his hands are big on you, either planted on your waist or palming over the curve of your back, always sliding closer to the nice fat of your ass. grabbing and kneading the flesh with the type of greed only a man like him could possess.

the mans love language is physical touch.

he likes to sink his teeth into the curve of your cheek, soft and playful as he leans back with a huff of laughter. he squeezes your cheeks together just to press a wet kiss right on top of your glossy lips. he loves the way you glare at him, cute face scrunched up as you huff and shove at him.

he walks around the place half naked, barefoot and shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips most the time. lazy and comfortable in the comfort of his own home.

and hes real nasty.

he'll show up behind you, burying his face into the curve of your neck. Inhaling the smell of your skin right into his lungs.

his hand'll move, snaking over your waist to palm at the softness of your stomach. even if you're in the middle of something, he doesnt scare. his hands are always on you, hes a man obsessed with his pretty lady.

he doesnt quit until you whine and shove him away for licking a stripe up the length of your cheek, pressing a wet, sloppy kiss right on your ear.

and he carries everything for you.

he's confident enough in his masculinity to be able to hold your bag for you, even if the whole thing is a star contrast to how he looks. when you're out together, his favourite thing is to walk behind you, eyes fixed on the way your hips sway from the back.

and he manspreads. thats a known fact.

his muscular thighs take up half the space on the couch, his arms sprawled over the back of the couch like he has every right to do so. even though he knows you hate it.

but the truth is that its just a way for him to get you to press up against him.

and if he falls asleep? hes snoring loud enough to shake the walls, head tipped back, mouth wide open.

thats usually the time when you think you're able to mess with him.

but if you wake him up? hes glaring down at you, his big hands finding a way to manhandle you into his lap. now forcing you to sleep with him, head tucked into your neck because no one messes with his naps. (he takes like five a day)

its always a win win for him.

and the thing that ticks you off the most? him taking advantage of the fact that hes so much larger than you. when you playfight, you know he's already won.

he yanks you back to him, his grip heavy on your waist as he slides his cold hands under your top, tickling you everywhere because hes such an arrogant asshole.

you're in the bathtub together, hes behind you, broad frame taking up most the space as he leans back, his arms resting on each side of the porcelain tub.

you're sat between his legs, eyes shut, head resting back on his shoulder. its so nice and peaceful.

but tojis a little shit who can't stay still for a second, so it doesn't take long before he lands a firm slap into the water in front of you, making it jolt and splash all over your face.

"toji-!" you squeak, huffing as you sit up and turn to smack him on his chest, essentially meaning that you're now pissed off at him.

he snorts, his forearm flexing when he brings it up to hold you still around your shoulders, head tilting while his lips kiss at your soft cheeks.

he laughs, low and gruff, continuing his assault on your face, holding you tight against him, he loves the way you squirm against him in the bath.

he loves you.

he's never been so attracted to a woman before in his life, something about your attitude just turns him on.

your thighs, those full, round breasts, the curve of your ass, the pouch of flesh on your tummy, it drives him insane, it all makes him real hot and bothered. you see it in the way his eyes drag over your body, half-lidded and hazy, his growing bulge already prominent against his trousers.

if hes feeling sweet, he'll fuck you slow and deep, cock plunging into your gummy walls, brushing and dragging over each soft spot inside you, pulling sweet sounds out of your mouth.

he'll hold you, murmur sweet nothings into your ear while he gets his fill, hands brushing over your sides, hips rocking against yours.

and when he cums, its sweet and pleasurable, his seed filling you so deep as you moan, begging him to keep going, to fill you up until you're full with his kid.

but if hes feeling mean?

hes rough, pelvis slapping against your ass as he pounds into your pussy like theres no tomorrow, his grip on you is tight, mouth sucking marks into your skin. his skin slaps against yours, sweaty and hot as he fills you up with his cock.

you can feel every ridge, every vein inside of you as he slams harder and deeper. god, hes so dirty, pounding up against your poor cervix. he grunts and groans, his eyes fixed on where you both meet, his cock lathered in your juices.

and when he cums? he's groaning, pumping you up oh so full until his cum leaks out of you. Its thick, and theres so much of it everywhere.

thats how it usually goes.

you think your boyfriend has some sort of cuteness aggression towards you.

he loves to bite you, sink his teeth into your plushy flesh. he loves to hold you, squeeze you close enough that you swear you both might merge into one.

he adores that cute face of yours, his eyes always roving over your pretty features.

he holds you close and murmurs cute things into your ears. his fingers digging deep into the flesh of your thighs.

your cheek is squished against his bicep, sitting pressed closed to him as he speaks.

"you're gon' be the mama to my kids,"

"my angel,"

"so cute n' round, like a lil peach."

"m'baby. m'sweet girl" he murmurs, his big hand brushing over your hair, pressing a kiss to you ear.

he says it, and its true.

he presses kisses everywhere on you. your cheeks, your breasts, your stomach, your arms, your nose, your brows, your lips.

under all that rough, male bravado, and that playful nature of his, he loves you so deeply, so much that his heart aches.

when he's not with you, he feels useless. like theres nothing to do if it doesn't mean he can hold his woman.

when he's with shiu, he spends half the time sprawled onto his seat, lazy and half-paying attention to shius words.

he'll have his beat up phone in one hand, flicking through pretty pictures of you, occasionally zooming into something, a lil smirk pulling at the corner of his lip.

he hums in response to shiu, not even paying attention.

thats all he uses his phone for, really. to talk to you, talk to people like shiu, and keep photos of you to go through when he's not with you.

he's obsessive, really.

judging by the damp chill on your inner thighs and the burn in your calves, it’s been an hour. maybe more. the curtains are barely drawn, the room washed in that dusk-blue that makes everything feel secret. he's stretched flat across your bed, hair down and messy, thick fringe tickling his brows. his mouth is buried in you so deep he might as well be part of you.

“choso,” you manage, or think you do, your voice wobbling as if it’s walking on ice, syllables soaked until they can’t carry meaning, your forehead knocking the headboard because you can’t keep your head steady.

your fingers are groping for the rail because your pussy is too busy being taken apart for your hands to remember the shape of a polite grip, the little scrape of your rings on metal cutting through the wet undercurrent and making you feel present for half a second, then gone again when he seals his mouth and sucks.

the suction isn’t cruel, it’s messy, purposeful in a way that makes it seems almost reverent, a pull that turns your clit into a bright ache that your spine registers as heat, and you have a heartbeat to think you might float out of it when his eyes squeeze shut, lashes damp, brows drawn in a line of concentration that reads devotion rather than effort. he hums low into you, the sound combined with the pull turning your no into a yes before the word even forms.

