#milf!reader

Truthfully, you are equally at fault.

A debutante turned degenerate, you're the furthest thing from pure or lotus-like. Your true nature has stayed hidden from good jujutsu society only through your father's willful blindness—and even now, thoroughly scandalized, you can still do no wrong in his eyes. Nor in Choso's, your annoyingly overprotective half-cursed cousin.

As far as they were concerned, you'd been “corrupted against your will”.

So the blame landed squarely on Toji. And with his less than stellar reputation—to put it generously—no one dared argue otherwise.

Not that it stopped his snark every time he was scolded for it: "That garden had already been ransacked—I merely pitched a tent."

So despite being little more than glorified fuck buddies, both clans scrambled to save face. A shotgun wedding was arranged overnight. Heavens forbid a disgraced black sheep and a thot-daughter spark a war between two of the most powerful families.

The result: you and your squalling little parasite are now Zenin property.

But that alone wouldn't have landed Naoya in this mess.

No—this situation is special.

Seeing as the union only granted you and your daughter entrance to the family—not Toji.

Not that he'd return even if given the chance. He only agreed to marry you for your sake, and your daughter's. Nothing beyond that. So without any real tie to an actual Zenin, you're little more than a ward who took on the name.

Yet Toji thought enough of you not to throw you to the wolves entirely. Before leaving to do gods-know-what as an assassin, Toji asked Naoya personally to watch over you both.

Naoya scoffed at first. Playing babysitter to some woman and her infant? Technically his father Naobito's responsibility—nothing he'd have to bother with until he assumed the role of heir.

Still—Naoya wasn't about to deny a request from Toji, who made it a point never to ask his family for a fucking thing (and who could also destroy them all on a whim.)

Toji-kun said he trusted Naoya alone with the task.

And to Naoya, that acknowledgment was everything.

Fine.

However, that just means seeing to your proper treatment—it didn't mean Naoya signed up to be sleep-deprived. 

Fuck—and if even a hint of a dark shadow appeared on his flawless complexion by morning?

There. Will. Be. Bl—

The final straw arrives before Naoya even finishes the thought. 

A possessed banshee, 7th ring of hell, kind of screech—that even rivals some curses he's previously exorcised—rings out so loud his right ear pops.

That’s fucking it!

Naoya is out of bed, his room and down the corridor in only four strides. 

You had to be awake. 

Not even the dead could sleep through this.

So, why the hell hadn’t you handled it already?

How hard is it of all things to get a baby to shut the fuck up? 

You’re its mother aren’t you?!

Reaching your quarters, Naoya yanks the shoji door open.

And immediately freezes.

As he expects, you’re wide awake. 

Yet nothing could've prepared him for your silk robe to be wide open and resting at your elbows—leaving your breasts completely exposed.

Seated in the midst of tangled blankets and sunken pillows, you shift restlessly to find a position that comforts your baby girl enough to latch while she stubbornly thrashes in your arms.

You give up with a weary sigh, returning to the rocking. Her cries have lessened to frustrated whimpers now that she's moving, but they haven't stopped.

From the doorway, Naoya gives you a measured once-over.

You look like shit. Hair frizzy and damp at your temples, tired eyes, a slight tremor of exhaustion in your hands as you reposition your daughter. 

That said, somehow, infuriatingly, you still manage to look appealing.

The moonlight spilling through the slatted window ensures it as it traces your plush curves, highlighting the faint sheen of exertion on your skin catching the light like a glow.

Gaze dropping, Naoya’s jaw ticks at the sight of your swollen, milk-heavy tits—nipples taut and glistening with pearlescent drops, coaxed free by your baby's cries. 

A creamy bead falls, dotting your daughter's cheek and you gently wipe it away. 

You haven’t noticed Naoya yet, too wrapped up in cooing out the same soft mantras of comfort that have proven useless all night.

Leaning against the doorway now with his arms folded, Naoya narrows his eyes, not used to being ignored. Even if unintentionally. However, his scathing reprimands die on his tongue, something about the scene turning his mouth desert-dry.

Every second drags like an hour, and Naoya with no patience remaining, sharply clears his throat, announcing his presence. 

Your head lulls over to him without startling nor making any move to cover yourself. You just give him a drowsy, crooked smile that practically screams finally, someone capable of rational thought and basic impulse control.

"Tch. Pathetic reflexes. A curse would've killed you both by now."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. 

Technically, many would consider Naoya’s very presence to be a curse all of its own.

However, in your defense, your own senses have been greatly off kilter since your pregnancy and childbirth. Not to mention, the sheer exhaustion a newborn brings to a first time mother—you’re too concerned with your daughter, Tomie, to notice anything else. 

Of course, you don’t expect Naoya of all people to realize that though.

“See, Tomie?” you whisper preciously to your daughter as you continue rocking her, “You woke up your cousin with all that fuss. Now Nao-chan’s just as grumpypuss as you, my love.”

Nao-chan?!

The nickname lands like a slap and Naoya flinches, no longer reclined on the door.

You weren’t even that much older than him—so what gives you the right to reduce his name to something so…ugh, cutesy?

It makes him sound soft. 

Like some harmless stuffy to be cooed at alongside the child in your arms. Nevertheless, a small flush creeps up Naoya’s neck all the same.

Tutting, you shift Tomie upright so she can get a proper look at her cousin, still rooted in the doorway like he's being personally affronted.

She stills at the sight of Naoya, matching his energy.

Appraising him with tiny copies of Toji's stark emerald eyes, Tomie holds that same unsettling scrutiny packaged in a cute face that carries you both unmistakably.

Not to be outdone, Naoya sharpens his gaze, his lips set in a thin line.

You snort under your breath at the scene. 

Looks like the infamous Zenin scowl curses another generation—and Naoya, the pompous heir himself, doesn't look remotely inclined to lose a staring contest to someone who can't even burp unassisted.

Growing bored, ultimately Tomie gives first as she blinks, babbling baby talk. A chubby arm wriggling free and batting clumsily toward him, breaking the stalemate.

"Oh?" you simper, eyes flicking from Naoya, who looks smug to have bested an infant, to your daughter. 

"Not you being the mature one, my girl."

Your giggles make Naoya bristle, his mouth opens to speak—but you're already talking over him.

“C’mere, she wants a truce.” you beckon sweetly, inviting him in. 

Frankly, you’re thrilled something has caught your baby girl’s attention long enough to distract her from crying—even if it is her obnoxious ass cousin.

Naoya, for his part, fully intended to reject the invitation. 

To snap at you to—shut that thing the fuck up and put those saddlebag tiddies away while you're at it—to be done with the whole debacle so he could sleep. But his scathing reply dies somewhere between your airy laughter and the light sheen of milk saturating your areolas. 

Conceding like he’s being called by some unknown force, Naoya crosses your threshold. He reasons that if a quick greeting would quiet the petite goblin for the night, he could comply just this once for his own sake.

Approaching your futon, Naoya sits beside you, back straight, on his knees. His posture is cautious, as if through mere proximity alone either your baby girl or your milk heavy tits could explode at any moment.

Which brings him to the point that you still haven't moved a muscle towards covering yourself for some fucking reason that eludes him entirely.

However, Naoya isn’t about to let a mere pair of tits shake him. If you don’t care, neither does he. At least that’s what he tells himself as he forces himself to keep his eyes level with yours. 

Noaya, steady with all the focused determination expected from the leader of the Hei and Zenin heir—eyes shoot to your tits again the moment you glance at your daughter.

Fuck.

Swallowing heavily, Naoya doesn’t even understand why he’s so enthralled with them. He’s seen plenty of boobs, ones that look way better than yours too. From this close, Naoya can make out the strain of them, skin stretching thin and the small veins showing from underneath. Not the delicate sight of a lady’s chest, no, yours are so obscenely engorged—not to mention leaking—more like fattened cow udders.  

So huge, in fact, that they look heavy and feverish. 

Or…maybe, that was just him. 

The room is getting kinda stuffy.

Shit. Naoya just can't seem to look away from your ginormous mommy milkers. Unable to decide if he's repulsed or utterly entranced. And he's so busy wrestling with that internal crisis that he doesn't stop you from doing something completely fucking unhinged—

—like handing him Tomie.

Realization hitting, for the briefest, teeniest micro-second, Naoya nearly yeets her. 

Not even to be an asshole. Just pure reflexes.

Naoya genuinely abhors children. He’s never held anyone’s child and he sure as hell hadn't expected you to dump yours into his arms out of fucking nowhere.

Thankfully—as that very well would have been his ass once Toji found out—Naoya’s a well skilled sorcerer. His own self-preservation instincts reduce the action to a mere undetectable twitch of muscle.

Even so, he looks far more petrified than he realizes and that you do pick up on. 

It doesn't register to him how ridiculous he looks until you're practically shaking with suppressed laughter at his statue-like posture. 

“She’s not made of glass, you know,” you chuckle at Naoya clearly being so majorly out of his depth. “Just relax, yeah? Rock Tomie a little—she likes you for some reason. You can manage that can’t you?”

Naoya looks at you like you've sprouted two heads. 

He doesn’t want to rock a fucking baby—even if it is Toji-kun’s offspring. 

Who the fuck do you think he is? 

Besides, relaxing wasn't really an option considering how close he'd come to his own death sentence moments ago. But even stranger, he realizes, he hasn't said anything cutting in a minute to remind you of your place, which is frankly weirding him out more than holding the baby is.

However…

You’re simply trusting Naoya to hold her at the moment, easy as that. 

He’s the Zenin heir—of course that’s fucking something ‘he can manage.’

To Naoya’s surprise, Tomie has actually settled—tension gone from her tiny body, that very Zenin furrow smoothing from her brow as though to say finally, another Zenin graces her prescenes. 

She gurgles up at him, blows a bubble and pats his chest with a proprietary little hand.

Naoya frowns. Why does this feel less like soothing a child and more like being evaluated?

"There—" you yawn unceremoniously, a flicker of life returning to your voice as you treasure the break. "See? She's just bored of mommy. Probably wondering where that deadbeat daddy of hers is."

Your slanderous, yet entirely accurate, remark about Toji is what finally has the venom returning to Naoya’s tongue. 

You of all people should consider yourself lucky to be married to him and birth his child.

Eyes flaring, Naoya turns to you and—

Big mistake.

You're in the middle of a stretch. Arms overhead, back bowed, the sheer weight of your tits pulling at your spine until something cracks between your shoulder blades. Milk beads at your nipples from the motion—then scatters. Futon. Blankets. Your lap.

A single drop landing square on Naoya's robe.

He braces for disgust. For his throat to tighten at the sheer audacity of your bodily fluids landing on him.

But the feeling never comes.

Just an overwhelming chemical need to lick the creamy droplet from his sleeve before it soaks in.

“Aha!” you whisper excitedly, attention still on your baby girl in his arms. “My little angel is finally asleep.”

You lean into Naoya, shoulder resting against his, your nipple grazing his arm—and a dribble of milk trails down his sleeve. The drops bleed through the fabric, faint but undeniable.

He doesn't want to notice.

But he does, along with its scent—something like warm mochi and milk buns and pure want to taste it surges so hard this time he bites his cheek.

"Aww, how sweet..." Seemingly oblivious, you dare to poke his cheek, cooing. “Tomi-chan loves her cousin Nao-Nao~!"

Nao-Nao?!

Hairs up on end, Naoya wants to hiss at you.

But your tone is too pure, too genuine.  

You’re just… like this. 

A gentle aura surrounding you while next to your newborn causes you to mother everything in your surrounding area.

And that makes it all the worse.

Naoya doesn’t need mothering. He never did, not even as a child himself.

Yet those thoughts contrast the awkward and unfamiliar warmth Naoya is so insistently trying to keep out of his chest.

Truly, he’d rather be put out of his misery than suffer it a moment longer. 

As a Zenin, Naoya had been trained to treat any affection as weakness—and weakness as a Zenin was the worst sin one could commit.

There’s an unspoken understanding in the clan: No scared cows. 

No one member valued more than the strength of the whole.

And now, as a Zenin, you'd be no exception either. Even at the risk of Toji’s or the Kamo clan's displeasure. 

The Zenin are well practiced at making consequences look like natural outcomes—be it accidental or personal failures. 

Watching you smile so tenderly at your child, Naoya tells himself what he feels isn't guilt.

It's obligation.

Toji left you and Tomie in his care. Therefore it falls to him to set you straight if you both are to survive.

That's all.

"You're Toji-kun's wife and my ward.” Naoya growls—albeit low, careful not to trigger Tomie into another hellish chorus.

“You will henceforth address me, the future head of this clan, as ‘Naoya-sama’." 

His words are cutting and to the point.

“And fuckssake, you will cover yourself when in front of men. You are not a Kamo any longer, you’re a Zenin. You will act accordingly or you will be handled.”

You retract immediately, smile dropping, wetting your lips into a pretty little pout that might have worked on a lesser man.

Naoya considers, for a moment, that he almost feels bad for you. Your lack of discip—

Then you dissolve into hushed giggles and he regrets it entirely.

"Oh my gawwwd, you're actually deadass right now, aren't you!?" Hand over your mouth, tears of amusement prick your eyes as you try to keep your voice contained.

“..or you will be handled”, you mimic, trying to sound as pompous as Naoya, although you don’t imagine anyone ever could.

Noaya growls but you pay him no mind through your amusement, so he is almost startled when you suddenly stop and crowd his space once more.

“Handled, huh?”

Naoya keeps his eyes on yours through sheer force of will—refusing to acknowledge your tits swaying in his peripheral.

