nara

You’d been a professional nanny for nearly seven years.

Long enough to know that wealthy clients came in all varieties. Busy executives, actors, athletes, people whose schedules were too chaotic to manage childcare alone.

Two days ago you received a name, an address, and a brief overview of the position before being sent on your way. A temporary placement. One child. A father whose work commitments were about to become significantly more demanding over the coming months.

That was it.

Normally, you liked knowing a little more before accepting a job. Not because you were nosy, but because every family was different. Some wanted structure down to the minute. Others preferred a more relaxed approach. Some parents were deeply involved in every aspect of their child’s day, while others barely seemed to know what was happening in their own homes.

You’d worked with enough high-profile families to know discretion was often part of the job. Most of the time you didn’t learn much about your clients until you were standing on their doorstep.

As you pulled up outside the address, you found yourself hoping this father belonged to the first category.

Gathering your things, you found yourself doing what you always did before meeting a new family - mentally reviewing first impressions. Be friendly. Be professional. Listen more than you talk.

The house itself was beautiful, though not in the cold, untouchable way you’d expected. It looked lived in. Large enough to be impressive, but not the kind of place that looked designed solely for showing off wealth.

There was a football abandoned near the front steps, and through one of the downstairs windows you could see what appeared to be drawings scattered across a dining table.

You barely had time to knock before the front door opened, and for a moment, you forgot why you were there.

The man standing in front of you wasn’t what you’d been expecting.

Most of your clients were businesspeople, doctors, lawyers, executives. Men who spent their days in offices and conference rooms. This man looked like he belonged somewhere entirely different.

He was tanned, broad-shouldered, and built in a way that immediately suggested years of intense physical training.

Dark eyes met yours, assessing but not unfriendly, and when he smiled, the seriousness in his expression softened considerably.

“You must be from the agency?”

His voice carried a slight accent you couldn’t immediately place.

“That’s me.”

You returned the smile automatically before extending your hand.

“Nice to meet you.”

His grin widened.

“Come in.”

The warmth in his tone made it easier to relax as you followed him inside. The house itself was far more comfortable than you’d expected. Photographs lined shelves and side tables. Sporting achievements had been proudly displayed on shelves, and there were enough signs of daily life to make it obvious that this wasn’t one of those houses that existed purely for appearances.

As if summoned by the sound of unfamiliar voices, a boy appeared at the end of the hallway. He couldn’t have been more than seven, all dark hair, curious eyes, and barely concealed suspicion. He looked at you, looked at his father, then looked back at you again.

“You’re the new nanny?”

You smiled.

“I am.”

His gaze narrowed thoughtfully.

“Can you play football?”

The question caught you off guard enough that you laughed.

“A little.”

“Good.”

He nodded once, apparently satisfied with your answer and then disappeared back down the hallway.

You blinked.

“Was that my interview?”

“It went well,” Ilia informed you. “Trust me, if he didn’t like you, you’d know.”

The rest of the afternoon was spent learning the household routine. You expected the conversation to be brief, but nearly an hour passed as Ilia walked you through school schedules, sportingl activities, meal preferences, allergies, emergency contacts, and every detail he thought you might need.

What struck you wasn’t simply how organised he was. It was how involved he clearly remained despite his demanding schedule. He knew the names of teachers, friends, favourite subjects, which meals his son would happily eat and which vegetables required negotiation.

There was never a moment where he needed to check notes or think about an answer.

You found yourself liking him more than you’d intended.

Not because he was attractive, that would have been inconvenient enough. But because he was obviously a good father.

And that was somehow worse.

Over the next few weeks, you settled into a comfortable routine. Mornings were spent getting his son ready for school, afternoons were filled with homework, football practice, trips to the park, and endless conversations about whatever seven-year-old boys happened to find fascinating that particular day.

The adjustment was surprisingly smooth, and before long you found yourself genuinely looking forward to work.

You didn’t see Ilia constantly. His training schedule was demanding enough that there were days he left before you arrived and returned after you’d gone home. Still, your paths crossed often enough that a comfortable familiarity began to develop.

Sometimes he would ask how school had gone while making coffee before training. Other times you’d find yourself discussing weekend plans while his son finished breakfast at the kitchen island. They were small conversations, ordinary conversations, but they accumulated over time until he no longer felt like a client.

Several weeks into the placement, you arrived to find another man already sitting at the kitchen table.

The family resemblance was impossible to miss, the same features, the same confident posture, the same accent and the same smile.

Though where Ilia often seemed calm and measured, his brother looked like trouble.

The harmless sort.

Hopefully.

“So, your the new nanny”

You looked up from setting your bag down.

“I am.”

His grin widened immediately.

“I’ve heard a lot about you.”

That earned him a look from Ilia.

You noticed.

So did he.

His smile only grew.

From that point onward, his appearances became increasingly frequent. At first you assumed it was coincidence. Then you noticed he somehow always seemed to visit during your shifts. He lingered in the kitchen when you were preparing lunch, volunteered to help carry things that didn’t require carrying, and possessed an almost supernatural ability to appear whenever you happened to be alone for more than five minutes.

The flirting wasn’t aggressive. If anything, it was annoyingly charming. He complimented your sense of humour. Teased you during family dinners. Remembered things you’d mentioned weeks earlier. It was obvious enough that you recognised it immediately, but harmless enough that ignoring it remained easy.

What proved more difficult to ignore was Ilia.

The first few times, you dismissed it as coincidence. A conversation interrupted at an odd moment. A sudden appearance whenever his brother had managed to monopolise your attention for too long. The occasional look that seemed far too intense for the situation. But as the weeks passed, the pattern became impossible to miss.

His brother would make you laugh.

Ilia would suddenly need your attention.

His brother would compliment you.

Ilia’s mood would shift.

His brother would stand a little too close.

And Ilia would need you elsewhere.

Once you noticed the jealousy, it became impossible to ignore.

Not because Ilia was obvious about it. If anything, he seemed determined to pretend nothing was happening.

But the problem was that you were around him almost every day, and over time you had become surprisingly good at reading him.

You noticed the small things.

The way he suddenly started being home more often.

The way training sessions that had previously occupied entire days somehow became shorter whenever you were scheduled to be there.

The way he always seemed to appear in the kitchen when you were making lunch, despite having no apparent reason to be there.

At first you convinced yourself you were imagining it.

Then one Tuesday morning he casually asked if you and his son wanted to visit the gym.

“Why?” you asked suspiciously.

His son looked up from his cereal.

“Can we?”

A smile tugged at the corner of Ilia’s mouth.

“I thought he might enjoy seeing me train.”

