pda obsessed!choso who is always looking for an excuse to kiss you. he'll wrap his arms around your waist and kiss your shoulders, your neck, and even your arms and hands if you aren't using them. he'll do it even as you're checking out your groceries at the supermarket, ignoring the disgusted stares of the cashier and other customers.
pda obsessed!choso who will pull you to sit on his lap when you're hanging out with your group of friends. he loves to rub circles into your hips or your thighs and stare up at you while you talk to everyone else, completely enamoured by your beauty. the second you're done talking he'll lean up and shamelessly make out with you, tongue and all. he'll make out with you for as long as he likes and doesn't care that he's pulled you out of an active conversation.
pda obsessed!choso who walks with his hand in the back pocket of your jeans because he loves the feeling of your ass rubbing against his hand. he doesn't take his hand away even when you stop walking and stand still to check your phone and instead gropes and squeezes your butt with both hands. you try and push him away out of embarassment but his grip is too strong so you just let him squeeze to his hearts content.
pda obsessed!choso puts his arms around your shoulders and gropes your tits while you wait in queues. he does it so often that you hardly even notice when he slides his hands into your bra and starts squeezing. it's only when he begins rolling your nipple between his fingers that you squeal and slap his hand away, and he switches to kissing your exposed skin instead.
pda obssesed!choso just wants to touch you constantly. whether it be holding your hand, petting your head or groping you, he's happy as long as his hands are on you.
a/n: this is my first tumblr post so i hope its good lol
⸺ ⟢ synopsis. karasu and a sensitive partner who cums as soon as he slips into her.
pairing. karasu tabito x fem! reader | wc. 1.8k words. | genres. smut. minors do not interact. | warnings. a lot of teasing. karasu calls you baby + reader refers to him as daddy (2) times. very sensitive reader + a little overstimulation. karasu is written with his dialect in this. | return to masterlist.
⸺ ⟢ notes. once upon a time there was a post that spoke of karasu x a sensitive partner who cums as soon as he slips into her and then …. this was born, bon appetite🍴dividers by kai as always!
“I can take it this time, promise.”
Your voice breaks into a whine from where you’re splayed out on Karasu’s sheets, one of those breathy, cute little sounds that you know always got to him. Your lips are pouting, your eyes glassy and blown wide, and if he was to take one look at your drooling pussy from where it’s glistening between your thighs, he’d have half a mind to believe you.
But Karasu knows you. Sometimes even better than he thinks you realise.
“Come on, baby. There ain’t no rush.” Karasu tilts his head, kneeling between your spread legs as he gives your body another once over. “Got all day here, wouldn’t want ya to get too carried away. We both know what happens then, don’t we?”
“But I just want you, please.”
“Mhm, I know ya do.”
It’s cruel in a way, the way Karasu’s making no effort to relieve the ceaseless pulse in your body, boiling over with your need considering how long he’s been toying with it. He gives you a look as he strokes the length of his cock instead, sending you a lopsided smile when you kick your legs out in a little act of defiance.
He thinks it’s cute— real cute.
“Don’t gimme that look.” Karasu hums, readjusting his knees so he can bring himself down over you. “Ya know how it gets me.”
“But you’re being mean.”
Your voice breaks a bit, hips pushing up as he closes the distance between you and you almost get close enough to grind yourself up against his cock. But Karasu is faster, stronger. It only takes him a second to press his palm into your lower stomach and pin you back against the bed with a stare that makes your toes curl.
“Ya know that ain’t right.” He shakes his head, raising a brow at your pouty expression. “Don’t get bratty on me just ‘cause you ain’t gettin’ yer way.”
You sniffle at the way he says it, like you’re getting told off. But Karasu knows it’s quite the opposite, much like he gets with everyone around him— he’s known your limits from the very beginning. Knows when you need a little more patience and care, and this is one of those times, it’s always the same.
But when you’re giving him a little glassy blink from where you’re pressed back into the pillows beneath him, well— he’s not exactly made of impenetrable iron either.
“But Tabito….” You try again, an embarrassed hitch to your voice that makes Karasu’s cock throb from where it’s resting heavy against your thigh now. “I just really want it, I can’t wait any longer.”
You even go as far as to spread your legs a little wider, skin warm beneath his palm from where he’s pressing into you and when he looks down between your bodies he sees the way your slick glistens in the light, Karasu chuckles, eyeing you. “I see it, baby. Ya don’t gotta do all that.”
But he still gives in a little bit.
He keeps the touch gentle at first, his hand snaking between your bodies to swipe his fingers through the delicate petals of your pussy and your body rises to it immediately. Karasu strokes at you then, two fingers rubbing circles around your clit and he gathers your slick up to ease his movements— applying a little pressure, watching you suck your lower lip between your teeth.
“There. Feels real nice, don’t it?” Karasu huffs, watching your mouth part as he slowly swipes back and forth over your clit. “But I know that still ain’t enough for ya.”
Your hands make fists in the comforter as you try to speak, but when Karasu goes back to drawing more shapes into your pussy it’s all for nought. He shifts a little bit then, leaning in to smear a kiss across your forehead and he drags a trail of precum along your thighs in the process.
Your legs tremble at the touch, threatening to close around his wrist and Karasu’s smirk leans more satisfied than sympathetic.
“What’s that, hm?” He says with his next sticky circle between your folds, his fingers soaked with your slick as his gaze drops between you. “Think yer ready?”
“I am.” Karasu almost chuckles at your eagerness, maybe he would if he was talking to you.
“Shhhhh, baby. Gotta let her answer me, yeah?” He glances up at you, then back down at your pussy and one side of his lips pull higher than the other when he hears you whine again. “Gotta hear it for myself.”
He does then, Karasu adds another finger to the mix as he rubs at you with three of them— your folds forced to spread wide for his touch and every twist of his wrist is so wet and loud that he can feel the embarrassment radiating off of you in waves.
Fuck, you turn him on when you wear that weary little look. Glassy eyes and fluttering lashes, puffy lips from where you’ve been sucking on them. The weight of his cock pulses again as he tries to bite back a hiss.
“Think yer about ready now.” Karasu groans.
Your eyes jump up at that, to plea in place of your words because you’re not trusting your voice to beg. Except for one little word that manages to slip through and change it all.
“Daddy…..”
Karasu’s cock jumps as you say it, drooling all over your spread thighs with precum and he allows himself a deep growl beneath his breath at how hot it is. Enough to push himself upright before he’s pulling away, and you give him a look like you’re going to cry when his touch leaves you.
He’s not going anywhere though, ‘cept even closer.
“Ya want it that bad, huh?” Karasu murmurs, swiping his soaked fingers along his shaft as he gives you a sharp look. “Ya make it real hard to say no to ya sometimes. Ya know that though, don’t ya?”
“I— I don’t…”
“No?”
You shake your head next, desperate— an innocent little gleam in your eyes that makes Karasu want to eat it right out of you. You know how that gets to him, and he thinks you play into it, that sick part of his brain that wants to corrupt and ruin you.
The thought alone drives him to crawl between your thighs again, close enough this time for the tip of his cock to graze between your slick folds and it’s adorable the way your hips shake in delight when he uses his hand to press you down again.
But Karasu’s eyes spark in amusement before he’s offering you a slow roll of his hips first, and the thick tip presses up against your clit as he forces your hips to stay pinned against the mattress.
You begin to whine instantly, legs trying to wrap about him so you can pull him close but he clicks his tongue. “Ya ain’t foolin’ me, baby.” He smirks, groaning at the way he watches your slick cling to the thick shaft of his cock before he stretches out his neck to the side, and his fingers squeeze into your skin. “’ll see to it ya get yer fill.”
Your lashes flutter, and a soft little “More” slips from between your lips. “Please? Can take it this time.”
Karasu’s eyes feel like they burn through you. “Well that depends who yer askin’, baby. Remind me again.”
“D-daddy.”
Karasu snorts as his palm stays pressed up against your hip, but the other takes a slow fistful of his cock at the base before he gives himself a few more strokes. And the sight of it makes you bite on your lower lip before he’s angling himself to line up with the entrance to your cunt.
“That’s right. I was just easin’ ya into it ‘s all, givin’ ya a lil more time.”
But after that, he doesn’t waste anymore. The first press of the tip is bigger than you always seem to anticipate— no matter how many times he fucks you, you’ve always got that same look about you as he feeds you that first inch.
Always beggin’ for much more than you’re ready to take.
It’s just the tip, resting inside of your walls but already Karasu can feel the way your hips are shaking beneath the strength of his palm. He presses you even deeper into the mattress to keep you still, making sure you can’t hump your hips up for more— but he offers you a slow stutter of his hips anyway, feeling the way your walls squeeze and twitch around the head of his cock.
“That’s it, baby. Yer lookin’ real cute takin’ it, think ya can keep going? Take it all?” Karasu’s words strain, his eyes lidded as he looks you over.
But your head nods anyway, like you’re not already fighting against that tight coil of pleasure he can feel. “Y-yeah.”
Karasu smirks then, his lungs quaking in his chest as he tries to hold himself back, tries to ease you into it but you’re already shaking before he can even take his next breath. You’re too needy, too wound up and warm that you can’t stop your pussy squeezing.
Another inch and he feels the way you seem to get even tighter— it makes you gasp out something garbled and choked off, and his hold on you is so tight at this point you’re sure it will bruise.
“Careful.” He murmurs, tries his best to draw it back.
But you’re so sensitive, and it’s instantaneous, accidental— the way your walls suddenly begin to twitch as Karasu’s thick cock is pushed against the coiling nerves of your tight pussy. Your eyes squeeze closed, and your hands start tugging at the blankets beneath you as you begin to writhe and twist— cumming all over his cock when he’s barely even half way in.
But fuck— Karasu loves it. Loves the humiliated little expression you make as you try not to whine about it, poor hips jutting beneath his palm as he keeps you pressed beneath him with his strength. He forces you to stay creaming around his cock as he eases you through it with a few shallow thrusts, smears his lips across your cheek before pressing them to the shell of your ear.
"I tried to tell ya, baby. Gotta let me handle it." There’s a teasing hint to his tone, something that makes you burn and jerk beneath him even more— like you’re desperate to hide, knowing there’s no way he’ll let you.
"K-keep going." Your voice cracks. Body loose and pliant but you still try to grab on his broad shoulders and hold him close. He tilts his head down at you.
"Ya sure? Don't want it to be too much for ya."
But you cut him off, lips pouting out with your bleary eyes as you mutter out pleasepleaseplease’s and i can take it’s! and who is Karasu to deny you as he loops you real tight in his arms.
The next pleased shift of Karasu’s hips squelches loud and wet as you answer, but when he turns to smear another kiss against your cheek this time— he thinks it’s so fucking cute the way you turn to meet it.
“I like ya when yer greedy.” Karasu hums, chuckling as he draws his hips back an inch in anticipation. Your body shakes in his hold as he kisses your cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of ya.”
As much as I love sub crybaby bottom Choso, I also love service top Choso who’s definitely subservient, but not quite in a submissive way. nsfw 18+ drabble mdni.
──── ୨୧ ────
Choso is the type of devoted that ensures he knows exactly what you need at any time day or night, because he pays attention to your body language like it’s his favourite hobby. Keeps tabs on every minute twitch of your thighs, every hitch of your breath or flutter of your lashes the same way he tracks how much water you’ve drank in a day, or the last time you ate something. He’s the type to let you sink down on his cock or grind against his mouth whenever you please. He’ll abandon whatever menial task he was doing prior, immediately consumed by you, utterly devoted to taking you apart - wringing orgasm after dizzying orgasm out of you until your legs have turned to jelly and all you can manage to do is slur out some breathy sound in the vague shape of his name.
No matter how long it takes, how red raw he feels, he’ll keep going until you’re well and truly satisfied, and then some. Using all of that inhuman endurance to keep you stuffed nice and full until you’re literally begging him to stop. He’ll peer down at you with those big brown eyes, low lidded and hazy and oh so full of love, murmuring sweet little coos of “right here, huh baby? feels good right here?” while he rubs messy hearts over your clit. You’re barely over your last orgasm - erring on overstimulated when he pushes you right against the edge again with a few well placed thrusts, “what’s that? you want another one?” because the only way he feels accomplished is with you sobbing in pleasure and utterly boneless after he’s broken you.
You’re bouncing on his cock, hips slamming down hard enough that the wet slap of skin on skin echoes through the bedroom, when Satoru lets out a muffled sound.
“Mmmfgh-!”
His head is thrown back against the pillow, snowy hair sticking to his damp forehead, eyes rolled halfway up in pure bliss. Your worn black panties are stuffed between his lips, the crotch pressed right against his tongue so your scent and taste flood his senses with every desperate inhale. He’s lost every ounce of composure, he's a whimpering, trembling mess beneath you.
It had started barely twenty minutes ago in the laundry room.
You’d walked in absentmindedly, only to freeze at the sight of Satoru hunched over the hamper, face buried in the same pair of your dirty panties he’s gagging on now. His blindfold was pushed up, cheeks tinted prettily, cock rock-hard and twitching visibly in his sweatpants as he inhaled you like he’d die without it. He’d startled when he saw you, pulling the fabric away with a quick, surprised blink of those striking eyes.
“Well… fuck,” he’d said, a low chuckle slipping out even as his cheeks stayed faintly warm.
“Didn’t expect you to be back so soon...”
You’d felt your own face burn, surprised and a little embarrassed by the scene before you. Instead of scolding him, you’d stepped closer, plucked the panties from his fingers and dragged him to your shared bedroom.
Now he’s paying for it in the best way. You brace both hands on his broad chest, nails digging into pale skin and ride him harder, lifting until just the fat head of his cock stretches your pussy, then slamming back down, again and again.
His muffled moans vibrate against the fabric in his mouth, drool slipping from the corner of his lips. His hands clutch the headboard above him exactly like you ordered, knuckles white, veins standing out on his forearms as he fights the urge to grab your hips and fuck up into you.
“Such a needy boy, sniffing my dirty panties like a pervert.”
He whines loudly around the gag, hips jerking helplessly beneath you. His cock throbs violently inside your clenching heat. You don’t let up, grinding in tight, nasty circles that rub your clit perfectly against his base while your walls squeeze him tightly.
His whole body suddenly goes rigid. A desperate cry tears from his throat, muffled by your panties, as he starts to squirt, hot clear fluid floods deep into your pussy. It’s filthy, warm and slippery, leaking out around his shaft with every frantic twitch of his hips. He shakes hard through every spurt, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes, moaning as he’s completely lost in the pleasure.
You keep grinding on his cock, hips rolling desperately as the warm, messy load he squirted inside you pushes you right over the edge. Your pussy clenches hard around him, thighs shaking as you cum with a soft moan, slick gushing out to mix with his own fluids and dripping down his balls on the sheets.
Panting, you slow down and gently pull the soaked panties from his mouth. He gasps for air, chest heaving, lips swollen and shiny. You brush his white hair from his forehead, still seated on his cock.
“You knew I was coming,” you murmur, watching his face. “You let me catch you on purpose.”
Satoru meets your gaze, still flushed and breathing hard. A little smirk tugs at the corner of his swollen lips.
“Yeah… I knew,” he admits, voice rough and smug.
“Wanted you to walk in on me like that. Wanted you to take over and fuck me stupid.” He lets out a breathless chuckle.
Smiling, you lean down and kiss him.
