#bam writes

but you wouldn’t be you if you let this up. you press down more fervently, the fat of your ass kissing his lap every time you slam forward. your hole is gushing at this point, soaked beyond relief as it sucks him in, causing a stutter to his breath and a shake to his limbs that would otherwise have rattled him, given that it was any other situation but this. but satoru is stronger than this, stronger than his vices.

“i know you’re a big guy,” you murmur against his lips when you drop your head to meet him down below, where he lay flat against the pillow, “you can take it, baby.”

he makes a sound of protest, something pathetic, an attempt to make you pull away or slow your pace. but his body can’t help but jump at the chance to bury himself deeper the moment you clench down on him, squeezing his dick so tight that he might as well split in you now. satoru makes an unflattering sound, hand clenched against your hip and his mind a mess.

“i’m gonna—fuck—please—“

you stroke his cheek, the speed of your hips feverish as you chase your pleasure and hurry his own along. and he when he comes, he comes with a force sharp enough to break him as he spills deep in you, his body shivering as he cannot stop himself from simply coming, filling you completely.

when he does find relief, you lift yourself off of him, watching his cum dribble down from where you separate your folds with two nimble fingers, back onto his pulsing dick like a spoonful of cream. his expression is fucked out, eyes glassy and drool at the corner of his mouth. his expression is exhausted, an admirable attempt at frustration.

the formidable gojo satoru, reduced to just this. none but you would believe.

geto gives off the impression of being much more restrained with it, especially if either of you are in a sore, uncomfortable predicament — or, atleast, he would’ve been. once. now, with his new found ideologies and sickeningly blasé attitude towards most who don’t concern him in any shape or substance, he takes time in picking you apart, even if that costs him… well, himself.

you’re on your side, legs perched high and stretched by the underside of your knee, where it folded over his forearms as he drove into you from behind. his cock splits you apart the further it breaches your weeping pussy, already dribbling with cum and spit from activities prior. he’s disgustingly improper with you, his free hand coming to loosely cling around the base of your neck and squeezing ever so slightly.

“fuck. ngh… don’t you dare pass out on me.” he groans, and you miss the way his stomach contracts from his continued thrusts, pushing in and creating a new hurt, born entirely from exhaustion — his inability to stop. his mouth forms around the sound of a pained whimper, before he bites your shoulder. not even hard to bite, yet it makes you shudder all the same. your hole flutters around his cock, which gives a twitch as a tell tale sign of release and he follows not too soon after with a spill of cum. he doesn’t stop there, though. there’s a thin smile on his face as he keeps going, his fingers trembling where they focus their pressure against your neck, “uh uh. don’t give me that. eyes down there. look.”

choso gets overwhelmed and doesn’t quite know where to put the pleasure he is given, so he starts to lose sense. given his background as a half non-human entity, he is both equal parts restraint and the idea that is running rampart. giving him a blow job? he’ll mumble apologies over and over again as he whispers around the edge of release, and pushes your head down on his cock to chase the coming of it, even if you’re teary eyed and finding trouble breathing. fucking you? he’ll have your legs pressed to the sides of your head, lips worried between his teeth as he cums in you for the third time, not worried about the way it spurts out of you, only hardening once again within your gummy walls.

today, though, you have your hands on each other. your palm is sticky with the stickiness of his cum, and his two own prod between your legs, having been there for hours now. you’re both breathing heavy, embracing each other sideways on the bed, not feigning restraint as he kisses you lazily. saliva tracks down your chin, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“give me one more,” he whispers against your lips, resolve unchanged as your eyes widen in surprise and the burn of impeding release, “one more — please?”

“choso, it hurts.” you reason, thighs clenching around his hand. he simply wrenches them open once more, his thigh slotting in place to stop you from repeating your endeavours. he thrusts into your palm again, seeing it as a fair exchange if it meant watching you cum again. “i know, but i wanna… see you cum again.” he kisses the words to your lips, pressing them there, as if to make them reasonable. asshole.

and when he comes, his brows pinch together and his body lurches up into your hand, his mouth engulfing your own as he sprays his release on your stomach. your own follows, and he looks let down that he managed release before you. his fingers stir softly against your poor hole, crossing a line for a goal of his own.

“choso!”

