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Do you guys think Sukuna pees through one hole and orgasms through the other?? Or do both of his cocks pee at the same time?? Or does one start peeing first, and then the other follows?? If he has two cocks, does that mean he has two pairs of balls too??
does he have a toilet with 2 seats?? or two toilets next to each other, and he shots his pee from both holes in different toilets? do they both spray at the same time?? does he hold them both with one hand? or one for each hand while he aims??
Are they both the same size?? Are they both the same length and girth?? Is one more veiny than the other?? Are they both curved or is one curved and the other isn’t?? Are they both circumcised?? Or did he circumcise only one??
Do both of his cocks release at the same time? Is the release the same consistency for both cocks? Or does one cock have thicker cum, and the other has more runny cum?? Does his cum taste the same from both cocks? Or is one more sweet and the other more salty??
Synopsis. Gojo Satoru, the strongest clan leader in all of Japan - and the most dangerous, too. You, rejected by the elders, and totally not his future bride, right? Right?
Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem! reader, clan leader! Gojo, arranged marriage, Satoru is a little (very) INSANE and down bad, the elders are awful, oral (fem receiving), use of “madam”, unprotected, créampie, kníves, overstím, féral Satoru, heinous things, pet names, swearing.
Word count. 4.9k
A/N. I need clan leader Gojo SO bad you guys don’t understand.
They say that the head of the Gojo clan is the one person who could burn down this entire world and get away with it, too.
The youngest of all the clan leaders - and the most infamous - a man who keeps his friends close, and his enemies even closer. Enough so that you’ve heard whispers of his cruelty at every nook and cranny of those stuffy social functions your family has dragged you to. And it was more than enough to paint a picture of such terrifying power.
Of a sharp blade and an even sharper mouth. Of an angelic figure that left no evidence, nor anyone to tell the tale - only the final, hauntingly beautiful image of cloudy white hair, and electric blue eyes.
Eyes that were currently locked with yours, and didn’t seem like they’d stop any time soon. Dangerous. Magnetic. Twinkling with such odd amusement from across the long tatami room.
Gojo Satoru, the head of the Gojo clan - your future husband.
“Tch, the Kamo girl’s family had a much better reputation than this one.”
Ah, right. How could you forget?
You shift awkwardly on the mat, managing to rip your eyes over to the line of elders behind Gojo, whispering just loud enough that you’d hear - and, of course, remember once more that no, the marriage proposal hasn’t been approved just yet.
And considering those disapproving glares you’d been so warmly welcomed with, it seemed that they were well and fully intent on keeping it that way.
“I can assure you,” you fight to keep the polite smile plastered on your face, painful and slowly cracking with each passing second being interrogated. “My family is well-respected in the community.” Eyes snapping over to a silent Gojo, skin burning at his intensity. “Very well respected.”
“Come now. We’re just saying.” Another voice speaks up, strained and tinged with a venomous tone you knew didn’t bode well. “Your lineage isn’t exactly illustrious, is it?”
The emphasis on “illustrious” isn’t lost on you, and it’s so fucking dramatic than you think you could almost laugh. Apparently, a few of the elders think so, too - because they’re positively seething at the sight.
Muttering an icy, “Something funny, dear?”
“Nothing at all.” you bite back any insults, sifting around the contents of your untouched dinner - the last thing on your mind right now when it seemed like you were the main scrutiny tonight. “Absolutely nothing.”
“Such attitude!” That offended croak is met with murmured agreements and nods from the end of the room, “The madam of the Gojo household must be demure- I told the young master we should go with the Kamo girl.”
God, why did you agree to this again? Something about strengthening your family ties? You felt sorry for the poor soul who’d end up marrying Gojo, because no matter how much beauty or power he held, it certainly wouldn’t make up for this.
Scoffing, the words falling from your lips faster than you could register them. “Then why didn’t he?”
And this little question somehow seemed to have struck a nerve - multiple, in fact, as you watch in morbid fascination as the elders visibly bristle.
“B-because-” one sends a hasty glance at their stone-faced clan leader, flushing at his still-unwavering gaze on you. “You- It doesn’t matter. Someone like you isn’t suited to marry-”
“Right, because this clan is that great.”
You freeze. The elders freeze. It seems like everyone in the world freezes except for Gojo - who only raises his brow. Letting your words hang in the air like a foul stench, studying just how awfully you’re digging your grave deeper in this hellish marriage meeting.
Eventually, the elder closest to Gojo’s right mutters a painfully saccharine sweet, “I knew we shouldn’t have let the riff-raff participate.”
And oh it was like a dam burst open.
“-out of the thousands of girls, for someone like master-”
“The scandal, too- imagine letting the Gojo name fall this far-”
“Isn’t worthy. Can’t let the bloodline be carried by some whor-”
You’re on your feet before you realize it. Whirling at the elders head-on, and if looks could kill then all those old fossils would be six feet under and their graves a dance floor for you already.
Fists clenched, you spit, “If he’s so wonderful then you all can marry this oh-so-great bastard yourself-”
Oh. You’ve done it now.
You were fucked. You were so very, very fucked.
You don’t even bother to meet Gojo’s stare, instead wondering whether you’d be able to outrun the strongest clan leader alive. Sure, you could take those old toads but-
“Sit.”
Your heart leaps at the voice, the first time you’re hearing it since entering this room - deep, almost-melodic, and for a second you don’t even recognize who it came from. Not until Gojo’s flashing you a mirthful grin, blue yukata shifting as he moves to sit cross-legged, “Sit.”
Oh, God, you didn’t know of any torture methods one could do while sitting - but you didn’t doubt that Gojo was an expert in all of them.
And as your knees buckle, sinking ever-so-slowly to sit back down on the floor, Gojo tilts his head in confusion. Brows scrunching together as he gestures downwards.
“On your…lap?” You question, as if the answer wasn’t glaringly obvious.
The only response you get is a careless nod, Gojo spreading his knees further as if to prove his point. No care or concern as he plows on, “If you’d like, of course.”
It’s a silent staredown - you, and him - and the elders watching jaw-dropped, of course. None of you have ever known the young master to let anyone get this close - let alone give them a decision on, well, anything.
.
A weighty beat passes. One. Two.
He wins.
And you find yourself walking unsteadily towards Gojo’s imposing figure, all eyes on you as you plop down unceremoniously in his waiting lap. Warm - and it catches you off guard. Gaze flickering over his broad shoulder to look at the aghast faces behind you. Tension crackling in the air as they wonder the same thing as you at this very moment - just what type of torture method is this?
“Interesting…I need this one.” You blink up in confusion, heart racing and oh- shit, when did he get so close? But Gojo’s chest only rumbles with laughter. Circling his long fingers around your waist, pulling you flush against his sculpted chest, “As the new madam of the Gojo household.”
What?
The elders behind let out stifled gasps, as bewildered as you were. And you swear you saw one faint, though, you don’t get to take a close look, because Gojo’s gently grabbing your chin, tilting your head up at his pretty face.
“Wan’ me to kill them?”
“Kill- why?” you sputter - both from his idea and the heat of his proximity.
“Why not?” He looks at you through his long lashes, so deceivingly innocent that it makes your head spin. Tone so light, as if he was talking about something trivial like the weather. “An early wedding gift, maybe?” And he sounded like he was joking - you wished he was joking. But you knew better.
So you swallow thickly, “N-no…thank you.”
At this, Gojo’s eyes twinkle. “Yeah, real interesting.” he coos, voice so uncharacteristically playful. And his lips are so close - too close. Running a thumb along your bottom lip, “Gorgeous, too. Tell me, pretty, what do you think of ruling over this trash?”
And you could feel every eye on you as you mull over the question. Weighty. Scrutinizing - except for Gojo who seemed like he was hanging onto your every word.
Hell, might as well give ‘em a few heart attacks right?
Words that never come - because your body moves before your mind. And you’ve got one hand gripping his expensive Yukata, the other scrambling for his broad shoulders. Softening the blow as you crash your lips onto his.
Soft - it’s the first thing you register. Followed very shortly by the taste of those cheap lollipops from those local convenience stores you loved - strawberry, you think.
But you don’t get to confirm, because the kiss is over as soon as it happens.
Gojo’s pulling away with a strange light in his eyes, lips flushed a pretty pink, yukata dangling off his shoulder already. You have to train your eyes away from the milky skin, and over to the elders. Yeah, one really had fainted - three, now, actually.
And only one of them is brave enough to pipe up a rapid, “You- how dare you dirty-”
Thud!
It all happens so fast you’re not sure if your eyes are playing tricks on you. In a split second, there’s a long dagger pulled out from his yukata, embedded deep into the tatami mat - not even an inch away from the elder who’d opened his mouth.
“Out.”
It’s so abrupt that for a second, you think Gojo’s talking to you, voice soft, and so so eerie. It sends shivers down your spine as you raise your eyes to look at his glare at the frozen crowd behind him.
Eyes wide, aura menacing - a grin gracing his features, absolutely nothing like the one he’d sent you - it was something so dangerous and cold. The temperature in the room dropping about ten degrees as he mutters, “I won’t say it twice.”
And immediately, it’s chaos. Each one stumbling over the other to run out the sliding doors first, none of them daring to look you in the eyes now.
“O-of course, master.” the leader, seemingly, chokes out. One foot out the room already, “I’ll um- check that the servants are doing their work-”
“No. You all will stand outside.” Gojo murmurs, not even bothering to look at them. Instead, cupping your face closer towards his, “And close the door.”
That door could not have been shut faster, ringing in the tense silence. And suddenly you’re too-aware of the audience outside. Too-aware of being left alone with…your future husband? And the way he was looking down at you with something so dark in his eyes.
“So…” he runs his nose down your neck, breathing in your scent. “If you don’t want me to kill those bastards…what else must I gift you, my wife?”
“Like what?” You gulp, back arching involuntarily into him.
Gojo laughs at the reaction, teeth ghosting over your racing pulse. “An estate?” Dancing ever-so-slowly, up your jaw, “All the cars you could want?” He blows gently in your ear, chuckling as you yelp in surprise. “Maybe jewelry?” Kissing the tips of your ears, “You’d look gorgeous in blue. And the Zenin clan has the perfect necklaces I can…convince them to send over.” He pulls away, taking you in entirely, “Or maybe-” Lips now ghosting yours. “-something else?”
And then he’s kissing you - and you’re kissing him.
You don’t know who leans in first, just that Gojo’s lips were so sweet on yours. So addictive. Palms cradling your face so softly, while his lips were anything but.
“Open your mouth, pretty.” he pants into your lips. “Kiss your husband properly, now.”
Shit, you barely even realize the way you’re listening to every single word he says. Jaw falling slack to let him lick at the seam of your lips. Such a messy clash of teeth and spit and him - so hot and starved. Like he couldn’t get enough with the way he hastily moves to press wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw.
“Satoru-” you gasp, and he nips lightly at your bottom lip once you immediately shut yourself up because shit, you’re getting ahead of yourself. Calling the clan leader Gojo by his first name? Hell, you’ll see the gates of heaven before you see an altar.
But Gojo himself seems to think the complete opposite. “Don’t get all shy now.” he pries away the hand covering your mouth. “Call me ‘Toru’.”
You stare at him, wide-eyed, trying to will yourself to say this little nickname.
Too slow, apparently. Because his hands are suddenly everywhere - on your breasts, your hips, giving your ass a slow squeeze. “T-Toru-” you squeal.
Gojo’s mouth drops into a soft oh! Immediately surging forward as if to claim your lips again - stopping mere millimeters from your lips with a pained grunt. Like it killed him to stay away.
“See? Jus’ like that.” he angles your head just right, before spitting, once. Twice. Right into your pretty mouth. “N’ now you’re mine.”
And fuck if Gojo wasn’t going to prove it.
He’s laying you down on the mat, fumbling with the ties of your yukata, “Mine to wed. Mine to carry my legacy.” Thumb running over your hardened nipples as he urgently unbuckles your bra, throwing it behind god-knows-where. “Mine to-” Biting down, ever-so-lightly on your nipple, “-worship.” Hands dipping lower, and lower - just barely teasing the hem of your drenched panties. “Mine to ruin.”
You don’t know what you’re reeling more from - maybe from those words, which you’re sure he said loud enough for the elders outside to hear.
Maybe from the way he’s sliding a finger underneath your panties, sliding it up and down your puffy folds. Making you arch into him like such a slut as he pools your sweet sweet juices on his fingertips, popping them into his mouth with a low groan.
“Oh. Fuck. Oh, fuck-” Gojo’s eyes roll to the back of his head. Not wasting a second before ripping off your flimsy panties, tucking them away into the waistband of his yukata. “Sweeter than I imagined.”
“S-so filthy-” you mewl, as he spreads your shaky thighs. Lips wobbling pathetically at how he’s admiring your glistening cunt. “Toru, no one’s ever…”
At this, his eyes are back on yours now. Half-lidded, pupil’s blown - and you don’t think you’ve ever even heard of the leader of the Gojo clan being so out of it, let alone see it first-hand. His voice strained as he breathes out a barely audible, “Shit- really? So then…” He’s moving to lick lewd little circles on your inner thigh, “...your husband’s gotta make this memorable, right?”
Gojo doesn’t give the time to even think about answering - he doesn’t trust that he has the fucking sanity to wait that long. Because you’re so pretty splayed out like this for him. Your moans too sweet. Your cunt too tempting. Too his.
So, really, you can’t blame him when he’s plunging nose-deep into your quivering pussy, licking one, long stripe right up your swollen folds. And fuck the cute lil’ whines escaping your lips are so addictive that Gojo just can’t help but do it again. And again. And again and-
“O-oh my god, ngh- feels too good-” you card your fingers through his soft locks - something that would usually result in a lost hand or two. But for you - anything, for you. “More, Toru.”
Shit, if Gojo thought he’d lost his sanity before then he definitely wasn’t ready for this.
“So needy.” he’s chuckling into your glistening folds. One hand throwing your legs over his shoulders, the other thumbing over your needy clit. “So perfect. Can’t believe no one’s ever hah- eaten out this pretty cunt before.”
Immediately, he’s squeezing his hot tongue past your folds. And it’s all you can do to buck your hips up so sluttily when he licks at your sloppy entrance. Your throbbing clit. Anywhere and everywhere Gojo could reach.
“Hngh- yes yes yes, too good.”
“Yeah? Ya like this?” He moves his fingers down from your already-ravaged clit, circling your sopping wet hole. “Ya like making such a mess on m’tongue?”
“W-wha-” The words get caught in your throat as you whirl down at the sight below you - Gojo. Gojo, with strands of white hair sticking to his forehead, eyes so glassy. Gojo, tongue lapping at your sweet juices, looking like he wanted to devour you with his eyes, as much as his mouth.
At your reaction, he grins, furrowing his brow in mock-concern, “What’s wrong, pretty? Can’t talk?” Bullying his long fingers past that first feeble ring of resistance, massaging your plushy walls. “N’ you were so hah- feisty earlier. Thought my new mmpf- wife would be mouthy?”
You give his hair a warning tug, whispering, “Sh-shut up-” But it comes out more breathless than you intended.
Gojo notices, of course he does. Because he’s letting out a whiny, “Sh-shut up.” Wrapping his pretty pink lips around your pulsing clit, “As you wish, madam Gojo.”
You hear a dull thud from outside, but you can’t even think about turning your head to look because Gojo’s drinking you in like a man possessed. Pumping his fingers in and out, expertly hitting that one spot with each and every thrust. Looking nothing like an infamous clan-leader and every bit on cloud nine as he rolls his tongue over your clit. Over and over and-
“P-please ah- oh-” you squirm.
“Move your hips like that. Yeah- jus’ like that, pretty- fuck-” The most powerful man in the country letting himself be angled and pulled as you pleased, grunting each time you drag your pussy all over his mouth. Fingers frenzied on your clit - sloppy. Fast.
But it still wasn’t enough for Gojo - he thinks it’ll probably never be. But that’s fine - the two of you have until the wedding night to perfect it, right?
So he’s looping a big arm around one leg, pulling your snug cunt impossibly closer, reaching over to toy with your pretty clit. And then he’s nose-deep in your sloppy entrance, preparing you for what was to come - fucking you both on his tongue and his fingers.
Jaw grinding deeper, stretching you out, thrusting in and out in and out in and-
“Fuck fuck fuck- Toru m’so…”
“Close?” he slurs into your cunt, grunting and smacking his lips against your own. Fingers just digging into your hips, sure to leave pretty little marks for him to admire later - and to give a message to those old toads outside. “Cum f’me. Shit- cum f’me, pretty.”
Gojo realizes it before you when you’re finally cumming - because your gummy walls are squeezing around him so tight that it’s almost difficult fuck you through your high the way he wants.
You’re shaking. Blood roaring in your ears, vision spotty. Crying out a hoarse, “Fuck fuck fuck- oh my god, Toru-” Barely even realizing the way you’re rocking your hips so hard into his hot mouth.
And Gojo keeps going.
Even when you’re blinking your vision back, big fat tears pricking your eyes at the sheer overstimulation. Even when white-hot electricity sparks behind your eyes each flick of his tongue. Still toying with your poor clit, tonguefucking you so messily.
“Toru, s’too- ngh- much- fuck.” You can barely get the words out, jolting. Wondering how the fuck his mouth wasn’t tired, yet - how his fingers weren’t cramping up, tongue still as greedy as ever. “C-can’t-”
“You can. You will.” he’s murmuring into your cunt. Running his mouth now, like he was drunk off your pussy. Words as fast and ragged as his tongue. “C’mon, faster. Harder. Fuck-” you flinch as he spits out little profanities into your messy cunt. “Fuckin use me. Use me like the good lil’ wife you are.”
“Oh- shit.” you whine. Clawing at the mats, Gojo’s hair, his shoulders - just anything to cope with the sheer stimulation as he made out with your pussy like a mad man. “Wait- cum- m’gonna…”
You’re cumming and cumming all over again. So hard, even as you grind your hips deeper into Gojo’s mouth. Riding out your orgasm on his pretty face, so painfully good.
And only then is he finally pulling away. Absolutely wrecked, eyes miles away already, mouth glistening with your slick. Going all the way down his jawline, and onto the tatami mat in a deafening drip! drip! drip!
“Oh.” he runs his tongue along his wet lips. “Who made you cum like this?”
A smile slowly splits across his face as you manage out a little, “Y-you, Toru…”
“That’s fuckin’ right. Me.” Hypnotized by the heavenly sight of you all fucked-out and twitching with the aftershock. Marveling down at his hand - glossy, and covered with your slick, “N’ m’gonna love you.”
And, well, a good husband always shares, right?
Because Gojo’s shoving his fingers past your kiss-bitten lips, pressing right at the back of your tongue in a way he knew would have your eyes watering, gagging around him so prettily. Eyes widening at the feeling of something so hard and hot between your legs.
“C’mon, lil’ madam. Lick them clean f’me, will you?”
You’re gasping, “Mmpf- Toru-” Eyes flitting between a smug Gojo and the hand currently untying his robe. So teasing with the way he’s giving you just a flash of those boxers before oh-
Shit.
You thought that he’d be big - it was expected, in fact. But this was fucking ridiculous.
All sculpted curves and dips of his body, faint scars painting his milky skin - stories he’d tell you about later, you think. A fucking masterpiece. All the way down, down, down to where his throbbing cock was leaking all over those tufts of white at his toned pelvis.
Rock-hard, and so so angry. Prominent veins running along the side, flushed a shade of pretty pink that glistened with precum in the dim lighting. So intimidatingly long that it already had you worrying for your poor cervix, and thick enough that it had your thighs pressing mindlessly together.
Something that Gojo obviously didn’t appreciate.
“Now now.” he tuts, pulling back his fingers to spread apart your thighs with ease. So far apart that it burned. “I need these legs open, pretty. I like the view, y’see.”
And he made it quite obvious, too. Spreading your swollen folds so shamefully apart with his thumb - wet with your split. All the blood rushing to his cock at the way you flinch in embarrassment, at the feeling of being so used. Cute.
“Shhh, relax.” Gojo hums. Spreading the spit and slick lazily along your cunt with his fat head, purposely letting it smear all over your thighs. “M’gonna make this feel so good for you.”
And let it be known that Gojo Satoru was a merciless man - for everyone.
Except maybe his cute lil’ wife.
Because, yes, he’s suddenly splitting you apart on his massive cock. Yes, he’s holding your poor hips still, head dropping into the crook of your neck as he sinks in inch by fucking inch.
But oh God does he have to hold back from fucking your tight cunt exactly the way he wants. The stretch too sinful, your pussy too heavenly.
Instead he’s kissing away the single tear rolling down your cheek, muttering, “Too big? Aww, f-fuck, pretty. You needa breathe-.” Rich, coming from him considering that Gojo doesn’t know if he was breathing right now. Too caught up in the way he’s rolling your swollen clit between his fingers, gasping into your open mouth, “Trust me. M’gonna make it f-feel hah- good. So fucking good.”
“F-fuck-” Your head is spinning. And you can only give him such delirious little nods as Gojo starts to push in quick, lazy little grinds of his hips just to squeeze inside your gummy walls. Past that first, tight ring of resistance.
“S’too big-” you squeal, nails raking down his back. “A-are you all the way in- yet?”
“Nope.” he’s popping the p, so unfairly smug. “Not even halfway in.” Drinking in all your cute lil’ sobs as he snakes a hand up to draw an invisible line across your stomach. “But you b-better be prepared, wifey. Because this-” Pressing down, hard. “-is where I’ll be.”
You didn’t know who wanted that to become a reality more - Gojo or you.
Especially with the way your tight cunt is sucking him up so good, and shit for all Gojo’s reputation, he feels like he could’ve cum right then and there.
“Shit- so fucking tight. God- you’re gonna make me lose my mind.” words so strained. So dangerous. He kisses down your neck, biting right above your racing pulse. “How do you want it? Like you’re my hah- wife- or my lil’ slut?”
A trick question, you think - as much as you could when you’re this cockdrunk, at least.
Locking eyes down at the way your cunt was bulging so obscenely around his cock, clamping and quivering as he keeps pushing in in in- Unstopping. Relentless. Mewling a little, “L-like I’m your…wife.”
“Louder.”
“Like I’m your wife.”
Several things happen at once - that faint muttering suddenly increases tenfold, and maybe if you were in any better state of mind you’d have noticed the few gasps. Gojo, however, does hear.
It only takes an irritated growl and a split-second flash of metal for a second dagger to be struck deep into the thin wooden panel of the door - unfortunately for whoever just so happened to be on the other side.
“That’s right. My wife.” And then he’s bottoming out - heavy balls smacking your ass, leaky tip nudging your poor cervix, letting you mark him up all you want as he rocks his hips faster into yours. “And you- ah- you realize they’re beneath you, right?” he’s stroking where he can feel himself bulging inside you. “That my lil’ wife just has to say the word n’ I’ll ngh- take ‘em all out?”
You can only sob at the pressure, because his words are so soft but he’s fucking you so mean. Sounding like he was losing his sanity with each time your heavenly walls milked him.
“I’ll kill ‘em- kill ‘em all-” he’s gritting out. “Hell, I’ll take down the r-rest of those clans ah- too if it pleases you.” Fingers getting so erratic on your clit, angling his hips just right to try and find-
“Hngh- f-fuck, Toru- there-”
That.
So sloppy with the way he’s alternating between hitting that one spot and just abusing your cervix. Bruising - like he wanted to mark you everywhere n’ show it off, too. Biting down your neck, whispering into the skin, “Anything for you, madam.”
Rocking his hips harder, and he couldn’t give less of a fuck about the lewd little pool of slick and split forming on the mat below. Can’t even think to bring himself to be disgusted.
“Feels good?” he’s drinking in your adorable sobs, “S’what you imagined?”
You’re torn between running away and fucking your hips up so bruisingly into his, hells digging into the mat as you push and pull away. “Yes. Feels- ah- ngh-” And for all your mouthiness earlier, you can’t even form coherent sentences right now - something that makes Gojo balls squeeze so painfully.
Something that has him wrapping his arms around your legging, dragging you like some ragdoll back to him. Rocking his hips so bruisingly deeper and deeper as he babbles.
“Gonna make you c-cum. So hard.” He’s fucking you harder into the mat. Faster. Sloppier. “Gonna ngh- make you my beautiful bride.” Bouncing you on his painfully hard cock like he was claiming you from the inside - to leave marks for everyone in the clan to know. His balls on your ass, your nails down his shoulders, lips on your neck leaving little bites. “Gonna make you mine, pretty. And everyone else s’gonna know.”
