a perfect little throat. bet you’ve never had anyone this heavy on your tongue before, huh?”

you can’t answer—can’t speak around the thick length stuffing your mouth—but your eyes stay locked on his, glassy and pleading and utterly wrecked. you manage the tiniest nod, throat working around him in a swallow that makes him hiss and his hips twitch forward another fraction.

“yeah,” he murmurs, stroking your cheek with the back of his knuckles while he stays buried to the hilt. “you feel it now, don’t you? how fuckin’ heavy I am. how full your mouth is. how much I’m stretchin’ you just with my cock sittin’ on your tongue.”

another slow, deliberate flex of his hips—shallow, just enough to nudge deeper—and you gag again, throat spasming hard, tears streaming freely now. but you don’t pull away. you don’t tap out. you just keep breathing—shallow, ragged pulls through your nose—keep staring up at him with those cockdrunk, glassy eyes, keep letting him use your throat like it was made for him.

“that’s it,” he breathes, voice strained but reverent. “stay right there. let me feel you choke on it a little longer. my good little slut—takin’ every inch like you were born for it.”

the belt stays taut in his fist.

his cock stays buried deep.

and you stay exactly where you want to be—full, used, worshipped, ruined—while he praises you in that low, filthy voice until your whole world narrows to the weight on your tongue and the dark green eyes staring down at you like you’re the only thing that exists.

your arms slide up the backs of his thick thighs, palms gliding over dense, corded muscle that flexes hard under your touch every time his hips give the tiniest involuntary twitch. the skin there is hot, slightly damp with sweat now, the coarse hair tickling your wrists as you wrap both hands around the undersides of his ass—firm, rounded, powerful—and squeeze once, hard enough to dig your nails in just a little, anchoring yourself like he’s the only solid thing left in the spinning, hazy world of the jeep cab.

toji groans low at the grip—rough, approving—the sound vibrating straight down his cock and into your stuffed throat. your fingers knead once, twice, possessive little pulls that make his glutes clench under your palms, make his hips rock forward another shallow fraction even though he’s already buried to the hilt. 

every second he stays lodged deep your airway is blocked—lungs burning, chest heaving in shallow, frantic pulls through your nose that do almost nothing to ease the ache. your throat spasms rhythmically around the fat head, milking him in helpless, fluttering contractions; tears stream freely down your cheeks, mixing with the drool that spills from the corners of your stretched lips in thick, glistening rivulets.

you don’t fight it.

you don’t tap out.

you just hold on—fingers digging harder into the meat of his ass, nails leaving faint crescent marks—while your glassy, unfocused eyes stay locked on his, wide and wet and utterly wrecked, pupils blown so huge there’s barely any color left. mascara tracks carve black rivers down your face; your cheeks are flushed dark, lips swollen and shining, chin slick with spit that drips in slow, obscene strings onto your chest, soaking through the thin fabric until it clings transparently to the hard peaks of your nipples.

toji watches every second of it—dark green eyes hooded, scarred mouth parted on ragged breaths, the muscle in his jaw jumping like he’s fighting not to lose control right there. his fist in your hair tightens—painful now, grounding—and he finally—finally—pulls back.

slow at first.

then all at once.

the thick length slides free in one long, wet drag—veins dragging against your tongue, head popping past your lips with a filthy, sucking sound—and you immediately cough, harsh and wet, chest heaving as air rushes back into your starved lungs. saliva strings from your swollen mouth to the glistening head of his cock in thick, glistening webs; one particularly heavy rope snaps and falls onto your collarbone, warm and sticky, sliding down between your breasts. you gasp—ragged, broken—coughing again around the burn in your throat, eyes streaming fresh tears, but you never look away from him. not once.

“fuck—look at you,” he rasps, voice thick with raw awe and hunger. his hand leaves your hair only to cup your jaw—thumb dragging roughly across your slick lower lip, smearing the mess of spit and pre-cum even further. “messy little thing. chokin’ on my cock like it’s the only air you need. droolin’ all over yourself. perfect.”

you cough once more—smaller this time—then manage a shaky, breathless laugh that cracks at the edges. your voice is wrecked—hoarse, scraped raw—but the words still come out soft, teasing, reverent.

“felt… so heavy,” you whisper, tongue darting out to lick the salty residue from your lips. “couldn’t—couldn’t breathe—but i didn’t wanna stop.”

his cock jumps hard at your words—twitching inches from your face, another thick bead of pre-cum welling up at the slit and slowly starting to drip. he strokes himself once—slow, firm—spreading the slick mess down the shaft while his other hand keeps your jaw tilted up, forcing you to keep looking at him.

“yeah?” he murmurs, thumb pressing into the soft inside of your cheek, opening your mouth again just enough to let another string of saliva drip free. “you like bein’ my good little cocksucker? like feelin’ me stretch your throat until you’re cryin’?”

you nod—small, eager—your hands still gripping his ass, fingers flexing like you’re afraid to let go.

“loved it,” you breathe, voice trembling. “want more. want all of it.”

he groans—deep, guttural—and leans down until his forehead rests against yours, breath hot and ragged against your tear-streaked face.

“gonna give you all of it,” he promises, voice low and dangerous. “every thick fuckin’ inch. but first—”

he guides the head back to your lips—slow this time, letting you feel the weight settle on your tongue again, letting you taste the fresh pre-cum that’s leaking steadily now.

“—clean me up, baby. lick every drop. then i’m takin’ you fuckin’ you until the sun comes up.”

your tongue flicks out—eager, obedient—lapping at the underside of the head, swirling around the slit to collect every salty bead while your glassy eyes stay locked on his.

the belt around your throat shifts with every swallow.

your hands squeeze his ass harder—anchoring, claiming.

and the night stretches on—dark, filthy, endless—while you worship him exactly the way he wants.

toji shifts—slow at first, then with purpose—easing his weight back down your body until his knees settle between your spread thighs again. the leather creaks under the redistributed pressure; your legs fall open wider on instinct, bare and still trembling from earlier, slick inner thighs catching the faint glow from the streetlamp bleeding through the fogged windows. 

he’s still half-dressed—jeans bunched around his knees, cock heavy and glistening between you, brushing hot against your lower belly with every small movement he makes. the belt around your throat stays snug, the leather warm now from your skin, the buckle resting cool against your collarbone like a quiet claim.

his hands move to the hem of your shirt—fingers curling under the thin fabric at your ribs—and without warning he yanks.

the sound is sharp, violent: threads snapping, cotton tearing straight up the front in one brutal rip. cool air rushes against your suddenly bare stomach, your chest, the black lace bra doing nothing to hide how hard your nipples are, how fast your heart is hammering beneath the delicate cups. you shriek—high, startled, half-laugh half-protest—hands flying up to shove at his thick forearm.

“toji—fuck! my shirt!”

you smack his arm again—harder this time—palm connecting with solid muscle that barely gives. “that was one of my favorites, you asshole—”

he chuckles—low, dark, rumbling straight through his chest into yours—completely unbothered. the torn edges of your shirt hang open like ruined wings, framing the black lace and the flushed skin beneath. he leans down slow, deliberate, scarred mouth hovering over one breast before he closes his teeth around the hard peak still trapped behind lace. he bites—not gentle—teeth scraping through the thin fabric, tugging just enough to make your back bow off the seat and a sharp, needy gasp tear from your throat.

“ow—shit—”

he soothes it immediately—flat tongue dragging hot and wet over the bitten nipple through the lace, then up, up, kissing a slow, open-mouthed path along the curve of your breast, the dip of your sternum, the fragile line of your collarbone where the belt sits. his lips find your cheek next—soft, almost tender—before he murmurs right against your skin, breath hot and mint-sharp.

“i’ll buy you a new one,” he promises, voice gravel-rough and amused. “or ten more. whatever you want.” another kiss, this one lingering at the corner of your mouth. “hell—i’ll fuck you in the changin’ room while you try ’em on. watch you in the mirror, skirt hiked up, tryin’ to stay quiet while i’m buried deep. sound good?”

you groan—long, dramatic, half-embarrassed half-turned-on—then dissolve into a breathless giggle that shakes your whole body under him. “you’re so fucking dirty,” you mutter, but there’s no heat in it, only delight. your hands slide up to cup his face—thumbs brushing the scar that splits his lip—and you pull him down into a kiss.

it’s messy at first—teeth clacking, tongues sliding, tasting the salt of your tears and the faint musk of him still lingering on your mouth—but it softens fast, turns slow and deep, lips moving like you’ve got all night even though the windows are fogged and your parents’ house is twenty feet away. you moan softly into his mouth; he answers with a low growl, hips rocking once so his cock drags hot and slick along your folds without pushing in.

when he finally breaks the kiss—both of you breathing hard, foreheads pressed together—he reaches down between you. his fingers hook into the waistband of your already-rucked-up skirt and yank—once, hard. the zipper protests for half a second before giving; fabric slides down your hips, over your thighs, past your knees until he can tug it free of your ankles and toss it somewhere toward the front seats. it lands with a soft thump against the folded-down passenger backrest.

now you’re completely naked—skin flushed and goosebumped in the cool cab air, black lace bra the only thing left clinging to you, though the cups are soaked through from spit and the way your nipples strain against them. your thighs tremble where they bracket his hips; slick shines high on your inner legs, pooling beneath your ass on the leather in a dark, sticky patch. the belt around your throat shifts with every quick breath you take, leather creaking faintly.

toji sits back on his heels just enough to look—really look—eyes dragging slow and hungry from your tear-streaked face down the length of your body: heaving chest, lace-covered tits, soft stomach, spread thighs, the glistening mess between them. his cock twitches hard against your lower belly, leaving another smear of pre-cum.

“fuck,” he breathes, almost reverent. “look at you. all bare and wet and mine.” one big hand slides up your thigh—rough palm dragging over sensitive skin—until his thumb brushes the edge of your swollen folds, parting them just enough to watch fresh slick well up. “no more hidin’. no more waitin’. just you, spread open on my seat, ready to take every inch.”

you shiver—whole body trembling under his stare—and your hands reach for him again, fingers curling around his biceps, nails digging in.

“then take me,” you whisper, voice hoarse from his cock and thick with want. “please—toji—fuck me already.”

his mouth curves—slow, dangerous, victorious.

“oh, i will,” he promises, leaning down until his lips brush yours again. “gonna fuck you slow first—let you feel every thick inch stretchin’ this pretty cunt open. then i’m gonna ruin you. hard. deep. until you’re screamin’ my name and forgettin’ anyone else ever touched you.”

he shifts his hips—lines the fat head up with your entrance—nudging just enough that you feel the blunt pressure, the promise of stretch, the heat of him right there.

“ready, baby?”

your breath hitches.

your cunt flutters around nothing.

you nod—frantic, needy—eyes locked on his.

“yes—fuck—please—”

and he starts to push in.

toji’s hips settle deeper between your thighs, the blunt head of his cock nudging right back against your entrance—hot, slick, insistent—pressing just enough to part your folds without breaching yet. the stretch is already there, a delicious, burning promise that makes your cunt flutter helplessly around nothing, fresh slick leaking out to coat the fat tip every time he rocks forward a fraction of an inch and then pulls back again. 

he’s torturing you both now—slow, deliberate grinds that let you feel every thick vein dragging along your swollen lips, every pulse of pre-cum smearing sticky heat across your clit without ever giving you the full slide inside.

your legs tremble violently around his waist—heels scraping uselessly against the leather, thighs shaking from the overstimulation still lingering in your nerves and the new, aching emptiness that begs to be filled. the torn remnants of your shirt hang open like ragged curtains, black lace bra clinging damp to your heaving breasts, nipples so hard they ache every time the fabric shifts against them. the belt around your throat rises and falls with your ragged breaths; the leather has warmed completely to your skin, the buckle pressing a faint, cool imprint just below your collarbone like a brand.

he leans down—slow, predatory—until his forearms bracket your head again, caging you completely under the sheer bulk of him without crushing you. his chest brushes your lace-covered tits with every inhale; you can feel the rapid thud of his heart hammering against yours, the faint tremor in his biceps that betrays how tightly he’s holding himself back. his scarred mouth hovers an inch above yours—close enough that every exhale fans hot across your swollen lips, tasting faintly of mint and the salt of your earlier tears.

“feel that?” he murmurs, voice so low it vibrates through your bones. “feel how fuckin’ hard I am just from watchin’ you fall apart? how thick the head is already stretchin’ your little hole open?” he rolls his hips again—agonizingly slow—letting the broad crown sink in half an inch, then another, then stills. your walls clamp down instantly around the intrusion, fluttering, greedy, trying to pull him deeper, but he doesn’t let you have it. “not yet, baby. gonna make you feel every centimeter. gonna make this tight cunt remember exactly who’s ruinin’ it tonight.”

you whimper—high, broken, the sound catching in your throat—and your hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging into solid muscle, trying to yank him closer. “toji—please—stop teasing.”

the chuckles—dark, rough, the sound rolling straight down your spine and settling hot between your legs. “teasin’? nah.” another shallow rock forward—another inch disappearing inside you—stretching you wider, burning sweeter, making your back bow off the seat and a choked sob tear from your lips. 

“this is worship. this is me takin’ my fuckin’ time with the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen. you squirted all over my hand earlier—drenched my jeans like you couldn’t stop—and now you’re gonna take my cock the same way. slow. deep. until you’re cryin’ again, but this time it’s ’cause you’re comin’ so hard you forget how to breathe.”

he pulls back—almost all the way out—until only the head remains nestled inside, throbbing, stretching your entrance in a cruel, delicious ring. your hips chase him instinctively—lifting off the leather, thighs trembling harder—desperate for more, but he pins you down with one big hand splayed across your lower stomach, thumb brushing the sensitive skin just above your clit.

“stay still,” he orders, voice dropping into something darker, more commanding. “let me feel how much you want it. let me feel this greedy little cunt try to suck me back in every time I pull out.”

you obey—shaking, whimpering, but still—muscles locked, thighs quivering around his hips as he sinks back in—another torturously slow inch, then another—until half his length is buried and you’re already gasping, walls spasming around the thick invasion. the stretch is overwhelming—burning so good it borders on too much—every vein dragging against your sensitive inner walls, every pulse of him making your clit throb in time with your racing heart.

“fuck—look at you takin’ me,” he breathes, eyes locked on where you’re stretched wide around him, slick coating his shaft in glossy sheen every time he rocks shallowly. “so fuckin’ tight—squeezin’ me like you never wanna let go. bet that other asshole never even got close to fillin’ you like this, huh? never made you shake just from the first few inches.”

you shake your head frantically—tears pricking fresh at the corners of your eyes—not from pain, but from the overwhelming fullness, the slow-building pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your belly with every measured thrust.

“n-no. never—only you. . .” the words come out fractured, voice hoarse and trembling. “please, toji. . . deeper—need all of it.”

he groans—low, guttural—hips flexing once, hard, burying another thick inch until you’re gasping, back arching, nails raking down his shoulders hard enough to leave red trails. he stills again—letting you feel the burn, the stretch, the way your cunt flutters and clenches around him like it’s trying to pull him the rest of the way in.

“almost there,” he murmurs against your mouth, lips brushing yours in the softest, filthiest kiss. “gonna give you the rest soon. but first—tell me how it feels. tell me how full you are. tell me how much better this is than anything that pathetic fuck ever gave you.”

your breath shudders out—chest heaving, tits straining against the soaked lace—and you whisper against his lips, voice wrecked and reverent: “so full. so fucking full—stretching me so good. . . better than anything, pleaseeee, ruin me—need you to ruin me.”

his control finally cracks—just a fraction.

he surges forward—slow but unyielding—sinking the last thick inches until his hips meet yours with a wet, obscene slap. the stretch is blinding—burning sweet and perfect—his cock seated so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach, the fat head kissing your cervix on the first full thrust.

you cry out, sharp, broken—nails digging harder into his back, legs locking around his waist like you’ll never let go. he doesn’t move yet. just stays buried to the hilt, letting you adjust, letting you feel every throbbing inch claiming you completely.

“there,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours, voice rough with strain and satisfaction. “all the way in. feel that? that’s me—every thick fuckin’ inch—fillin’ you up like you were made for it.”

your cunt clenches hard around him—spasming, fluttering, dripping fresh slick down where you’re joined—and he groans like he’s dying.

“now,” he whispers, hips pulling back just enough to drag every ridge along your walls before snapping forward again—slow, deep, punishing. “i’m gonna fuck you until you can’t remember your own name. until the only thing left in that pretty head is how good my cock feels ruinin’ this perfect little cunt.”

and then he starts to move—slow at first, deliberate, every thrust measured to let you feel the drag, the stretch, the fullness—building the fire higher, hotter, until you’re shaking beneath him, moaning his name like a prayer, completely lost to the slow, devastating rhythm he’s setting.

the jeep rocks gently with every roll of his hips.

the windows stay fogged.

and the night stretches on. dark, endless, filthy. while he takes you apart inch by torturous inch. toji’s hips roll once, slow, deep, deliberate—burying himself to the hilt again and holding there, letting you feel the full, unrelenting stretch of him seated so deep your cervix flutters against the blunt head with every heartbeat. 

your walls clamp down hard around the thick intrusion, spasming helplessly, slick dripping down where you’re joined in warm, obscene rivulets that soak the leather beneath your ass and the base of his cock. the jeep rocks gently with the motion; the fogged windows muffle the outside world until it’s just the wet, filthy sounds of your bodies, your ragged breaths, and the low, guttural groans he can’t quite swallow.

he leans down further—chest brushing your lace-covered breasts, nipples scraping painfully sweet against soaked fabric—until his scarred mouth finds the delicate ridge of your collarbone. his lips press there first—soft, almost reverent—then part. teeth graze the thin skin, testing, teasing, before he bites.

not gentle.

sharp.

possessive.

his incisors sink in just enough to sting, to bloom a bright flash of heat-pain that races straight to your clit and makes your cunt clench violently around him. you cry out—high, fractured—back arching off the seat, hands flying to his shoulders, nails raking red lines down sweat-slick muscle. he doesn’t let up; he sucks hard over the bite, tongue laving the fresh mark until it throbs in time with your racing pulse, until the skin blooms dark red under his mouth and the belt around your throat shifts with every shuddering breath you take.

“fuck—there,” he growls against your skin, voice thick and wrecked. “markin’ you right where everyone can see. gonna bruise so pretty tomorrow—everyone’ll know this throat belongs to me.”

you whimper—shaky, needy—hips twitching under him, trying to grind down for more friction, more depth, anything to ease the aching fullness that’s bordering on too much and still not enough. “toji—please—”

he pulls back just enough to meet your glassy eyes—his own dark, blown, pupils swallowing the green until they’re almost black. one big hand slides up, fingers wrapping around the belt again—once, twice—coiling the leather tight in his fist until the collar pulls snug against your throat, not choking, just reminding, just claiming. the buckle digs faintly into your skin; the end dangles between your breasts like a leash he’s holding.

then he moves.

he hooks his free arm under one of your knees—thick forearm braced behind your thigh—and pushes your leg up, folding you open wider, deeper. your knee presses toward your chest; the angle shifts everything—makes him sink impossibly deeper when he rolls forward again, cockhead kissing your cervix with bruising precision. you gasp—sharp, breathless—walls fluttering hard around him as the new position stretches you in ways that make stars burst behind your eyelids.

“keep ’em up,” he orders, voice low and rough, guiding your other leg until both knees are pressed high against your tits, thighs bracketed by his broad shoulders. the belt stays wrapped in his fist—taut, controlling—keeping your neck arched just enough that every swallow makes the leather shift against your pulse. “gonna fuck you like this—deep, slow, lettin’ you feel every goddamn inch while I watch your face fall apart.”

he pulls back—agonizingly slow—until only the head remains nestled inside, stretching your entrance in a cruel, burning ring. your cunt clenches desperately around the loss, slick gushing out to coat his shaft in glossy sheen. then he thrusts forward again—measured, punishing—burying himself to the hilt in one long, smooth glide that makes your toes curl and a broken moan tear from your throat.

“fuck—look at you takin’ me,” he rasps, eyes locked on where you’re stretched wide and glistening around him. “so fuckin’ tight—squeezin’ me like you’re tryin’ to keep me forever. feel how deep I am? feel how full your little cunt is right now?”

you can only nod—frantic, trembling—tears spilling fresh down your cheeks, not from pain but from the overwhelming pressure, the slow-building coil tightening low in your belly with every deliberate thrust. your hands clutch at his biceps—nails digging in, leaving half-moons—trying to anchor yourself as he starts a rhythm: slow drags out, hard snaps in, every stroke dragging every thick vein along your sensitive walls, every withdrawal leaving you clenching around nothing before he fills you again.

the belt tugs gently—once, twice—guiding your gaze back to his when your eyes threaten to flutter shut.

“eyes on me,” he murmurs, voice dark and reverent. “wanna see every second this pretty face changes when I hit that spot just right.”

he angles his hips—subtle shift—and the next thrust nails that swollen, spongy ridge inside you dead-on. your whole body jerks—back bowing, thighs shaking, a choked sob catching in your throat as pleasure spikes sharp and bright.

“there it is,” he breathes, holding deep for a long second, letting you feel the throb of him against that perfect place. “gonna keep hittin’ it—slow, deep—until you’re shakin’ so hard you can’t think. until this cunt’s cryin’ for me to never stop.”

he rolls again—slow, torturous—pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in with devastating precision. the wet, filthy sound of your bodies meeting fills the cab; the jeep rocks harder now, suspension creaking faintly with every measured thrust. your collarbone throbs under the fresh bite mark—dark, blooming, possessive—while the belt stays wrapped in his fist, keeping you arched, keeping you his.

“tell me,” he growls against your mouth, lips brushing yours between thrusts. “tell me how much better this feels. tell me how full you are. tell me you’re mine.”

your voice cracks—hoarse, trembling, wrecked: “so full. so fucking full. better than anything. . . yours, only yours. pleaseee, don’t stop.”

he groans—deep, guttural—hips snapping forward harder once, twice, before settling back into that slow, punishing rhythm that keeps you hovering right on the edge without letting you fall.

“good girl,” he praises, thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. “keep takin’ me like this. keep clenchin’ around my cock. we’ve got all night—and I’m nowhere near done ruinin’ you.”

the belt stays taut.

his mouth finds your collarbone again—teeth grazing the bruise he left—while he fucks you slow and deep and devastating, building the fire higher, hotter, until every nerve is screaming for release that he refuses to give just yet.

the night is thick, endless, filthy.

and he’s only getting started.

toji’s hips slow—agonizingly, deliberately—each thrust dragging longer, deeper, until the rhythm fractures into lazy, shallow rocks that barely stir the thick length buried inside you. the sudden loss of momentum makes your whole body seize; your cunt clenches hard around him in frantic, protesting spasms, trying to drag him back into that punishing pace he’d been building. a high, desperate whine tears out of your throat before you can swallow it—raw, needy, embarrassing—and your nails rake down his back, clawing at sweat-slick skin, leaving angry red trails that bloom instantly under your fingertips.

“toji, fuck—don’t stop, please. . .”

he pulls his upper body away completely—breaking the cage of his arms around your head—until only his hips stay locked to yours, cock still seated deep but motionless. the sudden space between your chests makes cool air rush against your flushed, spit-damp skin; the torn shirt flaps uselessly at your sides, black lace bra still clinging wet to your aching tits. your legs—still folded high against your chest—tremble violently around his waist; heels dig uselessly into the small of his back, trying to force him closer, deeper, faster.

he chuckles—low, dark, dangerous—the sound vibrating straight through where you’re joined.

“shut up,” he murmurs, voice gravel-rough and edged with amusement. one scarred hand slides up, fingers wrapping around the belt again—once, twice—coiling the warm leather tight in his fist. he tugs upward—sharp, controlled—until the collar pulls your neck off the seat just enough that your shoulders lift, spine arching in a helpless curve. the buckle digs faintly into the underside of your jaw; your head tips back, throat exposed, pulse hammering visibly under the thin skin.

his other hand moves—fast, possessive—thick fingers wrapping around the front of your throat, not over the belt but beneath it, palm hot and rough against your racing pulse. he squeezes—just enough to make your breath hitch, just enough to make your vision sparkle at the edges—then leans down until his scarred mouth hovers an inch above yours.