“And just who is going to handle me…” You challenge, batting your eyes with a sensual pull of your lips, “...you, lil Nao-chan?”

Naoya grits his teeth, his eyes flashing. 

Here he was trying to warn you and you’re making a mockery of him?! 

If you weren’t Toji’s wife he’d teach you a lesson, he’d—

"Awe, c'mon, Nao-Nao," you purr, caressing his arm which he quickly snatches away. "I thought you'd be the fun one! Ya know…Toji said you were the only half-decent guy in the family."

He stiffens. 

"Toji-k-kun…” Naoya clears his throat.  “...he said that?"

“Mm-hmm.” You hum. Not missing how Naoya’s golden eyes catch light at his older cousins' praise of him. “Told me you were the only one here Tomie and I could count on.”

The light blush on Naoya’s ears creeps down his neck and just like that Naoya begins rocking Tomie as you initially suggested. Carefully, too—as if in this very moment he's made it his life’s mission to earnestly exceed all of Toji-kun's expectations for him.

Chest puffed and prideful, Naoya insists that, as future clan leader, it's ‘only natural’ Toji-kun would say such a thing about him.

You on the other hand have to perse your lips to keep from bursting into actual hysterics this time.

Why’s that?

Because you just lied through your goddamn teeth.

The only thing Toji told you was that Naoya was an easy mark.

And he is. 

Almost painfully so. 

The way his ego swells. The way his whole aura brightens just from hearing his cousin's name. 

It’s all too adorable, honestly.

Naoya is too easily charmed and you're no stranger to charming all kinds of men. Hell, that's how you got knocked up in the first place.

But this type of emotionally stunted man? 

Oh, you could definitely have some fun with him. 

With Tomie finally asleep, you feel the familiar pull of mischief tug at you. 

“Besides, Naoya-sama~~”

Your voice is all velvety compliance causing Naoya to completely miss the sarcasm underneath. He's also too distracted by your head on his shoulder and your boobs molding into his arm as you reach across him to fix Tomie’s swaddling.

"I think I'm decent enough, no?" Your lips curl deviously. "Seeing as I don't exactly count you as a man."

Naoya’s cursed energy spikes, fury bleeding through his veins—but your Tomie shifts in his arms and Naoya has to choke it back, holding his fury. 

You just cock your head, all innocence, like you haven't said something utterly slanderous.

"You shameless fucking slut—" The chill in Naoya voice drops to frostbite temps, “I know you of all peo—”

“Aye!” 

The whiplash is instantaneous—Naoya doesn’t finish the sentence before you have two fingers pinching his cheek, twisting with the particular ferocity of a momma bear who's been awake for thirty-six hours and has simply stopped tolerating bullshit.

"Watch your fucking potty mouth around my damn kid, asshole."

Naoya seethes. He wants to tear into you—the thot-daughter of the Kamo clan, standing on absolutely zero moral grounds—he really, genuinely does. But the twist on his cheek tightens and this time he doesn't even need his survival instincts to do the math for him.

Naoya doesn't know your grade but you aren’t a weakling.

Half his cheek isn’t worth it—especially if it woke the little hellhound in the process.

"...Whatever."

Satisfied at him backing down, you release him, smirking at the red blooming across his face. 

Naoya resists rubbing it. Instead he huffs, hoisting your Tomie up onto his shoulder and bouncing her there in pointed silence. She'd stirred more from your outburst than anything he'd done all night.

This is all fucking ridiculous.

Naoya thinks and the second she settles once more he thrusts her toward you.

"Here. Take her. You're welcome, by the way—since clearly it takes a real Zenin to do what her own mother couldn't manage all night."

Rolling your eyes, you stop just short of slapping the shit out of Naoya. 

The facts remain: that even as a newlywed, your ass might as well be a single mother. Your exhaustion is near biblical and your nerves are near shot and Tomie—the perceptive little thing she is—has likely picked up on every ounce of it, your nerves feeding hers in one miserable feedback loop tonight.

Yet, thanks to Naoya of all people, that loop is finally broken.

Shaking your head, you reach for your daughter—and then your body seizes. The pain hits your chest like a vice, jolting you back hard enough to steal your breath. Your hands fly to cup your breasts on instinct, fingers sinking into the weight of them.

"OH, shiiii—owwww!" You wince.

“What the hell now?” Naoya still holds the baby out to you expectantly, brow arching as you curl into yourself.

"What the hell do you think, Naoya?" You grimace, biting back at him. 

Face crunched in pain, eyes shut, you’re careful to take measured sips of air.

“She cried all night and didn't eat. My tits are fucking killing me."

Realizing this meant he’d have to hold your baby girl even longer, Naoya makes an exasperated sound as he brings her fully into his arms again.  

“You know this is your archaic ass family’s fault, right?” 

You crack an eye open at his diva-like attitude.

“I asked for a pump and the old battleaxe of a caretaker said no. ‘All Zenins are fed from the source’, you mimic in a nasally voice. “Like be so fucking for real—what damn century is this again?!”

Naoya snorts. 

You've never had house rules imposed on you—your father let you run the streets without consequence. So really, you're in no position to complain about the Zenin clinging to their traditions, insufferable as they may be, at least they had them.

"You know—Zenin wives are typically chosen for their training and poise. To think that the Kam—" Naoya stops. 

Mid-sentence, mid-thought, mid-everything—his mouth open, agape like a fish. 

Robe now pooled around your hips, you begin working one of your swollen breasts in both hands. Clinical in the way only fatigue makes a person, no couth left in you at this hour. Your thumbs knead carefully, pressing firmly into tender tissue, heel of your palm dragging across a tight knot to stimulate the stagnant flow of your milk glands.

A deep moan slips from your lips in tandem with a hard squirt spraying from your breasts as a reward for your efforts.

Another escapes, then another. 

Your oversensitive nipple is drawn taunt with the prickly pain of relief as a thin stream begins to run along the curve of your tits, painting your skin in shiny rivulets all the way to your bellybutton. 

Through it all Naoya has not even blinked, nor taken a breath for that matter. 

Oblivious to his own staring—and your haughty smile. 

"Really now, Nao-chan? You're salty I don't consider you a man—" you muse, hands still diligently working out small drops of milk, "—but how can I? When you’re drooling over my tits like a thirsty newborn."

Shaken, Naoya’s eyes lock on with yours. The flush that had been camping at his neck floods his face all at once, searing his cheeks.

“I...”

You hush him.

Two fingers find your sternum, unhurried—drifting down your chest, down your belly, tracing the streaks of milk all the way down to your navel, gathering in the soft pudge of your mommy tummy.

Fingers thoroughly soaked, you gradually lift them to his lips. You hover them patiently, like you would a treat to a dog. 

“Open.”

Not used to taking orders, Naoya hesitates—then parts his lips anyway. Your fingers slide in and the taste hits him, rich and creamy with a faint savory edge he wasn't expecting.

It's good. Dangerously good.

His brain short-circuiting, Naoya doesn't stop even when the taste fades, lapping at your fingers and sucking the remnants from your nails with an eagerness he'll hate himself for later. A low croon threatens to escape his throat—the kind of sound he'd never make consciously—and he forces it down along with the last traces of your milk.

More—he wants more.

One look in Naoya’s eyes tells you that. Dark, hooded, their usual sharp calculation completely gone—replaced by something unguarded and hungry. He's still tonguing your fingers like there might be something left to find. The needy, restless flick of his tongue stroking heat into your core.

"Good," you murmur, retracting your fingers. "Now, go put Tomie down on her futon."

Naoya doesn't move.

But this stillness is different. Every muscle is coiled, feral cursed energy strumming hot through his veins. A wire crossed. His restraint is less like surrender and more like the moment preceding a strike.

"Go on," you simper, "...and I'll let you sample from the source... you know the proper way to feed a Zenin."

Naoya says nothing. His aura speaks for him as he rises smoothly, crosses to the tiny futon, and sets your daughter down.

You simper in approval—he's not half bad at this—but you couldn't tell him that now. Not with the tension this thick.

Returning, Naoya lingers at the edge of your futon. The particular stillness of someone who's already decided how this ends—he’s just letting you go first.

"Well, c'mere—don't go shy on me, Nao-Nao."

You crook a manicured finger at him, giggling.

Poor thing doesn’t realize he’s playing right into your hands.

"I'm not shy."

He's not. But you're Toji's wife, and he's well aware of that. Somehow though, it only makes whatever this is more forbidden.

More worth taking.

"No?" Your voice dips playfully, baiting.

"Just a virgin then?"

Naoya sucks his teeth. He's never met a woman as infuriating as you he decides.

"I'm no virgin, whore."

No real bite to Naoya’s voice this time though, not as he drops to his knees in front of you like a good dog. His own annoyance betrayed only by the whitening of his knuckles in his lap.

"Gotta be mommy issues then," you murmur, closing the remaining distance with a crawl—one last barb delivered right as you sink into his lap, forcing him cross-legged beneath you.

His contained fury is the most endearing thing you've seen all night to be sure.

"Shut u-up," he grits, voice scraping thin.

You rest your arms on his shoulders, holding deliberate space between your bodies. Tilt your head and take stock—he's handsome, you'll give him that. Good bone structure, pretty mouth. 

Shame he ever has to open it.

Your fingers drift to the piercings at his earlobe, toying lazily—while your other hand works the short hairs at his nape, featherlight scratches that make him shiver.

Naoya steels himself, an unwelcome and unexplained feeling blooming in his chest as he wills himself to stay focused.

"I'll shut up once you help me." Your hand leaves his ears to find his wrist, guiding it to your body. "Please, Nao-chan. It hurts."

The need etching in your voice worms its way under his skin like a tick and Naoya is finding his ability to keep control greatly diminished from all the blood flowing into his cock.

"Massage from the base," you breathe, giving him instructions to stimulate the milk flow. "Pressure out, not in."

Naoya's palm flattens flush against your breast and whatever plans he had for control slip away on contact.

The heat hits first—it's swollen, much heavier than he expected. Then the give of it, firm but yielding as his fingers curl to sink deeper. Naoya can feel the subtle shift of milk tracking beneath your skin, your breath hitching when he finds the right pressure, your nipple drawing tight against his palm.

"Just like that," you sigh when his rhythm smooths out. "You're a natural."

He adjusts without being told, reading your body's responses, and soon adds his second hand—finding the knot easily, pressing with both thumbs.

Surprise flickers across his face when milk spurts over his knuckles.

He nearly stops breathing.

You don't. 

Your shaky exhale of relief punches straight through him and his cock throbs against his robes like a second heartbeat. 

Naoya shifts, trying to adjust himself without you noticing.

You do however, gaze dropping, at the motion. He's so much larger than you'd have guessed for a man with such a fragile ego.

"Hmm. Certain parts of you are definitely enjoying this, Nao-chan."

Naoya clicks his tongue but doesn't deny it. He's too fucking hard to deny it.

His hands move again—one on each breast now, thumbs circling, palms compressing—drawing a deep moan past your lips. He watches with something close to reverence as milk wells up with each careful stroke.

The less your chest aches, the lower heat travels, melting into your core. You’re pulsing at the thought of his thumbs sweeping the same circles across your clit.

Breath heavy, biting your lip, you grasp at the robe on his shoulders to brace yourself. A  momentary loss of your own control which Naoya is in no position to take advantage of.

Not when his attention is fully captured by a fat, opalescent drop welling on your nipple, shiny even in the dim light.

Eyes wild with need, Naoya’s tongue nearly pokes through the inside of his cheek.

"You wanna taste."

It’s not a question. 

"I already said you could—or would you rather lick it up again, like a dog?"

But you’re just as desperate to be drained as he is to drain you. Naoya notices, you can tell. But his jaw is clenched so tight his molars might crack, eyes still glued to your nipples, and you almost tell him to relax before he breaks something and really does require nursing.

Your tits ache too badly to wait on his pride all night.

This time Naoya doesn't flinch when you cup his cheek. You guide him forward with unhurried gentleness—the same patience you show your daughter—and something about that tenderness dissolves whatever protests he had left.

His mouth closes over your nipple and he sucks, greedy and unguarded. Your fingers card into his hair immediately, drawing him in as the first pull sends an achy relief flooding through your breasts.

Naoya moans around you, shameless. Gluttonous. All pompous pretense abandoned.

"There it is," you murmur, smiling as you stroke him affectionately.

Your touch only makes him hungrier though—his tongue flickering, writhing for more even as your milk flows steady now. You jolt when his hands grip your hips without warning.

Naoya braces himself but he's nowhere near steady. Nothing about him is. Breath ragged against your skin, his whole body carries a tremor he probably doesn't realize is visible.

"It's okay, I'm not going anywhere…" you whisper, honeyed coos finally reaching him. "You’re a good boy."

Naoya freezes.

He unlatches with a wet gasp—glossy white ring around his lips, golden-brown eyes blown wide and wild. Something just cracked open in him that he wasn't prepared to feel.

"Don't—"

Croaking on his own spit.

"Don't what? Praise you?" Your hands keep working through his hair, lightly scratching his scalp, lulling him toward a surrender he's still trying to fight. "For doing so well?"

"I'm not a child."

But his voice wavers, unconvincing even to his own ears. 

You're teasing him, yes—but there's no cruelty underneath it. No disdain he can pinpoint as an excuse to push you away and escape from whatever this is.

"No?"

Bending forward, your lips ghost against his temple as you whisper:

"You don't want to be my good boy, Naoya?"

His nostrils flare—anger, need, humiliation—all of it written plain across his face. 

Like an animal he’s cornered, unsure of his next move.

A moment passes. 

