#pwp

You, with your sensual curves and smooth skin and sharp eyes. You, who took one look at the scuff mark he made on your very expensive-looking heels and laughed. You, who, as you now fully turn to face him, smelled faintly of warm rice and deep vanilla, spiced quince and smoked cinnamon. 

You. 

You, you, you. 

The girl he has been harboring the most, painful, humiliatingly pathetic crush on for the past two and a half years. 

A playful grin formed on your plush lips. Your eyes began to scan him over, assessing. The small stud above his brow glinted to you as if in greeting. His hair, which normally was tied up, was down today, the thick black frames he wore slightly obscuring the pinkish scar that ran across his nose, and his dark lashes were fluttering against his pale skin in a way that made him look so… soft. 

Choso could feel his eyes begin to widen as you took him in. His heart mobilized to his throat, his nape began to prick with cool droplets of sweat. Was he blushing right now or was it just hot? The bustle of the line all but faded away to him.

You began to speak, and it took him several moments before realizing that the pitched ringing in his ears were in fact, not his own deluded creations, but his headphones. His ridiculous, small, obscured headphones that were actively on noise-cancellation mode.

You were talking to him, and he couldn't hear you. 

Now, this wasn't the first time you and Choso ever crossed paths. The two of you started at the company on the same day, and the both of you were partners during the week-long onboarding program. You captivated him with your casual boldness, magnetic presence, and how just one word from you could command the attention of the entire group. 

He surprised you with his low voice, observing eyes, sharp features, and the way that he spoke his words with the kind of deep earnestness of someone who has never been burned. 

You were intrigued.

He was captivated. 

By the time the onboarding week finished, all the new hires went around the room stating their departments and their title. When it came your time to speak, and the words "Portfolio Management Director" left your oh, so pretty lips, Choso could feel the barriers going up before he could even fully comprehend it. 

When everyone began to filter out of the room, mingling with the peers they grew acquainted with during the program, all he could do was keep his head down. At the time, all he could think about was how foolish he was to hope that there could ever even be a small possibility with you.  

He ended up leaving without saying goodbye (admittedly not his best decision), and you watched him go with the smallest traces of hurt squeezing your chest. 

And so that's why Choso finds himself here, on this Friday morning two and a half years later, flustered, embarrassed, and scrambling to string together one coherent sentence for you. 

This was worse than his own personal hell. This was abuse and torture wrapped up in one single, harrowing blow. 

Choso could see you had stopped talking and were looking at him expectantly now. 

And honestly? You could handle scuff marks and damaged shoes. You could handle snarky colleagues and misogynistic execs. You've fought for your spot (if only everyone could've seen the state you left Zenin Naoya in...) and swiftly climbed your way up the corporate ladder. You were one of the youngest, and most favored, female directors at the company. You could handle your own and pretty much anything thrown at you - but that did not mean you took kindly to being ignored, especially by the regretfully attractive IT geek that somehow left such an impression on you all those years ago. 

The easy smile you wore slowly began to fall with every passing second of his silence. Behind you, the line began to march forward.

Choso was immobilized. He had to act, and fast. In his fantasies, he would've approached you with the kind of slickness and sex-appeal that Sukuna Ryomen (the notorious office rake) was said to employ at the weekly happy hours (allegedly, according to Satoru). Choso would have wow'd you with his intellect, he would have made you laugh. He would've apologized for his initial lameness after the onboarding debacle all those years ago. He would've found a way to finally get your number, dammit! 

Instead, all the words he wanted to say were competing for a spot of your attention, and something halfway between a choked groan and garbled sputtering was all that could escape his mouth. 

Your eyes slightly widened. 

Choso wished for death to strike him. 

He could feel the light tapping of the people behind him, urging him to move. 

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. A mix of something halfway between sympathy and disappointment flashed in your eyes, but you turned around too quickly before he could decipher it. And so he was left standing there, in the middle of the cafeteria with bated breath and a palpitating heart, as you walked up to the continental buffet without so much as a glance back. 

God, he was truly pathetic. And also so, so incredibly fucked. 

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"Oh now that's fuckin' gold-" Satoru was barking at this point, laughing so hard his glasses slid down his nose, "-even I'm not THAT bad" his howls echoed throughout the entirety of the IT department's floor. Even Suguru, who was always so neutral in these situations, was chuckling and nodding in agreement as he listened to Choso's embarrassing retelling of this morning's encounter. 

Choso's face twisted in misery. 

If he was lamer than Gojo Satoru, who was generally considered as the office's "lamest", then he should just resign the rest of his life to virgin-hood now. 

Gojo: +10

Choso: -67

With a grumble of the most unsavory curses he knew, and a swift kick to Gojo's long shins (that, satisfyingly, shut him up), Choso got up from his desk for his shift at the tenth-floor IT help station. 

Which, to both his happiness and dismay, was where all the higher-ups worked. Where you worked. 

He rubbed his face once, his glasses lifting under his fingers, before staring up at the elevator ceiling. 

"Please pull yourself together, man" he whispered under his breath. 

The tenth floor IT "station" was moreso a glorified closet, in his opinion. The only attribute that made it a “station” was the one,  small service window that one would normally see at drive-thru’s. All Choso had to do for the next 3-hours was sit behind the window and wait for the digital clock to hit 5pm. And normally, his time at the counter would go as it always did: quiet and uneventful. 

So, was it divine intervention or cruel punishment that led you to walk over to the window at 4pm, your heels clicking against the polished floor as you stood before him for the second time that day?

"Mr. Kamo," you said in greeting. You were still a little peeved from the situation that occurred earlier in the day, and your usual easy tone was replaced with something a touch cooler.

"H-Hi," he breathed. Slick. He coughed before correcting himself, "what can I do for you?" 

His eyes flickered up at you and then down to his fidgeting hands. He knew he needed to explain what happened earlier. His earbuds, his chronic-lameness, his affinity with making a fool out of himself whenever you were within a four-meter radius. 

You sighed. "Seems like my laptop decided to give out on me," your lips formed a slight pout and your brows furrowed in cute concern. His heart thumped in his throat. "Think you can fix it?" You raised your eyes to meet his, and he suddenly became acutely aware of just how warm his face was.

He nodded quickly, jerkily. "I can certainly try." 

You say your thanks softly, just a touch distant, before silently handing him your computer. 

He flushed in embarrassment as he stumbled to take the device from you. The IT window, though useful, had a worktable on his side. So, he had to extend over the table to get to the counter of the window, where you had placed your laptop. 

Your eyes furtively stared at the way his surprisingly sculpted arms extended out to reach over. You noticed the soft outline of a scar wrapping around his mid forearm, and the veins that ran down from there and into his large hands. 

You clear your throat, trying to stop yourself from saying (or moaning) something stupid, and excuse yourself. 

He was able to diagnose your laptop in a matter of minutes. The internal cooling fan was clogged with dust, and all he had to do was blast it with some compressed air. It was simple, really. He anticipated it would only take him ten minutes to fix the whole thing.

And yet, he sat there stalling. 

You sat in one of the lounge chairs beside his window, your legs neatly crossed and your manicured nails tapping away on your phone. The sun was beginning to set, and the glow from its light was illuminating you in such a way that it would make it a crime not to stare. 

“Yes, Mr. Kamo?”

You didn’t glance up from your phone, but your brows held a light, inquisitive arch. His breath stuttered. 

“I am so sorry about earlier,” his voice was so gentle you almost missed it. You finally look up. “The breakfast line this morning. That time from onboarding two years ago-” the thumping of his veins was hard enough to staccato his speech, yet he could not stop now. “I am so sorry. For everything. For your shoes. For acting the way I did. For not saying goodbye. I had earbuds in and-god-I don’t know why I’m so…” 

“Shy?” You offer to him.

“Lame.” He mumbles. 

Your laugh is an angelic ring to his ears, and he watches as your hand covers your mouth as your eyes begin to crinkle. It was hard to stay annoyed when he was so endearing, so earnest with his words. The worry lines on his forehead began to ease, and a relieved smile slowly made its way onto Kamo Choso’s face for the first time today.

“All is forgiven-” your smile was small, perhaps even a touch shy. You hesitate, before saying, “thank you, Mr. Kamo.” It was your turn now to not be able to meet his eyes. And though you couldn’t bring yourself to say it, the implication of your words hung in the air. Thank you. Thank you for telling me. Thank you for your courage. 

A comfortable silence settled between the two of you as the sun fully dipped into the horizon. You returned to your phone, and he returned to your computer. 

And when he finally opened up the casing to clean out your fan, he made sure to leave a section untouched in the hopes that maybe, just maybe you would come back to visit him again. 

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It was slow at first, but eventually you did return. And then again. And again and again. 

One time for a docking station. The next, for your headphones (you both laughed). He checked your monitors one week, and your cables the next. It would be something new each time you came rounding the corner. 

He would often find himself searching for the sound of your heels, like it was a message just for him; something sacred; a secret admission. 

And every time you came around, you stayed by his window as he worked. You liked to watch the flush that would inevitably creep onto his features, and he liked to relish in your closeness, the smell of your shampoo, the sounds of your bracelets clinking together, and the faces you made as you read through your emails. 

Sometimes, if he was lucky, he would catch you staring. He smiled more on those days. 

Somehow, somewhere in those two or so months, the two of you began to ease into each other. You talked more, he stuttered less. Your professional smiles grew into something more unreserved. His anxious hands gradually found peace. Over time, silence turned into polite niceties, which turned into conversations about weekend plans, which turned into gentle teases about music tastes, coffee order skepticisms, and pop-culture references. You surprised him by being a secret gamer. He surprised you by being a shameless sweet-tooth. 

After weeks of odd-repair jobs flew by, there was probably no other office supplies of yours that Choso hadn’t checked. 

He was sure that the final days of you visiting him were soon approaching, and the thought alone was enough to send him into an emotional spiral all week. He didn’t want whatever this was to stop. Your presence easily became the favorite aspect of his routine: a loud part of his normally quiet schedule that he looked forward to every Friday. 

He just needed to man up. Grow a pair. And if today was his last shot, then he would. And if you didn't show up to his IT window tonight? Then he would finally attend the company happy hours just in case you would be there. And if you were there, then he would approach you at the bar and he would buy you a drink. He would ask for your number. He would tell you to address him casually from here on out. He would, he would, he would. 

For you? He would do anything.

It was ten-to-five, and the twisting in Choso’s stomach was becoming unbearable. He was all but ready to pack up and sprint to the bar that all the employees went to on Friday nights when he heard the familiar click of your heels as you rounded the corner. 

His heart was pounding, and he could hear the blood rushing past his ears. 

“You’re going to hate me,” you started. 

Never, he wanted to say in reply. 

“Oh? How so?”

“My work phone,” you frowned, “I’d hate to keep you late on a Friday night, but…” you softly waved the device in your hand. “Think you can manage?”

The turbulence in his body settled. You were here. He will get your number today. He will ask, after this. His eyes softened, as they normally did whenever you were near, and a smile graced his pretty features. “When have I not?”

You laughed and nodded, a touch flushed, biting your lip as your eyes lit up with something warm, something he couldn’t place.

A beat passes. Your gaze drops from his eyes, to his lips, then quickly up to the dark piercing by his brow. Were you too obvious? Was he too dense?  

"My savior." You said it like it was a secret. Breathy, earnest, purposeful. 

His ears turned another shade redder. 