And Gojo can tell when you’re close because he’s learned that you have a habit of squeezing him to insanity when you are.
“Close?” At your delirious nod he’s giving you a blinding grin, “How cute. Why don’t you hah- cum f’me like the good lil’ wife you are, hm?”
Cum for him you do - thighs shaking, body jolting. So hard and violent that you’re covering him in all your sweet sweet juices.
And he can only watch - awe-struck - as your pretty pussy squirts all over his angry cock glistening, and just drenched with your slick now. Beads of it getting all over his burning abs, trickling down every dip and curve as he uses your quivering pussy harder and harder-
“God, you’re so good f’me. Look how much you came.” Giving a final, harsh thrust. “So perfect f’me.”
So fucking smug as he finally cums as well. Letting out a low, muffled moan into your neck as he fills your poor pussy with rope after rope of seed, painting your walls such a sinful white. All the way until he was sure you were bloated with his cum, until he could feel it dribbling down the side. Looking down to confirm and- ah, sure enough, it was such a heavenly sight - thick globs drenching your clothes below. Spreading in a pool as his hips push deeper and deeper.
Like it hurt to stop. Like it hurt to even think of tearing his eyes away from you.
But, alas, this old meeting room could only take so much, and Gojo thinks you’ll enjoy his - your - bedroom much better for round two.
Which is how the elders outside found the door kicked open not too long after. Blinking up in shock at the tall figure of the Gojo clan leader at the frame holding you. Tired and limp in a princess carry, all bundled up your yukata and one of his outer robes.
And they can only avert their eyes, faces burning at the hazy expression on your face, hair so unsubtly messy, bare legs twitching ever-so-slightly from where they were just peeking out from where the fabric had bunched up. Sinful. Desecrated. And evidently his.
“Clean that room up.”
Gojo’s stern command snaps them all out of their reverie.
But before they could all run to do so, he’s plowing on, unapologetic and low. “Oh, and bow down-” chuckling lightly as they scramble to their knees before him - and your barely-lucid figure. “-to the new madam of the Gojo household.
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Synopsis: You are one of the few people in the world without a soulmate. When your friend finally meets hers, you give her the brightest smile, pretending not to feel that ache in your chest. But her soulmate is a bit strange, and you feel like you're the only one who notices.
(Warnings: yandere, dark content, manipulation, infidelity, rape/noncon, afab reader, tw selfharm(not done to mc))
Unmei was your best friend in the entire world.
You met her when you two were still learning to read and write. You were neighbors, classmates, practically attached at the hip. There was a running joke in the neighborhood that you two were sisters in a past life.
She was with you on the night of your 13th birthday, when not a single name scrawled itself in black ink on your wrist.
You’d cried for days. All you’d ever wanted was a soulmate. Finding out the universe decided you didn’t deserve one was heart crushing.
Back then, Unmei looked at her own soulmark with disgust.
“Well, if you don’t have one, then I don’t want a soulmate, either.” She’d declared with a large grin, wiping away your tears. “Besides, Geto Suguru is a stupid name, anyway.”
Even back then, you knew it was a joke. Not a promise. She just wanted you to cheer up. She wasn’t agreeing to be a spinster with you.
Still, when she called you with the news, something broke within you.
“-He’s great! He’s so great!” Her voice crackles through the phone. “I’ve never met someone so kind and gentle. And his face! He’s so handsome. It was love at first sight.”
She excitedly tells you how they met, how he’d tapped her shoulder in the library, asking if she knew where to find a book. She’d only seen a glimpse of his badge, his name, and then the rest was history.
The more she talks, the more you sink. You could almost imagine what she looked like as she spoke. Her cheeks would glow with a warm pink. There would be a sparkle in her eye that makes her look younger. It was so selfish of you to drown in misery when she’s so happy. She’s your closest friend. She deserves better than someone so jaded.
You’re glad she isn’t here in person. You don’t want her to see how bitter you feel.
You close the hole in your heart with cement and faux delight.
“He sounds great,” you hear yourself say.
“When can I meet him?”
❤︎
You’ve never seen someone so tall before.
He wasn’t dressed to stand out. The simple, black coat drapes perfectly against his lean figure. His hair is coiled into an elegant bun, showcasing his neck and black earrings. His face is sharp and edged with beauty.
Unmei tugs him over, looking at him with bright, glimmering eyes. Love. You can see the truth stamped right on her face.
She slides into the seat across from you. He mirrors her. The whispers and noises within the cafe hush their voices a bit.
And yet, you can hear his voice clearly. Low and gentle.
“Did I say it right?” Geto asks right after he says your name. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” Unmei flushes.
You spot the expensive watch hanging off his wrist as he reaches over to shake your hand.
“It’s nice to meet you,” he says.
“Change,” his purple eyes murmur, “the end of it all.”
The next hour passes with small talk and introductions. Unmei is the main talker, with Geto adding something in every so often. They work well together; you quietly observe, sipping on watered-down iced coffee. They fit. Pieces of a puzzle. Made for each other.
They are soulmates, after all.
“-It’s why I wanted you to meet him so bad,” Unmei tells you when you finally tune in again. “You two are so similar! It’d be nice to have all of us hang out sometime.”
“That would be nice.” Geto nods along before directing his gaze at you. “Perhaps you could bring your own soulmate, too.”
Your throat tightens. Unmei blanches. You can sense her about to redirect, but you figure it’s best if you bite the bullet now.
“I don’t have one.” You tell him, forcing your voice to sound light.
It takes a second for people to understand what you’re telling them–that you’re one of those. You wait for Geto to get that shameful look of pity everyone gets the moment you tell them. You’ve spent years like this, but it never stops stinging.
No pity. No sympathy.
He leans forward. His eyes sharpen.
“Really?”
You shrug, avoiding his gaze to sip on your coffee. You can still feel his eyes prickle on your skin even after Unmei changes the conversation.
Hours later, she texts you: sooo what’d you think????
You write exactly what she wants to hear.
He’s perfect for you:)
❤︎
Your second interaction with Geto happens without Unmei.
Some days, you liked to wander: turn your brain off, stroll through random shops, admiring the various knick-knacks you could never justify the price enough to purchase. Today, your feet led you into a small bookstore.
The door alerts to your presence with a cheery jingle. The man at the front spares you a lukewarm smile as you trek into his store. The smell of paper and ink greets your nose. It’s a cozy place. Quiet, a stark contrast to the bustling city just outside.
One of your favorite authors recently published a new book. You weren’t sure if this bookstore had it, but you told yourself it wouldn’t hurt to check. You scanned the rows and shelves, drifting around the store to see if you could spot it.
You were so distracted, you didn’t notice him until you quite literally walked into him.
Hands reach out to steady you. Firm but gentle. You look up as a bundle of apologies is ready to spill from your lips. They die once you look into sharp purple eyes.
Geto smiles when his hands release your shoulders.
“Careful there.”
You reanimate at his voice. You step back, mindful of how close he was.
“Sorry,” you tell him, “I–I didn’t see you.”
“I could tell.” His grin widens, and you sheepishly glance down.
“This is a very welcome coincidence,” he continues, “I didn’t know you liked literature as well.”
You helplessly shrug, trying not to show your discomfort. It wasn’t that you didn’t like Geto. He seemed like a nice person, but you were not ready at all for a one-on-one interaction with your friend’s new boyfriend.
“Yeah,” you say when the silence gets too long, “I was just here to see if I could find something in particular…” Just then, your eyes drift up.
You catch the title just then. It’s sitting quietly on the top shelf, leering at you. If only you’d found it sooner, it seems to goad at you; you wouldn’t be stuck in the most awkward situation in the world.
Geto catches your gaze. He glances up at the book.
“Is that the one?” He asks.
You nod. He reaches up and lifts it from its respective spot. You expect him to hand it over immediately, but he seems more interested in examining the cover.
“That sounds interesting.” He comments before handing it to you. “Would you recommend it?”
“I haven’t read it yet.” You admit. “But I’m a big fan of the author.”
He hums in acknowledgement. That’s when you notice his own stash of books he had tucked under his arm.
“You’re a horror fan?” You ask.
“Not particularly,” he admits. “I just wanted to branch out. My friend is a huge horror fan. These were mostly his recommendations.”
You nod. “Unmei also likes horror. The genre at least.” You blab on. “Back when we were in high school, she’d force me to watch all sorts of slasher movies, and then she’d get so scared she’d beg me to let her sleep over.”
On those days, you’d wake up to her snoring all over your pillows. Later, when you teased her about it, she’d laugh it off with red all over her face.
Those days were tinged with nostalgia–back when it was just you and Unmei.
You expect Geto to appreciate the snapshot of his soulmate’s past. That’s why he’s making small talk with you in the first place, right? To get to know her better.
Something flickers across his eyes. It was barely a moment before his face changed to deep sincerity, but you caught it.
Boredom.
You were stumped. How could someone be so blatantly uninterested in their soulmate? Or maybe it was you he couldn’t care less about? Or perhaps you just imagined it entirely?
You feel like you should confront him about it.
“Sorry,” you say instead, “ I need to head out now.”
“Of course.” He immediately steps aside to let you pass through the cramped shelves.
You expect that to be the end of it, but you can hear his footsteps behind you.
You almost considered abandoning your book entirely, just so you could escape the bookstore. Instead, you flash a tense smile at the cashier, who beams back.
“Find everything okay?” He asks.
“We did,” Geto tells him cheerily. He stands right next to you. You can almost feel the coat he wears brush against your shoulder.
Sometimes you wish you weren’t so nonconfrontational. Maybe you would’ve fought a bit more when Geto casually plucks the book from your loose grip, placing it on top of his own stack.
“All together, please.” He tells the cashier, before he turns to you. “I got it.”
“No, it’s fine.” You’re finally able to speak up. It’s too late. The man is already grabbing the bag and saying his regards to the worker behind the counter. He holds the door open for you.
You meekly thank him.
“I can pay you back.” You immediately say.
Geto shakes his head. “It’s fine. Think of it as a gift.” He hands your book into your twitching hands. “A token to the start of a good friendship.”
You had this bad habit of feeling indebted to someone if they paid for you, to the point where you would bend backwards for them if they asked.
Something tells you that being in that situation with Geto is a terrible idea.
You still accept, thanking him as sincerely as you can.
“That reminds me.” Geto continues, pulling out his phone. “We should exchange contacts. We do share a favorite person after all. It would be wise to keep in touch.” He tells you with a steady grin.
Your stomach flips. You don’t want to. You genuinely don’t want to.
But the book is heavy in your hands.
When Geto offers to walk you to the station, you finally gather the courage to decline. You thank him repeatedly for his kindness, slipping away before he can coax you into doing anything more.
He was nothing but polite to you
Kind even.
But there’s something so horribly wrong about Geto Suguru.
—
Geto and Unmei moved fast.
They became an official couple one week after they met. Two months later, Unmei moved into his place.
They moved fast, as most soulmates do. After all, if two people are destined to be together forever, why wait? Why not get the hard part over with first so you can enjoy forever more?
At least, that’s how you saw it.
The party was subdued but extremely upscale. Geto’s apartment was something else entirely. Luxurious floors with open spaces. When you looked outside the spotless glass, you could see the glimmering lights of the city far beneath your feet.
You felt like you could fall through the glass and crash into those lights. You’d shatter into a million pieces, twinkling like the stars above.
“Would you like another drink?” A voice asks.
You glance up. Nanami Kento’s eyes remain on you. You suddenly remember what you were doing.
You look down at your cup—just water. You were driving home tonight. “I’m fine, but thank you.”
Nanami nods, taking a swing of his own cup. The amber-colored liquid swirled around the glass.
Out of all of Geto’s friends, you think you liked Nanami the most. He was quiet, straightforward, polite, and a complete gentleman. He was one of you, you later found out—someone with un inked wrists. When Unmei dragged him across the room to ‘keep each other company’, you thought it was another one of her schemes.
Well, it definitely still was her scheme, but you didn’t mind it too much. Nanami was good company. He was much more preferable to Geto’s other friend. The tall one with blue eyes and white hair. The one that kept staring at you like he knew something you didn’t.
“So how do you know Geto?” You ask.
His lips thinned. You almost smile.
“Old classmates.” He tells you. “He, along with a couple of others, was in the grade above me.”
He seemed exhausted even thinking about it. You wonder how wild his upper-level students were.
“What about you and Unmei?” He asks after a bit.
You hide your smile behind your glass.
“We were practically raised together.” You start. “Attached at the hip, ever since we were kids.”
You two used to plan your weddings together. She wanted her kid to marry yours. Every day you were at each other’s houses. Every weekend was slumber parties and sleepovers.
When kids used to mock you for not having a name, she was the one who defended you. She was the one who chased off bullies and wiped away your tears.
She’s been in your life all your life. You can’t remember a time she wasn’t.
“Hm,” Nanami comments, “you two sound close.”
“We are,” you agree, even when you can taste the uncertainty on your tongue.
She stood a little way away. Unmei looked borderline unrecognizable from the one you knew just a few months ago. Her hair was pushed up from her face, a stark contrast to the looser hairstyles she used to prefer. Her dress was sleek and glamorous. She probably wore hundreds of dollars on her wrist. She blended right into the elite group she was currently laughing with.
Nanami keeps talking about something. You hum along, unable to take your eyes off of her. You keep watching until you can’t anymore.
Sometime later, you find yourself on the balcony. The murmur of the crowd has dwindled behind you. It’s cold, you didn’t bring a jacket. There are goosebumps littered across your arms, but you don’t want to go inside yet. You’re not sure if you can continue looking at Unmei as she changes into something you can’t reach anymore.
There it was again. That bitterness. The guilt washes it down all over again.
Footsteps. Someone takes their place right next to you. At first, you think it’s Nanami’s attempt to restart the conversation.
Geto leans over the railing, watching the city below.
“It’s a pretty view, isn’t it?” He asks, voice gentle and soft. “It’s a huge reason why I bought this place.”
You flex your fingers. The air suddenly gets colder.
“Yeah.” You give, listening to the muted sounds inside. “It’s beautiful.”
That’s the truth. The city lights twinkled and buzzed with life. Part of you wanted to sit there and count each one. You might be stuck there for years.
“It’s even more beautiful in the mornings,” Geto continues, “there’s a gentle fog that covers the city, and the horizon is this pale pink. I really hope you see it one day.”
You shift, a bit uncomfortable by the confession. You’re sure he doesn’t mean anything by it.
“You have a lovely home.” You finally say. “It’s very beautiful. I’m sure you're ecstatic to share this with Unmei.”
A genuine smile lifts your face as you think back to the times Unmei gushed about meeting her future soulmate. She’d planned everything: the house, the car, the dog. You’d sat there quietly, listening, just happy to be in her life.
“I bet you must have waited years to finally meet her.” You tell Geto as you admire the view. “You’re a very lucky man.”
You expect a laugh. You expect a bashful acceptance.
“I never wanted to meet my soulmate, initially.”
For the first time in the conversation, you truly look at Geto. He’s staring right back. His purple eyes are darker in the dim lighting. They’re almost a muddy brown.
“When I was younger, I had a grim opinion of soulmates.” His jaw tenses. You catch the movement. “The idea of having someone I was tied to by fate used to sicken me. It felt like control. It felt like something cosmic wrote out my future, and I was entirely helpless to it.”
You can’t pull your eyes away. Whatever you were hearing, no matter how jarring, felt honest. You were drawn to it–a bee to a flower.
“I think now, I’ve mostly changed my mind.” He shrugs. “The bond isn’t truly control. Rather, it’s a path, guiding us to something far more desirable.”
You blink. What could you say to that?
Thankfully, Geto doesn’t let you fluster for long. He steps ever so slightly closer. It’s already too close, but you can’t move. You’re stuck in your spot. Paralyzed.
“And, if anything.” He leans down, voice suddenly hushed. “I’d consider you the lucky one.”
“Me?”
He smiles. Amusement laces his lips. Long fingers reach for your arm. He slowly turns your hand, showing your blank, un-inked wrist.
“Yes,” he tells you, “this is truly lucky.”
You see it then. It flashes right across his purple eyes.
Jealousy.
It’s so hateful, it nearly makes you panic. You stumble back, out of his hold. The meeker part of you urges you to run. As far as you can. Run before–
“Are you alright?”
Concerned sincerity etches across Geto’s face as he reaches out to stabilize you. Hands press on your shoulders before they slip away.
You avert your gaze.
“I’m fine.” It’s too sharp. You force yourself to soften your tone. “I guess it’s a little chilly out.”
Geto barely wastes a moment. He slips off his jacket and settles it onto your shoulders before you can protest. His cologne clings to the leather. The smell of sandalwood and cinnamon.
“Keep it.” He stops you when you try to take it off. “Stay out here and enjoy the view a bit more. It’s truly breathtaking.”
You watch as he slips back inside, playing the perfect host to his guests. The air is still cold, but you can finally breathe again.
Later that night, Suguru gets on one knee and proposes.
Unmei says yes.
❤︎
There’s a way to reject the soul bond. You’ve seen it happen exactly once in your life.
You were fourteen, watching from the stairs as your mom comforted your next-door neighbor. She was one of the unlucky ones. Her soul bond was filled with nothing but rage and possession. You could see the evidence of it on the bruises on her soft skin. The swelling black eye.
She kept mumbling something of how sick she was to be tied to him. How she’d rather have no soulmate than one so vile. Your mother kept hushing her, insisting on calling the police, letting her stay the night.
She’s not listening. It’s like she’s in a trance as she rises on two shaky feet, drifting towards the kitchen. You find yourself following.
She pulls out a knife, and your mother screams when she digs into the ink on her own wrist.
She stopped bleeding before the ambulance arrived. There’s a gigantic smile on her face the entire time she’s talking to the paramedics.
You’ve never seen someone look so free before.
❤︎
Planning a wedding takes time and money. It’s a good thing that Geto is swimming in the latter.
The restaurant is upscale and practically swathed in elites. You feel very much out of place with your dress that probably wasn’t even worth the cheapest thing on the menu. Geto assured you plenty of times that this was his treat. Ever since the proposal, you’d been swamped in wedding preparations. This dinner was supposed to be a thank you.
Tonight is a celebration of two people.
You, the maid of honor.
And Gojo, the best man.
The two of you sat across from the engaged couple. Unmei was beaming the entire night. The ring was glistening on her finger. You’ve seen it all over her social media, not to mention the hours she spent gushing about how perfect the ring and the proposal was.
But you remembered she hated cluster rings. She used to call them tacky. And she’s told you her perfect proposal over and over again. She’s always wanted it somewhere outdoors, where they’re alone and surrounded by nature.
The complete opposite of how Suguru did it.
“I can barely sleep.” Unmei gushes to you while the two men continue their own conversation. “The wedding is still two months away, but I can barely sleep.”
You give her a comforting smile, taking another sip of your water. Dinner was already eaten, but you hadn’t tasted a single thing. It felt like cement sludge down your throat.
“I bet that’s normal,” you say, “It’s your day. You should be excited.”
“Most nights I just dream about flower arrangements.” She frowns before she sits up again. “Shit, the flowers. Please tell me you—“
“Don’t worry, I already booked the florist you were talking to,” you immediately coddle. “Everything is going to be perfect.”
She visibly relaxes, leaning back in her seat. “Only because you’re here.” She tells you. “I only got this far ‘cuz of you, y'know that?”
You smile. Her face brightens.
“Oh!” She exclaims. “Are you planning on bringing anyone? Someone special?”
The two men gradually quieted. You arch your brow.
“Probably not,” you say, “besides I’ll have a lot of stuff to do on the day of. I won’t have time for a date.”
“What about bringing Nanami?” She pipes up. “I’m sure he can entertain himself while you’re busy.”
Someone’s gaze stings your skin. You ignore it.
“Why would I bring him?”
She scoffs.
“Don’t act like that.” She chides. “I saw how into you he was at the party. Please tell me you got his number.”
You did. And you two text every now and then. Non-soulmates are rare, so even if you don’t end up in a relationship, it’s nice to keep in touch.
“Nanami?” Geto echoes, finally making it known that he was eavesdropping.
Unmei turns to him with a smile. “I introduced them a while ago. Aren’t they just perfect for each other?"
‘Is she saying that just because neither of us has soulmates?’ You try not to feel so harshly about it.
Geto smiles, but it lacks any warmth.
Gojo turns to you.
“I didn’t know you met Nanami?” He sports a wide grin. Almost like a sneer.
You shrug. “We talked for a bit sometime back.”
“I feel bad for you. I know I’m not supposed to talk crap about my juniors, but that guy is so boring.” He rolled his eyes. “He was even worse in high school, if you can believe that.”
“I didn’t think he was all that bad.” You counter.
“Ah, I get it.” Gojo nods. “You’re into the quiet, studious type of guy.”
You shift in your seat. “It’s nothing that dramatic.” You respond. “He was just really nice.”
“Hm.” Gojo takes a swing at his glass. “I guess I see wedding bells in your future, then.”
“Satoru.”
Geto’s voice is clipped. His eyes have shadows. Gojo puts his hands up in an ‘I surrender’ motion. There’s a lazy smile on his mouth. The atmosphere is so strained that even Unmei’s smile weakens. You take another sip of your water. You really wish you’d ordered something stronger. You had no idea tonight would be this tense.
Unmei quickly turns the conversation to something else. She brings up more wedding plans. The rest of the night is spent ignoring the elephant in the room.
Sometime after that, you and Gojo end up outside the restaurant, alone. Unmei and Geto are still sorting out the bill. You spot them lingering inside. Unmei is talking animatedly to a waitress. Geto is scrolling on his phone.
You don’t have much in common with Gojo, and you’re happy to keep the silence as the two of you wait. He, however, doesn’t seem to share your thoughts.
He leans over as you watch the engaged couple.
“So, how long do you think they’ll last?”
You glare up at him. He grins.
“That’s not funny.” You immediately rebuff. “Why would you say that?”
Satoru shrugs.
“C’mon, you can’t say you’re the tiniest bit doubtful they’ll stay together, right?”
You shake your head.
“They’re soulmates,” you respond. Their companionship was written in the stars from the start. They are a certainty. “It’s tradition.”
“Soulmates don’t always stay together,” Satoru says, “and Suguru isn’t one for tradition.”
You say nothing. Gojo only takes it as a sign to pester you further.
“Wanna make a bet with me?”
You narrow your eyes at him.
“I’ll bet all the money I have that they’ll break up right before the wedding.” He thinks for a moment. “Maybe on the day of: Suguru loves being dramatic.”
Your lips curl into a sneer.
“I thought you were supposed to be Geto’s friend?”
What kind of person bets their friend’s relationship will fail?
“I am his friend,” Gojo argues. “I’m only saying this ‘cuz I know him so well. No offense to your bestie, but she’s not his type.”
“No.” He tilts his head, studying you. “He prefers someone a bit more…docile.”
You shift, trying to hide your discomfort underneath his gaze.
“They’re coming out.” You watch as the couple shifts closer. “Please don’t tell them you’re betting they’ll break up.”
Gojo laughs.
“Aye, captain.”
❤︎
Unmei stumbles into your apartment at 1 am.
You’d forgotten you’d given her a spare key. When you woke up to muffled footsteps and murmurs, you thought someone was robbing you. The influx of emotions you felt as you rushed out with a baseball bat, only to discover your friend draped across your couch.
Your very drunk friend draped across your couch.
“Unmei?” You shake her shoulder.
She barely moves. You do it again. She finally groans.
“Hi.” She rasps out. Her throat is groggy with exhaustion and alcohol.
“How…” You try to find the proper words. “How did you get here? Did you drive?”
“Uber.” She murmurs. “Sorry…I…sorry. Didn’t–didn’t wanna go back. Didn’t wanna see him.”
Her words are stilted, but you think you’re starting to get the picture.
“Did you and Suguru get into a fight?” You ask gently.
She laughs. It sounds bitter.
“You have to talk, to fight.” She tells you, and you want to press her on that, but she’s talking again.
“Suguru’s sad you don’t like him.”
“What?” You lean closer so you can hear her properly.
“Suguru–” She snuggles deeper into your couch”--he’s sad you don’t like him. Why do you not like him?”
“I like him.” You try to smile. “Of course, I like him. Why wouldn’t I?”
Her eyes are open. The way she stares at you makes your defenses weaken.
“I don’t know, Mei.” You eventually respond. “He’s always rubbed me the wrong way. I…I just find him a little weird.”
You want to tell her about the strange quips Geto’s made. The stuff Gojo said at the restaurant still eats at you. You want to tell her all of those things.
