Bunni

he scoffs before his hands wrap around megumi’s torso, lifting the little boy in the air as his final resort, “what’s this all ‘bout? wanna kill y’r daddy or sum?”

your son pouts and furrows his brows, “no, made papa food. burger,” he defends himself and kicks his legs while being held up at arms length.

megumi’s tiny fist full of sand manages to reach his father’s lips again, “now papa eat!”

toji lifts megumi up higher, as far away from his face as possible. he takes a second before realising that he indeed had made a request for a burger just moments ago, when his son asked him what he should make out of the sand.

toji totally forgot to play along with megumi’s pretend restaurant game, thinking the boy would halfway forget about it anyway. children’s attention spans are short after all.

seems like his kid is an exception.

“i ain’t eatin’ shit, boy,” toji grunts and turns megumi away, putting the boy back down in the sand between the two beach towels.

you’re about to reprimand your husband for his behaviour before your child interrupts.

“this not poo poo!” megumi jabs a chubby finger at his father’s chest, his voice a bit louder. he’s taken great offence to the comment about his imaginary burger, which is now just a cluster of sand particles.

toji snorts and gently flicks megumi’s hand away, “yeah, it is. bet it tastes like ‘poo poo’ too.”

“no! not poo poo!” megumi’s voice rings out before a frustrated whine leaves his lips.

his little hands land on toji’s abs, physically punishing him for saying mean things about his hard handiwork.

your husband sticks his tongue out childishly at his sulking son, “‘yes! yes ‘tis poo poo!’ keheh,” toji mocks megumi’s high voice, snorting as he laughs at his own joke.

the father-son duo bicker for a few more seconds before you sigh and speak up.

“can you two just get along for once now? we’re in public, so behave,” you scold them as their voices seemed to get louder. you then glare at your immature husband.

he can be such a man-child when it comes to arguing with his son, “and you—you’re an adult, so act like one.”

the two of them instantly shut up and their heads turn towards you, their hands that were wrestling with each other also stopping mid-air. megumi pouts and stops attacking his father with his tiny fists. the little boy knows better than not listen to his mother.

in turn, toji huffs and grumbles something under his breath before grabbing his son to make it up to him.

neither does he dare to defy his wife’s demands.

“yeah, yeah. c’mere, son,” toji responds and places the toddler on his chest, letting the kid rest against him.

megumi surprisingly doesn’t pull away and instead curls up in toji’s warm embrace. as much as the two love to (playfully) fight, they also get along extremely well.

you smile and relax back on the palms of your hands. “much better,” you hum in content.

your heart swells with affection for your two favorite people on earth. megumi is a carbon copy of his father and it’s the cutest little thing ever.

they both have that subtle pout on their lips as they accommodate to being close and cozy with each other again.

toji runs his callused fingers through megumi’s hair, sighing as he closes his eyes. he doesn’t admit it out loud, but he cares for his kid. if he had to make a choice between either saving his own life or megumi’s, toji’d draw his last breath without hesitation.

“he’s still a brat,” your husband grumbles to you, sharp eyes watching the way you coddle and coo over the toddler.

megumi’s chubby cheek is smushed against toji’s chest and it was an adorable sight. you giggle and capture it on your phone.

toji scoffs, but can’t help the grin tugging at the corner of his scarred lips. he gently rubs the child’s cheek with his knuckles before continuing, “but he’s my brat. ain’t that right, boy?”

megumi lets out a small, soft grunt at his father’s words. the kid is completely silent, content with the way things had played out. perhaps this is what he secretly searched for as well— to receive toji’s attention and a glimpse of his affection.

“aww, how cute!” your smile is beaming as you snap another picture of your family.

toji’s soft look is perfectly captured on your phone, with him gently touching megumi’s chubby cheek as the boy laid on his bare chest. pure domestic bliss.

you sigh and look away for one second to change the lockscreen on your phone. humming, you go to your settings and instantly put the picture of your husband and son as your wallpaper on nearly everything.

you tilt your head back only to find toji grinning from ear to ear now, going from gently rubbing megumi’s cheek to full out squishing them between both his hands, amused at the way the fat moves.

“kehehe, look at ‘em,” he chuckles.

the little toddler eventually gets fed up with it after squirming and grunting. megumi brings his little fist up—the same one that still had some sand stored from before—and lets the content fly all over toji’s face.

megumi giggles and scrambles off toji’s lap with a victorious grin. he points at his father who’s struggling with getting the sand off his face, the man sputtering and grumbling.

he sticks his tongue out, “tha’s papa’s burger.”

you watch as your son waddles over to you and hides into your arms, muffled laughter echoing in your ears. seems like megumi won the battle in the end; successfully holding onto the sand he was planning to feed his dad one way or another.

toji spits out a bit of sand that flew into his mouth from the kid’s surprise attack, “you little shit—”

well, there goes the peace again.

you meet him on other occasions; you’re always with someone else, and he never gives you much attention. in spite of yourself, you develop a crude infatuation with him; an embarrassing thing that coils in your guts and makes your cunt ache for a man that should repulse you. the other girls that volunteered previous summers talk about him in a bragging tone, as if being fucked by the wildlife management officer is some badge of honor. desire makes a strange, ugly thing out of you. you try to find ways to see him, to talk to him—every time you do, he’s polite, albeit a bit rough around the edges, but nothing more.

at night you crave him, teeth and body yearning, fingers wet from hunger, staining your pillow with his name. you rub your clit thinking about him, pinching a nipple imagining that it's his hands on you, and you close your eyes thinking about his mouth, about him eating you until his jaw ache, about cumming on his tongue, his thick fingers curled inside you.

he occupies your thoughts—a distant figure that clings to your flesh, tepid, latent. a fake scenario that only exists in the hollow of the quiet hours.

until he becomes real, one stupid afternoon.

you’re sent down an old trail to check on an abandoned building, and you end up getting completely lost. you don’t really know how it happens, the forest simply swallows you—suddenly there’s nothing around you but a suffocating green and the deafening clamor of insects. the day is scorching hot and even in the trees shade, you’re sweating. your clothes cling to your damp skin, the salt of your pores pricking every little cut you’ve gotten on the wild paths. you’re lost in your thoughts, fingers crinkling the paper of your map when a hand grabs your shoulder. harsh, violent.

your heart leaps—

“the fuck you doin’ here? this area is supposed to be clear for the day.”

of all the people wandering through the woods, he's the one you had to stumble upon.

the tone of his voice and a glimpse at his face tell you that he’s pissed. you clench your jaw, trying not to let the situation get the best of you.