“You're so dirty...” you whisper. He shivers under you, that smirk still on his lips as his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer.
pervy best friend!choso who thinks you're his lucky charm and wants you to sit in his lap while he plays video games. while you're perched on his thighs with his arms on either side of you, he kisses your neck and nibbles on your ear as his fingers fiddle with his controller. when he wins a game he'll turn your face towards him and give you a peck on the lips, calling it a 'celebratory kiss'.
pervy bestfriend!choso who insists on coming with you whenever you want to buy lingerie - a second opinion is always useful right? he'll pick out a set in your favourite colour and wait for you outside the dressing room. once you're out, you give him a quick twirl bending down and shaking your ass a little. he'll come up behind you to help you 'adjust your bra strap', but really it's to feel your plush ass against his dick. you know exactly what he's doing and push back against him, grinding softly against his growing erection. when he coughs out a groan, you feign innocence, asking him sweetly if he's okay.
pervy bestfriend!choso who takes advantage of the fact that you become extremely affectionate when you're sleepy. whenever you go over to his place and end up sleeping over, you cuddle him tightly, wrapping your arms around his neck and throwing one of your legs over his own. choso feels his cock strain against the fabric of his boxers as you wiggle against him in an atempt to get comfortable, feeling your tits pressed against his arm and the warmth of your pussy against his thigh.
pervy bestfriend!choso who can't believe his luck when he looks over too see that the strap of your tank top has fallen all the way down and exposed your bare breasts. He stares as your tits rise and fall as you breathe, basically inviting him to suck on them. He leans down to watch your nipples harden and his mouth is on them in seconds. I mean, how could he possibly resist? Choso's eyes are half-lidded as he swirls his tongue around your bud, his spit coating every inch of your nipple.
pervy bestfriend!choso who is too focused on your chest to notice that you've been awake the whole time, watching him groan as he sucks your nipple passionately. Choso only realises you're awake when your hand travels to his hair and you start running your fingers through his thick strands.
pervy bestfriend!choso whose face is flushed in embarassment as he tries to explain why he was latched to your nipple just seconds ago but immediately shuts up when he feels your hand start to caress his bulge.
pervy bestfriend!choso who can't believe he might actually get to fuck you.
𓂃✍︎ 18+ mdni · pussy so good, sukuna taps in (longer ver.)
Loving Yūji comes with a package deal you don't necessarily know how to deal with. Granted, you've known and loved him first before this entire ordeal even happened and blew up — it still is a matter of when and never an if, per se, when it comes to his special situation.
However, as with everything else, his predicament doesn't truly stop either of you from being intimate around each other. But where Yūji excels in self-control against what's residing within him, it appears that the majority of that said will, if not everything, is thrown out the window the second you go and beg to be fucked.
And fucked real good. Or badly. Whichever way one wishes to put it.
Maybe that's partly on you, or him, or even both of your asses to blame. But, really? Can you blame yourself when Yūji looks stupidly hot all the damn time? Stupidly, massively hot and bothered?
Especially when he wears a simple white shirt which accentuates how broad he is everywhere, when he looks like his brain stops functioning and he's looking at you with only the thought of fucking you bone-dry, and his dick decides to run on autopilot and take him to a blissful place right between your thighs.
Yes, can you really blame anyone with how immaculate he is?
"So tight, baby," Yūji says between clenched teeth.
A vein appears in the middle of his forehead, contemplating whether he should start moving and ram his cock all the way in or give you a chance to adjust to his girth first.
"Ah, Yūji," you whine, "just go in. Stop teasing."
"T-Teasing? I'm not teasing, sweetheart." He manages to choke an incredulous and breathy laugh at your whining. "You think this is easy for me, too?"
You playfully slap his muscled arm. "Shut up! You know what I mean!"
"Damn, even after all that," Yūji grits. "Even after all the sex we had every night, you're still tight."
With a shuddering exhale, Yūji grinds forward, pressing himself deeper into your petaled hole until you whine and drag your nails up and down his back and coax him closer.
"Oh, yes, baby. Shit —yes, yes, — yes," he incessantly babbles. "You're sucking me in completely. I could come right here — shhiiit!"
His lips head for yours and capture you in a heartbeat. Your nails move towards the front where you lift the hem of his shirt to feel his toned stomach. A languid moan erupts from your throat, and Yūji relishes swallowing your sounds.
His name echoes past your lips soon after he breaks contact. Each drawl of the consonant you utter is like a song of reverent praise that effectively shuts him up.
"You're taking me so well." He whispers, eyes glazed. "Such a good girl you are for me."
"Baby," you whine again, locking your legs around his waist.
"I know, I know." Yūji moans at the feeling, more so when he feels your teeth tease the crook of his neck.
It's intoxicating; it leaves his fogged-up brain even more fogged, and it's taking him greater lengths to fight through both of your horniness to keep himself at a steady, level pace for you. Otherwise, you'd probably be limping for days, even resort to crawling if you need to get to point B.
Hell . . . that doesn't sound bad at all.
"Oh, baby, please don't do that. You know I'm sensitive there." He lightly scolds you, pulling at your hair in warning.
"But you taste so good, though."
He supposes if he's going to fuck you the way he wants to, how long he intends to, and the way you let him, then he's not going to deny you what you want to do with him, too.
In fact, if he isn't so gung-ho with you and your immaculate pussy that's still sucking him in greedily as he continues to stretch you, and if he didn't let his dick dictate his decisions, then he would most definitely relish the prospect of you dominating him.
Oh, because if you only know, Yūji would definitely submit to you. Maybe right now you'd possibly doubt that he would, given that he always wishes to be inside you or put you in positions you didn't think you could and do this or that for him. But honest to God, if you tell him to be on his hands and knees for you, he will get that shit done pronto. Put a collar on him or whatever — he doesn't care. Everything you could do to him screams sexy and a lot of sex. So, who is he to refuse that?
"Harder," you find yourself begging him, "please. Yes — yes, right there!"
Yūji's arms that are propped on either side of you buckle before quickly rebalancing himself enough to take most of his weight off of you. "Shh, Fushiguro might hear us. You don't want that, noh?"
"Then he should cover his ears!" You rebuke teasingly. "He knows better. Isn't he the smartest of the bunch here? Come on! He should put his brain to work. Chop, chop, Megumi!"
"S-Stop! Don't make me laugh right now." Yūji bites his lips. "I'm really horny, and I don't want to be un-horny because I'm thinking about other stuff that isn't you."
"Sorry, I'm sorry," You apologize, but it turns into a chuckle because you didn't think you'd be thinking about it, too.
"Relax for me," Yūji attempts to bring the mood back, salvaging what's left of it from your silly, little antics. "That's it, baby. Ease into me again."
Yūji's hold around your thighs changes until your legs rest upon his shoulders, and he pounds against you like an animal in heat. From this new position, his cock sinks further. Skin slaps against skin. While your breathing becomes coarse and ragged, Yūji sounds the same except for minuscule groans of pleasure now and then.
Then, he folds you in half, situates himself a little higher, and pistons his cock back in. You haven't realized you're drooling until he licks the sides of your face.
"Open your mouth." He says, and when you do, he spits twice. "Swallow."
There's a trail of saliva connecting you two when he pulls back. His eyes, however, are transfixed heavily upon the bulge that's appeared at the base of your stomach.
"Remind me to buy a mirror next time. I want you looking at yourself like this. It's so hot, I swear." Yūji drools. "You're so good, baby. So, so, good. Oh — fuck!"
Just when he spills inside of you, and you're about to come down with your first orgasm, another voice pierces through the solidity of the room and breaks your release easily as if he had done this countless times before.
"Enchain."
Suddenly the ceiling becomes the bed sheets as you are flipped onto your hands and knees. Your muffled confusion doesn't go unheard, but other pressing matters come first. Your hair has been forcibly fisted and yanked until your head is pulled back enough to see your lover covered in tattoos, and a vitriol laugh teases the shell of your ears.
"Yū —?"
"Brat's not here," Sukuna's voice rumbles deeply against your skin.
This is the first time he's ever graced you with his presence. You've heard stories of how Sukuna would frequently pop on Yūji's cheek or his hands whenever he's got something atrocious to say (especially towards your sensei and Megumi), but not once has he ever manifested and broken through Yūji like this before — and right in the middle of fucking, too.
"Heh," he yanks you closer, forcing you to look into his hungry eyes. The way he looks at you . . . as if you owe him the pleasure he has been denied for so long. "My vessel lost control. I want to know why."
Before you could have swung a cursed tool at him, to trap him within your cursed energy, enough to stall and call Megumi for help or anybody else should he decline, Sukuna slams your head against the bed and fucks you senselessly.
Is it to your imagination, or did Yūji's cock grow bigger? Because for some reason, when Sukuna thrusts into your hole, it's fuller. He is far more brutal and ornery with his movements, too.
"Take it all like you are meant to do."
This is wrong. This is terribly, insanely wrong. Here you are in the mercy of the sadistic curse, cackling like the bastard that he is that he found something to entice himself with, and yet . . . it's wrong to feel how good you're being fucked.
Sukuna nudges your legs with his knees to spread wider for him. His hands busy themselves by mockingly kneading your ass before slapping each cheek hard.
You yelp and bite the corner of the pillow hard. Unfortunately for you, Sukuna notices. He pulls you by the hair again, and tosses everything that would muffle your voice aside. There is a buzz of mischief you can feel swirling around his energy, but you can't decipher it all too well as he shoves you down to the mattress.
"Y-Yūji —"
"My name, brat —"
"—Y-Yūji, Y-Yū—"
"— I said my name." He slaps your sloppily wet clit.
Your back arches unknowingly to the sensation, and before you think twice about it, your body yields and your mouth muddles the name, "S-Sukuna!"
"Good, little one." He mutters sadistically, inhaling the scent of pheromones pumping out from you.
His hands are everywhere that he can touch you, and even when he couldn't reach parts of your body, Sukuna merely bends you to his will and lets himself have you any way he pleases. Since the brat's been constantly denying him of you, it's only right that Sukuna gets to have fun with you now.
He fondles your breasts. He pinches your clit. Your thighs are scraped in thin lines of blood that bring him more arousal. Your asshole is gaping at each tense movement he makes out of you. His canines sink to the thin skin of your neck so deeply, he can taste your blood, fueling him into a messy plethora of moans and pleasure like he's drunk on his own aphrodisiac.
"Again." He orders.
"W-What?"
"My name. Only."
"Su-ku-na,"
"Louder. I won't tolerate what you refuse to give me. Say my name again, little one."
"Sukuna. Sukuna. Sukuna! Sukuna! Sukuna!"
"That's it. Keep calling my name as you come."
Your orgasm comes to you like a torrent — harsh and unforgiving. Still, Sukuna doesn't stop fucking you even as you try your best to squirm away.
When you barely manage to make him pull out of you, and you start crawling, he easily drags you back.
"Oh? And where do you think you're going?" He lifts your ass and flicks your clit hard as punishment. "You do not run away from me, unless you want me to kill you."
"But, I need —"
"No."
"Sukuna, please!" You push his body away from you once more, desperately trying to get out of his strong grip. But damn, because of his strength and that it's also Yūji's body, and you know how sturdy he is, Sukuna doesn't budge. Not even a little. "Please, give me a moment."
"And what did I say?" He raises his brow questioningly.
He's fascinated by the way you react to him. When he lazily drawls his fingers around your inner thighs, you shake. When he lets his tongue graze the cup of your ass, you whine. And when he sniffs your cunt, and it smells promiscuously sour and preposterously sweaty, you sound like you're about to come again.
"N-Not there, not yet,"
"What did I say?" He challenges.
"I —" you sound close to weeping.
He pulls your hair. "What. Did. I. Say?"
"No!" You wail, moving restlessly. "You said, no!"
"Good. Ah, you're close. I can tell. I smell it."
And you are — were. When your orgasm hits you like a brick, your mouth could barely keen a sound. Your body caves and molds to Sukuna's shape. You don't need to look behind you to know that the bastard is smirking at how easy it is to make you submit to him. It's sickening since you already know he won't let this one up anytime soon, especially to Yūji.
There's an abrupt change between you and Sukuna once you feel his hold slacken. With him loosening his clutch around your chest, you allow yourself to breathe better and force your eyes to focus on your surroundings. That's when you realize you're flipped on your back, and your legs are locked around his waist again.
"S-Sukuna?"
"No, darling." Yūji breathlessly says. He brushes your hair away from your face. "It's me, baby. It's me. I'm sorry. I-I lost control. Are you hurt?"
Reassuringly, you shake your head and smile at him. "N-No, I'm fine. I'm more than fine."
"Yeah?" Yūji perks up.
"Yeah, baby." You laugh dumbly. "That was . . . quite exhilarating."
Yūji presses his forehead against yours. The heat is still visible in his eyes, though it is nowhere near as intense as the other pair you were forced to look at before.
"That was hot," Yūji admits. His cock hardens against your thigh. "Watching you . . . like that."
"It was," you breathe out. "It really was."
There, beneath Yūji's hollowed eyes, your gaze lingers towards the triumphant gleam squinting at you in reds and blacks. It tells you exactly what is going through Sukuna's mind: that he's heard of that and he's nowhere near finished with you yet.
You swallow dryly.
"Are you tired?" Yūji brushes your cheek tenderly.
You shake your head. "I'll be fine."
"Let me fuck you next, then. Yeah?"
Before you can respond in return, Yūji grabs your hips and enters you. He folds you in half, quickly telling you to wrap your legs around his neck, and then proceeds to pound you as promised. This time, he doesn't hesitate. He thrusts harder and harder, nails scraping against your skin for support.
He spots the mark Sukuna made on your neck, and he dives to your other side with a growl. He laps onto your skin possessively, and you can feel that he's lost all patience with being gentle because the moment he bites down on you, it's not out of consideration anymore. Yūji is claiming you.
"Come for me this time." He sternly orders. His hands lay flat on your stomach, feeling the bulge he caused. "For me. Come for me."
"Yūji — fuckfuckfuck — Yūji!" Something uncontrollable comes out of you, and you realize a second sooner that you've squirted all over him. Your juices drip from his bare chest and down to his untrimmed bush. "I'm sorry, I —"
Yūji stiffens. "What the fuck, Sukuna!"
"Enchain."
"Oh my God, Yūji, come back! Give Yūji back for the love of God!"
"Do that again. Squirt for me, little one." Sukuna growls.
"That was an accident. I — I — I didn't mean for that to happen." You admit, trying to regain proper breathing because, goddamn it, you won't be able to with this fool in the front. "Just give Yūji back!"
"Let me bring it out of you then."
It's obvious to you now that both of them have their preferences in terms of fucking you. While Yūji prefers that both of you are staring at one another and lose each other together in the art of fuckery, Sukuna does anything with you so long as either his dick or mouth is inside of you.
Sukuna lies down and pulls you up until your cunt is angled to his face. You grip the headboard for support, but then you realize that his hold on you is steady and firm. You aren't swaying even when he blows a warm bubble of air directly to your dripping mound.
Then, with his hold tightening, he buckles you down to his mouth and eats you out.
"Ah, Sukuna!" You squawk, gripping his hair. You hear the wet squelches you make from his tongue.
"You're learning." He commends. The deep gravel of his voice vibrates past your pubic hairs and sends you a jolt of pleasure that goes straight to your spine.
And just as when you are once again teetering on the edge of another orgasm, he unexpectedly stops with a loud popping sound and watches your reaction.
You try to move, yet he keeps you at bay.
Of course, King of Curses be damned, when you're this high in being so aroused and utterly fucked by not one but two of them, the consequences of your actions are the least of your concerns. And not even someone who's feared by all is going to stop you.
You swat his hands that are holding you away and rock yourself against his mouth. He teasingly fights for control, but you pin his hands above his head. A spark in his gaze tells you he's enjoying this bit.
Your hair hits his nose and grazes the top of his lips — but you hardly care. If Yūji doesn't care that you're growing your own little forest down there, surely Sukuna wouldn't either. And if he does, then that isn't your problem. He can return your lover to you and fuck off.
You're in a fit of moans and shameless whines, as you ride your pleasure away.
"Open yourself wider for me." He speaks quietly.
Your hands release their hold on him, and you reach down to spread your labia open. He sniffs you obscenely loud, then he seizes your pearl between his teeth, rolls it around torturously, and licks you hard. Instinctively, you buck your hips down on him.
Sukuna pulls a few strands of your pubic hair; it's painful, but it does the trick when you finally squirt all over his face.
"Fuck! Please, I'm coming, Sukuna! SukunaSukuna!"
He slaps your ass in delight. "Good, little one."
Sukuna's control weakens again, and you realize Yūji's coming back. You laugh deliriously, because any person would be wondering what on earth is happening. Never have you thought that both of them would —
"Aw, baby," Yūji coos. "You taste so good."
"Yūji," you call out tiredly.
"Are you tired? We can stop, baby. It's okay."
"No, I want you to fuck me. Please, baby? I want you."
"I've been trying to all night, but someone just keeps —"
"Lift her, brat."
Your eyes widen when you see Sukuna's smile appearing on Yūji's left cheek.
"Shut up!" Yūji slaps himself.