Unmei doesn’t let you.
She sits up so fast, you’re almost worried for her. You’re about to tell her to be more careful, but then you notice the look in her eyes.
Spiteful.
It’s directed solely at you.
“Are you fucking joking right now?” She spits out. “My soulmate is going out of his way to be nice to you, but you’re calling him weird?”
You have to back up as she stumbles to her feet. Her words are slurred and hard to decipher, but the intent is as clear as day.
“He doesn’t even like you.” She rants. “Why would he? For fuck’s sake you don’t even have a soulmate, and now you’re calling mine weird? You’re jealous. You’ve always been jealous of me, and I’m so sick of doing charity work.”
You blink. It feels like your heart’s been torn in two.
“Unmei…?” It’s the only thing you can even think to say to someone who you thought loved you. Tears well in your eyes.
Unmei knows how sensitive you are about soulmates. She always knew. As bad as your fights got in the past, it’s the one line she hadn’t crossed.
Until now.
She realizes what she said. Unmei slumps almost immediately, fully breaking down.
“I’m sorry.” She blubbers. “I–I’m so sorry, I just.”
You push aside your feelings as you always have to accommodate hers. She buries her face in her hands. Her shoulders shake. When you wrap your arms around her shoulders, she easily leans into your warmth.
“I shouldn’t have said that.” She sobs. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” It’s not. “You’re having a bad day. Just sleep it off, okay? We can talk in the morning.”
She says nothing as you leave her on the couch. Minutes later, you return with a blanket, gently settling it over her still body.
“I saw him with another girl today.”
You freeze. Unmei stares blankly at the wall.
“He barely talks when we’re alone. He never talks. I don’t even know why I followed him, but I saw them together. They got into his car.” Her voice cracks. There’s a muted voice in the back of your head to comfort her.
You don’t move.
“I don’t know what they did. I…I just don’t know. That’s part of his job, right? Sometimes he takes his clients out to dinners and stuff.”
She looks up at you. “And–and everything’s so different when we’re alone. He’s so much warmer with you. Whenever we plan something, he’s always asking if you want to come along too. I just don’t get it.”
The apartment is quiet. Distinctly, you can hear a clock faintly ticking somewhere.
“Do you think he’s cheating?” You ask.
“Do you think he would?” Unmei asks right back.
You think of being honest. You think about telling her you genuinely don’t know. Then, you remember the anger in her voice just minutes prior. The hurt is still fresh on your mind. It’s instinct to cower and placate after you’ve been burned so harshly.
Just like always, you tell her exactly what she wants to hear.
“Of course, he’s nice to me.” You hear yourself say. “He probably feels bad for me.” Because you have no soulmate.
“Unmei, you don’t see the way he looks at you.” Does he ever look at her?
“He can’t stop talking about you.” You can’t remember a single conversation you and Geto had about her.
“He loves you. I’m sure of it.” Are you?
A shy smile creeps up on her face. You can feel yourself shatter.
“Really?” She asks.
You settle beside her, squeezing her fingers.
“Trust me.” Words feel like sand on your tongue. “You are going to make each other so happy.”
She’s smiling. You think you’re smiling too, but you’re not sure of anything anymore.
She closes her eyes again. You sit there for a few minutes. When you think she’s asleep, you get up to leave, but her voice stops you.
“I thought she was you.”
“You what?” You ask.
She nuzzles the blanket closer to her face.
“The girl. I thought she was you, but she wasn’t. She looked like you. It was the weirdest thing.”
You think she’s about to say more. She doesn’t.
The next day, Unmei acts as if nothing had happened. She’s laughing and talking during breakfast. You still think about what she said, hours after she left.
❤︎
The week before the wedding, you finally decide you no longer want to be friends with Unmei.
You don’t hate her, you could never hate her, but it’s clear you might’ve valued your friendship differently than she did.
You don’t think you want to boycott the wedding entirely. It’d taken months to plan. The money was already spent. You don’t want to ruin her big day.
But you don’t think you’ll be taking her calls as frequently. You don’t think you’ll drop everything for her anymore.
For now, you just want a bit of distance.
Now that you’ve decided to no longer prioritize her, your life is slowly becoming easier. Instead of doing everything yourself, you’re delegating tasks to the other bridesmaids. You actually make time for yourself instead of fizzing with nerves by the phone, wondering when she’ll call you to her side.
You can finally breathe again.
But old habits die hard.
I need you. Please come.
Unmei texting you in the middle of the night wasn’t a huge issue. But she never sends you this type of message. Formal, short, panicked.
You stare at the words, reading them over and over again. You promised yourself you wouldn’t do this again.
But what if she needed you?
You’ve been to Suguru’s apartment a few times after the party. It was mostly to pick stuff up or help Unmei. There’s usually a lively atmosphere with warm lights.
Tonight, as you tap on the door, you can’t help but notice how cold the atmosphere feels.
He doesn’t leave you waiting. Geto opens the door with a pleasant smile on his face. His grin widens when he locks eyes with you.
“Come in.” Geto pulls the door back.
You hesitate, but eventually you step in. Not much has changed since your last visit. There are fresh flowers in a vase. Something’s cooking in the kitchen. Still, the apartment feels emptier, somehow.
“I wasn’t expecting you.” Geto smiles. “This is a pleasant surprise.”
You give an awkward smile, shifting your weight.
“I’m sorry, I won’t be here for long,” you tell him before shifting your gaze to the bedroom, “Is she in there?”
Geto tilts his head.
“Are you looking for Unmei?” He slowly asks.
When you nod, he shakes his head.
“She headed out for her bachelorette party hours ago.”
For a moment, you thought you misheard him.
“Her what?”
“Her bachelorette party. I’m so sorry, I assumed you were with her. It’s why I was surprised you showed up.” He admits sheepishly.
“Bachelorette party.” You repeat.
She told you she didn’t want a bachelorette party. She called it a cliché. And now, when you decide to put your feelings aside and reach out, you find out she left you in the fucking dust as she enjoys her night.
You were so fucking done with her.
“Right.” Your throat feels tight. “Ok, then…I should go.”
A firm hand on your shoulder stops you from walking out the door. Geto stares at you with an empathic frown on his face.
“You shouldn’t leave like this.” He urges.
You try to pull away. His grip barely budges.
“Geto, it’s fine–”
“You should eat something at least. It’d be rude to send you away after you’ve been such a good friend to my fiancé.”
That stung even though you know he didn’t mean it like that.
“Okay.” You relent. “Just for a bit.”
He smiles.
“Oh, and call me Suguru from now on.” He suggests. “I think we’re close enough to drop the formalities, right?”
Suguru manages to get you to sit at the dining table. It was already set for two. A little while later, he comes back with two plates and a bottle of wine.
The food smelled delicious, but it tasted like ash in your mouth. You couldn’t find it within yourself to enjoy it. Betrayal made everything taste like nothing.
You don’t consider yourself a drinker, but Geto manages to refill your glass twice throughout the night.
Eventually, Suguru acknowledges the elephant in the room.
“Did you two fight?”
That actually made you laugh. It’s harsh and bitter. You gulp down the last of your wine.
“No,” you say, “I just didn’t fall to her feet this one time.”
That’s all you were for her. Not a friend. Not a companion. You were just some pet she could keep at her side. Bark when she said bark. Sit when she said sit. Roll over when she said. She was treating you like a dog who forgot a trick or two. You feel so pathetic.
You’re so upset, you have to stand up. Suguru only watches you pace back and forth.
“I’ve put up with her bullshit for months, y’know?” You don’t think you’re talking to him at all. You’re just ranting. “Whatever she wanted, I got her. I’ve spent hundreds of hours planning her perfect day with her. And yet, the one time I give an opinion, she immediately blows up at me and–and says all this awful shit, and I have to forgive her.”
Suguru rises with you, blocking your path. You look up at him. He’s blurry from all the tears in your eyes.
“She’s stressed with the wedding,” he tries to console. “I’m sure she isn’t trying to do any harm.”
You shake your head. Somehow, you find yourself sitting on the sofa. Suguru’s joined you. You can still taste the wine on your tongue. You’re drunk. You’re erratic. You’ve stopped giving a fuck.
“What about the stress she’s putting me under?” You argue back. “I tried to be a good friend to her, and she constantly treats me like garbage. And it’s all because I don’t have a soulmate? When has that ever mattered for her?”
Unmei had always protected you from anyone who mocked you for being incomplete. Other. She was your shield.
You can still remember her voice ringing through your head. The hatred. You’ve always been jealous of me, and I’m so sick of doing charity work.
You bury your face in your hands.
“All I ever wanted to do was be there for her.” You sob into your fingers. “Why is she shutting me out like this?”
You wanted to go back to how things were months ago. Back when you had someone so close, it felt like having a sister. Back before–
Suguru gathers your limp form in his arms. The scent of sandalwood and cinnamon overwhelms your senses.
“You poor thing,” he coos, and you melt into his calming words because you’ve never felt more alone in your life. “It must have been so very hard on you.”
You don’t know how long you sit there, snuggled into his chest, crying your heart out. It feels like minutes pass before your tears stop flowing, and your breathing slows down.
He pulls you away from his chest. You follow. You’re still heartbroken, but now you’re embarrassed for crying on your best friend’s fiancé’s shoulder. You look up, opening your mouth to apologize.
Suguru’s lips meet yours.
It’s barely a brush. You feel his fingers caress your cheek before you pull back.
“What are you–” your voice dies in your throat “What–”
“You want to feel better, don’t you?” He asks, voice terrifyingly gentle. “I can help with that.”
Your mouth opens and closes like a fish. When he tries to touch you again, you jump up.
“I didn’t…I never…” Your mind is spinning. You don’t know what to say.
“She’s your soulmate.” It’s the only thing you can think to say. “How–how could you think of doing that to your…”
Suguru tilts his head.
“We both know how stubborn she can get.” He speaks slowly, as if he were speaking to a child. “Look at how much you do for her. You are constantly bending over backwards. Aren’t you tired of doing all this charity work? Don’t you want someone else to take care of you for a change?”
Something clicks in your mind.
Charity Work. Unmei’s words, but that didn’t sound like her at all.
It sounded more like something Geto Suguru would say.
“It’s you.” Something cold splashes across your spine. “You’ve been putting a wedge between Unmei and me for months.”
He’s tried separating you from her as soon as he walked into Unmei’s life. All this time, he was speaking cruelties into her ear about you, manipulating her, turning her against you.
And Unmei fell for it because she thought her soulmate could never hurt her.
Suguru stands up. His smile is gone. You’ve never seen him like this before. You’ve seen him upset, bored, amused. This is different.
Every emotion on his face is gone. It’s like he’s stone.
He calls your name. It’s a warning. You don’t heed it.
“No, no,” you hiss out, “I don’t know what sick game you’re playing, but I’d never break her heart like this, no matter how angry I am at her. I’m not like you.”
You start for the door. You needed to find Unmei. Fuck the petty fight. Fuck everything. You needed to find her and explain everything to her so that things could return to normal.
You never make it to the door.
There’s a harsh grip on your wrist. Before you can even struggle, you’re flung back against the couch. You collapse on top of the stiff pillows.
Suguru’s quick to cage you in. Within moments, he’s trapped you underneath him. A hand reaches up to trap both of your wrists. His body is right in between your legs, pressing himself right up to you.
You kick. You scream. A hand clamps down on your mouth.
Suguru waits patiently as your rebellion tapers out. You lie underneath him, panting and utterly defeated.
A tear trickles down your cheek. He wipes it away, adoration at his fingertips. It makes you sick.
“I really wanted our first time to be romantic.” He sighs, genuinely sounding disappointed. “I spent the entire day planning our little date. And then you had to get all hysterical.” He clicks his tongue.
“I think you’re spending a bit too much time with my fiancé, Dear.”
You flinch at his words. He grins.
“At the same time, I can’t say I’m not happy with how the night ended.” He releases your mouth. You prepare to yell again. “You can scream if you want to, dear. I’m sure you’d like the whole floor coming by to watch me fuck you. I don’t mind an audience.”
Horror rushes down your body.
“What do you mean?” Suguru says nothing, leaning back to release his tie. “Geto-Suguru,” you beg. “You can’t really mean that. You can’t do this. What about Unmei? What about your soulmate?”
“I thought I told you this already.” He wraps the tie securely around your wrist before considering you.
“Soulmates are paths, guiding us to our true destination.”
He presses his forehead to yours. You lay there, utterly helpless, staring into his purple eyes.
“Through her, I was able to find my true other half.” He confesses. “Someone that perfectly fits me.”
If he were another man, if he had another name, you might have fallen in love right there.
But this man has your friend’s name written on his wrist, and it makes you want to vanish into the Earth.
He rises back up with a grin.
“What can I say? I’m a romantic at heart.”
You’re shaking your head as he reaches down for your shirt. It’s pulled off of you within moments, revealing your bare flesh. Your skin trembles against his fingers as he explores the skin on your stomach, pushing his hand up until it reaches the bottom of your bra.
Your tits are exposed to the cold air as he grabs them. Curious. Exploring. Nausea builds in your stomach.
“You should relax, love.” He urges as his hand travels down. “You could make yourself sick from all that crying.”
He acts as if he cares for you, even when you know he couldn’t care less. You can feel his heat pressing up against your thigh. It’s a blunt foreshadowing of his true desires.
The silk against your wrists tightens every time you move. The wine isn’t helping either. You feel sluggish, almost feverish. You lie there, completely limp, watching as he picks at your pants. They don’t have much of a fight before he’s dragging them off your body completely, leaving you with just your cotton panties.
The cold settles on your bare thighs. A large hand settles on your upper leg. He squeezes. You jolt.
Suguru’s kissing you again. It’s harsher than the first time. More teeth, like he intends to swallow you whole. He squeezes your chin, keeping you in place so he can continue to devour you. For a moment, you debate biting his tongue off, before you quickly bat it away. The thought of him getting violent, even worse, terrifies you.
But how could he get worse?
He pulls away with a satisfied sigh. The hand on your thigh lifts to your clothed slit. You don’t realize you’re wet until his fingers slip underneath your panties.
There’s a slight hitch in his breathing.
“Is this for me?” You can practically taste the victory in his voice. “How sweet.”
A few moments later, your panties are torn away, too. Your legs are tangled with the thin cloth, leaving you utterly defenseless as he spreads your thighs apart.
“No,” you’re telling him. “Don’t–No, no–”
He hushes you with a quiet whisper, and then his mouth is on your pussy.
Your thighs immediately fall onto his shoulders as he ate you out. There was a rhythm to it. His tongue lapped at your slit before curling at your clit. Immediately, you reacted. Your thighs flexed, threatening to clamp over his head. Something hot coiled in your belly as he sucked on your pussy.
Your protests eventually gave way to sharp gasps and whines as he continued to tongue-fuck you. You think you’re still crying, but its interrupted by another toe-curling mewl. You don’t have the ability to hold them in. They force themselves past your lips and into the frigid air. You could feel Suguru smile against your clit. You’re so wet you’re probably dripping all over the couch, but you think Suguru couldn’t care less.
He lifts you up by the hips. You let out a yelp as he crams his tongue into your hole, drinking the entirety of you.
“That’s it.” His voice is muffled by your pussy. It’s slurred. Drunk. “Lemme’ hear you.”
You obey, helpless to do anything else. Your mind is swirling with self-hatred as you feel yourself approaching the edge. You can’t do anything to stop it. Your hips move by themselves. Your pussy clenches.
Your orgasm was a tiny hitch before you completely came apart. Suguru keeps you there, latched onto your clit like a man starved, until you finally come down from your high.
You lay there, panting, completely spent. Suguru rises from his spot in between your legs. He wipes at his face, never taking his eyes off of you.
The kiss he gives you is terrifyingly soft. Almost sweet. You can taste yourself on his tongue. He gently holds your chin like you’re the most delicate thing in the world.
If you closed your eyes, you could pretend it’s anyone else. Not Suguru. Not your friend’s fiancé. Not her soulmate.
But Suguru doesn’t care about you enough to let you have that fantasy.
“Look at me.”
His voice is too soft to be demanding, but the order is clear from his tone.
Slowly, your eyes drift back open.
Suguru stands over you as if this were his rightful place. You can see his cock, fully unfurled from his pants. The mushroom tip has a bead of glistening, white pre-cum as he slowly aligns it to your battered pussy.
You think the worst part is his eyes.
Soft. Gentle. He stares at you the way no one else has.
Love.
You want to cry again, but you think you’ve run out of tears.
His nonchalant demeanor is cracked. His pupils are flared with lust. He grunts when he slides his swollen tip across your folds. Pussy juice is smeared all over his cock as he does it again and again.
“I’ve waited so long for this.” He sighs, and you don’t think he’s talking to you. “No one is taking this away from me.”
Not even you.
You should be grateful he cares enough to be gentle. His cock is huge, big enough to split you at the seams if he wanted to. You still he lowers himself into your hole. Immediately, your walls flex, squeezing his cock.
Suguru growls and bits his lip. It’s clear whatever control he has left, he’s only holding it by a hair.
It’s almost a relief when he fully sheathes himself inside you. He nearly collapses, face ducking into the crook of your neck. Your toes curl when he hits a spongy spot inside of you that nearly makes you see stars.
“Fuck.” He hisses, voice sharp. “That’s it. That’s it. Just take it.”
It’s an unsteady pace. Brutal, almost mind-breaking as he continues to fuck himself into you. You can hear his ragged breathing in your ear as he drives himself deeper and deeper into your cunt. You can barely keep up with the motions. Your thighs shake with the momentum.
You think you’re saying something, and then your mind is wiped clean with another thrust. It’s an endless cycle of torturous pleasure.
“Suguru–I–I can’t.” You’re blabbering. “I can’t, I just can’t–”
“You can.” He urges back, fingers reaching down to rub your clit. You arch, back lifting up from the pillows. “I know you can, darling. Look at that. Look at you. Look at how well you take me.”
“This was how it was always meant to be.” You can’t decipher the tone of his words. Your mind is too preoccupied with the feeling of your pussy wrapped around his cock. “You were practically made for me.” A broken wail passes out from your lips. He laughs.
At this point, you think he’s too far gone to even know what he’s saying.
“I love you so much, darling.” He leans back into your neck, biting down on the flesh. “No one can take you away from me. You are all for me.”
At least, you hope that’s the case. You can’t bear to think his words have a semblance of intent.
Your mind goes white as you cum on his cock. Your eyes roll back, your back arches up like a bitch in heat as you fall off the edge. Your pussy milks him, clamping down hard as you ride your high.
There’s a moan in your ear before something hot pumps into your pussy, painting your insides with white. There’s so much, even with his dick still plugging your cunt, some still manages to leak out, dripping down your ass.
He takes a shaky breath, and then he’s kissing you again. That same delicate touch he loves to take after he breaks you. You can taste the festering love through his lips and tongue. You let him, too exhausted to fight back.
You think he’s saying something. You can’t hear him over the throbbing in your head. The tone he uses is soft as lips press against your temple.
And then, his cock slips out of your ragged cunt before slamming back in all over again.
❤︎
Mei<3 Missed Call(23)
‘Where are you’
‘Where are you’
‘Please dont do this to me’
‘I’m begging you’
‘I love you so much’
‘I’m sorry for everything I’ve done’
‘Plase don’t do this to me’
‘He’s my soulmate, why would you take him from me’
‘Please don’t do this to me’
…
‘You’re just a selfish slut. Take him then. See if I care.’
Ever since you woke up, all you could do was stare at Unmei’s texts. You’ve read them over and over.
The words never change. Each line cuts you deeper than before.
You’re no longer on the sofa. Sometime last night, Suguru must have moved you. You sit up on a luxurious king-sized bed with silk sheets. Your body is aching and sore. There are marks all over your body.
The man who made them sleeps peacefully right next to you.
You’re still naked. It hurts to move. All what you can do is read Unmei’s texts over and over as you wipe away the sharp tears trickling down your cheek.
The curtains of Suguru’s bedroom are open. It’s early morning. The beginnings of a sunrise creep over the horizon. Buildings are obscured by a light fog, and you can barely make out the outline of the city. The sky is illuminated with pinks and light oranges. It’s the prettiest sight you’ve ever seen.
You don’t notice he’s awake until Suguru’s muscled chest presses against your back. You flinch as his head settles into the crook of your neck. He inhales your scent.
“I told you, didn’t I?” He murmurs against your skin. “It’s a beautiful view. You’ll get to see this every day, from now on.”
You don’t bother batting him away. You just stare down at your phone. There’s no new message from Unmei. She blocked you hours ago.
Fingers pluck your phone from your loose grip. Suguru adjusts himself, wrapping an arm around your waist as he sifts through her panicked messages. He clicks his tongue.
“Never expected anything more from her.” He sighs before he tosses the phone in the mess of blankets. He kisses your neck. “She’ll probably come by today. Hopefully, she’ll move out without much of an issue.” He remarks casually. Dully. Complete disinterest.
Why? You want to ask him. Why you? Why would he–why would anyone–hate you enough to do this?
But then, you remember the look of love he gave you as he rammed his cock deeper. You don’t know how you’d be able to hold yourself together if you saw that again.
For the sake of your sanity, you ask:
“What did you tell her?”
Suguru’s fingers curl around your stomach. You can hear the slightest hint of irritation in his breath.
“Nothing.” He eventually confesses. You want to yell at him, call him a liar. You don’t get the chance.
“She must have felt the bond sever.”
You notice it, just then.
The wrappings on his wrist.
Your heart is pounding in your chest as you grab at it. Suguru lets you unravel his work, silently watching each layer of gauze drop away.
It’s ugly. The skin is raised and irritated. It will probably leave behind a scar.
Not a single trace of Unmei’s name is left on Suguru’s skin.
You want to scream, but your voice is frozen in your throat.
♡ TW: a lot of different stuff today, NSFW, noncon/dubcon, yandere, stalking, gangbang, harsh language, sexual exploitation, bondage, zero holes safe, and more, read at your own risk
♡ FEM reader
Pride is an artist, and you, poor dear, are lucky enough to be his muse.
You’d caught his eye one day simply by coincidence while working your part-time job as a barista.
And though it had been a rather unorthodox request—between balancing school and work and constantly finding yourself both strapped for cash and strapped for time—you’d decided to quit and take him up on his offer—as what he was offering was about twice what you could make at the cafe anyway.
He’s not that much older than you, but he’s old money. And while you're stuck in community college, he goes to an elite art school—which he doesn’t even show up to, 'cause why would he? They can't afford to kick him out anyway, given his father’s donations make up half of their yearly budget.
And so he's free to self-study as much as he wants.
Yeah... he’s a little too used to getting what he wants—exactly how he wants it—without delay. So when you struggle to come to your sessions on time due to having to take the bus to the other side of town, he decides to solve it by buying you a car. And when he doesn’t feel like that’s sufficient enough, he buys you an apartment right above his own studio. And when you try to reject, he only has three concise words for you.
“Don’t be stupid.”
The way he says it leaves very little up for debate. In fact, it leaves you mute each and every time.
It was nice in the beginning—you didn’t protest to anything other than his overpriced gifts. You were flattered and blushy and giddy and more than happy to sit pretty for him for hours at a time while he sketched and sculpted and painted and whatnot. It was essentially nothing in comparison to the luxuries he gave you in return.
But you think, at some point along the way, he must have forgotten that he only owns the artworks he makes of you—not you yourself.
“N-naked?” you stutter, looking at him wide-eyed where he stands in his usual apron—flecked with the proof of your countless sessions. Honestly, it was getting to be a little strange posing for him in a room stuffed with a myriad of sketches, paintings, and statues of yourself. Hadn’t he had enough?
“I can’t capture you correctly when you wear all these rags,” he says—clinically, though with a pinch of impatience just shy of vexation—eyeing you from head to toe, almost with a look of disgust while beholding your clothes, despite being the one who’d bought them. “They obscure everything. So take them off.”
You knew he’d probably had about a hundred models undress for him, and stand here—old, young, men, women—you knew it probably didn’t mean much to him. He probably regarded it the same way he does everything—without even batting an eye. However…
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I can do that…” You fiddle with your fingers, standing there, still dressed despite him standing ready at his easel, foot-tapping while waiting for you, already with a stick of charcoal between his fingers.
“Why are you making a fuss? You think I haven’t seen a naked body before?” he jokes, but without humor—no, rather strictness as if you’re wasting very precious time. “This is standard practice—don’t make it anything than what it is.”
There he goes again with those very final words that make you feel all in all kind of silly.