“babe,” you try, a softer appeal because you know his name won’t break through. right now he doesn’t have one, he gives it up every time he goes under, and the second your palm leaves the headboard to find his head he catches you without looking, the quick flash of muscle memory that tells on him, fingers swallowing your wrist one-handed, dragging your palm to his hair.

and the tone of him ruins you when he mutters through your slick a hoarse “hold onto me,” not lifted, barely breathed, a suggestion that refuses to be anything but law; he says it ruined, a rasp edged with need, the syllables shredded by your taste. you obey because you’re weak for that sound and weaker still for the way the roots of his hair give under your grip.

you pull. not to stop him, you never mean that, not even when your legs shake so hard the muscle flutters like a trapped bird, not even when your throat closes around a whimper that embarrasses you without stopping you, not even when your clit throbs so tender the air itself is a threat.

you pull to keep him there, your fist a leash that doesn’t need force, and he takes it as permission, a door thrown open, a green light that he runs through with his eyes closed and his mouth open, groaning into you in a way that turns your bones to water, the vibration a low-thrum that spreads, then concentrates, then repeats until your body learns it, until your hips start chasing the pattern without your help.

a loud moan escapes your parted lips, and he hears that only in the way a predator hears a rustle; his hands tighten. you can feel the tremble in his triceps as much as the heat of his body.

the world muffles to the warm damp between your thighs. his ears are hidden against you and so he doesn’t hear your broken string of baby and please and oh god in real words; he hears them as pressure against his cheeks, as the drag in your belly when he flattens his tongue and holds it there, as the grip of your fingers when he circles the tip of his tongue over the same spot again and again until your vision tilts.

you try to warn him with a little “i can’t,” which means nothing and everything, which means it’s too much, which means don’t stop, which means you’re going to cry or you already are, and you are, because the wet at the corners of your eyes isn’t sweat.

your lashes catching tears you didn’t intend to spend, the salt mixing with the salt on your tongue when you bite your lip hard enough to taste metal. he doesn’t lift his head for it. he goes lower for a breath, tongue teasing at the opening that’s been throbbing neglected, dipping shallow, pulling back, dipping again, a pattern you know is him messing with you.

you hate him for it because it makes you feverish, because it tells your body to open in pulses, because the way he drags back up is fast enough to make you tremble and slow enough to keep you begging.

“please,” you gasp, turning your head to find an air that isn’t soaked in him. your vision sparkles at the edges and your thighs shake uncontrollably, micro-tremors fireworking from hip to knee; he squeezes harder, not hurting, containing, his grip firm enough that you’ll carry him tomorrow in thumb-shaped shadows along your skin. “i mean it— i really—”

that gets him to lift. not away. just enough to look up.

the wet on him is yours, gleaming on his mouth and chin, a shine that turns the low light into a quiet halo on his cheeks; his lips are swollen, the color darker, the curve softened by use, his breathing visible in the small jump at his throat, the flutter at the hollow just above his collarbone.

his pupils are a swallow of black, the ring of iris barely a suggestion, a thin gold caught at the edge before it disappears, and he looks at you without smiling, the kind of look that drops heat straight into your belly because there’s nothing skillful about it, nothing clever, nothing flirty, only hunger in a shape that learned restraint, only hunger that loves you enough to make room for your words.

“can’t,” you say, voice raw, not a challenge. “my brain’s— my legs.. i can’t.” you hate the wobble. you love the way he flinches when he hears it because it makes him careful, because it reminds you that he was careful even when he wasn’t hearing anything, because he always was.

he nods, slow, as if more speed would spook you. “okay.” the word scrapes. he swallows and tries again, a notch smoother. “okay, princess.”

there is no condescension in the pet name when he says it this ruined; there is only the way his chest softens around the word, only the way his hands go from bracketing you to helping you rise, palms sliding to the backs of your thighs to lift, forearms under, shoulders bracing, core working, the kind of easy strength that makes you feel precious and small without making you feel weak, a particular miracle of his that you think about when you’re alone because it makes your chest hurt in a good way.

he draws you forward, kisses the shaking inside of your knee, then the mark he left earlier where his fingers pinched too hard, then again as if to apologize to the bruise before it even forms, the tenderness so out of rhythm with the mess that you go dizzy. how can you say no to this man?

he blinks slowly, the way a person blinks when they surface and the water still fills their ears. “turn for me?” he asks, as if asking is anything but ritual, as if he wouldn’t manhandle you if you said no, then apologize with kisses for hours. “lay back. let me—” his throat scrapes on the word. “let me handle it.”

“wanna take care of you too,” you manage, reaching for his face because you need something to pet before your hands forget jobs.

his jaw flexes on nothing. his breath breaks; his eyes flutter down to your mouth like he’s reminding himself what it’s for and then back to where his mouth made a mess. “you already are,” he says, quiet and stunned, as if the proof on his face is talking for him. “pillow princess privileges tonight.”

“that an insult or—”

“a tiny tease,” he admits with a quiet chuckle, breath fogging against your inner thigh as he dips his head to kiss there, then closer, then off course on purpose to keep you hungry. “you’re my princess. i want you soft while i work.”

he flips you like it’s habit. big hands under your hips, a quick lift, a slide. your spine meets cool sheets and then his mouth is in the center of your chest, not because he’s forgotten his mission but because he wants your cunt to twitch at the absence, wants the ache to ripen.

“you’re doing that on purpose,” you say, voice smaller. “you’re giving me a rest to make me cry, huh?”