“open,” he orders, low and filthy.

your lips part instantly—jaw trembling, tongue already out, waiting.

he gathers spit—slow, deliberate—then lets it fall: a thick, warm string that lands heavy on your tongue. you swallow without hesitation—throat working visibly under his grip, the taste of him salty and intimate sliding down—and a fresh wave of slick gushes out around his cock, dripping down your ass and pooling warm on the leather.

“fuck—good little slut,” he praises, voice thick with dark satisfaction. “swallowin’ my spit like it’s candy. such a perfect, obedient thing.” his thumb strokes once along the edge of your jaw—almost tender—before his hand leaves your throat and moves to the black lace still clinging to your chest.

he hooks two fingers under the center gore of the bra—rough tug—and yanks upward. the cups shove up and over your tits in one motion; the underwire digs briefly into soft flesh before your breasts spill free—flushed, nipples already swollen and tight from earlier bites and the constant drag of soaked fabric. cool air hits them like a slap; they pebble harder instantly, aching.

his palm cracks across the left one—sharp, open-handed, making the soft mound jiggle and bloom pink. you gasp, all high, startled, back bowing harder against the tug of the belt. he pinches the nipple between thumb and forefinger, rolling and twisting until it’s throbbing, until tears prick fresh at your lashes. then another slap, harder, right across the same breast, the wet smack echoing in the tight cab.

“look at these pretty tits bouncin’ for me,” he mutters, voice rough with hunger. “all swollen and sensitive—fuckin’ beggin’ to be played with.”

his cock moves again, slow, torturous rolls of his hips that barely pulling out before sinking back in, letting you feel every thick inch drag along your walls without ever giving you the speed you’re dying for. the friction is maddening—perfect pressure everywhere except where you need it most—and the overstimulation from earlier crashes back in waves, making your thighs shake harder, making fresh tears spill down your cheeks in hot, silent tracks.

“toji, please—” your voice cracks, hoarse and trembling. “faster, need it faster. fuck me harder, please.”

he stills completely—cock buried to the hilt, throbbing against your cervix—and leans down until his mouth brushes the shell of your ear. “you want faster?” he whispers, voice dark and teasing. “greedy little thing. alright—i’ll give you faster.”

both hands move—fast, sure. the one wrapped around the belt stays taut, keeping your neck arched. the other slides to the back of your head—thick fingers knotting in your hair at the roots—then yanks upward, folding you further. your chin tucks toward your chest; your folded legs press tighter against your tits, squeezing them together until the soft mounds bulge obscenely between your arms. 

the new angle crushes your lungs just enough that every breath comes shallow, ragged; his cock shifts impossibly deeper inside you, pressing hard against that swollen ridge that makes your vision white out at the edges.

you cry out—sharp, broken—tears streaming freely now, not from pain but from the overwhelming fullness, the brutal precision of every slow grind he gives you in this folded position. your cunt flutters violently around him—clenching, spasming, dripping so much slick it sounds wet and filthy every time he rocks forward.

“there,” he growls against your temple, lips brushing sweat-damp hair. “feel that? feel how deep I am when you’re folded up like this? feel how your little cunt’s cryin’ for me?” another slow, punishing roll—dragging every ridge along that perfect spot until your thighs quake and your toes curl hard against his back. “this is what faster gets you—me takin’ my time ruinin’ you exactly how I want.”

you sob, high and helpless while nails digging into his shoulders, body trembling under the slow, devastating rhythm he refuses to break.

“toji, please. . . i can’t, need more—”

he tugs the belt again—sharper—making your head tip back further until your throat is stretched taut under his palm.

“you’ll take what I give you,” he murmurs, voice low and filthy against your ear. “and you’ll thank me for it while you’re shakin’ apart. now—tell me how good it feels. tell me how full your greedy cunt is right now.”

your voice comes out fractured—barely more than a whimper—tears slipping into your hairline, “so fu—stretching me so good. hurts so perfect, don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

he groans—deep, guttural—hips rolling again in that same torturous rhythm: slow out, hard in, every thrust measured to keep you hovering right on the razor edge without letting you fall.

“good girl,” he praises, mouth finding the fresh bite on your collarbone again—teeth grazing the bruise until it throbs anew. “keep cryin’ for me. keep clenchin’. we’re nowhere near done.”

the belt stays coiled in his fist.

his cock stays buried deep.

and he keeps fucking you slow, devastatingly slow—until every nerve is screaming, every breath is a sob, and the only thing left in your head is him: thick, relentless, owning every trembling inch of you.

toji pulls his face away from yours until the humid heat of his breath no longer fans across your tear-streaked cheeks. he rises just enough that the dim orange streetlight bleeding through the fogged windows catches the sharp planes of his face: scar pulling tight across his lip, dark green eyes blown so wide they look almost black, pupils swallowing every trace of color as he stares down at you.

you’re folded in half beneath him—knees crushed high against your tits, thighs trembling violently where they bracket his broad shoulders, spine arched off the leather in a helpless, quivering curve. the belt around your throat keeps your neck extended, chin tucked tight against the soft swell of your own chest, forcing every shallow, ragged breath to push your sweat-slick breasts higher, nipples swollen and dark against the shoved-up lace that now frames them like obscene decoration. 

sweat beads along your hairline, trickles down your temples, pools in the hollow of your throat where the leather collar sits warm and unyielding. your skin glistens everywhere—chest, stomach, the insides of your thighs—shiny and flushed from exertion, from the slow, devastating grind of his cock still buried to the hilt inside you.

your eyes are the worst part.

hazy.

unfocused.

glassy and distant, pupils blown so wide the irises are thin rings of color lost in black. tears cling to your lashes in fat, trembling drops; every slow blink sends fresh ones spilling sideways, carving clean tracks through the sweat and ruined mascara on your cheeks. your mouth hangs open—lips swollen, slick with spit and pre-cum, trembling on every fractured exhale—too cock-drunk to close, too overwhelmed to form anything more coherent than soft, broken whimpers that catch in your throat every time he shifts even a millimeter inside you.

he watches it all—every detail—like he’s memorizing the exact moment you broke for him.

“fuck,” he breathes, voice low and reverent, almost disbelieving. “look at you.”

one scarred hand leaves the belt—lets the leather stay coiled loosely around your throat—and cups your jaw instead, thumb dragging roughly across your lower lip, parting it wider so he can see the way your tongue rests heavy and slack against your teeth.

“all folded up and shakin’—sweatin’ like you just ran a marathon just from takin’ my cock slow.” his hips give the tiniest roll—barely an inch in, barely an inch out—and your whole body jerks like you’ve been electrocuted, cunt clamping down so hard around him that his breath stutters. “eyes all glassy and empty. can’t even focus on me anymore, can you? just floatin’ there, cock-drunk and droolin’ for more.”

you try to answer—really try—but all that comes out is a soft, wrecked sound: half sob, half moan, vibrating through your chest where your chin is still tucked tight against it. fresh tears spill; one rolls down the side of your nose and drips onto the leather beside your ear.

he chuckles—dark, rough, satisfied—then leans down again, just enough that his mouth hovers over yours without touching.

“still with me, baby?” he murmurs, thumb stroking once along your cheekbone, smearing a tear into your skin. “or did I already fuck the thoughts right outta that pretty head?”

your lashes flutter—slow, heavy—trying to bring him into focus, but everything stays soft at the edges, hazy and warm and liquid. you manage the smallest nod, then a trembling whisper that barely carries:

“‘m here… jus’… so full… so good… don’t stop…”

his grin is slow—feral—scar pulling tight as his eyes darken further.

“good girl,” he praises, voice thick with pride and hunger. “stay right there—folded open, cryin’, takin’ every inch like you were born for it.” his free hand slides down your side—rough palm dragging over sweat-slick ribs, over the soft dip of your waist—until it grips the back of your thigh again, pushing your knee even higher, folding you tighter until your own tits press hard against your chin and every breath squeezes them together obscenely.

the new angle makes him sink impossibly deeper—cockhead kissing your cervix with bruising insistence—and your eyes roll back for a heartbeat before snapping open again, still hazy, still unfocused, still locked on his face like it’s the only thing tethering you to the world.

“look at those eyes,” he mutters, almost to himself, hips giving another slow, torturous grind that drags every thick vein along that swollen ridge inside you until your thighs quake and a fresh sob catches in your throat. “so fuckin’ gone already. all hazy and pretty and mine. bet you couldn’t even tell me your own name right now if I asked.”

he doesn’t ask.

instead he rolls again—slow out, devastatingly slow in—letting you feel the drag, the stretch, the fullness in excruciating detail while he watches your face crumple with every measured thrust.

“keep lookin’ at me,” he orders softly, thumb brushing another tear away. “wanna see every second you fall apart a little more. wanna watch those pretty eyes stay empty while I ruin you slow.”

your fingers, still clutching his shoulders dig harder, nails biting into muscle as another slow grind sends sparks racing up your spine. you’re crying openly now all soft with continuous tears, body trembling, cunt fluttering helplessly around him, every nerve lit up and screaming for more even as he refuses to give it.

he leans down—mouth brushing the shell of your ear—voice dropping to a dark, velvet whisper, “you’re doin’ so good, baby. so fuckin’ good. just stay folded for me. stay hazy. let me keep takin’ you apart until there’s nothing left but this cock and how good it feels stretchin’ you open.”

his hips keep that same torturous rhythm—slow, deep, relentless—while he watches you unravel beneath him, eyes never leaving your glassy, unfocused gaze.

the belt stays loose around your throat.

your tears keep falling.

and he keeps going—slow, devastating, worshipping—drawing the night out until every breath, every whimper, every flutter of your cunt feels like it belongs to him alone.

toji finally eases back—slow, torturous—until his cock slips free with a wet, obscene sound that makes your cunt clench around nothing and a fresh gush of slick drip down your thighs. the sudden emptiness hits like a punch; your walls flutter helplessly, aching, greedy, still pulsing from the slow, devastating rhythm he’d kept you trapped in for what feels like hours. a broken, needy whine spills from your lips before you can stop it—high and trembling—your folded body shaking as he releases the belt and lets your head drop back against the seat with a soft thump.

he doesn’t give you time to mourn the loss.

strong hands grip your hips—fingers digging into soft flesh—and he flips you in one smooth, effortless motion. your knees hit the leather first; then your palms brace against the folded-down front seatback as he maneuvers you until you’re straddling backward, ass facing him, thighs spread wide over his lap. 

reverse cowgirl. the position leaves you exposed—completely—back arched, tits hanging heavy and swaying slightly with every ragged breath, the shoved-up bra still bunched uselessly under them like a forgotten accessory. the belt dangles loose around your throat now, leather warm and slightly sticky from sweat, the buckle brushing the top of your spine every time you tremble.

toji settles behind you, knees planted wide on the bench, thick thighs bracketing your hips and his hands slide up the backs of your thighs, rough palms dragging slow over sweat-slick skin until they cup the undersides of your ass. he spreads you open, thumbs parting your folds with deliberate care, making your cunt flutters and leaks, still swollen and glistening from everything he’s already done to you.

“fuck—look at this pretty mess,” he mutters, voice low and reverent, thumbs stroking once along the slick, puffy lips before spreading you wider. “drippin’ down your thighs, clenchin’ on air like you can’t stand bein’ empty for even a second. you miss my cock already, don’t you?”

you nod frantic and wordless, chin tucked toward your chest, forehead almost touching the seatback as another tremor runs through you. your arms shake where they brace; sweat beads along your spine, trickles down the small of your back, pools in the dimples above your ass. every inch of you feels fever-hot, oversensitive, like your skin is one live wire and he’s holding the other end.

he doesn’t tease long.

one hand leaves your ass—wraps around the base of his cock—and he guides the fat head back to your entrance. he doesn’t push in yet; just lets the blunt tip nudge against you—hot, slick, throbbing—parting your folds without breaching, letting you feel the stretch of the crown alone as he rocks forward in tiny, maddening increments.

“reach back,” he orders, voice rough. “spread yourself for me. show me how bad you want it.”

your arms tremble as you obey—palms sliding back, fingers hooking under the soft curves of your ass, spreading yourself open wider. the position makes your back arch deeper, tits swaying forward, nipples brushing the cool leather with every shaky breath. you feel obscene—folded forward, ass up, cunt on full display—and the humiliation only makes you wetter, makes another bead of slick drip down to coat his cockhead.

“good girl,” he praises, thumb brushing once over your spread folds before he finally—finally—starts to push in.

slow.

so fucking slow.

the stretch is different in this position—deeper, fuller, the angle letting him sink straight down until the head nudges your cervix again and keeps going. inch by thick inch he fills you, veins dragging along every sensitive ridge inside, until his hips meet your ass with a soft, wet slap and he’s buried to the hilt once more.

you cry out—sharp, broken—forehead dropping to rest against the seatback, arms shaking as you hold yourself open for him. the fullness is overwhelming—stretching you wide, pressing everywhere at once—and your cunt flutters hard around him, walls spasming in helpless little contractions that make him groan low in his throat.

“fuck—feel that?” he rasps, hands sliding up to grip your waist—fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “how deep I am like this? how your greedy little cunt’s suckin’ me in like it never wants to let go?”

he doesn’t move yet—just stays seated deep, letting you adjust to the new angle, letting you feel every thick pulse of him against your cervix, every throb that makes your clit jump untouched. your thighs quake; sweat drips down the backs of your knees; the belt shifts against your throat with every frantic swallow.

then he rolls his hips—slow, deliberate—pulling out halfway before sinking back in with devastating precision. the drag is exquisite—every ridge, every vein scraping along that swollen spot inside you—and your arms nearly give out, elbows buckling as a fresh sob tears from your throat.

“keep those hands there,” he growls, one palm cracking once—sharp—across your ass, the sting blooming hot and sweet. “keep spreadin’ yourself for me. wanna watch this pretty pussy take every inch while you cry and shake.”

you obey—fingers digging harder into your own flesh, spreading wider—even as tears stream freely down your cheeks, pooling on the leather beneath your face. your vision blurs; everything narrows to the slow, punishing rhythm he sets: long drags out, hard snaps in, every thrust measured to keep you teetering on that razor edge without letting you tip over.

“toji, please. . .” your voice cracks, hoarse and trembling. “faster, need it faster. can’t—can’t take it slow anymore.”

he chuckles, hips rolling again in that same torturous pace. “i told you’ll take it how I give it,” he murmurs, leaning forward until his chest presses hot against your back, one hand sliding up to wrap around the belt again—tugging just enough to arch your neck back. “slow and deep until you’re sobbin’ for me to ruin you. until this cunt’s so sensitive even breathin’ on it makes you come.”

another slow grind—deep, grinding—his pelvis catching your clit on the downstroke and holding there for a long second until your thighs shake violently and a fresh wave of slick gushes around him.

“that’s it,” he breathes against your ear, teeth grazing the shell. “cry for me. shake for me. let me feel how close you are without lettin’ you fall yet.”

your whole body trembles—sweat dripping, cunt fluttering, tears falling—folded forward, spread open, impaled on his cock while he fucks you slow and devastating and relentless.

the jeep rocks gently with every measured thrust.

the windows stay fogged.

and he keeps going. drawing it out, building it higher until every nerve is screaming, every breath is a sob, and the only thing anchoring you is the thick, unyielding stretch of him inside you and the low, filthy praise rumbling against your skin.

“good girl,” he whispers, hips rolling again—slow, deep, punishing. “keep takin’ it. we’ve got all night.”

toji’s hands slide from your hips to the backs of your thighs, fingers digging in hard enough to leave faint bruises and he lifts you off his cock in one smooth, controlled motion. the sudden emptiness makes your cunt clench violently around nothing; a broken, keening whimper spills from your throat as slick drips in thick, warm strands down your inner thighs and onto his lap. your arms shake where they’re braced against the seatback; your whole body trembles, sweat-slick, fever-hot, every nerve screaming from the slow, relentless edging he’s kept you on for what feels like forever.

he doesn’t speak at first—just maneuvers you with that effortless strength, turning your body until you’re facing him again. your knees plant on either side of his hips; the leather creaks under the shift in weight as he guides you down until you’re straddling his lap properly, thighs spread wide over his thick ones. his cock—still rock-hard, glistening with your slick—stands flushed and heavy between you, the fat head brushing the soft skin of your lower belly with every shaky breath you take.

“c’mere,” he murmurs, voice low and gravel-rough, one hand sliding up your spine to cradle the back of your neck while the other grips your hip, steadying you. “ride me. face me. wanna see every second this pretty face falls apart when you finally come.”

your arms move on instinct—wrapping tight around his neck, fingers sinking into the dark, sweat-damp strands at his nape. you press close, chest flush to his, lace-covered tits squished against the hard planes of his pecs through his t-shirt until your lips find his cheek. you don’t kiss yet; just rest there, mouth open against the rough stubble, breathing hot and ragged against his skin as fresh tears slip down your face and drip onto his shoulder.

he reaches between you. thick fingers wrapping around his base and notches the head at your entrance again. no teasing this time. he pulls you down, slow at first, letting you feel the stretch all over again as the broad crown parts you, sinks in, fills you inch by thick inch until your ass meets his thighs with a soft, wet slap and he’s buried to the hilt once more.

you cry out sharp, trembling forehead dropping to his shoulder, arms tightening around his neck like he’s the only thing keeping you from floating away. the new angle is devastating: he’s so deep like this, pressing right against that swollen ridge inside you, the fat head kissing your cervix with every tiny shift of your hips. your clit grinds against the coarse hair at his base; every breath drags the sensitive bud along his pelvis in maddening friction.

“that’s it,” he breathes against your temple, one hand sliding up to fist gently in your hair while the other grips your ass, guiding you into a slow, rolling rhythm. “ride me, baby. take what you need. use my cock like it’s yours.”

you start moving that small, shaky rolls at first, lifting just enough to feel the drag of every vein along your walls before sinking back down, taking him deep again and again. the wet, filthy sound of your cunt swallowing him fills the cab; slick coats his thighs, drips down his balls, soaks into the leather beneath him. 

your thighs burn from the effort; your arms cling tighter around his neck, fingers knotting in his hair as you press open-mouthed kisses along his cheek, his jaw, the sharp line of his scar—messy, desperate, tasting salt and sweat and him.

“toji. . .” your voice cracks, hoarse and trembling against his skin. “so deep, fuck—so full. can’t—can’t think.”

he groans low, guttural. hips starting to meet your rolls with shallow, controlled thrusts that drive him even deeper. “yeah? feel me right here?” one hand slides to your lower belly, palm pressing firm just below your navel letting you feel the faint bulge of him inside you every time you sink down. “feel how deep I am? how thick? this cunt’s grippin’ me so tight—fuck—milkin’ me like you never wanna let go.”

your pace quickens, hips grinding faster, harder chasing that perfect friction against your clit, that brutal press against your g-spot. tears stream freely now; you’re sobbing softly against his cheek, lips trembling, breath hitching every time he bottoms out. the coil in your belly pulls tighter, hotter, every roll of your hips winding it higher until your thighs shake violently and your arms lock around his neck like you’ll fall apart if you let go.

“close,” you gasp, voice breaking. “toji, i’m—i’m so close. . . please.”

he feels it—the way your walls flutter faster, the way your clit throbs against his pelvis, the way your whole body starts to seize—and his grip tightens. one arm bands around your lower back, holding you flush to him; the other slides up to cradle the back of your head, fingers knotting in your hair as he pulls your face tighter against his cheek.

“come for me,” he growls against your ear, voice thick with strain and hunger. “let go, baby. soak my cock. scream my name. give it all to me—right now.”

toji’s hands clamp harder on your hips—fingers bruising into soft flesh—as your slow, trembling rolls turn frantic, desperate. every downward grind now slams you fully onto his cock, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing louder in the tight cab, slick dripping in thick, obscene rivulets down his shaft, coating his balls, soaking the leather beneath him until it glistens dark under the faint streetlight glow seeping through the fogged windows.

your arms are locked so tight around his neck your elbows dig into his shoulders; your face is buried against his cheek, lips parted on broken, gasping sobs that fog his skin with every ragged exhale. tears stream continuously—hot, salty—sliding down your face to drip onto his collarbone, mixing with the sweat already beading there. your cunt is a vice around him—fluttering, spasming, clenching so hard with every lift and drop that his breath stutters, low growls rumbling from his chest straight into yours.

“fuck—look at you ridin’ me like you’re tryin’ to break us both,” he rasps against your temple, voice shredded with strain. one hand leaves your hip, slides up your sweat-slick spine, fingers knotting in your hair at the roots before yanking your head back just enough to force your eyes to meet his. “eyes on me. wanna see ’em roll back when you come. wanna watch this pretty face shatter.”

your lashes are clumped with tears; your gaze is glassy, unfocused, pupils blown so wide there’s almost no iris left. every downward slam makes your tits bounce against his chest, nipples scraping painfully sweet through the shoved-up lace, every lift drags his thick veins along that swollen ridge inside you until sparks explode behind your eyelids. the coil in your belly is wound so tight it hurts. burning, throbbing, ready to snap—and you’re sobbing openly now, high-pitched, fractured sounds that mix with the wet schlick-schlick of your cunt swallowing him over and over.

“toji. toji—i can’t. i’m—fuck—i’m gonna. . .”

“yeah you are,” he growls, hips snapping up to meet your next drop, hard, sudden, driving so deep the head bruises your cervix and your whole body seizes. “come on my cock—right fuckin’ now. soak me. scream for me. let it all go.”

his free hand slides between you, thumb finding your clit as he rubbing fast, merciless circles over the swollen, oversensitive bud while he keeps pounding up into you with short, brutal thrusts that match the frantic rhythm you’ve set. the dual assault shatters what little control you had left.

your back bows, spine arching so hard your tits press painfully against his chest, arms locking tighter around his neck as your thighs lock and tremble violently around his hips. the first wave hits like lightning, white-hot, blinding. your cunt clamping down around him in violent, rhythmic spasms that milk every thick inch buried inside you. slick gushes out in hot, messy pulses, drenching his lap, his balls, the seat beneath him, while your whole body convulses, hips grinding down hard one last time to take him impossibly deeper as the orgasm rips through you.

you scream, raw, shattered, his name tearing from your throat in broken syllables, “toji, toji, fuck—!” voice cracking into high, keening sobs that bounce off the jeep’s interior. tears flood your eyes; your vision whites out at the edges; every muscle locks and releases in helpless waves. your cunt flutters wildly around him, spasming and  squeezing and pulsing so hard it drags a guttural groan from deep in his chest. 

pleasure crashes over you in relentless surges—each contraction stronger than the last until your thighs give out completely and you collapse forward against him, trembling, shaking, sobbing into the crook of his neck while aftershocks ripple through your core.

he doesn’t stop moving—keeps rolling his hips up into your spasming cunt with slow, deep grinds that prolong every wave, drawing out the climax until you’re whimpering, oversensitive, every brush of his pelvis against your clit making you jerk and cry harder against his skin.

“there, fuckkk, there she is,” he groans, voice thick with raw satisfaction, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other grips your ass, holding you down so you stay impaled deep through every fluttering contraction. “comin’ so hard,—squirmin’ and cryin’ on my cock. fuckin’ perfect. soak me, baby—give me every drop.”

your sobs turn softer, shuddering and hiccuping while your face buried against his neck, lips trembling against sweat-slick skin as the last waves ebb, leaving you limp, boneless, still wrapped tight around his neck, still trembling in his lap with his cock buried to the hilt inside your twitching, oversensitive cunt.

he strokes slow circles up your spina, gentle now, while his hips stay pressed flush to yours, letting you feel the slow throb of him still rock-hard and aching inside you. “good girl,” he whispers against your temple, lips brushing the sweat-damp hair there. “so fuckin’ good. came so pretty for me.”

you can only whimper—soft, wrecked—arms still locked around his neck, face hidden against his shoulder as aftershocks continue to ripple through you.(here)

he doesn’t pull out.

he doesn’t move.

just holds you close—cock still buried deep—while your breathing slowly steadies against his skin.