Then Naoya’s gaze flicks sharply to your other breast he’s yet to sample.

You raise a brow, but Naoya has just enough pride left to not dignify your question with an answer. Can't anyway—his mouth is already latching onto the next target—the conversation over.

Need won. Clearly.

Naoya feeds more ravenously this time—tongue rolling around your sensitive flesh, teeth scraping in a way you'd smack him for if it didn't feel so fucking good.

He's messy about it too. Milk running down his chin, neck and spilling into his collar.

Fuck—this little shithead can really work his tongue.

Your head lulls, arching into him, melting against his mouth as you let him take his fill. 

Your own lust is dampening your thighs now.

Damn. This wasn't the plan. 

You'd meant to tease him a bit—let him suck on your fingers, string him along and then duck him. Peel his pride back layer by layer, slowly, to keep yourself amused living amongst such a stuffy clan.

You had no idea how affection-starved Naoya was. 

Let alone how much seeing him like this would turn you on.

Your pussy is screaming at you, becoming impossible to ignore. You haven't seen Toji in weeks—relief is overdue in more ways than one.

"N-Naoya…?"

You call him, but he doesn't answer.

His thoughts are in disarray—walls crumbling around something long abandoned inside him.

What this is—what he’s feeling?  It’s deeper than anything he's charted. And it has nothing to do with your tits, your supple skin, or the way your milk dissolves on his tongue.

Naoya rarely finds himself lacking. 

An upbringing in the Zenin estate hones you for perfection built from very specific arithmetic—cursed technique, tradition and hierarchy. Assembled inside those walls you learn quickly that anything useless you cut out—or someone else cuts it out for you.

But now?

Your gentle words. 

You warm embrace.

Your hand moving through his hair like—like he's something worth tending to. 

Like his worth was never something he had to earn.

It's driving him mad.

Worse—he doesn't want you to stop.

“Hello? Earth to Nao-chan.” You lit, snapping him out of his daze. “Not you milk drunk already, baby?”

Pouty and petulant, Naoya’s arms snake around your waist to drag you closer until his face is buried between your tits, ignoring you.

Your hand slides between your bodies and finds him—thick and straining through his robes, the rigid shape of his cock unmistakable even through the layers. You lazily trace the outline of his long length with your palm.

Naoya's hips jerk up, gracelessly bucking into your touch.

You won’t let him go soft on you at the moment. Figuratively or literally.

"Aw, Nao-Nao," you coo mischievously. "What would Toji-kun think if he saw you like this?"

That finally gets you a reaction. 

Naoya looks up at you scowling—though not to much effect as your nipple stays lodged in his mouth like a binky, spit-slick against his bottom lip. 

He doesn't pull off—can't, maybe.

Because as much as he worships his older cousin, the realization is settling in like rot: Toji-kun, for all his monstrous strength—enough to tear apart the entire Zenin legacy—wasn't strong enough to resist you. 

Hell, could anyone? Naoya considers the strongest he knows but—pshhh—he’s seen how Gojo is around women, too—he wouldn’t stand a fucking chance against you either.

It makes him feel slightly less pathetic, if only barely.

"He'd not have any room to talk," Naoya growls against your skin as he continues to fuck himself against your palm, grinding his cock against your hand through the fabric in urgent thrusts.

You’re feeding him and unraveling him at the same damn time. Leaving him chasing release and something else he can't articulate.

“Shit—let me fuck you before I completely lose it.”

Naoya’s hands shoot to your ass, fingers digging into your flesh, gripping hard enough to bruise.

You blink, a part of you shocked he's even asking—even if it is half-demanding and half-begging.

"Oh? So now you want to be in charge?" 

Your hand withdraws and you let him roll your hips forward against his—it’s more leisurely than the pace Naoya wants though, especially as your robes spread around your thighs and your bare pussy slides against his clothed cock. 

You're so soaked, and he can feel your juices flooding through the silk, your wet heat branding him through the fabric.

Naoya grits, caught somewhere between rage and ruin. 

God, how he wants to slip his cock inside you—inside your mouth, your tits—and definitely that haughty lil cunt of yours.

See what was so good it even stopped Toji-kun from pulling out.

"You think you're fucking me, Nao-Nao?"

Cradling his head, you swipe at your own cream still lingering at the corner of his lips.

“You still have my milk around your mouth, baby.”

Naoya groans, barely controlled, like he's trying to rut through the layers of fabric. 

He doesn't even realize how undignified he looks. The sounds he makes suckling at your tit are sloppy and needy—and you know he'd be mortified if he could hear himself over the squelching of your pussy rubbing against his silk robe.

Tightening your grip in his hair, you wrench his head back, forcing him to release your nipple with a wet pop.

A string of milk stretches from your bud to his lip—then snaps.

Naoya gasps. 

Lips trembling, chin sopping, eyes unfocused. Poor thing. He looks completely ruined and you've barely started.

Naoya’s fists the fabric of your robe, already working at the tie. His gasps puff against your throat, mouth grazing up to your chin as he nibbles harder—threatening meaner bites.

"L-Let me fuck y-you." 

Naoya is begging now, not even trying to mask his need.

You tilt your head, considering, pondering on it like Naoya wasn’t on his last thread of sanity, driven to insanity by the treacley taste of your creamy milk.

"Mm. No."

"I need—"

Cutting him off, you push Naoya onto the futon in one smooth motion. 

"Haven’t you realized I know what you need, Nao-Nao?" Your voice is syrupy as you straddle him, hovering.

"I-I—Fuck—" The word scrapes out of him, guttural, clutching the sheets and throwing his head back onto the futon as his hips buck up into nothing.

You stay perfectly still. Not letting him take a single thing.

"Look at you." You coo, skimming a finger along his milk-stained collar. "Reduced to humping the air? Imagine, a Zenin heir with so little self-composure."

"S-Shut the fuck up, s-slut." 

But his insults don’t stop his hips, microthrusts wanting to chase the feeling of your messy pussy sliding over his cock again.

"Why?" You swivel your hips—one deep agonizing grind that lets him feel your cunt clench against his cock through the ruined fabric. He's dripping now too, precum mixing with yours. 

"I think you like it when I make you beg. You want to, don't you? So beg me."

Naoya's cheeks burn. He could easily flip you, pin you, and have his way.

He won't though.

Even through your teasing there's a care to your touch he's never let himself experience—and resisting it has his nails biting crescents into his palms, hard enough to bleed.

"I bet you'd cum just like this…" 

Your plush lips ghosting his Adam's apple, smirking as he squirms under you. 

"...without ever getting inside. Soiling your own robe like a needy, prideful little boy who couldn't simply ask nicely."

The moan that rips from Naoya's throat is feral with need and thick with humiliation. His hips shoving upward, wanton for contact.

You don't give it, suspended just above him, your drooling cunt barely grazing his cock, watching him fall apart with all the patience in the world.

"Naoya, baby" Your hand slides up to cup his cheek, tenderly. "Tell Mommy what you want."

Naoya’s eyes go wide. 

Every muscle taut. Cheeks flushed dark. 

The Zenin composure he was built from crumbling, reducing him to this. 

On the brink, never has Naoya waited this long for something. Never has he been this turned on—and as much as he’s fucking furious about it, he’s also way past giving a fuck.

His eyes rake your body and snag on the trail of milk—smeared on your tits, your belly, all the way to your cunt where it glistens in the dim light.

His mouth waters. Whatever resolve he had left shatters.

"Please..." Naoya whimpers, tears dusting the edges of his eyes, too wound up to realize he's handing you everything. "...fuck me."

You raise a brow, waiting. 

Oh, he’s so close.

He knows it too. He knows what you want. 

Naoya can see it on your face but there's no coming back from it once he says it. But what choice does he have? He’d die if you sent him away like this.

"Please, fuck me—"Naoya’s voice cracks clean in half, a single tear running down his cheek. "—Mommy."

You push his bangs up fondly, planting a chaste kiss right on his forehead. 

"That’s my Good boy."

Naoya watches you with tears burning his eyes, chest heaving, too far gone to resist you any longer.

You tug the ties loose on his robe until the fabric falls away. His cock springs free—angry, leaking and bobbing with every shaky breath he takes.

You have to admit it's pretty. His flushed red, cockhead peeked through its foreskin. You can feel his whole body shiver as you peel it back more. 

Your mouth is watering for a taste yourself and god, if Naoya wasn’t such a fucking tool you’d gladly suck him off. 

That could come later though—you’d make him earn that too. Subservience looks good on him afterall. 

You'd be tempted to deny him longer if you weren't so hard up for it yourself, your gooey walls vibrating at the thought of a cock inside, at long last. 

Toji's been gone for weeks and you need a stress release, bad.

You position your cunt just above the swollen head of his cock—close enough for your juices to drip salaciously onto his tip, dribbling down his shaft.

Naoya squirms beneath you, and you drink it in.

"Craving to wet your cock inside Toji-kun's wife, hm?"

He can't answer—not when you sweep his cockhead through your folds, letting him glide through the mess of your wetness and the milk still coating your thighs. You're soaked enough to take him whole right now, no prep needed, and the thought makes your cunt clench around nothing.

Naoya moans, hips snapping up, trying to piston into you—and you shove him back down by the hip, pinning him to the futon.

"Behave."

"I'm—" He swallows, voice wrecked. "I'm trying."

You smile, wiping the sweat off his brow with something close to care in your touch.

"Try harder for Mommy then, yeah, Nao-baby?"

You don't wait for his response.

You sink down, pussy swallowing him whole in one brutal stroke.

The stretch punches the breath out of you—wet as you are, he's still thick enough to make your walls spasm, to make your spine bow as he splits you open. You hate how good his cock feels dragging over every ridge inside you, the fat head kissing your cervix hard enough to make your thighs tremble.

Naoya gasps like you've knocked the wind out of him. You watch his mind go blank.

Hands flexing useless at his sides. Mouth falling open, slack and dumb. Eyes rolling until you can only see the whites, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

"Y-You're f-fuckin’ tight," he rasps, too loud. "F-Fuck—you're tight, y-you're so—"

Clamping your hand over his mouth, palm pressed to his lips, your nails curl into his cheek. You feel him arch off the futon beneath you, a muffled whine vibrating against your skin.

"Shh." You hush. "You'll wake the baby."

Naoya nods furiously, chest heaving. You smile once he settles.

"Atta boy."

Naoya whines as you start to move—hand still clamped over his mouth, bracing yourself as you ride him. A calculated wind at first, controlling the roll of your hips as you get a feel for him. The way he stretches you. The way a meaty vein throbs against your g-spot as you move. 

Shit—Not bad.

Naoya trembles beneath you, hands fisted white-knuckled in the sheets, whole body wracked with the effort of staying still. Of not fucking up into you like a desperate, rutting animal.

"Mmmm," you murmur, rotating your hips in a lazy figure-eights. "Just like that, let it all go. Let me ride you. Let Mommy take care of you."

Naoya’s whimpers bubble under your palm—pathetic, needy. He knows he’s being used. He’s maintained zero control of the situation. 

And yet? 

He can’t deny a he’s a fucking fiend for it.

Not when your cunt grips him like a fist. Not when he can feel how wet you are— slick saturating his balls, staining the futon beneath you both. Your gooey pussy squeezes him so tight he can barely breathe, silky and warm, milking his cock like she was made to ruin him.

Then you feel it—his balls twitching underneath your ass, drawing up tight. He's close. 

Fuck, already?!

“C-Cumming that fast?” you pant out. “ T-That fast? From your cousin’s wife’s tits and cunt? Do I feel that good?”

Naoya is groaning as his eyes squeeze shut, biting his inner cheek and fisting the sheets.

"Nuh-uh." You tsk, stilling completely. "Bad boy. Not allowed."

Naoya's eyes fly open as yours begin to glow—red and ancient, blood-dark lines blooming beneath your lashes. He feels it. Your cursed energy pouring into him, flooding every vein, every capillary, settling hot and heavy in his balls.

The Kamo inherited technique—blood manipulation—seizes complete control.

Instantly, he veins in his balls bulge obscenely, his cock swelling even harder inside you. But he can't cum. You won't let him.

Naoya cries out, breaking into a sweat, pleasure flaring through him to excruciating levels as every one of his nerve endings lights up.

"I may be a Zenin by name," you breathe, leaning in until your tits smush into his chest and your lips brush his ear, "but I'll always be a Kamo by blood."

You bite down on the tender tissue, feeling him shudder beneath you, cock throbbing helplessly inside your cunt.

"Don't worry." You sit up, savoring his broken whine from the loss. "I'll let you cum, Nao-baby. I'm going to milk you dry—just like you milked me—after I get my nut."

You lift up just enough to meet his wild, glassy eyes.

"Nod if you understand."

Naoya nods. He understands perfectly now—understands exactly how you wound up pregnant by Toji. Understands why a man like that couldn't stay away.

He sobs beneath your hold, tears spilling hot over your fingers, breath hitching against your palm. You clench, a methodical squeeze—and his whole body jerks violently, a broken "nnngh—!" muffled against your hand.

You ride him in earnest now. Harder. Faster. Greedy for it. Your tits bounce wild, milk spilling with every slam of your hips—they’re sore but you don't care, chasing your pleasure like nothing else matters. You're soaked, the sound of it obscene—wet squelching filling the room, your arousal and milk splashing filthy with his pre where your bodies meet.

Naoya’s cock hits that gushy, spongy spot inside you over and over and your rhythm starts to falter.

"F-Fuck—"

You're getting sloppy. Losing focus. Your thighs burn from exertion but you can't stop, can't slow down, bouncing on his cock like you'll die yourself if you don't cum on it. Your pussy greedily convulsing around him—shit, you could easily fuck your own self stupid if you aren’t careful. 