The seven-year-old was already nodding enthusiastically.

You glanced between them.

Something felt suspicious.

Still, it wasn’t exactly an unreasonable suggestion.

So two days later you found yourself standing inside the training facility while his son excitedly pointed at various fighters and asked approximately six hundred questions that he already knew the answer to, just because he wanted to tell you about it.

The problem was that you were having difficulty concentrating.

Mostly because Ilia had apparently decided shirts were optional.

You watched him moving around the gym floor as he trained, sweat glistening across his shoulders while coaches called instructions from the side. Every time you managed to drag your attention elsewhere, it inevitably wandered back.

Once was an accident.

Twice was unfortunate.

By the fifth time, you were beginning to suspect he knew exactly what he was doing.

The smug look you caught when your eyes met briefly did absolutely nothing to disprove that theory.

His son, thankfully oblivious, spent the entire journey home talking excitedly about how cool everything had been.

You however, spent the entire journey pretending not to think about the way Ilia’s shirt had remained absent for most of the afternoon.

The night everything changed began like every other evening.

Dinner.

Conversation.

His son’s endless stories.

Nothing unusual.

By nine o’clock, his son was asleep upstairs and you were gathering your things to leave when Ilia stopped you.

“Stay.”

The word caught you off guard.

You looked up.

“What?”

“I made too much dessert.”

The excuse was terrible, you both knew it.

His smile widened slightly.

“Movie?”

You should have said no.

Instead, twenty minutes later you found yourself sitting beside him on the sofa with a blanket draped across your lap and a film playing that neither of you seemed particularly interested in watching.

The room was quiet.

Comfortable.

Dangerously comfortable.

You became increasingly aware of how close he was sitting.

How easily your arm could brush his.

How warm the space beside you felt.

Eventually you became aware that he was looking at you.

Not the television.

You.

When you turned your head, his gaze didn’t move away.

For a long moment neither of you spoke.

Then he sighed softly and leaned back against the sofa.

“I’ve been trying very hard not to do this.”

Your heart skipped.

“Do what?”

“Tell you.”

His laugh held a trace of frustration.

“Because I know how complicated it is.”

You couldn’t seem to find any words.

Ilia looked down at his hands before shaking his head.

“The truth is, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

The confession settled between you.

Heavy.

Honest.

Terrifying.

His eyes lifted to yours.

“I’ve tried focusing on training. I’ve tried convincing myself it’ll pass. I’ve tried giving myself every reason not to feel this way.”

A small smile touched his mouth.

“None of it worked.”

Your pulse hammered in your ears.

“Ilia…”

“No. Let me finish.”

His voice was gentle..

“I think about you all the time. I think about seeing you here every morning. I think about how excited my son gets when he knows you’re coming over. I think about how happy you’ve made this house.”

Emotion flickered briefly across his expression.

“And I think about you.”

The intensity in his gaze made your breath catch.

“I think about your smile. The way you laugh when you’re trying not to. The way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”

His voice dropped lower.

“I think about you more often than I should.”

The room suddenly felt very small.

“I think you’re beautiful.”

The words were simple but somehow they hit harder than anything else.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it felt inevitable. As though the two of you had been moving towards this exact moment for far longer than either of you wanted to admit.

When Ilia reached for your hand, the gesture was surprisingly gentle. His fingers slid between yours naturally, as though they’d belonged there all along. The simple touch sent warmth rushing through your entire body.

He looked down briefly before lifting his gaze back to yours.

And then his eyes dropped briefly to your mouth.

The world had narrowed to the sofa, the quiet hum of the television, and the man sitting beside you. Nothing else existed.

Slowly, carefully, Ilia lifted a hand to your face.

His fingertips brushed against your cheek, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Your eyes dropped briefly to his mouth before returning to his gaze. The look that passed between you was enough.

No more words were needed. Ilia closed the distance first.

The kiss was slow.

Tentative.

As though he was giving you every opportunity to pull away.

You didn’t.

The second kiss came easier.

More certain.

His hand slid from your cheek to the side of your neck while yours found his shoulder, instinctively drawing him closer. Months of tension seemed to unravel all at once, every stolen glance and unfinished conversation culminating in the way his forehead rested briefly against yours between kisses.

His hands grip your waist and pull you onto his lap, mouths meeting in a deep, hungry kiss that steals your breath.

Tongues slide together as he sucks on your lower lip, then trails hot kisses down your neck, sucking marks into your skin that make you gasp softly.

You grind against him, feeling his cock harden beneath you through his pants. The friction builds heat between your thighs as you rock your hips, his hands roaming under your shirt to cup your breasts and pinch your nipples.

Ilia kisses you harder, biting gently at your collarbone before sucking another mark there, his tongue soothing the spot. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer while the grinding grows more urgent, your pussy growing slick against the bulge of his cock.

With a low groan, he flips you onto your back on the sofa, settling between your legs as he takes control. His mouth claims yours again, kissing passionately, then moves to suck and nip at your throat, leaving a trail of marks.

He tugs your shirt up to suck on your nipples, tongue circling and teeth grazing until you arch beneath him.

More kisses follow, wet and desperate, as his hands explore every curve, marking your skin with his mouth.

Ilia pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, voice rough with need. "Do you want to go further?"

You nod.

For months, you’d worked so hard to maintain boundaries.

You’d reminded yourself constantly that he was your employer. That you were there to do a job. That becoming emotionally involved would only complicate things.

But all those thoughts had disappeared as he stripped off your clothes, quickly but carefully.

The sound of his zipper was obscenely loud in the quiet room. He freed his cock, thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip and stroked himself once, twice, his gaze never leaving your face. Then he shifted his weight, notched himself at your entrance, and pushed inside in one long, slow thrust that stole every thought from your head.

The sofa barely creaks as he starts moving, hips rolling deep and steady to keep the sounds soft. Your walls clench around him with every thrust, coating his shaft as he fucks you in controlled, passionate strokes.

"Ilia-" His name came out breathier than you intended.

"Shh." His lips brushed the shell of your ear, and a shiver cascaded down your spine.

You bit your lower lip as his mouth found the curve of your neck. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin just below your ear, and a soft moan escaped before you could swallow it down. His palm covered your lips instantly, pressing just hard enough to feel the deliberate restraint.

"I said quiet." The command vibrated against your throat. His hips rolled again, harder this time.

You nodded against his palm, your eyes wide, your body stretching to accommodate him. He felt impossibly big like this - no buildup, no preparation, just the raw, aching fullness of his cock while the movie played on, forgotten.

His forehead pressed against yours. His eyes were closed, his expression tight with concentration, as if he were holding himself back from something far more violent.