“breathe,” he murmurs, kissing the fresh bruise on your collarbone. “just breathe. we’re not done yet.”

the jeep is quiet except for your soft, hiccuping breaths and the faint creak of leather.

the windows stay fogged.

and he keeps you wrapped around him—still full, still trembling—while the night stretches on, dark and endless and filthy, promising more.

toji’s hips keep that slow, punishing rhythm even after your climax has left you trembling and boneless in his lap—long, deliberate drags out until only the swollen head stretches your entrance, then deep, grinding rolls back in that make your oversensitive walls flutter and your breath hitch in soft, hiccuping gasps. 

every thrust is measured, controlled, letting you feel the thick drag of every vein, the blunt press of the head against your cervix, the way your slick coats him so thoroughly it drips in warm, sticky trails down his shaft and pools on his thighs beneath you. the jeep rocks gently with each motion; the leather beneath you is soaked, slippery, clinging to your skin every time you shift.

your arms stay wrapped tight around his neck, fingers knotted in damp hair at his nape, face still buried against the side of his throat where you can taste salt and heat and the faint musk of his sweat. your lips brush his pulse point with every shaky exhale; tears still cling to your lashes, drying in salty tracks down your cheeks. 

your cunt is so sensitive now that even the slow slide of him inside you borders on too much—pleasure-pain sparking bright every time he bottoms out—but you can’t stop rocking with him, can’t stop chasing the lingering aftershocks that ripple through your core.

after a long minute of that torturous pace—deep, slow, relentless—you lift your head just enough to meet his eyes. your voice comes out hoarse, cracked, barely above a whisper against his jaw.

“toji…” you breathe, lips trembling. “are you… are you close?”

his breath stutters—just once—but it’s enough. his hands flex hard on your hips, fingers digging deeper into soft flesh like he’s anchoring himself.

“yeah,” he rasps, voice thick and strained, gravel dragged over velvet. “fuck—yeah, baby. been holdin’ back since you started ridin’ me like that. this tight little cunt’s been squeezin’ me so good—gonna come soon if you keep clenchin’ like that.”

the confession makes your walls flutter again—helpless, greedy—and he groans low in his throat, hips stuttering once in that slow rhythm before he forces himself still.

you don’t wait.

you lift—slow, deliberate—until his cock slides free with a wet, sucking sound that makes both of you whine in unison. the emptiness hits hard; your cunt clenches around nothing, aching, dripping fresh slick down your thighs as the thick head pops free and slaps wetly against his lower stomach. he hisses through his teeth—hips jerking up instinctively—while you whimper at the sudden loss, thighs trembling violently around his.

“fuck—” he growls, voice wrecked. “don’t—don’t tease.”

you don’t answer with words.

instead you settle back, lower this time until your ass rests on his thick thighs instead of taking him inside. your knees bracket his hips; your dripping cunt hovers just above his lap, close enough that every tiny shift drags your swollen clit along the slick length of his shaft without letting him sink back in. your hand wraps around him—fingers barely meeting around the girth—palm slick with your combined mess as you start stroking.

slow at first, firm, twisting pulls from base to tip, thumb dragging over the sensitive slit to collect the thick beads of pre-cum that well up steadily now. his cock jumps hard in your grip, hot, throbbing, veins pulsing under your fingers, and he groans deep, head tipping back against the seat for a heartbeat before snapping forward again to watch your hand work him.

“shit, baby. . .” his voice cracks, rough and desperate. “just like that, fuck—stroke it nice and slow. feel how close I am? feel how fuckin’ hard you got me?”

you nod small and eager, leaning forward until your forehead rests against his again, lips brushing his cheek as your hand keeps moving. long, slick glides up and down his length; every upstroke twists gently around the head, every downstroke squeezes tighter at the base until his hips jerk up into your fist and a low, guttural sound rumbles from his chest.

your other arm stays wrapped around his neck, holding him close while you stroke him with slow, deliberate focus. slick coats your palm, drips down his shaft, makes every glide wetter, louder, filthier. his breathing turns ragged, short, harsh exhales against your temple, hips twitching every time your thumb circles the sensitive underside of the head.

“gonna come—” he warns, voice strained, almost broken. “fuck—gonna come all over your hand if you keep—keep doin’ that.”

you don’t stop.

instead you lean in closer, lips brushing the corner of his mouth, breath hot against his skin and whisper, voice trembling with aftershocks and want, “then come for me, toji. please. . . wanna feel it—wanna see you fall apart like you made me.”

his groan is raw, almost pained, hips bucking up hard into your grip as his cock throbs violently in your hand. thick ropes of cum spill over your fingers, hot, messy, pulsing out in heavy spurts that coat your palm, drip down his shaft, splatter across your lower belly and his t-shirt in sticky streaks. he shakes through it, whole body tensing, then shuddering, low, guttural curses falling from his lips as you stroke him through every wave, milking every last drop until his hips jerk one final time and he slumps back against the seat, chest heaving.

he exhales a long, shaky breath then lifts his head to meet your eyes. his gaze is dark, wrecked, but soft at the edges.

“fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, voice hoarse. one hand comes up, thumb brushing a tear track from your cheek, then cups your jaw, tilting your face so he can kiss you slow, deep, tasting salt and want and everything you just gave him.

when he pulls back, forehead pressed to yours, he murmurs against your lips, “good girl. so fuckin’ good.”

your arm, stay wrapped around his neck, holding him close, while your breathing slowly syncs with his, bodies still tangled, still trembling, the night outside the jeep dark and quiet and endless.

your hand, still wrapped loosely around his softening cock, slows to gentle, lazy strokes, milking the last weak pulses of cum from him until nothing more spills. thick, warm ropes coat your palm, fingers, the inside of your wrist; some has already dripped in heavy, pearly streaks across your lower belly and the tops of your thighs. the scent of it fills the humid cab, salty, musky, unmistakably him, mixing with sweat and sex and the faint leather smell of the seats.

you lift your hand slowly, watching the way the cum strings between your fingers in glistening webs, then bring it to your chest. deliberately. teasingly.

you smear it across your tits in slow, filthy circles, palm gliding over one swollen nipple, then the other, leaving shiny, sticky trails that catch the dim streetlight glow seeping through the fogged windows. the cum is still hot, thick, clinging to your skin; it glistens wetly over the peaks, drips in slow rivulets down the soft undersides of your breasts, pools in the valley between them. your nipples tighten harder under the slick warmth, aching sweetly from the earlier slaps and bites, and a soft, breathless giggle bubbles out of you at how obscene it feels—how shameless, how perfect.

toji watches every second—dark green eyes hooded, pupils still blown wide, scarred mouth parted on heavy breaths. his chest rises and falls fast; his cock twitches once against your thigh even though he’s spent, like the sight alone is enough to stir him again.

then he moves.

he leans down with slow, predatory glance, broad shoulders blocking the faint light as his mouth finds your chest. his tongue flicks out first, flat, hot, lapping a long, deliberate stripe up the underside of your left breast, collecting the sticky trail in one slow drag. the sensation makes you gasps, then dissolve into another fit of soft, trembling giggles as he closes his lips around your nipple and sucks.

hard.

the wet pull is obscene, loud in the quiet cab, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak, tasting himself on you, tasting you mixed with him. he groans low against your skin, vibration rumbling straight through your tit and down to your still-twitching cunt, then switches to the other breast, licking broad stripes across the smeared cum before sucking that nipple deep into his mouth too.

“fuckin’ filthy,” he mutters between pulls, voice rough and thick with satisfaction, lips shiny with spit and his own release. “smearin’ my cum all over these pretty tits like you want me to eat it off you. greedy little thing.”

you giggle again, that high, breathless, giddy, head tipping back as your fingers slide into his dark hair, holding him there while he works. every suck, every slow lap of his tongue sends fresh sparks racing down your spine; your thighs tremble around his hips, cunt fluttering weakly around nothing, still oversensitive from coming so hard.

“toji. . .” you half-laugh, half-moan, hips twitching forward on instinct. “you’re, fuck—you’re licking it all up.”

he hums against your skin, pleased, hungry, then drags his tongue in one final, slow stripe from the valley between your breasts up to your collarbone, cleaning every last trace. when he finally pulls back his lips are glossy, chin shining; he meets your glassy eyes and smirks—slow, dangerous, utterly satisfied.

“couldn’t let it go to waste,” he murmurs, thumb brushing a stray tear from your cheek before leaning in to kiss you. that deep, filthy kiss, letting you taste him on his tongue, taste yourself, taste everything you’ve done together tonight.

you melt into it, both arms now wrapped around his neck, body limp and trembling in his lap—giggling softly against his mouth between kisses while his hands roam slow and possessive over your sweat-slick skin.

the jeep stays quiet except for your shared breaths and the occasional soft, wet sound of lips meeting.

the windows stay fogged.

and he keeps you close—still tasting himself on your tits, still buried in the afterglow—while the night outside stretches on, dark and endless and filthy, with no sign of ending anytime soon.

you don’t know how long it’s been.

time dissolved somewhere between the last trembling aftershocks and the moment he finally eased out of you, both of you gasping, slick and spent and sticky everywhere. the jeep is still warm—too warm—the heater long since kicked off but the air thick with sex, sweat, and the faint metallic bite of february night that sneaks through the cracked window. your skin feels hypersensitive, every brush of leather against your back and thighs making you shiver even though you’re no longer cold.

he found a blanket somewhere—thick, dark fleece that smells like motor oil and cedar laundry detergent—and draped it over both of you without a word. it’s bunched around your waists now, barely covering anything important, but it’s soft against your bare skin and it makes the small space feel safer, more private, even though anyone could walk past the driveway and see the fogged windows rocking faintly minutes ago.

you’re lying on your side facing him, cheek pillowed on the thick muscle of his bicep. his arm is curled under your head like it’s the most natural thing in the world; his other hand rests loose on your hip beneath the blanket, thumb tracing absent, slow circles over the soft skin there. your legs are tangled with his—thigh pressed to thigh, calf hooked over his shin—and every small shift makes your still-sensitive cunt brush against his softening cock where it rests heavy against your lower belly. neither of you moves to separate.

his breathing has slowed to something deep and even, but his eyes are still open, dark green and heavy-lidded in the faint orange glow that leaks through the windshield. he’s watching you—not predatory anymore, not hungry—just soft in a way that makes your chest ache strangely. his scar pulls a little when he exhales through his nose, lips parting like he’s about to speak, then closing again.

finally he does.

“you wanna go inside?” his voice is low, gravel-rough from everything he’s growled and groaned tonight, but quieter now. almost careful. “got a bed that doesn’t smell like car sex and bad decisions.”

you let out a small, tired laugh that vibrates against his arm.

your fingers—still shaky—trace the ridge of his collarbone, following the faint red mark you left with your teeth earlier. “not yet,” you whisper, voice hoarse and soft. “just… stay here for a while. like this.”

he hums—long, low, the sound rumbling straight through his chest into yours. his hand on your hip slides up your side—slow, unhurried—until his palm cups the back of your neck, thumb brushing the edge of the belt still loosely draped around your throat. he doesn’t tug it. just holds.

“yeah?” he murmurs, forehead tipping forward until it rests gently against yours. “you like bein’ naked in my shitty jeep with my cum still dryin’ on your tits?”

you giggle again—breathless, giddy, the sound muffled against his shoulder. “maybe i do.” your nose brushes his. “feels… safe. weirdly. like the world’s still out there but it can’t get in here yet.”

his thumb strokes once along your jaw—rough pad catching on your lower lip—before he leans in and kisses you. not hungry this time. slow. soft. lips moving like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth, tasting the salt of your earlier tears and the faint sweetness that lingers from whatever lip balm you wore hours ago. when he pulls back his eyes are still on yours—close enough that you can see the faint flecks of gold in the green even in the dark.

“you’re shakin’,” he says quietly, concern threading through the roughness. his hand leaves your neck to slide down your arm, then back up, warm palm smoothing over goosebumped skin. “cold?”

“a little,” you admit, curling tighter against him. your thigh slides higher over his hip; his cock—soft now, warm and heavy—nestles against the crease of your leg. “but mostly just… overwhelmed. in a good way.”

he exhales through his nose—almost a laugh—and pulls the blanket higher, tucking it around your shoulders until only your head and his are visible above the dark fleece. then he wraps both arms around you—thick, solid, enveloping—until you’re pressed chest-to-chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.

“you’re safe,” he says against your temple, lips brushing damp hair. simple. matter-of-fact. like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “no one’s comin’ in here. no one’s takin’ this from you. just us.”

your fingers curl against his chest—nails grazing the cotton of his t-shirt that’s still half-on, rumpled and sweat-damp. “promise?”

“promise.”

silence settles again—comfortable, heavy with afterglow. outside, somewhere far off, a dog barks twice. a car passes on the main road, headlights sweeping briefly across the fogged windows in pale streaks before fading. inside the jeep it’s just your breathing, his breathing, the faint creak of cooling metal, the soft rustle of the blanket every time one of you shifts.

after a while you speak again—voice small, almost shy.

“i didn’t think tonight would end like this.”

he snorts softly—amused. “yeah? what’d you think—i’d fix your radiator, send you home with a pat on the ass and a ‘see ya later’?”

you laugh—quiet, tired—nose nuzzling his collarbone. “something like that. or… i don’t know. maybe you’d be an asshole about it. most guys would.”

his hand slides up your back—slow, soothing—fingers threading through your tangled hair. “i’m not most guys.”

“no,” you whisper, lips brushing his skin. “you’re not.”

another long beat of quiet. his heartbeat thuds steady under your ear; yours slowly matches it.

“you hungry?” he asks eventually, voice rumbling through his chest.

“starving,” you admit. “but i don’t wanna move yet.”

“then we don’t move.” his arms tighten fractionally. “got snacks in the glovebox. granola bars, some shitty protein shit. can reach ’em without lettin’ you go.”

you giggle again—soft, sleepy. “romantic.”

“i’m a classy motherfucker,” he deadpans, but there’s a smile in his voice. his lips press to your forehead—lingering. “stay here. i got you.”

your eyes flutter closed; exhaustion crashes in slow, warm waves. “i know.”

he doesn’t move to get the snacks yet. just holds you—naked, tangled, wrapped in fleece and each other—while your breathing evens out against his throat.

outside the jeep, the night keeps moving.

inside, time has stopped.

and for now, that’s exactly where you want to be.

toji’s thumb pauses mid-circle on your hip when another hard shiver rolls through you—stronger this time, teeth clacking faintly even though you try to swallow the sound. your skin is pebbled everywhere the blanket doesn’t cover; the post-sex glow has worn thin and february is finally winning, seeping through the jeep’s seals like icy fingers.

he exhales sharply through his nose—half sigh, half decision—then mutters against your hairline, voice low and rough.

“fuck it. let’s go inside.”

you make a sleepy, protesting noise—half whine, half mumble—already curling tighter against his chest like you can absorb his body heat and stay cocooned in the fleece forever.

he huffs a quiet laugh, lips brushing your temple. “c’mon, baby. you’re shakin’ too hard. let’s cuddle.” his palm smooths up your spine—warm, steady—fingers threading through your tangled hair. “i know young girls like you love to cuddle after gettin’ ruined. bed’s warmer. got real pillows. won’t let you freeze your pretty tits off out here.”

that pulls a tired giggle out of you—soft, cracked, muffled against his collarbone. your fingers curl lazily into the front of his t-shirt, tugging once. “how many young girls have you fucked, then?” you ask, playful but sleepy, voice raspy from screaming his name earlier. “got this whole routine down, huh? ruin ’em in the jeep, carry ’em inside, cuddle ’em to sleep like a pro?”

he laughs—low, rough, genuine—the sound vibrating straight through his chest into yours. “more than you’re gonna like hearin’ about,” he deadpans, but there’s no real edge to it, just amused warmth. “none of ’em looked at me the way you do, though. none of ’em asked me to stay in the damn car after i fucked their brains out.”

before you can tease back he’s already moving.

“hold on,” he mutters, shifting under you. one thick arm bands around your lower back; the other hooks under your thighs. he sits up—blanket sliding off in a dark heap—then stands, lifting you with him like you weigh nothing. cold air slams into both of you the second he shoulders the driver’s door open; you yelp, arms flying around his neck, legs locking tight around his waist. you’re both still completely naked—skin flushed and sticky, his softening cock pressed warm against your inner thigh, your breasts squished against his chest, nipples dragging against damp cotton every time he breathes.

he doesn’t bother with his jeans. doesn’t even glance at them where they’re still bunched around one ankle on the floor mat. just steps out into the driveway—gravel biting into his bare feet—and starts moving.

“fuck—freezin’ my dick off,” he grumbles, already breaking into a half-jog, long strides eating up the short distance between jeep and front porch. the chain-link fence rattles as he shoulders past it; you bury your face in his neck—giggling helplessly against his skin—arms locked tight around his shoulders, thighs squeezing his waist like you’re afraid he’ll drop you (he won’t). february wind slices across your bare back and ass, stinging your cheeks and hardening your nipples to painful points against his chest, but his body heat wraps around you like a furnace, blocking most of it.

he kicks the front door open—no key, no lock, just a hard shove—and the warmth of the house rushes over you: faint coffee grounds, motor oil, clean laundry, the low hum of a heater running somewhere deeper inside. he doesn’t stop—climbs the narrow staircase two steps at a time, boots thumping heavy on wood, carrying you like you’re weightless.

second floor. short hallway. door at the end already cracked open.

he shoulders it wider, steps inside, and finally lowers you both onto the bed—mattress dipping hard under his weight as he lays you down first, then follows, rolling so you’re tucked against his side again. sheets are cool against your overheated skin; pillows smell like him—cedar, faint sweat, motor oil. he drags the comforter up over both of you—thick, heavy, trapping heat—and pulls you flush to his chest, one thick arm banded around your waist, the other sliding under your head like before.

you sigh—long, shaky, content—nose nuzzling the hollow of his throat.

then your eyes catch the digital clock on the nightstand.

7:04 a.m.

soft red numbers glowing in the dim room.

you blink—once, twice—then lift your head just enough to look at him.

“toji…” your voice is still hoarse, cracked from screaming and sobbing his name for hours. “it’s almost seven.”

he cracks one eye open—lazy, amused—then glances at the clock himself.

“yeah,” he rumbles, hand sliding up your back in a slow, soothing stroke. “your point?”

you giggle—soft, disbelieving—forehead dropping back to his shoulder. “i remember it was almost three when you showed up at the breakdown spot. how long were we…?”

he snorts—quiet, smug—lips brushing your hairline.

“four hours, give or take,” he mutters, fingers tracing the curve of your spine. “you kept beggin’ for more. hard to say no when you’re cryin’ on my cock like that.”

your face heats—fresh embarrassment mixing with the warm afterglow—and you hide it against his neck, giggling again.

“four hours,” you repeat, voice muffled. “jesus. no wonder i can’t feel my legs.”

he laughs—low, rough, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours.

“you’ll feel ’em later,” he promises, hand sliding down to squeeze your ass once—gentle but possessive. “when i fuck you again in the shower. or on the kitchen counter. wherever you want.”

you groan—half protest, half delighted shiver—already curling tighter into him.

“you’re insatiable.”

“says the girl who smeared my cum on her tits and giggled while i licked it off.”

you laugh—breathless, sleepy—nuzzling closer until your lips brush the underside of his jaw.

“shut up,” you mumble, already drifting again. “cuddle me more.”

his arms tighten—warm, solid, safe.

“yes ma’am,” he murmurs against your temple, kissing the spot softly. “all mornin’. all day. however long you want.”

you hum—content, boneless—eyes fluttering closed as exhaustion finally pulls you under.

outside, the first gray light of dawn creeps across the windows.

inside, it’s just warmth.

just his heartbeat under your cheek.

just the slow rise and fall of his chest against yours.

and for the first time in hours, you’re not shivering anymore.

just held.

just his.

it’s almost two in the afternoon when your eyes finally crack open.

sunlight cuts through the half-closed blinds in sharp, lazy bars across the bed, painting gold stripes over the tangled sheets and the deep indent where toji’s body was. the room smells like him—cedar laundry detergent soaked into the pillows, faint motor oil that clings to everything he touches, sex that’s dried sticky on your inner thighs and between your breasts. your whole body feels heavy, deliciously used: core tender and swollen, thighs still trembling when you shift, every muscle complaining in that good-hurt way that reminds you exactly how many hours he spent ruining you.

toji’s side of the bed is empty but still warm, sheets twisted like he just left. you hear voices drifting up from downstairs—his low, rough drawl, easy and unbothered, and another one, sharper, younger, laced with irritation. you don’t clock it yet. your brain is still syrup-slow, post-sex fog clinging to every thought.

you roll onto your side—groan softly when your sore cunt brushes the mattress—and push yourself up on shaky arms. it takes three tries to swing your legs over the edge; your thighs shake like they’ve forgotten how to work. “fuck,” you mutter, voice cracked and hoarse from screaming his name half the night. “this is ridiculous.”

his white t-shirt is crumpled on the floor where he tossed it last night. you drag it over your head—too big, hem hitting mid-thigh, sleeves swallowing your hands, neckline slipping off one shoulder to expose the dark bruise he sucked into your collarbone. it smells like him: clean cotton warmed by skin, faint sweat, you. you tug it down like it’ll cover more, but it doesn’t really matter.

standing takes effort. your legs feel like they’re made of wet noodles; you brace one hand on the wall, wobble once, then start shuffling toward the door. every step makes your core ache in the sweetest way—reminder of how deep he was, how long he stayed there, how many times you came until you were sobbing and boneless.

“toji?” you call, voice still rough, playful complaint already bubbling up as you reach the hallway. “i’m serious—i can’t walk right. this isn’t funny. my legs are literally jelly, you broke me, i’m gonna fall down the stairs and it’s gonna be your fault—”

you round the corner into the kitchen.

and freeze.

toji’s sitting at the small dining table—shirtless, gray sweatpants slung low on his narrow hips, one tattooed arm slung over the back of the chair, coffee mug in his other hand. he’s already smirking, like he knew exactly when you’d stumble in looking like this.

across from him—leaning against the counter with arms crossed, expensive coat still on, face twisted in disbelief—is naoya zenin.

the same naoya zenin who collapsed on top of you in thirty seconds last night, who told you you’d never have better, who you screamed at in a hallway before storming out barefoot and furious.

his pale green eyes widen when he sees you—really sees you.

hair a wrecked halo, lips swollen and bitten, mascara tracks long dried into faint black streaks down your cheeks, neck covered in fresh hickeys and a faint red ring from the belt, legs shaky and bowed, walking like you’ve been fucked senseless for hours (because you have), drowning in toji’s too-big t-shirt that barely covers your ass and shows the dark bruises blooming on your thighs.

naoya’s mouth opens. closes. opens again.

“what the actual fuck,” he finally chokes out, voice cracking on the last word.

you groan—long, dramatic, exhausted—and ignore him completely. you shuffle straight toward toji, bare feet padding slow on the tile, one hand braced on the wall for balance.

“i’m not kidding,” you complain, voice cracking again. “my pussy hurts, my legs don’t work, i feel like i ran a marathon with a jackhammer up my—”

toji’s smirk widens—slow, smug, victorious. he sets the coffee down, spreads his thighs wider, and pats his lap once.

“c’mere, baby.”

you don’t hesitate. you climb into his lap—awkward, thighs still trembling—straddling one thick leg, ass settling against his crotch. his arm immediately bands around your waist, pulling you flush to his bare chest; his free hand slides up your bare thigh under the shirt, palm warm and possessive on your hip, thumb brushing the sensitive skin where thigh meets ass.

naoya makes a strangled, furious noise.

“why the fuck,” he starts, voice rising sharp and incredulous, “are you fucking my uncle?”

you blink—once, twice—then slowly turn your head to look at toji.

“uncle?” you repeat, voice small, disbelieving.

toji’s chest rumbles under you with a low laugh. he presses a lazy kiss to your temple, hand squeezing your hip.

“yeah,” he says casually, like he’s discussing the weather. “naoya’s my nephew. zenin clan bullshit. don’t worry about it.”

your mouth drops open. you look back at naoya—whose face is rapidly turning an impressive shade of red-purple—and then at toji again.

toji tilts his head, eyes flicking between you and naoya, realization dawning slow and delighted.

“wait,” he says, grin spreading wider. “you know him?”

you nod—still processing—then point one shaky finger at naoya.

“he’s the guy,” you say flatly. “the thirty-second disaster from last night. the one i screamed at in the hallway. the one who told me i’d never have better after he came before i was even wet.”

toji stares at naoya for one long beat.

then he throws his head back and laughs—loud, rough, genuine—the sound bouncing off the kitchen walls.