You learned well enough not to underestimate Zenin dick fucking around with Toji.

Thankfully, however, Naoya is ruined. Flushed crimson from chest to ears beneath you, his tears streaming and his cock so engorged inside you that he looks like it must hurt. His hips spasm with aborted thrusts, toes curling as he is fighting his body's urge to rut even now.

He’s still trying so hard to be a ‘good boy’ for you and that thought alone almost makes you cum.

You consider, through the haze of your own pleasure, appraising his pathetic form beneath you, that you might accidentally give him a brain aneurysm if you keep this up much longer.

“P-Puulease—Mommy” he gasps out when you lift your hand from his lips.

"Wait your turn," you moan, brows furrowing as you try to concentrate.  

You're close. So fucking close. You use him like a toy now, hips rolling carnally, chasing the tingling friction. building white-hot at the base of your spine. Your nails dig into his abs as you tilt, angling yourself so his girth scrapes against your g-spot with every bounce. 

Quiet sobs tumble over your lips as you tense, fucking yourself on him until—

"O-oh—oh fuckfuckfuck—"

You shatter, orgasm ripping through you, pussy fluttering wild around his length and gushing to coat his balls as you ride it out. Vision edges white, as your thighs quake, your hips rotating in stuttering circles as the waves crash through you.

Chest heaving, when you regain your senses again, Naoya is barely there himself, sanity hanging by a thread with eyes blown—watching you cum so erotically on his cock like a man witnessing something holy.

You bring your face centimeters away from his, your lips ghosting his own as you release your technique.

"Cum."

And he does.

With a broken moan Naoya busts inside you—cock pulsing thick and hot, spurts of cum flooding your cunt white as his hips stutter up helplessly. You let him pull you down, let him clutch you like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to earth as your lips smash together.

You seal your mouth over his, devouring every ragged cry. Your tongue sweeps sweetly against his trembling one as you steady his face in your hands, thumbs brushing his tear-damp cheeks, kissing him quiet.

All the while his cock continues to pump you full—and you’ve kept your promise. 

This is the most Naoya’s ever cum in his entire life.

When he comes down enough, Naoya rolls onto his side, taking you with him as he curls into you—face buried in your chest, sucking in breaths, completely undone and still twitching inside you. 

A bit overspent yourself, not having activated your ability since Toji got you pregnant in the first place, you don't move yet. You keep him buried inside of you, pulsing with the aftershocks of what he just let himself become.

His arms wind tight around your waist like he's afraid you'll disappear. You cradle the back of his head, stroking softly.

He doesn't speak and you don't rush him. Not eager to test for any remaining snark you failed to fuck out of him.

It feels good just being needed like this, you are a mother afterall.

Eventually the heat between your thighs starts to cool, and you shift—peeling him off slowly, feeling the thick spill of his cum leak out of you. He shudders at the loss, an inaudible sound catching in his throat.

You ease him onto his back, robes rumpled beneath him, face still ruddy. He watches you through heavy-lidded eyes—quiet, stunned, like he doesn't recognize himself.

And then—

A single, involuntary whimper escapes him when his gaze catches on your breasts again. 

Still heavy and still leaking—milk beading at your nipples.

You smile.

"Still hungry?"

He turns his face into the pillow, ears burning.

You laugh—not mocking this time. Your voice is warm, almost fond.

"Poor Nao-chan," you murmur, settling beside him as you reach for a baby wipe nearby. "Your first time letting someone take care of you, and now you don't know what to do with yourself."

"I didn't say I wanted—"

You wipe his chest clean of milk, sweat—all of it with a tenderness that makes him forget what he was saying. Naoya’s throat bobs as he goes silent.

Unhurried, you wipe yourself off next. Then once satisfied, looking over to confirm that Tomie is still sleeping peacefully, you secure the discarded blanket over you both, effectively tucking him in, before gathering him in your arms.

"You don't have to say it," you whisper against his hair. "Mommies always know."

Sure, you certainly aren't his mother.

Yet something in your heart still aches for the broken little boy inside Naoya all the same. His cruel upbringing was hardly his fault, although it's been everyone else’s problem since. 

Plus, you're fairly certain you just did more for his mommy issues in one night than years of therapy could ever achieve—even if someone managed to drag Naoya there, against his will.

Sigmund Freud couldn't have even accomplished this. Someone should really give you a nobel peace prize.

You hum a low lullaby against his temple as Naoya’s eyes close. He doesn't fight it. Between your soothing song, warmth and the exhaustion your technique left behind, he doesn't have the strength to fight you—nor does he want to.

Naoya’s lips are at your nipple again. He's not sucking this time—just holding you on his tongue, lavishing slow and kitten-soft licks, nursing you like a pacifier.

"You did well, Naoya."

It's the last thing he hears as sleep pulls him under.

⟡

Hours later, Naoya wakes to the sound of your voice.

His eyes squint against the harsh morning light pouring into the room. As they adjust, he makes out your shape—sitting on the edge of the futon, knees tucked beneath you, fully dressed, bouncing Tomie in one arm while you chat on the phone.

A dizziness hits him all at once. Naoya finds himself sluggish, bodily functions recalibrating as the effects of your technique linger. 

He feels like he got hit by a goddamn truck. 

A truck that happened to also fuck him stupid and then tucked him in after.

Grumpy, the loss of your warmth pulls a low growl from him.

Naoya hauls himself across the futon and plants his head in your lap, nuzzling into you like you owe him now.

You try to ignore him, continuing your conversation, but Naoya is persistent. His nose keeps traveling higher—nudging toward the apex of your thighs and burying his face into your mound. The lingering musk of sex is still strong through your kimono and Naoya's cock stirs, already half-hard at the thought of tasting how well his seed has marinated inside you.

Naoya hums petulantly into your pussy, clearly territorial of whoever has your attention.

You roll your eyes at the display. 

Give men an inch and they will always take a mile. 

You threw him a crumb of affection and now he's acting starved for it.

Shifting your daughter to one arm and wedging the phone between your shoulder and cheek, you card your fingers through Naoya's hair. It's enough to soothe him—for now. He sighs against your thigh, using your plush lap as a pillow, and drifts back toward sleep.

"Huh? Say that again—" You grit, more irritated now at the man on the other line than the one in your lap. "Ugh, fine. I'll spot you this time, Toji."

Even half asleep, Naoya goes deathly still.

You smirk, feeling him tense in your lap as you continue to speak.

"But that’s only on the condition you visit Tomie this weekend, you oaf. She'll forget your face if you keep this up, ya know."

A pause. Then snort.

"Hm? Oh yeah. Yup, uh-huh.” You smirk amused by whatever Toji's saying on the other line. "Yeah, yeah, Ji. I'll let him know—and jeez, I got it, okay…I'll do the transfer now. GOODBYE."

You hang up with a huff, mildly annoyed—until you glance down and see your daughter happily cooing, her tiny hand patting Naoya's head alongside yours as you reluctantly transfer Toji the money he asked for.

Naoya, mortified, had been holding his breath this entire time—just in case Toji could sense it over the phone—sighs in relief.

"Shit... that was close," he mumbles, wincing as your daughter's pats turn into enthusiastic slaps against his temple. 

Toji-kun told him to take care of you, sure. 

He's fairly certain this wasn't what he meant.

"Huh? Oh, you mean Toji?" You blink down at Naoya. "I already told him."

Naoya shoots upright like you just announced a curse had just blown up half of Tokyo.

"Relax, Naoya, my god." You wave a hand, dismissing him. "Toji's cool about it. We were never exclusive or anything, ya know."

Naoya exhales, exasperated, and flops onto the futon, on his back, his hand over his face as you rise shuffling elsewhere in the room.

He knows his cousin—this won't be the end of it. Toji will definitely expect something in return.

But Naoya can't think about that now. His head is throbbing, it's early as hell, and he's gotten maybe two good hours of sleep.

He knows he should return to his own sleeping quarters—but this is his wing after all and he honestly can't be arsed to move for anything right now.

"However," you add lightly, when you see Naoya's body bracing for blow, "he did say you have to bankroll a parlay for him every time you fuck his wife."

And there it is.

Naoya doesn't even lift the hand over his face, just grunts.

"Sure."

"Anddddd, he's charging you by the ounce for—and I quote—'sucking up all his tiddy milk like a pansy lil b-i-t-c-h.'"

You spell out the word in lieu of saying it now that Tomie is awake.

Naoya groans, wishing he'd woken up earlier. He's not sure what kind of narrative you fed Toji, but he's too exhausted to argue about it now. 

"...Fine." Naoya replies, wincing at your giggles prickling his skull.

Toji's money schemes don't matter much to him anyway—he's rich, he can afford whatever bullshit ‘tiddy milk tax’ this is.

Naoya just needs you to shut up about it now.

Every chuckle out of your mouth drives another rusty nail into his skull.

"Oh, one last thing," you call over your shoulder, smirking as you scoop Tomie's diaper bag and head towards the bathroom to change her.

"Toji says if you get me knocked-up, you’re raising that one too."

You laugh hardly, leaving the room with Tomie happily cooing in your arms.

Whatever.

Naoya sighs, smashing two pillows over his face. 

He'd just pull out next time.

Simple. Problem solved. 

It's a small price to pay for your soft creamy tits and that sweet, gooey mommy puss—

...

Hold on.

What the fuck did Toji-kun mean by 'too'?

𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍. 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝚋𝚕𝚔𝚔𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚊𝚝 © 𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟹-𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟼

♡ hope u enjoyed! i hope to see a lot more recruits in the naoya army after this fic lol! also i loved writing in tomie here. i didn't name toji's and your's baby in the previous one but i really like this name so i decided to use it. shes so sassy shes def gonna give noaya hell. hsjdfbvjshdbfvhsd. read my other naoya fic here

Status updates: Caracal!sukuna p4 (20% done), invisible man!gojo (35%), stepdaddy!nanami (60% done), nerd!geto p2 (45%), 69 choso fic (30%) [y'all remember caracal sukuna won the poll so freddy!sukuna and elevator will have to wait!] stepdaddy!nanami next

dilf!dick grayson that sometimes finds himself wondering what your lives would look like with another pair of feet running around. he knows it's only been a few years since your last pregnancy, but seeing the way you fit into the motherly role for your kids is enough to leave him throbbing in his pants. from the soothing voice you talk to them with in the early hours of the morning, and the stern scoldings you give when they refuse to listen. he can't lie, he's come clean to you more than once but seeing you in your element makes him wish he was the one you were yelling at instead.

and it's not like this is a one sided ordeal. seeing his lean body fill out throughout the years, his young face slowly turning softer, especially around the eyes. it's hard to not fall more and more for your husband as the time passes. time where he used to be embarrassed of the gray hair, now changed after he saw how utterly obsessed you've become with it. after a new shape up, whether he did it himself or he went to the barbershop, your hands are constantly on him. nails running up and down the undercut, the low lidded look you give him the minute the kids are put down for bed. it's hard for him to feel weary about his age when its so obvious the girl of his dreams is obsessed with it. there's some nights dilf!dick grayson has to physically tap out after the multiple orgasms you've brought him to. he's normally able to keep up, but these past few weeks you've been untamable with the way you jump his bones every two seconds. moans of "wanna carry y'r kids again" and "need you to cum inside, baby" are constantly filling the lustful atmosphere.

but there's one night in particular that dilf!dick grayson is actively matching your neediness. he's got you in such a nasty arch, he's hitting spots you didn't even know existed. you're so sensitive that the only thing stopping the noises from leaving your mouth are some of his thick fingers. pressing down onto your tongue, the gags that leave your mouth is enough to make him thrust even deeper. and when you manage to escape his fingers, your pleas go unheard and the only thing running through his mind is the look on your face when your close friend announced her pregnancy at a recent gathering. you were of course happy for her, but you couldn't help the small burst of jealousy after you've been asking dick for another baby. and you thought you were able to hide your emotions, but your sweet husband was always able to see through the fake smile you put on.

dilf!dick grayson that makes it his mission that night to give you what you really want. and he's making sure each load takes. he's got the pillow supporting your arch everytime your knees grow weak or you run from his thrust in overstimulation. his thumb rubbing your clit in the perfect rhythm. you're both sticky from the sweat and heat of each others bodies. the only thing your clouded mind can really comprehend is the kiss he leaves on your open mouth every few pushes. when you tap out for a quick break, he's pampering you with water, rubbing his rough hands up and down your back, even feeding you the praise you oh so crave. "you're doing so good, sweetheart", "bet you can't wait to be a mommy again, huh?" and if you don't end up with a positive test sometime within the next three weeks, he'll just have to try again and again until you both are satisfied.

Lara Cameron’s bedroom looked like it had been dipped in bubblegum and glitter. Everything—her curtains, her rug, even the ridiculous feather pen on her desk—was pink. She had her iPhone propped up on a ring light, recording in perfect vertical frame for her TikTok. She adjusted the gloss on her lips, flicked her hair over her shoulder, and grinned at the camera like she was already famous.

“Heyyy, guys,” she sang, putting on her influencer voice. “So I decided to film a Pack My Lunchbox With Me since it's all over my For you Page— but with a twist. Today, we're gonna pack my Dad's lunch, but it's gonna be a prank.”

Mason was sprawled across her bed like he owned the place, long legs dangling off the edge. At fifteen, he carried himself like a frat boy who’d been shrunk down and shoved into a sophomore’s body—loud, cocky, and endlessly inappropriate. The kind of kid who thought stealing his dad’s dirt bike to impress a girl was a genius idea. It wasn’t, obviously, since Rafe had grounded him for the rest of the month and Mase had come up with the whole prank idea to get back at him.