“sorry i uh—got lost…”

shane scoffs, looking down on you—and fuck, the disdain in his gaze hurts. stupid girl. you fantasized about a moment like that. him and you, alone in the woods. the kind of bullshit scenario straight out of some cheap amateur porn found online; reality leaves a bitter taste on your tongue.

“yeah, ‘figured. can’t fuckin’ hunt with your ruckus…” he spits.

your teeth graze your lower lip, spilling out a nervous frustration you'd rather hide.

“can you help me find this old hunting lodge? i’ve got a map but i don’t know where i am…”

he sighs loudly, adjusting the rifle on his shoulder.

“come with me. ‘got a deer to kill… i’ll give you a ride after. it’ll be quicker than to have you fuckin’ roamin’ around for two hours.”

you obey.

his pace is military and you do your best to follow him; you hide your short breath behind your teeth, ignoring the burn of your muscles and the flood between your shoulder blades. he navigates through the forest as you imagined he would—indifferent to its beauty.

you walk for half an hour before he slows down. he makes you stop near a clearing, a hole in the dense tangle of the woods, where the trees tear apart and open up to the sky; a burst of pale blue eating up the edges of a cliff. the deer is laying on the sun-scorched grass and you can see its flank rising up, up and down, fast, feverish, all dirty fur and sick eyes.

you turn back to shane, ready for whatever comes next. but—instead of the irritated look he'd been giving you up until now, you're met with inquiring eyes. a slight grin on the lips, gaze wandering all over your body, he's sizing you up.

“want to kill it?” he asks bluntly.

you never killed an animal. you know how to use a hunting rifle, but you've never killed anything with it. “i can try,” you hear yourself reply. you kneel next to him and he gives you his weapon—lighter than you’d imagine, barely seven pound of cold metal and carbon fiber. you secure the rifle against your shoulder, head tilted to find the scope, instinctively trying to shape your grip into something that feels natural. it's not as easy as he makes it look.

he doesn't give you time to adjust.

a hand darts out to correct your posture from behind your back and suddenly his face is right over your shoulder, too close to yours, his palms all over your body, straightening an elbow, an arm, a wrist. you didn't see him move. he says to relax, a hand flattening the curve of your neck, his stubble an almost-scratch on your lobe. you feel his breath on your cheek and all you can think of is how easy it would be to turn your head and leave the rifle here and taste something real on his lips. you feel the weight of his palm on your drenched skin, brain fixated on the pressure, hunger burning your guts like a dog bite.

you could leave the rifle here.

you try to think about the deer you’re going to kill.

“need to aim for the center mass. ‘should have a good view of its flank from here.”

his voice is low, sickly warm on the hollow of your neck. you nod, mind still trying to adjust to the mass of his body pressed into your back, to his scent, a mix of pine, honeysuckle, of sweat and cheap manly deodorant. he steadies your dominant hand, rough touch on damp skin.

“right spot is just behind the shoulder. ‘see it?”

you struggle to focus, eye on the target, adjusting the scope until you’re able catch every wound on the animal’s fur. the image is sharp, suppurating. you give shane another nod, unable to speak; in the back of your mouth, your vocal chords feels like barbwire.

“now, we’re close enough to aim without having to compensate for bullet drop. when you’re ready, stop your breathin’ and press the trigger slow.”

his hands move to your hips, a false anchor that only distracts you more. in your throat, you feel every contraction of your heart. you wonder how many beats per minute that is and you stop breathing and you press the trigger. slowly. and for a second you’re not you anymore, you’re a pulse, bare, primal, you're the recoil, the kick in your muscles, the sound and the smell of the chemical compounds scattering in the air. on impact, the deer startles and falls. you see blood staining the fur, you feel his hands leaving your hips to smother your biceps. you want this moment to linger, you want the awkwardness and the proximity to stretch, but shane’s already up, snatching the rifle from your hands, ejecting the cartridge and reloading in one swift move. you watch him approach the beast, barrel aiming at the carcass in case the animal might still be alive. a boot kick assures him it's not.

he gives you a nod from afar. and, for the first time, you see a genuine smile on his face.

“think you just earn'd your beer,” he admits when you join him to witness your kill.

you help him wrap the corpse in a tarp, securing it with thick ropes. half an hour later, you're at his camp, savoring the promised reward—and, after dragging the carcass for a mile and a half in a stifling inferno, even his shitty pilsner tastes like heaven.

one beer becomes two, two becomes three and you lose count, rocked by his stories, the flow of his voice, your laughers. you feel soft and mellow in the heat, looking at his face, barely listening to what he says, mind focused on how close you sit, on the accidental brush of his fingers against your thigh, on the warmth of his knee against yours. you see his lips move but words have lost their meaning; you think about the glint of pride in his eyes when you killed the deer, about his mouth on yours, you think about his fingers, about him ruining you.

and when the silence comes back, your gazes hook and the air feels syrupy, thick between your lips. your eyes fall to his mouth, suspended on his grin. you can almost taste him. your brain is floating in a boldness that smells like alcohol and you stop thinking and you fall foward and you press your lips against his. and, for a second, he kisses you too, tongue pushing inside your mouth, swallowing an embarrassing moan that escapes you. one of his hands runs to your neck, possessive, squeezing slightly. your teeth sink into his bottom lips, grazing the skin and

he pushes you away.

“easy girl—”

he snikers, half-smile, fingers wiping your bite on his lips.

“what? i th—”

“yeah i get you want my dick but i ain’t touching a 20 somethin’ virgin sorry. pussy not worth the trouble.” he tilts his beer toward his mouth, shaking his head before taking a sip. heat creeps on your face, ugly, humiliating. you wonders how he knows, if someone told him or if it’s just written on your face, but it doesn’t really matter. you quickly learned that things never stay secret for long ‘round here. people have nothing to do but talk.

you’re too drunk to care. you know about him too, about the girls he fucks, the stories they tell at night, cigarette in their mouth and tongues loose from the alcohol, comparing the places where he fucked them, the number of times, what he did, never quite sure if it was really good or if they're lying to feel different from the others. i’m the one he took care of. you know shane doesn’t take care of anybody but himself. and maybe deep down, this is what makes you wet—the perspective of forgetting about your self-respecting principles to get fucked dumb in the forest by a man who does not care.

“that’s not what i heard,” you retort.

he laughs again.