You bite your lip and mull it over before ever-so-begrudgingly uttering a weak little, “Okay…”
You suppose he was right. This is a job, and it’s just nudity—just another shape in the eyes of an artist—it doesn’t mean anything—is what you tell yourself while you undress. Still, you can’t help but feel flush—heart pounding in your chest as you fold your clothes all neatly for some other nervous reason.
“Resume the pose,” he says—almost like a drill sergeant. And you jump into place, timidly rushing over to the chaise where you lie down like before.
This does feel like it would be a better painting, you admit. More reminiscent of Renaissance art and such. Not that you know much about it, but thinking back to field trips through the museum, you seem to remember having seen plenty of portraits of naked ladies lying on pretty but uncomfortable sofas just like this.
He seems very invested, at least. A deep furl between his brows, nearly scowling at you while he works—though you’ve come to learn that it’s just his concentration face.
After a while, he sets his charcoal down and wipes his blackened hands on his apron.
You sit up, asking, “Are you done?” All but ready to leap from your seat to your clothes and finally cover yourself again.
“No, keep still,” he all but reprimands—voice intense as he stalks across the floor over to you with determination written plainly across his face.
You draw back in place as he rests his knee on the chaise and leans forward. It wasn’t uncommon for him to come and correct your pose, but you couldn’t help but flinch this time around, feeling just a bit too exposed.
His hands are warm and overworked, both dry and a bit clammy all at the same time. You didn’t mind much when you wore clothes, but it felt a bit too intimate now as he touched your bare skin. But you bear with it despite that.
Eyes closed, you repeat that same line from before—it doesn’t mean anything, this is standard practice, it doesn’t mean anything.
It works in calming your breath for a moment, but then he grabs your tit.
You gasp, jolting back while stuttering, “Wha–what are you doing?”
And yet, he keeps his steal gaze just as fixed and unfazed as before, sighing at you as if you were overreacting, before stating rather simply, “Getting a better understanding of your body.” He then reaches toward you again, showing no concern for how you shrink away. “It’s easier to replicate when I know it by hand.”
Again, you let his voice silence you, and again, you closed your eyes and let his hands wander—around your chest, up your neck, down your belly, and then—
“Wait! That can’t be necessary—” you blurt out, this time with your arms and hands shooting forth to distance him.
“Oh, trust me—it is.” Again, he pays you no mind, simply bearing over you with his entitled hands roaming whatever place he so wishes and chooses. Only clicking his tongue at you when you squirm, “Don’t fuss.”
You don’t exactly push him away, though you don’t exactly make his pursuit easier for him—lying there beneath his touches, wiggling and whimpering, though not really protesting either as he feels your slit.
Your fingers curl into his arms, gripping his messy shirt streaked with paint and coal—as his fingers run through your lips, teasing your entrance and your clit. He twists his hand around and presses his thumb down on the pearl after it perks for attention, then enters you with his pointer finger—drawing out wetness before promptly feeding you another.
You bite your lip as they curl and spread within you, testing you out while rubbing firm circles into your clit.
Gingerly, your hips return it, starting to move in tune with his ministrations. Thighs trembling, keeping your eyes squeezed tightly shut as you start to pant—small moans leaving your lips with every breath, feeling it build within you—a small flame at first, nursed until it fills and all but fights for room within you before finally bursting.
“That’s it—that’s the expression,” he purrs—voice much softer than usual—cupping your face with his other hand, holding you steady while taking in those dopey eyes sparkling with pleasure and those parted lips that never dare speak up—eyeing you like he's the proud owner of a prized possession. “Perfect.”
He hums, sounding pleased, then gets off you shortly after, sauntering back to his easel.
“You can get dressed now. I got what I needed,” he states, picking the stick of charcoal up again, ripping the last sketch off for a fresh sheet before starting anew as if nothing had happened.
And you, still lying there, are left just as mute as usual.
Wrath is your ex-boyfriend who refuses to get it through his thick skull that the two of you are over.
Any time you talk to another guy, he beats him up—to a fucking pulp, no less.
He’s always been that way, and still, it wasn’t always like this…
You started dating each other when you were young. He was rough around the edges, and you liked that about him—tattoos from his neck down to his ankles—the type your parents would have a heart attack if you ever brought home.
He was going to be a professional fighter, he’d say—mixed martial arts. He had all the rage and zero technique, but still, he’d land some of the best on their ass all through pure strength of will alone.
He was near impossible to train, though—always too wired to be able to take any pointers. And that’s why he needed you. You were his reliever. He’d fuck you like it was his last day on earth, and suddenly he’d be able to do anything. Like an enhancement drug, everything would start moving in slow motion, and he could somehow see all the moves of his opponent before they ever made them.
You admit you liked hearing him preach about it. It made you feel important—made you feel as if half the win, or at least some of it, was yours. And when he started raking in the dough as the champion, winning multiple titles across several tournaments, you were more than happy to be his lucky charm and cheer him on from the sidelines.
But then, you had this awful and sudden feeling of being just that—a tool for his success and nothing else. Sure, he’d give you presents—pretty things he thought suited you well—but you hadn’t gone on a date since his career started, nor had you had a proper sit-down dinner together either. He’d stick to his diet regime, be out training at the gym all day, and you’d be home, going about your own business.
And while you were doing that, you’d think—about the nature of your relationship. And what you found is that all it really entails in the end is him demanding a fuck whenever he needed it—before a tournament, before training, before an interview. And then, after coming to that glum conclusion, you can’t help but feel like nothing more than another one of those items he keeps loose in his gym bag.
And those thoughts only got validated when you tried denying him sex for the first time…
You were just curious, really—curious to see what he’d do. If he’d beg, if he’d plead, if he’d say boo, don’t be that way while down on his hands and knees for you.
But of course... he can’t get anything else but angry.
“If you’re not gonna give me the one thing you're useful for, then what the fuck do I keep you around for?” is what he’d said—no, barked. “You think you’re special? If you’re not gonna put out, I might as well go out and find me someone who will.”
He’d fucked off to some other room with a huff and left you standing there.
And you don’t know, amidst the shell shock and the ache of your heart coming undone... suddenly, you had no idea why you were there or with him or what you were supposed to do—and when you found no answer to any of those questions, it made no sense for you to stay. And so you went to your shared bedroom—or his bedroom, as a matter of fact, which you’d stayed in for the last months—quickly grabbed your things—your things specifically, and not all the other stuff he’d thrown at you—and stuffed it all haphazardly in your bag, then gone out to the entryway to put your shoes on.
That’s when he’d reared his head again with the gall of asking, “Where the fuck are you going?”
He hadn’t had that same raised tone as before. No, this time it was lowered—frayed—with a touch of urgency and unease as if balancing on the edge of a knife—as if he knew he'd done something wrong and was reaping the consequences and yet still hadn't the balls to simply apologize and correct it.
And so, you hadn’t answered him.
“It’s the middle of the fucking night,” he’d stated then, coming closer, ready to grab your arm with that hint of alarm in his voice increased. “Hey, I asked you fucking a question—”
That’s when you’d twisted around and slapped him. You’d put all your might into it as well, though you doubt it compared to much of what he’d felt in the ring.
And still, he’d looked at you as if he’d just lost all his titles.
He hadn’t said anything else after that—just stood there with his mouth agape as you opened the door and slammed it shut behind you. In fact, you don't think he even dared do so much as take a breath.
You’d gone and crashed at a friend's and rethought your life. There was no way you could ever go back, after all—not after what he’d said. Treating you like a stay-at-home whore. Who the fuck does he think he is?
What an asshole—you'd tried convincing yourself as you cried yourself to sleep…
The days and weeks after were nothing if not fucked up and toxic, to say the least. You’d go out to have a fun time and try to forget about him, but he’d always show up out of the blue to ruin everything—being his usual douche self.
Though… you can’t exactly claim to be any better than him—not after finding yourself in bed with his number-one up-and-coming rival.
Of course, it ends up all over the news—big headlines plastered on every gossip platform pushing your private affairs for all to see—a real media circus if there ever was one.
You end up back in his apartment. To talk, he’d said—a pretense you had a hard time believing in. He’s never been one to talk much. Honestly, you don’t know why you even bothered coming over when he asked. There might even be a chance he’ll kill you. This is how most homicides start, after all.
The two of you sit in silence for a couple of minutes. You look off to the side, waiting for him to speak because fuck knows you have nothing to say.
Meanwhile, he just stares at you—his big, hulking body leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands braided before his face. It’s the type of posture he’ll have when sitting in the corner of the ring—he’s got that same look in his eyes, too, deadset on you.
It makes you a little nervous, actually—maybe he really does plan on killing you.
“Why’d you do it?” he asks suddenly.
You almost scoff—almost roll your eyes, but you end up simply returning his dead glare. “Is that really what you asked me here for?”
He doesn’t answer that question. He just keeps staring at you.
You huff out a sigh, “I don’t know, maybe I just wondered what it would be like to be fucked like a woman for once and not someone’s toy.”
You don’t know why you decided to take it there when you both know why you’d done it. What other fucking reason would there be other than to get back at him? It’s a stupid question to begin with, and so you give it a stupid answer in return. And you won’t deny it feels fucking good—seeing him like this. Five o’clock shadow, eyebags, and uncut, disheveled hair.
He looks like a wreck, and rightfully so. Fuck knows what a mess you’d been before you finally managed to drag yourself out of bed. Funny what the single simple thought of revenge can do for someone so lost.
He scrapes his thumb down his jawline, over his stubble—a deep sigh running through him as he leans back on the couch. Offering no other reaction as he says, “I can sit here and act threatened, but you and I both know he was shit compared to me.”
He throws his arms up against the headrest, chin tipped up. Thinking he can hide it, thinking you can’t see right through him—to how hard he’s fighting to upkeep the poker face.
He’s forgetting who his opponent is.
“I know you, babe—I know your body. And there's no fucking way some shitstain you just met–”
“His dick was bigger,” you interrupt—face blank because two can play that silly game, and you do it better.
He’s shut up for a moment—you can see a vein pulse, but it’s quickly stifled, and he smirks instead, snickering despite his grit teeth, “Sorry, that must'a hurt given how much you cry with me.”
This time, you don’t refrain from scoffing and rolling your eyes, “That's all you have to say? Thought you were a fighter.”
“You want me to get jealous? Is that it?” he accuses then, starting to crack, throwing your scoff back at you, “Tch—should've fucked somebody important then.”
This time, you skip the eye-roll and flat-out laugh instead, “I'll keep that in mind. Next time, I'll call up your dad-”
That did it—got him out of his seat and everything. “Shut your mouth.” Standing big and hunched, all muscles and fury.
And you react in kind. Glad that you’re finally getting somewhere. “Make me.”
"You're fucking–" He clenched his fist in the air, scrunching his face in frustration, withholding a growl before releasing a heavy sigh instead.
Dropping his arms, shoulders slumping—hanging his head the same way whilst mumbling under his breath, “Fuck this… fuck this entire thing.”
And just as quickly as he’d sprung to his feet, he flopped down on the couch again.
“I don't wanna play games…” He looks up at you—now with the look of a starved and beaten dog. “I don’t want anyone but you.”
He reaches out slowly—big hands cradling your thighs, pulling you towards him gently, and you let him—put off by that strange new look in his eyes.
“You can fuck half the world, and I'd still only want you.”
It’s an odd confession. Unexpected coming from him. You’d anticipated more of a fight, not whatever this is. Looking at you with glossy eyes on the verge of tears. Suddenly, you feel kind of mean, struck with this sense of guilt for having reduced him to such a state.
“Don't take the high road. It doesn't suit you,” you declare, though without much bite.
And he just sighs, “Fuck that, we’re even now.” Pulling you even closer still—into his lap—he makes you straddle him. Forehead to forehead without kissing you yet. “So, are you gonna let me fuck you, or are you really gonna make me beg?”
And though you would kind of like to see what he’d look like on his knees, the sight of him like this was good enough proof that he’d learned his lesson despite it not being an apology.
Besides, he'd been all too right when he’d said the other guy couldn’t fuck you like him.
You volunteer at the homeless shelter and can’t help but feel extra sorry for him. He’s only around your age—so young yet with no future to speak of.
This winter, given it’s going to be an especially harsh one, all volunteers have been asked if they have any spare room they can be so kind as to give to those less fortunate. And though you’re not that well off yourself, you still have an extra room you’ve only been using as storage.
So, unable to look the other way, you decide to clean it out, get a bed, and host him.
You took precautions first, naturally—just to be safe. But, from what you could tell, he’s neither a drug addict nor has any criminal record to speak of. No, he’s just another abandoned kid who'd society had failed.
This is the least you can do to correct its wrongs.
And, of course, he falls in love with you for it. Not only do you give him a place of rest—but you make him warm food, give him fresh clothes, do his laundry, draw his bath, watch movies with him every night, and always ask him if he has everything he needs. You even cut his long, shaggy hair for him and give him luxuries such as face-lotion.
You’re a saint, too good for a filthy sinner like him, but he’ll never let you know that... No, your pity feels too nice—taking such good care of him—he’s going to leach off of you and your honeycomb heart for the rest of his life if he can help it.
He doesn't look too bad after he cleans up, and after a few more weeks of eating well and getting enough rest—he stops lurching and starts standing up straight, looking lanky and lean with muscle—at which point you can’t deny he’s even a little hot. You know… in that scrappy sort of way.
You feel weird about it, of course—guilty even. He’s a homeless guy you’re housing—you’d be nothing if not downright evil if you took advantage of him. But after a few weeks of settling in, he starts feeling like more of a normal roommate and not a stranger. And with that familiarity, you both lose the distance and become more lax and loose around each other—wearing less, talking casually, not afraid to brush up against each other, and before you even know it, you find yourself folded in half beneath him on the living room couch.
You don’t know what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into—but his cock’s so big he’s pounding the sense right out of you with every thrust.
He’s not even going fast. No, rather slow, actually—taking his time as if savoring it. But that doesn't take away from the pleasure bubbling up inside of you where his strokes hit so heavy, resting deep within, so fulfilling that it all but replaces your better judgment with the sole need to squeeze him with all you've got.
“Mh, you’re pussy’s so nice and warm—I could stay inside you forever.”
You’re so wet it’s ridiculous—like never before—like you’re the one who’s been starved and neglected and not the other way around. Getting your breath all but knocked out of you, getting fucked so utterly full, he’s making you kick your feet and curl your toes in the air, bucking your hips back into him like you’re desperately begging for more.
He’s got your knees hooked over his arms, keeping you neatly pressed under him. “You’re so good to me—so, so sweet, you must be the sweetest girl in the whole entire world. My guardian angel.”
All you’re able to do is babble and moan in return—misty- and cross-eyed with your dewy face cradled in his hands.
You just hold onto his wrists while he speaks fondly against your lips, “You saved me when no one else even bothered looking. Let me return the favor—give this pretty pussy all the thanks it deserves.”
When he re-angles and hits you in a different spot, the switch in your lower belly is immediate—making your whole body seize up and shiver, breath shuddering in your throat, followed swiftly by a pulse migrating from your core all throughout your body, tasting oversweet on your tongue enough to make you drool.
He locks lips with yours, slurping your spit up sloppily and keeping himself fully sleaved as you peak—feeling your wet, gummy walls tighten and flutter, rippling along his length like a rush of kisses.
Then, right before it fully dies down, he picks up the pace again and rekindles it—because fuck knows he’s well-rested and over-due and the farthest thing from done with you just yet.
You start off as a waitress at his restaurant. And yet, he’s the one who developed an appetite—for you and your pleasing smile and that busy-bee swing you have in your hip as you hop around from table to table.
He licks his lips at the sight of you more than he does the food he makes. He even had the uniforms altered in your image—made the skirts shorter and shirts tighter.
He's utterly shameless, but who can blame him? You’re such a little bite-sized treat—he just has to taste you.
And taste you, he most certainly does.
For breakfast and for brunch and lunch and dinner and supper, as well as a midnight snack.
“Your pussy juice is my favorite,” he groans from between your legs.
Fat-muscled chef’s arms, tattooed with all types of silly patches, curled tightly around your thighs, keeping you close despite those times you try and push away when it gets to be a little too much—because fuck knows he doesn’t have the same reservations. Nose and tongue and chin deep in your slit, slurping you down while filling you up with his words, “I want to flavor every meal I make with you.”
You keep a hand over your face, kissing your knuckles, sometimes with a bite—whimpering pitifully, “Gross…”
Of course, you can’t help but cringe when he says things like that. He’s your boss, after all, not a porn actor. Still, you don’t say it with much conviction. It’s just that you get so embarrassed you don’t know what else to say.
He chuckles, still with his face buried. “Don’t be childish.” Words muffled as he doubles down on his efforts of sucking on your clit like a piece of candy.
“I’m not,” you whine. “You're just weird.”
He smacks off of you at that, a refreshing sigh leaving him rugged and raspy, a devilish look in his eyes as if he’s about to eat you for real. “I’m a world-renowned chef—are you implying I don’t know my flavors?”
Everything in your gut coils with anticipation, nearly rumbling with need, while he pulls your lower half up and even closer—face glossy with the way he’d gorged himself already—licking his teeth now as he refocuses on your clit alone.
Flattening his tongue on it while he speaks, sounding like some type of beast, “I’ve tasted everything the world has to offer. And I'm telling you, this pretty little thing between your legs is the best there is.”
You can’t stand looking up at him. Beyond embarrassed, you hide your face with both hands. Mumbling out a weak, “Pervert...”
Again, he snickers, shaking his head as if he’s ripping into flesh when he’s really just got his tongue out—straight motorboating your poor pussy.
When done, he drops you onto the bed again, grinning while replying to your insult, “Can’t argue with that,” before promptly kissing and licking up your belly—with fingers replacing his tongue, pumping you on his knuckles, getting you ready.
He groans when his mouth reaches your chest, lips wrapped around a nipple, “If only these titties had milk. I could feast on you from every position.”
You don’t know if you should giggle or grumble—he’s such a baby—and a spoiled one at that. But really, his fingering is making it difficult to do anything but stammer and try and keep it together, “We talked about this—I’m not taking hormones just to breastfeed you, you weirdo.”
He whines then, “Please—it’s my only wish in the entire world—I need it.”
You struggle to argue, feeling like you’re under siege—an onslaught set out to make you breathless. “Well—” you pant, gritting your teeth and bearing it. “We can’t always get what we want.”
“Oh, I’ll see about that.” He takes it as a challenge, this time really locking his lips around your nipple and suckling—releasing just briefly to say, “I bet if I suck on these babies enough, they’ll give me what I want.”
He keeps his fingers working diligently while at it—used to multitasking—curling and spreading them out within you, pumping you so fast, you barely have the time to beg him to “Stop that—” before you’re already shaking and cumming for what must be the seventh time already.
He laughs breathily, kissing your teat goodbye as he lifts himself up again. Pulling his fingers out of you, he brings them to his lips and blithely sucks them off.
“You know I can’t stop, dear. I’m so hungry—I’m ravenous.”
You watch him from over the tips of your fingers. So hot and mortified you think you’re soon to pass out. Breathing heavily behind your hands, muttering, “You’re a glutton—that’s what you are.”
Again, he just cheerfully snickers, bowing down to your halfway-hidden face with a smile. “I hardly see how it’s my fault I can’t get enough of you.”
He spreads your legs again and finds his place between them.
“You’re the one who got me hooked—so you better take responsibility for it.”
Lust is your boss. He's the owner of the strip club where you work, your pimp when money’s tight, as well as the porndirector of all your lovely little films.
Yeah, you might as well have a tramp stamp of his name on your ass, the way he practically owns you…
He's around ten years older and has basically taught you all about sex from when you were only a fledgling in the industry. You live at his studio above the club since he keeps all your money in a bank account under his name, calling you his little sugarbaby and telling you you’ll get an allowance and that you can get more if and when you ask him nicely and tell him what it’s for.
“Don’t be a brat, baby. You know how I hate it when you're a bad girl,” he says when you raise the topic of moving out, treating it as if you’re a child threatening to run away from home.
“I don’t belong to you. Give me what you owe me.”
Honestly, you have no idea where you got the courage.
But is it courage? Or is it just plain stupidity? Because, though you’re increasingly more terrified as you quickly watch him lose his temper, it doesn’t exactly come as a surprise. And so, if you knew this is what was going to happen—why the fuck would you put yourself through it?
Must be madness.
“I give you everything, don't I? Food, clothes, a home,” he chastises, bearing over you while you’re down on scuffed knees, holding your wrist in a bruising grip and your face just as fiercely—nearly tearing the skin off your cheeks with the bite of his nails.
“And still, you have the fucking nerve to act like a goddamn bitch.”
You hiccup on sobs, spluttering out a desperate “Please—I’m sorry–”
"You and your entire slut body belong to me, you understand that?"
"Yes-yes—please—I'm sorry! You're right! I belong to you! I'm sorry!"
That seems to calm him just a bit—at least enough to take the bite away from his voice, now cooing at you in an ugly mocking attempt at sweetness, “Yeah, you do every single little thing I ask. ‘Cause if you’re not gonna behave like a good girl, I have no other choice but to treat you like a bad one.”
He lets your audience be rowdier than usual that night, allowing them to slap and grab, then forces you to have an extra rough shoot afterward—with tighter bondage, more toys, bigger guys making use of you like a piece of meat, smacking and choking you as they find out how many cocks your holes can fit, every last one finishing on your face.
Then, when you’re all done and all used up for the day, he brings you upstairs—home, sweet home—where he treats you to some much-unwanted after-care...
You shiver and shake despite the hot water. Sitting in the bathtub, laying back with your spine against his chest, feeling thin like a sheet of paper, all crumbled up and torn—sniffling and sniveling as the after-shock of the day still ricochets through you like wind through a hollow husk.
“The shoot today was rough, huh?” he drawls, washing you with his own hands. Stroking your poor sore cunt despite how it makes you whimper. “Yeah... was it a little too rough for you, hm?”
You don’t do anything in return—but your body language says enough on its own, and he allows it to be your answer.
Sighing heavily, he wraps you up with both arms and squeezes you tighter, chin resting atop your head.
“You know… if you’d just be my good girl, I’d give you a good girl to-do list. Let you stay here all day, do some house chores while I’m gone, make love when I get home, hm? Doesn’t that sound better?”
He traces a welted bruise on the inside of your thigh, one you got from the shoot—roughly the shape of a hand, and a dozen more others layered on top of it. It makes you suck in a hiss.
“But if you’re gonna be a bad girl, then this is what you get.”
He settles into the grove of your neck, purring against your ear. “Are you gonna be my good girl from now on? Hm?”
You bite your lip, breath shuddering while nodding pitifully.
And still, he insists, “Say it so I can hear it.”
The water’s gone cold around you—just like everything else, as you say, “I’ll be a good girl.”
He seems pleased, at least. Nuzzling against your cheek with chin stubble and a smirk, asking, “Yeah? Whose?”
Your voice is small and pathetic, nearly a wince, “Yours.”
He groans then, “That’s right. My good girl.” Lifting his hand from the water, he takes hold of your chin, fingers pressing into those designated sore spots as he angles your face toward him and gives you a heartless kiss before growling against your lips, “And don’t you ever fucking dare forget it again.”
After he’s finished washing you up, he carries you out to bed. It's one you fear much more than the one down in the studio.
Because in this bed, just like every night in this hellhole… he starts teaching every last one of your holes who they belong to.
Or, well, no, he’s not your enemy, but you’re most certainly his enemy.
You’re just not aware of it because of what a ditzy and clueless airhead you are.
But fuck, he can’t stand you—you and your fake personality, acting all bubbly and sweet, cheering him on, always telling him to do his best—condescending little bitch acting like everyone’s friend—like he doesn’t see through you right to your rotten core. You don’t fool him—he knows you’re as bad as the rest of them, so just quit pretending like you’re better or something.
You’re under the false impression that the two of you are friends. You just think he has a strange sense of humor, but you laugh politely even when you don’t always get the joke.
Well, maybe it’s not so much politeness, but the fact that you have a big fat hopeless crush on him.
It infuriates him. He throws your niceties back in your face as insults, and you just laugh. How low do you think of him? Honestly? How tall is that high horse of yours that you have your head constantly in the clouds?
Poor you… you just think he’s so cool—always saying what he feels like, not a lame people-pleasing goodie-two-shoes such as yourself. You can’t help but follow him around like a lost puppy all day long. You’re always making sure you sit next to him during lectures—heart almost beating out of your chest, holding back from squealing when your prayers are answered, and the two of you are finally paired for a project together.