This was payback, baby.

“Alright, Lara,” Mason said, dragging a backpack onto the bed and unzipping it with a smirk. “Ready for the gourmet menu?”

Lara side-eyed him through her lashes. “This better not be dumb. My followers don’t do dumb. They do aesthetic.” She turned back to the camera, tossing her hair dramatically. “We’re gonna prank him, but, like, he still needs to eat good too, duh.”

Mason snorted, pulling out the first item. A tin of dog food, clunky and offensive against her silk bedspread. He slapped a neon sticky note across the front in his messy handwriting: Since you’re being a bitch.

Lara’s jaw dropped. “Mason!” she hissed, snapping her head toward him. “You can’t—oh my god, that’s for Dad!”

“Exactly.” Mason leaned back, smug. “He grounded me for nothing. I didn’t even scratch the bike. This is justice.”

She turned back to the phone, forcing a smile, her voice slipping into that high-pitched TikTok tone again. “Okayyy, so like, I picked up this super protein-packed entrée—” she angled the camera to avoid showing the label as she picked the item she had picked for the lunch—“because health is wealth!”

Mason dug back into the bag, grinning like Christmas came early. Next came a jar of pureed baby food, banana-flavored. The sticky note read: Since you want to act like a baby.

Lara groaned dramatically, throwing herself back on the bed. “You’re actually the worst. Dad’s gonna hate us when he finds out it was you.”

“He already hates me, so, like, what’s the difference?” Mason shrugged.

Lara huffed, rolling her eyes as she picked up the salmon bagel she had made because she knew her Dad loved them, "His favorite."

But the pièce de résistance came last. Mason pulled out a small orange prescription bottle and shook it like a maraca, his grin wolfish. He slapped a sticky note across it: Since you can’t man up.

Lara blinked. “What even is that?”

“Viagra. Swiped it from Uncle Topp,” Mason said casually, as if that explained everything.

Her mouth fell open. “You—WHAT?! That’s, like—EW. I can’t put that in a TikTok, Mason! I’ll get cancelled!”

“Or famous.” Mason winked, shaking the pill bottle one more time. “Sex sells.”

Lara’s perfectly glossed lips parted in horror. “Oh my god. Mason. No. Absolutely not. Dad is not opening a lunchbox full of—” she waved her manicured fingers at the dog food, the baby food, and the pills like they were radioactive—“whatever that is!”

Mason just grinned wider, like he’d been waiting for this exact meltdown. “What? Scared Daddy’s gonna be mad at his little princess?” His tone dripped with sarcasm, but underneath it there was that teenage bitterness.

“Of course! I'm his favourite kid,” Lara shot back immediately, her voice shrill with both indignation and certainty. “He always listens. He does whatever I say. He doesn't get mad at me—”

“Exactly.” Mason leaned forward, eyes sparking. “That’s why this works. He’ll never believe you did it. He’ll think Mom packed it. And when he opens it at work? Instant humiliation. He’ll lose it.”

Lara froze, her ring light casting a halo over her nervous face. “Wait… you want Dad to think Mom did it?”

“Duh.” Mason casually closed the lunchbox, snapping the latches shut with finality. “Why else would he take it seriously? Dad’s never gonna yell at you, but if he thinks Mom's calling him a bitch and handing him Viagra with his sandwich—ohhh, man, fireworks.”

Lara’s nose wrinkled. “That’s… evil.”

“Nuh-uh, I'm just giving him a piece of his medicine - literally,” Mason corrected, tossing the bag into her hands. “He humiliated me in front of all my friends because of the goddamn bike. I'm just returning the fucking gesture.”

But Lara hesitated, clutching the bag like it was about to explode. The whole plan suddenly felt different. She wanted views, yes, but not at the cost of disrespecting her dad. She loved him too much to do this.

“I can’t,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I can’t hand this to Mom. I’m not dragging her into this. Dad’ll think she actually hates him or something, and then what if they fight? I don’t want that.”

Mason rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t get stuck in his skull. “Relax, Lara. Mom’s tougher than you think. And Dad—” his grin turned sharp—“Dad deserves it.”

Lara hugged the lunchbox tighter to her chest, staring at her camera still recording on the ring light. If she posted this, if she handed this over and filmed his reaction when he got home, she’d get everything she ever wanted—views, followers, attention. But it wasn’t just about her anymore. Mason was dragging their mom into it, and that was a line she wasn’t sure she wanted to cross.

“Fine,” she huffed, tossing her hair. “But when Dad freaks out, you’re explaining it. Not me. And I'm snitching you, I won't let that fall on Mom.”

Mason smirked, leaning back with his hands behind his head. “Sure you would.”

“Lara! Mase! Come downstairs, you'll be late!” Catherine’s voice carried sharp through the pink walls, a practiced mom-yell that didn’t need repeating.

Lara jumped, fumbling to grab her phone off the ring light. Her thumb hovered over the screen as she hesitated, then finally hit stop on the recording. She tucked the phone into her school uniform's pocket like it was a weapon she couldn’t be caught holding.

By the door, Mason was already two steps ahead, slinging both his backpack and Lara’s over his shoulder like some smug pack mule. “Come on, Lara,” he drawled, already twisting the knob. “Showtime.”

They trailed down the stairs, the smell of bacon and toast still lingering from breakfast. In the hallway, Bradley was leaning against the wall, arms crossed like a middle-aged dad trapped in a 14-year-old’s body. His eyes narrowed at them.

“Why’d you skip breakfast?” he asked, suspicion dripping from every word.

Mason only smirked, ignoring Brad, and nudged Lara with his elbow, jerking his chin toward the kitchen. “Go on. Make the drop.”

Lara froze, clutching the lunchbox to her chest. She whispered harshly, “Mason, I can’t—”

But Mason had already brushed past Bradley, clapping him on the shoulder. “We’ll be in the garage. Don’t take forever, Lara.”

Bradley rolled his eyes but followed, muttering something under his breath about Mason being “so dramatic.” That left Lara standing there alone, her lunch trap clutched tight. She sucked in a breath, squared her shoulders, and pushed into the kitchen—secretly filming again, the camera angled low in her hand.

Catherine was at the counter, rinsing a coffee mug. She looked up immediately. “Lara. Why didn’t you come down for breakfast? You know I don’t like when you skip meals.”

Lara pasted on her brightest TikTok smile. “Because I was filming something for TikTok. Packing my Dad’s lunch for work!” She held up the glittering lunchbox like it was a prize. “It's trending, and my followers really wanted it— But I promise to eat the second I step in school.”

Catherine softened, just a little. “That’s sweet, baby. But you know your dad doesn’t really take lunches. He’ll probably just grab something out.”

“Right, but—” Lara bit her lip, then pitched her voice higher, sweeter. “Can you, like… pretend you packed it for him? For the video? So when Dad finds out it was me, it’s, like, extra wholesome? TikTok eats that up.”

Catherine raised an eyebrow, turning back toward the sink. “Pretend I packed it?”

“Yes!” Lara nodded quickly, blonde hair bouncing. “It’ll be so cute, Mom. Dad’s gonna love it.”

Catherine gave a short laugh, shaking her head. “Honey, the last time I packed your dad a lunch was… what, four years ago? Back when you kids were outgrowing the lunchbox phase, so he let me pack it for him to trick you. If I hand this to him now, he’s going to know something’s up.”

Lara’s smile faltered for just a second, her confidence slipping. She twisted the lunchbox in her hands, hoping her phone wasn’t shaking in the frame. “But if you do it, Mom, he would surely open it.”

Catherine shot her a sharp, mom-look over her shoulder. “Lara, what’s in that lunchbox?”

Lara’s heart skipped. She grinned wider, teeth clenched. “Um… love?”

Catherine set the coffee mug down and eyed the lunchbox like it was radioactive. “Did you just pack him a bunch of snacks or something?” She reached for the latch.

Lara’s heart jumped into her throat. “No, mom. You know I'm all about whole foods, why would I—” she squeaked, clutching the handle tighter.

Before Catherine could tug it away, heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway. Rafe strode into the kitchen, face freshly shaved, tie tightened around his neck. He leaned down, pressing a quick kiss against Catherine’s lips with one hand on her waist.

Lara had her phone angled instantly, filming the whole thing in secret, trying to ignore the panic rising in her chest.

“Why aren't you in the car, princess?” Rafe asked, turning to look at her with that Cameron half-smile.

Lara tucked her phone down by her side, pasting on her sweetest face. “Um… just wanted to, like, say bye to Mom. I missed breakfast and didn' twant to just leave, you know?” She widened her eyes, layering on the doe-eyed innocence she knew he could never resist.

Rafe chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “You’re something else.” He reached for his briefcase on the counter, but Catherine, still suspicious, slipped the lunchbox into his free hand.

“Here,” she said. “I wanted you to have a homemade lunch today.”

Rafe blinked down at the lunch box in his hand, eyebrows lifting. “Really?” He looked between his wife and daughter, clearly touched. “Man, it’s been years since I’ve gotten one of these. Thanks, babe.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Catherine shot Lara another look.

But Rafe wasn’t paying attention. He swung the lunchbox proudly like it was gold. “Can’t wait to see what you packed me.”

Lara’s stomach twisted. She plastered on a grin, praying her lip gloss wasn’t smudging under the pressure.

Together, they headed toward the garage. Mason and Bradley were already in the car, Mason slouched smugly in the backseat, Bradley scrolling on his phone. Maisie drolling over her backpack.

Lara slid into the passenger seat beside her dad, clutching her rhinestone phone like it might protect her from what was coming.

By noon, Rafe was practically buzzing. The lunchbox sat on the corner of his desk like a treasure chest. He hadn’t touched it all morning—partly because he wanted to draw it out, partly because he couldn’t stop thinking about Catherine. She hadn’t packed him a lunch in years. And now? Between her cooking, her taking care of the kids, and now this little surprise—it felt like she was still finding ways to make his life easier.

“Man,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand over the lunch bag. “She’s too good to me.”

When lunch rolled around, he carried it to the conference room where a few of his colleagues were already sitting. These weren’t just coworkers—they were trusted men at Cameron Development, friends he’d built deals with, laughed with, bled with.

“Cameron!” one of them called, nodding at the box as he sat down. “What’s that? You raiding your little girl's lunch stash?”

Rafe smirked, snapping the latches open. “Nah. My wife made this for me.” Pride swelled in his voice. “Been years since I’ve had one. Didn’t even have to make my assistant order food today.”

The guys laughed, shaking their heads. “Lucky bastard. My wife won’t even make me coffee.”

“Yeah, Catherine’s a keeper,” another added.

Rafe leaned back, grinning like a man who already knew he’d won the lottery. “Damn right she is.”

He pulled out the first items—bagel with smoked salmon, wrapped neatly, and a protein bar tucked beside it. “See? Even thinks about my macros.”

More laughter, more comments about how Catherine spoiled him. Rafe felt like a king.

Until he reached deeper into the box.

His hand closed around something small and metal. He pulled it out. Dog food. A sticky note slapped across it: Since you’re being a bitch.

The room went quiet.

Rafe froze, staring at the tin. Slowly, he set it down on the table, jaw tightening. Next came a jar of baby food. Another note: Since you want to act like a baby.

A low, incredulous laugh bubbled up from his chest. His colleagues shifted in their seats, glancing at each other.

And then—he saw it. The orange pill bottle. His pulse jumped. Since you can’t keep up being a man.

The laugh that left him this time wasn’t amused. It was sharp, bitter, dangerous. “What the fuck…” he muttered under his breath, the corner of his mouth twitching.

The guys didn’t say anything, smart enough to know when Rafe Cameron was about to blow.

He shoved the cursed items back into the box, snapping the lid shut with a crack. His mind was racing, blood hot in his veins. Catherine. She’d really thought this was funny? She’d really slipped this shit in between his salmon bagel like some kind of joke?

He rubbed his jaw, laughing to himself again—an angry, low chuckle. “Alright. Wife just wants to play, guys.”

Because if Catherine thought she could humiliate him like this, she had another thing coming. He’d be the one laughing when he got home—when he spread her out on their bed and showed her exactly how much of a man he was.

For a long moment, no one at the table spoke. The lunchbox with stickers on it sat there like a bomb, its lid just barely holding in the chaos Mason and Lara had packed.

Then, one of the guys cleared his throat. “Damn, Cameron. I take my words back. I'm lucky my woman doesn't even make me coffee.”

A ripple of laughter went around the table. Someone else added, “Better eat that baby food, man—might keep you young.”

Rafe’s knuckles flexed around the edge of the box. His temper flared hot in his chest, but outwardly he smirked, tilting his head like he was in on the joke. “Inside thing,” he said coolly. “She likes to mess with me sometimes.”

That bought him a few chuckles and nods. They went back to their conversations, but Rafe barely heard a word. His mind was a storm. Inside joke? Like hell it was. Catherine had packed him dog food and fucking Viagra, then set him up to get clowned on in front of his own men.

When the lunch break ended and the room cleared out, he stayed behind, jaw tight, pulling his phone from his pocket.

He dialed Catherine.

She answered on the second ring, voice light. “Hey, baby. Everything okay?”

“Lunch was great,” Rafe said, forcing his voice into an easy drawl. “Good nutrition, salmon hit the spot. And those little notes? Real sweet touch.”

There was a beat of silence, then Catherine’s soft laugh. “Oh my God, you actually liked that? I was so nervous”

Her giggle made the back of his neck burn. She was playing along. Playing with him.