"She will love it. Lift her. Or I will be taking over."
Yūji snarls a curse or two, but obeys nonetheless. He hasn't had his own proper share of fill with you yet, thanks to some bastard.
He hefts you up with your back pressed securely against his chest, his arms cage you so that even if you move, squirm, or wiggle your ass against his throbbing, veiny cock, Yūji promises you within his hold that you will not be dropped.
"Fold her and raise her legs."
"Baby, I just want to ask if that's all right." He grinds himself to your ass.
"Yes! Fuck yes, Yūji! Just do it! Hurry up and fuck me already before he switches with you again!"
Yūji groans. He raises both of your legs until his head is placed between them, and then his dick slides back into your entrance fluidly.
You become a sobbing mess for him.
"Did I ever tell you how glad I am that you're so flexible?" Yūji kisses your collarbone. "You're so hot, being folded like this."
In and out. In and out does the motion go. Regardless of whether you're exhausted or not, Yūji's stamina is unbecoming.
Your eyes roll back, your tongue lolls out, and all you can respond to Yūji or Sukuna or even both at this point — you don't care anymore who is fucking you — are all the jumbled slurs of their names, of you begging, of you wanting more, and more, and so much more.
"Enchain."
"Su — kuna,"
"Submit to me, little one. Submit."
"I submit. I submit! I submit!"
"Let that shadow brat hear you against the walls. I bet he's enjoying hearing you right now, too. My vessel is pretty turned on by what's happening; he’s not even complaining about the switch."
"Ah! Mpmh! Ah!"
"What is the matter? Where are your words?"
"Mmmh,"
"Oh? Are you enticed by the mere idea that somebody else, who is neither me nor your brat, is hearing you being fucked too good?"
"Nng — mphm — I —"
Sukuna pinches your cheeks and angles you enough to look at him.
"Speak."
"Y-Yes! I love this!"
"Well done. Rub yourself. The brat won't stop talking my fucking ear out, so do it for him. I do intend, however, to make you come before he takes control again."
You nod numbly.
"Do not stop until you have come, you have squirted, or you have fainted. I care little what comes first or if all comes together.” Sukuna licks the spot where he's marked you. "If you had been born in the era that I was, I would've taken you as my —"
"I-I'm coming!" You pull hard at his pink hair for support.
"Then come, little one. Come as much as you want."
For the last time tonight, Sukuna's control wavers. But before he returns to his realm, you swear you feel the ghost of his lips caressing the side of your face like a lover he didn't mean to find.
"I got you," Yūji whispers, "I got you. Just keep coming, baby. That's it. You're my good girl. You did so well. So perfect."
Yūji, with his dick still inside of you, slowly lowers you to the bed, tucks a stray strand of loose hair behind your ear, and nuzzles you comfortingly. "How are you feeling?"
"Baby," you try to speak, "too full."
"I'm nearly there. Can you handle one more? For me? Can you, darling?"
"Okay."
"That's my girl." After several pumps and his own release, Yūji finally pulls himself out. "Just rest for now. You're probably too tired."
Without looking at him, you quietly ask, "Sorry, was it . . . too weird for you?"
"I was surprised that it wasn't . . ." He admits, scratching the back of his head sheepishly.
Clearing your throat, you reach out for his hand. "Think we can do it again another time?"
"Baby, I thought you'd never ask." Yūji teases lightly. "But maybe we need to set ground rules. Wouldn't wanna complicate things, y'know."
"Hmm, true."
With what's left of your energy, you manage to kiss the tip of his nose before burying yourself into his warm embrace.
You pat the sheets. "Ugh, we need to do laundry tomorrow. Maybe before we go on the mission. Your bed smells."
"Hey! This is all from you, I hope you know." He pauses. "Wait, I like it. Can't I keep it for one more day?"
"Ew. No."
"Didn't hurt to ask . . ."
"Okay," you tap his arm to let you go, "gotta pee before I get an infection."
"Yeah, okay,"
The calm silence between you two doesn't last long when someone bangs against the door angrily, and you hear Megumi's voice calling out to you and Yūji.
And Sukuna. You might as well drag him with you, too.
Megumi also must've summoned his dog because you hear a couple of growls and something scratching the bottom of the door.
"Whatever orgy you all are doing in there, take it elsewhere next time!"
for the premise of this fic, "enchain" is not going to be a one-time used deal between sukuna and yūji — i need it to be used multiple times just for the plot 😗
⡴ gym teacher!sukuna has an embarrassingly known crush on school nurse!reader
lowkey wanna turn this into a full oneshot
if he heard one more twelve year old’s squeaky voice whispering to one another, saying he’s ‘got a crush on the school nurse’ he swears he’s gonna write up the whole grade.
god, it’s even worse when one of the eighth grade girls come up to him when he’s on lunch duty.
“mr., mr. ! did you know the nurse mentioned she likes tall guys when i went into her room for a tylenol !”
“what does that have to do with me ?” he grumbles, scrunching his face while the girl and her friend stare up at him.
“well everyone knows you like like her—”
“GO SIT DOWN!”
he swears the whole lunchroom conveniently goes quiet when he yells that as the girls squirm away back to their tables and start whispering around gossip.
and even worse than the girls that draw hearts around you and sukuna’s staff photos next to eachother in the main office, he’s got gojo. gojo, who ships you two and nags him like worse-than a middle school girl. gojo, who shoves you two together for any school event.
“what game do you have planned for tomorrow?” you ask, leaning over to whisper to sukuna as eighth grade awards are called for each subject, timing claps inbetween your words while names are called. you smirk, “how many kids am i gonna have sent my way next time?”
“just dodgeball.” he leans down to whisper flatly against your ear, still staring down a kid giggling in the seating rows of the auditorium and effectively getting him to stop with his gaze.
“your version of dodgeball is basically to the death, i might have to have paramedics in my room on standby.” you joke, turning to smile at him so sweetly. in his mind, this counts as him making you laugh and therefore counts as a win.
he chuckles lightly, just a quick huff of his chest, but essentially the hardest he can laugh if he’s not looking at a kid getting tackled in class. “these kids will toughen up eventually, i am just teaching them to do it early.”
“were you a weak kid that needed to toughen up? i can really only picture you as a big scary dude.”
“i was actually a severely malnourished child due to my mothers impoverished state during her pregnancy.“ he says, truly not realizing how solemn he sounds in his voice even as he means it as a light hearted jest.
you blink at him, face contorted in confusion and awkwardness. he wants to hit himself.
the only thing that saves him from not saying anything stupid again is the end of the assembly, marked by gojo yelling into a megaphone and for kids to round up by homeroom.
the following week he’s still embarrassed to even look you in the eyes. he’s mulling over how stupid he must’ve looked infront of you while sifting through the equipment closet.
he hears steps echo throughout the currently empty gym before he yells out.
“gojo i’m not covering your lunch break, fuck off—” he turns around to not see the usual suspect he finds during his free period. instead, he sees you, leaning against the door in scrubs and white coat clinging to your body. he stills in his motion.
you speak before he can (if he can speak at all in his embarrassed state).
“i understand the confusion, he bothers me all the time too.” you dismiss, smiling at him with your glossed lips he probably thinks about hourly. waitwaitwait, gojo talks to you all the time ? he’s going to kill that lanky fuck. “just wanted to drop these off for yuri in your next period.” you jostle around a pill bottle in your hand, “she can get fainty on gym days so give these to her just in case to help prevent that.” he knows it’s your job and all, but your concern is honestly kinda cute.
“uhh yeah i’ll be sure to.” he nods, right as you drop the bottle on top of a stack of rubber cones by the door before you walk out. and he would just like it to be known he definitely didn’t stare at your ass as you left.
and he typically makes it easier for himself to deny how down bad he is to you, but now, after you spent a week of saved up sick days out last week, he’s kind of craving your voice. so who can blame him when he calls his 6th grade nephew into his office while he’s supposed to be at lunch.
“look, kid. i’m going to need you to do something, and i’m gonna need you to not be annoying about it, kay?”
yuji furrows his brows, fiddling with the strings of his hoodie.
“you,” he gestures to his nephew, “are going to act like you collapsed and let me bring you up to the school nurse. you are then going to be quiet when i talk to her.”
“is it cause you have a crush on her—”
sukuna tenses before cutting him off.
“do a good job acting and i will consider buying you that human earthworm blu-ray. do you hear me, brat?”
yuji’s eyes light up at the mention of the dvd.
“is this impression good enough then?” yuji leans and clutches at his side in fake fatigue while moaning dramatically for help, then immediately straightens up with a smile like he’s waiting for a rating. sukuna shakes his head and genuinely wonders how he’s related to this—in sukuna’s words— pea brained doofus.
he dials your number on his offices phone, sitting tense in his chair while he shh’s yuji. yuji nods and salutes as sukuna continues to roll his eyes.
yuji could’ve sworn he saw him smile when you pick up. he continues to watch sukuna fiddle with the curled wire of the phone as he explains yuji’s apparently dire situation. he can just barely hear the muffled sound of you saying ‘just bring him up and i’ll check him out.” over the speaker of the phone before sukuna hangs up and fixes his hair.
sukuna walks out the door and desperately tries to ignore yuji’s terrible post fainting impression behind him as his nephew follows his step to your room.
just before they step into your room he whispers to yuji as he leans over.
“if you can bring up me being single i’ll take you out for ice cream, brat.”
i suggest reading prequel of this fic— SOULMATE? HOLEMATE! —for better understanding.
❞ summary ⠾ You and Caleb reunite at Gran’s house and BOOM—turns out those sketchy toys were secretly linking your dicks and pussies the whole time. Months of ghost-fucking each other? Mutual. Both virgins? Also mutual. Gran leaves for 3 days? → instant horny apocalypse. You two lose your V-cards in the most depraved, “gege/meimei” way possible :3
❞ wc ⠾ 7.7k
❞ content warnings ⠾ pseudocest, heavy og “gege / meimei” / big brother-little sister dynamic, explicit smut, heavy dubcon, usage of toys, toys connected to each other's dick and pussy (portal panties), virginity loss, oral (m! receiving), toy play, double penetration via toy + real cock, squirting, creampie, face-sitting, spanking, cum play, overstimulation, rough sex, voyeurism, theft of panties, reader's a brat, possessiveness, emotional intensity, overall just straight up filth with plot
❞ cherry’s note ⠾ thanks to @kingraspberry12-blog for commissioning this piece. I never thought I'd drag my ass down to actually write a part two but it is what it is. Here's the most awaited part two of soulmate?holemate!. I've lost count of how many times I've crashed out during this fic lol. My brain's so fried actually, need to sleep it off.
The summer drags like molasses this year, thick and sticky, every hour stretching longer than it has any right to. Maybe it’s the heat rolling in off the Bloomshore coast, maybe it’s Gran’s ancient air-conditioner wheezing like it’s on its last legs, or maybe—more likely—it’s because you’ve spent the last two days fucking a perfect silicone replica of your gege’s cock in the room right next to his, walls so thin you can hear the creak of his mattress when he shifts in his sleep.
You’re both on the living-room couch now, same faded floral pattern you used to fight over as kids, same throw blanket draped over your knees like nothing’s changed. Except everything has. The space between your thigh and his feels charged, electric, like the air itself is holding its breath. Neither of you looks directly at the other. Your eyes keep sliding to the TV screen—some mindless rerun neither of you is watching—then dart away before they can land on his profile, on the sharp line of his jaw, the way sweat beads at his temple and trails down the side of his neck.
Caleb breaks first.
He clears his throat, the sound rough, like it’s been stuck there for hours.
“Hey, pipsqueak…” His voice is lower than usual, careful. “How’s life out in Linkon? Big city, more people, all that noise?”
He chuckles, soft and awkward, rubbing the back of his neck the way he always does when he’s nervous. You used to tease him about it. Now it just makes your stomach twist.
“Don’t tell me you don’t miss your gege anymore…”
You glance up—too fast. His cheeks are flushed, a faint pink creeping up from his collar. He looks… shy. Almost boyish. It’s so unfair.
Your own face burns hotter. You look away quick, huffing a breath through your nose like it’ll cool you down.
“How can I not miss you…”
The words slip out quieter than you mean them to. You press your lips together hard, trapping everything else that wants to follow.
You miss him so much it hurts.
You miss you in ways you're not supposed to.
You miss you so bad you shove his dick—fake, warm, veiny, perfect—inside you every night and cry his name into the pillow while you hug that stupid apple plushie he won for you at the fair when you were fourteen. You clamp down around it until your thighs shake and your vision whites out, pretending it’s his arms pinning you, his chest against your back, his breath on your neck. You come so hard you sob, and then you feel guilty for hours, but you still do it again the next night. Because you're broken and you want him and you hate yourself for it.
But you don’t say any of that. You just stare at your knees and let the silence thicken.
Gran’s voice saves you both.
“Kids!”
You jump. Caleb straightens like he’s been caught doing something wrong.
She’s standing in the doorway, dressed in her going-out blouse, small rolling suitcase at her side.
“I’m headed downtown for three days. Something came up. Emergency stuff. You two will be fine, right? Like always.”
She’s said the same thing a hundred times over the years. Back then it meant popcorn fights and falling asleep to horror movies on the couch. Now the words land differently. Heavier.
The front door clicks shut behind her. The sound echoes.
Suddenly the house feels too quiet. Too big. Too empty except for him.
You’re hyper-aware of every inch of Caleb next to you. The sleeveless shirt clings to his chest from the humidity, dark at the collar where sweat’s gathered. His shorts ride up just enough to show the thick muscle of his thighs. His arms—God, his arms—flex every time he shifts, biceps rounding, veins standing out against his skin. He’s broader than last summer, taller, filled out in all the ways that make your mouth dry and your core ache.
You stare out the window at the garden like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. Anything to avoid looking at him.
He notices.
Caleb chuckles again, softer this time, and reaches out. One finger brushes your cheek—light, teasing, the same way he used to when you pouted as a kid.
“Aww, is my meimei sad? Mm… I’m here. We can spend some quality time together—”
The touch is barely there, but it burns straight down your spine. Your whole body jerks away like you’ve been shocked.
Caleb freezes, finger still hovering in the air. His eyes widen.
“Pipsqueak… are you okay?”
You can’t look at him. Your face is on fire, heart slamming so hard you’re sure he can hear it. Your nipples are already tight under your thin tank top, traitorously visible, and you cross your arms quickly to hide them.
“I’m—fine,” you mumble, staring at the floor. “Just… hot.”
He swallows. You hear it—the dry click of his throat. His gaze drops for half a second, catches the outline of your nipples, then snaps away like he’s been burned too.
“Right. Uh… yeah. Hot.” He exhales, rough. “Alright. I’ll be in the kitchen. Lemme know what you want for lunch.”
He stands. The couch dips and rises with his weight. You watch his back as he walks away—broad shoulders rolling under the shirt, the dip of his spine, the way his shorts hug the curve of his ass and the powerful flex of his thighs with every step.
The second he disappears around the corner you clench your thighs together so hard it hurts.
You’re already wet. Have been since he sat down. Since he said your nickname. Since he touched your cheek.
You need a shower. Cold. Now.
You bolt upstairs before you can think better of it, lock the bathroom door, strip in record time. The dildo is already in your hand—pulled from under your mattress like it’s been waiting for you.
The water’s barely warm when you brace one foot on the edge of the tub, line up the thick head, and sink down with a broken moan.
It stretches you open in that perfect, filthy way—veins dragging, curve kissing your front wall, heavy balls nudging your clit on the downstroke. You fuck yourself fast, desperate, water pounding your back, free hand braced on the tile.
“Gege—fuck—gege—”
You don’t even try to be quiet. The house is empty except for him, and part of you hopes—prays—he hears.
Downstairs, Caleb grips the kitchen counter so hard his knuckles turn white.
The second you disappeared upstairs he felt it: that familiar phantom squeeze around his cock, hot and wet and impossibly tight. Then the rhythm starts—fast, shallow, greedy.
He’s hard in seconds, leaking into his shorts, breath coming in short pants.
He glances toward the stairs.
He knows what you’re doing.
He knows because he’s been doing the same thing to your toy every night.
And now you’re both home.
Both alone.
Both breaking.
He doesn’t go upstairs. Not yet.