You handed your phone to him wordlessly, and his fingers grazed yours. Where yours were warm and smooth, his were cool and calloused. He gulped. You grinned. 

As you settled down into your usual spot on the lounge chair, laptop opened to your email, he began to assess the damage on your phone. 

“Do you remember what applications were running before it broke? Helps give me a better understanding of the issue.” He was focused now, skillfully popping off the case and assessing the ports. 

You hummed. “The last thing I used was the camera - I was taking pictures of a merger agreement to forward to the legal team.” You checked your watch. “I was hoping to send it all over by 8pm at the latest.”

Though he nodded casually, he couldn’t help but be in awe of your composure, your effortless nonchalance with your power and position. 

As he finally got the screen on your work phone to power up, you began to get a video call on your laptop. You excused yourself, mouthing “Sorry, gotta take this” to him, before you turned and headed back to your desk. It looked like you were quite busy. He hoped you were taking care of yourself; that you ate something today. He made a mental note for himself to ask you later.

He fiddled with your phone for several minutes. After cleaning out your charging port, plugging your device into power, and doing other general troubleshooting, your phone screen finally lit up with its signature brand logo. 

Though it lagged, he was able to get to your home screen and look into your settings. After a general inspection of your storage, software system, and other miscellaneous settings, he moved on to your camera app to check if the app would crash like you had mentioned. 

He truly did not mean to pry. He was just about to close the app when he saw it - the small square photo cover of a folder in your camera roll. The preview was of you. Of your body. 

And, oh fuck- were these your nudes?

Fuck. 

He could feel the blood draining from his face...  

He immediately put your phone down. 

What the hell was he doing?

You were a distinguished senior-level employee. His colleague. His crush. Dare he say, friend? 

His very, very attractive friend.  

He gulped. He could feel his dick pulse in interest, a faint throb that blended with the beating anticipation in his heart.

He slowly picked your phone back up.

He wished he could feel more turmoil; he wished that his morality would kick in and tell him to stop, to tell him to show some sliver of respect for your privacy. But all he could hear was silence in the face of his insatiable curiosity.

You weren’t here right now. The call you took seemed important enough to go back to your office for. Perhaps… Perhaps he could just reaffirm what he thought he saw?

His pulse was beating so wildly that his heart felt like it was working on overload. With shaky hands, he clicks back into the folder. 

Fuck. 

He wanted to cry. He might actually cry. 

There were only seven pictures total. Before he could think too hard, he tapped into the first one and scrolled through. 

The first was of you laying on your side, your heavy tits barely held up by the flimsy pink lingerie you had on. His dick lurched in his jeans at the sight of your nipples barely caught on the lace. He could see the dip of your waist, the curve of your hips, the light gloss on your lips. 

He could feel his hand reaching down to his crotch before he could register what was happening. 

The hell? This was you? Hidden behind all your smart clothes and persisting authority? 

His fingers involuntarily squeezed himself through his pants. He could feel the fiery pit in his stomach convulse. He tried to ignore the wet spot that was beginning to form where the tip of his cock kissed his briefs. He continued to scroll. 

More pictures of your tits, some with them squished together, some with them spilling over your purposefully small tops. Once he got to the ones of your ass, he had to stifle a surprised groan with a choked cough. The slutty thongs you wore almost made him pass out. One pair was made of only cross-linking satin strips. Another was just translucent lace. Regardless of material, he was transfixed by the way they got swallowed up by the expanse of your plump, juicy, impossibly round ass. 

And then he got to the video. The video. 

His heart was wild against his ribs. A vibrator was between your legs. Your thong shoved to the side. Your wetness was soaking the fabric so thoroughly it was see through, and your slick was coating the tip of the device until it shined. Your nipples were hard and peaking through the tops of your bra. One hand was pumping two fingers into your pussy, and the other held the vibrator to rub against your swollen clit.

It was so obscene. So dirty. So fucking erotic. 

He did not know what took over him, but he could not stop himself now. His pants were unzipped, briefs shoved down, cock fully exposed underneath his worktable. He was jerking himself off like he was possessed, drunk off of the way you looked on the screen. His dick was heavy, thick, and hot in his hand. The mushroomed tip was angry and red, rubbed raw by the friction of being trapped in his underwear. He was leaking such an embarrassing amount that he wasn’t entirely sure if it was pre or if he literally came untouched in his pants without realizing. 

He could hear your low pants coming from the screen, and the shlk shlk shlkkk of your nimble fingers fucking inside of yourself. He had to clench his jaw so hard that the veins in his neck were surely popping out, just to stop himself from making noise. Each time you rubbed the slickened vibrator against your cunt, and it partly disappeared between your pussy lips, his own dick bobbed with fresh waves of need. 

What the hell were these doing on your work phone? Was this even your work phone? 

His forehead was lightly damp now. His chest was heaving. His face was so fucking flushed. His heartbeat felt so loud in his ears that he couldn’t hear the faint clicking of your heels as you returned to him. 

“...Mr. Kamo?”

His face snapped up. You were standing directly across from him, the only thing separating the two of you being the service-window wall. A beat passes, and your video is still playing on loop in his hand. 

Your lips part in slow recognition, but the shadow of something indecipherable flickers across your features. 

The world around you both seems to still, the Tokyo nightlife all but muted in the bubble that formed between you and him. 

He sat frozen as you wordlessly walked up to, and opened, the door to his IT room. 

It only took you two steps inside before you slowly dropped to your knees, your eyes never leaving his. With your field of vision lower now, you could see his large hand still fisting his dick underneath the table. 

And… Holy shit. He was so… large. 

You don’t realize you're gulping. 

You don’t realize that you’re salivating. 

This fucking nerd was packing… what? Nine full inches and then some?

Your wide eyes look back up to him, and he stares back with something akin to both utter humiliation and desperation. 

“I never got to properly thank you for all your help these past few months,” you whisper. 

Wait, what? 

Before his delirious brain could process the implication of your soft words, you’re leaning in to lick up the salty pre that pooled at the base of his cock, slurping at the excess, and licking allllll the way up to the pulsing head.  

Your tongue was so soft, so ridiculously fuckin’ wet. 

And Choso was so taken by surprise, so dazed by the fact that this was his reality right now, that his jaw slackened, and a fuckin’ whimper escaped his throat. 

You began to trace the veins on his dick and he could’ve sworn he saw stars. 

You took your time, languidly finding a path up up, up. By the time you made it to the tip, he thought he was going to cry (he was unsure if he already was), until you wrapped your plush lips around the underside of his mushroomed cockhead, putting delicious pressure on his most sensitive area.  

“Put your hands on me,” you almost whined it out, the tip of his dick still bobbing shallowly in your mouth. Like you didn’t want to let go; like you didn't want even a moment of it not resting heavily on your tongue.

Before he could comply, the distant whirring of a vacuum echoed somewhere down the hall. 

“Oh fuck-” his eyes were wild, and his breathing ragged and erratic. Was it panic from potentially getting caught? Or was it the selfish idea that the thought of you stopping now might actually kill him? That whatever trance you both were under would break, and that you would walk out and take all of his heart with you? 

He looks down at you, and in his panicked state he didn’t realize you were grinning. 

“What are you-?” 

The whirring was getting louder. You crawled under the table and settled between his spread legs. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

He felt like he was going to go insane. 

You rested your cheek against his thigh, and looked up at him through your lashes. Your eyes were glazed, your lips rouged and spit-slickened. You were mesmerizing, and it almost killed him to look away. 

In the distance, he could see the nightly custodial crew rounding the corner and walking down the hall, their vacuums roaring loudly against the polished floors.  

You began to push his flared cockhead further into your mouth, until it was just kissing the smoothed back of your throat. He choked on a moan, one hand gripping onto the workstation ledge, the other flying to your hair. The echoes of footsteps were growing louder, and the roars of the vacuums were quickly nearing. And yet, this only seemed to make you needier, hungrier. 

Your head was bobbing rhythmically, unrelentingly, addictingly, under the table as you sucked on his hard length. He was just so warm, so thick and hot and heady, and you were beginning to lose your sanity over the feeling of his cock filling your mouth so completely and overwhelmingly, shutting you up. 

Your lashes were damp with stray tears. Choso wondered how it would look to paint your face with his cum, or if you preferred to take it down your throat-

“Would you like us to clean inside there, sir?”

He sputtered dumbly. “Huuh-?” 

The custodial team stood about four meters away, pausing their vacuuming activities briefly as they stared at him curiously. 

“N-no. No I’m good. All c-clean over here.” 

You made it a point to slurp lightly - just loud enough for him alone to hear. You were slobbering now, drool and spittle dripping from your chin, messily mixing with his creamy pre down the length of his cock, and all over his balls. 

He fisted your hair in warning, his jaw ticking with tension. 

He knew he probably looked ridiculous to the custodians right now, maybe even sick with how flushed and sweaty he was. He was pretty sure that his lower lip was split with how hard he was biting them. His glasses were slightly fogged on the lower edges, and his chest was heaving in a way that made him look like he just ran a marathon. 

From his peripherals he could see your wicked smile as you popped off his dick, gingerly mixing the wetness all over, two slippery hands jerking him off, twisting under the capped head, in a slow, teasing, mind-numbing pattern. 

The custodians shrugged, before turning around and heading off for the night. 

And as they left, something inside his mind snapped. Something possessive, perverted, and deranged.

“You playin’ with me?” His eyes were wild. Gone was his professionalism, his shy resolve nowhere to be found. His heart was pounding. He needed you.

“Finally got the hint?” You shoot back, challengingly. 

He huffed out a breath of warm air, before firmly gripping your throat and shoving your mouth back onto his cock. You readily latched on, sucking and licking and moaning, one hand massaging his balls, the other twisting over whatever exposed length was left of him. 

Your tongue was unrelenting, and he was bucking up, abusing your throat. He loved the way your throat bulged at every snap! of his hips, as he shoved his long, fat dick down, down, down. So far gone was the shy man you met every past Friday. His eyes were now glazed and glassy, his lips bitten completely red, sweat rolling hypnotically past his brow piercing and along his sharp jaw. He was drunk off the way your mouth felt. Drunk off the way his dick was using you. Drunk off the way you look; broken, teary-eyed, mouth gagged, and throat bulging with his heavy cock buried inside. 

Before you know it, he's slipping out, one hand on your throat to keep you still, while the other wraps around the base of his cock. He slaps his wet dick against your cheek, before rubbing and sliding himself along your smooth skin. Your legs clench as you realize from base to tip his cock is as big as your head. And when you looked into his eyes, you could tell he saw it too. He wasn’t looking at you though, you realized. He was looking at himself. He wasn't just tapping his dripping cock against your flushed skin. This twisted motherfucker was measuring. 

“Heh- I’ve never felt a pussy before,” he continues his rocking against your face, “d’ya think it’ll fit?”

Your eyes widened. This man, with his pierced ears and studded brow, muscular arms and ginormous cock, was a fucking virgin? 

Surely, he was lying. He had to be.

But as you assessed him, his wrecked and earnest features, there was no doubt that he wasn’t telling you anything but the hard, honest truth. 

“I-” your heart does something funny in your chest, while a fresh wave of slickness soaks your already drenched panties. You address him with equal earnestness, “I guess you’ll just have to find out for yourself, Choso.”

And oh, he was a goner. He loved the way his name rolled off your tongue, how casually you addressed him. He was completely and utterly at your mercy now. 