Each thrust was controlled - measured pressure, deliberate withdrawal - fucking you with the same careful intensity he brought to everything. As if you might break.

As if he might.

Your hands find his back, your nails biting his skin. You wanted more - harder, faster, something to match the desperation coiling in your belly, but his pace remained agonizingly soft. Each stroke dragged against your front wall, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every deep push. The pleasure built in waves, each one cresting higher than the last.

"Good," he murmured against your temple. "Good girl. Take it."

The words sent a fresh gush of wetness around his cock.

Your walls clenched, and his breath hitched, a crack in his composure. His hips stuttered, just once, before he regained control. His hand pressed harder over your mouth, and you understood: you weren't the only one struggling to stay quiet.

He shifted his angle slightly, and the change hit something inside you that made your vision blur. Your thighs trembled against his. The orgasm built like a slow tide, inevitable, relentless - stealing the strength from your limbs.

"That's it," he breathed. "Cum for me. Quietly."

His thumb found your clit and he circled it once, twice - firm, precise pressure that sent you over the edge. You came with his name trapped behind his palm, your pussy clenching around him in rhythmic pulses that pulled him deeper. His jaw clenched, and he buried his face in your neck, his own release following yours in hot, shuddering waves that filled you completely.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. His weight pressed you into the cushions, his breath hot and uneven against your throat. The movie played on, the protagonist still running through rain-slicked streets, oblivious to everything that had just happened on this couch.

When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were soft again - warm, almost tender. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead that felt different from everything that came before.

"Stay tonight," he murmured against your skin. Not a question.

You weren’t thinking about work.

You weren’t thinking about boundaries.

You weren’t thinking at all, really.

Your fingers curled lightly against skin as you searched his face, the reality of everything slowly catching up with you again - the job, the house, his son sleeping upstairs, the life that existed outside this room waiting patiently for you both to acknowledge it again.

“Okay,” you said softly.

Something in his expression shifted at that, subtle but immediate, like a tension he hadn’t realised he was holding had finally loosened.

The world outside the house continued on as if nothing had changed, but inside, everything had. Eventually, his hand found yours again, fingers lacing together with an ease that already felt familiar, like it had always been meant to happen this way.

And when he finally leaned back against the sofa, pulling you with him without any hesitation, there was no distance left to question. Only the quiet certainty that neither of you was going anywhere tonight.

This wouldn’t do anymore, Jackson had decided. He hated to be the bad guy - especially to you, such a darling little pawn in the grand scheme of things - but it wasn’t his fault you were so goddamned selfish. 

He’d been perfectly attentive since the moment you’d been assigned to him. In fact, he’d gone as far as to develop every trait you said you looked for in a man on that pathetic little dating website you signed up for: Polite. The perfect amount of introverted. Drank only at social events, didn’t smoke, owned one cat, took interest in topics such as: feminism, fiction, pop music. 

To put it short: he’d worked hard to become the sentimental, pussy eating man of your dreams. 

You, on the other hand, weren’t nearly as generous. At first, he had chalked it up to your nerves. It had taken longer than usual to infiltrate the distrusting bubble you lived inside; charm and simple gestures of affection didn’t work half as well on you as they had on the others. You wanted time. He had liked it in the beginning. It felt like a brisk walk after running marathons. But then it became tedious. You had let him touch you over your bra on the fourth date, but he had to wait an entire month and a half before you’d actually shown him your cunt. 

But once you had let him inside, you really didn’t want him out of it. God, you what a whore you could be—which didn’t surprise him. The demure types typically were; he liked them best for precisely that reason. 

What did surprise him was the fact that you didn’t like to return the favor—not half as enthusiastically as he did it for you, anyway. The timid way you had wrapped your mouth around him while he’d sat rigidly, as not to frighten you, those few times paled in comparison to what he did for you, day in, day out.  

He wouldn’t take it anymore. With his mouth still coated in your slick, Jackson leaned up and kissed you hard on your mouth. He’d abandoned his usual politeness: rubbing it off on his shirt first because he’d even considered you might be too much of a prude to want to taste yourself. Now he thought you might need to be taught about the things you really did want; he didn’t think you knew. 

“I think it’s my turn,” he told you. His eyes flashed dangerously, daring you to protest. Your fingers grasped at the side of his billowy button up and confusion drew your eyebrows together. 

“Hm?” you asked. As if you hadn't heard him right. He wanted to wrap his hands around your pretty little neck. 

“Oh, please,” he chuckled. He tried to keep calm, to keep his tone playful. “I don’t have to spell it out for you, do I, baby? I mean…” He motioned down his cock, which had long ago begun to strain against his beige slacks. “Listen—I don’t mean to sound like I’m complaining here, but I’ve been on my knees a lot more than you’ve been on yours.” 

Jackson sensed the shift inside of you. He could see the way you were beginning to cower already. Any other night, he’d be placating, reassuring you that it was okay—that he could wait—but he couldn’t do that anymore. As he attempted to collect his calm, he wet his lips. You wouldn’t be the first person he had to talk into doing something he knew was good for them, were you? Besides, he was sure you’d come to see it his way. You were smart when you weren’t under his thumb. 

“You’re gonna suck my cock because you want to make me happy, don’t you, baby?” he finally spoke, voice even. He watched you try to read his face. The mask had begun to fall, and what was left was unfamiliar to you. How worried you looked, his pet.  

“Don’t you?” he repeated with more insistence. 

“Yea,” you croaked. The word had been lodged in your throat. 

Jackson smirked. “On the ground.” 

He directed you as his belt slipped through the loops of his pants. You were better trained than he gave you credit for. Even with the hesitancy - or was it cold, hard fear forming? - in your eyes, you still did what he said. And my god, what a sight you were, kneeling at the side of the bed. 

With his palms pressed flat against the bed, Jackson leaned back on the bed expectantly. “Take it out,” he demanded. 

You hesitated. “Jack-” His responding smile was terse as his eyes darkened. 

He was quickly finding out of the infinite pool of patience he thought he had for you did have its bottom. “Fine, I’ll start,” he said. 

You were about to work up the courage to tell him you couldn’t do it, as you had many times before; he could see it in your eyes as you watched him unbutton his slacks and take himself out of his underwear. 

“I’m trying to be patient—“ He paused to stamp out the hardness that was forming in his voice. He knew it would do no good, forcing you to do this. It would only make everything much messier than they needed to be. He continued on, conscious of every word. “—but this is just silly. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“But Jack-” you mumbled. You watched his jaw clench beneath the surface of his freckled skin. He looked a little frightening, his blue eyes all iced over as he stared down at you. 

