oink oink

you met kenji fushiguro on a work trip in osaka six months ago.

he was forty-seven, broad-shouldered in a way that came from years of carrying responsibility rather than gym time, with faint lines around his eyes and a calm, steady voice that made people listen without him raising it. his wife had died when toji was ten. cancer, quick and ugly. he had raised the boy alone after that, or tried to. by the time you met him he was successful in his field, some kind of logistics and import business that kept him traveling and quietly lonely in a way successful men often are. he did not talk about his son much at first. when he did, it was with a tired kind of love mixed with frustration, like he did not know how to reach the angry twenty-year-old who still lived in his house.

you were thirty-seven, single for a while, tired of starting over. kenji made you feel chosen. he asked real questions, remembered small details, touched the small of your back when you walked through crowded stations like he was already thinking of you as his. the chemistry was easy. too easy, maybe. he proposed after three months. you said yes because it felt like safety, like someone finally putting you first. you did not know then how much space his grief still took up, or how that grief had shaped the way he treated his son.

the wedding was small. you moved into the fushiguro house two weeks later.

it was a clean, modern house in a quiet tokyo suburb. two stories, big kitchen, a yard toji never used. but it still carried traces of the woman who had lived there before you. a few framed photos kenji had not taken down. a scarf still hanging on the back of a chair in the living room.

you told yourself it was fine. you were not here to erase anyone.

toji was waiting in the doorway the day you arrived with your suitcases.

twenty years old. taller than his father already, broader through the shoulders, black hair messy like he had run his hands through it too many times. there was a thin scar cutting through his upper lip on the right side. his eyes were dark and flat when they landed on you.

“this is her?” he asked his father, voice low.

kenji sighed. “toji. be polite.”

toji did not look at his father again. he looked at you like you were something that had crawled into his house and did not belong.

“you’re not staying,” he said simply. “whatever you think this is, it’s not. my mom’s things are still here. you’re not taking her place.”

you opened your mouth, but kenji stepped in gently. “enough. she’s my wife now. you’ll show her respect.”

toji laughed once, short and cold, then turned and went upstairs without another word.

that was the beginning.

kenji tried. he really did. he took you out to nice dinners, bought you small things, a new coat, a necklace you did not need but wore anyway because it made him smile. at night he was attentive in bed, older and patient, the kind of lover who asked what you liked and remembered it. you felt wanted and safe.

but toji made sure you never forgot you were an intruder.

he refused to eat anything you cooked. the first time you made dinner, simple grilled fish and rice because you were nervous, he came downstairs, looked at the table, and pushed the plate away without sitting.

“i don’t eat food from whores who move into other people’s houses,” he said, loud enough for kenji to hear from the living room.

kenji scolded him later. toji did not apologize. he just started skipping dinner altogether, coming home late or not at all. when he was home he called you names under his breath whenever his father was not in the room. slut. gold digger. shallow bitch. you’ll never be my mom. you tried to ignore it. some days you answered back. most days you just felt the guilt settle heavier in your chest.

you were not trying to replace his mother. but the house made you feel like a replacement anyway. kenji still had her favorite mug in the cabinet. sometimes you caught him looking at nothing, his face soft with old grief, and you wondered if he was seeing her instead of you. you never asked. you just tried to be good.

and then you started noticing toji in ways you should not have.

it was little things at first. the way he moved through the house was different from kenji. kenji was a little slower with age. toji was all sharp edges and restless energy. when he came out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist you saw the cut of his hips, the hard line of muscle across his stomach that his father did not have anymore. his voice was lower than kenji’s when he was angry, rougher, like it scraped on the way out. his hands were bigger, calloused in places that suggested he did more than sit behind a desk. when he argued with you he stood too close, and you caught yourself noticing the scar on his lip, the way it pulled when he sneered, how young he still looked under all that anger.

you hated yourself for every comparison.

kenji touched you like a man who had learned patience. toji looked at you like he wanted to break something. the difference sat in your stomach and made you feel sick and warm at the same time. you told yourself it was just observation, that you were living in the same house. it did not mean anything.

but it started meaning something anyway.

toji’s stares got longer. during arguments his eyes would drag down your body before he caught himself and looked away, angrier than before. he started finding reasons to be in the same room as you even when he clearly did not want to be. the insults changed. still cruel, still calling you whore and slut, but there was something else under them now, like he was trying to remind himself as much as you.

you felt it too. you hated it. you were thirty-seven. he was twenty. he was your husband’s son. this was wrong in every direction.

one night it boiled over.

kenji was working late. you were in the kitchen cleaning up after a dinner you had eaten alone. toji came in from wherever he had been, sweaty, shirt sticking to his chest, eyes already hard when he saw you.