“oh my god,” he wheezes, arm tightening around your waist. “you’re tellin’ me this little shit had four hours to fuck you right and he lasted thirty seconds? dry? no foreplay? jackhammer bullshit and then told you you’d never have better?” he snorts—mocking, delighted. “kid, i’m twice your age and i just fucked her for four straight hours until she couldn’t walk. had her squirting in my jeep, cryin’ on my cock, beggin’ for more. and you’re out here actin’ shocked she ended up in my bed?”

naoya’s face twists—fury, humiliation, disbelief all at once.

“you—you fucking shameless old bastard,” he spits, voice shaking. “fucking a girl half your age—my sloppy seconds—and you’re proud of it?”

toji doesn’t even flinch. his hand slides higher under the shirt—cups your bare ass possessively—while he looks naoya dead in the eye.

“sloppy seconds?” he repeats, slow and mocking. “nah. you barely got the tip wet. i had to clean her up myself before i even touched her. and yeah—i’m proud. she came to me after you failed. screamed my name for hours. so yeah, i’m shameless. now get the fuck out of my house. tell the clan whatever you want. tell ’em your uncle’s got better dick game than their precious heir. tell ’em she chose me. and stay the hell away from her.”

naoya opens his mouth—closes it—then spins on his heel and storms out, front door slamming so hard the windows rattle.

silence rings in the kitchen for two heartbeats.

then you snort—soft, disbelieving—still perched in toji’s lap.

“pussy,” you mutter, shaking your head. “can’t believe he’s really your nephew. guy’s got no skill, no stamina, no nothing. thirty seconds and he thought he ruined me for life.”

toji laughs again—low, warm—arm tightening around your waist as he presses a kiss to your shoulder where the shirt has slipped.

“he’s my sister’s kid,” he says, voice dry. “zenin blood runs thin sometimes. lucky for you it skipped me.”

you giggle—tired, happy—then lean sideways to kiss his cheek, slow and soft, lips lingering against the rough stubble.

“very lucky,” you murmur against his skin. “best decision i ever made was walking out on him and calling you.”

he turns his head—catches your mouth in a lazy, deep kiss—tasting like coffee and smug satisfaction.

“damn right,” he whispers when he pulls back, forehead resting against yours. “now—coffee, food, or back to bed?”

you hum—already nuzzling into his neck again.

“all three,” you mumble. “but carry me. legs still don’t work.”

he snorts—soft, fond—then stands, lifting you with him like you weigh nothing.

“yes ma’am,” he says, already heading toward the stairs again. “anything for my favorite disaster recovery.”

you laugh—quiet, sleepy—arms looping around his neck as he carries you back upstairs.

the house is quiet now.

just you.

just him.

You want to tell them to stop breathing so loudly — it feels disrespectful. Their existence is unnecessary noise. Their bodies clog the space that should be reserved for him and you alone.

None of them know him like you do.

You know the rhythm of his foot tapping against the tile when he’s impatient. You know the little crease between his brows when he concentrates. You know the exact cadence of his voice when he says, “open wider for me.”

So what if this is the third cleaning you booked within the same month?

You told the receptionist your gums were “a little tender”. Your gums are perfectly fine. It’s your sanity that isn’t.

You keep his business card in your pocket, warm with your body heat. The ink is wearing off where your thumb rubs over his name again and again.

He gave it to everyone, sure. But no one keeps it like you do. They don’t whisper to it, don’t fall asleep holding it, don’t kiss it goodnight.

The receptionist calls your name. “Dr. Gojo will see you now.”

Finally.

God, his face — it’s the kind of beautiful that leaves you shaking. There’s no flaw, no wrong angle. Every part of him is exactly where it should be. You hate the idea that anyone else gets to see this. Gets to see him.

He smiles, says your name in that buttery register. He adjusts your chair and guides you back with soft and tender hands. He leans over you and being beneath him like this feels like destiny.

He has no idea what he does to you. No idea how devastating it is to have him this close. It takes everything in you to not reach up and touch his jaw and pull him closer and press your forehead to his and tell him that he belongs to you and no one else and—

“You’ve been taking good care of yourself,” he says.

The snap of latex against his gloved hands is foreplay, and his praise is seduction. Your thighs tense. It’s embarrassing how fast your thoughts collapse.

You love it when he asks you to open up, when he touches you, angles your head exactly how he wants and explore every inch of your obedience. You’ve memorized the exact spot his thumb rests, the amount of pressure on his fingers.

You’re so close to him that you can hear his breathing. You want to ask him what he’s thinking about. You want the answer to be you.

He finishes too soon. You’re not ready. You’re never ready.

He pulls away and gives you a satisfied nod he gives to good patients.

“See you next time,” he says. Next time. Next time. Next time.

And you will. Soon. You’ll make sure of it.

Three months ago

You weren’t supposed to meet him that day.

It was a throwaway appointment — a last-minute cancellation the receptionist squeezed you into because you happened to be nearby. You barely had time to sit before the assistant pushed open the door and called your name.

You didn’t expect anything out of the ordinary from all your previous routine checkups. But when he turned toward you, it was nothing short of extraordinary.

His bright hair caught the light like it was intentionally showing off.

His eyes were so vivid it felt illegal to look into them for more than a second.

Your organ systems forgot they had a job — your lungs, your brain, your heart.

You’d never been disarmed by a person before. You didn’t even think people had the power to do that.

“Let’s get you seated,” he said.

That voice. God.

He adjusted the chair and lowered you gently, explaining the procedure with an intimacy that caught you off guard. The way he leaned close to show you where to rest your head, how his hand ghosted near your jaw without touching yet.

Frankly, it felt inappropriate.

Your body reacted like he’d whispered something filthy. And when you felt him place two fingers under your chin, tipping it up to the perfect angle, your pulse shot upward so fast your vision went blurry.

And while he was rambling on about brushing technique or gum health or something, you couldn't process any of it. Your brain was stuck on one thing, and one thing only: he touched you.

You didn’t leave that room the same person who entered it.

You stood up, nodded politely and thanked him like a functioning adult. You walked out trying to act normal while on the inside, a dangerous thought began to form, one that would only continue to spiral:

He was perfect.

Not just “attractive”, not just “easy on the eyes”.

Perfect.

Perfect in a way that felt targeted. Perfect in a way that felt designed. Perfect in a way that made your body mourn the seconds you weren’t with him.

You replayed his voice all the way home. You replayed his touch. You replayed the way he smiled.

You needed more. You needed him.

Sleep didn’t reach you that night.

The memory of his fingertips brushing your lips resurfaced with humiliating clarity everytime your eyes fluttered shut.

You employed every method possible to forget — you’d roll over, shove your face into your pillow, and try to force yourself to forget the feeling, but your skin remembered.

You had to see him again. Soon. Now. Immediately.

But you couldn’t just show up. You weren’t unhinged — not outwardly. You needed a plan, a reason; a way back into that chair.

You sat down on your desk with renewed purpose, opened your laptop, and before you could question what you were doing, the clinic’s name was already being typed into your browser.

Your motive wasn’t to make an appointment. You were looking for their scheduling structure, their staff rotation, their hours. Any scrap of information you could twist into something useful. But their website was useless. Too clean and too vague.

So you did what any sane, functioning person would do. You called the clinic.

“Hi! Just checking if Dr. Gojo is in today?”

You wrote down the answer. You hung up. Waited a respectable amount of time—you weren’t an animal—then called again. You used a different tone. Different phrasing. Different fake reason.

Another time slot. Written down. Compared. Cross-referenced. It wasn’t enough. You needed data. A pattern. A system.

The spreadsheet grew fast into a color-coded grid;

Green: confirmed work days Orange: probable presence Violet: ambiguous Red: unacceptable absence

Blocks of time were highlighted, circled and analyzed:

He arrived earlier on Mondays. Left later on Thursdays. Took a longer break on Fridays.

Why rely on chance when you could rely on predictions?

Today, your alarm goes off an hour earlier than usual. The spreadsheet predicted an early arrival.

Thursday — Projected Arrival: 7:42 AM.

Last week it was 7:50. The week before, 7:46.

And if your deduction about his caffeine habits (large mocha, double shot espresso, two pumps of sugar, extra foam, less ice) is correct, then today should fall neatly in the middle.

You stand across the street from the clinic with a coffee cup you don’t even plan to drink, pretending to scroll your phone.

The time is 7:45 AM. Any second now.

7:46 People pass. Irrelevant. Noise. Filler. Not him.

7:47:50 You lift the coffee cup to your lips to fake a sip. Your eyes are locked onto the reflection in the glass window across the street — your perfect surveillance method.

7:48:12 There. He’s punctual. Of course he is. He cares about you so much. He’d never leave you hanging.

Dr. Satoru Gojo strolls up to the clinic with his hands in his coat pockets. His hair is obnoxiously bright in the morning light. It taunts every other shade of white in existence.

He’s wearing his spare blue scrub set, the one with the bleach stain on the hem from three weeks and two days ago when he knocked over a bottle on accident. He really should be more careful. Your clumsy boy.

He unlocks the door and disappears down the hall.

7:48:36 — Confirmed.

You mark down the time your notes app. A near-perfect match with your prediction. You understand him better every day.

You should go home and relax now, but then you see her walking straight into his clinic — female, short bob, beige coat, smug little bag.

That’s not right.

He doesn’t have any scheduled appointments now. You know there’s nothing booked in this slot. You checked.

Who is she? What does she want? Why is she here?

This doesn’t make sense. Unscheduled walk-ins are rare. Unscheduled female walk-ins are suspicious.

Does she know him? Is she new? Is she early? Did she call yesterday? Did she call after you checked? Did she lie? Did she flirt?

The receptionist nods and leads the woman toward the hallway. Toward him.

This is fine. It’s totally fine. He’s a dentist, after all. He sees patients. He helps people. It’s his job.

You stare at the clinic door long enough to memorize the exact angle it swings shut after she disappears inside.

You don’t leave.

You tell yourself you’re just passing by, just stretching your legs. You walk as if you’re checking window displays — never mind that the only window worth checking is the one that gives you a perfect side-angle view of his room.

And then you see them.

The woman with the bob is on the chair, chatting with Satoru. You expect her to be annoying, maybe loud—Satoru hated the loud ones—but she’s pleasant.

She’s laughing softly, one hand tucked behind her ear. She looks foolish. Like she’s audtioning for a toothpaste commercial. You think she must’ve had veneers done. No one was born with teeth like that. No one, save for Satoru.

A friend? No — too cheerful. A former coworker? No — not in those shoes. A vendor? No — she didn’t bring any products. A stalk— No. That’s your role.

You watch the bob girl shift her posture, trying to look cuter. Your teeth grind. Then the woman leans in, says something to him, something you can’t make out.

And he laughs.

Your Satoru — your perfectly punctual, perfectly bright, perfectly oblivious reason for existing, is laughing.

It’s not a polite chuckle. Not the forced, professional smile. It was a real, shoulders loosening, eyes crinkling smile. The kind that should only ever be directed at you.

Your mind goes very, very still.

You can’t hear what she said, but you know it wasn’t funny. She shouldn’t be making him laugh. Shouldn’t be making him anything. That expression is yours and yours alone. Your reward. Your discovery.

You’re not jealous. You’re vigilant. You’re careful. She’s one disruption. An anomaly. You’ll handle it.

This is your time slot. This is your schedule.

Your doctor.

Fine. Good. You needed this. People like her will always flutter around him. Let her — temporary little distraction. She won’t matter long. Not when you’re the one coming back soon. Very soon.

You can’t get the image out of your head. Her laugh. His laugh. No. Absolutely not. Everything about that scene was wrong.

You pace down the sidewalk, the morning sun too blinding, the traffic too loud, the world too irritating.

All the while, your brain keeps looping one thought: you need to get inside that clinic. Right now. Before she steals more seconds that aren’t hers.

But you can’t just walk in, or say you forgot something. What would you even pretend to forget? Your dignity? It’s long gone anyway.

And even if you did fabricate some imaginary object, the receptionist would retrieve it in seconds and that bob-headed parasite would go right back to stealing his minutes.

You need something better. A believable reason. A legitimate one. Something that’d make the receptionist pale and scramble, and say the magic words: “We’ll get Dr. Gojo right away.”

Emergency. That’s it. You need an emergency. This is logical. It’s reasonable. This is exactly what any rational person would do if they saw a strange woman hovering around their dentist.

Okay. Think. How does one create a dental emergency?

You could claim a crown fell out; You don’t have one, but they don’t know that.

You could say you felt a crack; Nobody can disprove a sensation over the phone.

You could say you woke up with swelling; “I swear it’s huge,” is such a flexible phrase.

You could even lose a tooth.

Yes. Yes, yes, yes.

You’ll lose a tooth.

It's perfectly convincing. Perfectly harmless — at least, if you plan it right. You read once that if you put it immediately in a glass of milk, the chances of replanting the tooth skyrockets. And whose hands would you trust more than Satoru’s?

Safe hands. Careful hands. Big, warm, gorgeous hands that would cradle your face and say, “Don’t worry, I’m here.”

Your voice will tremble; you can do that on command. Your eyes will water; you’re already halfway there.

They won’t make you wait, they won’t question it. He would never turn away a patient in pain.

And that bob-haired waste of space? She’ll watch him run to you first.

You’ll be exactly where you’re supposed to be. Back in his chair. Back under his hands. Back inside his attention.

You buzz with anticipation and sprint to the nearest grocery store. You check out a bottle of milk and head straight to the restroom, adrenaline singing in your veins, determination settling into your bones. You lock yourself in and grip the edge of the sink.

You ball a wad of paper towels and bite down on them. You’ll need something to stifle the scream. You’re not dumb — you’re not about to sabotage your own plan by having someone rush in and interrupt you.

Okay. Okay, okay. You breathe once, twice, three times.

This is it. This is devotion. This is fate. You whisper, “For Satoru.”

Then you slam into the sink.

Crack.

A sunburst of pain sucks all the oxygen out of you. Your knees knock the side of the stall. You choke on your own muffled cry — a broken, animalistic whimper. Your vision blurs so hard you think you’ve passed out, but you’re still there. The taste of rust crosses your tongue. Then you spit into your palm.

It worked. It fucking worked.

Jagged, red at the root, shining with triumph — your tooth.

You stagger back, dabbing at your mouth. The tissues are still clenched between your teeth now.

It hurts. Oh, it hurts so bad. But it’s sacred.

People only deserve his attention if they’re willing to bleed for it.

You give yourself one minute to practice your act — sixty seconds of dizzy euphoria, staring into the mirror with a mouthful of tissues and blood smeared across your chin.

You look pathetic. It was perfect.

You stumble into the clinic, towards the counter, hands cupping your jaw to really sell it. Your eyes are glossy with unshed pain, voice shaking so sweetly when you plead:

“I—I think something broke. Please… I need to see a dentist right now.”

And just like you dream, she scrambles to pick up the phone, and says the magic words:

“I’ll get Dr. Gojo right away.”

You’re being ushered down the hallway, trembling, clutching your jaw like it’s the most fragile thing in the world. You don’t have to fake the adrenaline; your body is already shaking so hard your teeth (your remaining ones) chatter.

You see the bob-haired bitch scurry out of his room. Good riddance.

The door clicks open. And he’s there.

Your reason, your ruin, your everything: Dr. Satoru Gojo.

His eyes widen with concern the second he sees you curled in on yourself, breath hitching.

“Hey… hey, easy,” he says, unbearably soft, stepping closer, gentler than you’ve ever seen him. “You must be scared. Let me take a look, okay?”

You lift your gaze slowly, letting your lashes tremble, letting your breath wobble. You look small on purpose; crafted yourself into the perfect picture of vulnerability.

You whisper, “It… it hurts.”

His brows knit together instantly. “Aw, sweetheart—”

(Your heart combusts.)

“—I’ve got you. We’ll fix it. I’ll numb the area first, get rid of that pain.”

He dons his surgical gloves with slow, careful movements, retrieving the syringe like he’s trying not to startle a frightened animal.

It does unspeakable things to you.

And when he steps closer and reaches for your chin, you flinch back — deliberately, strategically.

He goes soft all over. “Hey. I promise I won’t hurt you.”

You let your voice shake even more. It isn’t hard. You’re already breathless.

“B-but this is my first time doing something like this,” you say, tiny, terrified. “Please… promise me you’ll be gentle?”

His eyes snap to yours — startled, confused, embarrassed?

He swallows, the tiniest bob of his throat, before he speaks.

“I promise.”

Oh, Satoru. Your darling Satoru. Your beautiful, clueless, perfect idiot.

He leans closer, fingertips tilting your chin, ever so tender and loving.

“Just open wide and relax for me,” he says.

You nearly dissolve into a puddle on the chair. This is your best idea yet. You’ve never seen him care so much about you before, and you want to push the boundaries even more.

He begins to angle the numbing syringe, but you tense up again — intentionally, the picture of sweet, irresistible innocence.

“Hey… look at me.” His voice drops, low and coaxing, “I’ll take good care of you. Trust me.”

You know what he means. You know exactly what he means.

The clinical intention. The rational intention.

But your brain, faithful and deranged, hears something else entirely.

The needle slips into your gum, and the anesthetic floods in, numbing all sensation until the only thing you can truly feel is him, towering above you, looking only at you.

Let her make him laugh. That’s all she’ll ever be — a clown. Let her think that’s enough.

He only speaks like this to you. He said he’ll take care of you. He promised he’d be gentle with you. He’ll make you all better. Only you.

You go home with blood-soaked gauze between your teeth and victory under your skin.

Your tooth hurts, your gums throb, your jaw is stiff; none of that matters.

The compassion he showed and the way he looked at you isn’t something you can un-feel.

You lock the door behind you and head straight to your bedroom. You don’t even bother turning on the lights — the glowing screen of your laptop is all you need.

You sit on the floor, cross-legged, pulse fast as you open your browser.

Dr. Satoru Gojo, you type.

The first results are boring.

Clinic listings, dental certifications, a generic staff bio.

No flavor. No soul.

You already know all this surface-level nonsense. These pages aren’t for people like you — they’re for strangers.

You’re not a stranger.

His personal social media accounts are locked. All of them. Of course they are.

He's private. Someone that beautiful had to be. But privacy doesn’t erase information.

You have to find a way in.

So you discover the cracks:

coworkers with public profiles

relatives who overshare

a cousin who tags him in old photos

family friends who post albums from reunions

a retired teacher who still uploads grainy class pictures from ten years ago

You sit back for a moment, staring at his aunt’s page. Her feed is full of blurry lunches and knitted scarves.

Perfect. You’d be a distant aunt.

You open a new tab. A new account. A new identity. You give yourself a delicate old-lady name, a grandmotherly profile picture, a blurry banner, captions filled with emojis and misspellings, posts about your silly grandkids.

You follow his entire family tree. Then, finally, you follow him.

Your eye twitches with anticipation.

If he declines, you’ll simply try again from a different angle. If he blocks you, you’ll build a new family member.

But if he accepts… if he accepts…

The notification comes instantly.

Satoru Gojo accepted your follow request.

You’re in his world now.

Now that your fake-old-lady-profile has infiltrated his circle, doorways start opening: tagged photos from when he was a teen, comments under his university posts, friends teasing him, coworkers tagging him at events, relatives posting birthday pictures, people mentioning his preferences, old likes he forgot about.

You absorb it all.

You pause at a photo he liked. A woman’s face — the actress, Waka Inoue.

So that’s what he likes. That’s what draws his eye. That’s the shape of his fantasy.

You turn your gaze toward your own reflection in the dark screen. Your clothing is wrong. Your hair is wrong. Your makeup is wrong.

Wrong things can be changed.

You create a single folder — a dossier.

He’ll recognize you the next time you meet him. You’ll become his dream. One perfect piece at a time.

It’s 9:42 on a Sunday morning.

You’re sitting by the window, waiting.

You chose this seat intentionally.

It had the perfect lighting, perfect angle, perfect radius of visibility from the doorway.

A book is open in front of you, pages untouched. You don’t need to read; you only need to look like someone he would want to read beside.

Your reflection in the glass pane matches the blueprint you carved from ten years of digital breadcrumbs: soft waves grazing your shoulders, a delicate blouse draping just right, a muted skirt stopping shyly above your ankles and small earrings that dangled gracefully.

You look like someone meant to be photographed holding his arm.

Two drinks sit on your table — the props in your carefully constructed tableau. An iced mocha (your decoy) and a sparkling water (your actual drink).

And after weeks of monitoring his off-day patterns, you know that on Sundays, around mid-morning, he gets coffee. Always the same shop, always the same route. He doesn’t think twice about routine, so you place yourself in it like a missing puzzle piece.

He walks in wearing casual clothes, glasses slipping down his nose. He looks so disarmingly human like this. Less “doctor” and more “man you’d want to wake up beside.” He’s too adorable, all too unaware of how attractive he is.

He sees you instantly. You knew he would. There’s nothing accidental about this.

“Oh—hey!” he called out. “This is unexpected.”

You lift your head with the sweetest, softest, perfectly engineered surprise.

“Oh! Dr. Gojo! I… didn’t think I’d see you here!”

He walks over, adjusting his glasses, a little flustered.

“Just Satoru is fine,” he says. “You can drop the formalities. We’re not in the clinic.”

A shy blush escapes you, just as you practiced in the mirror. “Okay… Satoru.”

The name sits beautifully on your tongue. He hears it. His shoulders slacken.

“So, uh… what brings you here?” he asks, gesturing around awkwardly. “It’s just that, I’m a regular, but I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

“I just came by for a little weekend treat. This here—” you lift your drink and laugh gently, “—is my guilty pleasure. An iced mocha, double shot espresso, two pumps of sugar, extra foam, less ice.”

His jaw drops. He’s bewildered. Absolutely stunned.

“No way. That’s my exact order.”

Hook.

It’s almost too easy. You nearly grin. Nearly. Instead, you pause, blink, tilt your head.

“Really? A dentist with a sweet tooth?”

“Guilty as charged.” He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s so funny, we’re already matching coffee orders.”

Matching.

You can already hear church bells ringing.

You lower your eyes, feigning hesitation. A pause that suggests you’re a litty shy and a little nervous.

“Actually… I’ve been meaning to thank you. For helping me last time. I’m really grateful, so, if you’re free… would you maybe like to join me?”

Line.

He shouldn’t say yes. You know that, he knows that.

But his eyes do a once-over at you: your pure persona, your demure posture, all sculpted just for him. He sits across from you without another thought.

“Sure. I’ve got time.”

Sink.

Satoru settles into the chair across from you, fingers curling around his iced mocha.

He looks relaxed, surprisingly. As if sitting with you is the most natural thing in the world, even though this is the only time he’s spoken to you off a dental chair.

“So,” he begins, leaning forward a little, “how’s your tooth? Any pain since then?”

You shake your head, and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, offering him a shy smile.

“It’s fine, thanks to you.”

A barely-there pink rises on his cheeks. You note the way he tries to hide it by taking a too-quick sip of his drink, only to wince when the cold hits his teeth.

Cute.

“So, uh… what are you reading?” he asks, hoping to recover, nodding toward the book you haven’t touched once.

You allow your eyes to widen like you didn’t expect him to ask.

“Oh, just some light reading.” You run your finger along the spine. “The Tale of Genji by Murasaki Shikibu — Heian period court intricacies, relationships… It’s dense. I won’t bore you.” (it didn't matter that you couldn’t name a single character if he asked.)

He perks up, intrigued. “No, no — that’s really cool. I’ll admit, I’m a simple man.” He laughs. “I read whatever I can squeeze between work. Only seem to have time for manga these days though.”

“That makes sense,” you say. “I imagine it gets overwhelming. Everyone in the city seems desperate to get in with you.”

He groans dramatically. “Don’t remind me. Yesterday someone even tried flirting with the receptionist to steal a canceled slot.”

What a weak attempt.

“Did it work?”

He snorts. “Not a chance. The waiting list is already a month long.”

You laugh politely at your own downplay, hiding a smile behind your cup. You lower your gaze the way all his favorite actresses do in candids. “Well, you’re really good at what you do — I would know.”

He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nah, you’re a good patient.”

“How so?”

He shrugs. “You’re easy to talk to, I guess. Most people are either afraid of me or asking me out.”

Don’t let the rage get to you. Just keep smiling.

“Oh? Do they really ask you out?”

He admits with a grimace. “More often than I’d like.”