Instead he leans his back against the counter, the cool edge biting into his spine like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His cock is painfully erect under the thin fabric of his shorts, the obscene bulge straining forward, tenting so hard the waistband digs into his lower abs. Every shallow breath makes it twitch, every phantom slam of your hips upstairs sends a fresh jolt through him. He moans—low, broken, helpless—each sound punched out of his lungs as your rhythm rocks him from the inside out. His knees buckle once, twice; he catches himself on the edge of the sink, knuckles white, hips grinding forward into nothing like he’s fucking the air.
He reaches down without thinking, palm cupping the thick ridge through the cotton. One rough stroke and his head falls back, throat working on a groan. The wet spot at the front of his shorts spreads fast—dark, sticky, obscene. He grinds harder into his own fist, hips rolling in slow, filthy circles, eyes fixed on the mess he’s making, precum soaking through until the fabric clings transparently to the flushed head.
Upstairs, you stand frozen under the cold spray for a long minute, water pounding your shoulders, doing absolutely nothing to dull the ache between your legs. Your pussy throbs in time with your heartbeat, still fluttering around the memory of double penetration, still greedy for more. The shower did jack shit. You shut off the water with a frustrated huff, towel yourself off in jerky movements, and stumble back to your room naked, skin pebbled, nipples tight from the chill and from want.
You don’t even close the door all the way.
You crawl onto the bed, legs splaying wide, knees bent and feet planted so you can watch yourself take it. The dildo is still warm from earlier, slick with your earlier mess. You line it up, tease the fat head through your folds once—then slam it home to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Your back arches off the mattress with a choked cry, pussy clamping down like a vice, walls rippling around every veiny inch.
Down the hall, Caleb sucks in a whimper so sharp it hurts. His eyes roll back; he has to brace both hands on the banister to keep from collapsing right there on the stairs. The phantom grip around his cock returns—tighter, hotter, wetter than before—and he knows exactly what you’re doing.
He climbs the last few steps on shaking legs, drawn like a magnet. Your door is cracked open. He shouldn’t look. He knows he shouldn’t.
He looks anyway.
And everything inside him fractures.
There you are—his sweet, innocent meimei—legs spread obscenely wide on the childhood bed you used to share during storms, tits heaving with every frantic roll of your hips, pussy stretched wide around a thick, veiny dildo that looks exactly like his cock. Down to the upward curve, the heavy balls slapping wetly against your ass with every thrust, the flushed brownish-pink head disappearing inside you over and over.
He can see the way your walls cling to it when you pull back, the slick strings connecting silicone to your swollen lips, the way your clit peeks out swollen and red every time you grind down.
“Mmhhh gege! Ahhh gege fuck—need you—mmpphhh!!”
Your voice cracks on his name, back bowing, tits bouncing wildly as you fuck yourself stupid, chasing that edge with desperate, sloppy thrusts. The sheets are soaked beneath you, wet patch spreading.
Caleb’s sure he would have moaned loud enough to wake the whole coast if he hadn’t bitten his lower lip bloody. It’s better than any porn he’s ever seen—hotter, filthier, because it’s you. His pipsqueak. His meimei. Ruining herself on a perfect copy of his dick.
The realization hits like a shockwave.
It was you.
All this time.
The ghost pussy milking him dry every night.
The way it clenched exactly when he needed it.
The way it knew his rhythm, his kinks, his breaking point.
And he’s been doing the same to you.
He shoves his shorts down in one rough yank; his cock springs free, angry red and leaking, veins standing out thick and pulsing. He wraps a fist around the base, strokes once—hard—and has to slap his free hand over his mouth to muffle the groan.
“Mmhh pipsqueak…” he whispers, voice wrecked, hips thrusting into his own grip like he’s fucking you through the doorway. “Such a needy little meimei… arghhh—it was you all along, huh?”
He can see every detail from here— the way your thighs tremble, the way your fingers dig into the sheets, the way you arch and sob his name like a prayer while you slam the toy deeper, chasing the stretch he’s been giving you in secret for months.
And he’s glad.
Fucking glad.
Because it’s mutual.
You out-freaked him first—ordered a replica of his dick and rode it until you cried his name—but he matched you, customized a perfect copy of your cunt and fucked it raw while whispering yours.
You’re both freaks.
Two depraved, lovesick freaks who’ve been secretly fucking each other stupid across hundreds of miles, and now you’re under the same roof with no Gran to stop you.
He strokes faster, matching your rhythm—every time you slam down, he fucks up into his fist. Precum drips over his knuckles, slicking the way. His balls draw up tight, aching.
You’re close. He can tell by the way your moans turn high and broken, the way your hips stutter, the way your pussy visibly flutters around the toy.
He’s right there with you.
One more thrust—yours, his—and you both shatter at the exact same second.
You come with a muffled scream into your pillow, body convulsing, squirting around the dildo in messy pulses that soak your thighs and the bed. The toy stays buried deep as you ride the aftershocks, whimpering his name over and over.
Caleb’s knees finally give out. He catches himself on the doorframe, biting his fist as he comes hard—thick ropes painting the floorboards, his hand, his stomach—while the phantom squeeze of your pussy milks him through every pulse.
He slumps there, panting, cock still twitching in his grip, eyes locked on you through the crack in the door.
You’re still trembling, legs limp, toy lodged inside you, chest rising and falling in shaky breaths.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
But the door creaks just a fraction wider under his weight.
And your eyes—glazed, wrecked, still teary—slowly lift.
They meet his.
For one endless heartbeat, neither of you breathes.
Then your lips part on a soft, broken whisper that carries straight to him,
“…gege?”
And everything that’s been building for months finally snaps.
You freak out the second your eyes blink from eye contact.
The sheets fly up in a frantic scramble, bunching around your chest and thighs as you yank them to your chin. Your cheeks ignite—burning, scorching hot—while a high-pitched squeak tears out of you like a startled animal.
“What are you—!”
The door, already ajar, swings wider under Caleb’s unsteady weight. He loses his balance completely—arms windmilling for half a second—then crashes forward with a loud, graceless thud, face-planting straight into the floorboards.
You squeak even louder, the sound shrill enough to rattle the windows.
He groans, low and pained, and slowly lifts his head. Blood trickles from his nose in a thin, bright red stream, dripping onto the wood. He blinks once, twice, dazed, then pushes himself up on shaking arms. His shorts are still shoved halfway down his thighs from earlier, so his dick—half-hard, flushed dark, still glistening at the tip—bobs free with the motion, jumping against his stomach like it has a mind of its own.
Your breath snags in your throat, sharp and audible.
You stare. You can’t not staring.
When you’d scrolled through that sketchy website a month ago, trembling and horny and stupid, you’d picked every detail from memory—the exact length you’d felt pressed against your hip during too-long hugs, the slight upward curve you’d glimpsed once through damp sweatpants, the heavy hang of his balls, the thick veins that stood out when his forearms flexed carrying your luggage. You’d thought it was obsessive fantasy.
But seeing it now—in the flesh, real, twitching, leaking a bead of precum that rolls slowly down the shaft—you realize with dizzying clarity—they didn’t just make a replica.
They made an exact fucking match.
Everything clicks into place like a lock tumbling open.
The “ghost” sensations.
The double penetration every night.
The way your toy always seemed to know exactly when he was close, clamping down harder, milking tighter.
The way his phantom cock always mirrored your rhythm, pounding deeper when you slammed down hardest.
Caleb hauls himself to his feet, swaying slightly. He notices your wide-eyed stare locked on his cock and flushes darker than you’ve ever seen him—red creeping from his collar to his ears. With a rough, embarrassed jerk, he yanks his shorts back up, the waistband snapping against his hips, but it does nothing to hide the thick outline still straining forward.
“Pipsqueak…” His voice comes out hoarse, cracked, half-lidded eyes dark and glassy. A thin trail of blood slides from his nostril, curving over the bow of his upper lip. He doesn’t wipe it away.
You snap back to yourself with a jolt.
“Caleb—your nose is bleeding!”
You scramble forward on your knees, sheets slipping dangerously low as you reach for the box of tissues on your nightstand. One hand presses a wad against his nose while the other clutches the fabric to your chest—but not fast enough. The sheet drops just enough to bare your breasts again, nipples peaked and flushed from everything that’s happened.
Caleb’s gaze drops instantly.
He stares—openly, hungrily—for one long heartbeat before you yank the sheet back up with a mortified squeak. Only then does he drag his eyes back to yours, pupils blown wide.
“It’s not because I fell,” he rasps, voice thick. “It’s because of…”
His stare rakes down your body again—slow, deliberate—taking in the way the sheet clings to your sweat-damp skin, the dark patch between your thighs where you’re still dripping, the toy still half-buried inside you under the covers. You squeak again, smaller this time, thighs pressing together instinctively.
“Caleb!”
“Okay—okay, I want you to stop freaking out and listen to me—”
You look away fast, heart hammering so loud it drowns out everything else. You don’t know how to explain this. How to admit that you’ve been coming undone on a silicone clone of him for months. That you’ve whispered his name like a prayer while your pussy clenched around fake-him, imagining real-him pinning you down. That you’re terrified of what it means now that the secret’s out.
Who fucks a replica of their gege’s dick?
You do.
You really, really do.
Before you can spiral further, Caleb’s hands—big, warm, calloused from flight controls—cup your cheeks. Gentle. Steady. He tilts your face up until you have no choice but to meet his eyes.
They’re soft. Guilty. Desperate. Everything at once.
“We need to figure this out, okay?” he whispers, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. “Wait—I need to show you something.”
And just like that he’s gone—bolting out of your room, bare feet slapping the hallway floor, leaving the door swinging wide behind him.
You’re alone again.
The room smells like sex and shame and him.
Your thighs tremble. The dildo is still inside you—warm, thick, stretching you open—and every tiny shift makes it drag against your oversensitive walls. You clench once, involuntarily, and a fresh trickle of slick leaks out around it.
You can hear him in his room now—drawers opening, something thudding to the floor, a muffled curse.
Your mind races.
He’s going to show you something.
You already know what it is.
A possible pocket pussy.
The one he’s been fucking every night while you rode his replica. The one that’s been milking him dry from three hundred miles away.
And now it’s here in this house with both of you.
You swallow hard, heart in your throat.
The floorboards creak as he comes back down the hall.
You don’t move.
Don’t pull the toy out.
Don’t cover up any more than you already are.
You just wait—sheets clutched to your chest, thighs still spread, pussy still stuffed, pulse roaring in your ears—while the footsteps get closer.
When Caleb steps back through the doorway, holding the black satin box like it’s evidence in a crime scene, eyes locked on yours with something raw and unguarded…
You know.
There’s no going back now.
Not for either of you.
Caleb steps back into your room, the black satin box cradled in his big hands like it’s both a confession and a trophy. He doesn’t hesitate—doesn’t even try to play coy. He flips the lid open right in front of you.
Your eyes blow wide. Your mouth drops into a perfect, stunned little ‘o’.
Nestled inside, glossy and obscene, is the pocket pussy—soft silicone lips parted just enough to show the glistening pink interior. And draped over it, stretched across the entrance like a filthy bow, is one of your missing lace panties. The pale pink ones with the tiny bow at the front. The ones you swore the washing machine devoured months ago.
Caleb—shameless bastard now that the mask is off—hooks two fingers under the waistband and tugs the fabric aside. He drags the pad of his thumb slowly along the outer folds, parting them gently, stroking the slick entrance like he’s petting something precious.
The sensation hits you like lightning.
A surprised, broken moan rips out of your throat before you can stop it. Your pussy clenches hard around the dildo still buried inside you, walls fluttering wildly, fresh slick leaking out around the base.
Caleb flushes darker—cheeks, neck, ears—but his grin is pure sin. He chokes on his own spit when your inner muscles clamp down again, the toy translating every spasm straight to his cock.
“You get it now?” he rasps, voice wrecked.
Your brain kicks into overdrive, thoughts crashing faster than light.
You’d spent months drowning in guilt—convincing yourself you were the only freak here, the only one twisted enough to order a perfect replica of your gege’s dick and ride it until you sobbed his name into your pillow. You’d hated how much you wanted it, how wrong it felt, how right it felt every time you came clenching around fake-him.
But look at him.
Look at your freak of a gege standing there holding a replica of your cunt, wrapped in your stolen panties like some depraved keepsake. He didn’t just buy it—he customized it, scented it, fucked it raw while thinking of you, and then he kept your underwear like a trophy.
“CALEB YOU STOLE MY PANTIES?!!?” The scream explodes out of you, eyes huge, accusatory, betrayed.
He squeaks—actually squeaks—scratching the back of his head with his free hand, sheepish grin wobbling.
“Umm… well… I rescued them to wash but uh… hehehehehe—”
You lunge.
Your fists rain down on his chest, shoulders, arms—smacking him over and over, forgetting the sheet, forgetting the toy still stretching you open, forgetting everything except righteous fury.
“YOU JERK!!! I KEPT BUYING CUTE PANTIES AND YOU STOLE THEM?!??! HOW DARE YOU!!! I THOUGHT THE WASHER WAS EATING THEM!!”
“Ow—ouch—ouch—pipsqueak!”
He’s half-laughing, half-squeaking, trying to shield himself but not really fighting back. The sounds are ridiculous, boyish, so much like the old Caleb that it almost hurts.
Then his arms snap around your waist.
One hard yank and you’re flush against him—chest to chest, hips to hips, the thick ridge of his cock pressing right against your lower belly through his shorts. Your breath punches out of you in a startled gasp.
“I can buy you new ones, yeah?” he murmurs, voice dropping low, rough. “Anything you want. But right now… we need to talk about this, meimei.”
The name hits like a shockwave.
You stop breathing.
His eyes are locked on yours—dark, molten, stripped of every layer of pretense. You feel every inch of him: the heat radiating off his skin, the hard planes of his chest, the insistent throb of his cock trapped between you. And lower—the dildo still lodged deep inside you, making your walls flutter every time you shift.
“Take it out, pipsqueak.”
Your cheeks burn so hot you think they’ll combust. You shake your head frantically—no, no, no—too embarrassed to move, too mortified to pull the replica of him out of your dripping cunt while he watches.
Caleb frowns, impatient.
His hand slides down—big, warm fingers wrapping around the base of the dildo where it’s buried in you. He groans low in his throat at the feel of your walls gripping it—gripping him, then yanks.
The toy comes free with a wet, filthy pop.
You gasp sharply—sharp enough to hurt—your pussy clenching around sudden emptiness. Slick gushes out in a messy splash, coating your inner thighs, dripping onto the sheets, making everything even more obscene.
“Come on,” he chuckles, dark and teasing, holding the glistening dildo up between you like evidence. “I know you weren’t shy fucking this replica in Linkon, huh? No wonder the ghost was so needy…”
His eyes drag over the toy—taking in the way it’s coated in your arousal, veins shiny, base slick—and then rake back up your body, slow and hungry.
“I should’ve known it was my naughty little pipsqueak. After all… it’s only meimei who takes this much from her gege, hmm?”
His voice drops to gravel.
You gulp, panting softly, chest heaving. You pout up at him—bratty, defiant—and smack his chest again, weaker this time.
“But… you had a replica of mine too!”
Caleb laughs—low, rough, relieved.
“In that case… I’m guilty too.”
Then he moves.
One step forward and your back hits the mattress. You both go down in a tangle—sheets ripping away completely, your naked body splayed beneath him, still sweaty, still flushed, still smelling like sex and shame and him.
He braces on his forearms, caging you in, face inches from yours.
“Then we should share this sin together, right?”
His hips settle between your thighs. The hard length of him—real this time—nudges right against your soaked entrance, hot and thick and leaking through his shorts.
You whimper—small, broken, needy.
His mouth hovers over yours, breath mingling.
“Tell me to stop, meimei,” he whispers, voice trembling just enough to betray how close he is to breaking. “Tell me and I’ll walk out right now. We’ll pretend this never happened.”
Your hands slide up—fingers curling into his shoulders, nails digging in.
You don’t push him away.
You pull him closer.
“Don’t you dare,” you breathe against his lips.
And that’s it.
The last thread snaps.
Caleb’s mouth crashes down on yours—hungry, desperate, years of pent-up want pouring out in one bruising kiss. His tongue pushes past your lips, claiming, tasting, while his hips grind forward, dragging the fat head of his cock through your folds.