It really feels like the universe is on your side, and so you just can’t stop yourself from going the full mile—making chocolates and preparing him a hand-written love letter. You know he’ll think you’re a little silly, that he’ll make fun of you for it—but you can’t expect to get anywhere without putting your heart on the line, can you? For a chance at love, the risk must be worth it!
Yeah, you’re such a hopeless romantic—you feel it as he punches his fist through your ribs when he rips out your poor heart and stomps all over it.
“I fucking get it already! You’re little miss pretty and popular. Would you quit rubbing it in my face, or do I really have to spell it out for you? I. Don’t. Fucking. Like. You,” he seethes through grit teeth. “Go pick another one of the hundreds dying to be your partner and leave me the fuck alone!”
You shrink where you stand, shocked doe-eyes rapidly welling up like a flood, lips wobbling as you choke on your words, “Oh… okay… I’m sorry… I just… I–”
“You-you-you what?” he barks at your stuttering. “Spit it out already! What the fuck do you want?”
“I just-I-I just always thought you were amazing. So…”
His face contorts, scrunches up in a grimace different from anger, though not without it, as he spits out, “What the fuck are you on about now?”
But his voice is a little diminished now, with confusion usurping the place of his hate, suddenly feeling a little out of sorts because… what did you actually just say?
“I just, I really like you–” you repeat, hanging your head, only barely able to mumble through the tears blocking your throat. “But I guess I’ve just annoyed you all this time—I’m sorry...”
Only now does he notice you’re trying to hand him something—a flat little box with a pink note attached.
“This is for you, but I understand if you don’t want it.” Unable to look up, you just stretch your arms out until it gently bumps into him.
Baffled, he accepts without thinking.
“I’m sorry—I’ll leave you alone from now on.” And then you run off, disappearing with a sob that all but shoots him through the chest.
And slowly bleeding out, he remains standing there, eyes glued to where you'd left—mouthing the word what…
What did you just say?
Like? Him?
Did he mishear you, or did you just confess?
No way—that can’t be it, right?
But what the fuck is this heart-shaped letter, then?
"What the fuck did I just do?"
You look like you’ve been crying your eyes out all night the next day—your usual bubbly personality reduced to a ghost in a shell, walking the hallways like a zombie, slowly and without purpose, eyes on the ground—letting everyone bump into you.
You don't even so much as bat an eye when someone runs straight over you, fully knocking all your books and folders onto the floor.
You just get on your knees and start recollecting them.
A newfound hate flares up within him at the sight. “Hey, you!" He stomps over. "Watch where the fuck you’re going next time, dipshit.”
You look up at the sound of his voice—flinching before you notice it’s not directed at you.
No, rather, he’s got a boy up against the lockers, lifted by his collar onto the tip of his toes. Face only a few inches from his, glaring at him harsher than he’d glared at you yesterday.
“Now apologize to the girl before I punch your ugly face in.”
You stare at the altercation with large eyes, only able to blink as the boy who’d bumped into you starts spluttering on the verge of tears, “I–I’m sorry–I didn’t see you! Sorry!”
You don’t answer. Shocked and speechless, you remain on the floor in confusion, asking yourself why’s he doing this? Didn’t he cuss you out yesterday, or was it all a bad dream like you'd hoped?
He throws the boy on his way, then gets on his knees down alongside you—proceeding to help you gather your things.
You only watch on in wordless bewilderment until he starts muttering something under his breath.
“I’m sorry I made you cry yesterday.” He stacks all your things in a neat pile next to you while continuing his apology. “And for being an asshole. You didn’t deserve that.”
He keeps his eyes fixed to the floor where his hands busily roam around until there was nothing more to retrieve.
He then hesitantly looks up at you—eyes flittering—a little too ashamed to hold your gaze as he says, “Your chocolates were really good.”
That’s when your heart starts fluttering again—as if new life was just breathed in and revived it.
He can see it as well—how you light up like a rekindled candle.
“They were?” you gush, shuffling closer on your knees all excitedly—face brighter than the sun on cloudfree summer day.
It blinds him—nearly stunts him, only able to utter a meager, almost shy, “Yeah.”
He then slings his bag in front of him and pulls something out.
A lunchbox.
“I made you these..." he swallows thickly. "As an apology…”
He’s utterly red—from the tips of his ears to his neck and entire face, even his hands.
“For me?”
“Yeah..." He reaches it over stiffly. “They’re not as good as yours, though...”
You eagerly accept despite his nervousness, popping the lid off where the two of you sit—right there in the middle of the hallway floor, with other students walking around you like water passing two rocks in a stream.
His blush grows ever more intense as you pick one of his crudely made chocolates up, not even examining it before throwing one into your mouth.
It was his first time making anything that required a recipe. And they most certainly did not come out well, but he figured the embarrassment was part of his atonement.
He didn’t actually expect you to try them.
But there you are—lying through your teeth, saying, “I think they’re great!”
He can only scoff out a soft laugh. “Of course you would.”
Turns out, you really are just a nice person after all. You don’t have the heart to be mean at all, do you? Yeah, you don’t even have it in you to feel any of the ugly things he keeps inside. In fact, he bets you don’t even have the means of knowing such ugly things exist.
That must be what he’s envied about you all this time…
He doesn’t want to share you with anyone and gets viscerally jealous each time you hang out with others. It’s as if he feels boils rising beneath his skin, simmering with a violent need to kill anyone and everyone you ever come into contact with—even if it’s just a passerby who accidentally brushes against you.
He can’t stand other people—how they think they can just come along and be your friend when he’s been your friend since you both were in diapers. What? Do they really expect him to share you with them? Just like that? No way. You’re his best friend. They should all go find themselves their own.
Actually, the term best friend doesn’t even really cut it… It’s a little too childish. You’ve both grown out of it. And besides, it never really fully encompassed what the two of you actually are to each other. You’re so much more than just friends, after all. Yeah, what you really are is soulmates. Yeah, that sounds more right. Soulmates.
And the bond between soulmates is like the bond between an addict and their favorite drug. You wouldn’t ask an addict to share his favorite drug, now would you? No. Not unless you’re prepared to either kill or be killed.
But he can’t say he blames them for wanting you, either. Of course, they’d want you—anyone would.
He pities them, actually. And you make it no better for the poor suckers, stringing them all along—acting as if there’s enough of you to go around. Well, there just isn’t. And even if there was, he shouldn't have to share you with anyone.
Yeah, the problem here is you. You don’t get it, do you? You don’t understand that you’re his.
Well… seems like he’ll just have to teach you once and for all, now, doesn’t it?
“What’s… this?” you mumble groggily once you wake, sluggishly tugging your bound wrists—not yet aware of what they are. Your eyes blow wide once you do—voice turning sharply frantic, “What’s happening?”
“We’re having a play date like we used to.” He comes into view just as the panic sets in—and though his face has all the familiarity to be a sign of comfort, his words evoke no such feeling within you.
“Remember? How we used to play house?" he says. "Granted, we're a little older now… so I thought I’d change it up a bit.”
He stands before the bed you’re currently lying tied down on. But he doesn’t look like himself. No, there’s something very wrong about all of him. Seeming way too at ease for the situation.
“Instead of making mud pies…” he continues. “I'm gonna fuck you and give you a creampie.”
Your heart lurches up into your throat at his words, and you choke. Your clothes from the day have been removed, leaving you naked. You spot them lying on the floor in a heap while you spastically look around for clues as to “What the fuck’s going on? This isn’t funny–”
“Shut up,” he says—his demeanor still as nonchalant as he climbs on top of you and pushes something past your lips, nudging it deep down in your throat.
Feeling it as it scrapes your tongue, you can tell it’s your lace panties, and you gag—shaking your head, trying to dislodge both it and his fingers, but he holds you steady.
“I have things to say. So, be a good friend and listen.”
You start crying then—brows cinched as you look up at him in terror, full-tremoring now while struggling under his weight and the all-too-intimate way he starts touching you.
“I'm glad you’re still a virgin…” he suddenly says, running his hands down your breasts, catching your nipples between his fingers.
You twist in disgust, halfway convinced you’re having some godawful fucked up dream—that this just can’t be happening—but somehow, at the same time, something deep in your gut that’s been lying there for a while ignored by your kind heart doesn't find it completely without warning, having felt how strange he'd been acting as of late—always looking at you a certain way and saying certain concerning things—certain concerning things he’s saying right now, “I’d kill all those little toy friends of yours if you were ever so stupid to let them have it.”
He glares at you—looking every bit angry, and yet you can’t describe it exactly. Something about that look in his eyes makes him seem like a complete stranger to you. Then he cracks a smile, and it makes it all the worse. Bowing down until his forehead presses clean against yours, noses rubbing against each other.
“But I think you knew. Didn’t you? Knew how it wouldn’t be right. Knew it was mine to take.”
He shuffles backward until he’s separating your thighs instead of straddling your waist. And you croak with an especially full-chested sob as his touches travel further down along with him—with savage goosebumps running rampant across your body once he rubs his thumb crassly over your slit.
“You see?” his breath shudders in his throat—thick with something mortifying that’s bound to ruin you forever. “It’s so happy to see me.”
You whine and scramble, trying to force your thighs shut—but he has the upper hand—keeping you spread with his body while two of his fingers slip through your lips and bully themselves inside.
He pumps them in and out with zero regard to how you recoil—only sneering at the way you worm in disgust, “At least your pussy understands where its loyalties lie.”
It’s not long before his ministrations draw wetness, and he pulls them out—inspecting them in the dim light he’s left on. Rubbing the digits together before putting them in his mouth.
You close your eyes with a whimper while listening to the sickening sounds of him sucking them clean.
He puts both hands around your neck next. He doesn't squeeze hard, but your breath stops nonetheless. Eyes stinging with both spent and still-welling tears.
“I’m upset with you,” he states, brushing his lips over your parted ones, still stuffed and silenced with your own underwear. “But I’ll forgive you if you apologize and swear to me that you meant it when you said we’d be friends forever.”
That look in his eyes—you still can’t explain it. Desperate, desolate, deranged, and enraged—something downright sick.
“But since you can’t talk right now, you’ll have to prove it some other way...”
One of the hands disappears, and you hear the following sounds of a zipper being undone, then the rustling of his pants being shoved down.
“Cum on my cock, and I’ll know.”
The room tastes of blood and something rotten as he frees his cock and graces your clit.
“Actions speak louder than words anyway, after all, don’t they? So cum on my cock, and I’ll cum in your pussy, so we can seal our friendship again—just like the time we married each other on the playground.”
He enters you, and you think you might just die in the mix of horror and grief.
And yet you remain perfectly alive—even as he rips through you and splits both you and your heart apart.
“You can think of this as the honeymoon,” he whispers. “Always and forever, happily ever after, never apart.”
Synopsis: You’ve always had a hard time standing up for yourself. Your new roommate loves that about you.
(Warnings: yandere, dark content, manipulation, slight exhibitionism, forced voyeurism(?), non-con, gojo being a freak)
It was a clerical error.
Gojo Satoru wasn’t supposed to have a roommate because he was Gojo Satoru. The apartment was specifically his, as most things were.
You were a mistake.
The administration apologized to you both. They’d fix it in no time, they promised. This would only last a month before you’d move to your permanent residence.
You didn’t mind the error. His apartment was large and expansive, and you’d already unpacked your stuff. The plan was to keep you there until everybody settled in for the semester, and then they could swap you out to an empty room.
Gojo didn’t seem to mind too much either. You assumed he’d be a bit more irritated with the situation, but his lax nature was a pleasant surprise. You wouldn’t necessarily call the two of you close, but you weren’t on bad terms either.
Positive, is the better word. Not exactly neutral, but not too friendly either. You existed on the edges of each other's peripherals, and you were pretty happy with that. Gojo wasn’t a bad roommate either. He kept the apartment mostly clean and didn’t leave any food out. You thought you’d have to deal with loud parties; he seemed like the type, but the tiny circle he gravitated towards never overstayed its welcome.
The only issue was the music.
It wasn’t bad music. You enjoyed his taste. You would just rather not hear it blasting through the walls at 2 am.
A roommate disagreement. It’s the first one you’ve ever had.
You want to do this right. Your biggest worry is offending him. You spend days figuring out the best way to approach him. You look up ways to gently bring up disagreements between your roommate. You fill a bag with treats and sweets–the kinds you’ve seen him munch on before. You even write a letter because you know how flighty you get in these situations, and you can’t thank him enough for all that he’s done for you, but if he could just maybe perhaps slightly–
“-So you just want me to turn the music down?” Gojo interrupts your rambling.
He’s sitting on the sofa, one leg across the other. You remain standing, too strung up to really relax. The paper you were reading out loud crinkles as you fold it back up.
“Yeah.” You mumble. “If you can.”
He takes another candy you’d gifted him, popping it in his mouth.
“Yeah, sure.” He shrugs, as if it were hardly an inconvenience.
You, on the other hand, nearly deflated in relief. You didn’t expect it to be so simple. You were half-preparing for the possibility that he’d blow up at you and go back to administration, demanding your eviction. Everything was resolved so easily.
“Thank you.” A genuine smile graces your lips.
Gojo hums. The candy cracks between his teeth.
“You’re pretty shy, huh?” He tilts his head, studying you.
A laugh escapes your throat. Nervous.
“I just don’t like confrontation,” you admit.
Gojo nods, returning your wave when you say your goodbyes. You think nothing of the exchange. Hours later, you’re still riding the high of how effortless it all went.
⌂
Two things change today.
First, Gojo is up this morning.
He’s never up this early. Usually, you only hear him moving around at noon. You’re the early bird, not him. You never minded his routine. If anything, you appreciated that you ran on separate schedules.
Second, he was naked.
Gojo typically dresses conservatively: T-shirts, sweatpants, hoodies. He adorns the look of a typical college student most days. His tastes are a bit on the expensive side, considering how casually he wears luxury brands, but he’s mostly covered up.
Today, Gojo walks around the kitchen in nothing but boxers.
You’re awkwardly standing in the hallway. You want to go back to your room and hide out until he leaves, but you’re already running late for class. Briefly, you think about keeping your head locked on the ground and slinking out the door. Maybe, if you’re lucky, he won’t notice you.
You aren’t that lucky.
Gojo looks at your miserable figure. There’s no embarrassment about how little he’s dressed. No apologies. No stutters that will make you feel the tiniest bit human. He bares his white teeth as he smiles.
“‘Morning, roomie!” He chirps.
You repeat the pleasantry with far less enthusiasm. You avoid looking at him directly, preferring to look at the counter, the floor, the refrigerator, anywhere that didn’t have Gojo in it.
This was normal, you kept repeating to yourself. This is his house. You’re practically a squatter. He should be comfortable in his own home. He should wear whatever he wants.
Besides, now you can make the most of your situation. You first considered skipping breakfast, given his situation. Now that the worst has happened, you could grab an apple or something.
You slip past him. You think Gojo is making some type of smoothie, but you refuse to look directly at him to confirm. The fruit basket is right at your fingertips. You start to swipe the first one you can grab before making your escape.
Something presses against your back, caging you against the counter. You freeze. You feel hard muscle as Gojo reaches up to mess with the cabinets.
“Sorry.” Gojo casually excuses, rifling through the shelves. “I’ll just be a second.”
One second.
Five seconds. He’s still there. Your knuckles are white from how hard you’re gripping the counter.
“Gojo–”
“My music didn’t bother you last night, did it?” He asks.
For a second, you wonder if that’s why he was doing this. Maybe you had offended him earlier with your complaint. But you don’t hear any resentment in his voice. He sounds cheerful.
Delighted, even.
“No,” you say, “it was fine.”
He hums. When he finally pulls away, you get your autonomy back. You scramble away from the counter, not wanting to get caught again.
“That’s good,” He says, “I’m glad you were upfront about this. We’re roommates! No use in hating eachother, right?”
Temporary roommates, you correct in your head.
“Also, we should use our first names from now on, roomie.” Gojo continues. “We should speak more comfortably.”
Fine, whatever. You just wanted to leave.
He suddenly leans in so he’s eye-to-eye with you. You hadn’t noticed it before, but his gaze is intense. You try to back away, but there’s nowhere to go.
“Say it.” He lowers his voice. “Sa-to-ru.”
It feels like he’s mocking you, but you can’t seem to find the joke.
“Satoru,” you obey.
He smiles.
“Yeah.” He pulls away. “Just like that.”
⌂
After a couple of washes, you finally notice its absence.
It wasn’t the most expensive of your collection, but it was still pretty pricey. You liked the silk material and the dark red color. It was your favorite pair of panties.
You skulk around the apartment, hoping it just fell from the basket. That, or the washer ate it. You tried not to think of the other option.
Days pass, and you give up searching. You decide to forget about it. You have other pairs. It’s not the end of the world.
A part of you thinks about asking Satoru, but you’re quickly squashing it down. No way would you willingly ask him something so embarrassing. You just toss it to the back of your mind, hoping it will just show up again.
And then, Satoru invites you into his room.
It’s not exactly an invitation. When you’re trudging home from class, he pops out from his room, excitedly telling you about a TV show before you’re being dragged inside. You’re not a big fan of the genre, and you have no interest in the show. It doesn’t matter to Satoru. You’re forced to sit on his bed as the characters on screen follow the script.
He’s doing that a lot lately. Interrupting. Invading. You keep brushing off the thought that he’s testing you, somehow.
“Roomie, this guy is so annoying.” Satoru comments. “Don’t worry, he dies in the next episode, so you don’t have to suffer for long.”
You say nothing as he casually spoils the show for you. Honestly, you couldn’t care less. You were getting a little bored. Your eyes wander around his room. It’s cleaner than you thought it’d be. A few clothes are scattered around. A college hoodie hangs off the door. There are all sorts of papers on his desk, each is covered in meaningless algorithms you can’t decipher, and you suddenly remember he’s a physics major. You ask about maybe getting some math help from him later on, before you’re brushing that thought away.
There’s a snap of fingers. Your gaze drifts back to Gojo.
“Roomie, pay attention!” He whines, urging you back to the screen.
There are only 10 minutes of the show left. Fine, you sit there, counting down the minutes until you can make your escape.
Satoru’s hand brushes the edge of your bare thigh.
He’s not exactly touching. You two are sitting pretty close. He was just sitting comfortably, resting his weight on his hands. It’s barely a touch, but it’s there. You can feel his fingers on your skin.
He doesn’t move his hand back. It’s more likely because he doesn’t notice, you convince yourself. You’re overthinking things again.
He shifts. His hand slips even closer.
When you try to open your mouth, he hushes you with a, “This is the best part!” and all the courage leaves your body again.
It feels like hours until the credits finally roll. Satoru steps off the bed to turn off the TV, and you make your move too, eager to find refuge in your room.
“Oh yeah.” His voice stops you in your tracks. “What did you want to talk about earlier?”
You stare. It feels crazy to bring up what happened just now. See? He didn’t even notice.
But now, you have nothing to say, and saying nothing feels like a lie.
“Did you see something in your laundry?” You blurt out before you can even think.
Satoru encapsulates a picture-perfect replication of an innocent doe. He tilts his head in confusion.
“Like what?” He asks.
Dark red panties, with just the hint of lace. You can’t say it. You just can’t.
“I think we might’ve swapped some clothes.” You unhelpfully murmur. “If you see anything…just let me know.”
He nods. “Sure thing, Roomie!” He calls to you as you hurry back into your room and lock the door.
Soon, Satoru’s actions turn less ambivalent.
Sometimes, you’d hear him once or twice in the middle of the night. He’s loud. The walls thankfully muffle most of it, but you know what he’s doing. You usually just plug in your headphones and try not to look at him the next day. So far, things have worked out pretty well.
Today, his door is wide open as he jerks off.
You’re standing right next to your own door, mouth agape, forced to listen to his moans and babbles for five minutes. You’re already late for class.
But you can’t bring yourself to even open your door.
To get out of the apartment, you’d have to cross Satoru’s room. The one that is currently open, where you’d see him stroking his dick.
You know this is going too far. You needed to fucking do something already. There’s no way you can be kept a prisoner in your own home.
And yet, you stay, forced to listen to him openly masturbate.
“Fuck yes,” you can hear him say over and over again. “Just a little more, pretty girl. C’mon, just a bit–there we fucking go.”
He’s talking to someone. No, that’s not right. He’s fantasizing about someone.
More babblings and you’re squeezing your eyes shut as he comes. He curses again, and you stand there until you no longer want to melt into the floor.
A few minutes later, you’re stomping around the room, trying to be as noisy as possible. You loudly adjust your bookbag and fiddle with your chair. You try to give him as much time as possible.
By the time you come out, the apartment is back to normal. His door is still open. You stare straight ahead, ignoring the clear invitation to look as you pass his room.
“Hey, Roomie.” Satoru casually calls from his place on the bed.
You nearly trip over your own feet. Satoru gives a hiss.
“You good?” He asks.
No.
“Yes.” You adjust your bag. “Just tripped.”
“Okay.” You hear him shift. His bed creaks under the weight. “Have fun at class, pretty girl.”
You slam the door a lot harder than you should. You were ten minutes late for class that day, but it doesn’t matter. As much as you tried to focus on your professor’s drones, your mind kept drifting to the name he called you right before you fled.
No, no it couldn’t be. You needed to forget about it.
Also, he was holding something in his hand. You didn’t know for sure, you didn’t want to stare but…
…it was a dark red piece of fabric.
⌂
You like it when Satoru’s friends come over. They create a buffer between you and him.
These days, you aren’t in the apartment as much. You’re out early. You come in late. You aren’t avoiding Satoru. You talk to him when he talks to you. You listen to whatever ramblings he has that day. You aren’t avoiding Satoru.
Today is one of the few times he manages to catch you. Maybe you should count yourself lucky that he did it today, because Suguru was here.
He lounges on the sofa as Satoru drags you behind him. Suguru barely glances up from his phone. He’s pretty used to Satoru’s antics. You aren’t.
Satoru plops right next to his friend, picking up his remote.
“Okay, we’re ready,” he says before frowning and glancing around. “There’s no more space.”
He’s right. Both men are big, barely overcrowding the minuscule couch. You awkwardly loiter nearby as they both set up. You open your mouth, ready to say that you were fine with not joining, that you didn’t really care about a video game, no matter how awesomely Satoru described it.
Satoru’s grin is filled with nothing but delight as he turns to you.
“Here–” he eagerly pats his lap “–I've got plenty of space left, pretty girl.”
You blanch, and his smile just grows wider. He starts to reach for you before his friend steps in.
Suguru shoves him off the couch. Satoru dramatically collapses onto the floor.
“Don’t be a dick.” Geto chides before motioning you to sit.
You take a seat, with a relieved smile directed at Geto. Satoru grumbles from his spot on the floor, but he doesn’t try to move back as you thought he would.
“I can’t believe you’re abusing me in my own home,” Satoru complains. “Where I pay rent.”
“Your parents pay rent, you trust fund baby.” Geto is more than happy to refute.
“Same thing.” Satoru rolls his eyes. “It’ll all go to me in the end.”
Out of all of Satoru’s friends, Suguru seemed to have the biggest hold on his collar. They seemed close. Maybe their friendship had spanned years before college. You don’t know if anyone could bear to be around Satoru for that long, but maybe Suguru is that exception.
You think you spend about an hour watching them play. You aren’t too interested in video games, much less combat games, but they seem to get a kick out of it. Eventually, Gojo demands to play with you. Geto relinquishes his remote to your reluctant hands, more than happy to go back to his phone.
“Damn.” Satoru laughs as he kills you for the 4th time. “You’re bad at this.”
You frown at the YOU LOSE on your side of the screen.
“I haven’t played this before,” you respond.
“I can tell.”
He doesn’t seem particularly upset that his new gaming partner sucks. If anything, the more he kills you, the wider his smile gets.
“We should place bets.” He suddenly pipes up. “However looses a round: strips.”
You shrink. Geto rolls his eyes.
“Satoru, stop bullying your roommate and play the game.” He leans back. “Let the poor thing breathe.”
He whirls around to look at you with wide eyes. You can’t tell whether he’s being genuine. You glance away.
“Yeah.” You fiddle with the remote. “I know.”
“See, it’s fine!” Instantly, Satoru forgets the game. He crowds into the couch to circle his arm around you, pulling you into his side. “You’re the only person who understands my humor, pretty girl.” He sighs.
“This sounds more and more like a hostage situation.” Suguru idly comments.
But when you look at him, really look at him, you can see the apathy clear in his eyes.
Maybe that’s why they got along so well.
“Shut up.” Satoru snaps.