“I can see why,” you tease.

How daring of you.

He looks down at his drink, embarrassed. He looks stunned, shy even, but he shouldn’t be — not with a face like that.

“I mean,” you add softly, swirling your straw, “you’re kind, smart, good at what you do.” You offer a tiny, modest shrug. “It’s not hard to imagine people falling for that.”

“That’s—wow, uh—thanks.” He laughs nervously and darts his eyes away for a second. “You’re… not too bad yourself,” he adds. “Though I’m sure you’re used to compliments by now.”

Oh... Pull yourself together. Your fingers toy with the edge of your sleeve.

“You think so?”

He nods without hesitation. “Yeah. I’m glad I ran into you today.”

You can practically feel the universe tightening the noose around his destiny. Poor Satoru is a puppet who hasn’t realized he’s on strings. He’s open, comfortable—and dare you say—starting to like you.

Which means it’s time.

You need to leave. Now. Before he gets too comfortable. Before he stops thinking about you.

Because the secret isn’t making a man like you. It’s making him want more.

You wait— Time it, feel it. Sense the exact moment he leans in, a question perched on his tongue—

Then you stand.

The scrape of your chair might as well be a gunshot the way he flinches.

He stammers, blinking up at you, “Ah—do you, uh, need to go already?”

Your heart flutters at the crack in his voice. That small, wounded surprise. You are that good.

“I should, I don’t want to take up your whole morning.”

He sights up straighter, like the chair suddenly isn’t comfortable without you in front of him. His next words come out in pieces, scrambled, “Oh—no, it’s not—I mean, you’re not, um, I honestly don’t have anything to do, so if you wanted to stay, I wouldn’t—”

He’s unraveling. You did that.

It takes everything in you not to let out a victory cry. Instead, you force out a small and meek, “It was really nice talking to you, Satoru.”

You said his name again.

You can see what it does to him.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “It was.”

You gather your things slowly, giving enough time for him to watch you and to process the loss of your presence. You shoulder your bag, one last polite nod before turning to leave.

One step. Two. Three—

“Wait.”

You could kiss yourself.

You turn, looking over your shoulder, eyes wide with perfect surprise. He’s standing now, hand in his pocket, awkward, nervous.

“Um…” His fingers fumble with a folded bit of reciept paper, edges crushed from how tightly he’s been holding it. He steps closer and clears his throat. “This is probably a bad idea.”

You give him your most virtuous look. “What is that?”

He glances aside in embarrassment, “I’m not supposed to do this with my patients.” He hands you the slip of his paper. “My personal number,” he says.

Oh. my. fucking. god.

You wanted to scream, laugh, grab his shirt, kiss him, shake him, sink your nails into the flesh of his heart and carve your initials in it.

“I-I… don’t want to get you in trouble,” you whisper.

He shakes his head immediately. “No, it’s fine. I trust you. Text me if anything happens. Or even if anything doesn’t.”

You close your fingers around the paper, cradling it. You have him wrapped around your finger. “Okay,” you say. “I will.”

Everything worked.

Every detail and carefully chosen word.

Executed to perfection, a masterpiece in manipulation.

Everything is falling into place exactly as you planned.

You can’t text him immediately — that’s what clingy, overeager, sloppy little creatures do.

You aren’t an amateur.

So you set the paper on your nightstand, smooth it flat, and let it sit.

You wake up. You make tea. You replay his laugh while brushing your teeth.

It was nothing short of torture, but you had to be patient. For you are his favorite patient.

Three days is the magic number — an acceptable timeframe.

Three days is when he starts to think of you unprompted.

Three days is enough time for him to be haunted by thoughts of “why hasn’t she texted?”

So you start drafting.

Thank you again for keeping me company.

Too plain. Too empty. Delete.

I really enjoyed seeing you. Hope you got home safe!

You gag. Actually gag. Delete.

Thanks again for helping me last time. You really made me feel better.

Ugh. Terrible. You sound like a Yelp review. Delete.

Hope I wasn’t too much of a bother again.

What the fuck? You want pity? Absolutely not. Delete.

You sit cross-legged on your bed, the light from your phone glowing against your palm like a holy artifact. His number waits in your contacts, untouched: Toru <3

Come on.

You didn’t reengineer your entire personality and reconstruct your wardrobe just to send some lukewarm, baseline-human nonsense.

You want to sound warm yet bold. Funny and a little flirty. You want him to blink at his screen, smile without meaning to, then reread it ten times over.

Is it normal to want to see your dentist again this soon?

Yes. Yes, yes. This is the one.

Harmless on the surface. Playful underneath. Disarming in its simplicity. Suggestive if he wants it to be. Teasing if he reads it twice. A confession if he looks closely.

You cross-reference your spreadsheet and confirm his schedule today: No appointments. Lunch break window. Phone likely in pocket. Brain likely idle.

It's the ideal time for emotional interference — you position yourself like a sniper, and hit send. The message floats away, a little digital bullet aimed straight for his heart.

Then you wait, the way a lion sinks into tall grass. And sure enough—

Your phone buzzes, not a minute later. Not even forty seconds. Thirty-one. He read it immediately.

A laughable little thrill curls through you as you stare at the notification lighting up your lock screen:

Only if your dentist has good bedside manners 😉

Your entire bloodstream vaporizes and reconstitutes itself in the span of a heartbeat. Your stomach swoops so violently you nearly drop the phone. You read it thirty-one times and then another four, just to make sure you weren’t hallucinating or misinterpreting the innuendo.

The wink. The fucking wink.

He could have just said “lol” or “haha”. But he didn’t.

Satoru Gojo winked at you.

Digitally, yes. But it counts.

And not a friendly wink either. Not a “grandma made a pie” wink.

A bedside. Manners. Wink.

You’re dizzy with implications. There are so many. What does “good” mean to him? Gentle? Dominant? Hands-on? Does he think you’re picturing him hovering over a bed with gloves off and voice low? Because you are, now. You are so vividly doing that.

You could still dial this down — send a safe, soft-pedaled emoji or a polite “haha, you’re so silly”. All it takes is your next reply to tip the scales toward cordial or carnal.

But your brain isn’t interested in balance aymore.

No, your brain has already slithered off the rails and is now joyriding straight into his lap. It’s licking the thought of his voice bending low, whispering for you to “open wide” with something other than dental instruments in hand. It’s already imagining his so-called bedside manners without latex gloves — no latex at all, for that matter.

You have all the power now. The invitation is sitting wide open, legs parted, saying: come inside.

Is that so, doctor? Next time, I’ll be better prepared to assess your technique

And when he responds, he bites back, hard:

Bring a notepad. I’ll give you plenty to write about

You nearly let out a sound.

You clamp your thighs together without thinking just to contain the full-body voltage that line delivers straight to your pelvis.

You lie back against the pillows, grinning like a lunatic, fingers hovering over the keyboard, thumbs twitching with indecision.

He wants this. He started this.

But still — you want to measure the next stroke just right.

Fair warning: I have strict standards

You can picture him mentally debating, wondering how inappropriate this is while simultaneously wanting to dive in anyway.

Delivered. Read. Typing…

Fair warning: I never disappoint

God. You sit up. Sit forward. He’s still typing. Another text pings in right after:

You free Friday night?

You swear you stop breathing. You let your head fall back, body sizzling, mouth dry. Then you answer, calm and confident like you’ve practiced before.

It’s a date.

You lock your phone and stare at the ceiling with a slow, consuming smile. The room feels too small to hold the satisfaction inside of you.

He has no idea what he’s just set in motion, but you know exactly what comes next.

Satoru Gojo pulls up in his car and steps out like a wet dream.

White dress shirt, perfectly fitted, rolled just once at the sleeves like he doesn’t even know how pornographic his forearms are. A slim black tie, undone (you’d undo it further).

He leans against his car, wearing a devil-may-care elegance, holding the sexiest bouquet you’ve ever seen.

Red roses were far too generic. He held an assortment of deep wine-colored calla lilies, indigo hyacinth, black dahlia, a single spray of bleeding heart, tied in dark silk. You want to crawl into his lap and purr for it.

You’ve been getting ready since 11:00 for a 7:30 dinner.

It started with a three-step exfoliation.

Then a cooling mask. Then a hydrating mask. Then another to seal the glow.

You tweezed precisely — eyebrows, bikini line, the back of your neck. You moisturzied every inch of your body. Twice. Then oiled it.

You sprayed perfume in strategic places: back of the knees, between the breasts, behind each ear and under your hairline so it would bloom when you played with your hair.

You matched the color of your lipstick to the color of his favorite whiskey. You lined your underwear drawer in the off chance he opened it. You painted your nails a color he once liked on a girl’s post from six months ago.

You wore the dress that made your waist look strangled. You wore the shoes that gave you the posture of a prayer.

And by the time you were done curling your hair, steam emerged from the bathroom like smoke after arson.

But it’s all worth it. He’s worth it.

You had rehearsed the steps you’d take down the stairs earlier so that you’d look like a starlet.

You know how you look. You’ve seen it in the mirror a hundred times already, practiced every expression — wide eyes, coy smile, neck bared just a little more than necessary.

You walk toward him slowly, pretending not to notice how his eyes track every inch of you, from the straps over your shoulders, to the dip of your waist, to the swell of your legs straining beautifully against heels he’ll definitely make you regret later.

“Hey,” he says, offering you the bouquet.

The words taste too good in his mouth. And the way his fingers curve around the stems? You almost moan on instinct.

You take them with trembling control. “They’re stunning.”

“So are you,” he says, eyes dragging down your body and back up. “Do I get to keep looking at you all night?”

It should be illegal the way he says it. So lethal you want to die.

“You better,” you say, curling your grasp tighter around the bouquet. “I got all dolled up just for you.”

You don’t tell him about the playlist you listened to while shaving. Or the way you rewaxed your legs even though they were fine.

You don’t tell him you read six articles on body language to keep your posture effortlessly receptive and just barely challenging.

You don’t tell him you spent twenty minutes making sure your purse contents were both practical and inviting.

You don’t tell him about the notes you made on his favorite wines, his casual turns of phrase, the photo from his stories where you could just barely see the title of the book on his nightstand.

He smiles and opens the door for you. “Shall we?”

His fingers brush your lower back as he guides you into your seat. You’re already soaking, and the night’s only just begun.

The interior of the car smells like him, and the radio hums with ambient jazz, the kind of music people undress to in good movies.

His one hand grips the steering wheel, forearm flexing with each turn. You can’t stop picturing it above your head, fingers gripping the headboard, pinning you down as he sinks inside. You imagine leaving crescent-moon marks in that same arm, clutching him through every thrust.

He glances over. “How was your week?”

“Better now.”

He laughs under his breath, the sound curling around your neck. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

The drive feels like the prelude just before climax — surreal, floaty, skin too sensitive, body tuned too high.

Every passing streetlight reflects against his cheekbones, his lashes, carving his features in gold and shadow. And when his thumb grazes the gearshift, all you can think about is whether he fucks like he talks.

When he parks, you barely register it.

The restaurant is tucked between two blank storefronts: wooden façade, softly glowing paper lanterns flanking the entrance, barely visible signage in elegant brushstroke kanji.

He kills the engine and turns to you.

“Ready for the best meal of your life?”

You let your smile drag out slowly, lip catching on your teeth. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

The maître d’ greets him by name and leads the way to the sushi bar. You glide onto the dark leather stool by his side, close and together, no barriers. You sit, crossed legged, spine perfectly postured, dress kissing your thighs with every shift.

The chef bows low and welcomes you in soft Japanese. He works in silence before you, each slice of fish a performance. The entire meal is a private show, course by course, a slow unveiling.

“This one’s from Niigita,” Satoru says, pouring sake into your cup. “It’s supposed to open up as it breathes.”

“We have that in common.”

He smiles, and that little twist in his lips has your toes curling in your heels.

The first dish arrives. The tuna gleams beet red, accompanied by fresh wasabi and smoked soy.

You watch him out of the corner of your eye as you lift the first piece to your lips, fatty tuna so soft it collapses like butter. You moan (not by accident).

“Holy shit,” you say, hand over your mouth. “I think I just saw god.”

Satoru raises an eyebrow, pleased. “And here I was hoping you’d say that after dinner.”

You chew slowly. Swallow. “You know what they say — save the best for last.”

He watches your lips, then lifts his cup. “Amen to that.”

And so it goes. Bite after bite, poured drinks and conversation. You match him beat for beat — his tastes, humor, quirks.

When he references his favorite manga, you recall the exact line that comes after that. When he talks about enjoying late-night walks, you describe the exact route that just happens to mirror the one in his tagged photos.

He rests one elbow on the bar. “If I asked you what you really thought about me after our first appointment…”

“Which version do you want to hear? The censored or unfiltered version?”

He grins. “Both.”

“Mmm. I think I’d rather show you than tell you.” You pause, lowering your lashes. “But I will say this — I hated the girl who came in after me.”

It's a bold move, but you want him to know. And every time you speak, he looks at you longer.

Another dish arrives. Amberjack, kissed with yuzu zest. He lets you steal his when you eye it too long.

Between courses, you joke about food crimes, admit your secret obsession with absurdly niche documentaries and “coincidentally” drop the title he tweeted about last year as if you didn’t spend nights combing through his feed.

Then his hand brushes your knee, barely a graze, but to you, it’s a spark in a dry field. Your entire body stills under the table, tightly coiled. You want him all over.

“You’re kind of perfect, you know that?”

You feel heat. The final thread of restraint snaps. You place your chopsticks down carefully. You turn toward him, half-shifted on your stool, your leg brushing his.

“I don’t want dessert,” you say.

He raises a brow, smirks. “No?”

“No.”

He blinks once, registering, then leans in. “My place?”

It's so tempting — to feel the silk of his bed, his scent on the sheets and the way his furniture looks when he’s distracted and naked.

But not there, not yet.

You want him in the room where it started, where you first imagined what his hands would feel like if it weren’t covered with latex. You want to feel it raw.

You shake your head. “The clinic.”

Then a laugh, sharp and hot. “Seriously?”

Your eyes are unblinking, unapologetic.

And that’s it. No hesitation. He’s already reaching for his wallet, throwing down enough cash to cover every dish twice over. The chef bows and the staff whispers in polite reverence.

He doesn’t question it again, just takes your hand, leads you to the car, and starts the engine. Your mind is already in the chair, already naked under fluorescent lights.

You glance at him as he pulls out of the lot, hand on the wheel, other hand casually resting between you like it isn’t dying to move. You want to grab it. Put it where it belongs. On you. In you.

His shirt is tight enough across the shoulders that you imagine splitting it open. You want to ruin it, ruin him. You want to press your tongue to his wrist and claim his pulse.

You want his tie around your neck. His name in your mouth. The taste of his skin. You want to be so deep in his thoughts that even his dreams wake up blushing. You want to unzip his spine and live inside him.

You imagine what he’ll look like when he loses control. What his voice will sound like when it breaks. You’ll memorize it, bottle it up, stitch it into your brain, ingrain it in you forever.

He turns the corner, the sign for the clinic glows blue and white in the distance.

Tonight, you go back to where it all began.

Satoru unlocks the front door without a word.

You follow him in after him, traced in his shadow — a devout thing.

He flicks on the examination light and the dental lamp explodes in surgical clarity. It blooms overhead in a cold, perfect cone. A goddamn interrogation spotlight on you, the suspect.

You expect him to smile like before, warm, casual, amused. But he doesn’t.

He shuts the door with his foot. A sharp thunk. The lock clicks behind you like a cell door.

His eyes roam the room, then you. His jaw is set. The muscle in it ticks once.

He’s… different.

You noticed it in the car too — the way his fingers drummed the steering wheel like he was holding back. Now, you’re not sure he is.

He tosses his tie onto the counter, sending metal instruments clattering as the silk brushes them. The tray rattles, a staccato little foreshadowing.

“You want the chair,” he says.

Not a question. Not an offer.

You nod.

He gestures. “Go on.”

The vinyl is cool against the back of your thighs as you sink into the seat. Your dress hikes up slightly — a detail he absolutely notices. He reaches for the control panel, but doesn’t immediately press anything. His hand hovers, then he turns to you.

“You’re not who you say you are, are you?”

Your mouth goes dry. Your heart lurches.

How…

He presses a button.

Beep.

The chair reclines a few inches.

“You called the receptionist asking for my schedule, didn’t you?”

… does he know?

Beep.

Lower.

“You pretended to be someone else everytime.”

You should speak. You should deny it.

Laugh. Cry. Run.

Beep.

Back further, your hair spilling over the headrest, your body opening under the cone of clinical light. The angle is suggestive without even trying. Vulnerable in a way that makes heat curl deep inside you.

He pulls on a pair of gloves—one, then the other—snap, snap in punctuation marks.

“When you showed up at the coffee shop on my day off, I knew I didn’t just run into you.” He tugs the gloves down snug. “You don’t even drink coffee.”

He looks directly at you.

“You even knocked your own tooth out.”

The accusations echo all around you.

He knows — all of it.

The obsessive anlaysis of his calendar. The half-dozen “wrong number” calls. The morning stakeouts and the lies you spun, stacking one on top of the other until the only truth left was you wanted him.

In any way, at any cost.

Your hand finds the metal tray beside you by accident. Instruments tremble with a jarring, metallic trrrring. Satoru watches you react, watches every tremor.

He brushes along your jaw, trailing it. “Do you have any idea how fucked up that is?”

You nod. There’s nothing left to say.

“You should be arrested for the shit you pulled.”

His gaze drops to your hands, trembling on the edge of the armrests. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches to the tray beside you and plucks up a pair of sterile elastic tourniquets, the kind used to stabilize an arm for blood draws.

“I used to imagine you on your knees,” he says, “in my waiting room after hours, tongue out.”

He loops the first thick band around your right wrist and the armrest, cinching it tight with a practiced flick. You can’t breathe. You don’t try.

“Wondered if you thought about me, if you touched yourself after appointments.”

Your left wrist is next — another pull, another sharp snag, binding you helpless. The bands stretch enough to give the illusion of freedom, but no more; every movement meets resistance.

“Sorry darling, can’t have you flailing.”

Your chest heaves, your pulse thunders. He watches the panic spread beautifully across your features.

He adjusts the headrest—click—cradling your skull in his palms. His thumbs rest behind your ears. His face is close now, framed by the halo of the dental lamp, eyes bright and impossibly blue.

His glove grazes your lower lip; not a kiss but not even remotely professional. It was enough to set your entire body on fire, every nerve alight under the cold, white brilliance of the exam lamp.

“Tell me,” he says, “is this how you pictured it?”

“Not even close,” you manage.

He leans in, and your back arches under the light. You’re open. Caught. Laid bare on sterile vinyl beneath the weight of guilt. His mouth is so close now you feel his breath.

“You’re insane,” he murmurs, brushing his gloved thumb over your trembling bottom lip. “But so am I.”

You don’t dare to close your eyes. You want to see everything. Because he saw everything. Because he wanted it too.

“Open wide,” he commands.

You do. But not your mouth. Because he’s not your doctor tonight.

Your legs part and his gloves squeak as he drags a hand over your inner thigh. “You didn’t think I would find out? That you wouldn’t be caught?”

He doesn’t give you room to respond, reaching behind you—another click—the chair groans and tilts further back, until your legs slide open wider under gravity, posture collapsed and defenseless beneath him.

“Look at you,” he breathes, taking in the sight. “My lovely stalker in the flesh.”

The metal tray at your side clinks again as he pulls it closer. He reaches for the suction wand.

“Are you sure you can handle me?”

You’d crack your jaw for him. You’d dislocate your ribs to make more room for him. He’s your addiction and this chair is your confession booth.

You whimper—yes, yes, yes—but he’s already dragging the tube down your throat, past your lips. He doesn’t push far, just enough to press down your tongue. Satoru watches you as you gag around the suction, your throat fluttering under the pressure, eyes glossy.

“So eager,” he teases, and the sound of it, the sound of him, is too much. He slides it back out, obscenely slow, and it glistens with spit. “Messy little thing.”

He grabs the tray again, rips gauze from the sterile stack, and stuffs one square into your mouth, watching your lips stretch around it. He pushes two more in, then another wad, just to see how far you’ll let him go.

“Let’s keep the noise down, yeah?”

Your muffled whimper vibrates through the gauze, helpless and needy.

He traces with his gloved knuckle, trailing higher and higher up your thigh with maddening slowness, hovering near where you need him most.

His other hand wraps around your jaw, tilting your head up until your eyes lock with his, blue and burning.

“Don’t you dare look away.”

You couldn’t if you tried.

The dental lamp floods straight into your pupils, washing everything else to shadow. You blink against the brightness, tears gathering from the intensity, from the humiliation of being exposed in the most unholy posture. And he loves it.

He spreads you open with two fingers, exposing your wet, swollen folds to the light. The lamp overhead catches every glisten, every twitch. You try to lift yourself up into his hand, but the elastics bite into your wrists, forcing you to take every torturous second at his pace.

The first touch is barely a touch — the rubber pad of his index finger nudges directly over your clit. A soft push, a slow circle.

The gauze stuffed into your mouth squelches with spit as you sob around it, teeth sinking into the cotton until your jaw aches. He drags his other gloved thumb over the corner of your lip, smearing the saliva that leaks out.

“Mmm, such pretty sounds,” he hums, slipping deeper. “You’re dripping all over my chair. I could ruin you. Right here, right now.”

He waits there, buried to the knuckle, doing absolutely nothing. Your body clenches helplessly around the intrusion, trying to pull him deeper. You whimper into the gag, wrists twisting uselessly against the rubber restraints.

He laughs and lowers his face again until his lips brush your ear.

“You want more?”

A pause.

“Beg.”

You choke on your own breath, air, tears, spit, need, trying to form any sound that resembles a plea. His finger crooks suddenly, finding the spot instantly. Your ragged, gagged cry spills out of you in a confession.

“There’s your little problem area,” he murmurs, delighted.

He strokes it again. Harder, controlled, devastating. Your vision whites out at the edges and your hips thurst upward in broken, jerky movements, driven entirely by instinct.

Then his thumb joins in.

The rubber presses directly on your clit, pushing the wet folds apart around his hand. You damn near convulse — your legs spread wide for him and he thursts in deeper, spreading his fingers apart.

He fucks his fingers in harder, faster, pushing you right to the edge, and then — he withdraws; abruptly, completely, leaving you gasping and choking against the gag, body trembling, thighs slick and open in the cold air.

He steps back and pulls off his gloves with two sharp snaps, tossing them to the tray.

“You look pathetic,” he says.

You wanted to show him just how much.

Your wrists strain against the armrests; you want to touch him, claw him, hold him, anything. Your teeth clamp down around the gag, a muffled snarl erupts low in your throat. Your legs kick out, shaky and half-controlled, but enough to make him grab the armrest and pin you down. His expression flashes from amusement to delight.

“Well, well, look who’s come out to play,” he sings, climbing onto the chair, caging you beneath him.

You buck beneath him again in defiance, and the vinyl screeches under the violent movement. He grabs your throat, holding it with steady pressure, asserting that he can collapse your air at any second.

“You want to challenge me?” He rests his forehead against yours, so close to you that your tears spot his cheek. He pins your wrist with one hand while the other slams your hips down against the chair. “Then fucking challenge me.”

You can’t talk. So instead — you spit the gauze at his face. It hits his cheek, wet and dripping.

“Well now,” he murmurs, brushing your spit down the curve of his own jaw with two fingers. “If you’re going to act like a little monster… I suppose I’ll have to handle you like one.”

He fists his hand in your hair and drags your head back, baring your throat, forcing your mouth open. The restraints creak as your body curls up instinctively toward him, needy and feral.

He kneels on the chair, looming above your pinned body, and drags his cock out — flushed in deep red, heavy and thick enough that your lips part instinctively in disbelief.

“Oh,” he laughs, breath hitching. “You want a taste?”

He taps the head against your lower lip, smearing pre-cum all over, and presses forward to stretch your mouth around a shape substantially bigger than you were ready for.

You try to take him. You really, really try.

But your jaw strains. Your throat tightens. Your lips can’t stretch enough to get past the head before your throat spasms in a futile attempt to open wider.

“What’s wrong?” he taunts, grip tightening in your hair until your scalp burns. “You were so bold a moment ago.”

He nudges forward another inch, forcing your mouth wider, guiding it to the very edge of what it can handle until drool leaks down your chin.