“still playing house?” he asked.

you did not look at him. “i’m just cleaning, toji.”

“you don’t have to. nobody asked you to be here.”

you turned then. something in you was tired. “i know you hate me. i’m not trying to be your mother. i never was. but i’m not leaving your father, so you’re going to have to find a way to live with it.”

he stepped closer. you could smell the sweat and whatever cologne he used. his eyes dropped to your mouth, then lower, then back up.

“you think i don’t see the way you look at me sometimes?” he said, voice low. “you’re not as good at hiding it as you think, you know that? thirty-seven years old and staring at your stepson like you’re fucking starving.”

your face burned. “enough!”

“shut up.” he leaned in, not touching you but close enough that you felt the heat off his body. “you’re pathetic. my dad’s out there working and you’re in here getting wet over someone young enough to be your—”

he stopped himself. turned around. walked out without finishing the sentence.

you stood in the kitchen shaking.

that night kenji came home late and tired. he kissed you, asked how your day was, made love to you the way he always did, gentle. you held him after. but your mind kept flashing to toji in the kitchen, the way his voice had dropped, the way he had looked at your mouth like he wanted to ruin it.

you felt disgusting.

toji did not come out of his room for the rest of the night.

he laid on his bed with the lights off, staring at the ceiling, cock hard and aching against his stomach. he hated you. hated the way you looked at him sometimes when you thought he was not paying attention. hated that his father had brought you here and made everything worse. hated that you were only seventeen years older than him and still managed to make him feel like a fucking kid with a crush he did not want.

he tried to jerk off to something else. anything else. it did not work. his brain kept giving him flashes of you, your mouth, the curve of your hips when you bent over, the way your voice shook when you finally snapped back at him tonight. he came once, angry and fast, but it was not enough. he fell asleep still half-hard and frustrated.

and then the dream took him.

in the dream you were in his room. the door was closed. you were wearing one of those soft shirts you sometimes wore around the house, no bra underneath, nipples visible through the fabric. you looked at him like you knew exactly what he was and did not care.

“toji,” you said, voice low and steady, “i know you hate me. but you don’t have to.”

he tried to tell you to get out. the words did not come. you stepped closer, touched his chest, and his body betrayed him completely. your hands were warm. older. you pushed him back onto the bed and climbed over him, straddling his hips like you belonged there.

“let me take care of you,” the dream version of you whispered. “you’ve been so angry. so tense. let mommy help.”

he should have shoved you off. instead he grabbed your hips and yanked you down onto his cock, groaning when you took him all the way. you rode him slow at first, then harder, your tits bouncing in that thin shirt, your voice in his ear telling him he was good, he was perfect. he fucked up into you like he wanted to punish you for existing and thank you for it at the same time. the word slipped out of him without permission.

“mommy…”

you smiled in the dream, soft and filthy. “that’s it, baby. say it again.”

he came so hard it felt like his spine was breaking, pulsing deep inside you while you held his face and told him it was okay, you had him.

and then toji woke up with a choked gasp, chest heaving, cum still cooling in sticky ropes across his stomach and chest. the dream clung to him like sweat. your voice in his ear. the word mommy coming out of his own mouth. the way dream-you had smiled when he said it.

he shot out of bed like the sheets were burning him.

the bathroom door slammed behind him. he did not even bother turning on the light. he twisted the shower knob all the way to cold and stepped under the spray still in his boxers, letting the freezing water hit his face and chest. it did not help. the disgust sat thick in his throat anyway. he slammed his fist into the tile wall once, twice, three times, hard enough that the skin split across his knuckles. blood mixed with the cold water running down his wrist.