You arch up into him with a sob, legs wrapping around his waist, heels digging into his ass to pull him deeper.
He groans into your mouth—raw, wrecked.
“Fuck—pipsqueak—been waiting so long—”
Caleb pulls back just enough to drink you in—really drink you in.
You’re sprawled beneath him like a fever dream: lips swollen and glossy from his kisses, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow pants, eyes glassy and half-lidded with want. His gaze drags down slow—over the flushed peaks of your tits, the soft curve of your belly still trembling from aftershocks, then lower, to where your thighs are parted and your pussy is clenching desperately around nothing. Slick shines on your inner thighs, dripping down toward the sheets in lazy rivulets. The toy’s absence has left you empty and aching, walls fluttering visibly like they’re begging to be filled again.
His whole body burns—not just from the heat of the moment, but from the sheer, dizzying reality of it. His wildest, most shameful dream is right here: you, naked and wrecked and his, finally letting him see you like this. Touch you like this. He’s drowning in emotions—guilt, relief, raw hunger—but he forces himself to focus. He wants this to be good for you. Better than good. He wants to feed every filthy craving you’ve both been hiding, satisfy the hunger that’s been eating you alive for months.
“So pretty,” he stutters, voice cracking as two fingers glide down your slit. He parts your folds gently, watching the way your clit twitches under the lightest brush.
You yelp, thighs jerking inward on instinct. “Caleb!”
He shakes his head, firm but soft. His free hand comes down in a sharp spank to the plush meat of your thigh—hard enough to sting, soft enough to make the flesh jiggle.
“Oh no no no no,” he murmurs, eyes dark. “Don’t go hiding from me now. You’re beautiful, pipsqueak. I want to admire all of you.”
You bite your lower lip hard, cheeks flaming, but you don’t close your legs again. You watch—breath hitching—as his fingers continue their slow exploration: tracing your entrance, dipping just inside to feel how soaked you are, then sliding lower. He gropes one ass cheek shamelessly, kneading the soft flesh before landing another weak, appreciative spank. The jiggle makes him groan low in his throat.
“Aw damn…”
You huff, mortified and turned on in equal measure, and reach up to grab his ear—tugging hard.
He yelps instantly. “Ow ow ow—what’s wrong? Did I hurt you—”
You scoff, cutting him off, and slide both palms under his shirt. Your fingers find the hard planes of his pecs, cupping them shamelessly, thumbs brushing over his nipples.
“Take off your clothes too, dummy,” you mutter, voice bratty and breathless. “I don’t wanna be the only one naked.”
Caleb blinks once—then grins so wide it’s almost stupid, ear-to-ear and boyish despite the filthy situation.
“Fair enough.”
He yanks the sleeveless shirt over his head in one smooth motion, muscles flexing under sweaty skin as it hits the floor somewhere behind him. Next come the shorts—hooked thumbs in the waistband, frantic tug downward. The fabric slides off his thighs and his cock springs free, slapping lewdly against his lower abs with a wet smack.
You gasp—sharp, involuntary.
It’s exactly like the dildo. Down to the last detail: the thick veins, the slight upward curve, the flushed brownish-pink head already leaking, the heavy balls hanging low. Your pussy clenches hard around nothing at the sight, a fresh gush of slick trickling out.
“Like what you see, huh?” he smirks, voice hoarse and wrecked. He grips the base and smacks the fat head against your dripping folds—once, twice—coating himself in your mess.
You whine instantly, hips jerking up. “Ahhh fuck—Caleb—mmmpphhh!!”
But instead of pushing in, he pulls back. You frown, confused and needy—until you see him reach for the dildo again.
With a slow, sinful smile, he lines it up and slides it back inside your tight cunt.
“Hai—ahhhh—Caleb!?!”
You can only stare up at his face—pleasure twisting his features, mouth falling open in a perfect ‘o’—as he pushes the toy deeper. A low, rumbling groan escapes him.
“Fuck… exact feeling…”
He keeps going—slow, torturous—watching your face the whole time while he feeds inch after inch back into you. Your walls stretch around the familiar silicone, fluttering, sucking it in greedily until it’s buried to the hilt again: tip kissing your cervix, heavy balls pressed flush against your ass.
Only then does he stop.
But he’s not done.
He manhandles you with easy strength—big hands under your thighs, lifting you like you weigh nothing. You squeak as he repositions you properly on the bed: flat on your back, head near the pillows, legs spread wide. He climbs over you, straddling your chest, knees bracketing your shoulders.
His cock hovers right above your face—hard, twitching, leaking a fat pearl of precum from the slit.
Your brain empties completely. All you can do is stare: at him, at the dick that’s been haunting your nights for months, now real and inches from your lips.
“You’ll suck it, right baby?” he rasps, voice trembling with restraint. “Mmmh… suck gege’s dick while the replica stretches you open.”
He lowers himself slowly. The swollen head smacks against your lips—hot, sticky, salty.
You open immediately.
Your mouth wraps around the tip, tongue swirling, sucking gently at first. Caleb throws his head back with a guttural sound.
“Ohhh fuck—dual sensation—ahhh… shit!”
His fingers slide into your hair, gripping gently but firm. He starts fucking your mouth in shallow thrusts—careful not to choke you yet, but deep enough to make your eyes water.
“Fuck baby… take it deeper. I know you can—ahh… you’ve been swallowing that dick down your throat, haven’t you? Hah…”
You can barely think—pussy stuffed full and throbbing around the toy, mouth stretched around the real thing, taste of him flooding your senses. But you obey.
Your hands fly up—gripping the firm meat of his ass, nails digging in as you pull him forward. You relax your throat and swallow him to the base in one slow, greedy glide.
Your nose buries into the neatly trimmed, newly shaved patch of pubic hair. His scent—musk, clean sweat, him—overwhelms you. Your eyes roll back, lashes fluttering, fingers sinking deeper into the thick muscle of his thighs while tears of effort slip down your temples.
Caleb’s head snaps back, face contorting in raw pleasure—jaw slack, brows furrowed, a broken moan tearing from his chest.
“Fuck—pipsqueak—good girl—fuck—”
He holds himself there for a heartbeat—letting you feel every thick inch pulsing on your tongue—before he starts to move again.
Slow, deep thrusts into your mouth while the dildo stays buried in your cunt, every rock of his hips making the toy shift inside you just enough to drag against your walls.
You’re stuffed at both ends.
Full.
Claimed.
His.
And he’s not stopping until you both break again.
Caleb keeps fucking your mouth with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips—balls smacking wetly against your chin on every deep thrust, the filthy sound echoing in the quiet room. His moans are low and ragged, pleasure ripping through him in waves as your throat flutters around his length, tongue pressing flat against the underside, sucking greedily.
You snap your hips forward uselessly, clenching desperately around the dildo still buried deep in your cunt. The dual fullness—mouth stuffed with real him, pussy stretched by fake him—has you trembling, thighs shaking, slick dripping down your ass in steady rivulets.
That’s when he breaks.
Caleb’s whole body locks up, shaking violently. His fingers tighten in your hair—almost too hard—burying himself to the root until your nose presses flush against his pelvis. A guttural groan tears from his chest as he starts cumming.
Thick, hot spurts flood your mouth instantly—salty, bitter, overwhelming. Your eyes roll back so hard you see stars, throat working frantically to swallow it all, but there’s too much. It overflows the corners of your lips, dripping down your chin in messy strings.
He doesn’t stop.
He pulls out with a lewd, wet pop—cock still jerking—and shoots the last few ropes across your face: warm streaks painting your cheeks, your nose, your swollen lips. You gasp for air, tongue darting out instinctively to lick what you can reach, tasting him everywhere.
Caleb pants above you, chest heaving, staring down at the mess he made. You look wrecked—face covered in his cum, eyes glassy and dazed, lips parted and shiny. He knows he should feel ashamed. He should apologize, clean you up, stop this madness.
But fuck—you look so hot like this it’s rewriting his brain chemistry. Ruining him for anything else.
You flutter your lashes up at him, slow and deliberate, tongue tracing your lower lip to catch another drop. The sight snaps something inside him.
He groans, low and broken, and reaches for the dildo. One rough yank and he pulls it free from your overstimulated pussy.
You arch violently off the bed, hips jerking, a gush of slick squirting out around the sudden emptiness. “F-fuck—Caleb—!”
He stares, mesmerized. “Fuck… you’re so hot, meimei. I think I’m losing my mind.”
You’re panting, trying to catch your breath, body still twitching with aftershocks. Guilt crashes over him like cold water—he reaches for the tissue box on your nightstand with shaking hands and starts wiping your face clean, gentle despite everything.
His cheeks are crimson, burning with embarrassment and leftover heat. “Ah shit—sorry pipsqueak, didn’t mean to… fuck… I’m sorry, okay?”
You just stare up at him—brain fried, body humming—and reach out. Your fingers wrap around his still-hard cock, slick with spit and cum.
He hitches a sharp breath. “Ahhh—oh god—mmhh—”
You give him lazy, teasing strokes, smirking mischievously through the haze.
“I want it, Caleb,” you whisper, voice hoarse. “I want your dick.”
He groans, hips snapping forward into your touch. Hearing you talk like that—filthy, needy—makes him throb harder in your palm.
“Say it again, meimei,” he rasps, voice trembling. “Say it… properly.”
You bite your lower lip, thumb flicking over the sensitive head, circling the slit, smearing precum.
“I want your dick, gege,” you purr, slow and deliberate. “Please?”
You don’t stop. Somehow you sit up—legs shaky—free hand sliding up his arm, over the thick muscle of his shoulder, then flicking his hard nipple. You lick your lips again, eyes locked on his, and climb into his lap.
“Need you inside, gege,” you breathe against his throat. “Not the… toy. Need your dick to fuck this pussy—mmhh!”
Caleb snaps.
Since when did his sweet pipsqueak become this seductive little tease?
He hauls you up the bed in one swift motion—then slams you back down onto the mattress. Not too rough—just enough to make you squeak in surprise, tits bouncing with the impact.
“Fuck—look at that sultry expression,” he growls, voice dark. “You’re such a tease, meimei. Such a dirty girl begging her gege’s dick.”
His palm comes down in a sharp smack against your pussy—wet, obscene. You whine, arching hard, the sting turning into molten heat that makes you even wetter.
“You bought a dildo to fuck this needy little cunt, huh?” Another smack—harder. You sob, mindless, hips grinding back toward his hand. “Used a replica of your gege’s dick to train this pussy?”
You can only nod—whimpering, desperate—grinding shamelessly against his palm.
“Fuck—but who am I to judge?” he chuckles darkly. “I’m a freak too, ain’t I?”
He presses the fat head of his cock to your entrance—hot, leaking, real—and snaps his hips forward in one powerful thrust.
You both nearly scream.
The bed shakes beneath you as he bottoms out—thick, burning, stretching you in ways the toy never could. Your walls clamp down instantly, fluttering around every veiny inch.
Caleb grips the headboard above you, knuckles white, hovering over your body. His other hand slides between your legs—fingers finding your clit, pinching and flicking with his thumb while he watches your face twist in pleasure.
“Good thing is… I don’t have to train you for my dick anymore, hah,” he pants, hips rutting in sloppy, messy thrusts. “You’re nice and ready to take me full… fuck… I never thought—”
He throws his head back, eyes squeezing shut. Tears well at the corners—not from pain, but from too much everything: pleasure, relief, fear.
He’s terrified he’ll cry in front of you. Terrified you’ll disappear when this ends. Terrified he’ll lose you after finally having you.
So he fucks you deeper—hands roaming everywhere: groping your tits, spanking your ass, squeezing your thighs. Rough, unpracticed, desperate. He can’t help it. He’s never done this before—not like this, not with anyone.
Suddenly he stops—mid-thrust, sweat dripping down his chest in rivulets. He looks down at you, panic flashing in his eyes.
“Hey—hey hey hey, pipsqueak… hah… are you like—feeling actually good? Like… or…”
His whole face is on fire. He gulps, vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache.
Your brain is too fried to process deeply. You just grin—mindless, blissed-out—and grind back against him with a small, innocent smile.
“Mmhh… best big brother ever…”
Caleb’s mouth falls open. He chokes on a laugh—or maybe a sob—then shakes his head and goes back to fucking you.
He’ll ask when you’re sober. Right now you’re too drunk on his cock to think straight.
He finds your clit again—rubbing tight circles—and feels the telltale shiver in your hips. You’re close. He can see the faint bulge in your lower belly every time he bottoms out, and it makes him shy and so fucking turned on at the same time.
The fact that he’s claiming you like this—fucking you so deep you’ll feel him for days—makes his head spin. He prays this isn’t a fever dream.
His own brain is melting from the pleasure, the sensation, the sight of you taking him so perfectly.
He reaches down—presses the heel of his palm against the bulge in your belly—and pushes.
Both your eyes roll back at the same instant.
Broken moans spill from your tongues as you cum together—hard.
You squirt violently—soaking his cock, his abs, the sheets in messy arcs—walls clamping down like a vice around him.
Caleb comes with a shattered whimper—hips stuttering, spilling inside you in thick, endless pulses until it leaks out around his base, dripping down his balls and onto the ruined bed.
He collapses next to you—breathing ragged, eyes half-focused and glassy.
After a long moment he reaches over—gentle now—brushing damp hair off your face. A soft, satisfied smile curves his lips.
“Thank you…” he whispers, voice hoarse and raw.
You turn your head—still panting, still trembling—and press a lazy kiss to his palm.
“Gege…”
He pulls you close—bodies sticky, tangled, hearts hammering in sync.
Caleb’s hand comes up slow—almost reverent—caressing the side of your face, thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone like he’s memorizing the texture of your skin. His breath hitches when he feels the warmth, the realness of you still flushed and glowing against him. A low, stuttering rumble escapes his chest.
“Did you… like it, pipsqueak?”
You’re draped over him now—breasts cushioned against the hard plane of his chest, cheek pressed to the thick swell of his pec, listening to the thunder of his heartbeat slow. You grin lazily, voice cracked and hoarse from all the moaning, all the screaming his name.
“I fucking loved it, Caleb.”
His smirk falters—just for a second—something soft and vulnerable flickering in his eyes. His thumb circles lazy patterns over your hipbone, the touch grounding and possessive at once.
“Me too.” He swallows. “I thought I was pushing things too fast… making it uncomfortable since I’ve never—”
Your eyes shoot open. You half-scream, half-gasp, bolting upright so fast your tits bounce against his chest.
“WAIT—you… YOU MEAN YOU WERE A VIRGIN?!?!”
Caleb’s whole face ignites—crimson flooding from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. He squeezes his eyes shut in pure mortification, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward in a faint, sheepish grin.
“Yeah yeah… first time got my dick wet. Kinda nervous.”
You beam—bright, wicked, delighted—and crash your mouth to his in a messy, giddy kiss. Then you’re scrambling off him, lunging for your phone on the nightstand.
“Wait—lemme take a picture of us losing our virginities together!”
Caleb’s mouth drops open. You were a virgin too. The realization hits him square in the chest—funny, warm, possessive—and a smug grin spreads across his face before he can stop it.
You flip the camera to selfie mode, crawling back into his lap, thighs bracketing his hips. His arms snake around your waist immediately—tight, claiming—pulling you flush against him while you stick your tongue out in a naughty little pose.
“Say cheese!”
He looks straight at the lens—smug as hell, eyes half-lidded and dark with leftover lust—while you giggle and snap the photo.
Caleb huffs softly after, nuzzling into your neck. “You better not show this to anyone.”
You wiggle your eyebrows mischievously. “Oh, I’m gonna show it to any guy who’ll bother me like—you should be scared of my big brother.”
He wheezes—chokes on his own spit—and bursts out laughing, arms squeezing you until you squeak in protest.
“Diabolical.”
His palm comes down in a light, playful spank on your ass—watching the flesh bounce with open delight.
“You’re a menace to society, you know that?”
“I get it from you.”
You bite your lower lip, rolling your hips back slow—grinding your slick folds along his still-hard cock. He groans low in his throat.
“Fair enough.”
He dives back in—kissing you deep, tongues tangling messy and hungry. You both moan into each other’s mouths, hands roaming, relearning every inch now that the barrier’s gone.