“mm.” his answer vibrates through your chest. he doesn’t deny it. his mouth opens against your skin and he licks slow, a lazy line over your sternum, a taste. “she cries for me.”

yeah, your pussy does cry for him.

he noses your sternum, spreads wet open kisses beneath your collarbone until your skin heats again under the path of his mouth. your bra is crooked, abused.

his hands go behind your back with an efficiency that makes your eyes water because it is care, because it means he pays attention when you tell him which hook is harder for your fingers, because he remembers how the band pinches when it’s twisted, because of a dozen small things he never fails at; he frees you without fumbling and breathes out a quiet oh that doesn’t reach a smile but lifts the edges of his mouth like gratitude got stuck there.

he lowers his face to your chest and presses his cheek to the soft of you, nuzzling, not in heat, not yet, in relief, maybe, or hunger cooling itself for a second so it doesn’t burn you down. he kisses the swell with a softness that makes you arch just to give him more space to bury in, your fingers sliding through his hair out of reflex.

you arch before you mean to. he releases with a soft pop and breathes across the wet, that tiny temperature shift a mean, perfect thing, your navel tightening in reflex. his free hand pets your ribs absentmindedly, thumb counting bones like prayer beads before sliding down to palm your hip, squeezing once in something that feels so much like affection your eyes prickle.

his tongue circles at your nipple again, wet and light, and then he blows, a small stream of cool air over the damp skin that makes your nipples tighten and a shiver race across your chest. you grab his shoulder. he does it again, on the other side, tongue and air and the prickle that follows, and your back arches off the bed without you thinking about it.

he pulls back only far enough to look down your body. that look again, hungry and quiet and too tender for the filth of the moment. he presses his mouth against the top of your breast and speaks there, voice soft enough you feel it more than hear it. “spread those legs for me.”

you do it without argument, heels digging into the mattress, knees falling open. you feel the air against the swollen skin of your pussy, the little sting of exposure, the slick stretch when your folds part. you feel his gaze hit you there. it’s not leering. it’s focused to the edge of pain. he swallows.

the he sits back on his heels just long enough to push his boxers down. the elastic drags over his thighs, catches on his cock for a second before it springs free and taps up against his lower belly. he wraps his hand around his cock instinctively. it’s not showy, but you eat up every second like he's performing just for you.

his knuckles go white, then ease as he finds a pace, slow strokes that keep him on the line. his cock's flushed at the tip, sticky with precum that glistens when his hand slides. the breath he pulls through his teeth is so thin you don't hear it.

he looks at you the whole time, eyes wide and blown, the faintest quiet smile pulling at the corner of his mouth even as his jaw flexes. it’s not a happy smile, not a performance. it’s the helpless one he gets when the sight of you ruins him.

you try to mirror it and fail. your mouth just falls open and your head tilts, the tendon in your neck standing out. your hands tremble and your hips shift, chasing an absent pressure.

“open,” he whispers, and taps your mouth with his fingers. you do, slack and greedy, and he slides two between your lips until you groan around them, the taste a messy mix of your salt from your skin and his precum from his hand, the intimacy of it embarrassing in a way that makes your brain go quiet.

he pulls them free slow, strings of spit stretching until they break, then paints your nipples again, another thin wet that makes the air a co-conspirator, the sensation of cold air on wetness making your toes curl, even your body jerks. he smiles small, then more truth than shape, then loses the smile the second it shows because the need in him doesn’t leave space for pretty.

“i want you to squirt for me,” he whispers at your throat, his lips pressing words into skin rather than the air, the vow of it thudding under your ear. not a dirty line for effect but an honest confession, soft and reverent, every syllable rounded by need, like a miracle he refuses to demand. “you gonna give it to me, princess?”

you nod too hard in a way that makes him laugh for half a breath before the sound breaks into a small noise. “y-yeah.” your voice is a wire.

he glances at your mouth, soft everywhere except his eyes, then sits back on his heels just long enough to drag two fingers up his shaft and collect what his body has spent there, the slick shine of it thickening at his fingertips.

he brings those fingers to your mouth with his eyes on your eyes and you wrap around them again, tongue flattening, a grateful moan dragging through your chest when he presses them farther, and then he drags them out and down, circles both nipples with his pre-slicked touch until you tremble exactly the way he was waiting for. only then does he lower again.

his shoulders slide under your thighs, collarbones hooked against your inner knees, arms wrapping out and around so his hands can reclaim their grip where they belong, thumbs pressing into familiar hollows, fingers curling in, a lock that keeps you where he wants you, where you want to be. “on me,” he says, reminding, the words weighted by ruin. “hold me.”

your thighs part on reflex. they tremble. he gathers them up, set wide, then presses his face back into you with a sound so content it nearly undoes you.

he is messier now.

no teasing. no pauses except the small hitch that means he liked the noise you made. he eats you like your slick is water after a drought, mouth open and greedy, tongue broad then narrow then thrusting, his lips dragging wet over every tender place and leaving it red and swollen. he shakes his head in small, stubborn motions that scrub your clit in raw, steady pressure while his fingers keep the grind inside you relentless and patient, a contradiction you didn’t know your body was able to parse until it starts to dissolve your spine.

you clutch at his hair. your thighs cage him. your heel drags down his back to the soft dip above his ass and he jolts and groans into your clit and the vibration smashes into your brainstem. your ears ring a little. the world collapses to one metric: how well he holds you on this knife-edge without letting you tip or slither away.

he humps the mattress harder.

it’s not subtle anymore. every time you clamp down, every time your belly flutters, every time your mouth breaks on his name, his hips press, slow then faster, grinding his cock against the sheet where your thigh wet has bled into the fabric, a slicked patch turning him shameless.

he ruts into it with these small, instinctive thrusts, chasing friction while refusing to lift his mouth from you, discipline and need fighting in his shoulders where you can feel the tremor.

his breathing grows harsh against you, a broken rhythm where you can hear the moments he forgets to do it, the small catch, the pushed exhale, the swallow that follows only when he remembers. you feel the way his chest shakes.

you feel, in the way the mattress shifts, the way his hips grind the bed in short, helpless brackets, that he’s using the ache of it to focus, that he is rutting not to get off but to keep his mouth ruthless, that his body is an animal he can't control but his devotion is a choice.

it ruins you. the way he ignores himself ruins you worse than the pressure on your clit, worse than the wet under you, worse than the knowledge that the sheets are gone for the night.

“oh god— please, choso please i—” your voice turns raw. your face is hot. tears slick sideway into your hair. you go somewhere beyond articulate and don’t look back. he presses one palm to your lower belly, testing, then firmer, not a shove, a steady push that asks your body to answer.

something inside you reacts, a click at a hinge you can’t name, a door unlocked, your legs jerking where they’re trapped as a sharp shock zings into your pelvis and then reforms as pressure. he feels your breath break and presses again, mouth never leaving your clit, tongue not flicking anymore, just the honest grind of hot muscle, his nose pushed to the soft above because he wants more contact than his tongue can give.