“Yeah,” he said, smile curling sharp even though no one could see him. “Real funny, Cath.”

She hummed, still clueless. “Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

When the call ended, Rafe sat back in his chair, pulse hammering. That was all the confirmation he needed. Catherine had done this on purpose. She’d slipped those notes in, then giggled like a schoolgirl when he called her on it.

And now he could barely sit still. The day dragged on, his focus shot to hell. All he could think about was getting home, putting his wife in front of him, and asking—no, demanding—what the hell she thought she was doing pulling that shit in front of his coworkers.

If Catherine wanted to play games, fine. But she’d better be ready for how Rafe Cameron played them.

Lara felt like she’d aged ten years in a single day. Every class, every period, she’d snuck glances at her phone, expecting at any second to see her dad’s name light up the screen—furious, betrayed, ready to ground her for life. Even in ballet, her pirouettes had turned into clumsy hops, her teacher giving her side-eye as she stumbled across the floor. She couldn’t think about dance, couldn’t think about anything but that cursed glittery lunchbox.

Mason, of course, was the complete opposite. By the time they were home, he was sprawled on the couch in the second living room with two of his football buddies, controllers in hand, hollering at FIFA like his life depended on it. He was all jokes and half-empty soda cans, while Lara sat perched at the edge of the couch, chewing her lip gloss off.

When she spotted the sleek black car pulling into the driveway, her stomach dropped. “Mase,” she whispered, tugging at his sleeve. “He’s here.”

Mason didn’t even pause the game. He just grinned. “Good. Get your phone ready. This is the money shot.”

Her fingers trembled as she opened the camera app, and walked outside, angling it downstairs. But when the front door swung open, nothing happened.

Rafe stepped inside, dropped his keys on the table, and glanced at the football cleats and gear by the door. His eyes flicked to the voices coming from upstairs, and just like that, the fire in him smoothed out.

He wasn’t going to act up with half the team in his house.

Instead, he strode into the kitchen, easy as ever, and kissed Catherine like it was any other Thursday. “Hey, babe.”

“Hey,” she said warmly, wiping her hands on a towel. “Mason’s team’s over. I hope that’s okay.”

“Yeah,” Rafe murmured, pressing another kiss to her temple. No edge in his voice. No storm brewing.

From the hallway, Lara nearly sagged with relief. Maybe… maybe he hadn’t opened it? Maybe something had happened to the lunchbox—got lost, spilled, thrown away. Maybe this nightmare was over.

She exhaled, her shoulders relaxing for the first time all day. “Why isn't he angry?” she whispered to Mason. “Maybe he didn’t even open it.”

Mason frowned, lowering his controller. “Nah. No way. He had to. Did you—” he narrowed his eyes at her—“did you chicken out and take my shit out?”

Lara’s face flushed hot. “No! I didn’t touch it. I swear.”

Mason leaned back, still frowning, muttering to himself. “Then what the hell…”

But Lara didn’t care. If her Dad was fine, if he was kissing her Mom and acting normal, then she was safe.

Until the boys finally left.

The second the front door shut behind Mason’s teammates, the atmosphere shifted. Rafe’s smile thinned, then dropped entirely. He turned, slow and deliberate, and reached for the glittery lunchbox sitting on the counter.

“Cath,” he said, voice low, even. “We need to talk.”

Catherine glanced up from rinsing dishes, brows lifting in surprise. “About what?”

“Upstairs.” He jerked his head toward the staircase, the lunchbox dangling from his hand like evidence. “Bedroom. Now.”

Catherine blinked, confused but not yet worried. She dried her hands and followed him.

Mason leaned against the doorway, grinning like a cat who’d finally caught the mouse. “Finally,” he muttered under his breath, satisfaction dripping from his tone.

But Lara… Lara’s stomach twisted tighter than ever. Her relief was gone, replaced by ice. If Dad had waited until now to react, then that meant he’d seen everything.

And she wasn’t sure who he was going to be angrier with—their Mom, or them.

Upstairs, the bedroom door clicked shut. Then locked.

Catherine glanced at him, instantly alert. Rafe never locked the door in the middle of the day unless something serious was going on or he couldn’t keep it in his pants any longer.

She stepped closer, sliding her hands up the front of his shirt until they wrapped around his neck. “What’s wrong?” she asked softly, searching his eyes. “Is it Ward? Did he reach out again?”

Rafe shook his head once, but his eyes burned with something darker. His arms came around her waist, pulling her flush against him, one hand sliding lower until it cupped her ass. He squeezed, hard—so hard it made her gasp and whimper, her brows furrowing.

“Something worse,” he muttered, his jaw clenched.

Catherine blinked at him, confused, her breath hitching. “Worse? Rafe, what—?”

He squeezed again, rough, frustration bleeding through his touch. “You think you’re funny?” His voice was low, sharp, dangerous. “Sending me to work with that shit in my lunchbox? In front of my men?”

Catherine’s lips parted, her head tilting as her confusion deepened. “What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” His grip tightened at her waist as he pulled back just enough to stare at her face. “The dog food. The baby food. And the fucking Viagra, Cath. You thought that was cute?”

Her brows shot up, eyes wide. “Wait—what?”

Rafe’s laugh was humorless, bitter. “Don’t play dumb. You really thought you’d embarrass me like that and I wouldn’t say anything? That shit was in front of my colleagues. My colleagues, Catherine.”

She shook her head quickly, her hands tightening on his shoulders. “Rafe, I swear—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But he didn’t believe her. Not yet. His nostrils flared, and the lunchbox he’d set on the bed glinted between them like proof of her guilt.

Catherine pulled away from Rafe, still trying to process his sudden intensity. Her eyes landed on the glittery lunchbox he’d slammed onto the bed. “Wait,” she murmured, reaching for it. She flipped open the lid—and froze.

Inside, everything was laid out exactly as Mason and Lara had planned: the tin of dog food, the jar of baby food, and the little orange pill bottle with the sticky notes. Her mouth fell open.

“It… it was Lara,” she gasped, her voice trembling. “She gave me the lunchbox… she said it was for some TikTok…”

Rafe’s lips twitched, a sharp, incredulous laugh escaping him. “Lara? My little princess? Innocent, perfect little Lara did this?” His hands flexed, gripping the edge of the mattress as disbelief and amusement warred across his face.

Downstairs, Mason leaned toward Lara, nudging her. “Go… go upstairs,” he hissed. “We have to hear this fight.”

“I don’t want to!” Lara whispered, nervously glancing at the staircase.

“Too late!” Mason grabbed her wrist and practically shoved her toward the stairs. “Phone on. Record. Don’t miss it.”

Lara’s fingers fumbled as she turned on her phone and slipped it under the bedroom door, pressing record. She expected yelling, lecturing, maybe some sarcasm—but what she didn’t expect were the sounds of moans, heavy breathing, and sliding across the bed.

Both she and Mason froze, eyes wide. “What the…?” Mason whispered.

Lara yanked her phone back, nearly dropping it. “Oh my god, Mason…”

They both stepped back into the hallway, hearts racing, and bolted down the stairs, eyes locked in horror.

Back in the bedroom, Catherine’s cheek was pressed into the pillow, her sundress bunched high around her hips. Her ass arched up, the fabric wrinkled and riding up as Rafe’s palm came down hard. The smack echoed through the bedroom, heat blooming across her skin.

She gasped, clutching at the sheets, her knuckles white. “Rafe—”

“Don’t,” he cut her off, his voice low and dangerous, vibrating against her spine. Another slap cracked against her ass, harder this time, making her whimper. “You think you can play dumb? Hand me that lunch like it was sweet little notes and salmon bagels?”

Her pussy clenched at his tone, at the stinging heat on her ass. She hated how wet she was getting—hated it, and wanted more.

Rafe leaned over her, one hand fisting in the back of her sundress, the other sliding down her spine. “You wanted me to have lunch, Cath? You should’ve spread yourself open on the counter then.” His mouth was at her ear, hot and rough. “Instead of that bullshit.”

He spanked her again, harder, until her skin was burning, his handprint blooming red against the soft curve of her ass. Her moan was muffled against the pillow, and that only made him smirk.

“Look at you,” he growled, yanking her cheeks apart. The sight made his cock twitch in his slacks. “So wet you’re dripping on the sheets. You like being punished, don’t you? My perfect little housewife taking what I give her.”

Catherine whimpered, her thighs trembling, but she spread them wider for him, surrendering.

“Good girl,” Rafe praised, his voice still edged with danger. He lowered his head, his grip bruising as he held her open, and then his mouth was on her. His tongue slid between her folds, tasting her slick arousal, groaning against her cunt as if it was the only meal he’d ever need.

Catherine cried out, her hips jerking, but his hands pinned her down. He devoured her like he hadn’t eaten all day, his mouth wet and hungry, his nose brushing against her ass as he buried himself deeper.

Rafe’s tongue was merciless, dragging over her folds, dipping into her heat before pulling away again. Catherine’s thighs quivered, her toes curling against the sheets. Every time her body coiled tight, just on the edge, his mouth disappeared, leaving her aching.

She whimpered into the pillow. “Rafe, please—”

He smirked against her slick thigh, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before slipping two fingers inside her, pumping slow and deep. “Please what? Please let you come? After you handed me dog food in front of half my company?” His tone was sharp, mocking.

Her head jerked back, hair sticking to her flushed face. “It wasn’t—Rafe, it was—”

“A prank?” His laugh was cruel, his pace quickening until she moaned. “That’s your excuse? I’m sweet to you, I take care of you, make sure you don’t have to lift a finger—hell, I brag about you at work—and you repay me with baby food and Viagra?”

She cried out, trying to choke out a protest, but her walls squeezed tight around his fingers, her body betraying her. The slick sound of his hand moving in and out of her filled the room, lewd and humiliating.

Her back arched as she teetered on the edge again, so close she could taste it. But Rafe’s eyes narrowed, and he pulled his fingers out at the last second.

Her orgasm shattered into nothing, leaving her trembling. “Rafe!” she whimpered.

“Shut up.” His hand cracked against her pussy, the sharp sting making her jolt. Wetness splattered onto his palm, and his grin was dark, dangerous. “That’s what you get.”

Catherine buried her face in the pillow, throbbing. Her cunt ached for him, clenching around nothing, desperate.

Rafe dragged his fingers down her swollen folds, slow and taunting, but not giving her what she wanted. “You don’t get to come until I decide you’ve learned your lesson. You’re mine, Catherine. My wife. You don’t prank me. You serve me.”

Her body shuddered at his words, humiliation and desire mixing until she couldn’t tell the difference.

“Now,” he growled, slapping her pussy again, the sound wet and obscene, “beg me properly, or I’ll keep edging you all night.”

Catherine’s thighs trembled as she reached between her legs, desperate to ease the ache. Her fingers brushed her own clit, but before she could press down, Rafe’s hand shot out, gripping her wrist tight.

“Oh no,” he snarled, dragging her hand away and slamming it into the mattress. “You don’t touch yourself unless I say you can. You want to come, you beg for me to make you come. Nobody else.”

Her breath hitched, shame burning through her chest as her body betrayed her with another needy whimper. “Please, Rafe… please touch me. I can’t take it anymore.”

Satisfied, he flipped her onto her back in one rough motion. Catherine’s sundress slipped lower, neckline tugged down by his fist until her breasts spilled out, nipples hard and aching. Rafe’s gaze darkened, his hips grinding against her core, his hard cock straining in his slacks as he dry-humped her ruthlessly.

She gasped, arching into him. “Rafe—”

He leaned in close, his mouth brushing her ear. “Does it look like I need Viagra?” His hand slid up her throat, wrapping firmly around her neck, cutting her breath just enough to make her pulse race.

She shook her head quickly, desperate. “N-no. You don’t. You don’t.”

He smirked, grinding harder, but still refusing to give her what she wanted. “That’s right. So why the fuck would you pack it in my lunch, hm? You think that’s funny? Embarrassing me in front of my people?”

Her lips parted, her voice a broken whisper. “It wasn’t me… it was Lara. She said it was gonna be wholesome—”

Rafe laughed sharply, cutting her off, hips rutting harder against her soaked panties. “Wholesome? That’s what you’re going with?” He tightened his grip on her throat, his cock grinding into her clit through the thin fabric until she whimpered. “If you’d said it was Mason, maybe I’d believe you. That little shit lives for pushing my buttons. But Lara?” He shook his head, sneering. “Don’t insult me.”

“I’m not lying,” she whimpered, her body arching beneath him, desperate for any kind of friction.

Rafe’s grin was cruel, his hips slowing as if to tease her with how close he could give her relief. “You want me to believe you? Convince me.”

Her hand slipped down between them, trembling, sneaking onto the thick bulge in his pants. She stroked him through the fabric, her eyes wide and wet as she begged. “Please, Rafe. Please fuck me. I need you, baby. No one else—just you.”

His cock twitched against her palm, his smirk widening. He leaned closer, his forehead pressed to hers, his voice a dark growl. “Beg harder, Mrs. Cameron. Make me believe it.”

Rafe’s grip on her throat tightened, cutting off just enough air to make Catherine’s vision swim. His cock pulsed under her touch, but he still held back, his smirk cruel.

“Say it,” he ordered, grinding into her soaked panties. “Say what you are.”

Her chest heaved, breasts bouncing with each desperate gasp. “I’m—” Her voice broke into a whimper. “I’m yours. Your perfect little housewife.”

Rafe’s laugh rumbled low in his chest. “That’s right. Mine. And my perfect housewife doesn’t hand me dog food in front of my partners.” He yanked her dress aside, the fabric ripping under his fist, and pushed his cock against her drenched entrance. “She spreads herself for me.”