He gripped your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your head up to look at him. While his hold on you wasn’t anything you couldn’t escape from, you were aware, for the first time, how strong Jackson could be. “It makes me feel good to make you feel good. Don’t you want to make me feel good?” he asked. 

“But I wasn’t any good at it before,” you protested.

“You didn’t try,” he insisted. “Try.” 

“Jackson, really—“

“Do it,” he spat. The last of the kindness had ebbed out of his voice. Forcing an encouraging smile back onto his lips, he said, more lightly, “Please.” 

You wrapped one of your hands around the base of his cock, but hesitated still. Jackson sighed audibly before you brought your lips down around the head of his cock. 

Like before, it lacked a certain enthusiasm, but he wasn’t going to complain just yet. The hot, wet warmth of your mouth felt so fucking good after craving it for so long. All he could do to restrain himself was to fist your white sheets in his hands and watch you as did exactly as he had told you to do. Your eyes shifted up to look at him, always hungry for approval. Jackson tried to motivate you with a dazed smile. It was more genuine than he liked, given that you were hardly doing anything. 

He let your bop up and down, liking the way he disappeared inside your mouth. There was beauty in the unskilled way you took him in—you were artless in your approach, eager to please. Innocent, in a way. You couldn’t take too much before you got nervous and came back up. He’d experienced better in high school. Still, he could feel the mounting arousal rising inside of him.  

He allowed one of his hands to sneak up your shoulder, resting at the place just where your neck began. His thumb moved over the soft exposed skin there. His voice was low, just slightly above a husky whisper. “You can do more. I know you can.” 

Jackson moved his fingers up the side of your neck before he brushed his thumb delicately over your jaw. His lips parted in a soundless moan as you took more of him than before. “That’s it,” he said, gasping, “Use your tongue—ah, fuck, yes.” His fingers twisted up in your hair. “Faster.” 

You were trying, he could tell, but he felt you had more in you than this. He’d seen how depraved you could get, after all. Just last week you’d let him fuck you into you the with no condom. The entire time you were begging for it, arching up and moaning while he pushed your face down into the bed. You liked being a whore. He knew it. Week by week he’d been unraveling you, finding you out, bit by bit. 

He cradled your neck, guiding you down. For a moment, he saw the flash of awareness in your eyes—could see the obstinacy begin—but he held on tighter and said, “Remember when you sat on my face? When I let you do what you want to me?” 

You let your resistance go. He wasn’t doing much more than you had been, after all, only guiding you down the wet line you had already created on his cock, only slightly faster. Still, your eyes kept darting up, nervous. 

He watched as a dribble of saliva escaped out of the side of your mouth and traveled down his cock. He couldn’t resist any longer. You felt so fucking good, so warm and wet, and he needed more. No, he deserved it. His other hand came up to your head and pushed you down, making you take all of him. He hit the back of your throat with his cock. 

Your nails pressed harshly into his thighs and you jerked back, slipping off of his cock with a crude pop sounding. Betrayal flashed in your eyes. He expected as much. 

Jackson ran his thumb along your glossy bottom lip. “I didn’t say you could stop,” he chided. 

“You…I just wasn’t expecting you to do that to me,” you stuttered. Startled tears had begun to gather in the corners of your eyes. “I’m not good at this, Jackson.”

He frowned, playing along with your little pitiful act. His tone became softer. “I didn’t do that because it felt bad. You’re were getting pretty fucking good, actually.” His cock jutted against his stomach, impatient as he felt. He stared blankly at you before adding, “I don’t really want to say please again, honey. You’re not gonna make me, hm?” 

Though it wasn’t necessarily a question, he appreciated the obedient nod you gave him. 

Taking his cock in his hand, he held it up for you to put back in your mouth. Instead of looking up at him, you pressed your eyes shut. Your hands rested against the tops of his thighs and pride swelled in his chest as you took him back inside of your mouth. . 

Your fingers pressed into his legs, but you didn’t jerk back as he guided you down again. He hummed, proud. He wanted to cum in your mouth, to make you swallow it all down, because he knew you would. You’d do anything for him, probably. He just had to push you into it sometimes. His orgasm was quickly building inside of him, only spurred on by the way you had begun to flick your tongue against the underside of his cock. 

He let go of your neck, grasping onto the sheets behind him once more. Tears began to slide down your cheeks. He wiped one away with his finger as you bobbed down on him. Your nails dug into his skin, but he didn’t mind; the stinging sensation only made what you were giving him all the better, mixing the lines between pleasure and pain in a way he knew you yourself would come to like eventually. 

You began to take him so deeply that you gagged around on his cock, but you didn’t stop. You were doing so much better than he anticipated now. Jackson hissed as his cock twitched inside your mouth and ropes of his cum spilled down your throat.

He could see the surprise register in your glassy eyes as you looked up at him, but he didn’t care. He deserved this. He had been so patient. So good. “Fuck,” he moaned, his head lolling back as you took the last of his cum.

You rose quietly off of him, wiping your mouth against your hand. Jackson liked knowing the way you looked—hair mussed, eyes watery, lips puffy and red—was because of him. It was so rare you weren’t in tiptop shape. 

“Was that good?” you asked weakly. Your voice was gravelly and he couldn’t help but smile, knowing how deep his cock had been inside of your throat just moments before; it was probably sore, strained. 

“Yeah. I told you you could do it, didn’t I?” he beamed. 

It’s not mentioned in the actual story but it’s very important for the plot so incase you didn’t read the summary I’m going to say it again lol. He wears a weak dose of fear toxin as his cologne.

“How are you feeling today?” He asked as he walked in and sat down across from you, putting his briefcase at his feet. 

“Better.” You said with a small smile. After only a moment though, your heart started beating harder and faster, and your breathing picked up. You swallowed thickly and cleared your throat before adding, “I- I think.”

“You think?” His voice sent a shiver through your body. You weren’t sure if he was purposely trying to sound threatening, but that’s how you heard it. 

“I…” You couldn’t look at him as your stomach started churning. 

“Please look at me when I'm talking to you.” He sighed, making your gaze snap back to him. “We won’t get anywhere if you continue to overreact to even the simplest questions.” 

“I know— I know. I’m sorry.” You started bouncing your leg incessantly, trying to get rid of some of the nerves you were feeling. “H-how are you?” You asked in return to his original question. 

“Always so polite.” He said with an amused smile. “Why is that?”

“I don’t know… That’s just how I was raised I guess.” You shrugged, not having a better answer for him. 