“there,” he pants against you, just the one word, not lifted, breath on your wet, a guide and a thank you. you nod so hard your neck hurts. “there, baby— there, stay right there.”

you try. your hips don’t listen. he pins them for you, forearms flexed, triceps straining, hands firm, grip not a question. you try to run, a jerky scoot that fails because his forearm is braced over your hips, corralling you; he chases you with his whole face, tongue flattening, fingers stroking deeper in counter-rhythm, rolling that soft place inside you until the world goes too bright.

your thighs clamp so hard the muscles cramp; the discomfort collides with pleasure in a way that makes your eyes sting. the pressure builds with no relief valve, not a rise, a swell, a load-bearing surge that demands somewhere to go.

“give it to me,” he says into you, voice shredded, coaxing and command at once, “need it, sweetheart,” and somehow the plea in that word tips something crueler in you into relief.

you feel the snap not as a clean line but as a tear, a fabric ripping in a spot that already had a stress line. it starts as heat and ends as flood; your body stutters and then pours.

he groans into you, chasing the spill up your slit with frantic little swipes, sucking at your clit enough to keep the release from collapsing in on itself, coaxing rather than punishing, riding the rhythm of the gush with the helpless sounds of a man too in love with the mess to keep quiet.

you drench him. it shocks you, not because it’s new but because it always feels that way when it’s this much, because you feel it on your inner thighs, your hips, the sheets, his cheeks, the underside of his jaw, because it keeps coming in little after-pulses that make you sob his name in apology and plea, because the heat turns to cool where it touches air and then to heat again when his tongue drags through it.

he eases to slower circles, mouth soft, the suction reduced to a kiss, then nothing, then a press, his lips set against your clit like he’s thanking it, like he’s promising you both a softer hour later.

he keeps his tongue where it needs to be and rides those shudders out with you, fingers still stroking through the clench, easing the angle when your whimper twists alarmed, then going back to that firm pressure when your hips surge to meet him. you feel everything with the edges sanded off by overstimulation, which makes every small kindness in his hands feel huge, and every tiny persistence feel enormous.

under you, or rather beneath your knees where they hang over his shoulders, you feel his rhythm break.

he presses down against the mattress hard and holds, a shiver ripping through his back under your foot, a voiceless sound trapped in his throat because his mouth is busy feeding.

his cock must be caught just right in the slicked indent he’s been rutting into; you feel the way his body locks, the way the muscle at the base of his spine tightens, the way his hips stutter once, twice. a hot rush hits the sheet under your ass, not inside you—on the bed, ruined and helpless, because the taste of you and the mess and the way you gasped his name while you broke bled through his control and took it.

he cums without touching himself directly, face still buried in you.

the thought detonates through your brain and drags a broken sound out of your chest that might be a laugh or a sob. he groans again, this one low and grateful, and you feel the warm wet under your ass spread as his hips tremble through the aftershocks. he doesn’t stop eating. he can’t. he’s buzzing on you, drunk past shame, greedy in that quiet way he has where greed looks like devotion.

you push at his hair, gentle, spent, your thighs loosening around his head on instinct, the ache in their muscles finally loud enough to be heard. “no more,” you pant, small and breathless because your throat forgot how to shape bigger words. “baby, please, s’too much.”

the switch from feral to sweet is instant. he slows to nothing in three breaths, trades tongue for kisses, soft and sloppy and apologetic against your inner thigh, then higher, then one on the tender mound above your clit that feels like thanks. he slides his fingers out slow, the drag making your gut clench, and lays his palm, big and heavy, just above your pubic bone where it calms you like a hand on a wild thing’s neck.

he lays his cheek on the inside of your thigh, breath dragging, face ruined, eyes closed for a second as if he’s dizzy and needs the earth of you to stop the spin. you sift his hair with trembling fingers. he kisses where your pulse hammers, the beat heavy and fast, then licks a wet stripe up to your hip, then kisses there too, slow.

when he climbs you, hands careful at your waist, his face leaves glossy streaks on your belly and ribs and the bottom shelf of your breast. he kisses your mouth and you taste yourself heavy on him, salt and sweet and his heat under it, the weight of his tongue careful for once, slow, not lazy, grateful.

he pulls away enough to press his nose against your forehead. he’s a mess. you are too. the bed is a crime scene. his pupils haven’t come back to normal; he looks high on you, which is exactly what he is. he drags his forearm across his mouth, fails to clean anything of consequence, and breathes, rough. “okay?”

you can’t answer with words immediately; all that comes out is a hiccuping breath. you nod, then nod again, because he watches you with such focused, unpretty concern you need him to see it twice. “i guess,” you manage, voice sanded down. “jesus. you—”

“oh right, the laundry. sorry, i thought...” he says, ridiculous, shy at the edges, because he can’t hold the feral thing with no leash forever and right now it’s licking its paws in the corner while the other version of him—gentle, stupidly tender—reclaims his mouth. he looks down at the dark patch he made in your sheets and his face does something you’d call embarrassed if he were anyone else. “sorry. i didn’t—”

“don’t you dare,” you say, a hoarse whisper, more feeling than sound. “don’t you even think about being sorry.” your palm drifts down, finds his cock, wraps around it just a small payback for what he did. he hisses, shoulders going tight, but his hand catches yours almost immediately and lifts it away, not rough, just firm. he shakes his head.

your irises focused on him. nothing else, no one else—just him.

you’ve never seen him like this. so pale, so weak, so . . . scared.

his pure emotion, it showed in his eyes. his perfect brown eyes that you never failed to get lost in. for the first time in what was probably forever, nanami felt…scared. he tried his best to conceal it in front of you though. but even his best wasn’t enough, because you probably knew him better than you knew yourself.

“don’t say things like that, kento,” you mutter, already feeling that annoying plump knot rise up in your throat. your breath was shaky, tremble after tremble. “you’re fine. you can get up. we can get up.”

he knew when you said we, you implied that you’d both be walking away together — hand in hand, like in those stupid cheesy movies you’d watch with him every sunday after he gets off work. but alas, reality was quite harsh to face. an even more incredible tough pill to swallow. nanami knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

it was irksome, you had to squeeze your eyes shut to prevent a single tear to roll down your cheek.

nanami’s eyelids were hanging on by a thread, just barely open. he was trying—trying so hard to hang on, a small pout curls against his lips before he huffs out a single breath.