“You’ll tell me, though, right?” Satoru says as he snuggles even closer. “If I’m going too far?”
You want him to get off of you. You know he knows, too.
“I will.” You say instead.
Satoru grins, continuing to swaddle you with his body.
“See?” He blows a raspberry in Suguru’s direction. “My Roomie loves me.”
⌂
Sometimes you prefer to be alone with Satoru. He just gets worse with more people around.
The club he dragged you into was smoky, with the occasional lights that flicked and changed colors, illuminating the floor. It was crowded. Someone spilled a drink on the floor earlier that night. The sweet sticky scent lingered in the air.
Satoru had brought a couple of other people too, more than happy to stuff the lot of you into his car before driving off. One of Satoru’s other friends, Shoko, was here somewhere. Suguru was here too, but you lost sight of him sometime back. You, standing against the wall, wonder if you could take a bus back to the apartment.
The only person in your line of sight was Satoru.
Earlier, he’d asked if you wanted to dance. You declined. You thought he’d make a bigger fuss out of it, like usually he does when you don’t fully accommodate him. Instead, he shrugged off your rejection, casually tossing over his shoulder to ‘join in at any time’.
Someone else was with him. She was shorter than him, even with the heels. You watch as she drags manicured nails across his arms as he leans down to kiss her. You doubt they know each other. Satoru’s just like that. Overly friendly.
It reminds you of all the people he brings over for ‘late-night study sessions’. Apart from the noise, you don’t mind the girls and guys. Most of them are pretty nice. They actually give you a lot of relief whenever you see them. For a second there, you thought that the reason Satoru was doing this to you was that he–
So yes, the people he brings over are a nice thing.
Someone clears his throat.
You don’t recognize him. His grin is sheepish. Polite, you smile back.
The small talk is a bit awkward at first. It’s hard to hear him with the screaming crowd and music. You two exchange names. He comments on the phone case you have, claiming his sister likes that character too. He perks up when he says something that makes you laugh.
“Did you come here with anyone?” He finally asks.
“My roommate,” you offer, turning your head to point to Gojo.
He isn’t there. Neither is the girl he danced with earlier. You wonder if he decided to ditch you and take her home. You don’t think you’d be surprised if he did.
At the implication you aren’t seeing anyone, he asks:
“Can I get you a drink?”
You think you’re about to refuse. You know Satoru and the rest of his group will be drunk by the time the night ends. You’re pretty sure the only reason you were dragged along was to play babysitter and drive them home.
You open your mouth for a polite rejection.
Satoru does it for you.
He was fast. You hadn’t noticed him until he was putting himself right between you and your conversational partner.
Satoru’s smiling. It doesn’t look friendly.
“Hey man,” Satoru casually says, “the fuck are you doing?”
He can read between the lines, something you’re grateful for. Within seconds, the stranger is hurrying off. Lucky, you think to yourself, watching his back disappear into the crowd. Satoru lets him go so easily.
Unlike you.
He turns on you almost immediately. You want to sink into the wall.
“We’re going.” He finally says.
You pliantly nod, letting him lead you out the seedy club. Only when you get to his car do you realize he meant just you and him.
“What about–” You cut yourself off when you see his eyes.
Dark. They no longer resemble the color of cloudless skies. Now, they’re more like thunder and rain.
You’ve never seen him more furious than the entire time you’ve known him.
You remain silent as you slip into the passenger seat, tucking yourself into the seatbelt. Satoru starts the car with a distinct rumble. The locks click into place.
You’ve always known Gojo to be an erratic driver. Tonight feels even worse. His knuckles are white from how hard he’s squeezing the steering wheel. The car keeps speeding up and up, careening past the speed limit. You can hear your heartbeat thudding in your chest.
And Satoru?
Satoru looks like he’s about to murder someone.
“Who was that?” His voice is cold, devoid of all the playfulness he had earlier tonight.
“I don’t–”
“Who the fuck was he?” He demands.
You flinch, and your hands curl into fists to keep them from shaking too much. You can’t do anything but stare into the window, watching the night sky dwindle past with all the other cars on the highway.
“I didn’t know him.” You weakly tried to defend, even if you didn’t know why. Your instinct was to placate. “He just came up to me, and we started to talk.”
He laughs. It’s dry, bitter, and sardonic.
“Okay.” He tells you, turning the wheel so sharply that you press further into the door. “I let you outta’ my sight for two seconds, and you’re letting some fucker feel you up?”
“I–”
“What’d you two talk about?” He demands. “Did he ask if he could touch your pussy? If he did, you would’ve let him, right? I mean, you were practically throwing yourself at him like a slut, so maybe the guy thought he had a chance.”
It hurts to breathe. Something stings in your eyes as your vision blurs.
No one has ever said such horrible things to you before.
“Nothing like that happened.” You insist. Why was he doing this? Why was he acting like this? “Please just–”
“Shut up.” He snaps back. “What, you seriously thought anyone would fall for the shit you pull? You think he actually cared for you? Don’t make me laugh. He only wanted your tits and holes.”
The words Satoru barks out are mean and vulgar. Your body freely shakes, you press yourself further up against the door, feeling tears stream down your cheeks. Satoru’s voice only softens when your hiccups and sobs fill the car.
“Baby, no, I–I didn’t mean that shit.” His voice is oddly strained. You feel fingers brush against your neck, but you only shift away.
You didn’t want to be in that club. You didn’t want to talk to that man. You didn’t want to get into Satoru’s car. You just wanted to go home.
The car slows to a stop right in an abandoned parking lot. Satoru kills the engine, letting the car hum into silence. Whatever happens, you think it will happen now. At this very moment. You prepare yourself for the worst, squeezing your eyes shut.
But it’s even worse.
There’s a hiss of a zipper. Your eyes open just in time to see Satoru pull out his dripping cock.
He’s already hard. His cock curves up, almost touching the steering wheel as he wraps his fingers around the base. The tip is painfully swollen as beads of pre-cum leak down his cock. Veins bulge against his skin as he frantically pushes his hand up and down.
Your fear melts straight into horror as you stare at him. He’s staring right at you, desperately pumping his cock with his hand. The worst part is his eyes–wide, blown out like he’s high. He looks right at you like he wants to eat you alive.
You’re immediately reaching for the handle. No matter how much you tug, the car won’t open. You’re trapped there, forced to watch as your roommate jerks himself off in front of you because your crying turned him on.
Your sobs quieten. All you can hear in the car is his moans and the words he mouths, your name over and over again.
You think the worst part is that he still tries to talk to you, to comfort you.
“You’re okay–you’re okay, baby.” He’s spitting the words out through his teeth as his hand throttles his pulsing dick. “Lemme–lemme–can’t help m’self–just–”,
You flinch when he comes. His cock spurts white cum all over his hands.
You’re fully silent. The only thing you can hear is his heavy breathing as he cleans up.
You think he’s about to reach for you. His fingers never make contact.
You stare out the window. Everything’s dark. Nobody was around. No one was around to see you. To hear you.
Even if someone was around…what could you say?
“Can we go home, please?”
There’s a sharp inhale.
“Sure.” The affection in his tone makes you nauseous.
You close your eyes.
“Anything for you, pretty girl.”
⌂
Ten minutes later, you’re still twiddling your fingers in the waiting room.
Getting this appointment had been excruciatingly difficult. Constant last-minute cancellations. Reschedules. It felt like they were trying to deter you from entering the housing office.
They promised you this was a temporary arrangement. You were only supposed to be at Satoru’s place for a month, maybe even less. But then one month turned to two. Two months turned to three. You don’t think you’d last another day in that apartment.
He was getting worse each day. It was only a matter of them until he—
A man steps into the lounge. He’s tall and lanky, carrying a smile that screams dismissive. You perk up as he squints at you. When he calls your name, you immediately rise, following him into the back of his office.
It’s stuffy. There are papers everywhere. You squish into a chair just before he starts talking.
It’s the usual stuff. You spell out your name, and he pulls up your housing account. He squints at the computer.
“You said this was a temporary assignment?” He asks.
You eagerly nod, straightening your posture.
“Yes,” you say. “My roommate wasn’t supposed to have another one, but there was a mix-up and—“
“No.” He taps on the screen. “You said it was temporary, but here it says it’s permanent.”
You swallow.
“What?”
He messes around with his mouse for a bit. Your hands feel strangely clammy.
“Ah, here it is.” He cleared his throat. “It says you came in a month ago wanting to make the change. I see your and your roommates' signatures. You must have come here a while ago.”
You struggle to find the words.
“I don’t—“
“In any case, it’s too late to change anything now. The deadline for reassignment passed weeks ago.” He gives you a sympathetic look that strangely cuts deep into your skin.
“Are you and your roommate having issues?”
You think about the truth.
“No,” you hear yourself say. “Everything is fine.”
You don’t remember much after that. You think you were polite as you stood up. You think you shook his hand. You think you walked out of his stuffy office and out of that stifling building. Everything is a blur until you step into the sunlight, feeling it beat down your face.
You don’t want to go back to the apartment. You still feel too raw, too fresh.
You don’t have any classes left for today. You can’t hide out on campus. Satoru will find you. He always finds you. Maybe you should stay at a friend’s place and recuperate.
Right, you don’t have any friends. Satoru made sure of that.
Briefly, you think about going to the police. Could you maybe use them as a buffer somehow? At the very least, it might scare him from taking this any further.
But then you glance over at the campus buildings. The name Gojo flashes brightly in the sun.
You aren’t stupid. You may not know his family all that well, but you know the influence of his background. There is a reason his campus apartment is thrice the size of everyone else’s. There is a reason he wasn’t supposed to have a roommate in the first place.
He is everything. He has everything.
You are nothing. You have nothing.
When you arrive at the apartment ten minutes later, Satoru is already lounging on the couch.
He excitedly waves you over. When you get inside striking range, he reaches out, pulling you onto the cushions. You pretend not to notice the way he breathes in your scent as you settle on the sofa. An arm wraps around your body, pushing you into his side.
“Where were you, roomie?” Satoru whines. “Didn’t class end an hour ago?” It would be a harmless question if his grip weren’t so tight. You won’t be surprised if you find a bruise there in a day or two.
Something plays on the TV. Neither of you pays attention.
“Sorry.” It’s all you can muster to say.
He seems satisfied with your answer–the submission of it. You find yourself counting down the clock. Seven minutes go by before you speak up again.
“Satoru?” You ask.
There’s a distant hum of an answer.
“Did you tell Housing I was staying?”
For the longest while, Satoru does not speak. Then, he relaxes. He groans, easily delving into your space. A hand rests on your thigh.
“Oh, that.” There’s a yawn. “Yeah, I just went ahead and told them you didn’t need to move out. We were getting along so well, ‘makes no sense why you’d get a different apartment, right? Sounds like a hassle moving halfway through the semester.”
Then he shifts. You can feel him stare right down at you.
“Unless you have a problem with that?”
He doesn’t even bother to hide it. Pure excitement.
Was there ever a possibility you could’ve come out unscathed had you just stood up to him earlier? Maybe you should’ve been a bit less timid when speaking to him about his music. Maybe you should’ve commented on his lack of clothing around the house.
Or maybe it was always going to end up this way.
“No.” You tell him, staring straight at the TV. “I don’t have a problem with that.”
A couple of days later, another pair of panties goes missing.
Unlike last time, you don’t bother looking for it.
⌂
You always locked your door at night, but looking back, it was stupid to assume Satoru didn’t have a spare key.
This is his apartment, after all.
The lock gives with barely a click. You’re already wide awake, body rigid, tucked underneath the covers as hallway light bleeds into the room. You’re facing the textured wall, watching as his shadow drifts into your bedroom. The door shuts in a way that sounds final. It’s dark again.
He’s quiet. You can barely hear the sounds of his breath. There’s a footstep. Then, another. Eventually, he’s right behind you.
You don’t know what he was doing. You’re too scared to turn and check. Naively, you think if you pretend to be asleep, he’ll leave.
One minute.
Two minutes. He’s so still, for a moment, you wonder if you imagined the whole thing.
The edge of your blankets lifts. Your bed creaks under his weight. His chest presses against your back. Warm hands grasp your shoulders.
He’ll leave eventually. If you pretend to be asleep, he’ll leave.
You squeeze your eyes shut when his head nuzzles into the crook of your neck. He inhales.
Fingers play with the ends of your shirt.
He’ll leave soon. He’ll leave soon. He’ll leave–
“You’re not gonna stop me, are you?” His voice makes your shoulders tense. You can practically hear his smile.
His fingers manage to slip under your shirt. You can barely hold in your gasp when he grabs a handful of your tits. He doesn’t even bother to be gentle, squeezing and pulling until you’re practically whining.
“C’mon.” Satoru coos into your ear. There’s a kiss on your neck. “Say it. Tell me no.”
He nibbles the skin right on your jawline. His hair tickles your cheek.
Your hands reach out to grab his own. You squeeze, digging your nails into his skin.
“Please stop.”
He laughs–the kind of laugh you’d give to a toddler if they misbehave. It feels so mean.
“You’re so cute.” Another kiss right at your ear.
“Stop.” You repeat. His hands don’t budge, not even when you start to draw blood. “Let go. Don’t–don’t touch me–”
He flips you right on your back. From the streetlights peaking through the blinds, you can see his face. The widest smile is stretched over his pretty lips. It looks almost manic.
Your eyes sting.
“Can I kiss you?” He asks. It’s almost cruel how soft his voice is.
You shake your head. His teeth gleam.
“Please?” He leans closer. “Just one kiss?”
It’s heartbreaking how sweet the kiss is. Soft, barely touching as he melds his lips with yours. He keeps a hand on your chin, holding you in place before the greed takes over and he ravages you.
By the time he pulls away, your lips are bitten and bruised.
He sinks lower, face dipping into the skin of your neck as he makes himself home there. It’s laughingly pathetic how weak you were compared to him–how little you fare when he pulls off your shirt, then your shorts. Soon, his clothes join yours, leaving a small puddle of cloth at the foot of your bed.
He pulls away from your body, looking over the whole of you.
“Oh, baby.” His eyes are blown out like he’s high. “I…I just wanna do everything to you.”
You can’t hold back the tears anymore. They drip down your face, sculpting your cheeks. He coos, sinking lower to pepper your face in kisses.
“I’m sorry, baby.” The excitement in his voice betrays him. “Don’t cry. I won’t do anything bad, I promise.”
Liar, you want to call him, but you don’t. You can’t. Your throat traps your voice as his fingers delve underneath your panties.
There’s no tact as he presses into you, immediately filling you up with his finger. Your pussy can barely fit one of him, almost choking when he slips in another. There’s no rhythm, no grace for how fragile you are as he thrusts his fingers deeper and deeper.
You can barely muffle your cries as he hits a spot deep inside you.
“See?” he asks, toying with your clit. “Not bad things, right?”
You don’t answer, barely able to keep the noises in check as he abruptly pulls out of you. His fingers are shiny from your pussy juices. He crudely wipes his fingers on your tits.
You’ve seen his cock before, but it looks even bigger from this angle. It slaps against your inner thighs as he finishes yanking off your drenched panties. The mushroom-tipped head brushes against your slit. He tosses one of your legs over his shoulder, opening your hole just enough to get his cock in the perfect position.
The fight comes in too late. You think you’re reaching up to claw at his face, those pretty blue eyes.
It dies as he bottoms out inside your pussy in one thrust.
He doesn’t wait for you to settle down; he’s not kind enough for that. As soon as his cock sits as deep as it can into your pussy, he’s immediately moving. Your abused cunt immediately tightens around his cock, almost like you’re trying to suck him back in.
You squeeze your eyes shut as you feel Satoru collapse on top of you. His head drops into the crook of your neck. You can hear his ragged breaths as he fucks himself deeper and deeper into you.
“‘need you to relax for me, baby.” He hisses like it’s your fault he can’t control himself. “Can–can barely fit into this cunt.”
To emphasize his words, he reaches down. There’s a soft slap right on your clit. You yelp. He soothes you with gentle circles with his thumb.
“Satoru,” you can barely get out from the pressure, “please just stop–” Another smack on your pussy. Harder.
“Can’t stop.” His breaths are ragged, and his hips shift so he can plow into you at a different angle. “Can’t ever stop. Not when I know how good you feel.”
There’s a rasp of a laugh as your own noises get louder and louder. Your back arches. Something hot writhes in your belly the more the fucks you. He’s gripping your waist so harshly that you know they’ll leave bruises.
It’ll pair well with the clawmarks you leave on his back as you arch further into his raw cock.
There’s a sharp hiss before he’s kissing you again. There’s a harsh thrust that makes you moan directly into his mouth. He reluctantly pulls away, licking the taste of you out of his mouth.
“I’m so glad I found you.” He tells you, continuing to ram into your pussy.
“Can’t even imagine how–how someone else would react to you just givin’ yourself to ‘em. Fuck, even thinkin’ about it makes me wanna kill someone.”
Distantly, you think about all the times you could’ve stopped him. You think about what you could’ve done differently to never cross paths with a man like Gojo Satoru.
“You’re all for me.” He sighs, leaning close so he’s whispering right in your ear.
He wants you to hear this right before he makes you cum all over his cock.
“It’s all you’ll ever be.”
You're writhing against his cock as he forces you through an earth-shattering orgasm. Your pussy clenches hard around him, milking him for all he’s worth as your climax is reluctantly dragged out of your exhausted body.
There’s a grunt, then a sigh as something fills you to the brim. His cock pumps his cum steadily into you. There’s so much your poor pussy can’t keep it all inside. It leaks crudely from your hole.
He stays like that for a minute, breathing you in as you start to come down from your high. Then, Satoru flops to your side, gathering up in your arms. You’re forced to lie against his chest, listening to his quickening heartbeat.
The anger comes too late to do anything about.
“I hate you.” You hiss as he continues to cuddle you. “I hate you, I hate you–you sick, twisted–”
“Aw, you don’t gotta’ pretend to be mean with me, pretty girl.” Satoru coos, snuggling into your exhausted figure. You can feel the hard shape of his cock press right against your thigh.
Naoya x Reader
requested by @rottmntrulesall
p.1, p.3
cw: 18+ / sexual content / misogyny / dub-con elements / p in v / creampie / degradation / mommy kink / daddy kink / breeding kink / lactation kink / breastplay / spanking / overstimulation / strong language / plot with porn / canon!Naoya / unhealthy relationships / arranged marriage / mentions of anal / mentions of pregnancy / parenting / oc / fem!reader
wc: 6.5k
It was in the early hours of a cool, spring morning.
Beyond the mosaic dewdrops of your double-paned hospital window was a gorgeous panorama of a quintessential Japanese spring. Strewn about the baby blue sky were delicate puffs of clouds, as if the endless blue canopy were a freshly brewed latte topped with a sweet, satiny whip. Daybreak filtered through the crevices of sugi leaves, bathing the pale pink blossoms of the sanshobara and azuma shakunage in a golden radiance. Dotting the lush, green landscape of the tranquil hospital gardens were smooth, grey slabs of river stone pathways.
The scenic landscape looked like a picture—pleasant and unmoving—humouressly contrasting the organized chaos inside room 237 of your hospital's maternity ward.
You lie breathlessly on a birthing bed, baby hairs curled and stuck to your forehead by the adhesive of sweat.
You had just started to regain consciousness, mind liquified and nerves shot from hours of intensive labor, giving birth to the heir of one of the Big Three sorcerer families—the 28th head of the Zen'in clan.
You aimlessly toyed with the thin material of your hospital gown, settling on tracing the diamond pattern of the polycotton blend to ground yourself amidst the bedlam of medical professionals.
Buzzing around your bedside table was a swarm of nurses checking your vitals and asking a plethora of questions. You could barely understand the words flying out of their mouths, coming at you faster than your husband's top running speeds.
You did your best to answer coherently, using a makeshift code, due to your postpartum handicaps. Your shoulders still had a modicum of feeling, so groggily shrugging was your go-to emote for most, if not all, of their rapid-fire questions.
Upon sensing your exhaustion, the nursing team reverted to basic maternity procedures, such as providing you with water and offering cold cloths.
It wasn't until you recovered an ounce of energy that you could even slightly rotate your head from right to left, and did your eyes widen at the spectacle taking place just a few feet away from your birthing bed. The sight nearly sent you back into a comatose state.
Looking like subjects who had just stepped out of a Renaissance painting, your good-for-nothing husband, Naoya Zen'in, was sitting on a chair, gently cradling your baby boy swathed in the hospital's cream-colored swaddling blankets.
He was as dressed down as you could get a highfalutin prick like him to be. He was wearing a plain white T-shirt, black dress slacks, black loafers, and a crisp black haori with dark blue floral accents—a birthday gift from you after you had invaded his personal space to track his online shopping habits.
He looked so at peace, for once, maybe even happy...
It would be a real shame if someone desecrated such a sacred moment.
"Aw, Naoya, I didn't know you were pregnant. Congratulations!" You croaked out.
Your ribbing shattered your husband's paternal reverie in an instant. The blonde was now looking at you like he had suddenly developed telepathic powers and was trying to explode you with his mind.
"Oh, you're finally awake. Could you go back to sleep? I prefer you better when you're unconscious."
"You should come up with something original. You always use that line when you're not quick enough to Google better ones."
"I should have told the doctors to use heavier sedatives. Drop the unbecomin' act already, would you? You wouldn't want to become a bad role model now that you're a mother."
"As if you haven't been planning to teach him all sorts of distasteful things to say to me when he becomes old enough to talk."
You scoffed at his threat.
Of course, Naoya was already using your son as a pawn for psychological manipulation. He wasn't even a day old yet.
Well, checkmate, motherfucker.
Your hushed banter continued until it didn't, bringing about a mutually appreciated silence, save for the faint click of a closing door. The doctor had stepped out momentarily to answer a call, and the nurses had quietly converted the room for the signing of paperwork during your quarrel with Naoya.
The only remaining inhabitants of room 237 were your already dysfunctional family of three.
You and your husband lamely stared at each other. You had not gotten a good look at the other spouse since you startled Naoya awake at midnight, flicking his forehead to tell him that your water broke.
Now, the painfully prideful Naoya would rather die than shower you in genuine compliments; however, he couldn't help but be held captive by your radiant postpartum glow. Bare-faced, drenched in sweat, and hair tousled this way and that from hours of thrashing in pain...You never looked more gorgeous. He mentally praised the elders who chose you out of a long line of hideous, less conversationally adept women—yes, even your "wit" was growing on him.
Just a bit.
It was...all right having someone around to volley back and forth with his genius after growing up in a household of drunks and stuffed shirts.
You were unexpectedly in the same position as Naoya. The 27th head of the Zen'in clan prided himself on his looks and the supposed superiority of manhood before anything else, so, with dark circles and bloodshot eyes, the rakishly disheveled man lacking his usual traditional garb and rocking a baby with surprising deftness, was a striking sight to say the least.
As you were a great deal more kindhearted than your husband, you spoke freely, uninhibited by the embarrassment of sincerity, "You know, you look like a natural holding our son. I thought you would have dropped him on his head by now."
Remember, you were a great deal more kindhearted than your husband, not a kindhearted person overall.
"...I'm choosin' to overlook the second half of that statement, sweetheart."
"Huh, fatherhood really has changed you, Naoya. I was expecting something like..."
You contorted your face into one resembling the ever-so smug bastard sitting to your left, adjusting your voice to mimic his strong Kansai dialect, "Of course, I look like a natural. That's because I look better than the entire population of planet Earth! My name is Naoya Zen'in, and I think men should eat steak and women should eat salad! Also, real men fix cars, and women's be trippin'—"
"Stop it. That gratin' voice of yours is goin' to scare our son."
"Technically, it's your grating voice."
"You're incorrigible—here, hold him," Naoya carefully transferred the cream-colored bundle in his arms off to you. "My back is killin' me. These chairs must be cheaper than the hair products in our Prime Minister's bathroom."
While Naoya continued his mixed yoga session featuring the verbal assault of a hospital chair's non-supportive seat cushions, you took the time to admire your son's sleeping face.
Unfortunately, people are right when they say newborns look the same. You didn't see much of Naoya or yourself in the pudgy infant swaddled in your arms. His only distinct features, as of now, were a flat, wide nose, sparse eyebrows, and tufts of hair on his scalp.
You closed your eyes and prayed to the gods above that the 28th head of the Zen'in clan would favor you more than Naoya. It would be the greatest middle finger to the sorcerer clan since Naoya's older cousin, Toji, married into the Fushiguro family.