“It has nothing to do with how terrified you are of upsetting me?” He asked curiously, tilting his head as he looked you up and down. 

“I- I’m not…” You cleared your throat and wiped your sweaty palms on your pants. “I was just… taught to respect people with more authority than me.” You said nervously. But it was true. You were always taught to show respect to people above you no matter what, especially if they were older than you. 

“I see. And you feel I have power over you right now?” 

“Yes.” You said quietly. Doesn’t he always?

“Well I don’t want you to fear me. These sessions are pointless if you can’t be completely open and honest with me.” You looked away from him again and swallowed the lump in your throat. “I promise you, nothing you say will upset me. I just want you to be truthful with me… So I can help you to the best of my ability. Do you understand?”

“Yes..” 

“Good.” He paused, seemingly coming up with the next topic of conversation. “You’re still having nightmares?” Your blood ran cold and your heart was almost starting to hurt with how hard it was beating. And all just because of a reminder of it. 

“Yes.” You whispered. 

“The same ones? Or something different.” 

“The same… But I noticed that they tend to happen more after our sessions than on days where I don’t see you…”

“Yes, that’d make sense. Since we talk about it, it’s only natural your brain would be thinking about it more.” 

“Right. Yeah— You’re right.” You said through a breath. 

“May I see your hand?” He suddenly asked, making you stiffen. 

“What?”

“Your hand.” He held out his own, waiting for you to place yours on top. With a shaky breath, you wiped your hand on your pants again, then placed it on his open palm. He turned it over so your palm was against his, then let out a quiet hum. Before you could ask what that meant, he grabbed your wrist and held your hand up, watching it tremble. He released you and you placed it back in your lap. 

“Why are you so scared?” 

“It… it's probably just because I started thinking about the nightmares.” That was the only explanation that made sense. It’s not like you’d be scared for no reason.

“Really? What were you thinking about?” You froze and looked away from him, trying to recall, but you never actually thought about them, more so just… remembered them. 

“I… I’m not sure.” You said absentmindedly, still trying to figure it out. He sighed quietly and took off his glasses, examining you closely. 

“I like to think that we’ve grown a bit closer since our first session. Wouldn’t you?” All you could do was nod wordlessly. “Almost like we’re more than just doctor and patient… Do you feel that way as well?” 

“I- I think so.” You said quietly. It was hard to tell right now. 

“Which is why I think we can try something that might work better for you.” He stood up and dragged his chair around the table, the loud screeching sound making you flinch. He sat down next to you and you waited nervously for what was next. 

“I think… if your brain is half focused on something else— something pleasurable…” he placed his hand on your thigh and leaned closer to you, “then you might be able to talk freely about what’s troubling you. What do you think?” Your chest was heaving as you stared at him with wide eyes, not able to respond. It felt like your throat was closing up and the speed at which your heart was beating made it feel like his hand was on your chest instead of your thigh, pushing down as hard as he could.       

“Is something wrong?” He asked once he noticed your reaction. 

“I-” You choked out, not able to say anything else. 

“Hm?” He waited, giving you a chance to respond. When you didn’t, he sighed. “As your doctor, if you’re in a state that leaves you unable to think or communicate clearly, it is my responsibility to do what I think is best.” His hand started snaking up your thigh, moving toward the center as it climbed higher. His touch was burning a trail on your skin and it was getting harder and harder to breathe. 

“Just relax. You want to actually make some progress, don’t you?” You gave him the tiniest nod, unable to do anything else. “Good girl. If you can control your emotions, then we can talk like civilized people, but for now, we’re going to have to try this.” You weren't even sure what exactly was making you feel this way, but you trusted Dr. Crane. He would only do what’s best for you. 

“Take off your pants.” He suddenly ordered, making your body go completely rigid. “I won’t repeat myself.” He warned and you immediately scrambled to take them off. Once they were on the floor, he grabbed your hips and guided you so that you were straddling his thighs, sitting on his lap. “Now, this might be a bit overwhelming for you, so I don’t mind if you need to keep your face buried against my chest or neck. Like this,” he gently grabbed the back of your head and pulled you into him, “see?” 

“Thank you.” You whispered, bringing your hands up the grab at his suit jacket. It felt like your entire body was trembling now. “Dr. Crane, I- I don’t feel very good.”

“Shh. Your body’s just excited. That’s why your heart is racing and your breathing is shallow.” He explained calmly. You’ve never felt this ‘excited’ before in your life. “Are you going to let me do my job now?” You nodded, burying your face into the crook of his neck to comfort yourself. “Thank you.” His hands started dragging up and down your thighs, just getting you used to his touch, but all it was doing was making you more anxious. His fingertips felt like claws on your hypersensitive body, but when you looked down, you saw no marks left behind. 

“I know you’re excited but you need to try and calm down.” He said calmly. “Take a deep breath through your nose, then out through your mouth.” You complied, though it wasn’t nearly as slow as he actually wanted. But it was an improvement. “Again. Deeper.” You inhaled again, trying to let the smell and warmth of his body soothe you. But it was like the deep breaths were making everything worse. 

“Dr. Crane, it’s not— I…” He sighed and your stomach churned when you realized he was disappointed in you. “No- I’m sorry. I’ll try again. I’ll keep trying.” You rushed out, taking more deep breaths. 

“That’s a good girl. Nice and slow.” His hands snaked up your thighs to your hips, then up the sides of your body, under your shirt. 

“W-what are you doing?” You choked out, when he dragged his hands up even more until he was touching your breasts. 

“Just feeling your heartbeat.” He explained. You gasped when he gently squeezed your breasts, groping them in a way that made your entire body feel hot. 

“Dr. Crane?” You whimpered and he shushed you. So you clung to his suit jacket and buried your face into the crook of his neck even more, seeking comfort. 

“I’ll need to remove your shirt. It’s obstructing my examination.” You hesitantly agreed and he pulled it over your head, then guided you back into the same position, now only in a pair of panties. “Deep breaths.” He reminded you as he continued. He only groped you for a few seconds before focusing his attention on your nipples. You let out a strangled moan when he gently pinched, rolling them between his fingers. You’ve never been overly sensitive there before, but right now, just the barest touch sent a shock through your body. 

“Your heart is racing.” He commented, flattening his hands on your chest and sliding them down your stomach. He reached your hips and gripped them tightly, then pulled them forward to grind your clothed heat on his bulge. You gasped at the sudden movement and when you felt the obvious sign of his arousal. 

“When’s the last time you’ve been fucked?” His tone remained the same; clinical, unemotional. It took you a moment to register his question, but once you did, a blush took over your face. “You’ve been a patient here for a few months now so I’m assuming at least a few months ago?” All the work you did to calm your breathing was gone in an instant. Words couldn’t form in your mouth, so you just nodded against his chest. “How long before that?” 