“Does the window close?” You ask. You were still under the table, and completely oblivious to the way his heart felt like it was exploding behind his ribcage. 

“Y-yeah,” he nodded quickly, jerkily. Dazed and partly delirious. 

He shoved himself back into his pants, not caring to button as he pulled his long, black shirt down enough to cover himself. He stood and leaned over the table, sliding the service window shut and pulling the metal security shutters down. You crawled out from under the table as he went and locked the door. 

It was well past 7pm at this point, and the usual office stragglers were long gone by now. The two of you were alone. 

He lends you his hand and you take it. Your manicured fingers swallowed by his scarred and calloused ones. 

Your knees crack as you stand to your full height. He reaches to wrap his hands around either side of your throat, his thumbs lightly caressing your cheeks. 

“Let me kiss you,” 

It wasn’t even a question. His brain was too consumed in the haze of you, you, you. 

Your chest rose and fell. Your hands found his biceps, and you slowly slid them up, up, up to his shoulders, then to his chest, feeling the hidden muscles of his upper body. 

You hooked your finger in the collar of his shirt, before tugging, bringing him close enough that your lips were brushing his.  

You looked up at him through your lashes, a sly smile creeping onto your features, “I’ll think on it.” 

He groaned. His forehead pressed against yours. The tip of his nose softly tracing yours. You were both so close to each other that your lips would brush from the smallest of movements.

His fingers moved from your throat and into your hair, and you could feel him rutting and rubbing his throbbing erection against your leg in the most desperate, pathetic way. 

“Fuckin’ tease.”

Your heart was beating so traitorously loud against your chest, and the pressure building in between your legs was making you ache, your pussy clenching at the feeling of being without.

You smile at him wickedly. “Earn it then.” 

And before he can think, you’re dragging his shaky hand between your thighs, your skirt riding up, up, up past your legs, before scrunching around your waist. 

He might pass out. 

Because here you were - tits pressing against your tight button down, nipples raised through your bra, lace covered cunt exposed, and ass only half-covered by your bunched up skirt.

And when he finally, finally dips his trembling fingers just underneath the absolutely soaked lace of your panties, grazing your poor, neglected pussy, you sigh out the most breathy, sinful sound in his ear. Could one get infinitely times harder? He couldn’t tell. But he was starting to feel lightheaded with how much blood was rushing from his head to his cock, which was flaring with the freshest waves of need. 

“I- I’ve never done this before,” he said it as if in a trance. His eyes were glassy. He looked hypnotized, almost possessed by the way the tips of his fingers were drenched in your wetness, how your pussy lips were greedily sucking him in so desperately, how they made the prettiest squelch! as his finger got devoured, inch by fucking inch, by your warm, velvety walls. 

Your eyes rolled back and your mouth parted in the most sensual “o” that he’s only ever seen from stuff online. He felt the air get knocked out of his lungs. All of his college “experiences” (if he could even call jizzing untouched and awkward blow jobs milestones in his sexual portfolio) paled in comparison to the display that your pussy was showing him right now. He used his thumb to spread your lips apart, watching his fingers disappear in and out, in and out. 

Fuck.

And then he was everywhere. 

He has your shirt ripped off in seconds, your bra shoved down. His unoccupied hand is squeezing one of your tits, while his mouth latches on to the other, sucking and biting your nipples in a way that has your toes curling, and - did Kamo Choso have a tongue piercing?? 

Below, his one finger became two, jamming into your tight, tight hole, before pumping in and out, in and out in the most depraved way. And when he accidentally crooked his fingers, massaging and fucking into your most sensitive spots, you moaned, your red nails scraping against his broad shoulders. 

“Touch me here too,” you all but gasp out, your delicate hands moving his thumb to rub circles against your clit, just as you had done in the video he watched of you on your phone earlier. 

Ever the most astute student, he listened to your every word. He made note of the things that had you going stupid, and changed gears when you tapped him on his biceps. He was a quick study (a bona fide geek after all), and soon he found the most relentless, ruthless, dumbifying tempo that he had you fucking squirting and spraying all over his wrists and down onto the floor below.  

And then he’s pushing you until your ass is leaning against the workdesk. He spreads your legs apart and drops to his knees. When he stared up at you, he looked so, so gone.

His glasses were smudged and pushed up, the tip of his scarred nose nudged your clit, and his pink lips opened to dip his soft tongue against your folds. The cool metal ball of his tongue piercing the only solace against ur blazing skin. It’s his turn to slurp you up, and god how you tasted- 

One of his hands is firmly gripping your thigh, his face disappearing completely as his mouth is on your cunt, kissing and licking and sucking and massaging. The other is fisting his leaking cock. You tasted so fuckin’ good on his tongue. So warm. So wet. So sweet. He could do this forever. He would beg to do this forever.

“Have I-” he hiccupped, “have I earned it yet, sweetheart?” His glasses are wet with your juices. He’s panting, warm puffs of air hitting your core. 

You were shaking. Yeah, yeah. He earned it. 

“Yes, yes Cho-” your praises of him blended together, spilling and slurring out of your mouth without pause.

“Thank god.”

And then he’s back at it, eating you out so good, his tongue bullying inside of your tight hole. The scar on his nose fully rubbing against your clit, finding home on your body. And you feel it - your legs beginning to shake, your heart pounding in your throat. You’re panting, whining, holding his head to you like you’ll keep him there and suffocate him. The overwhelming waves of your orgasm crashing into you as he fucks his tongue into your greedy pussy, lips latched on and giving the sweetest suction. 

Your hands are in his hair, your vision blurred and teary, you’re calling out his name like its religion. 

And him? He’s trying to memorize the way your walls clench around his tongue, begging for him to stay, keeping him inside you. He’s trying to burn into memory the way you’re fuckin gushing wetness all over his chin, the way your tits bounce up as you arch your back in the most sinful way. 

Only after you come down from your high, Choso finally stands. He rests his two palms on the table space on either side of your thighs, caging you in, before resting his damp forehead in the crook of your neck. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs into your skin, his soft lips kissing against your jugular. 

“Don’t thank me yet,” you tease. Your hands find his hair, lightly running your fingers through his scalp before saying, “we aren’t even close to being done.” 

He looks up at you curiously, innocently. “We… can do more?”

Oh, so he seriously was a virgin.

“Cho…” His knees weaken at the nickname. “We’ve just barely begun.” 

He involuntarily bucks his hips at your response, rubbing his painful erection against your leg. His briefs were wet and stained with pre. You lifted his shirt above his head. He pulled your soaked panties down your damp legs. 

You were still sitting on the worktable, your legs ajar, and your pussy a sloppy mixture of your release and his own saliva. He nudges the tip of his length to kiss against your hole. A deep, choked sigh escapes his mouth at the softness of your pussylips, the slipperyness of your wetness, the warmth that radiated from your core and onto his weeping dick. 

He slips his cock against your folds, teasingly gliding against your clit as he pulses against your skin. Choso’s lips catch your own, his tongue massaging yours, while his hands grope your sensitive, swollen breasts. 

“F-fuuuh,” he’s whimpering into your mouth, lips wobbling, so fuckin’  overwhelmed by the insane sensations of your pussy rubbing against his dick, your mouth moving against his own, and your tits, god your tits, in his large, shaky palms.

And he can’t help it, really. 

His dick was still jerking like crazy from the head you gave him earlier. Your soft pussylips were slathering him in your juices, your tongue licking his tongue piercing like you did his cock, and your nipples so peaked he wanted to suck on them. 

So it’s no surprise, really, when his meaty dick started to leak slow ropes of his sticky, thick cum against your outer folds. 

And you were still making out with him when you realized, the warm gooey feeling spurting out onto your hole was coming from him, that your breath caught in your throat - a soft gasp leaving your mouth as it got swallowed by his languid tongue. 

He was so pathetic, he thought. 

He just came before he even stuck it in.

He pulled away from your mouth. “I-” he was humiliated, face burning with shame, glasses fogged and head facing towards the floor. He was searching for the right words, when you grabbed his still hard penis and gave him the same smile he saw before. The kind of smile you gave when you got on your knees and crawled under the desk. 

You lightly push him until he’s sitting on his wide, creaky work chair. You slide off the worktable gracefully, before joining him. You’re straddling him, tits skimming his chest, his dick standing tall between the two of your legs. Though you haven’t said it outright, the implications of your actions hang heavy in the air; he knows - he realizes what you want, what he wants, and what will inevitably happen. 

“If you don’t want this, say it now,” you say.

His eyes were big, and he’s staring at you so reverently, like you were a goddess, his goddess. He shakes his head. 

“Use your words, Cho,” you rest your hand on his throat, your manicured thumb parting his wobbly lips. 

He was pathetic. But you loved it. 

He had tears in his eyes and he had no idea why. Perhaps from humiliation. Perhaps from overstimulation. Perhaps from the fact that the hottest girl he’s ever laid eyes on was about to fuck his brains out and leave him stupified beyond belief. Probably most definitely the latter. “I want this,” he gasps out. “I want you - fuck - I need you, to be inside you, ple-”

You shut him up with your mouth, massaging and leading and biting. Your hands slowly traverse from his neck and down his hard chest, past his abs, before resting at his base, fingers tangling in the tufts of dark hair there. He was still covered in his own cum, white and warm and sticky against your palms. 

“Don’t worry,” you were almost purring against his red, swollen lips. “I’ll take good care of you.”

And now you’re tipping the head of his cum-covered cock towards your glistening hole, and he feels like he’s going dizzy. 

Holy shit, this was it. It’s happening. 

You break away from him, and the two of you stare as you drag his gooey-covered cockhead allllll around your pussylips, leaving even more mess in its trail. And when his hard length dips slightly into your folds, his mushroomed tip kissing against your entrance, he could swear he almost blacked out. 

“You’re so big, Cho” you cutely pout. His dick throbs before swelling even larger at your words. “It’s even better than I’ve ever imagined.” You say the last part quietly, reverently, almost shyly.

And, holy hell, that does something to him. 

Choso involuntarily bucks at the thought of you thinking about him, about his dick, just as how he thought of you for all these years, and the tip of his cum-covered cock slips right into the tight ring of your pussy without warning. 

Your head knocks back as his own falls forward, the two of your hot breaths puffing into the heady air. 

You were gasping. Even though it was just the head, it felt like you were being stretched beyond belief, your walls wrapping around and latching onto his length so snuggly,  so… deliciously, that it had Choso whimpering into your bare tits. 

You were greedy, slightly possessed, and fuckin’ hungry. You roll your hips forward slightly, pushing his throbbing cock another inch deeper into your gummy pussy, and his hands find purchase on the fleshy curve of your ass. “C’mon now,” you say slyly, “I know my good boy can take it.”

His dick jerks at your words. You have Choso seeing stars. He thinks his hearing was starting to go in his left ear. He’s drunk, he’s addicted, he’s… he’s not even halfway inside you yet and he feels like he is teetering on the edges of his sanity. 

“S-stop teasing me,” he almost cries it out. His fingertips kneed into your ass. He wants to bottom out completely inside you. He wants to feel so impossibly close to you that he forgets his own name, that he forgets where his body ends and yours begins. 

And you comply. You always would, for him. 