Still, your son was, without a doubt, more adorable than the typical newborns you've seen in pictures and videos on social media.
That was a problematic thought your husband would definitely verbalize at some point...but, were you much better for thinking it?
You leaned forward to kiss the slumbering baby's chubby cheeks, doing your best not to disturb whatever dreams 1-day-olds may have.
"Mm, you look sexy like that. I should get you pregnant more often," your slimeball husband said.
There it is—the karmic retribution for agitating Naoya when he was having his moment with your son earlier.
"Do you only think with your dick, Naoya? How is it even possible that sex is on your mind at a time like this?"
The blonde shrugged his broad, haori-covered shoulders, dismissing your protest against his crudeness, "It's just how men's brains are, sweetheart. You should know that by now."
With one last crack of his back, Naoya sidled up to your birthing bed with his decidedly least favorite chair in the world.
His trademark condescending smirk died on arrival, passing on into the ghost of fondness the longer he marveled at his wife and child.
"Do you have a name picked out yet? The redheaded crone in the scrubs told me we have fourteen days to decide, and I want to get that done sooner rather than later."
"I had a longer list of names in case we had a girl—"
Naoya gagged.
"You're not funny. Anyway, I had a longer list of names in case we had a girl and a shorter list for if we had a boy, but nothing felt right the moment we found out we were indeed having a boy. I ended up consulting Mai and Maki's mom, and she helped me find a perfect fit."
"And what did you settle on?"
"Manao. Manao Zen'in."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Tomorrow marks the first birthday of Manao Zen'in—a milestone in sorcerer history, delineating the longevity and power of one of Japan's most instrumental clans in shaping jujutsu society.
But for you, it was simply your baby boy's special day.
Originally, you and Naoya arranged a visit to the Edo-Tokyo Open Air Architectural Museum for Manao, and to carry out all of his first birthday rituals at night—just the three of you.
When you asked if he would like to invite the rest of his family, Naoya confided in you that he disliked the idea of sharing such an intimate moment with his dense older brothers, drunkard father, and gaggle of detested relatives.
Somehow, your father-in-law, Naobito, managed to convince Naoya at the last minute to gather the entire household for cake and sake, so they could all celebrate Manao's isshou mochi and erabitori—two birthday traditions that would determine your son's security, career, and personality.
You had no proof to back your theory, but you held the sneaking suspicion that Naobito appealed to his son's apparent paranoia surrounding his own son's development.
"The sin of the insignificant is ignorance of strength," Naoya's words echoed.
As Manao's mother, the brunt of party planning fell onto your shoulders. You spent the day cleaning the house, organizing tomorrow's dinner menu, placing an order for Naobito's favorite strawberry shortcake, and procuring birthday decorations and candles; all while keeping the newest addition to the Zen'in family on your hip.
This supposed "signifier of longevity and power" was currently in deep conversation with his favorite Anpanman plush doll.
"I don't know how you picked your favorite character so quickly. I'm still deciding between Shokupanman and Currypanman, but then I can't pick between just those two because Melonpanna is so adorable!"
"Bah!"
"Yeah, Rollpanna has better lore than Melonpanna, but I don't know Manao. Melonpanna has the better design."
"Bah!"
You never expected to be debating Soreike! Anpanman with a one-year-old.
You never expected to be debating Soreike! Anpanman with a however-old Naobito was!
A well-known fact about the 26th head of the Zen'in clan is that he is a huge anime buff, possessing extensive knowledge about and intense respect for the medium. If he wasn't delivering tirades about the "inutile" Gojo family, you could find him in the living room, binging reserves of sake as well as every anime under the sun from Astro Boy to Paprika.
Consequently, Naobito allowed you access to his Criterion Closet of anime DVDs, wanting nothing more for his grandson than to be a capable clan leader with a refined taste in movies and television, unlike his spoiled, shounen-obsessed son.
You appreciated Naobito's efforts, but now your son was an otaku before he even turned one.
"I cannot believe the amount of labor your first birthday requires," you said to the portly baby, talking as if he were a colleague and not a one-year-old who has no firm grasp of language.
You had been roaming the halls in search of Naoya to tie up any remaining loose threads that—you hoped—wouldn't unravel the day of Manao's celebration.
You hoisted Manao higher onto your hip, then shifted your bag of erabitori items to hang more comfortably on your shoulder.
Your husband had better be in one of these hallways' rooms or else.
Your poor body was hurting all over. Your shoulders were sore, your arms ached, your breasts were engorged with milk, your feet were killing you, and the day wasn't even over yet!
The fool wouldn't answer his phone, which probably meant that he was—
"Aha! Say hi to your useless Daddy, Manao," you said in a sing-songy tone.
You turned to slide the shoji screen closed as Manao paused his exchange with Anpanman to wave a pudgy, closed fist at Naoya.
"Boe!"
"Don't call me 'useless' if you don't want to be called somethin' far worse in return."
It appeared that Naoya had holed up in his favorite study room in the house. It was a scarcely decorated room the size of a walk-in closet, only housing a squat wooden table with a lamp, a small merlot-colored sofa, a bookshelf overflowing with loose-leaf papers, and a vintage piano.
Naoya looked up from the black-and-white keys, eyes brightening at the sight of Manao, and darkening once they landed on you, but not in a hostile manner.
His gaze was sinful—territorial in a way.
Did he have the libido of an incubus?
"Hold your son. I need to store the erabitori items in here. I don't want Manao getting into this bag and misplacing everything before the ritual."
Naoya happily accepted Manao from your outstretched arms and positioned the one-year-old on his lap, gently puppeting your baby's hands to play the simple piano piece "Der Flohwalzer" in G-flat major.
"You should go through them to make sure you didn't miss anythin'."
"I went through them a thousand times, Naoya."
"And not a single one of those times was I present. Go through them again."
You rolled your eyes, but complied, spilling the bag's contents onto the tatami mats of Naoya's study room.
Out came a miniature globe, a ruler, a silver hand mirror, a Japanese dictionary, chopsticks, a calligraphy brush, yen, scissors, a calculator, and an inoperable retro-style telephone.
"That...looks about right. Go put them on the shelf over there. There should be some room if you clear out the stacks of sheet music first."
Naoya shamelessly stared at the curve of your ass as you bent over and carefully placed the bag next to a file holder bursting at the seams with Joe Hisaishi's arrangements.
The blonde sorcerer, growing bored with the novice "Der Flohwalzer," transitioned to the considerably more intricate piece, "Fairy Tale" by Anton Stepanovich Arensky.
Manao squealed in delight at the faster pace.
You couldn't tell if you were reading too much into his expression, but your firstborn seemed focused on the way his father's nimble fingers recreated the Romantic classical composition.
You sat with your legs tucked underneath you, raring to find a camera to capture the endearing sight of your devilishly handsome husband playing the piano with your son.
Before Naoya could start the next piece of his piano recital, you asked, "What do you think about enrolling Manao in piano lessons when he's older? He looks like he's enjoying himself."
Naoya hummed in thought, removing his son's hands from the piano, playing with the boy's chubby cheeks before he could start crying.
"Aw, did you hear that Manao? Mommy already wants to get rid of you."
"Excuse me, that is not what I meant."
"That was a joke, sweetheart. Learn to take one. Besides, we won't have to worry about that for a while. Children typically develop their musical prowess when they reach 6 or 7 years old. Prodigies start even younger, at 4 or 5 years old."
"I'll start tutorin' him when he's ready. I'm a much better teacher than those music conservatories that think they know more than you. Manao won't learn anythin' at those snobbish institutions."
"And where exactly did you learn to play the piano?"
"...At a music conservatory..."
"Right."
Naoya redirected his attention from the piano and onto your folded form on the floor—his gaze lingering on your swollen chest pressing up against your light orange yukata,
"As a matter of fact, I want all of our children to play some form of classical instrument. I don't care if it's the violin or the oboe, as long as they're first chair. Children brought up knowin' how to play an instrument have significant cognitive advantages over those who don't."
"Am I hearing you right? Children? As in the plural form of child?"
"You didn't seem to have a problem with promisin' me five children when you drained my cock in the gardens," he said unabashedly. Naoya hooked a thumb at the window behind him.
The view of the imposing wooden torii gateway to the Zen'in gardens was clear as day.
You inched closer to Naoya, removing Manao from his lap and covering his ears with your hands to protect him from whatever vulgarity was about to spill from Naoya's mouth.
"Th-that was...the heat of the moment, all right? I didn't mean that then and I didn't mean that any other time we tried for a baby."
Naoya clicked his tongue, "You're not bein' a woman of your word. Regardless, you don't have a say in givin' me another child. Have you ever heard of the phrase, 'the heir and the spare'?"
"Yes, I know—"
"It means that for every firstborn child of an estate, a secondborn child is needed if the direct inheritor fails to fulfill their role." Naoya salaciously licked his lips, "Every heir needs a spare, Mommy. So, why don't we start tryin' for a second son, hm?"
"Would you knock it off? The last thing I want is for Manao to turn into a filthy pervert like his—"
You were interrupted by the sliding of the shoji screen behind you. A breathless older woman bowed to you and Naoya—her grey-streaked hairstyle looking haphazardly done up.
"Apologies for the delay, ma'am. There was an incident in the kitchen that I had to oversee. I've come to watch the young master while you finalize tomorrow's plans."
"Oh," you smacked yourself on the forehead, flustered by your temporary lapse in memory, "I'm ashamed to admit I forgot all about that, Ms. Fujie."
Saved by the nursemaid.
She nodded sagely, gesturing for you to hand over Manao, "That's quite all right. You're a young mother. Now, if you had the memory of an elephant, I would be advising Master Naoya here that he might have married a demon."
You laughed politely, nudging Naoya's leg to get him to do the same. You swear, the Zen'ins must have tightened their wallets when it came to etiquette lessons for your husband.
Ms. Fujie scooped up Manao with the grace of a swan—a move she probably mastered long before Naoya was born. Your baby looked like he was about to cry, but Ms. Fujie expertly shook his Anpanman plush around, softly cooing into Manao's ear. Your baby instantly quieted, entranced by his favorite superhero "flying" around his head.
"Myself or one of my girls shall return him to his nursery at the time you requested. I look forward to seeing you both at the young master's celebration tomorrow. Have a good night."
And with that, the kind, older woman exited the room, taking any of the remaining warmth Naoya's study had with her.
She had left you alone with the real demon in this marriage.
You slowly turned to face your husband, who was resting his head on his hand, smirking down at you from his seat on the cushioned piano bench.
"Don't look so scared, sweetheart. It's just me."
Getting down on all fours like a cat slinking through tall grass, Naoya prowled his way over to you. He pulled apart the opening of your light orange yukata—the soft cotton material deliciously rubbing against your pebbling, wet nipples.
"You look so tasty, Mommy." Naoya's thumb lightly encircled your leaking buds, "And you need Daddy's mouth, don't you?"
Naoya's ministrations gave way to thin rivulets dribbling from your large, milk-filled breasts down the length of your torso.
About three days after Manao was born, you started producing enough milk to increase your breast size by four cups. Not only was the pressure on your breasts an enormous pain, but you also felt like the phrase, "tits on a stick."
Naoya, being the man-child that he is, was beaming like a lighthouse during inclement weather when he observed your bodily changes. You had never seen that man in such high spirits, though the bar was so low, you could order chūhai at it in hell.
In fact, when the Kukuru Unit's reports came in, Naoya's Hei review had risen to one star. The members noted that he seemed a skosh nicer these days, openly praising his newborn son in place of his characteristic trash-talking.
Did Naoya's Mommy issues run that deep to the point where you breastfeeding him almost every night alleviated some of his mental blockage? That can't be right. Maybe he's just happy to be a father.
Naoya shifted his weight forward, forcing you to swing your legs out from under you and lie flat on your back. He then pressed his face into your cleavage, inhaling your lavender perfume mixed with the sweetness of your milk.
"I wonder how much more you can give me," he mumbled against your skin.
"You give me your body. You give me your milk—"
Naoya took your left nipple into his warm mouth, whining at the creamy, vanilla taste spreading across his tongue. You sighed in relief at the ability to finally express yourself after today's unrest.
"Mm, what else can I take from you before you're reduced to nothin' but a warm, wet hole?"
His words and his whines reached your ears, making you roll your eyes at his blatant hypocrisy. Naoya loved to posture as a domineering man with a no-nonsense attitude, but, truly, he was the one who was reduced to nothing by the mere sight of your body. He could call you a bitch or a whore all he liked. Naoya's insolence was negated by his incessant need for your affection and, perhaps more indecorously, your pussy wrapped around his dick.
Naoya's hand found its way under your robes, massaging your folds as he continued to slurp up pints of your milk. You throbbed at the presence of your husband's thick fingers, prodding at your weeping entrance.
Your husband briefly unlatched from your nipple to talk down to you, spurred on by the strong sexual tension permeating the room, "You're such a messy slut, baby. Mm, I could probably split you open on my cock right now. You would like that, wouldn't you? Does Mommy want Daddy's cock to fuck her pregnant again?"
As vexing as your husband could be, damn, did he have a way with words—and his fingers. The blonde proceeded to help himself to your overflowing tits, just as you felt him rip off your panties to push his middle and ring finger into your sopping wet core.
You moaned at the intrusion, reaching down to play with your beating clit that was rubbing against Naoya's muscly stomach.
He licked a long stripe up from your abdomen to your nipple, then back down to your middle, groaning out, "I miss when you were pregnant—when you were full of me. You've never been more beautiful."
That statement was...oddly vulnerable for him.
"You m-miss that?"
"I've missed it every day since you gave birth. I miss how everyone could tell you belonged to me just by lookin' at your swollen stomach. I miss how much you had to rely on me. You couldn't do anythin' for yourself. You were so weak—so helpless. And I need you like that again."
Naoya ground his hard-on into your thigh, humping your leg like the pitiful, pussy-whipped man he was.
"If it takes four more pregnancies, so be it. You can handle it. That's why you're such a good Mommy."
You forced a moan back into your throat at his admittance.
Truthfully, you missed being pregnant, too. The morning sickness, the back pain, and the actual birthing process you could live without, but for once, your husband seemed so very in love with you. The sorcerer was exceptionally doting by his own standards.
Was it because you finally embodied Naoya's idea of a perfect woman? Maybe your powerless condition validated his theoretical hierarchy.
He needs confirmation that he’s as powerful as he thinks he is.
"N-Naoya, stop drinking s-so much milk. You're going t-to hurt your st-stomach," you chided.
"Do you seriously think you can tell me what to do? You're beneath me in more ways than one. It's really a mystery why I have yet to buy you a gag when I need to get my dick wet."
You shut up and focused on the pure bliss that was his fingers working themselves in and out of you. Convincing a rock that it was Sugawara no Michizane in a past life was easier than arguing with Naoya. When Naoya does end up drinking himself right into a stomachache, you'll be babying him along with your actual baby. He never heeded your warnings.
The wet sounds of your soaking pussy were so loud that you were certain anyone standing right outside the shoji screen could hear your illicit activities.
You looked down at the blonde now nursing at your right nipple—your milk supply streaming out of the corner of his mouth and down his perfectly angular jawline. You sighed at the way his balmed lips enveloped your nipple. His skillful tongue flicked and flattened itself on the erogenous zone, capturing any droplets that escaped. You ran a hand through his coarse hair, scratching at his scalp in the way he liked.
He whimpered into your breast, "Ngh, Mommy, you taste so good."
Indeed, the pinnacle of the "alpha male" philosophy he championed.
Naoya briskly untied the sash of his hakama and undid the fastenings of his robes, quickly replacing his fingers with his rosy pink erection. His movements were so expeditious that he looked like a blur of pale limbs and dark teal and grey fabrics.
The initial stretch of Naoya's length was a deliciously tender torment. He eased his cock into your pulsing cunt, satisfying his raging hard-on by coating every inch of himself in your slick. You arched your rigid body into his at the sensation of his large, veiny cock rubbing against your walls.
Naoya bent down to kiss you, adjusting his body into a sort of plank position, causing him to drive into you even deeper, "Ah, tell Daddy what y-you want or," he smirked against your lips, "We're goin' to s-stay like th-this until I get bored with you."
Heavily aroused by your husband's paradoxical dominant and submissive energy, you subconsciously coaxed out a trickle of breast milk. Naoya's eyes followed the milky fluid, pupils dilating at the sight of your breast milk mixing into the ring of arousal at the junction of his dick nestling into your cunt.
"Fuck, Daddy, I need you to f-fuck me."
"And?"
"What do y-you mean 'and'?"
"You need somethin' else f-from me. You know precisely w-what I want to hear."
Naoya started to rock his hips, growing impatient with your obliviousness.
"Okay, okay, okay. Please, Naoya, I need you to get me pregnant. I n-need Daddy to keep me full of h-his cum!"
At your lewd words, Naoya hooked his arms under your legs and pulled them up to his shoulders, beginning to piston in and out of you at a breakneck speed and sounding like a malevolent spirit was erotically choking him out. That was your Naoya, a loudmouth in public and an even louder mouth in private.
As you lay there underneath your husband's formidable, muscular frame, his full and heavy balls slapping against your ass, the seed of a horrifying thought process bloomed into the flower of an identity crisis:
Would it be so bad to truly and wholly submit yourself to Naoya?
He can be cruel, yes, but he's shown you a softer, caring side to himself.
Maybe he really does have your best interests in mind.
What if you were a perfect porcelain doll that he could do with whatever he liked? You wouldn't have to think for yourself. You wouldn't have to dress yourself. You would only have to stay by his side, prim and proper, honoring his every need.
He's asked you for a second child, and here you are allowing him to rail you in his study like a common whore, knowing that you will be spending the next nine months going to bed stuffed with Naoya's cream and waking up with his cock inside you, intent on filling you again and again and again.
If he commanded you to suck him off in the hallways or let him keep you on his dick during clan meetings, would you do it?
Stop it. This is some sort of...sex-fueled fever dream. You're a person, not a doll.
A particularly hard thrust forced you out of your pleasure-induced limbo and back into the sweltering heat of your husband's study.
You and Naoya were covered in a heady mixture of sweat, arousal, and breast milk as he plowed into you, his hips setting a brutal pace—not caring if you came or not. He was self-serving like that.
He didn't deserve you.
Not. At. All.
"You're thinkin' s-so hard that I can hear some gears t-turnin'. Are you pickin' out names already? Th-that's a little early."
His right hand came down hard on your ass, the shock of the spanking making you contract around his pistoning shaft, "You know, I thought havin' kids would absolutely r-ruin this body, but y-you're still s-so tight, princess. Guess I got l-lucky with you. You're not like other women, in that r-regard."
Your long fingernails trailed up and down his back, hard enough to leave scratch marks, but still gentle enough not to draw blood.
Every dulcet moan Naoya violently ripped from your throat sounded more mellifluent than any advanced piece he could perform on the piano.
He studied your current predicament. His light brown eyes traveled down your body, starting from your teary eyes, to your gaping mouth, then to your swollen, lactating breasts, and finally, your sensitive, gushing cunt.
You were the closest thing to perfection in Naoya's world.
You could be so helpless and weak at times.
"Fuck, you're so tight, Mommy. You're always s-so tight for me. I can't wait for you to start showin' again. God, you have n-no idea how hard it was to keep my hands off of y-you," he made a sound that landed somewhere between mirthless laughter and a breathy moan.
"It's not like y-you could leave m-me alone, either. The sight of you wakin' up with my cock down your th-throat, gaggin' and chokin' on me—tryin' to fit all of me in your mouth..."
He tilted his head to mouth at your tits, ravenously indulging in your sweet milk.
"Fuck, I know you're d-desperate for my cum, baby. Give me another son, Mommy. Y-you were made for this. You want th-this just as much as I do—don't fuckin' pretend you don't. Tell me you w-want to make me a Daddy again. Say it!"
This motherfucker was going to cum already?
"God, you're a little degen—"
"That's not wh-what I ordered. You know what t-to say, Mommy. Beg for it like a bitch. Beg Daddy for a baby."
Fuck, he's going to cum.
"Daddy," you whined, grabbing his chin to direct his full attention to the most licentious face you could conjure up, "I want you to make me a Mommy again, too. You're right—you're a-always right. You need to breed me every day and keep me f-full of you. I want to feel you inside me in the sh-shower, in our b-bed, against the walls—anywhere! I have to f-feel you leaking down my legs every second of every day."
"I can do that for you, Mommy. I'll stuff every i-inch of you with my cum. I don't care if it h-hurts. I'll start fuckin' your ass if I have to. Ngh, I'm cummin', I'm cummin, fuck, Mommy, I'm cummin'!"
Perfect.
One of the few moments in life Naoya will ever let his guard down is during sleep and sex. He fucked the will out of you to kill him in his sleep a long time ago, and now that you two were forever linked through Manao, there was no way in hell you would try that again now. But that didn't stop you from getting away with lesser evils.
In the midst of him cumming his life away, you effortlessly rolled Naoya onto his back, taking great care to keep his semi-hard cock inside of you.
"Wh-what the hell are you doin'—"
"I'm cumming is what I'm doing, you idiot."
You did your best to match Naoya's earlier pace, rocking your hips back and forth to satiate your unsatisfied cunt.
"I didn't tell you you could d-do that. Get the f-fuck off of m-me!"
He didn't sound that upset. Actually, he sounded more like a pornstar.
"Just shut up and let me e-enjoy myself, honey. It's not like you'll have to carry a baby for n-nine months and do the hard work of pushing it out."
"You're actin' like that's the m-most painful—"
"If you even think about f-finishing that sentence, I swear to the heavens you'll never dr-drink a drop of my breast milk again."
You felt Naoya's cock twitch, veins bulging in defiance.
As you sank further onto his entire length, a spurt of breast milk dripped down to the crevice of your thighs and into the dip of your pussy, lubricating his cream-covered dick. There was little to no friction as you rode him into the light green flooring of his study.
Your husband's breathing grew ragged the faster you went. He looked so cute fighting his body, trying and failing to keep his tongue from lolling out of his wide-open mouth.
You got in close to his ear, sensually licking circles around the silver piercing in his earlobe, "You're being really quiet, honey. I just t-told you not to finish that sentence. I didn't s-say to stop talking completely."
"Come on, do the thing that I like," you playfully drew patterns on his glistening pectoral muscles, "I'm asking n-nicely, too."
Naoya groaned, covering his beet-red face with trembling hands, "Fuck, g-give me a second. Your naggin' isn't a-attractive."
"N-nagging? You had me begging you to get me pregnant—twice. I think you like my nagging."
You flicked his defined cheekbone just as his pulsating cock reached that deep, spongy spot that made you release a high-pitched moan fit for a pornographic film.
"Say it."
A hush blanketed the room for a few minutes, aside from the sounds of your and Naoya's mess between your tangled legs. The squelching of his cock and the sloshing of your pussy were having a more productive conversation than you two.
"You're such a good wife to m-me, princess." Naoya mumbled from behind his hands, pressing them into his face so hard that his knuckles turned white.
A devious smile graced your features. Finally, dirty talk that will get you off in seconds.
You rested your hands on his shoulders, sinking your nails into the soft, pale skin, "There it is. Keep going, honey. You're doing gr-great!"
Naoya rolled his eyes, but obliged, "You're the m-most beautiful woman in the world and you work so hard to please m-me and our s-son. I love you so much, sweetheart."
"Degrade yourself a little m-more. Oh, and say that l-last part again, baby."
"Absolutely not."
"Naoya!"
"...You deserve so much more than me. I don't appreciate the meals you c-cook for me or how much effort y-you put into takin' c-care of the house. I. Love. You."
He said those last three words through gritted teeth.
"Fuck, you're s-so sexy when you're like this, honey. Why can't you b-be this pleasant a-all the time?"
Even though his words were most likely devoid of any meaning, it felt nice to hear them every once in a while, though it was funnier to watch him squirm. It was equal parts ridiculous and pathetic as hell that he felt so much shame whispering such sweet nothings, but was willing to voice the filthiest, most depraved fantasies you've ever heard from another human being.
You pressed your kiss-swollen lips to your husband's, silencing your increasingly loud moans as you got closer to your climax. You could tell Naoya was teetering on the edge of his second orgasm, too. And you wanted this man drained.
You returned to sucking his earlobe, this time, the ear with zero piercings, so that you could run your tongue along the shell.
"Daddy, I think you're very close. Do you want to cum with M-Mommy? You can cum all you w-want inside again. I won't stop you."
Your silken folds massaged Naoya's spent cock. All he could feel was the mess you two made from earlier with every cant of your hips.