She cried out as the thick head pressed inside, her walls stretching around him. The sudden fullness made her toes curl, her fingers clawing at his shoulders.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he groaned, bottoming out with one rough thrust. He didn’t give her time to adjust, pulling out halfway and slamming back in, the bedframe rattling with the force.

Catherine sobbed, pleasure spiking through the humiliation. “Rafe, please—”

“Please what?” He snapped his hips hard, the sound of wet skin slapping filling the room. His hand clamped her jaw, forcing her to look at him. “Please fuck you? Please remind you who owns this pussy?”

“Yes!” she wailed, her voice breaking as her body bowed beneath him.

Rafe snarled, fucking her raw, punishing her with every thrust. “You don’t prank me, Catherine. You don’t humiliate me. You take care of me. You spread those pretty legs and let me ruin you because that’s your job.” His teeth grazed her ear, his voice a harsh whisper. “That’s what makes you my wife.”

Her cunt clenched desperately around him, the filthy words unraveling her. “I’m yours, Rafe—yours, always—”

He growled deep in his chest, pulling out only to slam back in harder, faster, until her nails dug welts into his back. His hand found her clit, slapping it once before rubbing harsh, brutal circles.

“Then come for me,” he demanded. “Come for your husband. Let me feel how sorry you are.”

Catherine shattered with a cry, her whole body convulsing around his cock as he fucked her through the orgasm. Rafe groaned, thrusts turning ragged as he spilled inside her, grinding deep until she was trembling, wrecked, and filled with him.

He kissed her throat, still holding her pinned down. “That’s better, baby.”

Catherine’s chest rose and fell in ragged bursts, her skin glowing with sweat, her hair plastered to her face. She tried to roll to the side, to catch her breath, but Rafe’s big hand slammed her flat against the mattress.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” His voice was gravel, dark with lust. He spread her thighs again, his cock still hard and slick with both their cum. “I’m not done with you.”

Her lips parted in a broken whimper, but before she could protest, Rafe was inside her again—rough, relentless, his hips snapping with bruising force.

“You know what I told the guys at work today?” His breath was hot against her ear, his thrusts unforgiving. “I told them my wife was perfect. That she cooks for me, takes care of me, never lies to me. That she makes my life so damn easy.” His hand wrapped tight around her throat, squeezing until her moan came out strangled. “And then you send me off with that fucking lunchbox.”

Her nails dug crescents into his biceps, her body arching helplessly into his. She couldn’t fight the pleasure—her cunt clenching greedily around him even as her chest burned from his grip.

That night, Rafe owned her completely.

He fucked her against the dresser, her back pressed hard against the wood until she knew she’d see bruises in the morning. He lifted her leg high, her toes curling against the polished surface, her pussy stretched wide around his cock as he pounded her. His eyes locked on hers, his expression sharp, punishing. “You’re mine. Say it.”

Later, he bent her over the vanity, one fist knotted in her hair, forcing her to watch her own ruined reflection. Her makeup smeared, face wet with tears and sweat, her mouth open on ragged sobs as his hips slapped against her ass. The mirror fogged with their breath, rattling each time he drove into her. He bit down on her shoulder, hard enough to leave his mark, before slapping her ass until the skin glowed.

Her cunt was sore, raw, drenched, but he didn’t stop. He flipped her back onto the bed, her sundress still clinging wrinkled and ruined to her body, the skirt sticky with dried cum. He dragged her onto his lap, his cock sliding back inside as he forced her to ride him.

Catherine whimpered, her legs trembling, her body on the edge of collapse. Her breasts spilled from the neckline of her dress, bouncing with each desperate grind.

“You feel that?” Rafe groaned, one hand gripping her hip, the other squeezing her throat. “That’s me filling you up. Again. And again. I’ll breed you until you can’t walk straight. Until you remember your only job is taking care of me and looking after my babies.”

Her moans broke into sobs, but she clung to him, nails scoring his skin as her body obeyed, riding him even as every nerve screamed from overstimulation. His teeth caught her lip, bruising her with a kiss as filthy as his thrusts.

Rafe fucked her until her cunt ached and her body gave out, and still, he didn’t let her stop—forcing orgasm after orgasm until Catherine was nothing but a trembling, whimpering mess in his lap.

The house was strangely quiet, and for the first time in years, it wasn’t Catherine humming in the kitchen or Rafe barking at someone to hurry up. The sunlight streamed through the big windows, glinting off the polished counter where Bradley was stacking slices of bread and smearing peanut butter with far more care than usual.

The three of them sat in silence, the clink of the butter knife against the plate far too loud.

“So…” Bradley finally broke it, glancing from Mason to Lara as he dropped another sandwich onto a napkin. “What happened last night? Why didn’t Mom make dinner? And why isn’t Dad yelling at us to get in the car?”

Mason slouched back in his chair, pretending not to care, but the smirk twitching on his lips gave him away. He flicked his eyes at Lara, who looked like she hadn’t slept a wink.

Lara avoided her brother’s gaze, clutching her phone in her lap, her stomach knotted. “They… um… probably just wanted a night to themselves,” she muttered. Her voice cracked, and she quickly took a sip of orange juice.

Bradley frowned, suspicious. “Yeah, but—since when do they just disappear? And why aren’t they up now?”

Mason leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his tone too casual. “Trust me, bro. They’re up. Just not the way you think.”

Lara’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide. “Mason!” she hissed, kicking him under the table.

He bit back a laugh, rubbing his shin where she’d nailed him. “What? I’m just saying…” He leaned back again, folding his arms behind his head, smug as ever.

Bradley looked between them, narrowing his eyes. “You two know something. Don’t you?”

The weight of his stare made Lara squirm. She and Mason exchanged a loaded glance—hers anxious, his wickedly entertained.

Upstairs, the faint creak of the bed frame sounded again, muffled through the ceiling. Lara’s cheeks flushed hot as she dropped her gaze to her plate. Mason just smirked wider.

“Nope,” Mason said, grabbing a sandwich from Bradley’s pile. “Don’t know a thing.”

But Lara’s silence said otherwise.

Lara could barely sit still, her leg bouncing under the table as her eyes flicked toward the stairs. Her stomach was tied in knots, the weight of the night before pressing on her chest. Mason, meanwhile, sat back cool as anything, picking at the crust of his sandwich with a lazy grin.

“You look like you’re about to puke,” he muttered under his breath, smirking at his sister.

“Shut up,” Lara hissed, glancing at Bradley, who was eyeing them suspiciously.

Bradley pushed back from the table with a scrape of the chair legs, his brows drawn tight. “You two definitely know something. And if Mom and Dad aren’t up in five minutes, I’m going to check. I’m not getting detention because they overslept.”

At the end of the table, Maisie had her cheek pressed against her folded arms, fast asleep in her uniform, hair still in messy braids.

Lara opened her mouth, but before she could stop him, Bradley strode toward the stairs.

Then the front door opened.

All three of them jerked their heads up, expecting to see Catherine—but it was Rafe. He looked half put together for work: dress pants and belt on, shirt half-buttoned, no tie. His hair was damp from the shower, a shadow of stubble on his jaw.

“Why the hell are you all sitting around?” he asked, snatching Bradley’s carefully stacked plate of sandwiches right off the table. “You’re gonna miss the bell. Bags by the door, let’s go.”

Bradley blinked. “Wait—what about m—”

“Mom's okay,” Rafe cut him off, already turning for the stairs with the stolen food. “Car. Now.”

Bradley scowled, confused, but Mason just snorted into his juice. Lara looked pale, staring at her dad’s retreating back.

Upstairs, Catherine stood naked in front of the walk-in-closet mirror, hair tangled, body aching. Every step made her wince, her thighs trembling, her skin patterned with dark handprints blooming into bruises. She reached for a dress but faltered, limping as she tried to tug it over her head.

Behind her, Rafe sat down on the edge of the bed, watching her like a man with all the time in the world. He set the plate of sandwiches beside him, leaning back on his elbows.

“Careful, baby,” he drawled, eyes drinking in the marks across her thighs and ass as she moved. “You’re walking like you’ve been fucked all night.”

Her cheeks flushed hot, though her voice was sharp. “Because I was, Rafe. You didn’t let me sleep.”

His smirk deepened. “And you loved every second.”

She shot him a glare as she walked toward him, fumbling with the zipper of her dress. “The kids are downstairs. I’m supposed to be getting them off to school, not—” She winced as she bent for her shoes.

“Not limping around like a wreck?” he teased. He reached over, tugging her wrist until she stumbled into his lap. “Sit down before you fall down.”

“Rafe—” she started, but his hand was already sliding up her bruised thigh.

He plucked a sandwich off the plate, holding it to her lips with a smirk. “Eat. You need your strength. Don’t want you passing out next time I bend you over the vanity.”

Catherine chewed slowly, wincing more from her sore body than from the food itself. After the second bite she wrinkled her nose, setting the sandwich back on the plate.

“Ugh. Rafe, please never step in the kitchen again.” She gave him a tired glare. “This is… terrible.”

Rafe chuckled, already taking a big bite out of the sandwich she’d rejected. “Didn’t make it.” He chewed, grinning around the mouthful. “Stole it off Brad. Kid’s better at this than you, babe.”

Her jaw dropped, scandalized. “You stole your son’s breakfast?”

He smirked, swallowing. “Better than the shit you packed for me yesterday.”

She swatted his shoulder, cheeks flushing pink. “Rafe—”

But her expression shifted, serious now, her eyes searching his face. “I wasn’t lying, you know. It was Lara. She gave me that lunchbox. Said it was for TikTok.”

Rafe slowed, the smirk easing just a little as he looked at her. She’d been saying the same thing since last night, stubborn in her defense. And Catherine wasn’t the type to double down on a lie—not when it came to him.

He leaned back, thoughtful. “Lara, huh?”

“Yes,” Catherine said firmly, rubbing her sore thighs as she adjusted on his lap. “She said it was supposed to be wholesome. I didn’t even look inside, Rafe. I just handed it to you.”

His jaw tightened, though a chuckle slipped out. “Still doesn’t make sense. My princess doesn’t even like hearing me say ‘hell.’ And now she’s calling me a bitch and tossing Viagra in my bag?” His brows knit. “Where the fuck would she even get that?”

“She loves you, baby,” Catherine reminded him softly, brushing her fingers through his hair. “She’d never mean to hurt you. Maybe the boys— Mason had something to do with it.”

Rafe grunted, considering. Mason he believed. Lara… his little girl. It didn’t sit right.

Catherine leaned forward, kissing his jaw. “Stop scowling. Help me get ready, or the kids are really going to be late.”

Rafe sighed, setting the plate aside. He grabbed her brush from the vanity, guiding her to sit between his knees. He ran the bristles slowly through her tangled hair, his free hand skimming over her bruised shoulder.

“You know I didn’t mean to go that hard last night. Sorry, baby,” he murmured against her neck, pressing soft kisses where he’d bitten her raw.

Her lips curved in a secret smile, eyes half-lidded as the brush glided through her hair. “Don’t apologize. I liked it.”

Rafe’s smirk deepened, eyes glinting with memory. “You always say that,” he murmured, dragging the brush down the length of her hair. “Back when you used to push me off the rails every damn time. Remember?”

Catherine’s cheeks flushed, but she let out a soft laugh. “You’re the one who can’t control himself.”

“Not with you,” he said simply, kissing the top of her head.

For a moment, the morning felt peaceful—her leaning into his touch, him brushing out her hair like they had all the time in the world.

Then Rafe hummed low in his chest. “Still doesn’t change the fact that someone slipped dog food and Viagra into my lunch.” He tugged lightly at a strand of her hair, his tone darkening. “If that was Lara, she better not be stupid enough to post it on TikTok.”

Catherine shook her head. “She didn’t even film your reaction, Rafe. She probably won’t. It was dumb, but… I don’t think she meant anything by it.”

“Still,” he muttered, setting the brush aside and helping her slip her sundress straps back over her bruised shoulders. “Princess better not test me.”

He kissed her once more, slow and tender, before heading downstairs. Catherine was still fastening her earrings when she heard his footsteps fade.

Rafe was on his way to the garage, keys in hand, when Lara stopped him in the hallway. She looked nervous, her phone clutched tight in her hand.

“Daddy,” she whispered, glancing back toward the kitchen before stepping closer. “It was me and Mason.”

Rafe froze. His brows drew together, that icy Cameron stare settling on her. “What?”

Lara’s lips trembled, but she shoved her phone into his hand. The video played—her and Mason giggling as they packed the lunch, slipping in the cursed items. Then a cut to Catherine, clueless, handing over the lunchbox as Rafe leaned down to kiss her goodbye.

Rafe’s jaw tightened.

Lara’s voice broke in a rush. “I wasn’t gonna show anyone else. I swear. It was just supposed to be funny.”

He was about to close the video when the last clip rolled—Lara holding her phone low under the master bedroom door, Mason’s voice whispering in the background. Then the unmistakable sound of Catherine’s moans. The squeak of the mattress. The rhythmic thud of skin on skin.

Rafe’s chest went tight, blood rushing hot through his veins. He snapped his gaze down to Lara, who looked as if she wanted to melt into the floor.

“What. The fuck. Is this?” His voice was low, dangerous.

Lara’s stomach twisted as the last clip played, the sounds bleeding out of the phone like nails dragging down glass. She wished she could rip it back, smash it, anything to make it disappear.