“hm? what?”

toji is mean with it. he’s got you in a mating press, feet bent far above your head and his fingers digging into the flesh of them, watching your toes curl when he ploughs far too roughly or too fast, despite having cum twice or thrice in you now. his libido is as strange as him, and you bear the brunt of it as he leans down, adjusting your leg so that you can take more of him. when you squeal with the difference, stomach already cramping with the sheer amount of him you had to deal with more, he smirks a little against your lips. his fingers drag at the sides of your mouth, tongue licking your teeth.

“what? too much?” he questions, not bothering to hide the grunt in his voice. you can clearly see the pressure that pleasure has on him, the way his abdomen contracts, the way his knees stamp down to gain purchase against the bed — the same one he drives you into. it’s painful, it’s crushing, it’s clouding your senses till all you can see, smell, and breathe is him. him and his stupid scent, the unforgettable lilt of must and cologne—

“look at you,” he cuts into your thoughts, pressing a finger to your swollen clit, “let’s see how much more of this you can handle.”

“toji—wait—” you begin, but his fingers drag across the wet patch of nerves, and your body is alight with flame once more. he nips at your neck rather painfully, teeth leaving a faint mark as he forces himself into the deepest parts of you, pushing you to your limits and watching you struggle to cope with the excess of it. it’s no surprise when you flutter around him violently, sucking him into your wet, soft heat till he hisses in slight yet genuine pain. and if you manage to squirt? best believe he’s fucking you into the mattress till your brain is nothing but soup and your head lolls back, your body begging for relief of some kind.

“baby… baby, wake up.”

he doesn’t try anything raunchy, anything racy with you asleep. and when you awake with a similar sticky hotness trailing between your legs and your voice all groggy in the way he loved best (because it meant having you right here, right now), he’s the first to kiss your skin like it was his fault all along.

“i’m sorry, baby. i know, i know. mn… hurts?” he’d question quietly, fingers tapping against the front of your undergarments to drag your attention elsewhere. when you whimper and sigh against him — maybe rutting against his fingers softly to alleviate the pulsing pain down below — he smiles, his cock hardening against the plush of your ass simply from this.

but he’s a patient man. more patient than others give him credit for. instead of fucking you, with all raw heat and no former swell beneath his nerves, he slides down the length of the bed with hot kisses on your skin, his face already nestled between your thighs. when the time comes, his rough tongue slides along your gushing slit, gathering the slick there and tasting you as if it were for the first time. he murmurs dirty little things, enough to make gooseflesh arise against your arms - mn, needed this. couldn’t sleep. kept dreaming of you. needed to taste you. wider, wider. don’t cover your face, let me see. touch yourself, right there. don’t move your fingers.

your fingers work lazily, going this way and that when he lazily murmurs quiet directions against your pussy until his mouth shines with the proof of his hunger. but it’s not enough, it never is. he smiles at this, pleased in a slightly sick way. he trails up lazily, catching your mouth with his own. his fingers split you open slowly, both of you still shrouded in darkness save for the sliver of moonlight streaming in from the bedroom’s windows. all you rely on is the wet squelches and your heavy breathing in concert with his. he tugs his sweats off with two fingers, his cock twitching and pressing against your throbbing heat. when he slips in, he literally sighs and whimpers in one go, trying to stifle it into a groan but his body is too warm, falling too fast into your growing wetness for him to keep up that affront.

he pistons in and out of you, mouth biting at your neck — his movements are lazy but plentiful, and your fingers dig into the arch of his ass, trailing up the slope of his spine as you push back into him. suguru’s spitting nonsensical things into your ear, noises unbecoming of him leaking him his mouth as his cock twitches into you closer upon release. he’s digging so deep into you that it almost hurts, almost burns where he stretches you out to take him perfectly. “stay like that—you’re perfect—mgh—just a little more, please, i can’t take this—“

and if you weakly protest, weakly tapping at his shoulder to get him to tap out, he’ll try. he’ll try so hard for you, but how can he ever hope to succeed when your pussy sucks him in like a vice, wet and tight and not too willing to let him go? he’ll try and try, and feel himself so close to just pulling out but then feeling his balls clench and himself release with a burst inside of you. when he rips himself off of you, panic in his eyes, he grimaces at the way his body twitches with pleasure when he spots his release oozing out of your hole in a persistent dribble. he looks up at you, and although you look mad, it’s only faux anger.