“I… I don’t remember.” You choked out, finally able to speak. 

“Poor thing. It’s been that long since you’ve been filled?” He cooed with faux sympathy. 

“Dr. Crane.” You sobbed, fisting his suit even tighter to ground yourself. He was still guiding your hips and you started to feel arousal pooling in your stomach. 

“Is that why you’re not making any progress? Your cunt’s been craving a cock so bad, you can’t even think?” You whined and started moving your hips on your own now, desperate for more. “Yeah I think that is the reason. You’re in your prime child bearing years, it’s only natural you’d be longing to breed.” You let out a strangled moan, feeling both humiliated and aroused by his words. “A few more sessions like this and you might actually be able to use that pretty little head of yours again.” 

“Please,” You whined, tears of desperation brimming in your eyes. Your heart was still pounding and your breathing was still shallow, but it started feeling different. Before, you weren’t sure what the cause was, but now you know it’s arousal. At least it mostly is. He suddenly gripped your chin and pulled your head so your face was only inches from his. As his eyes trailed all over your face, taking you in, he hummed in thought, still staring at you with his piercing gaze. 

“Misattribution of arousal truly is a fascinating subject.” He smiled. You had no idea what that meant. “Take off your underwear.” He suddenly ordered, making your eyes widen. When he stared at you, giving you a warning gaze, you scrambled off his lap to remove them. He started unbuckling his belt, then opening his pants. When he took out his cock, your breath caught in your throat. Where is that supposed to fit?

“Sit.” You tentatively got on his lap again. He sat back in the metal chair a little, dragging his eyes down your body. “Put it in.” You swallowed and looked between his face and his length, feeling your heart start pounding even harder. “Now.” Biting your trembling lip, you grabbed his cock and put it at the right angle, then slowly and apprehensively lowered yourself onto it. You whimpered when he first breached your opening, immediately feeling the burn of the stretch. 

“You won’t like it if I have to take over so I suggest you do better than this.” He warned and you whined in response, but forced yourself down lower. 

“It hurts, Dr. Crane.” You whimpered, hoping for sympathy from the cold, apathetic doctor. 

“Enough.” He growled, grabbing your hips and lifting you off of him. He stood and spun you around to push your torso onto the cold metal table with a hand on the back of your neck. Holding you down firmly, he pushed his cock back in, this time going all the way. You cried out and scrambled for purchase on the table as he immediately started thrusting. 

“W-wait, Dr. Crane..” You choked out, the burning stretch bringing tears to your eyes. Not bothering with replying, he removed the hand from your neck and you heard clothes rustling, then he was putting his tie between your lips and wrapping it around your head to secure it. Almost instantly those feelings flared up again. Your chest heaved as you panted, trying to ignore how much it was hurting from your heart beating so fast and hard. 

He put his hand on your head this time, forcing your cheek onto the cold metal as he held you down and started moving faster. You sobbed out a moan and squeezed your eyes shut, trying to focus on calming down but everything was just so much. 

“Is this what you needed? Have you been playing the role of the dumb little patient this whole time just to get me to fuck you?” You tried to shake your head, but you couldn’t move it under his hand. “I can feel you pulsing around my cock. Is it really that good?” The way he was mocking you had you squeezing your thighs together, but he couldn’t have that. He lifted one of your legs and placed it on the table, keeping you from getting any real stimulation on your clit besides his balls smacking against it with every thrust. 

“Please!” You cried, the word being muffled by the tie. 

“I know. You’re probably so eager to come right now, aren’t you?” You did your best to nod, despite him holding you down. “Is the thought of finally getting bred making you all needy?” He asked condescendingly and you let out a strangled whimper. “Should I let you come on my cock?” 

“Yes!” You yelled, trying to make it sound coherent through the gag. He released your head and grabbed your shoulders, starting a brutal pace that made you almost scream from the intensity. The table was screeching against the floor with each thrust and you could start to hear his quiet grunts as he neared his orgasm.

“Go ahead then. Show me how needy this pathetic little cunt is for my cock.” He said and, despite the degrading words, you almost cried in relief. You’ve only made yourself come maybe a handful of times since being admitted to Arkham, so it did not take much longer for you to get there. You all but screamed around the gag when it hit you, making your legs turn to jelly. His thrusts didn’t even waiver, but you could hear groans coming from him. Wave after wave of pleasure washed through you, so intense that it bordered on painful. 

When it was finally done, you sagged into the table, but your body immediately went stiff when the overstimulation kicked in. You cried out and squirmed, trying to escape it, so he grabbed your hair and yanked you up, wrapping his other arm around your stomach. 

“I know.” He pulled your head back until it was resting on his shoulder, then turned it so your face was up against his neck. “Just breathe through it.” But you couldn’t. Everything was just too much. You sobbed loudly and buried your face in the crook of his neck as he fucked you, moving both hands down to grab your hips. 

“Just be a good girl and take it. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To be fucked and bred like a bitch in heat.” You let out a strangled sob at the degrading words. “No… It’s what you needed.” He growled, making you whimper. “Don’t worry, we’re going to keep doing this until I finally fuck a baby into you. Maybe then you’ll be less cock hungry. But we’ll probably have to keep this up while you’re pregnant because of all the hormones.” After your orgasm, everything your body was going through started to feel like it was from fear again, rather than arousal. His words were making you spiral into overthinking. You can’t have a baby yet— you’re too young. And also there’s the fact that you’re in an asylum… 

“And I think… I might make you my little lab rat. You respond so well to such a small dose, I’m eager to see how you’ll react to something more potent.” Now you were truly confused, but you were also too fucked out and overstimulated to try and understand. “God— that’ll be a fucking sight.” He choked out, rutting into you more frantically. Tears started streaming down your cheeks as he kept fucking you, getting more painful with every thrust. But based on the way his sounds kept getting louder, you knew it’d be over any second now.  

You cried out when he roughly snapped his hips into you and stayed there, wrapping his arms around your torso to keep you close and letting out a low groan. His hips bucked forward with every spurt of come that left his cock, despite the fact that he was already completely inside, pressed up against your cervix uncomfortably. Even after his orgasm ended, he remained buried inside you, keeping you plugged up for now.  