“’m tryin’ to do you a favor here kiddo. don’t know what you’ve heard ‘n what you’re expectin’ but this ain’t gonna match your fantasy.” you look at him and he looks at you, his dead eyes contradicting every one of his words, eating up your body like a piece of meat.

your nails scratch the label of your beer absently. “yeah i get it. ‘too old to get it hard after a beer and a day in the bushes uh.” petty words escape your lips and you want him to hurt. it doesn’t really work. his smile grows so wide you feel his face is gonna disappear; soon he’ll be only teeth.

“or—maybe you’re just not doin’ it for me sweetheart.”

piece of shit. it hurts and you understand too late that’s what gets him off; toying with the latest girl infatuated with him. how far can he go before giving you what you came for. how much filth can he spew before changing his mind and coaxing you with honey. piece of shit. you put down your beer and you get up and you don’t know anymore you don’t know youdon’tknow—

you slap him.

you only see your hand on his cheek. you only see the consequence of the offense. your hand, hot, his cheek, hot.

the sound resonates in the camp like a caning.

you’re as surprised as him by your gesture. he stares at you and there’s nothing gentle in his eyes anymore. nothing curious or amused. the impact of your deed brutally sinks in—behind your navel, a hook tears your flesh. hot. shane loses his smile. “so this want you want uh.” he puts down his beer and he gets up too. slowly. he looks down on you, face inches from yours, frame eating up your field of view. the afternoon is almost dead and you’re suffocating.

“alright,” he nods. “alright.”

he grabs you and pushes you against a tree, yanking your shorts and underwear without gentleness. they fall in the dirt, trampled by your faltering steps. a hand smothers you, forces you to turn around, face against the bark and he kicks your legs apart, almost making you lost balance. heart on the edge of your lips, your blood pounds so hard in your skull that the world seems to go silent between each beat. you don’t hear the insects’ noise anymore; everything feels blurry and too much. under his palm, your sweat turns cold. he comes closer, his chest clinging to your back, swallowing you against his frame. you feel powerless and maybe maybe he was right and you’re gonna regret this and you should have listened and not desire something ugly and rough and violent and maybe,maybe—

one of his hands runs to your belly, slides between your thighs and two fingers breach you. thick, calloused. you buck instinctively but his weight on your spine pins you in place. your ass, bare, meets his bulge, tearing a grunt from his lips. you feel his exhale against your neck, blunt, burning. “fuck you’re so wet already… you like it rough uh.” and it’s a taunt and not a question, ‘cause your body spills what you want even if you’re not sure what you’re gonna get. between your drenched thighs, his fingers go back and forth a few times; enough to make you whimper but you're not even sure you can call that shit foreplay, a minute or two and he stops, leaving your cunt clenching around nothing. you hear the metallic noise of his belt before feeling him lining his cock with your pussy, a hand on your hip, the other gripping the heavy tip that he presses against your slit. you can’t see him but you know he’s big, the girls giggled about it, and he doesn’t take the time to stretch you more, to sweeten the deal, it’s here, it’s now, you’re gonna take his cock like a big girl, ‘n it’s him pushing inside, hard, raw, prying obscenities out of your mouth and fuck it hurts it hurts. “fuck, shane—sto—fuckfuckfu—” you squirm and you writhe but you can't escape his hold, only making things worse for you the more you move. you’re impossibly stretched around his cock and it’s already too much; tears prickle on the edge of your eyes and it makes him laugh again.

“you need to relax kid, it’s just the tip,” he mocks. and he starts to really sink in, inch by inch, taking his time ‘cause you’re so tense he has no choice but to go slow. the grip on your hips tighten and you know his hands are gonna leave dents in your flesh and you try to hold back a whine but you can't and it pours out of you, it pours and you feel nothing anymore but his cock penetrating you, belly ablaze, torn by how thick he is. both of your breaths are ragged when he finally bottoms out, pelvic bones pressed against your ass, your spine arched impossibly as your body tries to fit his cock. you feel split, and something wet and sticky dripping on your thighs and you hope you hope it's only arousal and sweat. he leans in and caresses the back of your head, fingers grabbing your hair, almost tender when he pulls back to whisper to your ear. "see? y'can take it," and you feel sick 'cause all you want in this instant is to make him proud. he loosens his grip and his hand goes back to your hip and you know that tomorrow, you'll have his fingerprints engraved on your skin—blue, green and yellow.

there's no warning when he starts fucking you for real.

without giving you a minute to really catch your breath he starts to move, almost pulling out to better sink in, deep, buried to the hilt, hips rolling to set a brutal pace. soon the forest echoes with the wet sounds of your bodies crashing into each other, your broken moans and the obscene noises of his pelvis and his balls hitting your ass. that too, is gonna leave a mark. your cunt's hot and throbbing, and you feel every thrust slapping your sodden and swollen flesh, pain and pleasure blending in your skull. he's cruel and it's too much and you still can't get enough, your palms embedded in the bark in a futile attempt to soften his brutal thrusts. when he slows down it's only to fuck you deeper, to make you feel every inch of his cock splitting your tight pussy—your legs burn and shake and you think you're gonna fall but he only grips you tighter.

he comes before you do.

you feel him swell impossibly, close, halfway collapsing on you, forehead pressed to your spine, cursing and grunting when your cunt contracts again around his cock and he breaks suddenly, his thick cum filling you up. he does not care about you and you feel used and it feels good and your hands leave the tree and you start touching yourself, abusing your clit, your fingers inadvertently grazing his softening dick until he pulls out, leaving your spasming hole spitting his cum. you're a mess of sperm, spit, sweat. you feel everything dripping out of you, panting, cock-drunk, trying to chase your own orgasm; he's still half-leaning on you, and his hands still on your flesh, refusing to let you go. you think about the bruises and the pain and the weight of his head between your shoulder blades, his ragged breath, his impossible warmth that still swallows you, his fingers tightly gripping your hips and he says nothing and it builds, it builds in your belly until you can't take it anymore—you snap and you come too, his name spat by your mouth like an insult.

your release makes you feel like an animal, body shaking, anesthetized by oxytocin and adrenalin, too numb to feel shame or pain. you want him to hold you tight in his arms but he doesn’t, he simply whispers 'good girl' in your ear, patting your ass like you pet a bitch after a perfect trick. he straightens up and sets you free and you know you’re gonna hurt tomorrow, you're gonna bruise, you’re gonna break and you’re gonna have to lie about it but you don’t care, you don’t care.

you dragged your tongue slowly downward, catching a rivulet that had started to slide toward the beginning of his happy trail. the cold shock against his heated body made his abs tense sharply under your mouth.