“i told you to pull out. you’re lucky im on the pill,” you whine, smacking his chest weakly, though your arms wind around him as your pussy pulses faintly from the after spell of it all. he pouts, genuinely ashamed of himself but unable to deny the satisfaction he received seeing you like that, like this, in this way and that. “‘m sorry, baby. you just felt s’ good. forgive me.”

you do — because of course you do — but not without the promise of not letting him touch you for a day after this. and his fingers twitch against you. that earns you a smile.

Sex with Abby was never boring.

Never boring, unless you chose for it to be — chose for the stinking slaps of fervent skin dashing against hip to not mean as much as you claimed it did everytime the contact hit, choosing to not break each other with the promise of reinventing the same high-up to pleasure across the blurred line of self-division and lunacy — there was something incredibly wrong with you in the acclaimed name of the action being to sedative to you and somewhere, dangling off the edge of a parapet, was the mantra you prized deeply, a melody of A-Ah, Hnnn-Ah—Abby—don’t-fuck-don’t stop!

“Don’t worry, wasn’t — ah — wasn’t planning to”, she’d grunt low in your ear and you would almost nearly crumble into a frantic mouthful of cold flesh and all panic in the leer that you couldn’t hear her despite the proximity — yet, in her cybernetic grasp like iron on iron, you almost felt yourself curdle to a stage of inflammation that humans had not learnt to navigate as a habitual instinct. But in her hands, under her weight? You were putty. Fucking delirious. Ready to latch onto the third string of human mutation as she drilled another hole into you (you could never say this out loud, it would swell her with unneeded ego)

You wrap your legs around her hips despite the sharp drives of every maneuver, hips locking in and locking out of your own in a cruel attempt to rim you with a taste of a self-concerned grip on reality, the thought of oh fuck, is this sex going to be the reason of my death? But the disappointment never came, it never looked through the books of her catastrophic plunges deep in your puffy cunt, and the only thing that came out, of you (you assumed) was the scream of her name and the presidented truth that no one could drive you quite this insane: she was a formidable drug and all you could do was choke, spit, gurgle across the taste of her, “Abby-Ang—Fuck, fuck, fucccckkk — You’re so good, you’re so good!”.

She smirks — or looks to be smirking — in the centre of your blurry vision, all bleary marked and bleached with streaks of distortion the harder you stared and the harder you tried, the more you cried: there is a gasp, a silent moment of insanity before she takes you deeper than she ever as, ever would claim to have (you would assume it was one of her jokes), because she parallels you against the bedsheets, or the notion of them anyway, because they were half hanging on the floor and half not doing their job at all — but she doesn’t care, much, when she haphazardly angles your lower half higher and higher up the bed, so she could dig you out and be an acclaimed archeologist with the profundity of those waited out, quickly prolonged bruises of her silicone dick wrenching you open from outside and then inwards. Cruelly. Messily, like she was a starved man in search for a single glass of water and you were an oasis, “Shit, you’re the best”, her voice ripples against the meat of your chest when she nearly knocks you unconscious from plunging onto it in weariness, that even her debilitation was causing you to realise just how far gone you are when consulted about her, and her assortment of plastic dicks? A whole different question.

It drills into you, slitting back and forth like a sword teased back into its sheath, and the goading notion of you being anything as so dipartire to her made you shut down onto the girth abusing your cunt — “Babe, you’re squeezing around it, like crazy”, her voice is sounding warbled, tired in a sort of fucked out way that drove you inaudible, and she leans in close to your face to check for any noises to be drilled out of you, but you fear if she begins to try, you would traverse grounds that would only invite more of the same. You would like your lower half as intact as possible, please and thank you.

“Abby—fuck, fuck—Oh god—Abby”, you’re not doing better, and though she’s just as atrocious as you are, she’s stronger. More resistant. She could hide her eyes well beneath her lids, whereas yours were rolled back, coddling the familiar side of a extreme malaise cultivating in your abdomen, a crick threatening to fracture into kaleidoscopic fragments of both you and her, traces of white, evidence of fatigue soon catching up and you tighten around the plastic, rack against her harder and she does the same (to achieve elation through the silicones bruising friction against her, you assumed in hindsight), though you suppose there is no way to tell when you’re turning dumb near towards your end, your salvation.