Tears spill from the effort, your neck is strained against the headrest. He watches you struggle, eyes darkening as he watches your jaw quiver around the stretch. Your tongue presses helplessly against the underside of his cock, trying to coax him deeper.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he groans, “if you can’t even take me in your mouth—”

His free hand curls around the base of his length, pressing harder against your lips, pushing a broken whimper from your chest.

“—how the hell,” he pants, “are you going to take me in that tight little cunt?”

You suck harder, jaw screaming, threatening to tear itself apart. You want to swallow him whole, bury him deep, prove that you’re built to take him everywhere.

Satoru smirks down at you, lust-drunk and wicked. “Want to try again?”

You nod frantically, mouth open in a trembling “O”. You think, clear and loud enough for your own mind to hear it:

Yes. Yes, please. Break me on your cock. I want everything you’re about to do.

His eyes gleam like he hears it.

Then he yanks your hair back and shoves himself against your tongue again, harder this time, enough to make your throat seize. You try again, desperate, shaking, gagging on air as you fight to fit around him. He watches you choke on the attempt and loses his goddamn mind.

“Fuck — you’re killing me.”

He leans back, cups your cheeks with both hands, and spits straight into your mouth. A vulgar, wet rope of saliva landing on your tongue and coating your throat.

“There,” he growls, grabbing his cock and smearing his spit across your lips, down your tongue. “Open wider.”

Your throat tries to open. But when he pushes in that inch too far, your gag reflex punches back and you choke hard enough to jolt your entire body, a broken, wet sound that shakes your chest.

“Agh—enough. Enough.”

His voice is ragged, crackling with need. He drags himself out of your mouth and grabs your waist, lifting your restrained body off the backrest with a snap of strength that steals your breath.

He shifts position so fast the chair squeals under him. One moment his cock is pressing at your tongue, the next it’s slapping wetly against your dress, dragged down the centerline of your body, leaving a slick trail of spit on the fabric.

“It’s going in somehow,” he hisses, “if not your mouth, then—”

But he doesn’t finish. Your body reacts before he does. You want to take over, to redeem yourself.

Your hips snap foward, dragging yourself along his cock as he slides it down. Your nails claw for leverage even with your wrists bound.

You tilt yourself, angling your soaked cunt toward him with intent so clear, your entire body trembles as the head nudges your swollen entrance. You strain for contact, cunt pulsing around nothing as you try to drag him into you without permission.

The sight of you trying to mount him while bound, gagged, ruined with tears and spit and slick — he falters, and he jerks forward like he can’t help it. He drops his weight onto you, cock pressed flush to your dripping entrance.

Your chest heaves against him, wrists twisting violently until the elastic bites deep into raw, flaming flesh. It hurts. It thrills. The pain is proof.

“You want it that bad?”

You nod, frantic and wild.

His hand flies to the tray, sending metal rattling. He picks up a scalpel and holds the blade between two fingers, angled toward the rubber binding you.

It slides under the tight band, then—snap—your raw wrist springs free, shaking violently with relief. Thin red marks carve around the skin, swollen and tender, baring evidence of how hard you fought for him.

Good.

Let them stay. Let them bruise and scar.

You earned them.

He drops the scalpel with a clatter, pressing his cock hard against your slit again, smearing slickness over both of you.

Your freed hands fly upward to grab him, nails sinking into his shoulder, dragging him down with a desperation so sharp it borders on violent. Your fingers make their way to thread into his hair and yank him down to your lips.

“Take it properly this time,” he rasps, voice shredded.

“Doctor’s orders,” you oblige, wrapping your legs around his waist to push him in, the head of his cock catching and sinking a fraction of an inch inside your dripping heat.

He slams forward and your body shatters open around him — a shock of pain, a flood of head, a gasp that turns into a moan that turns animalistic. You dig further into his back, dragging warpaths of red down his skin as he sinks further into you.

Finally. This is what you fought for. What you bled your wrists for.

Satoru groans, both of you shivering under the sheer violence. You meet his thrust with a force that makes the chair recline a full inch backward.

His eyes widen. “You’re—” Another thrust. “—trying to take control.”

You bare your teeth in a delicious grin. Then you flip him.

It’s messy, graceless—a snarl, a shove, a twist of your hips and wrists and weight—and suddenly he’s on his back in the chair, stunned, breath gone, cock still buried inside you as you straddle him, thighs clamped around his hips.

You slam yourself down. Hard. He chokes on his own moan.

“Oh—fuck—” His fingers stab into your waist, leaving craters.

You grind down, lifting and dropping your hips in brutal, punishing strokes, using his body like you’re built for it, like he was made to beneath you, inside you, ruined by you.

Your hands push his shoulders down, pinning him with a strength you didn’t know you had. You're taking your revenge.

The chair rattles violently. The light overhead swings in its arm. You collapse your weight onto him, breasts sliding against his chest as you slam down again, again, again, chasing the pleasure.

Satoru’s face contorts, eyes rolling back and mouth falling open, hands clutching you so hard you know you’ll bruise. “You’re going to—fuck—you’re going to break us both—”

You whisper against his ear, voice ruined: “Shut up.”

Then you bite him.

His body jerks so violently his cock slams deeper, hitting a place that makes your vision split into stars. He grabs your hair, yanking your head back, exposing your throat.

“Insane,” he moans. “You’re fucking insane—”

His hand between your shoulder blades pulls you tighter. Your nails rake his chest. Your hips pound down and his breath comes out in shuddering, broken gasps.

You slam down. He cries out. You do it again.

He arches up into you, bucking like he’s trying to escape and bury himself deeper at the same time. You grab his throat and angle him to look at you as you take everything he has.

Your mind is a cathedral of obsession. He’s yours now. You’ll ride him into the grave. You’ll drag both of you into ruin. You slam down so hard the tiles begin cracking under the chair.

“That’s it,” he chokes. “That’s—god—fuck—”

Then he snaps.

He sits up in a single violent moment, arms crushing you to him, mouth on your shoulder, your throat, biting, sucking, marking you with his brand.

You moan, throat raw, as he thrusts up into you from below. Your cries start to shake. Your legs go numb. Your mind falls apart. You claw at his hair, panting into his ear, “Don’t stop.”

He shakes, gripping you like a man drowning. He slams up into you at the same moment you slam down onto him, and the collision rips into a full-body convulsion that arches your spine off his chest and sends your nails carving across his back.

Your throat goes silent for a moment, too much pleasure to even make a sound, before the cry finally tears free, a raw, keening note of release. Your cunt clamps around him so hard he nearly folds with you.

He drags you down on his cock, burying himself so deep the air punches out of him. He stutters, then grinds in ragged and broken thrusts as he groans a low, wrecked sound into your throat, biting into it as he pours into you. You feel blood rising under his teeth — and you almost come again from that alone.

Your legs give out. Your arms tremble intensely. Your body collapses against him, twitching, spasming, clenching with aftershocks so intense it would break the Richter scale.

“Fuck… fuck… stay right there… don’t move… don’t—”

You don’t listen — you shift instead. And you feel it: the soft, hypersensitive throb of him still inside you, your slick leaking down over him. You feel him groan into your neck.

“No—no, sweetheart, don’t—”

Again. You want it again. You want to make sure he can’t walk anymore. To make him delirious.

So you roll your hips again and you kiss him. His lips part on instinct, and you swallow his breath, tongue pushing into his mouth, messy and wet, teeth clashing.

You grind down again and his moan breaks in half. “Fuck—don’t—god, I’m still—”

“I don’t care.”

You kiss him slow, sealing him. His hand slides up your back with a gentleness so at odds with the brutality of what came before that it steals your soul. His mouth lingers under yours, open, wanting more, wanting you.

Every risk you took to get you here worked.

Your obsession made him yours.

His chest rises against yours in one long, shuddering breath. And when you pull back, his voice cracks open against your lips in a low, hoarse murmur:

“… come here, I’m not done yet.”

Suguru Geto. Built like a bear, broad enough to block the doorway, his strong frame draped in a scuffed indigo racing jacket that looks permanently fused to him. Hie flips through a case file with the kind of casual detachment that comes from too many years doing this job. You've heard he's been here the longest, and from the way the others glance at him, shoving their own files to him, you can tell it's true.

The fourth new face nearly barrels into the table, gaze glued to his phone. He looks up just in time to scowl, as though it's everyone else's fault he wasn't looking where he was going.

Floppy sandy-blonde hair falls over the man's amber eyes, messy enough to look intentional. Dark roots peek through at the top, while moss-green tips dye the ends in a streak of rebellion. That Prada suit is a slim, toned fit and you know it costs more than your car insurance.

You don't need a file to place Naoya Zen'in. One could argue he only scored this job thanks to his father, who sits pretty high on the federal chain, pulling strings. But apparently, he isn't exactly dead weight. For what he lacks in tact and brawn, he makes up for in sheer agility.

That, and his reputation of being an utter jerk.

"I see you people way too much," Geto is grumbling, though his arm is already stretching around Kento to snag a glazed doughnut. He shoves the doughy confectionary into his mouth, smacking his lips shamelessly, as he muffles around sticky crumbs, "How is it we're already being assigned another case? We only just flew back in yesterday."

"The beauty of this is that it's a gift that keeps on giving," Sukuna's voice rumbles like gravel as he drains the last of his mug, "Sick fucks always findin' new ways to hurt each other." He slams the empty mug down the table, tattoos flashing like black cuffs around his wrists. His russet eyes flick up, catching your stare.

You grimace, pretending to admire the lead pencil in your hand, as though you were looking at literally anything else.

Sukuna rolls his eyes, "And lookie here, we've got fresh blood." He jerks a thick finger in your direction, "Department approved a new transfer since Kashimo ditches us for whatever adrenaline-junkie bullshit he does now."

"Probably bungee-jumping into a volcano," Naoya mutters, not bothering to lift his eyes from his phone.

A round of quiet nods and murmurs of ascent follow, resigned as you gather this must track for the famed, impulsive Hajime Kashimo.

"That, and the fucker kept tryin' to take my job," Sukuna growls, but his sharp eyes swing back to you, "So, kid. Tell us where you crawled out of."

You shift, suddenly wishing you'd spent a little more time preparing a decent show-and-tell, "I – uh, spent some time after the academy in Cyber. Worked cases involving data trafficking, predictive algorithms, behavioural mapping and —"

The doors bang open as a ridiculously tall man blows in, alongside a rush of cold air, balancing a pastry bag and an oversized coffee, as though he's walked through a hurricane. His tie is loose, white hair windswept, and his glasses are a little askew.

"Sorry, sorry — I'm late," the man blurts, breezing in like a hurricane with a coffee cup in one hand and a pastry bag in the other. He cuts across the room in long, careless strides, clapping Kento on the shoulder as he passes, "Don't start without me."

"Oh, no, your majesty," Sukuna mutters, voice dripping with snide disdain, "We were all waiting for you to grace us with your presence. What, fifteen minutes late? Wouldn't want our little genius missing the fun."

The man flushes mid-step under Sukuna's glare, shoulders stiff, "Look, man — "

Sukuna raises a thick brow.

"Uh, I mean, sir. Yes, sir. No, sir. Won't happen again, sir."

"Get your ass in a chair."

Geto presses a hand valiantly to his chest, and it takes all your Herculean effort to not stare at the counter of his sculpted chest beneath his top. But the man is as solemn as a priest, "He won't do it again, boss. Nope. I'll personally buy him an alarm clock."

Shoko snorts into her ocean-blue turtleneck, tugging it tighter around her throat, "He doesn't need you to suck up for him."

"Welcome to the team," Naoya finally drags his amber eyes away from his glaring phone screen, pinning you with an exhausted stare, and once again, that look that blamed all of his displeasure on others, "Not too late to hand in your two weeks' notice."

God. You should have read that case file one more time. Should've done a single ounce more of snooping into your new team. Then, maybe, just maybe, you would have been more prepared.

If you had just bothered to read the last and final page on the current members of the Behavioural Analysis Unit, you would have picked up on this.

Gojo Satoru.

He's sinking into a wheeled chair, flipping through a file and shuffling stacks of crisp paper. Loose navy cardigan over crisp slacks, and a cream button-down, with sleeves rolled to his elbows. White hair a little too long, falling into his glacial blue eyes, hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses that look devastating on him now.

The last time you saw him was, when? High school?

He had been a mess back then, composed of crumpled Lord of the Rings hoodies from Hot Topic and a ramble of babble that everyone attributed to him being, well, an absolute nerd.

Gojo Satoru, the valedictorian. The boy genius with a scraggly bowl cut and round, prescription sunglasses. The guy who could speak a dozen languages, and pass an exam without cracking open his book once. Eidetic memory, and all that.

But he had always been a bit of a social pariah. If he wasn't alone, mumbling over textbooks in the library, he was probably exchanging Pokémon cards with some friend of his, like the bumbling, dark-haired Ijichi.

And now? Well, it's an ironic choice of words considering your line of work, but he looks criminal. Still a nerd, but in that hot way that Pinterest girls swooned over. Tall, broader than you remembered, sharp-jawed and somehow pulling off a cardigan better than you right now.

Your mouth is already open before you can stop yourself, "When the hell did you get so hot?"

Gojo's head lifts quickly, blinking at you like you're an anomaly in a code that he was clueless about. No recognition, no faint spark of memory in those jewel-toned eyes. He adjusts his glasses, pink lips quirking, "I'm sorry, have we met?"

Every cell in your body goes into system shutdown. Somewhere in your periphery, Kento's face flattens, as though he's embarrassed to have spent time in your presence. Across the table, Shoko slips a twenty into Geto's waiting hand. You catch Naoya sliding in a crisp fifty with the same bitter grace as tossing meat to a dog.

You cough, cheeks puffing as you scramble for rapid damage control, "I mean, wow. When the hell did it get so hot in here? I'm sweltering. Are you guys hot? Because I'm hot. Like, wow, summer's already here? Global warning, am I right?"

"It's the middle of winter," Sukuna throws you a look of mild disgust, as though you're contagious with a brand of idiocy he wants to avoid.

"Phewwww." You wipe your brow theatrically, refusing to die in utter shame, "Must be just me then. Because I'm boiling in here."

Naoya leans back, eyes dragging over you with lazy, bored curiosity, lips curling just enough to flash his fangs, "You do know all BAU agents have to pass a psych eval, right? You didn't bribe the assessor?"

Shoko perks up suddenly, leaning forward with the first glimmer of interest in her doe-copper eyes, "Could be medical. Hyperthyroidism, maybe. Or pheochromocytoma. Seen an endocrinologist lately?"

"Uh..." You falter, because Gojo is frowning at you with real concern over his puzzled face, "I'll get it checked out. Thanks."

You hear Sukuna grunt something about 'fuckin' idiots' before he's already sliding individual files towards everyone. His huge hand click the pointer, and the wall-mounted screen flickers to life.

"Remember our mystery case from last year?"

"Flat-top weirdo who set people on fire?" Geto frowns, pushing your file towards you, from where Sukuna tossed them onto the middle of the table. You murmur a quick thanks, careful not to meet Gojo's eyes, the gaze boring into you from across the table, suddenly quite stern.

"The unsub was found not long after. Jogo, wasn't it?" Kento murmurs.

Naoya wags a finger towards the screen, "Then there was that freak with the bio-warfare. Something about flowers and shit?"

"Hanami. Also caught. Do you even pay attention to what we do?"

Naoya just shrugs, golden hair fluttering as he tilts his head with little regard for Kento's disapproving stare.

"Eyes up here," Sukuna warns, his tone like barbed wife. He clicks, and the next slide makes your stomach lurch. You'd braced yourself for crime scenes photos, comes with the job, obviously.

But nothing quite prepares you for the patchwork grotesque on the screen. Stiff sheets of human skin, stitched together with light blue-grey thread in patterns so deliberate it makes your chest crawl.

You swallow hard, throat tight as you hold onto your breakfast. But the others? Entirely unfazed.

"Yeah, that's the telltale M.O, it's poppin' up more and more," Sukuna shoves his hands into the pockets of his charcoal-grey denim.

"Oh man, yeah," Shoko says, leaning back in her hair as though this is a casual conversation about the weather, "That case has been open for months, I thought the unsub had stopped acting, and we had to put the investigation on hold?"

"Nah." Sukuna sums it up eloquently, "This is from two days ago. Something's triggered the killings again." He drops the pointer, tossing it onto the table with a thunk! Your boss jerks his chin towards the far side of the table, "But I'll let boy genius tell you more."

Every head swivels towards Gojo Satoru, except for yours. You keep your eyes firmly trained on the stacks of paper in front of you, the coordinate grid maps of where the unsub had previously struck last year.

Gojo's pushing his glasses up the bridge of his hawkish nose with one long finger. The glow of the projector washes his pale skin in sterile blue, catching on the sharp edge of his jaw. For half a second, the thinnest sliver in time, you could swear he looks at you, watches for your attention.

"Okay, so — " He claps his hands together once, quick and sharp, and you swear the sound reverberates through your bones, "Our unsub. Male, mid-twenties to mid-thirties. We could assume he's highly organised, almost meticulous with what he does, but impulsive to a fault. He does what pleases him, and gambles on what he thinks will give him a thrill."

"Like Kashimo," Shoko mutters, rolling a strand of flat, chestnut hair between her fingers once more.

Geto shakes his head solemly, "True that."

"The victims are skinned postmortem. And we've consistently found that pale blue thread is used to stitch pieces together. The shade of blue is consistent, almost ritualistic. The nylon fibres were analysed in the lab, and our unsub uses the same brand. It's cheap, easy to get at specific convenience stores so we can track his location as a path."

"You gettin' this?" Sukuna peers over at you, startling you out of your mild reverie. You fumble for the nearest Sharpie, already creating crosses over the past locations, wincing at the sound of the marker squeaking across paper.

"And like I said earlier, his stitches really are meticulous. Cross-stitch, blanket stitch, whip stitch. It's like he's experimenting with technique. I doubt it's random."

"Who spends time learning this shit?" Naoya mutters, reclining in his chair, but straightening up once Sukuna levels a shark-like flat look at him.

"Shut up, you wouldn't know a running stitch from a running nose," Gojo scowls, firing back without missing a beat, and he's pacing now. Voice picking up speed, words tumbling like dominos, "Locations? Spread across three prefectures, but always within walking distance of either a fabric store, or get this, cinemas? Something personal, perhaps?"

"Last time, agents found notes he had left behind, a manifesto?" Kento wonders out loud, dark eyes narrowed as he peers at the illuminated screen.

"Yeah, but it was nothing useful," Shoko shrugs, before pointing to Gojo, "Sorry, hang on. I'll get back to you. But there were no fingerprints left, not a speck of DNA to trace. And most of his ramblings made no sense, something about 'Idle Transfiguration' and his motivations, like humans hating and fearing each other."

"Like that's anything new," Sukuna grumbles, "Most people are like that."

"You're an optimist, boss," Geto notes, broad shoulders rippling beneath his jacket, "Anything about victimology?"

Gojo pushes his glasses up once more, glancing at you briefly. You loathe the feeling that pushes against your ribcage, and force your buzzing mind to actually focus on his words, "See, this is an anomaly. For someone so driven and focused on what he considers his craft, his victims seem to be chosen at random. Complexion and – uh, texture seem irrelevant. So, he's not really chasing consistency for his patchwork."

"But you guys caught him on your radar last year? You didn't find patterns?" You ponder, and while you know none would believe your words, you could swear that Gojo flinches at your voice. Ugh.

But the white-haired man gnaws his lower lips, "Yeah, yes. Patterns, yes. He disappeared for weeks, sometimes months, then resurfaced. That's typical cooling off period in disorganised killers, but this is the one part of his behaviour that doesn't seem as impulsive. He seems to hunt deliberately after mass public events. Tragedies, natural accidents, moments where there's a lot of negative public sentiment in the air. Like that's his time to source the right..." Gojo snaps his fingers, suddenly grinning, "Like sourcing the right fabric."

Naoya pulls a face, idly picking at a raw cuticle, "That's disgusting."

"Yeah, don't you love our job?" Gojo pushes his sleeves up, revealing toned forearms, dusted with light hair. He's clicking to the next map overlay, a string of red pins dot the screen, matching the marks you've made on the map in front of you.

"Notice the clusters. Each crime scene radiates outwards from a central hub. That hub? Abandoned textile factory in the south quadrant. It's a line of vast sewer tunnels, and I'd guess that's where our unsub probably feels safest returning to?"

Gojo coughs into his fist, finally lowering himself into his chair, as though he's just remembered that oxygen exists, "So. Yeah, that's – uh. That's what we're dealing with."

"Yeah, I knew all that," Sukuna snickers, slapping his thighs as he stands, "But now — "

"What?!" Gojo's head snaps up, scandalised.

"I knew, 'course I read the profile. You think I don't do my job? Just wanted you to get it out of your system, so maybe you'd get the chattering out of the way and I'd get five blessed minutes of silence at least."

Gojo mutters something under his breath that is absolutely not HR safe, folding his arms sullenly over his cardigan. Geto reaches over to pat his sulking friends shoulder in slow sympathy, "There, there. You'll always be my favourite profiler."

Shoko rolls her eyes skywards, sharing a long suffering look with Kento.

"Anyway," Sukuna grumbles, "We've got enough agents to stake out the predicted strike zone. We'll be in the field, but I want two of you pulled back a little, car surveillance, eyes on any movement in the surrounded abandoned area."

"I'll do it," Geto offers smoothly, putting his palm up. But the reaction is immediate and violent.

"No way." "Impossible." "You better not even fuckin' think about it." "Not after Kenjaku-gate."

You frown, brows furrowing, "I'm sorry. Kenjaku-gate? This was some...incident?

"Don't," Geto warns sharply, stuffing another helping of glazed dougnut into his mouth.

"Please do," Shoko encourages, propping her chin upon her fist with wicked interest.

Naoya leans in, and you're struck by his immense resemblance to a hyena, "Yeah. There was this guy, Kenjaku. His whole M.O was identity fraud, always swapping bodies, new disguises, different lives. Shit got real sticky, he even wore Geto once."

You wonder if you heard that correctly, glancing at Geto, who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else, "Wore? As in — ?"

"Right," Naoya continues gleefully, "So for a hot minute, everyone thought he was guilty of all these weird crimes. Big mess, and the higher-ups in the government had to get involved. They were foaming at the mouth and all."

"Mhm," Sukuna huffs, leaning back in his chair, and jerking a thumb towards Geto, who was currently scowling daggers at no-one in particular, "He's been cleared now and all, but that bastard caused a lot of problems. Nearly sank the team."

Your eyes flick to Kento, who hasn't said a word, but who looks far more strung. You mouth, something personal?

The golden-haired man hesitates, then gives the barest nod, Don't ask. Something about his twin brother.

You file that away, stunned. You frankly can't picture your new boss having friends, let alone a brother. But before you can prod, Sukuna's sharp eyes cut back to you like a blade.

"Well, how about this then?" His voice is slow, dripping with challenge, "I'll send ya' out there. You and boyband wonder, hmm?"

"Me?" You freeze, sudden heat climbing your neck.

But Gojo, mid-sip of coffee, sputters, "Boyband? Man, what the fuck?" He runs a nervous hand through his hair, pushing it up self-consciously.

"Shiny teeth, tragic wardrobe, zero substance?" Naoya offers with venomous glee.

"I have so much substace," Gojo sinks further into his cardigan, "Like, layers. Onions-level."

"Enough," Sukuna cuts through Gojo's muttering like a blade, voice sharp, and the casual chatter dies instantly. "I'm not your fuckin' babysitter. So, let's focus before I do lose what little patience I have left."

Gojo winces, lips quirking into an awkward grimace, but Sukuna ignores him and taps the case file with a thick finger, "We've got fresh dumpsites with consistent signatures. Stitching patterns, the pale blue thread. Most recent was two days ago, meaning we've got a live unsub working fast. That puts us on the clock."

You feel Gojo's eyes flick to you again, quick and unreadable, and your stomach twists. He still hasn't said anything. Not a flicker of recognition. Not even a hey, long time no see. Just nothing.

It pisses you off more than it should, irritation welling up in your throat.

"Fine," you blurt, before your brain can catch up, "I'll do it. Stakeout. Whatever you need."