“mmm, maybe.” your lips closed around a patch of skin, sucking lightly to leave a tiny mark on him. “you just look so cute like this, with your face the same color as your hair. seems like you’re melting faster than the ice cream, baby!”

his ears burned redder at that. sukuna—yes, your sukuna, the guy who had tattoos all over his body and scared off half the people who tried to chat with him—actually squirmed a little.

“cute?! oh, i’ll show you cute—” he growled, but there was no real bite behind it, just a flustered edge that gave him away; though as soon as your tongue circled just under his pec (where there wasn’t even any trail of ice cream, it should be noted), his reproach turned into a shaky breath. “fuck… okay, this might feel good. might.”

you lifted your head just enough to meet his gaze, lips shiny and sticky with melted sweetness. “just might? want me to stop?” you asked innocently, even as your fingers dipped lower, tracing the line of his happy trail where it disappeared into his jeans. “it’s okay, baby. i could always eat the rest straight from the—”

“don’t you fucking dare.” he cut you off abruptly with a frown, and just as quickly as he did so he realized his tiny slip. “i-i mean—” he cleared his throat, trying to reclaim some dignity, but the way his hips twitched when your breath ghosted over his skin showed his true feelings. “you started this, sweetheart. finish what you started. and don’t think i won’t get revenge later.”

you grinned, pressing a soft, lingering kiss right over his navel before swirling your tongue around it to catch the last pooling drops. “revenge? like what? gonna pour ice cream on me and tease me while i blush the whole time?”

he sat up a little more, pulling you up his body until your chest pressed against his sticky torso. one of his thick arms wrapped around your waist as his free hand cupped your jaw. “keep talking shit and soon our roles will be reversed. let’s see how much you like cold things on your skin.” his thumb brushed your lower lip, voice dropping into that dangerous purr you loved. “though knowing you, you’d probably like it too much.”

his threatening act made you giggle slightly. “mhm, you’re right,” you murmured, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “though I love it more when my big, scary man turns into a softie for me.”

he groaned, hiding his face against your neck for a moment. “you’re lucky i love your bratty ass.”

“no! you are lucky i love your grumpy ass.”

“mmh, i guess so,” he mumbled against your skin, pressing a kiss there that turned into a gentle bite. “now get back to work before i change my mind.”

“yes, sir,” you immediately slid back down his body, more than happy to oblige. then you reached for the tub of ice cream and scooped a giant portion of it.

“baby, that’s way too mu—”

“shut up.”

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you let satoru do as he pleases, threading your hands through his hair as his hand dips between your inner thighs. he hums into your neck when you scratch his scalp. “suguru,” you breathe, “how’d you two even get here? coach toji’s gonna kill you guys.”

“kiss,” satoru interrupts. you tilt your head towards him, eyes still on suguru as gojo presses his lips to yours.

suguru’s face twists in disgust, but he doesn’t comment. “satoru bribed him. paid him a couple hundreds to see you for five minutes.”

“right—” your voice strains when gojo gropes your ass once again. “and you followed him because?”

geto is already looking away. “he bribed me too.”

you snort, but it turns into a shiver as satoru sucks on your earlobe. he hums, pleased, when your fingers tighten in his hair.

“mmh… got an away match,” he kisses your jaw. “wanted to see my girl first.”

you’re not his girl, you know you’ll never be, but you still laugh when he squeezes your waist & presses hurried kisses to your cheek. you shove him away & his grin is cocky.

“gonna score for you,” he tugs you back, dipping his head to your ear. “and then you’ll treat me, yeah?”

you hum when his arms snake around your hips once again.

“only if you score the winning goal.”

2. POST MATCH SEXCAPADES !

satoru comes back too late.

you’re not sure exactly why—maybe overtime, maybe the team stopped somewhere to celebrate their win—but you don’t let the thought plague you. you’re more concerned about the fact that it’s nearly evening & you can hear a ball kicking against the gym walls. you’re still in your cheer uniform, tiny skirt & sheer top, standing at the metal doors as you watch gojo dribble on his own.

he stops dribbling to catch his breath, wiping sweat off his chin. and then he’s off to sit at the bleachers, letting water slide down his neck as he chugs from a bottle.

you take it as your cue.

you have your hands behind your back, padding all slow, steps soft as you make your way to him. gojo keeps his bottle pressed to his lips but he sees it. how your skirt clings to your thighs. how your breasts ripple under the thin material. he lets out a low hum as you sit yourself on his lap.

you loop your hands around his neck. “hi.”

his lip tugs. “hi,”

he squeezes your waist as you press yourself into him. your tits smush against his chest, nipples hardening, and his fingers are already tracing the hem of your skirt & gliding up your thigh.

“how was the match?” you mumble.

“was good,” he mutters, but his thumb has already found your panties underneath your skirt. he rubs a slow circle over the bud. “you miss me?”

“no,” you sass, but he presses his thumb into your clit & your hips stutter. satoru laughs.

“i know what you like now,” he hums, left hand gliding up your side as the other rubs slow circles over your panties. “know it only takes a little.”

his thumb finds your nipple through your thin shirt. he rubs a circle over the pebbled peak, slow, but then he raises a brow. “no bra?”

you can’t respond. your breath hitches as your head falls into his shoulder.

“so cute,” he murmurs softly. he lets you press against him, leaving your panties to grope your heavy tits in his palm. he squeezes and fondles, pressing light kisses to your cheek as you make pretty noises in his ear. your hips buck into him.

“needy,” he scoffs, but his hands come up to guide your hips as you rut against him. he’s already hard and your panties are soaked thin and you let the material cling between your folds as your clit rubs against him. he flips up your skirt to find you drenched & slobbering. he bites his cheek.

“fuck, baby,” he rasps, sliding your panties over your aching cunt. you’re still humping him. “why’s your pussy so fucking wet?”

you only whimper as he presses his thumb to your sticky clit, rubbing hard circles over the bud. his other hand gropes your hip, guiding you faster over him. your breathing shudders as his thumb circles your clit faster and harder, until your hips are stuttering & he’s cupping your pussy so you cum in his palm.

you whimper, tears pricking at your lashes as you come down from your high. satoru kisses your cheek slow. “mmh, good job, baby.”

he’s still rubbing his palm over your pussy, massaging your warmth all slow & lazy. your eyes drop to his bulge, his cock practically twitching in his shorts. you reach a hand to glide over it, palming him so his hips twitch. he inhales sharply, “fuck—”

“not in my uniform,” he steals your hand, kissing your jaw. “gonna be a nightmare to clean.”

you glare at him through your lashes. “it’s already dirty, idiot.”

he laughs at your pretty face glaring up at him. your cheeks are still flushed, lashes wet, and your lips are in a frown but satoru swears you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. he folds his hand over yours and dips his head to kiss you warm & slow. you gasp as his tongue pushes in, a soft moan leaving your lips as his tongue grazes yours.