“fuck,” he muttered, voice raw. “fuck. fuck. fuck.”

he stayed under the water until his teeth chattered, until the mess on his skin was gone and the only thing left was the dull throb in his hand and the shame sitting heavy behind his ribs. when he finally stepped out he did not bother drying off properly. he yanked on the first clothes he found, an old faded black t-shirt that clung to his still-damp chest and a pair of black pants. his hair dripped onto his shoulders. his knuckles were red and angry, split open and already starting to swell. he did not care. he just needed to get out of this house.

maybe he would find some girl from the usual spot.

he left the bathroom door open and headed for the stairs, moving fast, jaw locked tight.

you were already in the kitchen.

it was sunday morning, quiet except for the low hum of the fridge. kenji was still upstairs getting ready for an early meeting. you were wearing shorts and a thin tank top, hair a little messy from sleep, moving around the kitchen wiping down the counters. you turned when you heard footsteps.

your eyes went wide the second you saw him.

“goodness, toji—!” the words came out before you could stop them. “are you okay? what happened to your hand? let me—”

you stepped forward without thinking, reaching for him. he was so much bigger up close. twenty years old and already towering over you, shoulders broad enough to block the light from the window. your fingers brushed his wrist as you tried to take his injured hand.

he reacted before he could think.

the back of his hand caught you across the cheek and sent you stumbling. you hit the floor hard, a small whimper slipping out of you on impact. the tile was cold against your bare legs.

toji stood frozen above you, chest rising and falling too fast. the anger on his face cracked open for just a moment, guilt, followed by something else. regret. confusion. the aftertaste of the dream still sitting behind his eyes. he had not meant to hit you that hard. he had not meant to hit you at all.

“how many times,” he said, voice low and rough, “do i have to tell you to stop playing house?”

you swallowed hard, pride burning in your throat, and pushed yourself back up to your feet. your cheek stung. you did not touch it. instead you reached out again, grabbed his injured hand with both of yours and yanked it toward you, forcing him to look down at you.

“i don’t care if you’re going to keep blaming me for everything,” you said, voice steady even though your heart was hammering. “at least let me clean this up before your father sees it.”

toji’s fist clenched under your grip, but he did not pull away. you did not back down either. you just held on, looking up at him, and murmured, “you’re really stubborn.”

something in his jaw twitched. after a long second he let you pull him toward the kitchen table. he sat down heavily in one of the chairs, legs spread, watching you with dark, skeptical eyes as you moved around gathering the small first-aid kit from under the sink.

you set everything on the table, alcohol, cotton pads, bandages, and took his hand again. his fingers were thick and calloused, much larger than yours. you opened them gently, one by one, and the difference in size was obvious. your hands looked small against his. you could feel him noticing it.

when you poured the alcohol onto a cotton pad and pressed it to the split skin he jerked and let out a sharp groan.

“you bitch! that fucking hurts—”

you did not flinch. you pressed harder, cleaning the blood away with steady strokes even as he winced and cursed under his breath. the alcohol burned. he tried to pull his hand back but you held on.

“you will not speak to me like that,” you said quietly.

toji stared at you, breathing through his nose, eyes narrowed. for a moment it looked like he might snap again. then the fight drained out of him all at once.

“fine,” he muttered, looking away. “stop. geez.”

you kept cleaning. slower now. careful. the only sound in the kitchen was his breathing and the soft drag of cotton over broken skin.

upstairs, you could hear kenji’s footsteps starting down the hall.

you finished tying off the bandage. toji still did not get up. he stayed sitting at the kitchen table, staring at his wrapped hand like he was trying to figure out how he ended up letting you touch him at all.

you were still leaning over him, close enough that your thin tank top shifted with the movement. the neckline dipped low. your cleavage was clearly visible as you reached for the alcohol bottle to put it away. toji’s eyes dropped straight to it and stayed there a second too long.

you caught him staring.

instead of pulling back right away, you stayed where you were for a beat, then deliberately leaned in a little more as you grabbed the small trash bin from under the sink. your chest moved closer to his face. toji swallowed hard, throat bobbing visibly. you saw the way his jaw tightened after.

something in the air felt different this morning. he was still angry, still radiating that restless energy, but there was something raw underneath it after he had hit you and then let you clean him up. you were tired of the constant war. tired of walking on eggshells in your own house.

so you reached up without thinking too hard about it and ran your fingers gently through his damp hair, rubbing softly at the back of his neck like you were trying to soothe him.

toji went rigid.

he swatted your hand away fast, the bandaged one coming up on instinct.

you glared at him.

then you did it again anyway, slower, more deliberate this time, sliding your fingers back into his hair and rubbing the same spot like you refused to let him push the moment away.