“Fuck—look at me”, she orders and it’s hard to decipher the tone when her brutish pace goes from bad to worse and you know she’s close when she’s threading her breaths in low ‘O’s and shallow gasps in order to still stay inside you: the strenght to plummel into you several drills than one was, thankfully, invited as extraordinary — and for the fruit of her endeavours and her equally skilled plastic dick, you blink fervently towards her, to satisfy her, to please her, to make her aware of the roads you’d cross to just get to suck her off in a downtown toilet, and she whines at the fact that you merely do.

“Yeah, yeah—just like that, don’t look anywhere else—“, her voice is losing footing and to be honest, you’re too muddle headed to pick any fault in it: finding fault in the crisp knowledge that Abby Anderson goes all messy, delirious and hot in the final ten seconds of sex was hard to find when you do the very same, much quicker and much more destructive.

Ten seconds.

“You’re so good—so fucking good”, she begs, and it almost sounds like self-assurance from her mouth but you know she means every word: the knot intertwists painfully and you’re so close to a nebulic cataclysm.

Seven seconds.

“So, so, so good. So good, this”, she directs her gaze to where her end meets yours, “It’s so good for me, isn’t it?”.

Three.

“Please”,

Two.

“Fuck—“

One.

“Oh my god!”

You scream. Scream till you’re hellbent against her chest like blackwork hugging her skin. Scream till you’re on the equivalent frequency of pleasure as the avocations of Dionysus himself. Till you’re sure you will end up outdoing her, in the form of discoloured and incoherent bawling as you maul her back, serene maroon lines, when you rupture beyond relief.

“Don’t miss me too much”, she’d whisper, when words felt like too much of a peeve, when her fingers would cavort across the warmth of your skin, which was already gleaming for her to just touch you.

“Already miss me, pretty girl?”, she’d chuckle into the canvas of your neck, heavy and flush against your torse when she’d want to get impossibly close to your skin, wanting to take advantage of the way you coiled into the scope of her body — breath beating incessantly against her cheek.

“Already miss me, pretty girl?”, she’d chuckle into the canvas of your neck, heavy and flush against your torse when she’d want to get impossibly close to your skin, wanting to take advantage of the way you coiled into the scope of her body — breath beating incessantly against her cheek.

“Of course you missed me”, she’d practically carve the words into the scraggy sheen of sweat on your chest, lips bruising the sloppy skin with sincere words. Until the words washed you over again and again and again — a circle, a pandemonium you couldn’t rid yourself of.

This morning couldn’t be more similar, even if you tried for it to be.

When you awoke, you weren’t sure which colours your eyes first caught, keeping your senses peeled on the prickling sensation of tough-skinned fingers guarding your hips, stationary with every breath you took. They had been caked with mud just months ago, bathed in blood that smothered you to pieces but now, they were sallow, kisses of gingerly placed freckles dotting the rough skin — it felt calloused but commonplace.

Routinely, it was Ellie who normally woke you up before duty called. But on this particular day, you were met with the blinding titillation of the sun first instead, groaning softly when you realised you were caged by her cosmic grasp — her snores failed to alert you of her awakening any time soon.

“Mn, Ellie…” you whisper, feeling apologetic to wake her up after scrutinising every rise and fall of her chest, paying close attention to the measured rhythms that strummed against the supple flesh of your back. It felt strange, even after all these months, to feel so incredibly shy under every minuscule morning breath of hers; yet here you lay, melted in her ivory grasp, flesh touching hers and in a way you could have never imagined.

“Ellie, wake up”, you repeat, expecting gold but hitting rock when she doesn’t budge against the incredible volume of your whisper — she’s winsome but one element of the girl that riddled you the most was her ability to sleep things out without waking up through it, not until an anvil dropped at her head. Even now, her breath didn’t stagger and her arms lay flaxen against the pivot of your arm and elbow, grazing the indents with heat.

“Ellie”, you repeat, barely drawling your words anymore, instead, it’s chasmic with impatience when her breath is steady, mites running across the odd hairs on your back — you don’t turn, don’t speak, at-least for a while, soaking in the obsolete air of her arms, which harrow into you, with much invited love. As much as you loved to bask in her shadow, you knew that Ellie was a one minded person who saw no qualms for the things or people she loved, ultimately being her shortcoming or, perhaps, her strength. And coupled with those brawny hands, you knew you would indulge in you for hours before putting a stop to her chambré glances — getting dressed, grabbing her bag and what not.

