#normiejo

“fuckin’ beautiful. i love you so much. can’t wait ‘til you’re my wife. gonna spoil you lots. . . yeah? want me to take care of this pretty pussy forever?” he clicks his tongue when you try to hide behind your hands, voice softening just a touch. “hey. . . don’t do that, sweetheart. don’t hide from me. wanna see you— wanna watch your face when we fall apart together.”

you nod vigorously as he thrusts harder. “such a needy, clammy thing. . . cum, baby. good girl.” he purrs. “need to feel you tighten up on me.”

it was almost like you were dating two, no, three different men.

“you had her last fucking sunday, shithead,” sutarō spits, crushing another beer down in a few gulps before swearing at the empty can. “we’re already halfway through that stupid mormon show she likes. says she can’t watch it without me. then we’ve got a pilates class after my chapter meet— and i know you can’t handle that shit. i barely can.”

“she can finish the show with me,” sotari shoots back, pushing his glasses up his nose. “besides, she has an exam coming up and i promised i’d help her. i told her sunday was going to be our study date.”

satoru could only shake his head at his other, visually identical, pathetic thirds. he’s already given up his sunday with you twice. it was his turn to see you for an extra day of the week.

“look,” he starts, “i haven’t had a sunday with her in two weeks. she’s probably stressed out of her mind over that exam and could use an actual rest day. and sutarō— you seriously traumatized her at that ‘spring break spree with kaisen phi’ darty you dragged her to today. imagine how she felt when her supposedly very nerdy, piano-playing boyfriend with an. . . occasional sadistic streak suddenly did a handstand keg stand while a crowd of frat bros started chanting, ‘that’s our sexy, perverted pledge master’ around him.”

“sotari’stheactualpervert.” sutarō grumbles under his breath.

“i heard that, asshole.”

satoru exhales, running a hand through his hair.

“just let me take her out on a normal dinner date. she’s been craving sushi, and i just bought her a new bath bomb that she’s been wanting us to try. i even put my card in her phone wallet and told her to go get her nails done.”

“french tip?” they ask simultaneously, looking almost starry-eyed.

he sighs. “of course.”

“her birthday is coming up,” sutarō says, leaning back in his chair. “isn’t it about time we tell her the truth? she might even enjoy having all three of us.” he licks his lips. “at once.”

“or she’d have a cerebrovascular accident.” sotari quips.

“bitch, just say stroke. she’d have a stroke.”

“okay, know-it-all,” look in the mirror, sotari, “how about you tell me what the symptoms of a stroke are?”

“spazzing out, going brazy. . . man, you’re just mad your bread ain’t up.”

“actually, we’re both unemployed. at least i have my research lab—”

“it might be wise,” satoru cuts in, firmer now. “to tell her. we’d still have to take turns, but at least we could all spend time with her without lying.”

for once, sutarō doesn’t immediately argue. he just tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling, jaw working like he’s chewing on something he can’t quite spit out.

“or,” he mutters after a beat, “she laughs. calls us insane. slams the door in our faces. never talks to any of us again.”

“or,” satoru counters, “she doesn’t.”

the room falls quiet, thick with the weight of it. possibility, risk, all of it balanced on something as fragile as your reaction.

“she can barely handle one.”

“imagine two.” sotari shakes his head.

“no, imagine—”

click.

the triplets freeze.

a soft mechanical whir follows, unmistakable.

slowly, their heads turn.

and there you were, standing in the doorway, a freshly printed polaroid sliding out into your hand as your eyes flicker between them with an expression so unreadable.

“. . .three?”