“That’s better, isn’t it? Now you’re nice and full.” He spoke softly, turning his head to kiss your neck as his hand rubbed over your lower stomach. “Mm… I can’t wait to see your belly all big and round— your tits swollen with milk. You’re going to look so beautiful.” Even though everything calmed down, you still felt anxious and scared. “And I’m sure once that kid is out, you’ll go back to being a brainless little bitch in heat so I’ll have to fuck another one into you.” You let out a weak sound, unable to do anything else. Your whole body was shaking. With how you were currently feeling, his words sounded like a threat. 

“Still can’t use that pretty head?” He asked curiously. You didn’t answer, but it didn’t seem like he expected you to. “You must need more, then.” You whined at the thought. He gently pushed your torso back onto the table and you hissed in pain when he dragged his cock out. When his come trickled out, he cursed under his breath. Using his thumbs, he spread your puffy, abused folds, giving him a better view of your gaping hole. You flinched when he used his fingers to scoop up his come and push it back in. “Lucky for you, I cleared the rest of my schedule today just for this session, so I can keep giving you load after load until you drain my balls completely. Maybe then you’ll actually be able to fucking think.” 

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come over and show me then

The last message Toji had sent you. He was bold, heart racing just the slightest bit when he thumbed that frightening, little arrow icon to send a text that would most likely change his whole relationship chemistry with you. You, the kind hearted woman who graced him with your undying benevolence and wealth. 

You, the woman Toji called mommy not even twelve hours ago during an idiotic, drunken stupor. 

You, the woman who graced his bed, peering up to him with the softest gaze Toji’d ever been observed with. It was an odd sight–you splayed on his mattress. Dawning a lavish top; silken, Toji absentmindedly recognizes the fabric ( then proceeds to grimace at the fact that he can actually discern between different breeds of fabric. Your lifestyle was rubbing off on him ) and thinks you look out of place. An expensive jewel among the dank cave of his shoddy bedroom.  

Toji crawls in after you, winding up your side, clinging akin to a baby koala bear. Still, he doesn’t speak, preferring to let the sounds of sheets sliding against each other fill the gaps of silence. You take his hulking body in those loving arms and break the quiet. “I’m not buying you for the night.” You cradle his cheek; you make him look up to you and Toji nods under your hand. “You know that, right?”

He nods again. “Sure,” and for once, it comes out without a modicum of sarcasm. Because Toji believes it when you tell him that you’re not looking to gain access to his body through flimsy transactions. Your sincerity is displayed through the months of torturous anticipation. Months of him on the cusp of begging–and Toji Fushiguro has never begged for anything in his goddamned miserable life. Your sincerity is displayed through the gingerness in which you hold his face. Because how could someone with such gentle hands ever tell a lie? And your sincerity is displayed through your words. You tell Toji things that nobody has ever told him before. Nice things, reassuring things despite his insistence on being an asshole to you.

Toji pushes his torso to be propped up on an elbow before he leans in. It’s not a tame first kiss by any means; Toji is mammalian in the way his teeth gnash yours and his tongue laves your cupid’s bow. “Slow,” you whisper in the short absence of his lips. “Slowly.” A command that he feels inclined to follow like some kept mutt, swapping out the animalistic pace with a more refined, controlled tempo. Your face was swallowed by two massive hands; they clamped on either side of your jaw, calloused and dry and forcefully pulling you closer. “Just like that, Toji.”

The way you say his name… Fuck. Toji grunts, swinging a heavy thigh over your own to situate between your legs. “I’ve never,” there's a pause when he leans in to suck the tip of your tongue, “been so desperate to be inside a woman.” His thick tongue worms back into your mouth, pushing smoky saliva down your throat. You were writhing; your hand slides over his, the one still tending to your cheek, and you guide it lower. He let you drag his hand down the smooth slope of your neck, over the hill of your delicate chest, across the plain of your soft tummy to meet the waistband of your designer pants. 

Your head tilts, something devious glinting in the colored rings of your eyes that have Toji so enchanted. He plucks at the brass button of your pants, nudging the point of his nose to the high of your cheekbone. Breathing in the luxury branded perfume that overpowered the cigarette stench still lingering in his room from his morning smoke; evidenced by the stub crumbled in the glass tray on his wobbly nightstand. “What about the girl…Girl from last night?” 

Toji smiles at the breathy question. “What girl?” He hums cheekily against your mouth, letting his tongue slip back through the seam of your delicious lips. You slap his face rather playful, but his breath hitches all the same.

“Dick.”

At last, he pops the button. The acrylic of your nails sink into the meat of his forearm, legs widening, ass shifting; all of the signs that Toji hyperfixated on. The way you tell him to keep going without so much as saying a word has him hotter than anytime another woman has begged for his touch in bed. Toji kisses you as he dips beneath the ajar slacks, then those sheer panties, slipping down to where you needed him most. You’re wet, he notes to himself. Wet, squelching and red hot when his thick middle finger sandwiches itself between the labia. 

Both pairs of legs tangled together amidst the desperation. While Toji touches you, you’re hiking your leg up–the one snuggled between two of the man’s built thighs. It presses to his clothed crotch, and you reach around grab a handful of his ass. “Hump it,” you dictate, using his ass cheek as leverage to pull his hips down against your awaiting thigh. Toji jolts; never had his ass been grabbed like that, but he thinks he likes it.

So he grinds. His groin crashes against your leg with rough enthusiasm, so rough that it should be a threat to your poor femur bone. But he doesn’t let up. Toji’s arm tenses and shakes with exertion as he fingers you, forearm burning from the intensity at which he moves. But he doesn’t let up.

“Fuck,” he huffs. “Fuck.”

What is he, some kind of dog? Chasing his high against a leg, licking your neck, barking obscenities into existence. Had you been anyone else, Toji would have had them bent at the waist over his bed, forcing their face into his lonesome pillow and taking what he needed. But you had this certain authority–you’d always had–as if you owned him. Not that you would ever admit that, nor did you believe it, but Toji did. You pay for his living quarters, his meals, his clothes, his car, hell, his time. The leash was cuffed at his throat, leather digging into his flesh, and he fucking loved it. Toji would wait for your instructions like a well behaved puppy. 

“Take my pants off,” you utter, and it’s only then does Toji realize that the both of you hadn’t bothered shedding any layers, taking favor in rutting clothed bodies together like a couple of immature teens. His hips pause their humping, and his tongue finds one long, last lick to your jugular before pulling back.

Two thumbs hook beneath both layers of material at your hips. “Can’t believe you made me wait this long,” he mutters offhandedly, dragging your pants down. 

You’re bare. His mouth waters at the sight of glistening moisture between your legs, encapsulated by a dusting of hair. Toji stares, nestled on his knees, straddling your thigh. He just stares.

“I told you my reasons,” you say.

He doesn’t respond to that. “I want to fuck you.”