“another time,” he murmurs against your lips. “no pouting, yeah?”

you pout anyways, and satoru kisses it off.

3. NOT YOUR GIRLFRIEND !

satoru is driving too fast.

his jaw is tight, knuckles white against the steering as you clutch your seatbelt beside him. your heart hammers against your ribs but the engine soon slows, his foot easing down on the breaks as the car comes to a stop at a traffic light.

today’s match went bad, really bad, so bad to the point that afterwards you’d tried to console him and he’d simply walked past. you try not to let it get to you. you know how men are when it comes to losing in sports.

but satoru’s breathing settles beside you, so you try once more.

“you played good today.”

silence.

"i know you're upset," you continue, voice soft. "but it's just one game, and you'll get them next time.”

silence again. his jaw only ticks, face illuminated by the traffic light’s red glow. the seconds seem to stretch into minutes, and you fumble with your skirt.

“you did your best,” you turn to him. “that’s all that matters—“

“can you stop?”

you freeze.

satoru doesn’t look at you. his fingers tap against the steering as he lowers his foot to the gas pedal. he’s not speeding anymore, but the silence stretches & you can feel a lump clawing at your throat.

you bite your lip. and satoru’s mad, yes, but he’s got no right to talk to you like that or take his anger out on you. so you suck in a breath, try to correct him. “i was only trying to help. you don’t have to take it out on me—“

“do you ever get tired of talking?”

“what?”

but satoru continues. “you always have something to say, don’t you? you’re not my fucking girlfriend. and i don’t need your fucking comfort.”

you blink. the words don’t register at first, but soon your throat is closing up, and you’re nodding obediently before you can think any better of it. your skirt bunches in your hands as you try to keep your breathing steady. god forbid you give him a reason to snap at you once again.

“you’re right,” you try for sass but it fails. “and i won’t act like it again.”

but satoru sees you through the rearview mirror. your eyes are on your lap, like you’re still trying to process what just happened, your thumbs fiddling with the hem of your skirt. satoru only swallows, glances away. if he ignores you long enough, you’ll be just fine, right?

your breath hitches beside him and he crumbles immediately.

he’s already pulling over, unbuckling his belt to reach over the console. “no baby, i’m sorry,” he pleads, and maybe he shouldn’t because it only makes tears fall from your eyes. “shh baby don’t cry, i’m sorry, i’m so fucking sorry.”

he smushes your face into his chest, carding his fingers through your hair. you try to push him away but he takes your hand and presses it to his chest.

“didn’t mean to snap at you,” his breathing is ragged as he cups your face. “don’t cry baby, you know i hate it when you cry.”

you sniffle as he swipes a thumb over your wet lashes. “then what are we?”

satoru doesn’t answer. instead he presses his lips to yours, slow and warm, head tilting to deepen the kiss. “you’re my girl,” kiss. “my baby,” kiss. “my everything,” kiss.

he doesn’t say my girlfriend. but he doesn’t need to, right?

footballer!gojo doesn’t do relationships. and cheerleaders like you don’t make good girlfriends anyway. so you swallow the lump growing in your throat & let him part open your thighs.

SCORE, end

Daryl blinks once, trying hard to forget about the visual of your swollen lips he’s blessed with everytime he pulls back. She just kissed you this morning, man. He really shouldn’t be this desperate for another, it’s barely been two hours. Daryl groans on the inside when he realizes that the reminder doesn’t help at all. Because now he’s reliving the way you looked in the tent, the tired smile you manage to wear right after waking up… How sweetly you pecked his lips, his eyes fluttering open just in time to witness the sheer beauty of you, unwound. He’d been awake for a while, actually. But, well, you kinda ruined mornings for him — he used to get up early and spend his time hunting or something. Now, he refuses to leave the tent before you’ve woken up to give him a good morning kiss.

Fuck… this really is bad. It’s not like he should have to depend on that one, like, there’s also the little inbetween kisses whenever he does something sweet for you… The goodbye ones whenever you’re apart for anything above ten minutes… Those heated ones whenever you pull him away from the group for a moment, to “catch a breath” when in reality you’re doing the exact opposite… Short ones just because and, of course, the goodnight kiss. God, he loves the goodnight kiss.

Maybe a little too much, actually. Daryl is trying hard not to dwell on all of this too much, but he just can’t help it. Michonne has chimed up, there’s evidently some important decisions being made, but he just doesn’t have it in himself to care. All those different types of kisses, and yet, he wouldn’t be picky if only you were to cross the distance between you right now and — give him one. Any would do. Daryl likes them all equally, but he needs one or he’ll honestly go insane. It’s like, he’s lived years and years without them and now, in a matter of weeks, you’ve got him addicted. Though he probably was done for the second he first felt your lips on his forehead that first time, back when it was still a "platonic" relationship, as if he hadn't planned out his whole future centered around you already. It’s maddening. Like, somehow he’s lost all sense of proportion. Doesn’t really care about anything but you anymore, or maybe he just loves you so much that everything else is overshadowed. Even such important things as survival. Or less important ones, like what people think of him.

Generally, he hasn’t even changed that much on the outside. He still is the reliable, rugged hunter the group got to know, just a tad distracted, maybe. Or so he hopes. Realistically, he comes off as, well, very distracted. Uncharacteristically so. Like he said — he wants, needs to kiss you so badly that he looks downright stupid. With that lovesick expression on his face, soft eyes and all that crap. You’ve put a spell on him, he’s bewitched! But he’d never ask you to lift it. If that’s even possible. No, he’s enjoying himself far too much. Whenever he does get to shove his tongue down your throat, that is. He’s in heaven, just like that. It’s absolute bliss and not only due to the contrast between fighting for his life and kissing you. It would be bliss even if he’d been the happiest man alive before, as well. That doesn’t matter though, ‘cause he is, right here, right now, in your arms. Happier than ever and happier than he thought possible.