“ah . . forgive me, you’re right,” he says, his thumb swiftly stroking the front of your hand. a single tear escapes past your lower damp eyelid. even his voice sounded different. a voice you grew to love, so sweet and protective. it now sounded incredibly tired. you could hear a slight wheeze between breaths of his. “hey, don’t cry. don’t do that, look at me.”

his voice was so soft, you sniffled—despising the irritating tears that started to run down both sides of your temples. if it was anything nanami couldn’t stand, it was that he couldn’t stand to see the love of his life shed such sweet pitiful tears for him.

you looked at him, watching his eyelids struggle to stay open for you. everything ached, his body didn’t even feel like his own anymore. it was an indescribable feeling from when he got struck, laying against the slick cold floor of the shibuya train station.

“. . d-don’t leave me,” was all you managed to say, your lips was trembling, your heart pounded and you didn’t wanna say goodbye just yet. “kento, i need you.”

“hm? what are you mumblin’ about, sweetheart? ‘m right here.” his voice, it sounded happier.

you furrowed your eyebrows, now finding yourself buried into nanami’s bare chest, damp chin pressing against his pecs and all.

you were here safe and sound, snuggled up all against him, as you should be. it took you a long while to calm down, he’s staring at you with a soft loving gaze—a brief look of concern before you mumble out a, “..kento? are you okay?”

“why wouldn’t i be, baby?” nanami hums, a soft thumb stroking your back. with a relaxed breath, he leans in to plant a gentle kiss near the very tip of your forehead. his touch was forevermore soothing, a touch you never wanted to forget.

you let off a jittery sigh of relief, finally coming to the conclusion that it was another one of your horrid nightmares. you had nothing to worry about.

he was fine.

you were fine,

everything was fine.

. . is what you kept telling yourself.

nanami never told you those words, he didn’t kiss the tip of your forehead or stroke your back lovingly whilst staring into your eyes. the only true unbearable truth was that nanami was gone.

he was gone, and his last words weren’t even “i love you,” or “i’m sorry.” on his fatal dying breaths, nanami’s last words to you while squeezing your hand, sliding a ring into your palm, he rasps out a breathy, “will . . you marry me?”

“i guess we are,” he replied in a gentle tone, his hands remaining on your hips. satoru’s touch was always gentle and ginger. he presses his lips near the back of your nape before letting off a soft sigh. “you’d look pretty with white hair, actually.”

“prettier than you?” you hum, glancing at him through the mirror. satoru towers over you as he holds you, the band of his wedding ring grazing against your hip.

again, you watch as the corners of his lips crease into a smile. a toothy genuine one where his dimples show.

“haha, veeeery funny,” and as he buries his face into your neck, he deeply ponders to himself for a moment.

to think . . how much time has passed, out of all the countless tiresome battles he’s had to face—

all those years at trying to keep the world safe and now, he could finally relax. having his arms around you gave him a peace of mind, and in the end it was all worth it because at the end of the day, satoru gojo—the strongest, came back to you. you were his personal safe haven and he was yours.

“but honeyyy,” he yawns with rosy pouty lips, shifting his chin up to rest against your left shoulder. satoru starts leading you toward your side of the bed. “ ‘s pretty late, let’s getcha back to bed, hm?”

“okay,” you mumble, already feeling your eyes starting to get heavy again. satoru’s still got his burly arms wrapped around your waist as he leisurely guides you back to bed. he was clingy, and that never changed. satoru gojo’s always been clingy ever since the two of you met. as he pulls down the cover for you to enter, you crawl back in and he gets beside you.

satoru slings an arm around you, pulling you close as his hooded eyes starts a staring contest with the swaying wooden ceiling fan.

it’s moving slow. . just like time was.

whenever he was with you, it felt as if time stood still. and as the both of you cuddled against each other with your head resting against his beating heart, he sighs. it’s a content happy sigh, and satoru’s hands find their way near the top of your head. his thin fingers maze it’s way near your soft grey growing strand before he leans in, giving the crown of your head a goodnight kiss. “mwah,” and he watches as your eyes briefly widen before glancing away, growing sheepish. “get some rest, my love. i’ll be here when you wake up. promise.”

you nod, too drowsy to reply and he pulls you closer. satoru’s heartbeat was steady and slow, and each pulse that bested against your ear made you felt more and more protected. as he holds you firm and close, a hand of his softly caresses your forehead—brushing against the soft hairs that cling onto your skin.

as your breathing starts to relax and your eyelids finally close, he realizes you finally drifted off to sleep. satoru exhales lowly, almost forgetting to take off his reading glasses. as he places them near the nightstand, he lies back down, giving your sleeping state once last glance.

“i love you,” he whispers against your ear before reaching for the pearled lamp switch. “so much.”your head nuzzles against his chest and he assumes that was your non-verbal way of saying it back, even in your sleep. cute.

the only sounds that could be heard were the faint tick tocking of the grandfather clock that stood near the hallway and your soft breathing as you deeply slept. satoru feels a smile tugging against his glossed lips yet again, but this time it’s different . .

it’s not the same smile from when you showed him that you were graying, it was a more genuine smile that was satisfied at everything—primarily at life. satoru’s long crystalline lashes gradually flap shut as he smiles to himself, a thumb brushing against your forehead. all those battles was worth it in the end, because right now, he’s at the only place he wanted to be . . with you.

life wasn’t a competition, but satoru finally felt at peace, true peace—and that peace was being in your presence. he wasn’t one for believing in good endings, but maybe this particular one wasn’t so bad.

“i . . won.”

it would always be like this - after every argument, the outcome would always end up with geto between your thighs.

sure, he’d say sorry. . after his tongue’s buried inside of your cunt.

“fuuuck,” he’d grunt, laid back as his hair was all sprawled out against the sheets. geto’s voice was dangerously deep and raspy. each time he spoke, his words would vibrate against your pulsating wet pussy - his favorite meal. he could eat you out for hours until his jaw tightened and locked. the literal definition of a pussy pleaser . .

“aw, she’s missed me so fuckin’ bad,” he’d whisper in a gruff tone, dipping his pointed tongue in and out of your folds. your folds were all soddened - sopping wet and dripping like a faucet. he groans, feeling your candied juices stream down from the opening part of your clit as you throbbed in his mouth. he was slurping you clean, relishing in your sweetened fervor that ruts against his slick mouth and chin. “yeah, i know. i know,” and as you whimper with pursed quivering lips, geto lolls out his tongue allllll the way, plunging it deeper inside of your convulsing cunt. with a smug grin flattening against the edges of his lips, he licks a long stripe from top to bottom, tasting all of you. your sweet slick fully paints against the lower part of his chin until it runs down the crevices of his lips, and he moans at how sweet you tasted.

he was so messy and unapologetically so—you’ve got your knees bucked toward the sides of his head whilst you’re unsteadily grinding into his mouth. “sugu, fuck,” you’d moan, letting off a following of sweet cacophonies of ‘ooh's’ and ‘ah's’ each time his tongue slithers toward your puckering hole then back towards your needy cunt. a pretty glistening fall of water dribbles down the inner sides of your thighs and he laps it straight up as thin brows of his curve into a fixated furrow. “we didn’t even finish t- the conversation.”