“you’re so much calmer like this,” you said quietly, voice low so it would not carry upstairs. “you’re good when you’re not fighting everything. you don’t have to be angry all the time, toji.”

the words hit him like a physical blow.

toji’s eyes snapped up to yours, wide and dark. something inside him cracked open violently. the dream was still too fresh, the way dream-you had touched him, the way you had called him baby, the word mommy that had torn out of his own throat while he came harder than he ever had in his life. and now here you were in real life, leaning over him in that thin tank top, petting his hair.

his cock twitched hard in his pants before he could stop it.

shame and rage and something much more dangerous flooded through him at once. he jerked back so violently the chair scraped loud against the floor.

“don’t,” he rasped, voice hoarse and unsteady. “don’t fucking touch me like that again.”

you did not apologize. you looked at him, hand still half-raised, breathing a little faster than before.

toji stood up fast, chest rising and falling like he had been running. he could not look at you. the front of his pants was tight and he prayed you would not notice. he grabbed his keys with his good hand and headed straight for the front door without another word, moving like he was trying to outrun his own skin.

the door slammed behind him.

you stayed by the table, fingers still tingling from the feel of his hair. your cheek still stung where he had hit you earlier. and low in your stomach, something warm and guilty had started to curl that you had no business feeling.

kenji’s cheerful voice called down from the stairs a moment later.

“morning, sweetheart. you seen toji?”

you swallowed and forced your voice steady.

“he just left.”

you did not tell him about the blood on his son’s knuckles.

three days later it started on a thursday night.

toji got sick. badly. kenji was away again on another trip, so the house stayed quiet. at first toji tried to power through it like always, leaving the house even while his fever climbed. but by the second night he could barely stand straight. you found him in the living room past midnight, slumped on the couch, skin burning hot and damp with sweat.

“toji,” you said softly, “you’re really not okay.”

“i’m fine,” he rasped, trying to sit up and failing. “just… leave me alone.”

you did not.

you brought water, medicine, and a cold cloth. he fought you on every single thing. told you to fuck off. told you he did not need your help. told you to stop acting like you were his mother. but his body betrayed him. he was too weak to actually stop you when you pressed the cloth to his neck or made him drink.

by the third day, the fight had drained out of him.

he was too exhausted. the fever kept coming back stronger. he let you help him to his room. let you change his sheets when he soaked through them. let you wipe down his chest and back with a cool towel when he could not do it himself. he still glared sometimes. still muttered insults under his breath. but the bite was gone.

that night kenji called. when you told him toji was sick, he just said, “he’s a grown man. he’ll be fine.” toji stared at the ceiling the whole time you were on the phone.

around 2 a.m. his fever spiked again.

you went into his room with more medicine and a fresh cloth. he was lying on top of the covers in nothing but loose black shorts, skin flushed and shining, hair stuck to his forehead. when you sat on the edge of the bed and touched his forehead, he did not push your hand away. he just closed his eyes.

“you’re burning up,” you murmured.

he stayed quiet.

you helped him take the medicine, then gently wiped his face and neck. after a while, when you tried to pull your hand back, his fingers weakly caught your wrist.

“…wait,” he said, voice small and rough.

you stayed.

you kept running the cool cloth over his skin. at some point his breathing changed. he turned his face toward your hand, almost nuzzling it. then, slowly, he shifted closer and pressed his forehead against your stomach. it was clumsy. desperate.