“Fuck… I’m gonna miss you when I go back to Skyhaven…”
You grin against his lips, crawling higher up his body until you’re straddling his chest. Your hand wraps around his cock—still slick, still leaking—and guide the head to your mouth.
“That’s what the toys are for, gege.”
You hum as you wrap your lips around him again—slow, teasing—tongue swirling over the sensitive slit. Caleb lets out a low, rumbling moan, hips twitching up into the wet heat of your mouth.
“Ahhh… I almost forgot…”
His fingers slide down—two thick digits pushing into your dripping pussy without warning. You moan around his cock, the vibration making him curse under his breath.
“Three days left… fuck, I can’t get enough of you, meimei…!”
Neither can you.
The next three days blur into one long, feverish haze.
You fuck like rabbits—hours bleeding into hours, positions changing, surfaces shifting—bed, floor, shower, kitchen counter when Gran’s still gone, even on the old couch in the living room where you used to watch cartoons together as kids.
He eats you out until your thighs shake and you’re crying his name.
You ride him slow and deep until he’s begging.
He pins you against the wall and fucks you standing until pictures rattle on their hooks.
You suck him off in the hallway while he tries—and fails to stay quiet.
Every time one of you starts to flag—exhausted, sore, spent—the other just reaches over, touches, whispers filthy encouragement, and the fire reignites.
Even after Gran comes back—bags in hand, cheerful questions about your “quiet week”—you keep sneaking.
Late-night tiptoes down the hall.
Muffled moans pressed into pillows so she doesn’t hear.
Quick, desperate fucks in the bathroom while the shower runs to cover the sounds.
His hand over your mouth while he grinds into you from behind, whispering “quiet, meimei, or Gran’ll hear how much her good girl likes her gege’s cock.”
When the vacation finally ends, you stand on the platform watching the train to Skyhaven pull away.
Caleb leans out the open window one last time—hair mussed, eyes soft and dark—and presses a final, lingering kiss to your lips.
“Be good,” he murmurs against your mouth.
You grin, wicked. “No promises.”
The train starts moving. He disappears down the track.
You stand there until it’s gone, thighs clenched tight—still feeling the fresh load he stuffed you full with this morning before dawn, warm and thick and leaking slowly down your inner thighs under your skirt.
You shift your weight—feel it drip a little more—and smile to yourself.
Three hundred miles apart again. But the toys are waiting. And now you both know exactly what the other needs. You turn toward your apartment in linkon, already counting the days until the next break.
⚘. summary Ꮺ You ordered a custom dildo that perfectly matches your big-brother-figure Caleb’s dick. Caleb ordered a pocket pussy that perfectly matches your's. Neither of you knows the toys are synced to the real thing. Now every time one of you fucks your toy, the other feels it—like ghost sex on steroids. You’ve both spent months thinking you’re being haunted by the supernatural while secretly fucking each other senseless through the wall. The feedback loop goes haywire. No one is surviving this vacation with their sanity intact.
⚘. content warnings Ꮺ pseudocest, og cn gege/meimei trope, heavy dubcon, masturbations, unsolved sexual tension, zero communications, guilt, denial, forbidden desires, sexual frustration, mutual yearning, usage of sex toys, magical sex toys that secretly link to other person's body(portal panties), mutual fucking, semi-public/public, double penetration, extreme tightness + involuntary orgasms, excessive cumming/squirting, porn with little no plot . . .18 + ★ MINORS DNI !
⚘. wc Ꮺ 6k+
⚘. cherry’s note Ꮺ this is probably the weirdest scenario I've written so far... took me some real good TIME to finish...
“And that’s the last box,” you huff, letting the cardboard thud against the scuffed hardwood near the doorway. You straighten up straight, rolling your shoulders, wiping the sheen of sweat from your forehead with the back of your wrist. The tiny apartment looks like a warzone of luggage and flat-pack furniture Caleb swore you “absolutely needed”—his credit card, his orders, his quiet, stubborn way of still taking care of you even when he’s hundreds of miles away.
Linkon City air tastes different. Sharper. Lonelier.
You’ve been here three weeks and it still doesn’t feel like home. Maybe it never will without him barging through the door, scolding you for leaving dishes in the sink or for forgetting to eat again.
A sigh slips out as you kick off your sneakers. Shower first, chaos later.
Clothes hit the floor in a careless pile. The bathroom is barely big enough for one person, but the water pressure is perfect—hot, punishing, exactly what your sore muscles crave. Steam fills the cramped space, fogging the mirror, swallowing every reflection that isn’t you.
You tip your head back, letting the spray pound against your throat, your collarbones, sliding down between your breasts. The heat loosens something inside your chest.
Caleb’s face flashes behind your closed eyes uninvited. Always uninvited, yet always there.
Sharp jaw. Tired eyes that soften only for you. The way his pilot uniform hugs his shoulders now that he’s filling out, taller and broader every time he comes home on break. The way he still calls you “little pipsqueak” even though you’re not little anymore.
You shouldn’t.
You really, really shouldn’t.
But your hand is already moving, gliding over slick skin, tracing the curve of your waist, the dip of your navel, lower.
“You must’ve felt this heavy too, gege…” you whisper to the steam, voice trembling with guilt and something darker. “All alone in Skyhaven… in that big empty house with no one to—”
Your fingers slip between your thighs, parting swollen folds, finding yourself already soaked and it has nothing to do with the shower.
A broken little sound escapes as you circle your clit, slow, teasing, the same way you’ve imagined he would if he ever—God—if he ever let himself unravel like this.
“Mmh… gege, are you worried about me?” The words come out filthy, breathless, wrong in the best way. “Do you… think about me when you’re alone too?”
You press two fingers inside yourself, curling, pumping, thighs shaking. The heel of your palm grinds against your clit and your hips jerk forward like you’re fucking your own hand, like you’re chasing a ghost that wears his face.
You’ve never touched each other. Not once. Not beyond lingering hugs that lasted too long, not beyond his thumb brushing your cheek when you cried after graduation, not beyond falling asleep on his shoulder during long flights home and pretending both of you didn’t notice how neither moved away.
But you know.
You both know.
“C-Caleb—” His name cracks in your throat as you come undone, clenching hard around your fingers, knees nearly buckling. Water pounds over you like it’s trying to wash the sin off your skin, but it can’t reach the stain inside your chest.
You stay there until the water starts to cool, forehead pressed to the tile, panting, ashamed, and still aching for him.
Because even an entire city apart, even with new lives and new rules and the Hunter Academy waiting to swallow you whole tomorrow—Caleb is still the only home you want to go back to.
And you’re terrified he wants to come back to you too.
You step out of the bathroom wrapped in nothing but steam and guilt, skin still tingling, cheeks flaming hotter than the shower ever got. Droplets race down your neck, your spine, between your ass cheeks; every trickle feels like a reprimand. You don’t even bother with clothes. You just belly-flop onto the bed, wet hair fanning across the pillow, and immediately start flailing like a dying shrimp.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” you hiss, kicking the sheets, punching the mattress, rolling side to side until the towel finally gives up and falls open. You lie there spread-eagle, panting at the ceiling like it personally offended you.
You miss your stupid, overprotective, stupidly hot gege this much.
It’s pathetic. You’re pathetic.
You need to do something about it before you lose the last shred of your sanity.
With a groan you drag the laptop Caleb bought you—matte black, way too expensive, has a little fighter-jet sticker he slapped on the lid as a joke— onto your stomach and flip it open. Fingers hover over the keys for half a second before shame loses the fight.
You type: “best sex toys for beginners”.
The screen explodes with color and silicone and words like “thrusting” and “suction” and “10 vibration patterns”. Your eyes go wide.
“Oh WOW…”
You scroll, jaw literally on the floor, until you hit the prices and wheeze. Eight hundred dollars for a rabbit vibrator? Who has that kind of money? Certainly not a broke freshman hunter living off instant noodles and Caleb’s guilt-money transfers.
You slam the laptop shut, fling yourself backward again, and whine at the ceiling.
“Too broke for that… damn, I can’t even get a proper dildo shoved up into my pussy, life is unfair—”
Ding ding.
Your phone lights up on the nightstand. Unknown number. A link.
Normally you’d ignore it. Today you’re desperate and dumb, so you squint, see “70% OFF FLASH SALE!!” in screaming red letters, and click before your brain catches up.
The site that loads is… questionable. Neon pink, flickering banners, probably one virus away from stealing your soul. But front and center is a product that makes your heart stop.
“Upload a photo, choose vein pattern, pick warmth settings; experience the exact cock you’ve always dreamed of.”
Your mouth goes dry.
There’s a little heart icon that says “Most Wishlisted Item of the Year”.
You shouldn’t.
You really, really shouldn’t.
But your finger is already over the “Customize Now” button and your thighs are already squeezing together remembering how your own fingers felt pretending they were his.
Ten minutes later you’ve uploaded the clearest photo you have of Caleb—him leaning against the cockpit of his fighter, flight suit half-zipped, smirk sharp enough to cut glass. You pick the length you’ve definitely never measured in your head while hugging him goodbye, the exact girth your dirty imagination has circled back to for years, the upward curve you’ve caught a glimpse of once through his sweatpants and never recovered from.
Veins: raised, prominent, just like the ones on his forearms when he carries your luggage without breaking a sweat. Warmth setting: “always hot, like he just worked out”. Internal texture: “tight but yielding, the way you bet he’d feel if he ever snapped and pinned you down.
The total, with the sketchy discount, is suspiciously low. Delivery: 3–5 days, discreet packaging.
Your finger hovers over “Place Order”. Morals scream. Pussy throbs harder. You hit the button before you can talk yourself out of it.
Order confirmed. You drop the phone like it’s on fire, roll facedown into the pillow, and muffle a scream that’s half horror, half unbearable anticipation.
In three to five days, you’re going to fuck a perfect replica of the cock belonging to the one person you’re never, ever supposed to want.
And you already know you’re going to call it gege while you do.
Five days of checking the mailbox like a lunatic. Five days of that stupid website 404-ing every time you tried to track the order. Five days of punching training dummies with your entire soul while screaming internally about getting scammed out of your last paycheck for a ghost dick.
“FUCK, IT WAS A SCAM!” you snarl, slamming an uppercut into the dummy’s throat so hard the stuffing starts leaking, “WHAT WAS I THINKING!”. Your squadmates give you a wide berth, whispering. Whatever. Let them think you’re unhinged. You are unhinged.
Then your phone buzzes against your hip. Package delivered.
You don’t even wait for the instructor to dismiss you. You just bolt, boots pounding pavement the whole way back, lungs burning, sweat cooling on your neck in the evening air. The second the apartment door slams behind you, you spot the box.
Plain brown. No labels except your name in printed font. You drop to your knees like a woman possessed, nails clawing at tape, ripping cardboard like it owes you money. The lid flies off. And you stop breathing.
Nestled in black satin is the most obscene, perfect, terrifying cock you’ve ever seen.
It’s huge. Stupidly, ridiculously huge. Thick veins snake up the shaft, only these are flushed dark, pulsing faintly with the built-in warming tech. The head is that deep brownish-pink, flared and glistening from whatever hyper-realistic coating they used. Heavy balls hang low, weighted, shifting slightly when you nudge the box.
You don’t remember setting the length slider this high.
You don’t care. Your mouth actually waters.
“Oh wow…” It comes out strangled. You fall back onto your ass, legs splayed, staring at the thing like it might stand up and walk over to you itself. “Oh my god.”
Your pussy clenches so hard you feel it in your throat.
You haven’t even taken your sweaty training gear off and you’re already dripping down your thighs.
You pick it up with both hands—jesus, it’s warm, heavier than expected and the second your fingers close around the shaft it pulses again, like it knows who it belongs to.
Like it’s been waiting for you just as long as you’ve been waiting for him.
You press the thick head against your cheek without thinking, dragging it down to your lips, breathing in the clean, new-silicone scent mixed with whatever insane tech makes it smell faintly like his cologne.
“Fuck, gege…” you whisper against the tip, voice cracking.
The toy throbs in your grip like it heard you.
You have never sprinted to lock your bedroom door faster in your life.You don’t make it to the bed.
The second the lock clicks you’re already peeling off your sweat-soaked clothes, sports bra flung somewhere, shorts kicked aside, panties dragged down your thighs and left dangling off one ankle. The toy is still in your grip, hot against your palm, veins pulsing faintly with the internal heater like it has a heartbeat.
You drop to your knees on the rug, legs spreading wide without shame, back hitting the edge of the mattress. The thick head nudges your lips and you open instantly, greedy, tongue flattening against the underside as you take the first few inches into your mouth. It’s too big; your jaw aches immediately, drool already spilling down your chin, but you force yourself deeper, gagging softly, eyes watering.
You pull off with a wet pop and a broken moan.
“Need you inside me, gege… please—”
You flip onto all fours, ass in the air, face buried in the sheets that still smell like the detergent he used to buy for both of you back home. One hand reaches back, guiding the fat tip through your soaked folds, coating it, teasing your clit until your thighs shake.
Then you push.
The stretch is obscene. Your pussy flutters, resists, then gives all at once. A strangled cry rips out of you as the first half sinks in, thick veins dragging against your walls, that perfect upward curve kissing spots you’ve never reached with your fingers. You claw at the sheets, hips jerking back on instinct, taking more, more, until your ass meets the heavy silicone balls and you’re stuffed so full you can’t breathe.
“F-fuck—Caleb—”
You pull forward until only the head remains, then slam back. The impact makes you scream into the mattress. Again. Harder. Faster. Your tits bounce with every brutal thrust, nipples dragging against the rug, thighs slapping against silicone like they’re slapping against his hips.
You lose count of how many times you fuck yourself on it. You lose language. All that exists is the wet, filthy sound of your cunt swallowing him, the burn in your thighs, the way your clit throbs every time the base grinds against it.
You flip over, legs thrown wide, knees hooked over your elbows so you can watch. Watch the way your pussy lips stretched thin around his cock, watch it disappear inside you again and again, slick coating everything, dripping down your ass, pooling on the floor.
“Look what you do to me, gege,” you sob, voice wrecked. “Look how wet you make me—how empty I am without you—fuck, I’m such a slut for you—”
Your free hand flies to your clit, rubbing frantic circles, and the orgasm barrels into you like a freight train. You squirt, actually squirt, a gush that soaks the toy and your thighs and the rug beneath you. Your walls clamp down so hard the dildo almost slips out, but you shove it deeper, riding the aftershocks, grinding, crying his name like a prayer.
You don’t stop.
You can’t.
You pull it out only long enough to flip the toy around and shove the slick head against your ass, teasing, not quite brave enough yet, but the thought alone makes you come again, smaller this time, a full-body shudder that leaves you gasping.
When you finally collapse, the dildo is still buried to the hilt, your pussy fluttering around it in lazy pulses. You’re trembling, sweaty, ruined. Tears and drool and cum smeared across your face and chest.
You reach down blindly, fingers brushing the base, and give it one last slow thrust just to hear yourself whimper.
“…come home soon, gege,” you whisper to the empty room, voice hoarse. “I don’t think this is gonna be enough anymore.”
The toy stays inside you the rest of the night. You fall asleep clenching around it, dreaming of the real thing finally splitting you open.
—
—
Skyhaven, DAA parade grounds, 18:47 local.
Caleb is standing at parade rest, flight jacket crisp, medals gleaming, trying to look like the perfect poster boy for the Deepspace Aviation Academy while the brass drones on about honor and vigilance. The formation is dead silent except for the wind whipping the flags.
Then it starts.
A faint tingle at the base of his spine. He shifts his weight, ignores it. Probably just nerves.
Gideon elbows him from the left. “Dude, you good? You’re sweating bullets.”
Caleb forces a laugh, teeth clenched. “Yeah, just hot in this jacket.”
The tingle turns into heat. A slow, syrupy, pooling right behind his balls. His cock twitches once, then again, harder, like someone just wrapped a fist around it and squeezed.
He locks his knees to keep from swaying.
The sensation climbs. Something slick and impossibly tight slides down his shaft, inch by inch, swallowing him whole. His breath stutters. The wet spot blooming at the front of his dress pants is impossible to hide now; he angles his body behind the guy in front of him, praying nobody notices.
Another squeeze. A rhythmic drag. Something soft and spongy kissing the tip over and over and over.