“later,” he purrs in a rough hoarse tone, silencing your babbles the second his teeth playfully nibble towards your clit. you whine, feeling your weak knees on the verge of collapsing before he spat on the entrance of your folds. sloshes spurt away from your soaked cunt as you’re making a mess on his face, feeling that familiar pressure arises within the lower part of your tummy. it’s like someone was pressing down on your stomach, a wave that was preparing to crash and cause havoc. it felt so good, it was impossible to miss geto’s tongue. whenever he ate you out, he’d always eat you out like a starved man—like your sweet pussy was the last meal available on earth, and he did it with no shame.

as your hips continue to thrust sloppily against his mouth, a sleazy grin goes against his lips and he holds your thighs firmly in place, whistling against your slobbering folds. “mhm, that’s it. atta girl, less talkin’ more ridin’ this face.”

as you paw a hand through his thin tangeled tresses of hair that run through your clammy fingers—you whimper once his tongue reaches a certain spot inside of your pussy that scratches a lustful itch in your brain. “fuck!” you whine out, your hip speeding accelerating quicker. you continue to ride his face, nearly suffocating him with how your thighs had him in such a secure lock - to which he loved it, and it’s up onto the point where you end up cumming hard.

you’re gnawing on your lip once you end up finally releasing, swerving your ass against his face and feeling him slurp your entire high clean. even still, geto’s got the priggish grin plastered on his lips whilst he’s laid underneath you, two big hands glued to each sides of your thighs.

“atta fuckin’ girlll,” he’d repeat in a teasing hum, his tongue creating a slimy trail from the back part of your cunt until it reaches the tender bulb part of your clit. he sucks against it, toying with your puffy hood with his tongue before he feels you spasming on his mouth. so sweet, his long lashes flutter shut and he’s holding you tight so you stay still. “good, jus’ like old times.”

and as you’re panting, he departs his slick lips before dragging a thumb down your throbbing clit. very slowly, slippery long strands of your own juices coat his fingertip before he gives your pussy a single sloppy kiss. “now, you were sayin?”

☆ TOJI FUSHIGURO.

“f- fuck you.”

“yeah girl, i’m trying,” toji snarls, using two big hands to reel you back into his sharp churlish hips.

you moan, slamming back down on his thick cock after each mouthwatering thrust. toji would be having you in doggy, spread out on all fours, arched over for him and all. it’s fat, his tip mashes through your walls and french kisses deeply against your g-spot, coating it with dozens of slick smooches. toji’s enormous girth rams through your cunt, giving it a reminder of just how much he’s missed you and it makes your toes curl every time. you could never forget that curve of his—the curve where once he dips his hips a certain way, he’s plowing his thick cock into you so deep that it makes a shiver run down your spine. he makes you feel it all, and once you grow quiet his ego gets fed a good sum.

“fuuuck, that’s it. shut that pretty mouth up ‘n take this shit,” and you whimper, feeling him claw a rough hand through your scalp. it’s a soft tug, but your head pulls back nonetheless as he’s drilling into you mercilessly.

he’s fast, toji’s got the hips of a maddened madman.

and he was always not the best whenever it came to feelings but he loved you - still.

you’re always on his mind, no matter how many rebounds—he still saw your pretty face at the end of the day. tasting you, feeling you from the inside, you had him whipped and it fucking annoyed him.

“ngh, tojiiii,” you whimper, gasping at the immense loose barrage he makes with his stocky shaft. the stretch always leaves you speechless as a plethora of inaudible babbles perish out from the back of your throat. his sack hangs loose as he fucks into you raw. a soddened slimy ring forms around his base from your wet cunt slapping back against him and he clenched his teeth, watching the fat of your ass slam back against his chiseled pelvis. “right there, right fuckin’ there toji.”

“don’t tell me how ‘ta fuck,” he gruffs, and with one mean perfunctory thrust — you let off a screaming moan, tearing your chords before a sheepish giggle follows. the dark haired man rolls his eyes, giving your ass a teasing smack. “such a nasty ‘lil bitch. forgot how much this shit turns you on.”

the bed continues to dip from the constant masses of weight slamming onto the cushions before you feel it gradually falling forward. your crossed eyes found themselves flickering back to the outer voids of your skull as you claw at the bawled up sheets. “fuck, fuck you. broke bitch.”

“girl please. let’s not even,” he pauses, smacking his lips. always so sassy. you moan once his swollen tip stills itself inside of you and you pout, not being fond of how he’d randomly stop just to mess with you. cool air sets against your skin as your back remains arched and toji swats another hand toward your ass. smack! the sting makes your body jolt in depleting rapture and you coo out a soft ‘ah’ with your lips parting.

he grunts once he ogles down at your sloppy cunt, puffed lips and aching clit. leisurely, he pulls out before bringing a fat thumb towards your entrance, maneuvering a few teasing circles. “you still let this broke bitch fuck again, so now what?”

silence was your answer — but a moan shortly follows and you eat your words, your left cheek shoved against the mattress. “f- fuck y-”

“stop talking over your pussy. have some class, baby,” and you whimper, feeling his swelling tip rub against the back of your clit. you’re drooling wet, it’s almost embarrassing and he could feel your body shaking - more, you wanted more.

toji always did this, stop fucking you in the middle just to play with you and make you squirm for him to continue. bastard. once the room shifts into utter silence, his cockhead bangs against your cunt without warning and it’s a loud sloppy ‘smack!’ that gives you whiplash from the spine down. “good girl. ‘s all i wanna hear. pretty squelches all for me, mhm.”

he continues to toy with your cunt before he leans down, spitting near the slit opening entrance whilst his scarred lips carve into a pout. “lotta talk for a pussy this fuckin’ wet,” he hears you starting to protest but your words only come out in inaudible babbles. once you try to sit up, he lightly pushes you back into the bed, having you slump forward with a soft ‘oof.’

toji grunts, feeling his heavy cock tighten up at the sight of your exposed sopping cunt seeping from the folds before he aligns his angered tip once more. “lie back, little girl. we’re far from finished,” and he spanks your cunt, sloshing soddened spurts of your own slick plopping onto his palm. “isn’t that right, gorgeous?”

and his eyes avert towards your cunt - not you. “yeah, thought so.”