“why didn’t he check on me?” he muttered against your shirt. “out of everyone… why does it have to be you?”

your hand hesitated above his hair.

he kept going, voice low and bitter. “he always says the same shit. ‘man up. men don’t show weakness.’ like that’s supposed to make me stronger. like that’s why mom died, to prepare me for how fucked up life is.”

your fingers finally slid into his hair. he let out a shaky breath the second you touched him.

for a while, that was all it was. you sitting on his bed while he hid his face against your stomach, your hand slowly stroking his hair. the fever made everything feel heavy and unreal.

then he moved. his hand came up and rested on your thigh, then slid higher, pushing the fabric of your dress up. he pressed his face more firmly between your breasts and breathed in deep.

“you smell good…” he whispered. “like her.”

your eyes widened. “toji… it’s just the fever. you’re not thinking straight.”

he shook his head and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you closer with what little strength he had.

“if it was just the fever, then why did you take care of me these past few days while my own father couldn’t even be bothered to ask how i was?”

you did not have an answer.

he stayed there, face buried in your chest, one hand slowly rubbing your hip like he needed the contact to stay grounded. his voice came out even quieter.

“i’ve never been happy since she died. not once. and i don’t want to turn into him.”

your hand kept moving through his hair. he melted into it, eyes closed, lips brushing the top of your breast without meaning to.

then, after a long silence, he asked the question that made your chest tighten.

“…are you gonna leave me too?”

you swallowed hard.

“no,” you whispered. “i’m not going anywhere.”

you stayed like that for a while, your hand still moving gently through his hair while he kept his face pressed between your breasts. his breathing was hot against your skin. every so often his arms would tighten around your waist like he was making sure you were still there.

then you felt it.

he was hard against your thigh. not fully, but enough that you could feel the heat of him through his thin shorts. he shifted slightly, almost unconsciously, and the movement dragged him against you. a quiet, shaky breath left his mouth.

he did not pull away.

instead, he nuzzled deeper into your chest, lips brushing the top of your breast as he spoke, voice low and rough from the fever.

“…can i stay like this?”

you did not answer with words. your hand just kept stroking his hair, slower now. he took that as permission.

his hand on your hip moved. it slid under the hem of your dress, fingers warm and a little clumsy as they touched bare skin. he seemed almost dazed, like he was moving on instinct more than anything else. his palm rested on your thigh for a moment before he slowly pushed your dress higher.

toji lifted his head just enough to look at you. his eyes were glassy from the fever, but there was something else in them now, something raw and desperate. he leaned in and pressed his forehead to yours, breathing uneven.

“i don’t wanna think anymore,” he whispered. “just… let me.”

his lips found yours before you could answer. the kiss was slow and messy, and a little uncoordinated because of how weak he was. but there was nothing angry in it this time. just need.

you kissed him back.

that was all it took for whatever was left of his restraint to slip.

he moved on top of you carefully, like even that took effort. his body was hot from the fever, skin damp as he settled between your legs. he did not rush to take your clothes off. he just pushed your dress up around your waist and tugged his own shorts down enough to free himself. when he finally pushed inside you, it was slow and shaky, a broken sound catching in his throat.

he did not fuck you hard.

he could not.

instead he moved in these small, deep rolls of his hips, staying as close to you as possible. his face dropped back to your chest, mouth open against your skin as he breathed you in. one of his arms wrapped tightly around your waist while the other hand gripped your thigh, keeping you open for him.

every few thrusts his rhythm would falter and he would let out this quiet, needy sound against your breast.

“mommy…” it slipped out without him meaning to, voice hoarse and small. “fuck… mommy—”

you felt the way his whole body reacted when he said it. like the word itself gave him permission to fall apart. his hips pressed deeper, slower, like he was trying to disappear inside you. his face stayed buried against your chest, lips brushing your skin with every shaky breath.

you did not correct him.

instead your hand slid back into his hair, holding him there while your other arm wrapped around his shoulders. you held him close as he moved inside you, weak and desperate and completely surrendered.

“i’ve got you,” you whispered against his hair. “you’re okay.”

toji made a broken noise and pushed in deeper, clinging to you like you were the only solid thing left. his voice was muffled against your skin when he spoke again.