He watches as his dick gets swallowed by your stretched lips. The residual cum on his cock from earlier either smears inside you or begins to froth at his base. And you feel so fuckin’ good, your greedy cunt sucking up every inch of him until he’s finally, finally, bottoming out into your warmth. 

“Thaaat’s it, Cho,” you can feel his leaking tip smooching against your cervix, the veins on his dick pulsing against your gummy walls, the residual cum from earlier clinging to your clit. You’re gushing new waves of slick, and he feels how you convulse around him, squeezing tight against his meat like a fuckin’ sin. 

You don’t even give him time to breathe, to even think, because you begin to ride him like a fuckin’ animal, like a goddamn pro. Your tits are bouncing in his face, your ass clapping against his thighs, his cock filling you up like it’s ritual, and his tip fucking into your g-spot savagely, ruthlessly, unforgivingly. Before you know it, he’s bucking his hips up to meet yours, the obscene sound of skin slapping on skin echoing throughout the small space of the IT room. 

He’s panting your name like a prayer, his hands holding you like you were something sacred, and his heart pounding against his ribcage like he’s at confessional.

And yeah, he may have never done this before, he may have never felt the embrace of a woman’s pussy on his cock - but he knew immediately, decisively, that yours was the best. He knew that everyone else’s would pale in comparison. And he knew, deep down, that when this is all over, he would be jaded and lost from mourning the feeling of you. He knew yours would be the only one he would search for in his life. 

“Cho,” you whisper, voice catching and breaking with every thwk thwk thwk! of his balls slapping against your ass. “You’re doing so well,” you hiccup, partially delirious. “I can feel you allllll the way up here.” And then you drag your manicured nail from where the two of you were connected, juices wetting your fingerpads, as it rose all the way up, up, up, to the slightly protruding bump in your belly. You press your hand on it lightly, and he realizes that the bump is from him, from where his achingly large cock was shoved inside you and pressed against your womb. 

He can feel his cock rush with blood, growing larger in your belly, filling and stuffing you even more fully - completely. And you feel it too. He breathes through his nose, small traces of drool slipping from the sides of his mouth. You squeeze your tits together, giving him a show. 

He’s dangerously flushed, sweat (or was it tears?) running down his cheeks. You’re gushing fresh wetness all around his dick, your warm walls clinging to him so needily, almost possessively, as the tip of his cock pounds against your most sensitive spot until it's bruised. And he’s leaking so much pre that the mixture begins to slather so messily around your glistening hole, frothing at his base and running down his balls. 

It was so filthy. So dirty. So fucking addictive. 

His mouth finds the sensitive buds of your nipples, his piercing flicking over the stiffened peaks. One of his hands rubs your combined juices into your swollen clit, while the other grabs on to the fleshy parts of your ass. 

Its your turn to cry out, to whimper at the sensations of his steady hands against your blazing skin, his pulsing cock inside your squeezing pussy. 

“Thaaat’s it pretty girl,” he breathes. He leaves your nipples to suck on the sensitive skin by your ear. “My pretty girl. This what you were lookin’ for?”

He snaps his hips up, balls spanking your ass. His thick cock burrowing impossibly further inside of you.

Your words come out garbled - halfway between pleading and praise. 

He grins at you. 

“Use,” he pulls his cock out almost completely, your quivering pussy squeezing so tightly around the head of him, as if begging him not to leave. 

“Your,” he finally pulls away with a grunt.

“Words,” he smacks his fat, heavy, dripping cock against your entrance. The sound it made left your ears buzzing. 

“Pretty girl.” He’s shoving into you so fast you feel him in your fucking lungs.

He’s gripping your hips, using his strength to fuck your body on his cock. He was handling you like you were a sex doll.

What the fuck? This was the same nerd from before? 

Your tongue meets his, and you’re messily making out with each other: you lick his tongue like you’re licking his dick, and he grabs your throat to pull you away, before spitting into your mouth. Drool spills from your lips and onto your chins. He’s pulling you onto his dick like you were a toy, only pausing briefly to spank your ass and feel it jiggle against his thighs. 

Your actions were getting clumsier: nails scratching randomly at his chest, tongue licking messily up his throat, moans echoing off of his damp skin. His hips were beginning to stutter: his dick was fucking into you in a broken rythm, mushroomed head blooming with every pulse. You both were teetering around the edges of your sanity, and the only sounds between you were sharp breaths and the slapping of your soaking cunt against his soaked cock.  

“Fuck, I’m-” his throat squeezes, every word a battle to get out. He forces his bleary eyes open to watch his dick disappear inside you - fucking into your womb again, and again, and again. He feels his balls beginning to tighten, his shaft becoming taught. He needs to cum. He needs to pull out. 

And he starts to - when your hand tightens around the back of his neck.

“Don’t you, oh,” there's tears streaming down your face, your eyes glassy, your head spinning with how cockdrunk you were, “don’t you fuckin’ dare, Cho.”

He’s so dumbified it takes him several moments to register the implications of your words.

“I-inside?” He’s stuttering, trembling.

“Inside.”

And then he breaks, and you break around him. He’s releasing so much of his thick, gooey cum inside you that it swells in your tummy, bloating your core. He watches as you squirt and spray and spasm around his base, fresh waves of wetness soaking the expanse of skin between you both. His hips keep snapping up with each peak of your orgasm, fucking his seed deeper and deeper, fucking himself so hard into your body until it feels like you can taste him in your throat. 

Neither of you say a word, both of you transfixed on the way that the other feels. You were so stuffed that his cum began to leak out of you, slowly falling and pooling at the base of his cock. 

“You… you are so divine,” he whispers, his hips still lightly rutting inside you, catching the last waves of your peaks, as he kisses along the base of your jaw. 

You can’t speak, your throat felt too hoarse, you were too too dazed, too fucked-out. But you nudge your nose against his, your lashes fluttering against his clammy skin.

Gently, he lifts you from his cock. He watches as you slowly release his dick, before a gush of his seed spills from your swollen pussylips. 

“Holy shit,” he muttered, his thumb immediately catching the gobs of his oozing seed. 

Without a word, you catch his careful fingers, and he watches in fading confusion as you push his thumb back inside you, bringing his cum along with him. 

“No waste,” you whisper. 

Oh.

And after some recuperation time, you both stand and begin to dress in silence. Something tender hangs heavy in the heady air of the IT room, but Choso can’t help but feel the pricks of anxiety blooming in his chest with every passing second.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he asks for your number.

And your swollen lips break out into the prettiest smile, your eyes twinkling up at him. 

“I’ll think on it…” you tease. He grins, his hands find your waist to pull you closer to him. 

“What do I gotta do to earn it this time?”

You tap your chin in mock thought, your smile light and warm. “Come get dinner with me tonight.”

And for you? He would do anything.  

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ “₊ ݁.

Several weeks have passed, and Choso’s morning genuinely could not have gone better. 

Not only did his 6AM alarm go off, but you had slept over last night (and yes, falling asleep cuddling with his dick inside you did contribute to both of your fantastic moods). His morning routine was now a mixture of staring at your pretty face whilst in peaceful slumber, going through a 6-step skincare routine (courtesy of you), and picking up Toji’s overpriced top-line coffee for two. 

Though the train from his neighborhood to Chiyoda City was packed full today, he did not mind. It gave him more of an excuse to huddle closer to you, hands brushing together, one of his earbuds in your ear (the other in his) as your joint playlist hummed in the background. Your chest was lightly pressed against his, two wild hearts beating to the same, familiar tune. 

And of course, the cherry on top was that it was a Friday. The two of you had agreed that it would finally be okay to get breakfast together today, and maybe even sit and eat at a window table afterwards. 

And Choso? Choso was the happiest he has ever felt. Largely due to you. And maybe, just maybe, a tiny part due to the fact he got to see Gojo’s ridiculously large mouth fall to the floor at the sight of you and Choso walking in together today. 

Gojo: 0.

The bedroom was warm with late afternoon light, gold pouring through the gauzy curtains, and you'd had the house to yourself for hours. It wasn't often that all of the Jackson's were out at once.

Michael was working on something with Tito at a studio in the city, and he'd left you that morning with a slow, promisin’, sexually driven kiss against the doorframe; the heat of it had trailed you around all day like a hand, possessive, at the small of your back. It was infuriatingly annoying and it was riling you up.

By mid-afternoon you'd given up pretending to read your books. There was no patience for dense college textbooks. You'd read all you could take, but they were no longer serving as a distraction to your impending horniness.

You'd crept up to Michael's bedroom and fished the little pink vibrator out of your bag; a gift from your girlfriend weeks ago, after a conversation centered around 'spicing' it up in the bedroom. she pressed into your hands with a wicked grin and a: 

trust me, you'll thank me. 

Now you were sprawled across his pillows with your sweatshirt rucked up, chasing the ache he'd left you with, the low buzz of it lost under the record still spinning lazily on his turntable; Love Rollercoaster, loud and woozy in the glimmering afternoon light.

Thank god for new technology.

You were close. So close to it. You were almost sprinting after it deliciously, the music a backdrop of how you were feeling, building with intensity.

The song had warped into something dizzy and psychedelic, swelling in time with the heat low in your belly, and you pressed the buzzing toy harder against yourself, sprinting for the finishline.

Your head was full to the brim of him; his veiny hands, his wet, hot mouth, the weight of him on top of you, the way his rounded innocent eyes peered up over your pubic bone whilst he ate you out, the feeling of your hips rolling up into the line of his cock in his slacks on the couch, the sound of his breath coming fast and ragged whilst he neared his—

You didn't hear the car. You didn't hear the front door either.

You heard nothing until the bedroom door swung open and Michael walked in blazenly, peeling off his jacket, mid-sentence, totally distracted.

"—and Tito kept sayin' the bassline was fine but it was draggin', I could feel it draggin' the whole—"

You scrambled.

In one frantic, graceless motion you jammed the vibrator under the nearest pillow—that ridiculous Alice in Wonderland caterpillar cushion Michael adored—yanked your sweatshirt down to something less incriminating, and sat bolt upright against the headboard covering your naked bottom half with the duvet, heart slamming, face on fire.

"Hi!" you said, far too brightly.

Michael stopped. Blinked. He looked wrung out, curls sort of flat on top where the headphones had pressed against, dark smudges under his eyes where he'd messily drawn on his eyeliner; but something in him clicked the second he really looked at you.

"...Hi," he said slowly.

"How's the track?"

"A bit nonsensical, I guess." His eyes hadn't left your face, and you knew exactly what he was clocking: the flush down your throat, the sheen on your lip, your chest still going too fast.

He saw everything. He always did. "You okay? You're all—" He gestured at the entirety of you. "Red and sweaty."

"Well, uh, it's hot in here."

"It's really not that hot in here, Mother has the heat off because of the weather." He stared at you for a moment longer and then sighed dramatically.

He was clearly too tired to chase the reasoning as to why you seemed to be lying. He crossed to the bed with a low groan, toeing off his loafers.

"God, I'm wrecked. Eight hours arguin' with my brother about one silly line of sheet music." He flopped face-first across the mattress beside you, sighing into the duvet like he was lowering himself into his grave.

"Don't talk to me. Don't look at me. Tito has wiped me out. He really did it this time."

You bit down on a slightly hysterical laugh, painfully aware of the small hard shape buried in the bedding inches from his hands. "Poor baby."

"Mm." He stretched then, luxuriously, the way he always did—arms flung up over his head, hands sliding up under the pillows, his whole long body arching out with a contented little sound—

And his fingers closed around something.