His vision whites out for half a second. He breaks formation without permission, muttering a choked “bathroom” to Gideon’s startled face, and bolts.
He barely makes it to the nearest restroom, slamming the lock, back hitting the door as his trembling fingers rip his belt open. The second his cock springs free it’s flushed angry red, leaking like a faucet, veins bulging exactly the way you spent hours customizing.
He doesn’t even touch himself.
He doesn’t have to.
The feeling slams into him again: tight, wet heat clenching around him, riding him hard, fast, merciless. Invisible hips slam down, grind, pull up, slam down again. His balls draw up so tight it hurts.
“F-fuck—!” The moan tears out of him; he slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes rolling back, hips jerking into empty air like he’s fucking someone bent over the sink in front of him.
Every thrust feels real. Too real. He can feel slick walls fluttering, a cervix nudging the head on every brutal stroke, the phantom slap of skin on skin he’s never actually heard but somehow knows by heart.
His knees buckle. He grips the porcelain with white knuckles, forehead pressed to the cool mirror, panting like he’s running a marathon.
“Ah—shit—stop—please—” he doesn’t even know who he’s begging.
The pace only gets rougher.
He comes without warning, a broken cry muffled against his own arm, thick ropes painting the sink, the mirror, his dress shirt. His cock jerks and jerks like it’s being milked by a throat, a pussy, something greedy and possessive and familiar.
The orgasm doesn’t stop. It rolls straight into another, smaller but sharper, and his legs finally give out. He slides down the door until he’s sitting on the cold tile, cock still half-hard, twitching with aftershocks, cum dripping down his fist even though he never stroked himself once.
Chest heaving, he stares at the mess in dazed horror. “What the fuck was that…?”
Three hundred miles away, you’re still sprawled on your bedroom floor, impaled on the toy, whispering his name like a prayer while it throbs inside you.
Neither of you has any idea the link goes both ways. Yet.
Every night for the past ten days it’s the same ritual.
You stumble through the door still in your sweat-drenched hunter uniform, kick off your boots, and don’t even bother with the lights. The second the bedroom door shuts behind you, clothes hit the floor in a frantic trail. You’re already soaked before you even touch the toy, thighs slick, pussy throbbing like it’s been counting the hours until you get home to it.
You keep the dildo in the top drawer now, wrapped in one of Caleb’s old flight academy T-shirts like a dirty little secret. The moment your fingers close around the warm shaft it pulses, eager, like it missed you just as badly.
And three hundred miles away, Caleb starts sweating through whatever he’s doing.
Day 4
You ride it reverse on the desk chair, feet planted wide, rolling your hips slow and deep just to feel every vein drag inside you.
In Skyhaven, Caleb drops an entire tray of coffee in the cadet mess, doubles over the table with a choked gasp, thighs clamping together while his cock leaks helplessly into his boxers. Gideon has to drag him out by the elbow while Caleb stammers something about food poisoning.
Day 6
You’re on your knees in the shower, toy suction-cupped to the tile, slamming back onto it until your ass is red and the water runs cold.
Caleb’s in the middle of a night-flight simulator run. Mid-loop his whole body locks up; he yanks the stick too hard, fails the exercise, and spends ten minutes curled in the cockpit seat coming untouched while the instructor screams over the headset.
Day 8
You can’t wait anymore the second you get home. You don’t even make it to the bedroom. You drop onto the hallway floor, legs over your head, fucking yourself with both holes now—the replica so slick from your pussy it slides into your ass easy. You scream his name until your voice cracks.
Caleb’s in the barracks laundry room folding clothes. One second he’s fine, the next he’s on the floor, biting his own forearm to stay quiet while his cock jerks and feels violated by invisible forces. He comes so hard his vision blacks out. When he can move again he finds the crotch of his pants soaked front and back and has no explanation.
Day 10
You’re greedy. You strap the toy to a pillow, mount it like you’re riding him for real, hands braced on the headboard, hips snapping down so hard the bedframe slams the wall in rhythm.
“Gege—fuck—harder—please, I need—”
You sob it into the dark, tears streaking your cheeks, pussy gushing all over the silicone balls.
In Skyhaven, Caleb is supposed to be asleep. Instead he jerks awake in his bunk with a wounded sound, sheets twisted around his hips, cock so hard it hurts. The sensation hits like a punch: tight, wet heat swallowing him to the root, grinding, milking. Something inside him —his ass—clenches around nothing and everything at once. He shoves his face into his pillow and comes instantly, whole body convulsing, biting down so hard he tastes blood.
When it finally fades he’s shaking, drenched in sweat, heart hammering like he just ran ten miles.
He drags a trembling hand down his stomach and finds his cock still-hard cock slick with his own release and something else—slicker, warmer, smelling faintly smelling like you.
For the first time, real fear cuts through the haze. Because whatever is doing this to him isn’t random. And it’s getting stronger every night.
Caleb hasn’t slept properly in twelve days. Every night the “ghost” comes back. Every night it rides him harder, tighter, wetter, like it’s learning exactly how to unravel him.
He’s stopped trying to fight it. He just locks his door, shoves his face into his pillow, and lets the phantom cunt milk him dry while his cock leaks and his ass clenches around nothing and his brain short-circuits with the same voice that’s haunted him since puberty.
Your voice.
He’s started jerking off to the memory of it in the showers, biting his own fist so his bunkmates don’t hear him whimpering “pipsqueak” like a prayer.
He’s losing his fucking mind.
So when he’s alone in the dorm common room at 0300, half delirious, cock still half-hard from another unsolicited orgasm, he does the stupidest thing he’s ever done in his life.
He googles the symptoms.
Ends up on the same neon-pink, virus-looking website you found weeks ago.
The banner screams: FEEL LIKE SOMEONE YOU LOVE — NOW WITH REVERSE SYNC!
He doesn’t read the fine print. He’s too tired, too desperate, too turned on.
He uploads the clearest photo he has of you—last summer, you in that sundress, laughing at something he said, hair sticking to your sweaty neck.
He customizes everything with shaking hands,outer lips soft and plump, exactly the way he’s imagined a thousand times when you walked around the house in tiny sleep shorts. Inner walls textured like crushed velvet, tight at the entrance, then fluttering deeper. Clit hood pronounced, sensitive node swollen —because he’s spent years pretending he doesn’t notice how you squirm when he hugs you too long enough. Warmth setting: “always soaked, like she’s been thinking about you all day.” Scent module: the exact peach-and-vanilla body wash you’ve used since you were fifteen.
He pays triple for overnight shipping. The box arrives two days later while the entire barracks is out on a weekend training hike. Caleb locks himself in his room, heart hammering like a jet engine.
He tears the packaging open with his teeth. Inside, nestled in black satin, is the prettiest pocket pussy he’s ever seen.
Soft, dusky outer lips, flushed pink inside, already glistening with the self-lubricating gel. It’s warm to the touch, pulsing faintly like it’s breathing.
He exhales a broken “fuck… so pretty…” and runs two fingers down the seam, parting the lips gently. The toy quivers. A bead of lube rolls out like it’s already wet for him.
He doesn’t make it to the bed.
He drops into his desk chair, sweatpants shoved down to his hips, cock springing out thick and flushed and already dripping. He drags the head through the slick folds once, twice, coating himself, groaning at how realistic it feels.
Then he pushes in.
The sound that rips out of him is inhuman.
Tight, hot, velvet walls clamp down instantly, sucking him deeper like they’ve been waiting years. The inner texture ripples around his shaft exactly the way he’s fantasized your pussy would—fluttering, squeezing, dragging over every vein.
He bottoms out in one brutal thrust and his vision whites out.
“Fuck—pipsqueak—” he chokes, hips jerking helplessly. “Is this how you’re supposed to feel? So good—so fucking real—”
He starts slow, savoring it, pulling out until just the tip kisses the entrance, then sliding back in with a wet squelch that makes his balls draw up tight. The toy makes obscene sounds—soft, wet, exactly like a real cunt taking cock—and every noise goes straight to his spine.
He loses control fast.
Hands gripping the desk, he starts pounding into it like he hates it, like he loves it, hips snapping hard enough to rattle the chair. The pocket pussy sucks him back in on every stroke, walls fluttering wildly, clit hood bumping his pelvis on the downstroke.
“Take it—just like that—fuck, you’re so tight for me—”
He doesn’t notice the way the toy seems to clench harder when he says your nickname. Doesn’t notice the way it gushes fresh slick every time he groans “good girl” under his breath.
Three hundred miles away, you’re in the middle of a lecture at the Hunter Academy when your body suddenly locks up. A phantom cock—thick, burning hot, veiny—slides into you from nowhere. Your pen clatters to the desk. You slap both hands over your mouth to stifle a scream as invisible hips slam forward and bury something huge to the hilt inside you.
Your pussy spasms around empty air. Your clit throbs like someone’s grinding against it. Your chair creaks as your thighs snap together, trying to trap the sensation that isn’t there and is there all at once.
The “ghost” fucks you right there in the lecture hall, in front of thirty other cadets, relentless and deep and merciless.
You cum biting your own wrist so hard you leave teeth marks, tears streaming down your face, soaking through your panties and the seat beneath you while the professor drones on about wanderer migration patterns.
Back in Skyhaven, Caleb’s losing his mind in a different way.
He’s hunched over the desk now, one hand braced, the other brutally fucking the toy up and down his cock, chasing the edge.
“Gonna—fuck—gonna fill you up, pipsqueak—take every drop—”
He comes with a guttural shout, hips stuttering, cock pulsing so hard the toy overflows. Thick ropes of cum spill out around his shaft, dripping down the silicone lips, painting his fist, the desk, his thighs.
The pocket pussy keeps milking him through it, walls fluttering like it’s trying to drain him completely.
He slumps forward, forehead pressed to the cool wood, panting like he’s run a marathon.
The toy gives one last gentle squeeze… almost affectionate.
And somewhere far away, you’re curled in the academy bathroom stall, legs shaking, pussy still twitching with aftershocks, a flood of cum you didn’t make leaking out of you in thick, warm pulses.
You both whisper the same thing at the exact same second, voices hoarse and wrecked and terrified,“What the fuck is happening to me?”
—
—
The entire summer break is a slow-motion torture.
You arrive at Bloomshore first, two hours early because the Academy let out sooner than DAA. Grandma hugs you so hard your ribs creak, pinches your cheeks, stuffs you full of peach cobbler and gossip. The childhood house smells exactly the same: sun-warmed wood, sea-salt breeze, the faint lavender sachets she still keeps in every drawer. Your old bedroom is untouched, posters curling at the corners, the same twin bed you used to share with Caleb when thunderstorms scared you.
You dump your suitcase, unzip it, and there it is: the dildo, wrapped in one of his old flight-school hoodies like contraband. It’s been two days since you last used it and your body is already twitching, thighs pressing together every time you remember how it feels.
You shove it under the mattress and try to be normal. Then the front door opens downstairs and you hear his voice.
“Gran squeals, “Caleb, my handsome boy!”
You freeze halfway down the stairs.
He’s… bigger. Shoulders filling the doorway, hair longer and tousled from the wind, sunglasses hooked in the collar of a white T-shirt that clings to his chest. He’s grinning at Gran, but the same crooked smile that’s been haunting your wet dreams for months.
Then his eyes flick up and find you. “Hey, pipsqueak… and Gran.”
Your stomach flips so violently you almost trip on the last step. You launch yourself at him anyway, because that’s what you’ve always done. He catches you mid-jump like you weigh nothing, arms banding around your waist, laughing low in his chest as you collide.
“Yup, gege’s here. How’s my meimei doing in Linkon, hm?”
The second his palm settles on the back of your head, petting like when you were kids, every filthy memory slams into you at once—the toy stretching you open, the way you sobbed his name into your pillow, the phantom cum that leaked out of you for days afterward.
Your face ignites. You feel the heat of his body through his shirt, the flex of his biceps as he holds you, the faint cedar-and-jet-fuel scent that is just him. You jerk away like you’ve been electrocuted.
“Huh… me? …oh… uh… good! I’m doing… good!!!”
Your voice cracks on every syllable. You practically sprint past him, suitcase banging against your leg, and disappear into your room so fast you almost take out the coat rack.
Caleb stands there frozen, arms still half-raised, cheeks flushed crimson for reasons he refuses to examine.
Gran raises an eyebrow. “You two are acting mighty strange.”
He clears his throat, grabs his own duffel, and mutters something about needing a shower.
That night neither of you comes down for dinner.
You lie in your childhood bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars you stuck on the ceiling together when you were ten, thighs clenched so tight they ache. You can hear him moving around in the room next door, the creak of his old mattress, the low thud of his bag hitting the floor.
You wonder if he brought it too. You wonder if he’s touching it right now. Across the wall, Caleb is wondering the exact same thing about you.
Both toys are hidden under respective mattresses, pulsing faintly like they know they’re finally under the same roof as their match.
The air-conditioner rattles. Crickets hum outside. The house is asleep.
Neither of you sleeps a wink. And somewhere in the dark, two identical warming circuits kick on at the exact same moment, waiting for someone to break first.
The first night back home, the dam breaks at 2:17 AM.
You’ve been tossing in your childhood bed for hours, sheets tangled around your ankles, thighs slick and aching from the constant low thrum of need that started the second you heard his laugh downstairs. The house is silent except for the distant crash of waves on Bloomshore’s cliffs and the faint creak of floorboards in the next room.
He’s right there.
Walls so thin you can hear him breathing if you press your ear to the plaster.
And under your mattress, the toy waits, warm and heavy and calling to you like a siren.
You give in with a muffled curse, fishing it out, fingers trembling as you drag it between your legs. No prep. No teasing. You’re already dripping, have been since that hug, so you just line up the fat head and sink down in one brutal slide.
The stretch is immediate and vicious, your pussy clenching around silicone veins like it’s starving. You bite your pillow to stifle the moan, hips rocking slow at first, savoring the drag, the way it kisses your cervix on every grind.
In the next room, Caleb jolts awake with a strangled gasp.
His cock—already half-hard from dreams of you—suddenly feels like it’s being strangled in velvet. Tighter than ever. Hotter. Wetter. The phantom walls clamp down so hard his vision spots, every ridge and flutter magnified tenfold, like whatever’s fucking him is twice as desperate tonight.
He scrambles for his duffel under the bed, yanking out the pocket pussy with shaking hands. No way he’s enduring this alone. He shoves his boxers down, spits into the toy’s slick entrance, and thrusts in without mercy.
The second he bottoms out, you scream into your sheets.
It’s like a second cock slams into you alongside the first—thicker, hotter, splitting you open from the inside. Your walls flutter wildly, stretched beyond reason, the dual sensations overlapping in a filthy symphony: the toy’s familiar curve grinding one spot while the phantom one drags against another, both pounding in perfect sync.
“F-fuck—gege—what—” you whimper, confused and wrecked, hips jerking up to meet nothing and everything. Your clit throbs like it’s being sucked, your ass clenches around air that feels full. You shove the dildo deeper, faster, chasing the burn, tears leaking down your cheeks as your body tries to process being double-fucked by ghosts.
Caleb’s teeth sink into his own bicep to keep from roaring loud enough to wake Grandma.
The toy is a vice. His cock feels like it’s being crushed in the best way—walls so tight they might snap him in half, rippling and milking with every brutal thrust. It’s wetter than before, slick gushing out around his shaft like the thing is coming alive, and every time he pulls back it sucks him in harder, deeper, the inner texture fluttering like a heartbeat.
“Pipsqueak—shit—too tight—gonna break me—” he growls through clenched teeth, one hand braced on the headboard, the other fucking the toy up and down his length so fast his arm burns. His balls slap against silicone with every snap, heavy and aching, the pressure building so intense he’s terrified he’ll black out.
You both lose track of time, separated by one flimsy wall, fucking your toys in frantic rhythm without knowing you’re fucking each other.
For you, it’s endless—the dildo splitting your pussy while the invisible cock mirrors every move, stretching you to your limits, making you gush so hard the sheets are soaked beneath your ass. You come once with a muffled sob, clenching around both, but it doesn’t stop—the sensations only amp up, phantom veins dragging inside you, a second head nudging spots that make your toes curl.