☆ CHOSO KAMO.

choso can’t live without you - he’s an entire mess the second you let him fuck you for ‘one last time.’

has you in a mating press because he insists on seeing your pretty face, doesn’t care if he’s tearing up mid thrust either because he’s missed you so so bad. “you’re so pretty,” he’d moan, pumping his cock into you slowly. each thrust reminded you of the times you both spent together . . the memories, why you and him even split in the first place. choso grunts, continuously bruising your cervix with his fat tip over and over. as you’re laid on your back, your arms wrap around his broad shoulders and he flashes you a cheeky needy smile and darkened circles under his eyes. “have i told you how pretty you look right now, baby?”

“probably over ten times, ‘cho,” you’d sheepishly say, blissful moans sliding past your lips. your cunt’s grip against was purely enticing - it always was. he was forevermore addicted to the way you held onto him tight, squeezing down on him like a vice. you drag a few fingers down his undercut and he lets off a humming purr, leaning into your touch. “fuck, don’t stop, baby. keep goin, mhm.”

“missed you so bad,” he’d whine, burying his face into the crook of your neck. choso moans from the alluring scent of your perfume alone, almost tasting you in his mouth. so sweet, so so sweet and he wanted more. his perfectly sculptured body that rocked into yours started to get more sloppy with its movements. he’s passionate with his thrusts, and he knew like always he wasn’t gonna last long. he never did, not with you. choso’s slim body ruts into you, steadily grinding into your own before he starts to suck on your neck. “mpmh. ‘s been torture without you, you know. had such . . strange dreams.”

with a soft simper, you cup his flushed face, a thumb stroking against the right side of his cheek. “wet dreams, choso?”

“y- yeah,” he swallows thickly, growing embarrassed. wet dreams, that explained why whenever he’d wake up in a good mood after having erotic dreams about you—he felt so hard, so . . aroused. his cock’s aching for more, and his bulbous pink tip continues to rummage through your insides until it inspects through every spot. each ‘pop’ your cunt makes ring through your ears and he sucks his teeth at the realization of just how wet you are. “had a dream we heh, got back together. settled down, started a f . . family.”

your heart races at his words, and choso’s deeply staring into your eyes, getting lost in your tender gaze. gentle darkened irises of his dilate as he gawks at you and oh, he’s so in love. his heart thumps quicker in his chest as he pistons his hips. the punctuation of his hips grow more exclamatory with each slam against your cunt. he’s rough, but gentle at the same time - sloppy more than anything. “a family, huh?” and he can’t help but whine, hearing the words slide past your glossed lips with such simplicity.

he gives you a nod, kissing near the corner of your twitching mouth. “a baby or two,” he moans, his speed starting to get more relentless. he’s thick, his length resumes to curve and and meander through your walls, leaving it’s very mark and your legs wrap around his slim waist. as he speaks, he’s staring to paint the exact picture of a future he wants into your brain and his. “or maybe five. you’d look pretty with a plump swollen belly,” and he kisses your quivering bottom lip, this time leaning down to suck on your chin. “mhm, i just wanna make you a pretty wife. my pretty wife, ‘s what ‘m basically saying.”

as the two of you both moan in unision, you plant a wet chaste kiss on his lips. choso groans, slowly pumping more inches in and out of your sloppy cunt before leaning into your grasp. your hips were just as greedy as his were, if not more. “let’s do it then,” you’d whisper between kisses, glossed strands of saliva entangling with each other, creating viscid cobwebs. “make me your pretty wife, ‘cho. gimme a baby.”

choso’s eyes widen to the size of saucers before his thrusts slow - deep but deadly.

he’s very slow with his movements, making sure you feel every single inch, every single vein that prods down his fat cock. “okay,” he shakily says, his ears twitching at your sweet words. he’s still pressing his weight against you, feeling his piles of sweat glue against your own body and he leans in one more time, pressing a long wet kiss on your lips. he’s cutely shaking from your touch once your hands run down his back, pulling him closer. he’s fucking you deeply but at a much more romantic sweet pace. “ugh,” his eyes roll back in rapture, and he can feel himself preparing to give you the filling he’s been oh so desperately waiting for. choso grips your chin, smearing a thumb over your lips before whimpering against your lips.

“ ‘m gonna make you the prettiest mommy. promise.”

☆ NANAMI KENTO.

never in a million years would you have thought you’d be in a predicament like this—arched over an office desk with your husband, ex-husband directly behind you. he’s fucking sense back into you, giving you a simple reminder of how good you had it all with the thoroughly deep hits of his cock.

“s- sweetheart,” he’d groan, repeatedly tapping his swollen crown against your most sweetest spots. it leaves a bittersweet taste in your mouth, and you’re just casually being fucked into the unsigned divorced papers. your visions clouded, all your glossed eyes were met with was the scribbles of writing and multiple lines that ran across that papers. the wood creaks and groans at the pounds of pressure slamming back and forth into it. “god, i missed you,” he’d whisper, running a hand down your sensitive spine. he created a soft tapping trail with his fingers, continuing to plummet his weighty dick in and out of your pasty walls. “can never stay away from my wife.”

soft whimpers spew past the cracks of your lips as he continues to drill into you, repeatedly thrashing his leaky mushroom tip against your precious g-spot that makes you shrill louder. your moans ricochet off the walls of the spacious office and he lightly tugs on your blouse. “kento, ken—fuck,” you’d suck your teeth, feeling each hooked curve of his dick hunt through every part of your cunt. the loud clangs of his belt sing each time his halfway pulled down slacks hits against your ass. he’s missed you, you can tell by his thrusts and the way he’s running a hand down your body. “fuck me, fuck me ‘ken. please.”