Daryl has long accepted his fate, without struggling at all. Yeah, he may look dumb staring at you and your lips all day, but that’s pretty much his default state now. You see — if only thinking about making out gets him like this already, nobody would seriously expect it to be any better when he’s kissing you, right? It’s worse, actually. His jaw goes slack the second you lean in, arms hanging down his sides uselessly every fucking time because he just can’t believe his luck, even after all these months. It takes a moment, but then he’s arrived mentally. All yours and eager to please, savoring each kiss like it’s the last. Partly because it could be, yes. But mostly because he just can’t help it. Okay, so what if he looks stupid. It’s endearing! In your book, that’s called being in love.

And in love, that he is. Desperately so, and he’s not used to it in the slightest. He’s overwhelmed, in a good way, and it shows. You never mind, not for one second. Instead, you just throw your arms around his neck and deepen the kiss, pulling him closer in a way that makes him forget people might be watching and seeing him fall apart by just your kisses. Or that’s the effect you would have, if, well… If in Daryl’s eyes, you wouldn’t be the whole world already.

𝐼'𝑑 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝘩𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑡𝘩𝑜𝑢𝑔𝘩𝑡𝑠! 𝑇𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑒 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑎𝑑𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 & 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑜𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑎 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦 🤍 𝐷𝑎𝑟𝑦𝑙 𝑀𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡

It was happening too often, the break-ins in your neighbourhood.

It started with a few residents complaining about their cars being busted open at night, the occasional knock at the door past twelve, until it escalated into a full-fledged break-in, leaving the usual small, quiet town shaken and disturbed.

You only knew the details because of Beau Arlen, the head Sheriff, who just so happened to be your dad’s closest friend. You overheard on a Tuesday evening, as your dad and Beau sat on the back porch with a few beers in hand. Your dad had briefly mentioned leaving you alone for a few days, and Beau immediately protested, negotiating something about him watching over you. You had walked away too soon, disappearing into your room.

Friday came around quicker than ever, and your parents were kissing your forehead, reminding you of a few safety rules you thought were damn pathetic. You were old enough to drink, to go to college, to go to bars, to do everything a grown woman can do, and suddenly, they were treating you like you were incapable of everything; you reassured them that you could take care of yourself, and you’d be fine.

Walking up the stairs, you glance behind you, the headlights pulling out of the driveway, and you bite your lip, already deciding a few things you wanted to do–you never had any alone time; your mom was always just a few rooms down, your dad was constantly wanting you to help him with something, or the neighbourhood kids were on your hip.

You were finally alone, and you were going to take advantage of it.

Lying on your bed, the door cracked open just slightly, you stare at the ceiling, feeling your heart beating out of your god damn chest. You had only touched yourself a few times; lousy experiments when your friends bragged about their latest hookups over drinks at the bar, mentioning how good it felt to ‘finish’, and here you were, completely and utterly broken.

Not really broken, but your fingers never worked properly, and your head was always disconnected, and your mind was always a mess, and someone was always walking in. You hadn’t finished in your entire fucking life, and it felt like you were missing out on some central part of womanhood that your friends always talked about. It was brutal.

You were tired of hearing it, your friends always mentioning how good their boyfriends fucked them, how every night they were having the greatest sex of their lives, and here you were, struggling to feel a damn thing. 

You swallow hard, your hand sliding down into the front of your flimsy PJs, and you shift your hips awkwardly, scrunching your nose. Everything feels stiff, like your fingers are trying to write in a language you don’t speak; meaningless ‘circles’ you’ve heard about, the light presses, and you’re groaning, tipping your head back in pure frustration.

“Kid,” a low voice suddenly calls into your bedroom, and your eyes absolutely bulge out of your head, hand frozen in the front of your shorts, and all you can do is stare.

This isn’t a fucking intruder, not a masked man wielding a knife, asking you for money or wanting your mother’s jewelry; it’s Beau Arlen, and he’s just as surprised as you are.

Beau stands frozen in your doorway, his eyes raking over the situation; your body against the mattress, blankets and sheets rustled, your hand in the front of your shorts, clearly doing something that you shouldn’t be doing, and he can do nothing but stare.

“I’m–” you stutter, slowly sitting up, blinking.

“Hey–hey… no, no, y’okay, it’s fine,” Beau suddenly reassures awkwardly, a hand lifting to rub the side of his jaw, looking behind his shoulder. “Guess… y’er daddy didn’t tell ya’ I was lookin’ after you,” he laughs, trying to smooth over the moment.

“No–no… uhm, yeah, no,” you nervously mumble, shaky hands pulling your blankets over your lap, covering any evidence. “I’ll… I’ll be down in a minute,” you shake your head, biting your lip.

Beau stands there, sighing heavily at the sight of you; flushed cheeks, sweat brimming on your forehead, and suddenly, his caring, sheriff mode kicks in; keep her reassured, comforted, safe. The type of thing he’d do after a kid is startled by a car wreck, or a woman is crying about her fucking house being burned down.

“It ain’t have to be awkward,” he chimes in, still standing in the doorway. “It’s normal, ya know? Completely… fine,” he drawls, his words smooth and low, and you can just stare at him.

“I… I wasn’t doing anything,” you deny, shaking your head.

Beau wouldn’t admit it, but he definitely saw before coming in; your head tipped back in frustration, the knit in your eyebrows that showed nothing but a girl that hadn’t felt a damn thing in her life, and he was willing to help.

 Would he bring that up? No.

“Okay, darlin’,” Beau grins sarcastically, his eyes widening as he rolls them, and he’s about to turn around, to leave you to… finish whatever you were doing.

“Beau,” you say softly, and he stops, turning back around, resting his thumbs behind the leather of his belt.

“What, sweetheart?” he asks, tilting his head to the side, and stray hairs dip from his forehead, cascading in front of his eyes.

“Don’t… tell my parents, or anything,” you mumble, shaking your head again.

“Secret is safe with me,” he nods, and you smile nervously, almost forgetting how gentle and kind he really is. He has to be; he deals with the public all day.

Silence stretches in your bedroom, and Beau doesn’t turn around. Instead, he slowly begins to walk in, sighing as he glances around the old space.

“M’remember when ya’ had princess wallpaper in here,” Beau laughs, looking at the solid colour walls, your room neatly decorated to your own interests, opposed to dolls and whatever else you liked when he had first met you.

“Well, I’m kind of… old now,” you laugh nervously, and he laughs too.

“Old?” Beau asks with a raise of his eyebrows, groaning softly as he sits on the edge of your bed, right near you. “Tell me about it,” he mumbles, one hand resting against his thigh, the other one rubbing his scruff.

“What? You’re not that old,” you shake your head, gazing at the side of his face; his eyes now have crinkles in the corner, wrinkles deeply set in his forehead, green eyes a little more tired, and he no longer walks around clean-shaven. 