How do you always manage to get him on his back and fuck the soul out of his body?
Naoya's hands abruptly flew from his face to your hips. The muscles in his neck tensed, and he started to buck up into you.
"Fuck, I'm—"
"Just let g-go. I want every last drop inside of me. Can you do that for m-me, Daddy?"
Instead of just his neck, Naoya's entire body tensed. You felt the warm flood of his orgasm as soon as you hit your climax. You dropped your entire body weight onto his squirting cock, securing every driblet of semen inside of you.
Naoya's orgasms were never quick and clean. If it were anatomically possible, you were certain that every time he emptied his reserves into you, you would be dripping his ejaculate out of your mouth. But still, you rode him through your shared high, savoring the overstimulation.
Naoya squeezed your hips, yanking you down onto his pelvis to stop your movements, inadvertently kissing your cervix with his tip.
"Ow! Naoya, you need to be careful—ngh!"
Your husband was upright in seconds, already licking up the globs of milk beading at your nipples. His arms encircled your waist as he started nursing again, not caring about the puddle of cum forming underneath you two. His hands massaged the padding of your hips as he swallowed your milk like a parched man stumbling upon an oasis.
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Naoya Zen'in x Reader
p.2, p.3
cw: 18+ / sexual content / misogyny / dub-con elements / public sex / p in v / hate-fucking / breastplay / breeding kink / lactation kink / creampie / choking / degradation / spitting / plot with porn / strong language / canon!Naoya / unhealthy relationships / arranged marriage / mentions of pregnancy / sundresses / fem!reader
wc: 3.2k
Marrying into the Zen'in family had more cons than pros, but that didn't mean the perks were anything to laugh at. Your newly acquired position as the wife of Naoya Zen'in—the future head of the Zen'in clan—meant that you had a much broader purview than when you were the only daughter in a clan subscribed to male-preference primogeniture.
Unlike your previous station, you now had an allowance for beautification rituals. Skincare, makeup, manicures, pedicures, waxing, and eyebrow threading were all legitimate aspects of your job.
If the average woman's worth was determined by her beauty and reproductive abilities, then the wife of a clan leader should exceed those standards tenfold.
Earlier that day, you stopped by a local boutique carrying plain, lightweight sundresses in every color of the rainbow. There were only so many ornate kimonos and yukatas you could wear before drowning in the sea of maximalism. Feeling sentimental, you almost purchased the jade green dress—your husband's favorite color—before you remembered what an absolute cunt he was to you this morning.
"Your hair," Naoya stated blankly.
"What about it?"
"I don't like it. The layers...they're too short. And the color...it's too light. Did you look in the mirror, like, at all when you left the salon? Why didn't you ask for my opinion before you ruined your hair?"
"My hair looks fine, Naoya. I think you're overreacting."
Despite your self-assuredness, his scathing critiques of your physical appearance induced a surge of insecurity throughout your body. You shuffled over to the nearest full-length mirror in your house for a thorough inspection. Your hair looked fine, indeed.
"See? Not a strand out of place. I swear, if I lost my eyesight, you would have just convinced me I'd gotten a bright blue buzzcut."
Naoya laughed dryly, "Trust me, if you had that haircut, I would have taken your ass to court for property damage."
He took a comically large step back and squinted, "This haircut is...acceptable—from a distance, at least."
You purchased the white dress without a second thought.
And, thank the heavens you did, because, as pleasant as the balmy climate was, if you had just one more article of clothing on, you would be imbuing your every step with unbridled, cursed energy, like your husband.
"Should I simply chalk this failure up to your biology? What else could be causin' this common sense deficit? Such an unfortunate symptom that comes with bein' a woman...Nevertheless, it is still your job to look out for my health," he said in his characteristic condescension.
"Would you have really listened to my 'frivolous' weather report and worn something other than what you usually wear?" You held up your hand to count on your fingers, "You don't listen to me. You don't listen to me when I tell you to eat something other than tempura. You don't listen to me when I ask you about floral arrangements for the house. You don't listen—"
Naoya dragged a hand down his face and let out an exasperated exhale, "And here comes the naggin'."
"I wouldn't have to 'nag' you to do anything if you had common sense. Maybe you should blame 'your biology' for this mishap."
"How about you stop bein' a bitch for the rest of our walk and let me enjoy my peace."
Prick.
Throughout your trek, you felt Naoya's burning gaze on your exposed, sun-kissed skin. Tragically, you had gotten used to his shameless perversions towards you. When you confided in some other women in the Zen'in household, they had attempted to convince you that such brazen behavior was his right as your husband.
Naoya's eyeline was a prison, and you were serving a life sentence.
A light breeze rolled in to rustle the sugi leaves onto the moss-covered floor paved by cracked stone paths. Aside from a chorus of chirping cicadas, the hushed atmosphere complemented the calming scene before you.
So, of course, Naoya had to start talking.
"The elders want us to start tryin' for a child as soon as possible," he said, out of the blue.
You stopped in your tracks to shoot him a look of disbelief, "And you're bringing this to my attention...for what?"
Naoya's narrow, golden eyes flashed deviously. His arms surged forward, quickly maneuvering you into a compromising position where your body was pressed tightly against his muscular frame, "How precious! My stupid little wife really is as stupid and little as she looks."
His strong hands slithered downwards and gripped the padding of your hips like a vice, before lowering his head and speaking directly into your ear, "Listen very closely, princess, because I won't be repeatin' myself."
"Clanheads before me had married much younger and—at this stage of life—were prepared for the birth of their third child. Regrettably, it took a while to sort through all of those ugly, flat-chested girls. By the time my clan notified me of your existence, I was no longer what the elders would consider a 'young man.' As a result, they've been pesterin' me about producin' a successor the day we got married."
"I'm not asking you about your string of failed courtships, Naoya. I'm asking why you're voicing such indecent thoughts on—what was supposed to be—a peaceful walk."
You hoped that despite your appearance—your back arched and chest flush against your deviant husband—your tone carried a sense of authority.
Naoya withdrew just enough to look you directly in the eyes like a predator sizing up its meal one last time, "You can't tell me that you didn't expect such lewd activities wearin' such a scandalous dress."
His smooth, right-hand shot up from your hip to grasp your face. He harshly squeezed your cheeks together, forcing you into a petulant pout.
"I was goin' to wait for tonight to remind you of your wifely duties, but you looked so adorable, I just had to ruin this innocent stroll of ours. I'm sorry, sweetheart. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me," he said.
Naoya looked hungrier than he did apologetic. His eyes crawled up and down your body in his special way that made you feel simultaneously flattered and uncomfortable.
He should pray to every god in existence for making him so handsome, or he would not have much else going for him.
You glided your hands up from his broad chest and wrapped them around his neck, "Could you imagine how many children we would have now if you weren't such an awful husband?"
Your jab seemed to strike a nerve because Naoya's eyes widened—jaw unhinging to form a rebuttal—before you shoved your tongue into his mouth to shut him up.
The two of you stood in the middle of those cracked stone paths—a mass of tangled limbs gripping at and grasping onto each other. You had just gotten into the rhythm of massaging each other's tongues when Naoya pulled your hair, painfully forcing your head back.
"Open your mouth, slut."
You did as you were told.
A thick ribbon of saliva dripped out of his mouth, catching on the tip of your tongue.
"Now, swallow."
Again, you did as you were told.
Naoya chuckled, "Why is it that you're only ever submissive when I pleasure you, hm? Is it, perhaps, your true nature as a woman to eagerly accept whatever I give you?"
"Are you implying you're not a slave to biology? You couldn't handle a short walk in the garden because of a slip of cotton," you snarkily replied. You carefully untied the sundress's knot at the nape of your neck—the white fabric now hanging limply off your hips.
Proving your point, a glimpse of your exposed breasts seemed to put Naoya in a state of reverie. His hands moved to cup your chest—thumbs rolling over your hardened nipples with an unexpected gentle touch. The touch of a husband who painted countless portraits of his wife's image, immortalizing her beauty. The touch of a husband who wrote heartfelt poems, capturing the wealth of love he had for his wife in such few words. The touch of a—
"Ow! Naoya, what the fuck?"
Your romantic ruminations came to a screeching halt by Naoya's apparent use of Projection Sorcery. He had split one second into twenty-four frames to wrestle you to the hard ground, undo his hakama, remove your undergarments, and continue occupying himself with your chest—a disgraceful use of his family's cursed technique.
Naoya's long tongue skimmed across your breasts. His soft lips latched onto your nipple and sucked as if he were able to pull milk from it.
The Zen'in gardens echoed with your husband's whining.
"I can't begin to imagine how sweet you'll taste when you're pregnant with my child."
"You're such a pervert—ngh!"
Naoya ignored your barb, still appearing out of it. He muttered to himself against the soft fatty tissue his hands were caressing, "These will get so bloated with milk once you start feedin' the family. Do you think you could make enough to satisfy your husband and his children?"
The husband in question would not have married you if he knew you could not cater to his every whim. You ignored his rhetorical question. Someday, you would have to figure out how to accomplish his nigh-impossible tasks while pregnant, but not now.
His fingers traced the contours of your chest, intimately memorizing every inch of you. Naoya's ministrations rendered you helpless. The most you could do was moan at his words and card your fingers through tufts of bleached blonde hair. With every passing second, the air felt polluted with the overwhelming scent of his cologne.
You could feel the hard outline of his cock through the fabric of his nagagi, rutting against your thighs.
Countless "nights of passion" with Naoya taught you everything you needed to know about his approach to sex. He was an insufferable tease during intercourse, so you had to press particular buttons in a particular sequence to get exactly what you wanted out of him.
Desperate to relieve the pressure building in your stomach, you mewled for your husband in a convincing yet cloying voice, "Baby, I'm really sorry for being so difficult earlier."
Naoya paused his suckling to stare up at you through half-lidded eyes, high on visions of lactating breasts.
Tell him what he wants to hear.
"I just—I love you so much, Naoya. I never know what to do with myself around you. If getting me pregnant is your wish, then—please—touch me, baby. Get me pregnant. I need your tongue, your fingers, your cock, anything! I need you to feel how much I want you."
"You're finally soundin' like a true Zen'in wife. Keep talkin'."
The material of your sundress bunched around your hips when Naoya moved it out of the way. He was absolutely floored at the mouthwatering sight of your pussy, perfectly shaven and dripping liquid lust onto the floor. He gathered your slick with his fingers and, with the uncharacteristic softness from earlier, gradually slid two fingers inside of you.
Naoya Zen'in had never been the type to prioritize anyone else's pleasure over his own, much less his wife's. However, with the intoxicating desire to see you pumped full of enough cum that it starts dripping down your legs, he found the sacrifice worth it.
"Mm, when my body changes during those nine months, will you still t-take care of me like this? Will you still love me w-when my hips and thighs grow wider than you're used t-to?" You asked, playing into his misogynistic fantasy.
"Princess, it's only logical that a man becomes more attracted to a woman who knows her place. Your purpose in this life is to serve me and further my legacy. What better way is there to show that than by carryin' my child?"
Fucking moron.
Admittedly, it was getting harder to form negative thoughts about the horrific man above you when his fingers skillfully slid back and forth in your wet heat. You tightened around his fingers, partially because it felt too good, but also to keep yourself from blurting out a genuine, "I love you."
You might have if it weren't for what came out of his mouth next.
"You must really love your husband if you're this soaked from just my fingers, sweetheart," he scoffed. "Women are so predictable. You all talk about how you don't need a man to tell you what to do, but you're always the ones on your backs, bein' told to open your legs. It's pathetic."
Pathetic? Not too long ago, this 27-year-old man-child was fantasizing about you breastfeeding him!
To hell with this.
"What the hell are you—"
"Shut the fuck up, Naoya."
With every ounce of strength earned through years of practicing jujutsu sorcery, you hooked your leg over Naoya's flank and flipped him onto his back, reversing your positions.
No doubt, he was sputtering even more misogynistic gibberish at you, but you were hard at work removing the remaining layers and sashes of his outfit.
When you were satisfied with your work, you began rocking your hips against his.
Your original plans to sweet-talk him into fucking the disgust out of you had been aborted.
"If you want a family so bad, then we've wasted enough time. So let's get one thing clear, Naoya. If I'm going to put my body through nine months of torture, I'm at least going to make the process enjoyable."
Without a warning, you eased your slick, swollen pussy onto the fat tip of Naoya's leaking cock. Even with the previous aid of Naoya's fingers, the stretch of his cock was almost too much.
His hands flew to your hips, "Seriously, w-what do you think you're doin', woman?"
"I'm going to milk your cock for all its worth until I'm pregnant with your silly little legacy," you said, pausing to take in Naoya's searing glare. "Don't look at me like that. I'm giving you what you wanted. Isn't that what being a good wife is all about?"
Your pussy sank further down onto the rest of Naoya's erection at an agonizingly slow pace. Every inch required an unforeseen amount of effort to fit him inside of you. When you finally reached the hilt of his thick, veiny cock, a creamy ring had already formed at the base.
You reassured yourself that, while the view in front of you was a consolation prize compared to the entire human being Naoya would be receiving, it was still decent compensation for all of your hard work.
Your husband's blonde hair splayed out around his skull like an undeserving halo. His eyes had rolled back into his head, revealing nothing but a web of red blood vessels and white sclera. His unwrapped nagagi exposed a pale, toned chest and well-defined abs. The smooth expanse of skin bared no unsightly scars, signifying a life of luxury and privilege. He looked so vulnerable.
He was vulnerable.
You thought you were better than Naoya at many things, but it seems you get just as drunk off sex as he does. Because, suddenly, you were compelled to start autoerotically asphyxiating the bastard. You wrapped your hands around his throat like a boa constrictor and squeezed. Your prideful, brat of a husband made no gesture for you to stop. In fact, he started canting his hips upward to get you to move. You swore you could feel Naoya's plump cock gush pre-cum in response to his brain's lack of oxygen.
"How many children were you thinking of having, N-Naoya?" Your tight pussy contracted even more at the thought of him filling you up with load after load. "I want at least t-two or three, but I don't think I'd be upset if we ended up with f-five."
The combination of Naoya's throbbing cock and your pulsating cunt was driving you to madness, blabbering whatever words managed to claw their way past your clenched teeth. You were cockdrunk.
Temporarily forgetting your predicament, you removed your hands from Naoya's throat, so he could give you a clear answer, "F-fuck, I don't know. Five! Fuckin' five!"
"Aw, that's a g-great answer, darling. Five it is!" You cheered.
Naoya looked like a beautiful mess, writhing on the floor in pure ecstasy. He was moaning louder than you've ever heard him. A sharp pang of affection for the loser getting the life ridden out of him stabbed you through the heart. Maybe, just maybe, he deserved a small reward for being such a good husband.
You slowed your hips from a bounce to a roll and gently maneuvered him into an upright position. Pressing his lips to the swollen peaks on your chest, you cooed into his ear, "Do you want some milk, baby? You know, despite my lacking common sense, it's still my job to look out for your health," you said, echoing his misogynistic attack from earlier.
"Go on, sweetheart. Suck."
Tired and fucked-out of his mind, Naoya complied without his usual venom. It was equal parts sweet and erotic that your husband regressed into such innocence when presented with the opportunity to lick at your breasts.
The pressure that had been slowly building in your system was so close to bursting. You could tell you were both nearing your end. Fatigue was affecting the speed at which you could move, and Naoya had been reduced to what amounted to dead weight. Despite his exhausted state, your creamy pussy still managed to elicit his deliciously low groans with every buck.
Almost there.
Taking advantage of this new, intimate position, your lips grazed the shell of Naoya's ear as you mumbled, "If I had known that fucking you meant relegating your mouth to such cute, embarrassing noises, I would have done it a lot more. I should make this part of our routine. Would you like it if I started fucking you during clan meetings in front of all your brothers? How about when I'm feeding you? I could sit on your lap without any panties. Would you like that, baby?"
Almost.
Naoya, still mouthing at your nipple, moaned in agreement. His hands, desperate for some type of purchase, latched onto your hips.
"Ngh—I'm going to cum, baby. I need you to fill me up. I need your cum, Naoya."
You had officially lost your composure, overcome with pleasure and infatuated with the incapacitated state of your husband. You incoherently babbled to a barely lucid Naoya about how much of his cream you need stuffed into your cunt, whilst repeatedly pressing kisses to the side of his face.
"Give me a baby. Give me a baby. Give me a baby. Give me a baby, sweetheart—"
There.
As soon as you felt your bubble of euphoria burst, Naoya's orgasm soon followed. The sensation of your pussy creaming around his shaft was quickly replaced by the feeling of thick, warm spurts of cum painting your insides.
You waited for him to start shooting blanks, but started to worry when you began overspilling with his milky gush. Every other second, Naoya's cock pulsed, and your cunt was deluged by a flood of cum. Your eyes drifted downwards to see pearlescent beads of semen seeping out of you.
"Sweetheart," you called hesitantly, "are you okay? I didn't hurt you, did I?"
"Don't...don't fuckin' m-move," he groaned. "It's still...it's still..."
You didn't need him to finish his sentence. His cock twitching against your sensitive walls was enough to tell you that this man was cumming buckets, intent on producing an heir for the Zen'in clan.
Your husband panted, floundering through the lingering aftereffects of pleasure, as you finished milking him. "Tonight...we still...tonight...we have to...again..."
You laughed weakly, "I know, sweetheart, I know. Just...focus on recovering. You look like a corpse."
nerd bf satoru gojo adds a finger for each question you answer correctly. 18+
“no, sweet cheeks. that’s the wrong answer”.
you sighed for the third time as your lips subconsciously bit on to the pen cap.
the table was laid with a myriad of papers, books of different classes— fifth grade ones to help you understand the basics better and high tiers which contained the actual questions you had to solve for your exams tomorrow.
oh and your sweet boyfriend, satoru was here with his own notes and that well working brain of his to help you get a grasp of the nebulous subject that had been tormenting you.
you were not completely challenged in the subject. there were other subjects you were particularly exceptional in such as literature or history, however, stem subjects such as physics and maths were your weak points simply because they held equations, your worst enemy.
fortunately for you, those subjects were satoru’s speciality. your boyfriend who was two classes senior of yours was staying up with you, to teach you. how embarrassing! there was a tinge of guilt too pecking at your heart because of the fact that he had to stay up late with you, teaching you the same topic over and over again.
you were frustrated, angry and heavily upset as the sensation of tears prickling at the corners of your eyes had you feeling heavier.
“hey, come on now. i am here”, his comforts fell to deaf ears as you tried your best again and again.
you picked up the pen, solving again. “moment of inertia…”
silence had possessed the entire room as you felt an exuberant masculine weight shift behind you. god, satoru was watching.
there it was again. that repulsive knot in the back of your throat from the fear of failing to answer accordingly. you fidgeted, pen paused, lips biting. what next?
“plug the density into the integral”, his low voice commanded in your ears. his breath, an exertion of steam hitting the side of your already flushed face had you clenching your thighs to comfort the heat shaping in between. why was he so hot?
you did as he told you to. “good girl. now what?”
you felt it. his slender fingers slowly and deliberately creeped its way to your clothed mound. his fingers— the excruciatingly beautiful lines of the index and middle finger gently rubbed on to the delicate outline of your wetting two plump folds.
“s-satoru—” you called out, to reiterate that the focus is supposed to be on the problem, for him to stop even though, secretly you wished for him to keep going.
“go on. then what” he encourage as his middle finger slid up and down crudely on your covered opening while his forefinger and ring finger rested on the puff lips, subtly spreading it to give more access to the working finger.
“h-hmph— splitting the integrals?” your eyes closed momentarily, taking in the feeling of his fingers. you could feel yourself clenching more and more at the intimacy, your hole forming a patch of dampness in the middle of your panties.
“hm, that’s right. keep going” his voice reverberated. however, in a swift intercepting moment, his hand formed a scooping motion which pressed on your mantled womanhood to pull you closer to him. the proximity increased between you two as your ass met up with his clothed boner.
he was hard. so hard.
his fingers polished themselves against the friction of your clothed folds, all three fingers at the same time exerting a euphoric pressure causing you to arch back in his embrace.
“what’s next?” he grunted, reacting from the interaction of your ass and his pulsating cock.
you gripped the pen. writing, somehow. your brain was in a haze, blood rushing throughout your body in a hasty pace.
you were in heat. you were in dire need.
“o-one for the… the ‘1’ and one for the … ax/L …?” you whimpered, breathing out a heated sigh.
“correct” with that confirmation he placed his hands your shorts, feeling the softness of your panties. he cussed out when he felt the generous moisture wetting the middle.
“s-satoru, p-please just—”
“keep getting it right then.”
and hence, you continued. if you wanted to get what you wanted, you had to keep going. so you did.
“what happens now?” he questioned while his fingers rubbed on the damp blotch, grinding on your hole and bud.
“each—huh, each one is—mhm … standard p-power—”
“correct”
with that his index finger tangled with the border of your undies, pushing it aside allowing his middle finger to come in contact with your soaked cunt. “fuck, you are so wet”
“mhm, nggh—please” you pleaded with your back falling on to his hard broad chest. his fingers swiped at the drenched opening, spreading the moisture on to your pudgy folds.
his middle finger went inside and out of your slobbering hole, obscene squelching sounds echoed which escalated the mood of the situation.
the persistent penetration with just one finger of his had you arching your back as you leaned forward, your ass shifted against his front making you feel the familiar silhouette of his cock. thick, hard and veiny. you knew the feel and sight of it too intimately.
he was hard. so fucking hard.
he polished himself, rubbing the shaft of his cock against plush skin of your ass while simultaneously rotating his finger tip around the rim of your tight wet cunt.
his lips, red from biting and restraint, groaned in to your ears to continue. “go on and i’ll add another”
and so you continued. because you were desperate. because you wanted him— no, that was too vague. you yearned for him.
you needed his fingers, to be rhythmically creating patterns on your folds. his mouth, tongue swirling around yours, drool slipping out of the borders of your lips. his cock, ramming inside and outside of your insatiable cunt. his body, hovering above yours, the beautiful structure of his abs and chest within your grasp. anything to soothe the ache of your throbbing pussy. you simply needed him.
picking up the pen was already difficult but with your mind being blocked by a condense fog, you weren’t even sure if you could solve it. satoru’s finger kept at it— the same finger, the same pace and the same directions.
“i–i for–forgot the formula” maybe you shouldn’t have said that because you felt the brush of emptiness as he slid his finger out of your hole.
you whined. “try remembering” that’s all he said. his finger, glistening with the wetness of yours, the stickiness reflecting under the light.
he brought it close to his lips, mouth parted to taste it. his tongue swirled around the finger, tasting every slip of it. “fuck, you taste sweet”
“please—” you pleaded. not to him. you knew he wasn’t going to agree unless you actually get the correct answer. you were begging to yourself, please just get it right so he could stop the torturous edging and simply fuck you.
“good. keep going”. his voice vibrated, his fingers moving around your folds again.
with each correct line, he reward you with a finger. his index and pinkie opening your drenched slot wider by reposing on each of your labia while the middle and ring finger pierced through the slit with adamant hunger.
you could see them disappear in and out with filthy noises. the tip of his fingers brutally smacked at your cervix, your cream sliding down on to your twisted panties.
he was going rough. too rough.
he swiped aggressively at your clit with his two fingers, smiting left and right with an incredible pressure that had your hips lifting from the bed. you looked down at the scene— his fingers, which were drenched in your own wetness, while his other hand gripped on to your waist to hold you down. fuck, you were going to come.
“what’s the answer?”
“hhuh— mhm. the inertia becomes… which simplifies to…”
there it was. a gush of water sparkling from your insides as you let out a loud moan, finally falling on to the bed.
you were out of breath. panting heavily as your chest heaved up and down. nipples perking from solitude, panties a mess and through your dimly lidded eyes, you saw your boyfriend. adjusting his black frames with a damn smirk and leaking your squirt clean off his fingers.
his hands untied the lace holding his sweatpants to his hips and there it was— him in his glory. his cock was erected proud and heavy, bruised purple and red with an intense need. veins protruding mapping a pattern of desperation. the tip of it pink, violently so, in urgent anticipation of meeting with your sweet spot. white spots of his pre-cum rested on the crown.
he gently spit on his dick, hands wrapped around his girth of his base and paced himself inside out. jerking himself, spreading the spit, smearing his pre-cum and rubbing your residue on his fingers from the bottom to the head.
who would’ve known the campus’ nerd, gojo satoru, was a wolf behind sheep’s clothing. those cyan eyes protected behind his glasses constricted the filthiest thoughts.
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