He went still.

You stopped breathing.

"...What's this," he mumbled into the duvet, eyes still shut, his hand pawing at it. He dragged it out from under the pillow and lifted his head to squint; small, pink, smooth, faintly ridiculous in his long fingers. He turned it over and frowned. "What is this? Is this one of those gadgets—"

His thumb found the button.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzt.

The thing roared to life in his hand and he startled so hard he nearly flung it across the room, jerking up onto one elbow.

"Oh."

The single syllable hung there. You watched the realisation land on his face; the buzzing toy, your scarlet face, the rucked-up sweatshirt, the way you'd been sitting up bright-eyed and breathless when he walked in… every piece clicking into place at once behind his eyes.

His gaze lifted to yours. Very, very slowly.

"...Oh," he said again. Completely different. Low. Almost delighted??

A grin breaking across his exhausted face, the studio forgotten, all that quiet knowing focus kindling. He let it keep buzzing in his hand just to watch you squirm.

"You were busy," he said, "while I was gone."

"Michael—give it back—"

"What even is this?" He held it up out of your reach, examining it like he'd unearthed an ancient relic, fascinated and perturbed in equal measure. "I have never ever—where'd you even get this?"

"My friend gave it to me, okay, it doesn't matter—"

"Your friend..." He turned it over, thumbing it off and back on, jumping a little each time it buzzed. And then; because he was, underneath it all, just a guy, he brought it to his nose and sniffed it.

"MICHAEL."

"What!" He reared back, blinking, like he'd done something perfectly reasonable. "I wanted to know if—"

"Why would you smell it—"

"I don't know!" He was laughing now, scandalized at his own hand. "It's instinct! You see a thing, you wanna know—I wasn't thinkin'—"

You lunged for it; but he held it up out of reach, and then you were both gone with laughter, helpless, you behind your hands and him snorting into the pillow, the awful mortified tension breaking apart into something warm and giddy, the way it always did with the two of you. You could laugh in the middle of anything.

"Okay—okay—" He wiped his eyes, still chuckling, and thumbed it off. The sudden silence was louder than the buzz had been. The record was now scratching repeatedly on the plastic label.

He set the small bullet on the nightstand, deliberately, out of your reach, and turned the full weight of that focus back on you, all the tiredness burned clean out of him. "Very chill. Very normal. Nothin' to see here."

"Don't start," you warned, fighting a grin.

"You missed me that much, hm?" His voice had dropped now, gone soft and velvet, that teasing dark thread winding through it as he started crawling toward you across the bed, slow, all liquid grace, backing you gently into the headboard. His hand came to rest high on your thigh, thumb stroking. "Couldn't even wait for me to get home."

"You left me like that this morning," you accused, breathless, your laugh going unsteady. "Kissin' me like that and then just— leaving. What was I supposed to do?"

"Mm. I did do that, didn't I?" He didn't sound remotely sorry. He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath warm, his exhaustion transmuted entirely into something low and hungry.

"So tell me, baby. Did you finish? Before I walked in?" His teeth grazed your jaw. "Or did I get home right in time?"

You couldn't answer. Your face answered for you.

A slow, knowing smile appeared on his face. "You didn't." He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the grin he gave you was pure wicked warmth.

"You got yourself all worked up with your little pink toy... and you didn't even get to finish," he said in mock horror.

"...No," you admitted, mortified and molten in equal measure.

"That's a shame, baby." He kissed the corner of your mouth, slow, his hand sliding higher, his thumb tracing the crease of your hip. "All that. And nothin' to show for it." His mouth moved to your throat, where your pulse was hammering. "Lucky for you I'm home now."

He kissed you then, and it wasn't with the claiming heat of some nights you'd shared together, but something slower, fonder, a smile still pressed into it, his tongue licking warm into your mouth as his weight settled over you and eased you back against the pillows.

You melted into it, your hands finding the hem of his t-shirt, sliding up the warm plane of his stomach—but he caught your wrists, gentle, and pressed them back to the pillows with a soft tut.

"Nuh-uh. Not yet." His grin was wicked. "You don't get to touch yet. You had your fun without me—now it's my turn."

"That's not fair—"

"Mm. Life's not fair, m'girl." He worked your sweatshirt up your body, his knuckles dragging over your ribs, baring you to the gold afternoon light, and the teasing softened into something rawer, his thumb skating the underside of your breast. "Look at you. Already all flushed up for me and I barely touched you."

"That's your fault—"

"you got yourself into this mess" He dipped his head, his mouth closing hot over your nipple, and your back arched off the bed. "Mm. I'm gonna fix it. Gonna take real good care of you. Make up for leavin' you all day." His hand slid down your stomach, down between your thighs, and the first brush of his fingers through how wet you already were drew a groan out of him, low and undone, his forehead dropping to your collarbone.

"God. Y/N. You're soaked."

"I told you—"

"I know. I know you did." His fingers slid through you, slow, finding the slick aching heart of you, circling, and your hips chased his hand helplessly.

"And you tried to hide what you'd been doing, too." He clicked his tongue, mock-scolding, his mouth curving against your skin. "We don't hide things in this house."

"Michael—" you gasped, as two of his fingers sank into you, his palm grinding against your clit, picking up right where you'd been left aching.

"I've got you, m'love," he breathed, his rhythm slow and sure and devastating, watching your face come apart with that dark, rapt focus.

"Got you now. You can finish for me this time." A soft, wicked grin. "Much better than that little pink thing, hm?"

He worked you slow, watching every flicker of pleasure cross your face, his fingers curling into that spot that made your hips jump while his thumb kept a lazy, maddening circle.

You were squirming, already close again; you'd been close for hours at this point—and he knew it, the little wretch, watching you climb and deliberately not letting you get there.

"You're doin' that on purpose," you panted.

"Doin' what?" All innocence, his mouth twitching against your skin where he was trying to pepper kisses along your neck.

"You know what—"

"I'm just bein' thorough." He lowered himself and pressed a kiss to your sternum, grinning against your skin. "I had a long day. I gotta concentrate on what I'm doing." And he eased off again, right as you tipped toward the edge, until you made a sound of pure outraged frustration and smacked his shoulder, and he laughed, totally elated, that bright real laugh, catching your wrist and pinning it gently to the pillow.

"Okay, okay," he relented, eyes dancing. Then a thought visibly arrived behind them, wicked and curious, and his gaze slid over to the nightstand. "...Hold on."

"Michael—"

"No, no, I wanna—" He reached over and plucked the vibrator up again, turning it in his fingers, that concentrated frown back on his face like he was studying a piece of equipment in the studio.

"Show me how you had it. When I came in. Where were you—" he thumbed it on, the buzz filling the room, and grinned at his own daring— "puttin' this?"

You buried your face in your hands. "I'm not—oh my God—"

"C'mon. Show me what you were tryna hide from me." He was laughing now, nudging your knee wider with his own, the toy humming in his hand. "I'm nosey, remember? I gotta know what I'm competin' with."

"You are not competing with it—"

"No?" He pressed it, soft, right where you needed it, and your whole body jolted, a cry breaking out of you. His grin went molten.

"Hm. There?" He circled it, watching you arch and grab fistfuls of the duvet, his own breath catching at the sight of you. "Oh, you like that. Look at you, baby. Okay. Okay, I see. I'm learnin'."

He was good at it, the teasing... that was the infuriating thing; of course he was, he was good at everything. he set that focus on reading you, easing the vibration against you and pulling it back, his face inches from yours so he could watch, his free hand pinning your arm to the bed so you couldn't intervene.

You were a mess, gasping, hips chasing it, and he was loving every second, soft little encouragements falling out of him;

that's it, there you go, let me see, you're so pretty like this

"Michael, I'm gonna—if you don't—pull it away—" you choked.

"I know. I know, baby, I've got you—" And this time he didn't pull back. He held it steady, his mouth on your throat, and you came apart with a cry, shaking, your hand flying to grip his wrist as it crashed through you. He worked you through it, gentling, murmuring into your skin, until your body felt like jelly and you were trembling against the pillows.

He clicked it off and set it back on the nightstand. Kissed your slack mouth, smug and tender at once. "There she is. M'beautiful dirty girl."

"I hate you," you breathed, with absolutely no conviction.

"Mm. You love me." He was still hard against your thigh through the blue denim, his own breath uneven despite all his composure. He pushed himself up off you and rose to stand beside the bed, looking down at the wreck of you; sweatshirt rucked up under your arms, skin flushed and gleaming, completely bare from the waist down, while he stood over you still dressed, disheveled, curls wild, eyeliner smudged. The contrast made you squirm.

"All day," he murmured, his fingers going to buttons of his white shirt, pulling it off in one smooth motion to bare the lean plane of his stomach, the dark trail of hair below his navel and the little patches of white skin at his hip bones.

"I been thinkin' about you all day. Arguin' with Tito over one stupid line and the whole time I'm picturin' gettin' home to you." The belt came next, the metallic clink of it coming loose, then the button of his jeans. "And I walk in and find you already started without me."

"You left me like that—"

"I know I did." He shoved his jeans and briefs down and stepped out of them, unhurried, without a trace of self-consciousness, fully bare now and achingly hard while you were still half-tangled in your sweatshirt. He was magnificent, all long lines and elegant tension, the tip of him flushed dark pink.

"Lucky for you I'm home now. No more waitin'."

He leaned over the bed, his hands sliding under your hips, and dragged you bodily to the edge of the mattress until your ass was just off the side. He stepped between your splayed thighs, his hands rough and warm on the insides of your knees, pushing them wider.

"No more toys," he muttered, his eyes locked on where you were open and wet for him.

He grabbed his dick firmly and guided himself to your entrance and pushed in, slowly, so slowly, his eyes fluttering shut as your heat enveloped him. It was a deep, stretching, filling sensation that had you arching off the bed, a low moan dragged from your chest.

"That's what you needed," he breathed, sinking to the hilt and holding there, his head dropping forward.

He began to move then, with a rhythm all his own, not too eager, but devastatingly deliberate. Long, deep, rolling thrusts that struck something deep inside you on every stroke. His hands were on your hips, controlling the pace, holding you open for him. Deep, thundering thrusts.

"You feel that?" he grunted, his breath hot. "That's real. That's me."

You could only nod, your fingers scrambling against his sweat-slick back, your legs hooking around his waist to pull him deeper. He was everywhere, his scent, his weight, the sound of his skin against yours, the ragged puff of his breath.

But Michael's curiosity was a retched thing at times. It never switched off.

Halfway through a deep, grinding stroke, he stopped. His eyes, squeezed shut in concentration a second ago, snapped open; dark, hazy with pleasure, but a familiar glittering curiosity cutting clean through the fog.

His gaze darted sideways, landing on the pink vibrator where it still lay on the nightstand.

A slow, almost reluctant grin touched his swollen lips.

"Hold on," he rasped.

He pulled out of you abruptly, the sudden emptiness a shock. Before you could protest, he'd reached over and snatched the toy up. He stared at it in his hand, then at you, then at his own painfully hard cock, glistening with your wetness.

"I gotta know," he said, as if apologizing to himself. "Just… once. To see what all the fuss is about."

He thumbed the button.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzt.

He didn't hesitate. He pressed the buzzing head directly against the sensitive spot just under the swollen head of his cock.

The reaction was immediate and violent.