He looks better this way, you think. Rough.

“Forty-seven soon, darlin’,” he practically scoffs, turning his head to look at you over his shoulder, and you’re smiling, biting your lip.

“That’s… young,” you say, but your delivery is all wrong, and he laughs again, shaking his head.

“What’re you then?” Beau asks, adjusting his hips against your bed, and it creaks.

“Also young,” you shrug, and he scoffs, leaning back to pat your leg through your blankets.

“M’remember bein’ your age; had a girlfriend, thought she was m’wife,” Beau tells you, ticking his head sarcastically.

“That’s already ahead of me,” you reassure him with an innocent nod. “I don’t… well, I’ve never had a boyfriend,” you admit, and the way he looks at you makes it look like you just committed a serious offence.

“Get outta here,” he dismisses, waving his hand, only to realize you’re serious, and you really are a boyfriend-less thing.

“Why do you think… I’m…” you laugh awkwardly, and he instantly clears his throat at your implication.

Yeah, that’s why you’re touching yourself.

“And how’s that goin’ for ya’?” Beau asks, and you suddenly notice his jaw working, chewing his gum.

“Bad,” you mumble shyly, looking into your lap, thighs pressing together beneath your blankets.

“Bad?” he asks, turning to fully face you, bringing one of his legs a little more onto the mattress. “Jus’... doesn’t feel good?” he continues, actual concern knitting into his features.

“Doesn’t feel good, yeah,” you shrug, suddenly realizing what you’re talking about. “I… I don’t think I’m doing it right,” you casually admit, your eyes meeting his.

“What makes ya’ think that?” Beau presses, rubbing his beard again. “M’sure you’ll get the hang of it.”

“No,” you immediately respond, tone firm. “I’ve tried, Beau, and it doesn’t work, I’m broken, and everything is broken, and my body is broken,” you ramble on, dramatically sighing.

“Hey… hey, no, that ain’t mean nothin’,” he shakes his head, chewing on his gum again. “You jus’ don’t know what y’er doin’,” he explains, ticking his head.

“I’m not… gonna watch videos, that’s weird,” you retort, and he nods, agreeing.

“Maybe someone could show ya’,” Beau shrugs, his hand rubbing his thigh through his jeans. “Would help ya’, darlin’.”

Silence fills your bedroom again, and you sigh quietly, shifting in your bed, staring at Beau, who looks like a giant in a dollhouse. You blink slowly, taking in his words–no one in your damn life can show you a thing. No boyfriend, and you’re definitely not asking your friends.

“Like you,” you mumble, biting your lip, holding your breath,

“Like me?” Beau asks, his tone too unconcerned, almost like he expected it.

“Well–yeah… you had a wife, I think, I don’t know,” you explain your thoughts, trying to hint that he’d be more experienced.

“You want me... to show ya’ how to touch y’erself,” Beau repeats back your thoughts, and you smile, your hands covering your face in embarrassment.

“Just an idea,” you give up, dropping your hands into your lap.

“‘Kay,” he mumbles, nodding. “I’ll show ya.”

“What–I was–” you pause when you notice Beau is already adjusting himself, getting a little closer to you, gesturing for you to move closer. And you immediately do.

“C’mere,” he drawls, that Southern accent suddenly thick.

You sit against the headboard of your bed, and he shifts up a bit more, coming to your side, though he still sits against the edge, his body twisted slightly to face you. He puts a hand on your bare calf now that your legs are out from the blankets.

“Take y’er shorts off,” Beau directs you, his thumb tapping your calf.

You hesitantly nod and begin slipping them down your legs. When they reach your calves, he immediately starts helping you with them, pulling them off and tossing them aside, leaving you in just your underwear, legs lazily open. He’s holding back from just touching you.

“Ya’ ever do foreplay?” he quietly asks, still rubbing your calf, and you shake your head.

“Baby, ya’ can’t jus’ start pokin’ around,” Beau laughs, shaking his head at how naive you are, and you whine, tipping your head back against the headboard in frustration. He shushes you, shaking his head at the small outburst.

“Listen t’me,” he starts, his tone serious, and he slides his hand down, lightly holding your ankle. “Not judgin’ you, sweetheart, jus’ wan’ make you feel good,” he explains, clenching his jaw.

You sigh shakily and nod again, glancing down between your thighs at your pastel pink underwear, a bow at the top. And he’s smiling at it, wanting to reach out and tug the little lace.

“Two fingers,” Beau suddenly mumbles, his green eyes finding yours. “Gonna jus’... rub them over the front of y’er underwear, okay?” he directs.

You hesitate, but slowly slide your fingers down, doing slow movements against the front of the cotton. Something works because you twitch a little, a new feeling blooming between your thighs, and Beau watches, working the gum between his teeth.

“See? That make you feel all warm n’ nice?” he asks, and you quickly nod, breathing heavier.

“Yeah–just… yeah, it feels good,” you mutter, keeping a slow pace, feeling your fingertips dampening, and you realize this has never happened to you. Dear God.

“Good, sweetheart,” he reassures, still gently rubbing your ankle. “Keep rubbin’, jus’ workin’ yourself up,” he explains what you’re doing, guiding.

You tip your head back a little, your toes lightly curling into the sheets beneath you, and he smirks.

You pick up the speed a little, and Beau watches closely, eyes gazing between your thighs. He can see the wet mark settling right in front of your fingertips, and he briefly wets his lips, looking around your bedroom for a second, your head tipped back against the headboard.

“Is–is this right?” you mumble through clenched teeth, and he instantly snaps his head back, watching your fingers moving in those stupid circles. He nods.

“Yeah… that’s good, darlin’,” Beau reassures, his voice dropping into that tone that wraps around your heart and squeezes slightly.

“It’s… it’s not enough,” you complain softly, and he swallows hard, grunting in understanding.

“Not supposed t’be,” he shakes his head, sliding his hand up your ankle and to your calf. “Gotta be wet,” he explains, and you hold your breath, groaning as your head tips back.

“Beau,” you mumble, your voice slightly strained, beckoning him to continue.

“M’know, sweetheart,” he coos, tapping your shin. “Jus’ a few more seconds,” he reassures again, watching your fingers stick to the same speed.

Your fingers continue to circle lightly against the cotton, the friction providing little relief, and he can see the frustration on your face again, the same expression he saw through the cracked door. He clenches his jaw, moving a little closer, and his hand holds your knee.