Your chest rises. Are you arching for him? “Ask me.” When he cocks a confused brow, you lightly elaborate. “Show me some of that respect I taught you and ask me nicely.”

The sole of your foot caresses his pec over the black tee shirt he sports, a gentle notion that he is allowed to take his time. Toji doesn’t need time though; he’s got your twisted little request all figured out. It’s funny, he shouldn’t have expected any less. To him, respect didn’t exist in the bedroom, but Toji would make an exception. “Will you let me fuck you tonight?” You’re not letting him get off that easy, your pointed eyes say it all. So, in an uncharacteristically piteous voice, the man adds “please, ma’am” and strokes your calf for good measure.

That does it. 

Your legs spread, arms racing up to coil around the thick post of his neck. He lets you pull him down, lets you kiss him tenderly, lets your tongue curl behind his teeth. Toji groans, reaching a sticky hand down to clumsily shove his sweatpants around his ass. “You have no–” kiss “idea what you–” kiss “you do to me–” kiss, kiss “when you call me that.”

His length drags over your core, hot and heavy and thick and raw. He doesn’t move to grab a condom knowing damn well there’s a box that sits in his nightstand to the left of them. A box that has been forgotten, left untouched in the waking months of his realization that he doesn’t want to fuck other people. Why would he? When you take such good fucking care of him, what’s the point in sleeping around anymore?

“Be grateful,” Toji husks, rubbing up against the warmth beneath him. “‘M never this nice in bed.”

“I’m not, either.”

He throbs at that. A small hand snakes behind his head, weaving into the raven shag of his hair, and tugs. “I really never meant for this to happen.” Toji narrows those steely eyes at you. “To end up in your bed, I mean. I thought I had more resolve than this.”

Too bad money can’t buy resolve, he thinks inwardly. Hand still between bodies, Toji jerks himself slowly, soaking his tip in your entrance. His gaze is glued to your face, flitting amidst all the gorgeous features it had to offer. “I knew I’d get you here eventually,” he speaks with a lilt of confidence, prodding the point of his nose to yours. And then he pushes inside without warning. You’re gooey; a hot, wet heat encasing his body from head to toe. He feels you shudder, feels nails in his nape. He feels your sticky breaths on his cheek, feels your pillowy thighs squish against his hip bones. Toji serves you the entire length in one slow thrust, holding himself inside. “Fuck.”

“Slow,” you warn once more in a broken voice. His hair was grabbed again, you used it as a makeshift handlebar to yank Toji’s head down. His handsome face plummeted into the divot between your breasts, still gift wrapped in that undoubtedly overpriced shirt. His nose pressed to your sternum, taking deep inhales. 

Slow. 

Slow sex was unfamiliar territory to Toji, one among the list of foreign concepts you had introduced to him during your time together. Fucking was animalistic practice between two people, fast-paced and greedy and surprisingly lonely. Toji fucked with the intention of climaxing; intimacy is irrelevant. Was irrelevant. 

Toji slips a hand beneath your back, locking a grip on the underside of your shoulder to weld your chest to his face. Slow, timely thrusts met your cunt, watery squelches filled the room. “Oh, fuck.”

Your hands wander. Crawling down the base of his spine, breezing over his tail bone, clutching his bare ass. Guiding him in a way, and he doesn’t entirely mind. “My boy,” you moan in the throes of pleasure, a free hand blindly feeling for the back of his sweaty neck. Fingers stroke the precious skin there, sensitive flesh that nobody has ever paid attention to, not even himself. Toji trembles.

“Take it,” he whispers back, as if he still had any semblance of control. But you let him, and he thinks you’re too fucking nice for sparing his pride like that. “Take it, goddamn it.”

“Yes, my sweet boy.”

Idiotic. He is no longer a boy, nor does he even slightly compare to anything sweet. God, if you knew him. If you knew what he did for work… How many people he’s gutted and bled like livestock for quick cash… You would leave. He knows this to be a fact of life, you’re simply too moralistic and caring and selfless to keep in contact with a monster like him.

“Let mommy take care of you.”

Oh Jesus Christ, he’s done for. You wax praises so sincere that Toji starts to let himself believe he’s good. He pretends he’s worthy of being here with you right now in this bed, with your lithe fingers petting his damp hair and your breasts against his cheek, and fucks you harder. The toes of two socked feet bury into the mattress.

You successfully conquered his flimsy pride. “Mom… my…,” Toji breathes out, stifling down the impending whine caught at the back of his esophagus. He bucks deep inside, pubic bone to pubic bone, and grabs a handful of tit. So fucking soft even under this stupid shirt.

The sex plays out this way until the very end. A gentle tango that reminds Toji he hadn’t actually fucked in missionary position for some time. But at last, you came around him. “Toji, baby I’m here.” As if you were charged with electricity, you twitched and jumped beneath him. Toji fucked you through it, grinding his hips in a trajectory that caught your clit with his pubic hair. The friction was passionate, and you came with your jaw unhinged on a silent yelp.

“Give it to me,” he rasped, tongue lolling out to lick at your cleavage through your shirt. Drool rolled down the palate, collecting into a small puddle and dampening the fabric. A messy puppy, drooling all over you like that. Toji fucked harder, much too hard to be considered ‘slow’ anymore, but you didn’t stop him.

“Come on.” A hand dips beneath the collar of Toji’s tight shirt, scratching the ever loving fuck out of his upper back. “Cum baby boy.”

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuckfuckfuck.” The thrusts halt abruptly; Toji rams himself deep inside and holds onto you for dear life. There’s a brief pause before he empties himself into the deepest depths of your pussy, twitching as he does so. You coo, talking him through it with an inoffensive hand raking his bangs back. They stick, his sweat acting like a sort of natural gel, and Toji’s forehead is on display. You drag him up and press your lips to it—he flushes and drops back onto you, hiding in your neck.

Toji gasps on his come down, gulping in air through his nose. He’s weak and it’s strange. Despite the stupid amount of strength trapped within that Herculean body, Toji cannot find it in him to hover anymore. His entire weight drops onto your much tinier frame, but he hears no objections so he keeps himself there.

“Worth the buildup?” You ask at last, rubbing soothing circles into the plates of his shoulder blades. Your voice is a little strained, no doubt the effects of a two-hundred-and-something-pound man crushing your lungs, but Toji likes the funny grate of it in his ears.

“You already know the answer.” It’s written in the way your cum mixes together and wets the crease of his inner thighs. He’s not exactly going to say that was the most intimate and passionate sex i’ve ever had, but he’ll show you how much it meant to him by letting you cradle him to your chest.

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