His whole body jerked as if electrocuted. A shocked, strangled sound—half-gasp, half-yelp—ripped from his throat. His knees buckled, and he had to throw a hand out to catch himself on the nightstand, knocking the lamp sideways. His head dropped forward, a shudder wracking his spine.

"Oh—Jesus—" he choked out.

He tried to drag it down the shaft, but his hand was trembling violently. The vibration was clearly too intense, too direct, overwhelming a body already wound past its limit from being inside you.

His hips began to stutter in tiny, frantic circles, completely involuntary. His breath came in ragged, punched-out pants.

"Too—GOD—it's too much—" he gasped, but he didn't let go. His curiosity was warring with sensory overload, and curiosity was losing.

His movements became jerky, uncoordinated. you witnessed a fine tremor run through his thighs. He was biting his lip so hard you thought he might draw blood, his eyes squeezed shut, his face a mask of agonized, over-the-edge pleasure. You'd seen him feel good so many times before, but this was borderline painfully pleasurable.

He was hovering on the brink, his body taut as a bowstring, controlled solely by the relentless, alien buzz of the vibrator. You could see the exact moment his control shattered.

His hand spasmed around the toy, holding it tight against him as his hips gave three sharp, abortive thrusts into the empty air above you.

"uhmhh—" The warning was a breathless, desperate unintelligible plea, but it was too late, he couldn't come back from it.

With a gut-deep groan that sounded pained, his body convulsed. \

He spilled in thick, hot pulses across your stomach and the rucked-up fabric of your sweatshirt, completely undone by it. His eyes had opened at that point, watching the ordeal happen in front of him, watching you and the shock at his premature release..

The vibrator fell from his limp hand, vibrating pointlessly against the carpet as he collapsed forward, catching himself on his forearms beside resting arms, his entire body trembling with the aftershocks.

He was panting, wrecked, his forehead pressed to the duvet beside you. A long moment of stunned silence hung in the room, broken only by the record scratching and the distant hum of the fallen toy.

You looked down at the mess cooling on your skin, then back at his bowed head. A slow, triumphant smile spread across your face.

"You," you said, your voice dripping with smug satisfaction, "are dead meat for that, Jackson."

He groaned, the sound muffled by the bedding. He didn't lift his head. "Shut up," he mumbled, utterly defeated. "It was a.... curious... inquiry."

"You inquired yourself right into an accidental finish," you teased, poking his heaving shoulder.

He finally lifted his head. His face was flushed, his eyes dazed and more than a little embarrassed, but a reluctant grin was tugging at his mouth. He glanced at the mess on you, then back at your face, his grin turning wicked. "Yeah, well." He glanced down again. "Looks like my curiosity made a mess of you, too."

He leaned in, his intent clear, and you laughed, kissing him lovingly on the mouth.

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It shouldn’t be surprising, but you genuinely were shocked you managed to last this long. It had been well over six months of his flirting whenever you’d stop by to drop off Parker’s lunch, insisting he join girls nights as ‘protection’, and mysterious deliveries arriving at the door with the same scrawled script attached. 

You were resolved to not become one of his pursuits, turning a blind eye and cold shoulder to each attempt. Ellis had told you stories in passing, Shen, who was a frequent guest at your shared apartment, had filled you in on his dirty details. And you, you had an imagination that could supply the rest. 

Jack Abbot, the hot-shot emergency medicine attending, loved the chase. He liked to pick the women who were obstinate, focused, and borderline repressed. He liked the way they crumbled beneath his sly approaches. He liked the blind admiration he can garner when they do fall into step with him. He craved their borderline obsessive eagerness. 

It hadn’t always been like this. Once upon a time, Jack Abbot was someone’s husband. He was someone’s very attentive, loyal, devoted husband. One who yearned for the whole package, the white picket fence, the huddle of small children running around, the soccer games and dance recitals. Life did not sway in his favor. So now here he was, down half a limb, down a wife, and all he had to show for his life was a boatload of traumatic experiences. 

The first girl he pursued was earnest and genuine, he thought maybe this was the next phase of his forsaken life. The morning after, walking up in his marital bed, turning over to the warm body on the other side, and not seeing his beloved wife was a punch of betrayal in his gut. 

So, he had resigned to a life of celibacy. Until the next girl crossed his path, and he found himself at mercy to this vicious cycle. 

You came into his life similarly enough to his others. Ellis had mentioned her roommate more than once, and how she was doing her a solid paying rent while she completed her residency. Abbot hadn’t thought twice about you, until he saw you at the annual picnic he’d been practically dragged to by Dana. 

You were glowing under the midsummer sun. Your smile presence was smooth and easy around the team that seemed to operate as a machine without effort. He admired you at first, just from afar, and that was enough to warrant Parker’s harsh warning that you were off limits. 

Unfortunately for everyone involved, that was what cemented Jack’s need to have a taste of you. 

Six months of heavy flirtation later, he couldn’t seem to figure out what it is he wanted from you. Or, he could, and that’s what scared him. He wanted to sleep with you, but he also knew he wanted to take you to dinner every Friday night. He wanted to tuck the stray hair that falls out of your ponytail. He knew your likes, dislikes, fears, aspirations, and he couldn’t believe how well they seemed to fit against his own. 

This blind pursuit of pleasure for him had spiraled into something much headier, affection. Dare he say it, but Jack Abbot was starting to feel the violet throws of love. 

It all came to a head one Saturday afternoon. He knew Ellis would be working a double that day, so she was out of the house. He also knew you liked to take advantage of having the house to yourself for the rare occasions. 

So, Jack, seemingly an expert at your preferences, picked up your favorite flowers from the elegant florist in his neighborhood, and made his way to your place. He had a plan, one that was going to win you over for good. Or at least he thought he did, until he knocked on your door. 

You had swung it open expecting to see an amazon delivery truck pulling away from the curb, or maybe at most some sort of solicitor. You hadn’t expected Jack, or better yet Jack standing behind a giant bouquet of flowers. 

“Oh!” You startled, “Jack! Hi!” 

“Hi.” He said simply, trailing off. His eyes scanned over you dreamily. “Hi.” He repeated himself. 

“Hi?” You laugh, short and angelic, the sound washes over him deliciously. “Um, to what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“I wanted to give you these,” He offers the large bouquet, laying them in your arms gently when you do take them. “And I wanted to ask you to dinner tonight.” 

“Thank you Jack,” You brought the flowers up to your face to admire, “You really didn’t need to.” 

“No, no” He rocked back and forth slowly, “I wanted to. I know you like them.” 

You smile up at him sweetly. “I do. They’re my favorite, but I’m sure you knew that.”

He smirked in response. 

“Jack, I...” You trailed off, “I’m not going to sleep with you.” You declare softly. 

“Well, that’s forward, Sweetheart. I believe I asked you to dinner.” You shoot him a nonplussed look. 

“It’s never just ‘dinner’ with you, though.” He sighed dejectedly, “Is it Jack?” 

He grunts in frustration, just barely audible. “I’m not messing around here,” he raises three fingers, “Scouts Honor.” 

“Were you even a Scout, Abbot?” You shoot back. 

“Eagle,” He puffed his chest out, dropping the salute, “And just think of it this way. If I do anything untoward Ellis will have my head hung over your fireplace before dawn.” You bark a laugh at the image, which did inspire confidence.

“It would be a good look.” You bite your lip, imagining him in about a million other scenarios in, around, and next to the fireplace inside. “She does know where you live.” 

“Right.” He brought his hand to lean against the door jam, until his head was level with yours. Perfect to give you a dose of his intense eye contact. “So, what do you think? Dinner at 7?” 

You pretend to think for a minute before relenting. “Don’t be late, Abbot.” 

You hardly miss the triumphed look he shoots you. You expect more of a gloat from his victory, but he doesn’t. He straightens out, smiles politely, and speaks softly. “I’ll see you at 7:00 sharp, Sweetheart.” 

Watching him walk down the steps back out to his truck, you tried to quell the butterflies that began their swarm. It was too late, when Jack peaked back over his shoulder back at you with a brilliant smile, you knew he had you right where he wanted. 

The date itself was a testament to how well both of you had gotten to know each other throughout this dance you’d been doing. Dinner was intimate and romantic, low candle light and endless conversation set the tone for the rest of the night. He was dependably himself, but kept you on your toes at the same time. 

He’d told you stories of his late wife over dessert, listened to you lament about your frustrations while he laid his card down for the bill. Subtle, but absolutely pointed. He was sending the message loud and clear. 

As long as you’re mine, I’ll be taking care of you. 

“Okay, if you did stick to that plan, where would you be?” He asked, swirling the last few sips of wine around his glass. 

“Honestly?” Your cheeks burn, and you stopped trying to figure out if it was the wine or how hard he made you smile. “I thought I’d be married by now.” You admit coyly. It takes Jack considerable effort to stay calm at the admittance. 

“Really?” He raises his eyebrows, “Are the Men in Pittsburg so bad you can’t find a single one to settle down with?” He throws the line out and watches you circle it, once, twice, and then finally you sink further into the leather seat. 

“Well, I thought so for a long time…” You bite down. “But now I’m rethinking it.” 

He nods slowly, casually, even though the moment feels heavy between you. “What makes you say that?” 

“I think you know, Abbot.” Your foot stretches out until it sits just next to his. 

“Jack, please,” He inches his good leg to brush against yours. “I want you to call me Jack.” He blushes at the confession. 

“Jack,” you test the waters, even though you’d said his name a thousand times. “S’a great name.” you mumble, earning a dry chuckle from him. 

“So,” He deflected, “Married. What else?” He refocuses you. 

You squirm under the weight of the question, you knew exactly what you wanted. And you also knew, with his reputation, Jack was the last person likely to give it to you. You hesitate, shying away from the vulnerability. 

Jack, for his part, senses your unease and offers you his hand in reassurance. You let a moment pass before slipping into his grasp easily. His calloused palms are soothing, you let your fingers explore the planes of his palm, past his wrist and dance across his forearm. 

“I want to be a Mom.” You admit, softer than you could imagine. Jack nearly misses the secret shared between you. He thanks every God in existence that he hadn’t. That you trusted him with it, that you said the just exact right thing as always. He felt his blood pounding through him. 

“You will be,” He wraps his hand around yours, and gives it a soft squeeze. He catches your eyes with an earnest intensity you’d never seen before. “ You will.” 

You're nodding before you even realize it, and he nods with you. You sit in this trance where all you can do is imagine if every right thing were to happen tonight, if the pieces just fit the way you wished them to. If Jack stayed, you could see a world of lovely things happening to you. 

“C’mon, Sweetheart,” he nods to the door, “let’s get out of here.” 

The drive home happened in the blink of an eye. Jack was the perfect gentleman, the only touch being his hand safely draped across your thigh. You can hardly think until you’re both standing, again, at your door. He’s respectful, walking you up, but not pushing you to open the door. 

It’s you who makes the first move, as Jack takes a step back to end the night your hand finds itself curled around the fabric of his shirt, pulling him back to you. You pull until he’s flush against you, and he responds immediately. His hands wrapped around your back and his lips against yours fervently. 

Jack kisses like he’s starving. His stubble scrapes deliciously against your soft skin, letting your mind wander to other tantalizing ways it might rub against you. Your lips collide with clumsy passion. Your senses are overwhelmed by him, his cologne, the sound of his subtle groans, the steady presence of his hands keeping you anchored to reality. 