There's a faint quirk at the corner of Sukuna's mouth, like he can smell the edge of desperation under your words, that urge to prove yourself. But his eyes are colder, "We'll see about that."

"Kento, Ieiri. You canvas the medical angles. Hospitals, ER admissions, anyone who might've stitched somethin' suspicious together. You'll get the most traction."

"Geto, Zen'in, go after witnesses and locals. Hit the perimeter, dig for chatter. And don't give me excuses about your personal vendettas gettin' in the way."

At this, Geto and Naoya give each other nasty, defeated looks. You briefly wonder the dynamic between them is.

But Sukuna's glaze cuts back to Gojo and you, "Which leaves you two. Surveillance car. Abandoned industrial area on the south side. Keep ya' eyes open, and if you get trigger-happy, I'll have your badges before you can blink."

The team starts gathering files, muttering, scraping chairs against the floor. You catch Geto purposefully knock his elbow into Naoya's ribs, but one by one, they filter out. You're slow to move, waiting till Gojo gives you a hesitant look and pushes the door open.

But you're absolutely aware that Sukuna's gaze is still pinned on you.

"Stay a minute," he orders.

Your spine stiffens, wilting under his maroon eyes. Oh, god. What did you already screw up?

But Sukuna doesn't waste time, "You want to prove yourself? Do it out there, not in here." His arms cross over his vast chest, tattoos shifting with the movement, "This isn't a playground. People die if you fumble, or freeze."

You swallow, throat tight, "Yeah, I know. I mean, understood."

"For the record..." Sukuna pauses, eyes narrowed as he seems to search your face for something, "The only reason you're here is because someone vouched for you. Usually I don't take rookies without field scars."

"Someone vouched?" Your heart stutters, thudding beneath your sternum.

"Yeah," Sukuna's lip curls, like the whole thing is a nuisance, "Gojo. Said you were worth the risk."

Your jaw practically unhinges, in the most unflattering way possible. Gojo? The same Gojo who looked you dead in the eye, and treated you like a stranger, while you babbled on about global warming?

Sukuna seems to read your silent expression, rolling his eyes, "Don't get sentimental. Whatever history you've got with boy-wonder, that's your problem. Out there, I only care if you can keep up." He jerks his chin toward the door, "Now get outta' here before I change my mind."

You nod quickly, fighting the ridiculous urge to kowtow, and grabbing your file before scurrying away with a spinning head.

"...So, you like jazz?" Gojo offers, peering low over his glasses, voice low in the hush of the car. His breath clouds in front of him, puffs in the winter chill.

You throw the white-haired man a sullen look, "Are you quoting the Bee Movie right now?"

Gojo's brows crawl up his face, "What? No." He wiggles in his seat, reaching into the pocket of his corduroy jacket. Producing a battered stack of discs, each one labelled in his crooked scrawl, "I bought jazz. Miles Davis, Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald. All the greats."

You must look gobsmacked, because flushed colour creeps across his cheeks. Gojo coughs and fumbles them back into his jacket, like contraband, "Sorry. Didn't know what you liked. If you don't want — "

You wave his stumbled fragments off, eyes darting to the frost-laced window, "No, it's fine." You gesture at the ancient CD slot on the dash, "Yeah, put whatever you want on."

Gojo perks instantly, sliding a CD in, and soon the tinny trumpet of Miles Davis fills the stale air of the car. You fold your arms, not looking at him, jaw clenched against the silence that starts to stretch.

For several minutes, the only sound is jazz, the occasional creak of your gloves as you flex your hands against the chill, and the scrape of Gojo's graphite pencil as he pulls through a crossword puzzle.

"So, first official stakeout. Excited?"

"Thrilled."

Gojo drums his long fingers against the steering wheel, "You know, these stakeouts are a rite of passage. It's the long hours, bitter coffee, and the leg cramps from being stuck in the car." He glances at you, smiling faintly, "Builds character."

"I can't wait," you mutter, eyes flicking over the dim, warm street lights casting long shadows across the pavement.

More silence. A car passes down the far end of the abandoned street, headlights sweeping briefly across the dashboard.

"You think he'll come tonight?" You ask finally, if only to give Gojo something else to do, other than throwing you confused looks.

"The unsub?" His voice sharpens, "Maybe. The dump site pattern isn't perfect, but this location fits his trajectory. High likelihood he'll circle back tonight."

"Guess all we can do is watch, no?"

Gojo hums in agreement, pink lips pressed together, before pulling his battered, cracked phone out of his pocket, "Naoya said he would send through any witness statements, I just hoped he stayed on task enough to remember."

You snort, "Has he always been this insufferable?"

Gojo smiles, and his expression is surprisingly warm, "He wasn't always. We grew up together, actually. Naoya was — " Gojo shrugs, eyes flicking to the windshield, " — pretty cool, back then. Somewhere along the way, he just became a jerk."

The bitter edge of jealousy curls in your chest, faster than you can halt it, "Well, it's nice you remember him."

Gojo's head jerks towards you, as though he's baffled by the sudden venom coating your tongue, "Uh, what?"

You moodily jab the dashboard a little harder than intended, "Seriously? You've been pretending not to know me this whole, like I'm some stranger you've never met, and I know it's not that deep, but it's — " You choke on the words, cheeks suddenly burning, "It's embarrassing. It hasn't been that long since high school, Satoru. Did I do something to you, or what?"

It seems that the air in the car has gone very still. Jazz murmurs faintly from the speakers, a trumpet line winding upward like smoke.

Gojo just blinks at you, stunned, lips parted like a fish out of water. But his expression shifts, sours suddenly. White brows knit together, that plush mouth pulling into a scowl.

"Are you asking me that?" His voice isn't loud, but the irritation in it cuts sharper somehow.

You gape at him, "What? Me? It's not like we were best friends or something, but a 'Hi, hello, how are you?' would have been nice in that team room. You practically ignored me."

"Yeah?" Gojo's laugh is humourless, bitter, "Well, it's better than tearing someone down, isn't it?"

Your heart stutters, confusion blooming, "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Gojo shifts in his seat, huncing in a way that looks wrong on his tall frame, pulling out his phone. You catch sight of the battered case, corners fraying, as though it's the same one he carried back in high school. He's frowning as he scrolls, before flipping the dim, cracked screen towards you.

Huh. A text message, addressed to you.

The date is old, years old, but your name is right there in the contact header. You drag your eyes over the clumsy words.

Hey, I was wondering if maybe you wanted to go out sometime? nothing fancy. maybe that new burger place by the train station? i’ll even pay. (don’t laugh at me too hard, ok?) >_<

Your stomach flips, as you take in the following reply. Short, cruel. Mean in a way that only teenagers could manage.

"Wow. That's...wow. That's mean."

Gojo's throat bobs as he swallows, and he opens his mouth, but you sharply cut him off, "But that wasn't me."

"Huh?"

You force yourself to meet his eyes, hidden behind thick frames, startling blue, wide and wounded, "That wasn't me. I never saw this. I never replied to this."

"But —"

"Yeah," you blurt, "I changed numbers. Utahime dropped my phone in a pool, on a senior trip. I ended up just getting a new one, even a new number. Whoever did this just thought they were fucking with you, I mean, it's messed up, 'cause I never would have said that."

You swallow, the weight of the sudden silence pressing on your chest, but Gojo suddenly breaks it, blurting, "So, you think I'm hot now?"

Your head whips towards him, startled, as heat crawls up the back of your neck.

Gojo immediately winces, shoulders caving in as though he's trying to fold his giant frame into the tiny car, "Sorry. Just tryna' think of something to say. I didn't meant to embarrass you earlier. I don't know, I was just —" He waves his hand vaguely in the air.

You shouldn't lose focus, but your eyes linger anyway. His hands are elegant. Long, tapered fingers. Neat nails, calluses just barely catching in the dashboard light. Hands probably steadily enough to wield a scalpel or...

No. Don't go there.

Your breath hitches, and you drag your gaze away, desperately praying he didn't notice the temporary loss of your composure.

"No, it's fine. I mean..." You stumble over the words, trying to find stable foot, "I heard, well, Sukuna said that you vouched for me. Which is nice. I appreciate that."

Gojo's expression softens, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his features, "Yeah, well." He shrugs, defensively, "I asked Sukuna to keep it a secret, but figures he sold me out."

You almost smile, "Doesn't change the fact that you stuck your neck out."

"Guess I did," Gojo scratches at his jaw, over the faintest hint of stubble, glancing away, "Thought you were worth it."

Your heart stutters.

The car feels smaller suddenly. The cold air outside fogs the windows, but inside, it’s warm, too warm, the kind of heat that sticks to your skin. The mournful trumpet fades into a husky croon, and every note seems to hang between you like a dare.

You shift in your seat, knees brushing his by accident. He tenses, just barely, but doesn't move away. And maybe you're imagining it, but his gaze drops, to your mouth, then back to your eyes. Quick. Guilty. Like he hadn't meant to.

But you'd seen it.

The silence between you grows roots, tangling around the both of you. You can still feel the phantom brush of his knee against yours, the way his eyes had flicked to your mouth. It lingers, heavy, like the saxophone whispering from the CD.

Gojo clears his throat, Adam's apple bobbing. Then he clears it again. And then he blurts, "You know, statistically, unresolved tension like this usually results in impulsive decisions that compromise stakeouts."

"…What?"

"I mean," Gojo gestures helpless, corduroy sleeve slipping down his wrist, "It's – it's basic psychology. Two people with history, recent emotional clarification, physical proximity." His voice is speeding up, rambling now, "That kind of cocktail basically rewires your brain chemistry and then, um, then you end up, you know, uh —"

Gojo swallows, blue eyes fixed straight ahead, "Kissing."

You just stare at him.

Gojo winces, palms pressed to his knees like he's bracing for you to laugh in his face. "Not that I'm saying we should, I mean, I am saying that, but not in a creepy way, I just – " He cuts himself off, groaning, pressing a hand under his glasses, "God, I sound insane."

Something in your chest twists. Because under all the words spilling from his mouth, he looks…nervous. Really nervous. The kind of nerves that can't be falsified.

Then, like the world's clumsiest miracle, he drops his hand, and his blue eyes meet yours, wide and shining and sincere. His cheeks are flushed pink, breath puffing in the cold air.

"Please, I would like to kiss you," Gojo says softly, before stiffening, "Only if you want to, uh, doesn't have to be now."

The world tilts, blood roaring in your ears. You're frozen for a second, but before you can second guess yourself, you lean in, heart hammering as you press your lips to his.

At first it's tentative, testing the waters, your mouth brushing his like a question. But then Gojo's warm hand comes up, hesitantly cupping your jaw, and the way he exhales against your mouth, like he's been waiting years for this, answers it for both of you.

The trumpet solo wails on, high and bright.

The kiss should've ended at that. A brush, a sigh, a fragile thing left untouched. But Gojo makes this soft sound in his throat, half whimper, half groan, and suddenly you're tipping forward, hand fisting in his cardigan to drag him closer.

He kisses like he talks; too much, too fast, spilling over himself. His teeth click against yours, and when you gasp, Gojo's tongue darts in shyly, then a little bolder, like he's cataloguing the exact angle, the exact pressure that makes your breath hitch.

"F-fuck," he murmurs against your mouth, voice cracking, "I didn't –I've never actually..."

You pull back a fraction, dazed as you stare the swell of his glossy lips, "You've never…?"

Gojo's ears are pink, his white lashes trembling as his nose brushes yours, "I read about it. But I've – uh, not, you know. This, or anything like this. Not with anyone."

Oh. Suddenly, the fumbling, the eagerness, it all clicks. And your chest squeezes at how earnest Gojo looks, like he's terrified you'll ridicule and mock his inexperience.

"Relax," you whisper, sliding closer, your thigh brushing his., "You're doing jus' fine."

Gojo's groan is strangled, raspy as you press your lips to the juncture of his neck, "The fact that I'm even here, doing this with you is a-amazing, actually."

Then he kisses you harder, messy now, a little greedy. His hand finds your waist, hesitant at first, then tugging you practically into his lap.

Fuck.

You feel it straightaway, the thick, solid press of his cock straining in his slacks. Gojo jolts like he's embarrassed you noticed, but you grind down just a little, chasing after some friction between your legs, and he breaks the kiss with a loud gasp, forehead thudding against yours.

"Jesus Christ —" Gojo's voice is wrecked, wrecked in a way that makes heat curl low in your belly, pool between your thighs, "I'm – fuck, I'm so hard right now, this is, oh my god."

You giggle, breathless, nipping at his berry-pink lip, "Focus, genius. Stakeout, remember?"

And as if on cue —

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The car door rattles violently, as though someone has pounded their first on the window. You both jolt, scrambling, your thighs jostling as you clamber off Gojo's lap.

Sukuna, arms crossed in his windbreaker uniform. Face twisted in a scowl so utterly disgusted and sour that could curdle milk. The type of expression that promises consequences so severe that medieval executioners would tremble in fear.

Your head falls back against the seat with a groan, as you kick the door open, taking in the swarm of federal agents rushing past your stakeout car, most likely to chase after your unsub, "Oh, you've got to be fuckin' kidding me."

Gojo, meanwhile, is fumbling with his seatbelt, sliding his cardigan off to pull his windbreaker on, doing little to cover his very obvious erection, whining under his breath, "I can't go out there like this, holy shit, he's gonna kill me. W-wait, don't leave me, tell Sukuna I've caught the flu and —"

You shove yourself out the car door, shooting Gojo a look, "I'm sure he just saw that. Can only pray he doesn't send us to be hung, drawn and quartered."

Gojo follows, still muttering, still rock-hard, but trying desperately to stand up straight, "He's really gonna' kill us."

"Kento got a lucky shot, didn't he? They're gonna' have, uh, what's his name? Mahito? They're gonna' have him put away for life." Gojo buzzes, as the motel door clicks shut behind you, the muted clamour of the hallway falling away. You toss your duffel bag onto the bed, exhaling hard.

"So," you sigh, pushing off your shoes, groaning at the ache in your ankles, "How much paperwork do you think Sukuna's gonna bury us under? Forty hours? Fifty?"

Gojo groans dramatically, collapsing face-first onto the other bed. His muffled voice filters through the sheets, "I can still hear him yelling in my head. Like a banshee with a nicotine problem. I've never seen him so mad."

You laugh, unzipping your flimsy jacket, tossing it on the cheap sheets, "At least he didn't bench us completely."

"I thought he was gonna' shove my badge down my throat."

Gojo flips over, messy white hair fanned across the pillow, glasses crooked. He stares at you for a long moment, his ears pink, before he says it. Quiet. Too quiet for Gojo.

"…It was still worth it."

You freeze, turning slowly, "What?"

His hand scrubs over his face, as he pulls his glasses straight once more, "Not the badge down my throat part. The stakeout. Car. You. I don't –" he breaks off, sits up abruptly, ocean-blue eyes bright with nerves. "I've never felt anything like that before. And if Sukuna yells me into the ground every day for the rest of my life, it'd still be worth it."

The room goes hushed. Your chest tightens at how serious he looks, this tall, awkward genius who's always been a little too much, suddenly stripped down to something raw.

You cross the room slowly, settling onto the edge of his bed, "Satoru…"

Gojo's throat bobs, and the tips of ears are flushed, "Can I —" He stops, shakes his head, tries again, quieter, "Can I have this? With you. Tonight?"

Your heart lurches. He's never done this before. You can see it in the way his fingers twitch on his knees, in the unpracticed tremor of his voice.

You lean in, brushing your lips against his temple, "Yeah," you whisper, "I really want that."

Gojo's exhale is shaky, relief and hunger all tangled together. When he kisses you this time, it's clumsy but desperate, his hands hovering, not sure where to land until you guide them, pressing them to your waist, your thigh, your chest.

And then it breaks open, heat curling, restraint snapping. Gojo groans into your mouth as you push him back against the pillows, his long body sprawling, his cock already stiff and aching against his plaid slacks.

"F-fuck, I don't, 'cause I've never…" Gojo pants, face flushed, "Just tell me what to do, please, I'll do anything —"

You take in the fine sculpt of his nose, the long lashes framing his eyes, the broad press of his shoulders against the woven fabric, "I can't believe you're a virgin, Satoru."

"Hey! I've been too busy to get laid."

The laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it, warm and teasing all at once, "It's a compliment, I don't know if anyone tells you this enough, but you're hot."

Gojo groans, flopping back on the bed like he wants the carpet to swallow him. You rake your nails beneath his shirt, feeling his toned abdomen, lightly dusted with fine hair.

And oh, the noise he makes. Like his soul is trying to claw its way out of his throat.

You lean down, kissing him again. Soft at first, then not at all, because Gojo is hungry, fumbling hands tugging at your hips, and then over your ass, groaning into your mouth like he's been starved of this forever. And maybe he has.

It's clumsy, teeth knocking once, but then Gojo moans. Loud. Like you've just discovered a frequency that short-circuits his neurons. His cock twitches under you, hard already, "S-sorry," he gasps, pulling back, blue eyes blown wide, "I can't, it's so – this is so embarrassing, I'm already —"

"Hard?" you tease, grinding your hips down so his cock presses right against your building heat, "Good. Means you want me."

Gojo whines, white hair tipping back against the pillow, throat flushed pink, "Of course I fucking want you. I've wanted you since — " He breaks off with a strangled groan when you rock against him again, "Shit-shit-shit, don't stop. Please don't stop —"

Gojo's rambling, babbling like he does at case briefings, but instead of statistics, it's just desperate filth, "Y-you're so warm, I can feel you even through my pants, I think I'm gonna die, – wait, am I supposed to – should I —"

You cut him off with another kiss, tugging at his worn belt until it clatters open. Gojo's shaking, half-helping, half-getting in the way because his large hands are trembling too hard. But finally you shove his slacks down enough to free him —

And oh, he's big. Thick, veined, dripping already, precum beading at the fat tip. Virgin, sure, but blessed in ways unfair to humanity.

Gojo gasps when your hand closes around his flushed shaft. Loud. Shocked. His head knocks back against the headboard, glasses sliding askew, "Oh my god, you're – holy shit, I'm gonna cum just from this, don't make f-fun of me —"

"Not making fun," you murmur, stroking him slow, savouring the way his soft, velvety cock kicks in your grip, "I'm impressed."

Gojo groans like you've shot him through the heart, grabbing fistfuls of the sheets, hips jerking up into your hand helplessly, "Impressed —fuck, oh god, I think I l-love you, wait, shit, did I just say that out loud?"

You laugh against Gojo's throat, kissing down the column of his neck as he trembles under you, whining like he’s already on the edge, pearly slick already staining your hand.

"Relax, Satoru," you whisper, lining him up with your own slick entrance, pushing your panties to the side, feeling the thick, hot throb of his fat head near your core, "I'll take care of you."

And when you sink down, slow, tight, inch by inch, his groan could wake the entire floor.

"Oh, fuck, you're – you're t-tight, fuck, you're gonna break me —" His hands are everywhere, gripping your waist, sliding helplessly up your sides, pushing his glasses entirely off, "I-I'm inside, I can feel everything, I'm – oh my god."

You clamp a shaking hand over his running mouth, leaning in close. "Shhhh. Walls are thin, baby."

He nods frantically, eyes wet, muffling little cries into your palm as you bottom out, feeling every hot inch swab your gummy walls. His cock twitches inside you, already dripping, already too close.

And when you start to move, rolling your hips slow, grinding down until he's gasping into your hand, he nearly comes undone on the spot.

You barely get three swivels of your hips before he loses it.

"F-fuckfuckfuck, oh god, no – wait, shit —" Gojo's whole body seizes, hands clawing at your waist, voice cracking into a sob as his cock jerks inside you, thick head prodding dangerously close to that sweet spot, "I'm, oh no, I'm —"

And then Gojo's already climaxing, thick, creamy spurts spilling into you, thighs trembling, glasses long discarded on the thin sheets of the motel bed.

You blink down at him, stunned, feeling a heavy throb in your cunt, clenching around an overstimulated Gojo, "Did you just — "

"Don't say it," Gojo covers his face with both hands, chest heaving, still twitching weak spurts inside you, "Don't say I just came in thirty seconds. I know. I know. I —" His voice breaks into a whimper, muffled behind his palms, "Fuck, I'm so sorry, I didn't, wasn't even, fuck, it's like the data didn't predict this outcome."

You laugh, despite the fading ache between your legs, eager for some friction. Because only Gojo Satoru would be blushing and pulling out scientific metaphors while still buried heavy balls-deep in you.

"Baby," you coo, stroking a hand down his flushed chest, thumbing over a pink nipple, and the action makes him keen, "We're not done. Not even close."

Gojo peeks out from behind his fingers, cerulean eyes wide and wet, "Wh–what do you mean? I already —"

"Yeah," you purr, tightening around him just to watch his jaw drop, to feel that delicious ache purr back to life as your groin tacked across his sticky hips, "And you're still hard."

And Gojo is. His thick cock, flushed angry-red, still twitches inside you, leaking, pulsing like it hasn’t gotten the memo.

He makes a broken noise, "That's not biologically s-supposed to happen. Well, sometimes, it c-can."

"Guess you're pretty special then, aren't you?"

Gojo arches, loud and shameless, like you've just electrocuted him. "It's too much – wait, wait, I — fuck, I can feel everything, you're so wet, so tight, god, I can feel your pretty pussy's heartbeat around me."

You press your lips to the shell of his ear, nipping the sensitive skin. “Then c-come on, fuck me more, Satoru. I know you can do m-more than thirty seconds. Show me what you've got."

Gojo whines, rasping, "I don't, – fuck, I've only read about positions. And everyone knows the Kama Sutra actually wasn't o-originally about s – woah, mmph!"

You shut him up with a kiss, rocking down harder, grinding his cock deeper into your sticky, drooling walls. He moans into your mouth, a desperate mess of teeth and tongue as he chases after your lips, his hips finally jerking up to meet yours.

"There ya' go," you pant, breaking the kiss to bite his jaw, "Just like that. F-fuck me back."

And something finally clicks. Some primal gear in Gojo finally slots into place, and suddenly he's gripping your hips with surprising strength, thrusting up into you with a rhythm that makes your breath catch. Hitting that sweet, roughened spot over and over in a way that makes you squeal.

"Shit, shit," Gojo gasps, white hair plastered to his forehead from sheer exertion, "I'm doing it, right? Like, I'm actually f-fucking you. It's so good, is it good for you? Tell me it's g-good."

"It's a-amazing," you whine, crescent-tipped nails digging into Gojo's shoulders as your own head tips back, "Fuck, 'Toru, you're so d-deep."

He groans like you’ve just told him he solved the world’s hardest equation (knowing him, that's probably the type of shit that gets him off).

"Deep, yeah, I read average vaginal length is l-like three to four inches but your cervix can actually – fuck, fuck, fuck, you're clenching – holyshit — "

You cut him off with another grind, walls fluttering around him until Gojo groans, head tipping back against the pillows once more, flushed and writhing.

"C-can't – can't take it,” he babbles, hips snapping frantically, the sound of skin slapping sticky echoing through the room, "Too good, too hot – fuck, your pussy's gonna kill me, I'm actually gonna die a virgin after all, oh god — "

You laugh breathlessly, tightening your quivering thighs around him, pinning him to the mattress as you ride him through another orgasm. He spills again inside you, creamy and opaque, drooling down your thighs, gasping your name, shaking under you like he's unraveling thread by thread.

And still, still — he's hard.

But Gojo looks wrecked. Vibrant blue eyes dewy, cheeks wet with sweat and tears, lips kiss-bitten and swollen, "Why, why won't it go down," he moans, almost panicked, pulling his cock out to slap at your wet folds, and the stimulation over your throbbing clit makes you squeal.

You cup his face, leaning close, "H-hey, we got plenty of time to practice now, right?"

Gojo breathes out one last shattered plea, voice cracked and raw, abdomen heaving with splattered release, "Teach me again tomorrow?"

The first thing you register is sheer heat. The second is warm weight, Gojo's ridiculously toned body pressed against you. Half on top of you, and half spooled around you as though he's afraid you'll vanish.

The third thing you notice is something hard rutting insistently against your hip. Smearing warm slick over your soft flesh.

"S-sorry, pretty girl," Gojo blurts, voice hoarse, and you don't miss the mild crack at the end, "Didn't meant to wake you, fuck, where are my glasses? I just, uh, well, morning wood is biologically inevitable due to nocturnal penile tumescence cycles but this feels way better than when it just happens randomly in my sleep."