“Dad…” Her voice cracked, her cheeks burning hotter than fire. “I didn’t mean for it to be like that. I swear.” Her hands shook as she wrung them together, eyes glossy. “I just… I just wanted to do a nice video. You know, with the salmon bagel and the protein bar—like a cute, wholesome TikTok. That’s what I wanted.”

Rafe’s jaw flexed, his stare cutting through her like steel.

“Mason—” Lara’s words tumbled out, desperate. “He’s the one who wanted to get back at you. Because you grounded him for taking your dirt bike to impress that stupid girl. He said if we made it a prank, it would be funny. I didn’t—” She choked, covering her face with her hands. “I didn’t want to disrespect you. Not you, not Mom.”

Her voice broke on the last words.

Rafe inhaled sharply through his nose, his chest rising and falling. Every instinct in him screamed to roar, to tear the house apart until both kids learned their lesson. But Lara wasn’t Mason. Lara was his little girl, his princess—the one he’d always let get away with too much because she had his heart in the palm of her hand.

He crouched down slowly, fingers gripping her wrists to gently pull her hands away from her face. Her tear-streaked cheeks and trembling lips gutted him more than any prank ever could.

“You wanted to do something nice for me?” His voice was rough, but quiet.

She nodded frantically, lower lip wobbling. “Yes. I promise. I told Mason that putting all that other stuff in was a mistake. I swear, Daddy.”

Rafe exhaled, dragging his palm down his face as he tried to contain the rage boiling in his blood. Not at her—but at Mason. Always Mason.

“Where’s your dickhead of a brother?” he asked finally, his tone cutting but controlled.

“Garage,” she whispered, voice shaking. “With his bag.”

Rafe’s mouth pressed into a hard line. He pushed himself up to his full height, towering over her, but his hand came down briefly to smooth her hair, a fleeting show of softness.

“You stay right here, princess. Calm down, we'll wait for you in the car.” His tone left no room for argument, but it wasn’t shouted—it was tight restraint, the way only Rafe Cameron could pull off when it came to his little girl.

Then he turned on his heel, shoulders broad and tense, stalking toward the garage where Mason was waiting—clueless to the storm about to break over him.

The garage was its usual chaos—gear bags, cleats, bikes shoved against the wall. Mason was leaning against the door of Rafe’s SUV, smirking as he nudged Maisie’s arm where she was dozing off in a folding chair.

“Wake up, M's,” Mason teased in a sing-song voice. “You’re gonna drool all over Dad’s toolbox.”

Bradley, already strapped into his backpack, rolled his eyes and focused on lacing his sneakers tighter. He didn’t even look up.

That’s when the door slammed open.

Rafe’s footsteps were heavy, sharp, each one echoing like a warning shot. Bradley stiffened. Mason looked up, smirk already forming. “Finally. We thought—”

“Outside,” Rafe cut him off, voice like a whip. He grabbed Mason by the back of his shirt and yanked him off the SUV, dragging him toward the side door.

“Whoa, Dad, chill—” Mason laughed nervously, stumbling after him.

But the second the door shut behind them, the laugh died. Rafe spun him around, shoving him back against the siding of the house so hard Mason’s breath hitched.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Rafe’s voice was a roar now, the kind that rattled bone. “You think it’s funny to humiliate me in front of my coworkers? You think it’s cute to drag your sister into your bullshit because you can’t take a punishment like a man?”

Mason’s grin faltered, but he tried to play it off, shoulders hitching in a cocky shrug. “It was just a joke—”

Rafe slammed his hand flat against the wall by Mason’s head, making him flinch. “A joke? Viagra, Mason? Dog food? Making your sister hand it over like it was her mother’s idea?” His jaw clenched, eyes burning. “Do you even think before you pull this shit, or are you just that fucking dumb?”

Mason swallowed hard, shifting under the weight of his father’s glare. “I—”

“No.” Rafe jabbed a finger at his chest, cutting him off. “You don’t get to talk right now. You embarrassed me, you disrespected your mom, and you dragged your sister into this shitshow. That’s not a prank, Mason. That’s you being a selfish, dickheaded little boy.”

For once, Mason didn’t have a comeback. His frat-boy smirk was gone, his throat bobbing as he looked anywhere but at his father.

Rafe leaned in close, his voice dropping, deadly quiet. “And if you ever drag Lara into your bullshit again—ever—I will make you regret it. Do you hear me?”

Mason nodded quickly, muttering, “Yes, sir.”

Rafe straightened, still seething, his hand raking down his face as he forced himself to breathe. He’d expected Mason to pull some stunt after the dirt bike mess. But this? This was a whole new line crossed.

Rafe had his hand clamped around the back of Mason’s neck, steering him toward the garage door. His jaw was still locked tight, fury running hot through his veins. He was ready to shove Mason back inside when he caught it—low muttering, sharp words dripping from Mason’s mouth.

“Always me,” Mason grumbled, scuffing his sneaker against the concrete. “Always my fault. Always the one taking the fall.”

Rafe froze mid-step. Slowly, he turned his head, his grip on Mason’s neck tightening. “What did you just say?”

Mason shifted, eyes darting anywhere but his father’s face. “Nothing.”

“The hell it was nothing,” Rafe snapped. He yanked Mason back around to face him. “Say it again. Out loud.”

Mason clenched his jaw, lips pressed into a thin line. But Rafe’s stare cut into him, unrelenting, and finally the words tumbled out.

“I said it’s always me!” Mason’s voice cracked louder now, frustration bursting through. “You never go after Lara, or Brad, or Maisie—it’s always me! I’m the one you drag outside, I’m the one you yell at, I’m the one you ground for weeks. You embarrassed me in front of my friends when you caught me with the dirt bike—”

“Because you stole my bike,” Rafe shot back, stepping in closer. “You took it without asking. You could’ve wrecked it, Mason—you could’ve wrecked yourself.”

“I didn’t scratch it!” Mason’s voice broke with desperation. “I was fine, the bike was fine, but you acted like I totaled the damn thing. You made me stand there like some little kid while you ripped into me in front of everyone.”

Rafe’s chest rose and fell, nostrils flaring. “You are a little kid. You think you’re grown because you can mouth off and sneak around, but you’re not. You don’t get to act like a man if you can’t take responsibility for your shit.”

Mason’s fists balled at his sides, eyes wet with angry tears he refused to blink away. “I’m the oldest! But you treat me like I’m the youngest. Like I’m the screw-up. Lara bats her eyes at you, and you let her get away with everything, but me? You jump on me for every little thing I do.”

Rafe’s lips pressed into a hard line, his silence heavier than a shout.

Mason laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “You don’t even see it, do you? You’ve already picked favorites. It’s always Lara. She’s your princess, Bradley’s the golden boy, Maisie’s the baby—what does that make me? The fuck-up?”

The words hung between them, raw and ugly. Mason’s chest heaved, his voice cracking on the last word.

Rafe stared at him, his face unreadable for a long moment, the muscle in his jaw ticking as if he was holding back everything he wanted to say. Then, finally, his voice came out low and dangerous.

“You think I’m hard on you because I don’t give a shit? No, Mase. I’m hard on you because you’re supposed to be the example. You’re supposed to be better. And every time you pull this reckless, selfish crap, you prove me right—you prove you’re not ready to be treated like a man.”

Mason’s throat worked as he swallowed, but he didn’t say anything. His eyes darted away, shame flickering across his face even as his jaw stayed tight.

Rafe took a step closer, lowering his voice. “You wanna be grown? Then act like it. Until then, don’t you dare whine about being treated like a kid when you pull stunts like this.”

Rafe’s hand stayed clamped on Mason’s shoulder as he shoved open the garage door, steering him back inside. Bradley glanced up from the bench, brows lifting when he caught the tension between them, but said nothing. Maisie, still half-asleep, stirred at the sound, mumbling something incoherent as her head lolled against her backpack.

“Get in the car,” Rafe ordered, voice clipped.

Bradley obeyed without question, slinging his bag over his shoulder. Mason dragged his feet but climbed into the back seat, slamming the door harder than necessary. Lara was already buckled in, staring down at her lap, cheeks red from guilt.

Rafe helped Maisie into the car and slid behind the wheel, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles whitened. For a moment, he didn’t start the engine. He just stared straight ahead, jaw working.

Because in Mason—slouched, sullen, chewing on his anger instead of spitting it out—Rafe saw himself. The same recklessness. The same bone-deep defiance. That itch to prove something, even if it meant burning down everything around you.

It rattled him more than he wanted to admit.

Rafe wanted him to be better. To grow up without the weight of Ward Cameron’s shadow, without the mistakes that had nearly destroyed Rafe’s own life. He wanted Mason to learn without scars, to have the fire but not let it consume him.

But as he looked at his son’s reflection in the rearview mirror—jaw tight, eyes stubborn and wet—Rafe’s throat went dry.

How the hell was he supposed to say that? How was he supposed to tell Mason that the very reason he came down on him harder than the others wasn’t because he loved him less… but because he couldn’t stand to watch him become another version of himself?

The words sat heavy on his tongue, but Rafe swallowed them. He wasn’t his old man—he wouldn’t break his son with silence. But he wasn’t sure yet how to bridge the gap either.

So he turned the key, the engine roaring to life. “Seatbelts on,” he muttered, eyes forward. “We’re late.”

The car filled with the sounds of buckles clicking, Maisie yawning, Bradley fiddling with his phone. Mason stayed silent, arms crossed tight.

masturbation didn’t even help.

not in the slightest.

he jerked off in the showers regularly, fisting his aching, angry cock with urgency as he pressed his forehead into the tile wall and moaned her name into the running water. he’d buck his hips to gain friction against his palm when he orgasmed, clapping his free hand over his mouth to stifle his repetitive mewling, and then would watch as his wasted load swirled down the drain.

it was all very routine. it usually was a temporary solution to the desperate and persistent yearning he felt during every agonizing minute of every torturous day. more broadly, it was just hard to ignore the reality that he’d never been so horny in his entire life—and it was all because of her, though he could never truly blame her beauty. his perverse nature was the real culprit.

the only time that he’d successfully been able to get off and get over her for longer than an hour happened when he came back to his dorm room after a party thrown by a handful of the other members of the tennis team. he’d gotten drunk on beer and cheap shots, egregiously so, but still found himself stumbling into his room with half of an erection bulging in the front of his pants. as he kicked off his shoes and peeled off his bottoms, he recalled what one of his teammates had said about her in the middle of the function—

“she’s so fucking hot, isn’t she? i mean, shit, i’d do anything to fuck her.”

art had never considered himself a violently jealous person, but in that very moment at the party something ugly had reared its head and he’d wanted nothing more than to put his fist to the guy’s teeth until his own knuckles cracked and bled. the guy had never even talked to her before, whereas it could be argued that art and her were almost friends. if anyone deserved to squeeze her plush tits and slide their unworthy dick into her perfect pussy, it was him. he ended up having to walk away from that cesspool of locker-room talk in order to avoid starting something that would surely land him in hot water with the university.

he took off his shirt and dropped it down onto his floor to meet his other garments as he staggered deeper into his cramped living space, crawling up to lay on his twin xl. his hand was immediately in his boxers in the next moment, fondling his warm flesh as it swelled hungrily in his touch, and he groaned and shuddered as he felt his head spin wildly. art then turned to flip himself gracelessly over onto his stomach, limbs moving uncoordinatedly with each brief shift of his weight. his jaw slacked and he gasped pathetically into his sheets as he humped his curled set of digits. though, when he blinked his eyes open blearily, his wasted brain formed a filthy idea..

“ohhh, fuck me,” he whimpered, shoving a pillow from the top of his mattress between his legs, his pelvis arching back only to rut forward and smush his clothed shaft into the cushion, “i’m all yours.. please, use m’cock.. don’t take anyone else’s, i wan’ be the only one—!”

he slurred through every lewd word that left his mouth. his abdomen curled and tensed as he began to feverishly hump the softness under him, his cock throbbing with incoming drizzles of pleasure. he clawed at his bedding like he was some sort of drooling, snarling, chained-up monstrosity. felt like one too with all of the arousal paralyzing his frame. every cell in his being was on fire with the debilitating need to be nestled in her sopping cunt, hugged by her slick walls and pleasing her any way that he was able. he imagined sucking on her nipples until she pulled his hair.. her soft tongue on the seam of his sack.. her fingers at the back of his throat, fluttering and giving him something to worship as he pounded up into her. his thrusts quickened to sync with the rapid beating of his heart in his ribcage. he was so close that he almost felt sick with it all.

art's noises raised in pitch and volume with every second; everything was boiling over in record time.

“oh no—“ he drunkenly choked and moaned, teetering on the edge, “mommy, i’m gonna come inside you—i’m, i’m so—it feels s’good, i can’t hol’ it anymore—please don’t b’mad, i really like y—HAAH—“

he pushed himself up onto his palms and let out a strangled, wet cry as he suddenly felt the world close in on him. head tipped back, toes curled, muscles flexed. white flashes erupted behind his low lids, something hot gushing copiously from his tip and into his underwear.. over and over and over and over again. a final curse flew from his lips as his climax wrapped its arms around his body and flooded him with the last bits of boiling gratification—so much so that it was almost numbing. his hips moved jerkily through the lingering sensations; they snapped downward several times until the spilling of fluids ceased and was only replaced by the feeling of all-consuming oversensitivity. art quaked from his head down to his toes, squirming and hiccuping against the stimulation that only he could save himself from.

when he finally collapsed into a panting heap, the fantasy of her core wringing him dry starting to fade out, he'd sucked at his bottom lip and let out the tiniest of whines.

“mommy.. mommy, mommy, mommy..”

he whimpered it until he fell asleep.