“Come inside?” You ask innocently. He bites back a comment, yes, I will. 

“I thought you weren’t going to sleep with me, Sweetheart?” He teases, trailing his kisses down your neck until he finds your pulse point and attacks. Your head falls back against the door. 

“Shut up,” You pull him by the grey curls until his mouth slots over yours again, “Don’t make me ask again.” 

He nods against you, taking a moment to watch your eyes, to see if there was any lingering hesitation. He had to brace himself against you when you matched his eyes, the same wanton longing burning you alive. 

So, now you find yourself sandwiched between Jack and the mattress you’d had since college. He’d pressed you down under him minutes, hours, days, years ago? You had lost all sense that wasn’t the wonderful sensation of him pulling pleasure from you. His erection digging into your core, a burning that once lived as an ache inside of you threatens to consume you with every touch. 

“Jack,” You moan out, “Please I need you.” He pulls away, looking at your blissed out expression. “Yeah?” You nod, he backs off of you, planting his feet back on the floor. His hands grip your hips and pull until you’re at the foot of the bed, laid in front of him. 

“You’re so fucking pretty for me.” He murmurs, propping your feet up so that he has a better view of your soaked underwear. His thumb traces the outline of your clit, you shudder at the feathered sensation. “So responsive.”

“Please,” you flop your knees apart, “Please, I need to cum Jack.” You declare.

Jack drops to his knees, pulling your panties down with him. He hardly takes the time to fling the offending garment somewhere behind him before he’s licking you entirely. 

Your mouth drops open, letting a symphony of sound through freely. Jack’s tongue finds every peak and valley of your sex, every appendage and nook before settling home with a long suck to your clit. The button pulses beneath his ministrations, blood pumping so violently through your body you forget how to respond outside of primal instinct. 

Blindly your hand finds his hair, your hips twitch against him for resistance until you're practically gliding against him. His hand slips easily to penetrate you in the madness. You feel the stretch passively but he plays against your nerves like some kind of prodigy. He brings the precipice of madness to you on a silver platter, slipping another finger in.

Your fingers curl, your heart pounds, the impossibly tight coil in the pit of your stomach becomes even lighter, pleasure zips through you entirely. Somewhere far away from yourself you hear the babbling coming from you, something reverent and beautiful. Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack! 

He crooks his fingers experimentally, and doesn’t relent in positioning until he finds the exact right place inside of you that makes you go limp and brainless under him. You think you’ll fly away, and right when you think the pleasure can’t heighten further, he hums approvingly against that forsaken bundle of nerves. 

You reel in all at once, your back arches off the bed, in near possession of pleasure. You cry out completely, your body sucks him in greedily, he takes the opportunity to scissor your opening out further. The pleasure that rocks over you is euphoric and spiritual, like shooting stars and becoming one. 

It’s a long moment before your body is yours again. Jack waits, with reverence, for your body to subside its dance. He watches without blinking, how could he miss a second of this privilege. 

“You’re so fucking good at that.” You whisper to no one and nobody. His laugh brings you back to sitting up, your dress pooling around your hips. 

“You inspire greatness in me, Sweetheart,” He kisses you resolutely, “You’re perfect.” He whispers against you. 

Neither of you waste time, he fiddles with the buttons of his shirt, you with a tug on your dress. It’s not long before both of you are bare before each other, spare Jack’s underwear. The snug fabric that reveals the outline of his impressive erection. 

Your hooded gaze wanders over the impressive feature. You reach your hands out to touch it delicately, he hisses at the contact, but doesn’t move to stop you. 

“I-” He gasps out when you tuck your hand into his boxers to wrap your hands around him. You watch him as you trace your fingers over the leaking tip. “I need to be inside of you, please.” He grabs your wrist softly. Your nod of approval is the last thing he needed before tugging the fabric down. 

He lays you down, admiring you spread beneath him so sinfully. You return the sentiment, enjoying the carnal flush that’s spread over his broad shoulders and thick arms. He might be older than you’d usually date, but he was twice as handsome pulling your legs until you were practically folded in half under him. 

“Is this position comfortable for your leg?” You ask genuinely. He groans, biting lightly at the ankle just by his head. 

“So sweet to me,” he soothes the bite with a kiss. “It’s perfect.” He brings his cock up against you, rutting experimentally against your sex. The tip smears pre-cum against your clit, it twitches underneath the attention. 

“Jack-” You start, fully intending to reach into your bedside for the little silver condom that sits for this exact reason. You mean to, you do, but you catch his eyes, and it’s like you can both feel the shift in the moment. 

You wanted Jack, fully, entirely, completely, you didn’t want anything to sully the sensation. Jack locked his eyes fully onto yours before his tip caught your hole and he pressed in, slowly. 

The stretch was immense, an expansive pleasure consumed you, he filled you deeper than anyone had ever done before. His girth inspired your body to come alive with sensation, and even more you could feel every ridge, vein, and contour of the member filling you. 

Passively you thought, this is a bad idea. Jack could get you pregnant. But the thought only inspired your hole to flutter around him in pleasured spasms. 

He kept moving into you slowly until you felt the familiar greeting of course hair tickling against you. He leant over, taking the moment to share an open kiss, checking in on you without words. 

“S’deep.” You mumble against him, drunk on the feeling of fullness. 

“Yeah?” He mocks, “So deep in you Sweetheart. No one ever been this deep?” He asks.

You shake your head quickly, “Never felt this good, Jackie, please move!” You all but beg. 

Jack complies, setting a dangerously delightful pace, pulling almost all the way back before pushing down again, filling you completely. The air is knocked out of you, pushing little mewls and moans with it. Jack’s pace never faults, steady and strong through you. 

“Feel so tight around me,” He grunts, “My tight pussy, yeah?” He mocks. You whine at the notion. “This my tight pussy?” 

“Yes!” You can barely think, he shifts again, pushing against the deepest part of you. “Yes, yours Jack!” 

He speeds his thrusts, a redness dawning over his shoulders, and blooming over his chest beautifully. Little groans and moans tumble past his lips every once and while, you savor each one like it’s gold. 

“S’my pussy, I’m gonna make it mine.” He moves your legs until he’s got you perfectly angled for his thrusts to brush your cervix. “Little pussy loves me. Listen to her sing.” The sounds of slapping skin echo out. 

“Jack! Jack, need you-” You gasp and writhe, pleasure tumbling through you, “Need you to come inside me-” You can barely get the words out before his pace becomes punishing. 

“Fuck-” He breaks into maddening animalistic thrusts, “Want me to cum in your pussy, baby? Want me to make you a mommy?” He mocks, but the effect is instant. Your pussy flutters around him, the pleasure taking you away. 

“Want me to fill this little pussy,” he can’t help himself anymore, the words tumble past his lips, “Want me to fill you up, get you pregnant. Want me- want me-” He trails off. 

You simply accept his tirade, letting the everlong sensation of forbidden lust carry you through. Jack leans in until your lips are pressed against each other, breathes exchanged. 

It’s surprisingly intimate given the filth he’d been spewing just seconds before. He watched you, and you returned the same, his thrusts begin to falter, your orgasm creeps dangerously close. 

“Want to have your baby, Jack.” You declare suddenly, only moments before you’re sucked away into your second orgasm of the night. Liquid gushes around the base of his cock, making the sensation of your adventure that much more heightened. 

Jack has about three more good thrusts before he’s slamming himself into you and letting himself empty deep inside of you. Your hips tilted upwards, the mess leaking further and further inside of you with every pulse of his cock. Your muscles are still contracting him closer and closer as you begin to return back to your body. 

Neither one of you said anything for a long time. Jack lays on top of you, his cock softening inside of you, enjoying the feeling of his skin painted against yours. He traces every line of your body, trying to memorize the perfect plane of existence. The gift beneath him, that could be the answer to the prayer he’d lost hope on. 

You feel similarly hopeful. There’s no doubt that Jack was going to take care of you, that he was going to make you feel safe and special. The lingering nag that reminded you that Jack’s track record didn’t rear its head until the morning after alerted itself. Before you can dwell on it, Jack’s pulling away and mumbling something about a washcloth. 

You forfeit your worries for the night, preferring to enjoy the view of the man bobbing through your bathroom naked as the day he was born aside from the mechanical limb that he hadn’t taken off. Once he returns there’s no room for doubt. 

It’s not until the next morning, when the door slams open and you can hear Parker calling for Jack from the living room. 

“Abbot you have two minutes to get your old ass out here and explain why your Truck is in my spot this morning.” She called out distantly. 

Abbot lets out a laugh, but tugs you closer, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck, his hand snaking around to cradle your midsection. He wonders if it stuck, if he’d need to flip you over and try again this morning. Either way was fine with him, he wasn’t going anywhere. 

‘What number is your room?’ You ask as he presses the elevator buttons.

‘197 we only have to go up 2 floors’ he answers as he grabs your wrist to pull you into a hungry kiss, you whimper into the kiss already turned on from the grinding at the club. ‘We’re really drunk aren’t we?’ He asks as he smiles against the kiss. ‘Mhm I fear so’ you joke as you hear the ping of the elevator signing that you’ve arrived at the right floor. You both stumble out of the elevator rushing to his room. As you enter his room he immediately pushes you against the wall and captures your lips in a deep kiss, your hands fiddle with the hem of his shirt wanting to take it off. He pulls it off in one swift motion revealing his toned abs, you run your hands over them enjoying the way his muscles twitch under your touch.

You follow as you pull of your tank top revealing your lacy bra, he unhooks it in one swift motion revealing your already hardened perky nippels, he takes your left boob into his hand kneading your flesh, causing you to moan into his touch arching your back at the stimulation.

His mouth finds your right nipple circling your areola as he laps his whole mouth around your sensitive bud sucking on it softly.

Your hands find his hair as you moan his name softly, your eyes rolling back from the dual pleasure.

‘Bedroom’ you whisper as he tilts you up bridal stile and carries you over to his bed, putting you down with a soft thud he immediately hovers over you sucking a hickey right below your pulse point causing you to arch your wet core into his already hardened bulge in his jeans.

He slips off your skirt and panties in one swift motion, the cool air brushing against your aroused pussy sending shivers down your spine as he unbuckles his jeans. When he finally unbuckles his belt he pulls off his boxers, his thick cock immediately springing free already leaking precum.

He kisses you as he runs a finger through your folds, groaning into the kiss as he feels your wetness coating his fingers.

‘Damn already so wet for me? Just from all that grinding?’ He asks as a grin spreads across his face, your already so aroused you only manage a weak whimper to pass your lips as your hips buck up to meet his fingers craving any friction.

‘Use your words darling’ he says as he pulls away his fingers leaving you completely helpless underneath him.

‘y-yes’ you mumble as you pout at him.

‘Mhm good girl, I think you deserve your reward now don’t you think so? Hm?’ He asks as he runs his hand up your hips kneading your flesh.

‘Uhuh’ you manage to answer as you spread your legs slightly giving him access.

He positions his leaking cock at your entrance as he slides his tip through your folds collecting your arousal to use it as lube, your hole already needy and clenching around nothing.

As he slowly pushes his pink tip in you loudly moan his name, which quickly got muffled by his thumb, stuffing it deep in your throat causing you to gag. You relax your throat and eagerly suck on his thumb as he fully pushes his length in. Burning at first since he didn’t properly stretch you, but it quickly tuned into a delicious feeling as he rolls his hips into you. Hitting your cervix causing you too helplessly whimper his name. He presses soft kisses all over your jaw and neck, whispering soft praises into your ear.