You cut him off with a lazy roll of your hips, grinding back into his cock, just at the right angle so it slips between your thighs, curving upwards deliciously. Gojo yelps, biting the edge of your shoulder.

"Please," he whimpers, eagerness thrumming in his voice, "Round two? I read that recovery time after multiple orgasms is supposed to be, like, hours but I think maybe last night recalibrated me — "

You turn onto your back, grabbing his face and dragging him down into a messy kiss. He's still nervous with it, teeth knocking, lips wet, as though he didn't carve his way through your pussy last night, but he's so adorably desperate it makes your heart ache.

"Satoru," you murmur against his sweet mouth, "Just fuck me.”

His whole body jerks, like you've just flipped every circuit breaker in his brain. Gojo pushes in deep, groaning like he's dying, hips stuttering as your glossy folds envelop his thick shaft once more, that delicious stretch making you quietly keen.

"You're so – oh my god, you're so warm, and s-so wet. It's better than anythin' that I've ever – fuck, you're squeezin' me so good."

You laugh into Gojo's mouth, clenching around him just to hear him scream, "God, you're cute. S-shut up and keep moving."

And he does. Frantic, erratic, messy, his big hands gripping your hips like lifelines, flushed cock driving into you with the enthusiasm of a man who's just discovered heaven is real and he's the only one inside.

When you finally come, with a quiet moan, stars glittering in the peripherals of your vision, heart racing as your pussy's clenching tight around him, Gojo breaks, face buried in your neck, babbling ironically sweet nothings as he spills into you again, cock plugged thick up in your walls.

His blue eyes are bright as he slumps against you, sweaty and trembling, whispering into your skin, "…So, I should have asked you this earlier, but if I asked you to go out with me, like a real date, would you say yes?"

You blink up at him, breathless, taking in the sight of the gorgeous. man hovering above you, earnest and wide eyed, "…Yeah. I would. 'Course I would, Satoru."

Gojo's grin splits his whole face, stupid and boyish and beautiful.

The entire team is staring, and Shoko's cigarette falls from her elegant fingers, "No way." She's staring between you and Gojo, copper eyes narrowed, "So if you two ended up –," she pulls a face, "I can't even say it. But that means he won, fuck me."

Sukuna's grin is all fanged teeth, and he barks out a rough laugh, "Called it."

Naoya scowls, slamming a crumpled fifty onto the table, "Bullshit."

"Pay up," Sukuna orders, already extending one tattooed hand. Geto groans and drops a twenty, shooting you a dirty look that implies you deprived him of his lunch money. Shoko sighs and pulls a fifty from her wallet. Even Kento slides over a neat fifty-dollar bill.

Sukuna collects them all with a grin sharp as broken glass, whistling as he counts the notes, "Easy money. I told you boy-wonder was gonna' crack first."

"Hey," Gojo protests, cheeks blazing, "We – we did not crack, thank you very much."

Naoya sidles past towards the churning printer, snickering "No, you got cracked."

"That's a bit unfair."

"Please," Sukuna cuts him off with a sneer, "I sent ya' on a stakeout for a serial killer, and I caught you cryin' over a boner. You're lucky you got off this easy."

"Heh, got off," Geto murmurs, and with all past rivalries apparently forgotten, he receives a joyous high-five from a gleeful Zen'in.

You groan, dropping into your chair, "Can we not?"

But Sukuna leans back, shuffling his new wad of cash with a victorious hum, stuffing the roll into a suspiciously expensive Italian leather wallet. You privately wonder if your surly boss has a private side-gig in any less illustrious black markets.

"Nah, it's deserved. But still, it's a good welcome to the team. First rule of the unit, everybody fucks up. Second rule, don't fuck during an assignment. And third?" Sukuna whistles, pushing through the doors of his office, "Don't bet against me."

Gojo leans over to whisper in your ear, mortified, "This is the worst day of my life."

But you only smile, pushing a strand of soft, white hair out of his glasses, "Relax. You're still the one taking me out tonight."

“I was not making an observation!”

“Well, it didn’t sound like you asked a question-”

“Why am I naked?!”

He rolled his eyes and hooked his arm around your waist, flipping you onto your back with him lying beside you, his cheek resting against your shoulder as he palmed your hip. “You were covered in blood and ash, so I bathed you before putting you here. I was going to get something for you to wear, but when I approached your chambers, I heard Unoko trying to soothe Yuji to sleep. I didn’t want to wake him.”

As he explained, all you could really think about was his hand on your hip, squeezing gently at your skin, massaging you, grazing his fingers over you. The rest of his words faded to background noise when he traced his hand up your waist, then back down to your hip, repeating the process in a comforting way, but it was doing very little to achieve your comfort. Instead, he was creating a blistering heat over your entire body, settling mostly between your legs. 

Was he doing this on purpose? Did he even know?

“There goes that little heartbeat of yours again,” he simpered, sliding his fingers to your femoral artery, inching dangerously close to the throbbing feeling between your legs. Your mouth dried as you watched his two fingers circle over the pulse point, rubbing over the wound he’d created from a few days ago when his teeth sank into your skin. There was another on your inner thigh that matched it, and if you were being honest, you were dying for another. 

“So fast,” he murmured, pressing his ear above your breasts to listen to your heart pounding in your chest. “Like a hummingbird’s heart.”

With a breathy moan, he rolled over top of you and parted your legs with his knees to create space for him. His mouth trailed up your sternum, settling in the crook of your neck. He inhaled deeply, muttering, “Gods, you smell so good,” before his lips latched onto the pulse in your neck. He sucked on that spot, rolling his tongue over it teasingly, which pulled a pleasured sigh from you. When he released it, you felt his lips curve into a grin against your neck as he said, “I’ve barely touched you. Are you so starved for it that it has your heart beating like this?” 

 “J-Just thinking that w-we could just consummate the m-marriage now,” you stammered, locking your legs around his torso. Your words served to make him laugh against you. 

“But you’ve had no time to prepare yourself,” he replied mockingly, reminding you of your concerns you told him of yesterday. “You haven’t had the chance to hone your flexibility, or build muscle in these fragile little legs of yours, or even soften your skin down here so I won’t rip you apart.”

“You’re… making fun of me.”

He chuckled again. “Indeed, I am, because that is all unnecessary.”

“How so?”

He leaned back, a small grin on his mouth. “What sort of act do you imagine we’ll be doing? Think I’ll have your ankles pressed into that pillow under your head? Or that it’ll be such a feat that you’ll need muscles to endure it? And preparing yourself between your legs? As if I wouldn’t do that for you. I won’t stop you from doing so, but it’s needless and a waste of time.”

“But the wives-”

“Are married to mortal men.”

“I believe that was the cause of concern. You are no average mortal man, you are huge in every sense of the word.”

“Yes, but you were born for me. Every part of you was created to accept my body with ease. I can’t promise that it won’t hurt a little bit, but definitely not enough that you need to prepare for it so extensively.” He leaned forward to press another kiss to your neck, stopping to breathe you in again with a groan. “There's something… different with your scent. I smelled it last night, too, but I assumed it was the party.”

You brought your arm up, giving your shoulder a sniff. “All I can smell is jasmine from the bath.”

He leaned back then, pulling your arm forward to bring your wrist to his nose. After inhaling you again, he dropped your limb. “You smell like sweet wine,” he mumbled, dipping back to your neck. “Like pomegranate seeds and honey.”

“Wine was spilled on me last night. Perhaps it’s lingering.”

“If that’s the case, you should bathe in wine every day– smells so good on you.” His grumbling voice sounded so good to you, like a lulling melody in your ear. He licked a sordid stripe over your pulse before groaning, “Good gods, woman, I could eat you alive.”

That caused what little self-control you had left to snap as you pulled his face to yours and smashed your lips together in bruising kisses. They were instantly rough, hot– they were sadistic and masochistic simultaneously, and for some reason, the intensity seemed to feed something deep within you. And whatever that was, it wanted more. 

Your hands pressed into Sukuna’s shoulders, and at the same time, you allowed one of your legs to fall from around his torso, the other firmly locked in place. With another push on his shoulders, he parted from your lips, and you flipped your positions to establish the previous one with you on top. 

Rather than placing yourself on his torso, you shifted backwards just a little further, and situated yourself over his hardened cock resting against his lower stomach. His breathing was almost ragged as he propped himself up on his elbows, staring up at you with an apology already forming on his mouth. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–f-fuck…” he trailed off with a grated sigh when your slick arousal slid up the underneath of his cock, coating his shaft in it before you rolled your hips against him. The feeling was almost otherworldly, and the flush to his cheeks told you he was feeling similar. Already, you were nearing your pleasure, and so quickly, too. His hands smoothed up your thighs, settling on your hips, as he pulled himself together enough to stammer, “Wife-”

“No,” you mumbled, cupping your hand over his mouth, much like he does with you. “No, I-I don’t want to stop– please, don’t-”

His fingers wrapped around your wrist and tugged your palm from his mouth, using that grip to lean you forward so he could press his lips to yours. The taste of his tongue in your mouth was creating such a drunken ache in your head; he was intoxicating in every sense of the word. When he parted from you, he trailed the tip of his tongue over your bottom lip, collecting your combined saliva, before one more hungry kiss. 

“I was going to say don’t hurt yourself.” Against your lips, you felt his own curl into a faint grin. “Since you haven’t stretched at all this morning-”

You shoved your hand over his mouth. “Stop mocking me, or there'll be nothing to prepare for at all. I’ll keep my virginity to myself.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, not believing a word you said. You dropped your hand and placed them both on his shoulders. 

“That’s not a joke. I am being completely serious.”

His red eyes flicked to the place where your bodies met, watching you grind against his length before glancing back at you. “Right,” he drawled out breathlessly, a growing smirk on his face as he motioned toward his lap. “Watching you act like this is definitely convincing me.”

“I could leave and return to my chambers right now.”

“I won’t stop you-” His words fell off into a hiss when you slid yourself forward, rolling your pussy right over his tip. Warm palms met your hips, taking them into a bruising hold. “If you think I haven’t mastered patience when it comes to my lust for you, then you’re stupid. Two years, woman, I’ve had to deal with it.”

“If it was so painful, why didn’t you take me on our wedding night?”

“I wanted to, believe me. The urge was so strong.” His hands swept up your waist and pressed down on your back, closing the little bit of distance between you. Just that little bit of friction on your skin was enough to flick sparks of pleasure over your body. And when his fingertips began to skim up and down your spine, you almost collapsed as that heat began to spread over you like wildfire. “After the ceremony, I had to lock myself in my chambers for days to calm myself down, all because I got to touch your hand for the first time. Now, isn’t that pathetic?”

No, what’s pathetic is how affected you are by his fingertips on your skin. Even the way his breath was brushing over your neck as he spoke was driving you insane.

“Y-You didn’t–oh…” you trailed off with a gasp and tilted your head, giving him more access to your neck as his tongue brushed against it. “...didn’t answer m-my question.”

Rather than conceding, he only hummed against you and slid one of his hands down to your hips, using that to guide you forward and back over his cock. Part of you was hoping he’d pull you forward just enough that his tip would catch on your entrance and accidentally slide in. But, skilled and precise as always, Sukuna made sure that didn’t happen. The anticipation of every movement was maddening.

With your face now pressed into the side of his neck, you, too, noticed something different about his scent. Gone was the smell of incense smoke with the usual hint of sweetened decay, now replaced with something more fragrant and woodsy. 

The cedar oil, perhaps?

“Did you oil the ends of your hair on your own last night?” you asked, pressing your nose into his hair, noting that it wasn’t exactly cedarwood that you were smelling.

“I wouldn’t waste my time with such a feminine activity.” If you weren’t in such an intoxicated state, you might’ve laughed at his hypocrisy. 

“I bet you couldn’t find the pitcher of it.” Your breathing hitched as he nipped at your shoulder.

“My wife is so clever,” he mumbled.

“I’m correct?”

“You’re correct.”

If it’s not the cedar oil…

“Your scent is different, too. Like juniper… or cypress.” Instinctively, your tongue swiped against his neck, coating itself in a flavor that was so familiar, yet indescribable–it was addictive and served to turn this lusty haze of yours into a near state of ecstasy. “Have you always tasted so good, Sukuna…” you purred, lips grazing his ear. 

For a moment, his hand on your waist twitched, gripping you hard enough to leave a bruise. A pained moan fell from your lips as your hand moved down to his, and as soon as you made contact, he let go of you entirely. 

“It’s okay.” Quickly, you tried to bring his hands back to your body, but he avoided your grasp. His concerned eyes danced around your body and face before meeting your own. “You didn’t hurt me, I promise.”

Still, he didn’t budge.

You tried again, but this time, you added a softened lilt to your voice. “Please, touch me.” That worried look of his didn’t waver, but with a confused sigh, he brought his hands back to you. However, they settled on the sides of your face as he inspected you up close. “This isn’t what I meant.”

He pressed his lips to your forehead, not to kiss you, but how your mother would when you were a child, to check if you were running warm. When he pulled back, he pressed the back of his hand to your cheek and sighed again. 

“You’re fevered,” he stated, worry morphing into something akin to pity. 

“And you are a god who cannot get sick, so touch me,” you huffed, leaning forward to press your lips to his, but he pulled away before it could escalate into something more. “Must I ask you as a wife again?”

“If you’d like, but then I’d have to decline you as a husband should-”

You interrupted him with an irritated groan. “Sukuna. I feel fine, I don’t feel sick at all.”

“I don’t believe you are sick.” When you leaned forward to kiss him again, he put his hand over your mouth just before your lips could meet. “Uraume.” His voice carried through the large room. Seconds later, the doors opened, revealing the short servant.

“Yes, my king,” they answered. 

“Has Kenjaku returned from the surface?”

“He has not.”

Sukuna cursed under his breath, which raised a bit of worry in you. You pulled his hand away from your mouth, but before you could ask him what the issue was, he spoke again. 

“Fetch the queen’s handmaiden, and do so quietly. Don’t wake that baby. Then tell that kitchen maid she’s been promoted to lady-in-waiting for the queen, but for the time being, she will watch over the child. Understand?”

“Yes, my king.” With a curt bow, they departed, leaving you alone with Sukuna once more. 

“I am not sick, you even said so yourself. Why are you making preparations like this?”

He clicked his tongue and pulled your wrist to his nose, eyes closing as he inhaled my scent. “So many questions.”

“And you’ve answered none of them.”

He exhaled a quiet laugh and pulled you against him again, this time reclining entirely. With your head now tucked under his chin, and his arms coiled around you to stifle any sort of movement, you relaxed into him, taking a moment to breathe in that new, comforting scent. 

“I didn’t have sex with you on our wedding night because you already hated me enough, and forcing you to be down here with me had done more damage than I anticipated. I assumed you could feel the same things I did, but you cannot; therefore, engaging in sex with you would have meant taking you against your will, and I wouldn’t do that to you. Not when it comes to that.” 

His explanation was heartfelt, yet all you could really focus on was his voice and the vibration in his chest. A bit of drool even pooled in the corner of your mouth– you wanted him badly.

“This bond–this relationship is already so forceful, and while you can’t feel the effects of it as I can, after lying with me, you’ll start to. Not entirely, since your body isn’t equipped with immortality yet, but you’ll begin to understand how it’ll feel. I suppose I didn’t want to force that onto you, too. But, if my thoughts are correct, this feeling you have right now is a result of our bond wishing for it to be complete. Should that be the case, I refuse to allow the bond to force you into its effects.”

When his hand smoothed down your back, your head began feeling dizzy. However, you were still lucid enough to pick up on the darkened inflection in his voice. 

“Opening that sort of connection with you right now would be cruel. Soon, you’ll leave for the surface, and the distance will feel like torture. Anything that’s happened to you so far while being here will feel pleasurable. It’s best if you just remain numb to it until you receive your immortality. I fear without it, the pain would be so great that you’d find some way to take your life without my knowledge, and I’d lose your soul on the banks of Acheron. Then, you’d be gone forever, and for the rest of eternity, I’d have to bear that pain.” 

It was like you could hear every word he was saying, yet none of them made sense. Every sentence was nonsense that only made you more confused than before. The dizzy feeling worsened, and sweat covered your body. “S-Sukuna…” You writhed against him, desperate for him to release you so you could cool off, but he didn’t. 

“I know,” he chuckled, squeezing me tighter. “Give me one more minute of you being soft and compliant with me.”

* * * * *

Now fully clothed and having spent a bit of time out of Sukuna’s arms, you felt like you could breathe again rather than being suffocated by that overwhelming scent. Still, the blistering heat that racked your body didn’t subside, but at least you could think straight again, which made the fact that he was aloof about the topic all the more aggravating. So, here you sat on his bed, while he leaned against the stone wall across the room, ignoring you entirely when it came to what was going on with you.

“You’re really not going to tell me?” 

His less-than-enthused eyes met your own as he sighed at your question. “I’ve already explained it once.”

“Oh, yes. Telling me exactly what I’m feeling was so helpful and insightful. I fully grasp the gravity of the situation now,” you sarcastically mocked. “To tell me I’m feeling warm and aroused was a waste of breath–as if I don’t already know that, you stupid man.”

“Watch it,” he groused, relaxing back against the wall. “As I’ve already said, you’re getting a taste of one of the benefits of this bond-”

“Yes, yes, I know! But why?!”

“I don’t know!” he shouted, growing just as irritated as you were. “Our bond is still incomplete, so I’m not sure why your body is urging you to… reproduce-”

“...reproduce?”

“Which makes me think this is something different. Theoretically speaking, bearing my children given your current deity status would be very difficult. Your body shouldn’t be pushing for this while knowing it will hurt you.”

“I don’t want children right now.”

He motioned toward your form. “Alright. Tell yourself that. I don’t think I’m having these thoughts for no reason. Clearly, you’re affecting me.”

“Affecting you?! What about me?! Your scent is fucking with my head-”

“I know that, but-”

“And you won’t tell me anything-”

“That’s because I don’t know more than what I’ve already told you!” he ended with a huff. 

During the little argument, neither of you noticed Kenjaku, Uraume, and Unoko entered the bedroom until Kenjaku cleared his throat and said, “You called?”

Sukuna let out a sigh of relief and motioned for him to come closer. “You said when the bond was complete, only then would her body want to bear offspring.”

“That is correct.” He gave a curt nod to his friend.

“Then there is a flaw in your design. Fix it immediately.”

 Kenjaku rolled his eyes at his command and stepped closer to you, placing his hand on your cheek for a moment before continuing. “Her body is not asking for a child, it’s asking for her mate to… finish what he started,” Kenjaku ended, voice trailing off into a question as he peered over his shoulder at Sukuna.

“Finish what he started?” he repeated, equally as confused as him. 

“Seems so.” He straightened and took a step back. “Perhaps I should have mentioned this before, but um… any sort of sexual gratification would begin the process. Is it presumptuous of me to assume that that has taken place?”

If it weren’t for your skin already feeling as though it were burned, you might’ve felt a warmth overtake your cheeks. 

Sukuna exhaled a morose laugh. “That would have been wise news to share, Kenjaku, maybe even a bit helpful.”

He sent him a sheepish smile, looking rather guilty. “Foreplay is called foreplay for a reason, Sukuna. How could I have known you’d only scratch the surface of the bond without the intention of completing it?”

Running a hand down the side of his cheek, he sighed, “Doesn’t matter now. Just fix it.”

“I’m afraid neither of your inner entities would allow that to happen. They’re asking for each other, not an outside source.”

“You’re telling me that there is no other way around it?”

He shrugged. “I’m unsure. Sex would fix it, but I understand your concerns about doing that without her immortality. The only other option would be to wait it out.”

“How long?”

Again, he shrugged, earning Sukuna’s groan. “Let’s wait for her menses to come. If the urge hasn’t resolved itself by then, completing the bond might be the only other option.”

“And what are we to do? That thing in her is beginning to sound very persuasive, and she can’t control it, nor can she hear it, which means she also can’t hear its threats against her, so-”

Finally, you butted into the conversation. “What threats?”

“It wants me to stay with you, and is promising your pain if I leave-”

“Wait. Did you actually plan on leaving me alone like this?” There was obvious panic in your voice.

With a groan, he raised his hand and hushed you before turning back to Kenjaku. “I can’t stay here.”

“If it’s promising to hurt her, then you’ll need to, my friend.”

Dejectedly, he mumbled, “Kenjaku-”

“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. If you want my honest opinion, do what needs to be done–save yourselves the trouble. Should you decide to do so, I can reach out to Wasuke to see if he can expedite her gift, but she’ll need to stay here while it is being delivered-”

“She isn’t in her right mind to make a decision like that, and she needs to be on the surface soon. They’re already expecting her arrival within the month– do you really believe you can find my brother before then?”

“Then go to the surface with her-”

“I cannot. I have mortals to train; there is a war that won’t wait for this.”

“Then what would you like me to do, Sukuna?”

“Fix it! It was your miserable idea to create this fucking mate for me to begin with! An entirely unwanted scheme that only benefits you, and now it’s causing me problems!”

At that moment, you were there to witness Sukuna losing his temper. The usual calm, collected, and arrogant man finally snapped and raised his voice, creating an echoing chill through the whole room. However, instead of bowing down to his anger, Kenjaku met it with the same level of intensity. 

“After everything Uraume and I have done for you, how dare you speak to me this way. I’ve given you a way out– a way not to be chained to us for your entire existence-”

“Right, because you’ve chained me to someone else! All you’ve done is create another burden for me to bear! One that is far more miserable than the one I currently have!”

His words stung more harshly than you could have imagined, and the tears burned fiercely in your eyes. 

“Wrong!” He stepped closer to Sukuna, glaring up at him without an ounce of fear. “I created a vessel to bear the burden that is you! And if there is anyone who deserves an apology for that, it’s her, for having to tolerate you!” He ended his rant with a sharp jab at his chest before disappearing into the tense air. 

The seconds that passed after were silent and awkward while Sukuna reclaimed his composure. Then, shifting on his feet, he turned to Unoko and Uraume, who were standing completely still in the corner so as not to further anger the god in the room. In an eerily calm tone, he commanded them to fetch a bowl of water and a cloth, and neither of them hesitated to move out of the room. A deep, exhausted groan tumbled out of his mouth as he relaxed against the wall again. After another few silent moments, he finally spoke up. 

“The things I said-”

“It’s fine,” you interrupted, not keen on hearing his apology.

“It’s not fine. I’ve upset you.”

“Since when have you cared if I’m upset or not?”

“I’ve always cared. It’s just that before, I chose to overlook your feelings to cater to my own because it is what I’ve always done.” His tired eyes met yours from across the room. “But I’m trying to fix that, so let me apologize.”

“I do not want to hear it if it’s not genuine.” You were quick in wiping away the tear that fell down your cheek. “Please, don’t waste your breath.”

“Breath used to quell your distress isn’t a waste, but if you want a genuine apology, I can’t give that to you; I’m not sorry for what I said, it was the truth.” Just as the scoff fell from your mouth, he continued. “What Kenjaku placed upon both of us is a burden. It’s very unfortunate that you were created to be a pawn in his scheme and even more unfortunate that you are forced to stand beside me. But I don’t regret you, I don’t hate you, I don’t think of you as the burden. To me, you are a blessing. This bond between us should make my life easier, and perhaps, to an extent, it has, because there’s not a chance I could have you without its manipulation. I know that’s very selfish of me, but I don’t care. It’s not you who is the burden, it is this bond.”

More tears fell from your eyes. You wondered if it was you who was actually upset, or if it was the thing inside of you. You could feel intense emotion stirring in your chest. 

Could that be her?

“Is the bond really so bad?” You brushed away the tears. “It’s not an ideal situation, but I can’t find it in myself to hate it. Without it, I would hate you. Isn’t this better?”

His jaw clenched tightly. “That is one of the issues. You should hate me for everything I’ve done to you. It should be me trying to make it up to you for the rest of our lives instead of you bearing it and accepting it because you’re forced to by this bond. And it’s this bond that makes me want to spend the rest of my life trying to rectify what I’ve done, even if it is the very thing that made me act so rashly to begin with. Everything is contradictory; it’s all so conflicting. I want to want you without being forced to, and I want you to want me just the same. Each time you look at me without fear, without warranted hatred, I relish it, but it’s not… it’s not truthful.”