“Wanna take off y’er underwear?” Beau asks, and you instantly nod, stopping to tug down the fabric.

He assists you when it reaches your knees, and he carefully helps the pink cotton down the rest of your legs. His fingertips glide on your leg in the process, and your legs fall open just a bit.

“Gonna do those same lil’ circles, ‘kay?” he prompts, his eyes gazing between your thighs. “On your clit though, baby,” he explains more, and you hesitantly nod.

Beau watches your hand slide down again, and you gasp softly–you’re wet, and it’s almost like the first time you feel it, the slick gathering on your fingertips, and he curses under his breath. He knew you didn’t know how to touch yourself, but seriously, not even getting wet before?

Your hand lightly fumbles between your thighs, and you place your two fingers against your clit, doing the same circles, and your head instantly tips back. Your mouth hangs open in surprise, suddenly feeling an odd pressure, all accompanied by pleasure. 

“Yeah, atta girl,” Beau encourages, his hand lightly rubbing your bare knee. “Slow, darlin’, no rush here,” he says, shaking his head, his thumb grazing a bruise.

“Oh, my gosh,” you whisper under your breath, and he’s watching closely, tongue running along his teeth. “This–it feels… yeah, feels good,” you tell him, your bottom lip caught between your teeth,

“Yeah? M’glad,” he drawls quietly, his lips parting as he watches you.”Keep goin’.”

You groan softly, your breath coming out in heavy huffs. Beau watches closely, analyzes the way your tongue slips out in concentration, your fingertips moving slowly but skillfully, and he has to bite back a groan of his own.

“Am–am I doing it right?” you ask again, eyes glancing at him; he’s nodding, breathing heavier himself.

“Doin’ perfect,” Beau tells you, still rubbing your knee. “I’ll tell ya’ if you need ta’do somethin’ else,” he explains, scratching his beard with his free hand.

“Beau,” you moan softly to him, and he tilts his head to the side at the soft sigh.

“M’know,” he murmurs to you, rubbing your knee. “Move y’er fingers a lil’ quicker,” he tells you, and you instantly comply, moving in tight circles.

Beau obviously knows what he’s doing; electricity goes through your body, and you moan louder this time, your legs falling open more, and he watches carefully, his eyes darkening at the sight. 

“Lookin’ real pretty, sweetheart,” he praises lightly, sliding his hand down your inner thigh now that he has more access with your spread legs. “You’ll look even prettier when ya’ finish.”

You whine at his words, pursing your lips together as your head grows fuzzier and fuzzier. You swallow hard, feeling an unfamiliar tightness in your lower abdomen, and your eyes shoot open, mouthing hanging open. Beau notices.

“Aha,” Beau laughs in amusement, his free hand rubbing over his mouth. “All tight in there, huh?”

“Yeah–I’m–” you choke out, moving your fingers quicker than before, and you can do nothing but whine to him, and your reaction clearly endears him.

“You can cum, sweetheart, you got it,” he encourages, rough fingertips gently tickling your inner thigh, and you giggle. 

You fucking giggle through the moans, and Beau just about loses it.

“I can cum… I-I can cum,” you repeat through gritted teeth, reminding yourself.

“Yeah… be a good girl n’ cum f’me,” Beau taps your thigh, a light encouragement, and you groan.

“I-I can’t,” you groan out, biting your lip, and he watches you, rubbing your thigh. ‘Please,”

“Can help ya’ if ya’ really need it, baby,” he offers, nodding.

You feel Beau’s hand sliding up your thigh more, and your legs part even further, and his middle and ring fingers replace yours. You whine at the new touch; the tips are warm and rough, calloused hands used to handcuffing people and shooting guns, now light and focused just on you.

“Makin’ ya’ feel good, yeah?” he asks quietly, and you nod again, quicker, biting your lip. “Want ya’ to watch me,” he demands, and you slowly look down.

Beau’s hand, much bigger than your whole damn body, is currently working against you, coaxing the sweetest sounds out of your mouth, and you’re being forced to watch, to learn.

“See, darlin’,” he drawls, leaning just a bit closer. “Slow circles, ain’t gotta rush a thing.”

“Mhm, mhm,” you mumble, watching, hips twitching.

“Nothin’ broken about y’er body,” he tells you, adding more pressure. “Jus’ needed a lil’ help is all,” he smiles, and you look up at him; his eyes heavy-lidded, the green dim in the lighting.

“Mhm,” you agree again, and he chuckles at your reaction.

All you can do is mumble and nod and watch, that’s all your body is letting you do.

“What about inside, sweetheart?” Beau asks, his voice low. “Ya’ ever tried that?”

“Mhm–didn’t… didn’t feel very good,” you shake your head, fully believing that fingering was a myth. It only ever felt awkward, like something wasn’t right.

“Well, probably ain’t doin’ right,” he laughs again, sliding his fingers down just a bit, now lightly pressing against your entrance. “Need to be careful n’ slow,” he reassures, pushing in.

You gasp when you feel just the tips slip in, and he watches your eyes flick open, a light flashing behind them. It definitely feels awkward, but less now that you’re actually turned on. 

“M’gonna be real slow f’you,” Beau reassures you once more, sliding his fingers in, and your head immediately tips back, and your back arches.

“Beau,” you moan at the feeling, gasping for air, the feeling completely foreign. 

“Y’er okay, ain’t need to tense up,” he mumbles, and your teeth grit, groaning.

You can feel his fingers inside of you; pressing and moving around, skilled adjustments, pressing firmly in places that have your toes curling into the sheets again, meanwhile his thumb keeps up those circles. He knows what he’s doing. Clearly. 

“Cum on m’fingers baby,” Beau murmurs, his accent thicker when he whispers. “All over em’, it’s fine,” he coos, fingers curling.

You’ve never felt anything like it in your life; it’s a burst of warmth through your body, a sudden heat spreading through your abdomen, and you’re holding your breath the entire time, gently gripping the bed sheets beside you. A sudden heat covers his fingers, and your eyes open, your body limbless.

Beau watched the entire thing. Your body went limp against the headboard, and you’re panting, a mess all over your damn bedsheets, and he’s in awe–the noises, the expressions, how pretty you looked finishing for the first time in your life. And it was because of him; he was all you could think about.

“There… there ya’ go, baby,” Beau mumbles softly, shifting closer, his hand sliding down your thigh, wet fingers trailing behind. “You okay? Feelin’ good?” he asks, eyes exploring your blissed-out face.

“Again,” is all you mumble, and his jaw ticks. “Please.”