“Ellie, you have to get up”, you nudge once, then twice and then poke the honey kissed limbs of hers and she finally groans. You don’t see an endpoint in sight, at least not for a while, till she shifts into the plush sinew of your back, and though she’d done this countless of times when she was somnolent, there was a new meaning behind those soft grazes and the heavy weight of her wide spread fingers drawing fixed circles into your thigh. She’s finally conscious and she’s quite unbreakable when she is.

“Baby…?” her voice is unruly, guttural with all the emotions you cannot find coherent; of course, your heart jumps with the gravel texture of her words and she notices when your ears flame a foxier colour of the one before — she’s had you in the palm of her hand several times before, smiling, laughing, squirming. Stroking, nudging, pushing and pulling. But this — this, she admits, is one of her favourites. When you’re placed on the hem of every limb of hers, so out of reach but smelling, feeling and definitely looking so good, within the innards of her reach but still seeming like a dream.

Ellie loved it.

“Naughty girl, why are you so shy?” she teases and every groan that’s held in your heart spills in ghostly wisps of air, sighing when she rubs your skin in her comfortable grasps, ones you could never replicate, no one could. They were numbing with the tepidity of an autumn intrusiveness, but so, so warm that you wouldn’t mind if she ripped the blankets right off the two of you, as long as those reigns of vein would hold you so tight — like you were going to escape her.

You crunch under her gaze, like a poorly made sand castle and groan delightfully when your muscles relax against her, “‘M sorry that you make me so nervous, miss Williams”, you move your hands to grip hers, that still with her confusion when your body shifts, moving left, nudging right and you’re facing her.

If she could summarise this moment in simple words — but that could never be accomplished because you were enigma to her that could only be expressed in the most convoluted of words but she tried — you were her star. Her kettle. Her emotions. Her hands, tongue, feet. You were her bare essentials, her breath when she toothily grins at you and it’s almost enough to sway your heart, almost, if not for her hands snaking into impish slithers up your thigh and you don’t even stop her — yet she stops right near your hip, just still. Stationary.

She drags her eyes to your neck.

“Sleep well?” she’s distracted, and you know it.

“As always” you play along, running a warm hand down her face, stroking the inch of eye bags that paint her skin, but they seem better than months prior, so you tincture her skin with your touch, under her lip, her nose and certainly her jaw. She’s tense, in some way. Or another. You can’t tell.

“Mm, what about you?” she’s all dry bones when you raise you voice again, scuttling within your touch and you swear you see a brush of red beneath those hearty freckles of hers, but you don’t know whether to poke, prod or hang still till she surrenders.

“Good, good” she lies. You can tell, partly due to her intermittent gaze that flows right through your irises, and partly due to the way the silence drags on even more. There’s more. She wants to say more. You know, because the taste is leaving something clumsy on your tongue that you decipher as half-assed fear, something that produced itself in the self conceived theory that Ellie was getting sick of you. Fully. Completely. You’re staring at her. She’s looking back, focused. You’re scared. But then, the taste slicks into sweetness and you breath her in like yesterday’s perfume when she kisses you, soft and unbecoming, like a rose.

“Sorry, I just… I just needed to…” she’s embarrassed. She’s kissed you into a blushing mess and she’s embarrassed. She’s a crocodile, fierce and pulsing. She’s a cloud, soft and unbecoming under your touch, hell, your gaze. You attempt to chase the mist until it comes undone completely.

“You’re too cute sometimes” you curve into a grin, literally, as your body beams at her. And she beams back, exasperated because she just can’t get enough, can she?

“Sometimes?” she grins, a Cheshire cat, too far for something fake. She’s genuine and she’s stretching you, so far past your limits, that you’re tearing. Creasing. Going molten. You decide to stop thinking before you melt.

“Other times you’re like a volcano” the sheets buck against your foot when she sits up, resting wearily against the headboard and you do the same, but the difference is that you scoot down further down the board, shoulders scratching hers. You don’t notice it.