‘Fuck you’re so tight’ he groans as speeds up the pace, almost pulling out completely and then fully sliding back in. While he continues to pound into you his hand finds your right boob, he rolls your nipple between his fingers making you arch into his touch, deepening the angle. Your eyes roll back in pleasure as you feel yourself getting close to your orgasm.

‘Kook.. im gonna cum’ you whimper as you clench your walls around him, his hand leaves your breasts leaving you slightly disappointed, but the heavy stimulation on your clit immediately made up for it. He circled your sensitive bud in quick motions as you came all over his cock, vision turning black as your body went limp. His own orgasm following soon after, he spilled his sticky load into you filling you up to the brim. Groaning your name as he hides his face in the crook of your sweaty neck.

As you both come down from your highs he rolls onto his side pulling you close to him. You lay on his chest while you steady your breathing, your finger tracing his tattoos on his right arm.

The room is filled with the sounds of your heavy breathing, you melt into his touch as your eyelids get heavy. He wraps his arms around you in an instant smelling the faint sent of coconut in your wavy hair.

You fall asleep to the comfortable silence as he rubs soothing circles along your back, his complete focus on you.

He also drifts off to sleep right after he hears the way your breath steadied, closing his eyes and pressing a soft kiss to your temple whispering one last thing:

‘I think I’m falling in love with you, although I don’t even know you yet..’

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ʚଓ author’s note : Hii everyonee! Hope yall enjoyed reading, cuz I was struggling writing this.. lol. This will sadly be the last fic im feeding yall with for 1-2 weeks since I have finals week but dw cause I have loadssss of ideas! Okay I’m gonna stop yapping now!

The county fair had always been your thing. Neon lights, the dust kicked up by passing boots, the faint hum of generators powering rides that probably should’ve been inspected twice. But this year felt sweeter, maybe because Clark’s hand was warm in yours, his thumb brushing over your wedding ring every few steps like he couldn’t help reminding himself it was there.

Your cowboy was a sight: worn denim hugging his hips, sun-bleached flannel rolled to his elbows, hat tilted just right to shade those baby-blue eyes. And every time he smiled at you, that soft, lopsided grin he only ever gave his wife, your chest fluttered like a loose Ferris wheel bolt.

The sun dipped lower, bleeding gold into the fairgrounds as the temperature slipped with it. A cool breeze rolled across the open field, brushing goosebumps up your arms. Clark noticed instantly, of course, he did. He always noticed you first. “You cold, sweetheart?” he asked softly, thumb pausing where it circled your ring.

“A little,” you admitted.

Without missing a beat, he squeezed your hand. “Stay right here. I’ll run to the truck and grab my jacket for ya.”

You nodded, watching the confident, easy stroll of his retreating back: broad shoulders, steady gait, that little hitch of his thumbs hooking into his belt as he walked. He looked unfairly good from every angle.

While you waited, you wandered toward the cotton candy stand, breathing in the sugary air. Pink spun sugar glowed under the warm bulbs like it existed just to be eaten under fair lights. You were debating between pink and blue when a voice cut in behind you. “Well, hey there, darlin’. You here all by yourself?”

You turned to find two men, locals, probably, mid-twenties, leaning in a little too close. The first one gave you a grin that tried a little too hard, and the second let his eyes travel lower than they should have. Your wedding ring glinted under the lights, but neither bothered to look.

“No,” you said politely, stepping back. “My husband’s—”

“Ah, c’mon,” the first guy drawled, “no harm in talkin’ a bit. Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be waitin’ alone in the cold.”

You barely had time to exhale before a familiar warmth slid in behind you. Clark.

His presence folded around you like a shield, quiet, tall, immovable. He stepped just slightly in front of you, not shoving, not rude, just… blocking their view. His jaw clenched tight beneath light stubble, and his hand found the small of your back with a quiet, unmistakable claim.

“Evenin’,” Clark said, voice low and calm but carrying that unmistakable edge that meant he was seconds from breaking a fence post in half.

The men stiffened. “We were just talkin’ to her,” one muttered.

Clark’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “She wasn’t lookin’ for company.”

You felt him tuck you closer, fingers pressing between your shoulder blades. You swore you felt his breath warm against your temple as he added, softer, only for you: “Got worried when I didn’t see ya.”

That alone almost made your knees buckle.

The guys mumbled something and drifted off when they realized they were outmatched, not just physically, but in the way Clark’s entire soul tilted toward you. When they were out of sight, Clark draped his jacket over your shoulders, pulling it snug around you like he was wrapping you in part of himself. It was warm, smelled like cedar and sun-worn cotton, and the second you slipped your arms into the sleeves, Clark kissed your temple.

“You okay?” he murmured.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Are you?”

He huffed a small laugh. “Tryin’ real hard not to throw ’em into the corn maze.”

You rose onto your toes and kissed the edge of his jaw. “My big, jealous cowboy.” He tugs you close until your chest presses against his. “Always.”

He bought you cotton candy, pink, and fed you pieces off his fingers, each one stolen with a teasing brush of his lips, a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth every time you giggled. His arm stayed around your waist the rest of the night, hand slipping into his jacket pocket with yours inside it, keeping you warm.

By the time you made it back to the truck, the fair glowing behind you like a cluster of dying embers, Clark opened your door, helped you inside, and leaned in close, close enough that his hat brim brushed your forehead. “You know,” he murmured, voice dropping to a low rasp, “watchin’ other men look at you like that… might’ve made me a little crazy.”

Your breath hitched. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” His lips grazed your cheek, slow and hungry. “Gonna have to work it off, sweetheart.”

He shut your door, circled around, and climbed in. The second his door clicked shut, he reached over, tugged you into a bruising kiss, then pulled back just far enough to growl, “Seatbelt, darlin’. Then hike that pretty dress up for me.”

You obeyed, trembling, bunching the fabric to your hips and spreading your thighs. Clark started the truck one-handed; the other slid straight between your legs, pushing your soaked panties aside and sinking two thick fingers deep inside you without warning. The engine rumbled to life the same second you cried out his name.

He kept his eyes on the dark country road, jaw tight, but his fingers moved slowly and relentless, curling just right, thumb circling your clit in steady, maddening strokes. Every bump in the gravel sent those fingers deeper; every curve in the road made his palm grind against you.

“Clark—” you whimpered, head falling back against the seat, hips chasing his hand.

“Shh, baby,” he rasped, voice rough with restraint. “Twenty minutes home. You’re gonna come on my fingers every single mile, Understand?”

You could only nod, breathless, as he added a third finger and fucked you slow and deep the entire drive, drawing three shaking, sobbing orgasms out of you before the porch light of your farmhouse finally came into view. The second he rolled to a stop in the driveway, engine still ticking, he killed the lights, yanked the seat lever, and reclined all the way back. “Come here, Mrs. Kent.”

You scrambled over the console, straddling him in one frantic move. He shoved his jeans down just enough, lined himself up, and pulled you down onto his dick in one smooth, possessive thrust. You both groaned, loud and broken, at how perfectly he filled you.

The windows were already fogged from your earlier panting. Moonlight spilled through the windshield, painting silver across his cheekbones as he gripped your hips and guided you to ride him exactly how he liked, slow, deep rolls that dragged every inch of him against your walls.

“Love you,” he whispered against your lips, reverent, desperate. “I love you so damn much it hurts.”

You kissed him through the words, moving faster, chasing that edge together. His hands slid up under your dress, palms spread wide over your back like he needed to feel every inch of skin he could reach.

When you came, it was with his name on your tongue and tears in your eyes; when he followed, he buried his face in your neck and pulsed deep inside you, holding you so tight you could feel his heartbeat against your own.

After, he didn’t let you go far, just tucked you against his chest, fingers stroking lazily against your back while the crickets sang outside.

“Think the neighbors heard?” you mumbled, sleepy and sated.

Clark chuckled, low and warm, pressing a kiss to your temple. “If they did, good. Let the whole county know my wife’s cherished.”

He carried you inside a few minutes later, still unwilling to separate even for the length of the porch steps, because some nights, Clark Kent simply couldn’t stand an inch of space between him and the woman he’d sworn his forever to.

Inside, the house was dim and quiet, lit only by the soft glow of the kitchen night-light and the moon through the windows. Clark nudged the door shut with his boot, still holding you close, his hands warm beneath your thighs. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way he was still breathing a little harder than usual, that post-pleasure looseness in every slow step he took.

He carried you straight to the bedroom, brushing a kiss to your hairline. “Just sit tight, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Gonna get you cleaned up.”

He set you gently on the edge of the bed, hands sliding down your hips like he was afraid you might disappear if he didn’t keep touching you. Your dress was wrinkled, straps fallen, hair mussed beyond repair, but he looked at you like you were the prettiest thing the fair had offered all night.

The bath faucet turned on with a low, steady rush. Steam filled the room, the scent of the lavender bath soak you loved curling up in warm tendrils. Clark tested the temperature with his wrist, because of course he did, then added more hot water until it was perfect.

He slipped off your shoes for you, placing them neatly by the dresser, because even after fucking you senseless in the truck, Clark Kent was still Clark Kent. He eased your dress off next, careful not to snag the zipper.

Clark kissed your forehead, then your nose, then the corner of your mouth, slow, lingering, sweet. “There she is,” he murmured. “My girl.”

When the tub was full, he returned to you, lifting you with easy, careful hands. He stepped in first, settling into the warm water, then pulled you in with him, guiding your back against his chest like he wanted you as close as physically possible. His thighs bracketed yours, his arms slipping around your waist under the water.

You felt him exhale against your shoulder, breath warm on your damp skin. “There we go,” he whispered, kissing right where your neck met your collarbone. “Just relax for me.”

The water soothed your trembling muscles instantly. Clark reached for a soft cloth, soaked it, and dragged it gently over your thigh, up your hip, along your stomach. Slow, tender strokes. No rush. No pressure. Just the kind of care that made your eyes sting.

“You hurtin’ anywhere?” he asked softly, that same gentle drawl he only used after nights like this.

You shook your head. “Just… floaty.”

His arms tightened around you. “Good. Means I did somethin’ right.”

He washed you with reverence, wiping along your arms, your shoulders, your neck. Every so often, he pressed a little kiss to your temple or cheek, as if he couldn’t help himself.

“You did so good tonight,” he murmured against your jaw, voice low and soothing. “So damn good for me.”

Eventually, he stood and helped you out, wrapping you immediately in a fluffy towel, then carrying you to the bedroom with your legs dangling and your face tucked into his throat. He set you on the edge of the bed and helped you into one of his soft, worn T-shirts. It hung halfway down your thighs, smelling like laundry soap, hay, and him, then tucked you in.

He slipped under the blankets with you, pulling you into his chest. Your head rested over his heartbeat, his hand stroking slow, lazy lines down your back. “Still mad about those guys?” you asked, voice thick with sleep.

“No,” he murmured into your hair. “Not mad. Just… reminded I’m real lucky.” His thumb rubbed small circles over your spine. “Lucky you chose me. Lucky I get to bring you home. Lucky I get to hold you after.”

Your throat tightened. “Clark…”

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

His whole body seemed to melt around you. “I love you more,” he whispered. “More’n any cowboy’s got words for.”