“don’t let go… please. just… don’t let go.”

you did not.

you kept one hand in his hair and the other on his back, stroking slowly while he fucked you in these slow, needy movements. every time he started to speed up, his body would give out and he would fall back into that same desperate, grinding pace. like he needed the closeness more than the release.

when he finally came, it was with a quiet, wrecked sound against your chest, hips stuttering as he held onto you like he was afraid you would vanish. he did not pull out right away. he stayed buried inside you, breathing hard, face still hidden between your breasts.

his body was still trembling from the fever, from the orgasm, from everything he had been holding in for years.

you did not move either.

you just kept stroking his hair and holding him close while his breathing slowly evened out.

after a long minute, his voice came out small and hoarse against your skin.

“…don’t tell him.”

you knew he meant his father.

days later, toji was back to normal.

actually, he seemed even stronger than before. the fever had finally broken and whatever wall he had been keeping up around you had cracked wide open. he ate everything you cooked now. no more pushing plates away. no more calling it “shallow bitch food.” he would sit at the table, quiet but no longer hostile, and finish whatever you put in front of him. sometimes he would even mutter a low “thanks” under his breath when kenji was not around.

and when kenji was not home, the two of you did not bother hiding anymore.

he called you mommy in that low, rough voice while he fucked you. sometimes he would press his face into your neck and mumble “your boy” like it was the only thing he wanted to be. you just held him closer and let it happen.

this morning, kenji was still upstairs getting ready for work.

you were in the kitchen making breakfast, slicing apples for the table, wearing a simple dress that hit mid-thigh. toji had come up behind you without a word. one hand slid around your waist while the other pushed your dress up. he was already hard. he tugged his sweatpants down just enough, lined himself up, and pushed inside you in one slow thrust.

you gasped softly, gripping the edge of the counter.

“toji— your dad’s still upstairs—”

“i know,” he muttered against your neck, voice low and lazy. he started moving, fucking you in slow, deep strokes while you tried to keep cutting the apples. every time he bottomed out he let out a quiet groan, kissing the side of your cheek like he did not have a care in the world. “just keep cutting, mommy… i’ll be quick.”

you bit your lip hard, trying not to make any sound. his hands gripped your hips under your dress, pulling you back onto him with every thrust. he was being cocky about it, kissing your cheek, your jaw, even nipping at your ear while he fucked you right there in the kitchen.

then you both heard it.

footsteps on the stairs.

toji cursed under his breath and pulled out fast, yanking his sweatpants up. you quickly fixed your dress and smoothed your hair, heart pounding. he stepped away and leaned against the counter a few feet from you, putting on his usual grumpy face like nothing had happened.

kenji walked into the kitchen a moment later, already dressed for work, looking tired and irritated like he always did in the mornings.

“morning,” he grumbled.

toji barely glanced at him. “morning.”

you kept your voice steady. “morning. breakfast is almost ready.”

kenji grunted in response and walked past you toward the dining table, already pulling out his phone. his back was turned.

the second kenji sat down with his back to the kitchen, toji moved.

he dropped to his knees behind you without a word. before you could react, he was under your dress, hands pushing your thighs apart. you felt his mouth on you immediately, hot, wet, and hungry. he licked a slow stripe up your pussy and you nearly dropped the knife.

your grip tightened around the handle until your knuckles turned white.

toji did not care that his father was sitting ten feet away. he buried his face between your legs like he was starving, tongue working over your clit while two of his fingers slid inside you. you could hear how wet you were. every time his tongue flicked just right, your knees threatened to buckle.

you kept slicing the apples, trying to keep your breathing even. your hand was shaking. every few seconds a tiny, helpless sound would try to escape your throat and you had to swallow it down.

kenji’s voice came from the dining room.

“you two been getting along better lately?”

toji did not even pause. his tongue kept circling your clit while his fingers curled inside you, fucking you slowly under your dress. you could feel him smirking against your pussy.

you forced your voice to stay steady.

“yeah,” you said, slicing another apple. your thighs were trembling. “we’re… getting there.”

toji sucked on your clit a little harder in response, like he was rewarding you for lying so well. you had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop the moan that wanted to come out.

kenji hummed, already distracted by whatever he was reading on his phone.

toji kept going.