“shhh,” he leans up close to you, pressing a smooth palm over your mouth. your moans grow muffled as he continues to drive his fat cock into your cunt, hearing your heels clank and tap against the slick wooden floor. “not so loud, wifey,” he purrs, and you moan once his tip reaches there. it doesn’t take long before his flushed crownhead’s smothering your cervix wholly with rich french kisses, making your legs shake. nanami feels you leaning into his touch with your ass pressed all the way into him. “as much as i love your sweet sounds, you wouldn’t want anyone else to hear them, would you?”

your answer was muffled so you give him a slow nod. nanami chuckles, a tear of sweat racing down the left side of his forehead. “no, silly. we don’t want that,” and he brings a kiss toward the nape of your neck, nibbling on your tender skin. he’s fucking you over the desk, ignoring the groans and creaks of the old wooden desk. “no one should be able to hear how—” and he pauses, slightly lifting up your leg to get a more thorough deeper angle. “… sloppy you sound, no one but me, sweetheart.”

nanami’s still buried balls deep—his swollen full base remains to smack against your ass, creating an unforgettable perspiring sting amongst skin. every time he’s inside—he falls in love right over again, he can’t help it. “ ‘m gonna cum. you’re gonna wring me dry like you always did, my love,” he grunts, his cock repeatedly kissing at that poor bullseye of a target that’s buried inside the deep depths of your cunt. tap tap tap, he’s hitting that same spongey spot to make you whimper out those desperate cries of his name. cobwebs of saliva souse all over his palm as his hand remains cupped over your mouth. the loud fax machine continues to spit out mechanic whimpers of its own in the background while you’re getting drilled into the divorce papers the two of you were ‘supposed’ to sign.

but fuck that.

“inside,” you whine, your lips moving on its own the second he pries his hand away. your pussy gripped him tightly, aching him badly. you could feel yourself salivating at the thought of him filling you up again, dumping such a hefty load that his mess would spill right down the plush crevices of your thighs. “don’t miss ‘ken, finish inside.”

“anything for the pretty wife,” he’d rasp, bringing two hands toward your rickety waist. as you’re arched over the cornered table—the moment finally comes where he finishes with three deep thrusts that vigorously punctuate against your cunt. you whimper, and within seconds he’s spraying out thickly stringy amounts. velvety ribbons of cum that pour into you sprays inside your womb deeply, oozing out your folds. nanami’s lips glue against your skin and you can hear him faintly whining into your neck. “fuck,” he whispers, and it’s rare to hear him curse, but when he does, it always made you throb - like now. his cock’s still shoved inside and he’s still giving you his anticipated fill before he pulls out, smearing his tip over your drooling cunt.

“so pretty,” he weakly says, caressing your ass with a free hand. nanami’s eyes scan toward the desk with scattered divorce papers and he sheepishly rubs his neck. the blond turns you around to face him and he cups your chin—lifting you up and making you sit on the edge of the table. “but,” and he presses a kiss near the side of your lip, a few thick fingers feeling against the sloppy mess that spills out of your pussy. “you’d look even prettier with a ring around your finger again,” and he licks your neck, hearing your breath hitch as he whispers against your skin.

“i’ve missed you, mrs. nanami,” and he lowers his head down to plant a kiss against your throbbing drenched clit. “and i’ve missed you especially.”

☆ SATORU GOJO.

satoru doesn’t even have to fuck you. his fingers always did the job more than anything. his long fingers that were so fucking long for no reason. doesn’t care what time it is at night, he’d whine to you at how much he misses your pussy - his pussy. but you’d constantly tell yourself one more time, one more time wouldn’t hurt . . right?

wrong,

because those ‘one more times’ turned into dozens of times where you’d find yourself pathetically gushing on his fingers if not his cock and tongue. “relaaax, angel,” he’d purr against your neck, having you lie flat against his back. you’re a whimpering mess, biting the inside of your cheek as you feel his slender thin fingers expand and shove all through the swollen layout of your pussy. sloshes of wet sobs ring through the insides of you and you whine, realizing just how wet you were. “i know, i know. i’d fuckin’ throb if i was this soaked too.”

“s- satoru,” you’d moan, a hand of yours tightly gripping onto his wrist. a thumb of yours brushes against a vein that runs down his arm and he kisses near your neck. breathy hot pants ghost down near your skin and your thighs violently shake, feeling his fingertips prod against a particular spongey texture. there, he’s located your g-spot and you let off that cooing ‘ooh!’ as your head collapses back into his bare chest with a loud thud.

his fingers, you’d never be able to wrap your head around on how long they were. so long, they create an unforgettable stretch that makes tears of sweat drip down the sides of your forehead. they curl and entwine their ways inside, scissoring themselves inside your cunt before thrusting in and out of you at a slow degrading pace. “fuck, ‘toru ‘m gonna cum. ‘s gonna make me cum quick.”

“such a mess,” he huffs, prying your jittery legs open more with a single hand. you moan, feeling something prick behind your back and you knew that had to be his rock hard bulge that rubbed off against his sweats. it was hard to mistaken it, you felt the outline of it press against your bare ass.

he was so hard, and it was always because of you. as satoru’s got two fingers diving in and out of your slobbering pussy, he snickers against your ear. “i bet any other guy that touches this cunt doesn’t have fingers as long as mine, huh.”

there goes his fucking ego again. .

you tried to roll your eyes but instead it ends up making you create a lewd expression. his thin fingertips reach deep, and you’re slathering down both twin digits fully with such slippery sap.

“fuckk y- you,” you hiss out, grabbing his wrist to go faster. a throaty chortle leaves from his lips before his fingers start to twist inside of your sweet cunt even faster. “toru, satoru ngh!”

once his lengthy middle finger taps against there, your mind goes completely blank. you let off a squealing sob, your head thumping back against his chest once you gush right out yet again.

it was so abrupt. . there was barely any buildup, it just happened. you’re shivering as his fingers continue to crimp themselves inside of you, hearing your own pussy squelch out such carnal moans of its own. “fuck, fuck,” you whimper in broken cries, feeling your chest sink inward. the ivory-white sheets were now soaking up with a translucent colour as you release, biting his name within each syllable on your tongue. “satoru, satoruuu.”

“still the same ‘ole sloppy girl i remember,” he says in a raspy tone, feeling himself get hard just from your own arousal. you’re violently shaking, tasting every twinge of pleasure that surges through your veins as you squirt on his fingers. satoru’s fingers slide in and out and it’s so loud, it echoes through the four walls of the bedroom you both once shared and he simpers cockily. “can’t help but soak me right with you, yeah?” and before you could even get another word out, he slides out his fingers, hearing the cute ‘pop’ that exits out of your throbbing crying folds. “poor baby,” and he waves his fingers in his face as you pant against his chest. satoru hums, popping both fingers in his mouth for a taste he’s missed for the longest.