“Angry?” she panics. She’s like an ocean, so easy to read, and right now, she’s open. The light that pours through the window hits the headboard, the sheets and pinballs onto her face and god, she’s never looked more beautiful.

“Hot”, you work to joke lightly, rolling your eyes when she sighs in relief. She moves closer, if that was even possible, and cups a space on your shoulders when her right arm slings around you, bruising the skin with that same old familiar balminess, “Does that make you the core of the earth then?”

You look over to the bed-side clock whilst Ellie breathes you in mindlessly, glass split beautifully like cobwebs on the surface but working just as fine as the day Ellie had stuffed it into her bag, after you wordlessly eyed it through an empty store on a lookout. It had been an eccentric shade of maroon, and also with hand painted flowers all over the sides, back, creases, when you last saw it months ago. Now, it was easily a duller shade, more a light claret and nearly every painted flower looked like a dot, a star in the galaxy. The hands pointed to 9AM, leaving you a time bracket of an hour before any changing, packing or leaving must be done; Maria was crisp with her regimen and her coffee, and if you knew any better, you ought to be on time. But the voice of reason was no longer there, because Ellie’s lips on your neck had killed the instinct.

Normally, you would’ve chose to usher her away in a fit of giggles, enjoyed to watch her slouch all the way to the bathroom to wash up, but your body was alarmingly cold, had been. But with her lips against any inch of your skin, the tantalising heat covered the canvas, and there you were, falling and falling and falling like a snowstorm in the svelte burn of a winter outside, “Ellie”, you breathe.

It’s dangerous, she’s dangerous, her lips are dangerous, sweetly producing sounds just as sweet that you feel embarrassed — rightfully so, because her mouth blends with your neck, the back of your neck, your shoulder blade, and she’s thoroughly melting into you. So abysmally slow, like a static volcano, magma inert. “Y/N”, she breaths, but adds more unlike you, “you’re beautiful”.

Beautiful. Right. She says that a lot. And you? You malfunction, for fucks sake. Your breath? Trapped in your throat. Your hands? Wedged at your sides, where you can’t visibly see but feel as they’re crinkled with profound confusion — no, anticipation, for her chapped lips to score against your ear roughly but she stops. Stops. Fucking stops. You want to be annoyed, you want to cutely nerved to the point where she gives you want you wants. But she’s staring at you and you can almost smell the earth of her scent. You’re shy again.

She notices and grins, “An hour? I need more time” her grin widens. On occasion, Ellie would wilfully pick at your patience like petals on a flower, one at a time, licking her lips in concentration as she watched you get vexed, twisting and turning into dead ends, corrosive sanity draining at her toes when she plucked again. But not now. She’s staring into your eyes, genuine and naked, when she first told you she loved you.

Loved, not liked.

Loved.

It had been so foreign, you thought it was a joke. But Ellie was the last person to fiddle with your feelings for a stupid crumpled dollar and a dare, so you fell. Hard, fast, no chance of landing back on your feet, because you’re no cat. You’re hers. Hers. God, you’re hers, aren’t you?

“Hey”, Her rigid voice on your neck fills you with surprise again, ripping you out of your thoughts. “What are you thinking about?” she purses her lips, breathes you in, holds you like a halo all at once and it feels like a conflicting cycle. But you’re addicted. “About you”, you’re bold and she gives it to you, swiping a messy finger over the top of your hip. You jolt. She doesn’t. It’s monetary but sublime and you swear to not bite on your lip, but you’re only human.

Your steely teeth rub at your bottom lip when you’re nervous, sometimes you draw blood when you’re sure you’ll die. But now, you’re barely pulling it into the butterfly grip your teeth have on the bottom one. Cautious, it misreads as, but in such-and-such truth, you’re delicate in her embrace. Prone to break, shatter into fragments dressed to impair past relief.

But Ellie is careful today, at this minute. She stops. Stares. Stares some more and smiles.

“Come, let’s get ready”.

You don’t know what you expected but whatever she gives, you take. Whatever she touches, you grip. Whatever she breathes life into, it sure as hell always comes back to you — a circle. Undeniable. Unfathomable.

“Help me up then”, you fake a pout and she staggers into confusion, then realisation and then a fine line of giggles.

She’s yours. However many times she inked the words into your skin, however many times she painted her world with the colours of you.