“More—gege, please—fill me up—” you beg the dark, fingers flying to your clit, rubbing frantic circles while you slam the toy home again and again.
Caleb hears something—a faint, wrecked whine through the wall—and it snaps his last thread.
He flips onto his back, legs spread wide, and fucks into the pocket pussy like a man possessed. The tightness is agonizing now, walls constricting so hard around his cock he swears it’s going to cut off circulation—hot, pulsing, fluttering like it’s alive and greedy and his. Every thrust sends sparks up his spine; his free hand claws at the sheets, hips bucking off the mattress.
“Take it—fuck, just like that—my good girl—” he rasps, voice hoarse, imagining your face, your body, the way you’d look split open on him for real.
The orgasm hits you both at the same instant.
You arch off the bed with a silent scream, pussy spasming around double fullness, squirting in thick arcs that drench your thighs and the toy. The phantom cum floods you—hot, thick, endless—leaking out around the dildo, pooling between your legs, making everything slicker, messier.
Caleb comes with a guttural “fuck—pipsqueak—” bitten off against his fist, cock jerking so hard the toy overflows instantly. Cum spills everywhere—his stomach, the sheets, the silicone lips stretched thin around him—but the walls keep milking, squeezing tighter than humanly possible, wringing every drop until his balls ache and his vision tunnels.
You both collapse in sweaty, trembling heaps, toys still buried deep, aftershocks rippling through you like shared electricity.
The wall between your rooms might as well not exist.
But neither of you moves. Neither knocks. Neither dares whisper the truth.
Instead, you pull the covers over your ruined body, the dildo still twitching faintly inside you, and pretend your heart isn’t pounding loud enough for him to hear.
Next door, Caleb does the exact same, cock softening in the vice-grip of the toy, a single thought looping in his wrecked mind,
you were going to be late for work. not because you woke up late. not because you took too long in the shower and not because you were doom scrolling in bed and lost track of time.
you were going to be late because your husband, satoru, just couldn't seem to let you go. you found it cute at first, him begging you not to go and whining when you say no, but the act was getting boring especially because you were standing at the door, trapped in his arms for the last twenty minutes.
"for the last time, 'toru. i have to go", he only shook his head and pulled you impossibly closer against him.
"you don't have to work...i make enough for the both of us...you can stay home with me...you should stay home with me", satoru whispered into your ear, nuzzling his face against your neck, inhaling your scent.
"i actually like my job. i know you can pay for everything, but i also want to treat myself sometimes". satoru looked at you like you'd grown two heads. he looked you up and down, his frown deepened and shook his head, no.
"absolutely not. what kind of husband would i be if i just let you spend your hard earned money. only a loser would do that, and I'm no loser.", he pulled you closer to him again, this time peppering kisses all over your face.
"as cute as this is, satoru, i have a life to live"
"yeah, with me". this time he captured your lips in a long, passionate kiss, your lipstick now on him before pulling away and staring at you with the most love sick eyes. "i could just lock you up and keep you all to myself. i bet your boss is an ugly guy"
"my boss is a woman", he pressed his lips together in a straight line and sucked his teeth.
"whoever keeps you away from me is ugly by default. how much should i pay you to stay with me? i'll give you double your current salary-"
"don't be ridiculous, satoru"
"it's 'toru to you", you checked your wrist watch for the nth time and rolled your eyes.
"i'm gonna get stuck in traffic if you keep me here for longer", satoru sighed dramatically and pulled you in for one last hug before capturing your lips again in another kiss. but this one felt different. he kissed you like he would never see you again before pulling back and looking at you with the saddest puppy dog eyes.
"you can go now, my love". he escorted you to your car, his hand on your lower back and once you were settled in your seat, the door closed, you rolled down the windows and you kissed his cheek. "get there safe. call me when you do"
you said your goodbyes and were soon. some time later you realized that you had forgotten your purse. you reached for your phone with the intention of messaging satoru to tell him you were coming back. and to your surprise, you found that he sent a selfie of him posing with your purse, all pearly whites out and your lipstick still smeared on his lips. and below it a text.
my handsome clingy husband: i wont let you go this time if you come back
“is he bothering you, ma’am?” the kind stranger asks as he approaches your table, a concerned look on his face as he eyes Satoru up and down, who so casually leans against the table with a smirk.
for the past hour, while you were busy typing in your laptop, Satoru happened to simply drop on the chair in front of you, rambling your ears out even though he knew you were not listening, “you’re gorgeous, do you have a boyfriend?” he asks, no response.
“oh, hard public, hm? that’s okay, you are still gorgeous, can I give you my number?” no response. yet his stupid little smirk stays present.
“your boyfriend is not worth your time, baby, you should date me instead”
“what are you drinking? want a refill?”
“did it hurt when you fell from—”
until the kind stranger interrupts, his eyes are cautious as he keeps them on the blue eyed, this time you speak with a sigh and little polite smile, “i’m fine, thank you, he’s my husband”
You huffed, scooting your table away from Satoru, the metal scrapping against the wooden floor, your attempt to get away seeming futile against him, as he shuffled closer.
"Come on now," He whined, pouting whilst batting his ivory lashes at you, hands clasped under his chin as he inched closer, "just one little peck, please?"
You sighed, glaring at the papers littered on the desk, majority of them where marked with red, answers crossed out, spellings corrected.
"Do you know what these are, Satoru?"
His brows furrowed as he leaned over to look at the papers, before looking up at you in confusion, "Report card for my class?" He answered, not understanding the severity of the situation yet.
"Yes." You breathed out, centre of your forehead throbbing with dull ache, "results of students under your supervision." You elaborated, setting three marksheets before him.
Fushiguro Megumi: 179/300
Nobara Kugisaki: 99/300
Itadori Yuuji: 67/300
With each passing paper, it was evident that he wasn't doing a very good job of teaching them, at least academically.
"Well, they do plan on staying in sorcery, so grades don't matter." He reasoned, already nudging the papers underneath a pile of mission files, getting back to his initial plan of snogging in the teacher's staff room.
You scowled, reaching over to pull the papers back out and setting them in the center of the table, "They need to pass these classes, Gojo." You hissed, your gaze strict and scrutinizing.
Satoru gasped, hand splayed on his chest as he, quiet literally, laid on top of your desk, knocking paper off it, "What did you just call me?!"
"Quit being dramatic, I am serious." You groaned, brows furrowed in distress as you contemplated about Yuuji and Nobara's future, you still had hope for Megumi though.
"Just kill me then." He sobbed, grabbing a random it was Yuuji's paper and clutching it to his chest, crumpling it, "First you rejected my affection, then you pretended to be a stranger—"
"You are not slick, Gojo." You sighed, snatching Yuuji's paper from his hand, smoothening out the creases, "Kyoto students all excelled their exams," you leaned back, watching as he got comfortable on your desk, "Gakuganji already send a copy of reports to Principal Yaga."
"Old men comparing dicks." He breathed out, eyeing your frame, mind still churning out ways to get you to kiss him, "Tell Yaga, Gakuganji is old, he'll die soo—"
"Not soon enough, Satoru." A third voice suddenly resonated in the staff room, echoing as Satoru scrambled to stand up straight, smoothening his uniform as Principal Yaga entered the room.
You crossed your arms, eyes locked on the paper weight on your desk, knowing the moment your eyes met his, his punishment would become yours too.
"I send her to knock some sense into you." Principal Yaga nodded towards you, hands in his pockets as he calming stared at Satoru, although the veins pulsing along his forehead ensured you he was anything but calm.
"She was trying, I just wanted a—" Satoru quickly sealed his lips shut as Yaga quirked his brow at him, figuring he'll only dig a deeper grave, he sighed, "I'll figure something out for them."
Principal Yaga nodded his head, momentarily satisfied, before turning around and leaving the staff room, the sound of his shoes clicking against the wooden floor fading away slowly.
"Can I get a ki—"
"No."
You abruptly cut him off, gathering pages into a single file and holding it out to him, eyes narrowed as he slumped down in his chair, cheeks puffed up lips all glossy and puckered in a pout.
"Fuckin', loser." You grumbled, standing up and stepping closer to him, grabbing the front collar of his uniform to pull him closer, planting a quick and messy peck against his lips before pulling away, "Figure out a better study plan and I'll give you more."
Darn it, Satoru will put his soul into educating those kids now.
satoru loves listening to you, especially when your lips are against his. . .
the room is quiet enough that every little sound feels louder than it should— the soft rustle of blankets, and the tiny laugh that escapes you when satoru steals another kiss before you even finish your sentence.
“you know,” you mumble against his lips. “you should really listen to me right now.”
“i’m listening,” he replies, barely pulling away. his lips brush yours with every word. “you said i’m handsome.”
“i definitely didn’t.”
“no? must’ve imagined it.”
you roll your eyes, though he can’t really see it from how close you are. your noses bump together, and he smiles before giving you another slow, lazy kiss.
“you interrupted me again,” you say.
“m’sorry.. keep talking, sweetheart.”
another kiss.
“i’m trying to tell you,” you whisper, your lips still resting against his. “that we need groceries.”
“we’ll figure something out,” he hums thoughtfully, his breath warm against your face.
“i doubt it, you big back.”
“you’re so mean to me.”
you laugh, the sound breaking into another kiss because satoru seems physically incapable of letting more than a few seconds pass without stealing one.
“kissing me until i forget what i was saying?”
“…is it working?” he muses.
you pause. “…maybe.”
“i know you‘re enjoying yourself,” he says softly, brushing his lips over yours again. “you haven‘t pulled away yet.”
“seems like i’ve made questionable life choices.”
he gasps dramatically, though his smile gives him away.
“oh? dating me is questionable?”
“sometimes.”
another kiss.
“when you leave your socks everywhere.”
mwah.
“when you eat all my snacks.”
mwah.
“when you—”
he kisses you longer that time, lingering just enough that you forget where your complaint is going.
“…see?” he murmurs.
“you are so annoying.”
“but?”
“but…” you smile. “you’re very cute.”
his grin is immediate, and he kisses the corner of your mouth
“what do you want for dinner?” you ask.
“hmm…” he pretends to think hard, his forehead resting against yours. “you.”
“oh my god,” you groan. “you’ve been waiting to say that, haven’t you?”
“maybe.” he grins into the next kiss.
“you should be embarrassed.”
“can’t hear your mean remarks when you’re this close.”
your lips meet in soft, absent-minded kisses between tiny conversations about nothing at all. whether the laundry is finished, whether the weather looks nice tomorrow, or how his teaching is going.
“toru—” kiss. “—how am I supposed to—” another kiss. “—focus?”
“why’d you need to?” his smile softens into something quieter, gentler than his usual teasing grin.
Loving Yūji comes with a package deal you don't necessarily know how to deal with. Granted, you've loved him first before this whole ordeal even happened — it still is a matter of when and never an if, per se, when it comes to his special situation.
"So tight, baby," Yūji says between sucking his breath. He's not quite sure whether to ram and go at a harsher pace or let you adjust to his girth first. His control is being tested too much right now. "Even after all that."
You moan his name in praise before you lock your legs around his waist and pull yourself closer to him, effectively shutting him up from keeping things slow. You've always wanted things rougher, something that Yūji loves about you (but even then, he still wishes to take his time).
"Oh s-shit, baby!" Yūji would've let his eyes roll back if he wasn't focused on keeping his entire weight off of you. "F-Fuck!"
"H-Harder, Yūji," you beg him, "please."
Yūji doesn't need to be told twice. He grabs hold of your thighs roughly and pounds into you like an animal in heat. You arch your back further for more, and he gives in.
"So good, baby," Yūji drools, "so, so good. Oh my — fuck!"
Just as you are coming down with your first orgasm, another voice pierces through the solidity of the air and breaks it easily as if he had done this countless times before.
"Enchain."
Suddenly you are flipped on your hands and knees. Your hair has been forcibly fisted and yanked until your head is pulled back enough to see your lover covered in tattoos, and a vitriol laugh teases your ears.
"Y-Yū —"
"Brat's not here," Sukuna's voice deeply rumbles against your skin.
This is the first time he's ever made his presence known to you. You've heard stories of how Sukuna would pop on Yūji's cheek or his hands whenever he's got something to say (especially towards your sensei and Megumi), but not once has he ever manifested and break through Yūji's control — and right in the middle of fucking, too.
"Heh," he yanks you further until you can see his eyes gazing heatedly at yours, "pussy so good, my own vessel lost control. Let's see if you do live up to that expectation."
Then he slams your head against the pillow and fucks you senseless. It's wrong . . . to even feel how fucking good it is to be brutally pounded.
Yet, here you are in the mercy of a sadistic curse, cackling like a bastard that he is.
Sukuna had you spread out for him, as he continues to ram his cock up inside of you. One of his hands kneads your ass mockingly before he slaps each cheek hard.
Your teeth bite into the soft fabric of the pillow, muffling your screams lest you want Megumi to hear you at the other side of the room. At this point, Sukuna slapping you might've really been a dead giveaway.
"Y-Yūji —"
"My name, brat —"
"—Y-Yūji, Y-Yū—"
"— I said my name." He slaps your sloppily wet clit.
You arch your back unknowingly to the sensation, and before you could have thought twice about it, your body yields and your mouth muddles the name, "S-Sukuna!"
"Good." He mutters darkly, "Good girl."
He fondles your breasts next. Then his tongue laps to the outline of your spine and back up to your neck, where he marks you. His canines have sunk into your skin so deeply, he can taste your blood, and that further fuels him into a mess of moans and praise as if he's drunk on an aphrodisiac.
"Again." He orders you. "My name. Only."
"Sukuna," you say. "Sukuna! Sukuna! Sukuna! F-Fuck, I —"
"That's it."
The first of your orgasms comes to you like a torrent. It's harsh and unforgiving, much like how Sukuna doesn't stop fucking you even as you try your best to squirm away.
When you feel that he's finally slowed down, when his hands have released the hold against your body, and you allow yourself to breathe a little better, there's a sudden shift between you and the King of Curses. You realize that it's because you've been flipped back and your legs are locked around his waist again.
"S-Sukuna?"
"No," Yūji breathlessly says. He leans his face closer until his lips brush yours. "I-It's me, baby. It's me. I'm sorry. I-I lost control. Are you hurt?"
You shake your head with a smile. "N-No, I'm fine. I'm more than fine."
"Yeah?" Yūji perks up. You notice that his cock has hardened once more and he's repositioning himself to your abused cunt.
"Yeah, baby." You laugh dumbly. "That was . . . quite exhilarating."
Yūji bumps his nose against yours. The heat in his eyes is visible, but nowhere near as intense as the other pair you were forced to look at earlier.
"That was hot," Yūji admits. "Watching you . . . like that."
"It was," you breathe out.
When you peer below Yūji's eyes, you swear you've seen the glints of red and black squinting back at you as if to tell you that he's heard about your little honesty.
Well, it really can't be helped sometimes. After all, loving Yūji does come with a deal.
synopsis. satoru’s always been head-over-heels in love with you.
contents. sfw! bittersweet fluff. best friend! gojo x fem! reader. no-curse au. one-sided pining, he’s sooo down bad and you’re sooo oblivious to it. cw. mentions of blood. consumption of alcohol. uhm okay joke’s over i miss my boy bsf :( part two.
satoru fell in love with you on a tuesday, which — in the grand scheme of things — is a rather ridiculous thing to remember, but somehow he does.
it was the kind of tuesday where the sun baked the asphalt of the playground and the metal of the swings burned through the fabric of his shorts. he was six, maybe seven, and already a menace. all sharp elbows and a grin that got him into more trouble than it got him out of. you were swinging higher than everyone else and he wanted your attention.
( he’s always wanted your attention. craved it, even )
so he did what six-year-old boys do when they don’t know how else to get it. he waited until you were declining from the peak of your arc, and then he ran.
he pushed, hard and you flew until gravity remembered its job, dragging you down in a tangle of limbs. the world went quiet. the other kids stopped running around. and suguru, who was always scolding him even then, had a disappointed look on his face
satoru stood there, heart thumping frantically against his ribs, cheeks rosy with shame. he hadn’t meant to hurt you. he’d just wanted you to look at him. he’d taken tentative steps towards you but before he could try to help you up, you scrambled to your feet.
your knees were a mess, scraped raw and beading with tiny drops of blood. there was dirt on your palms and you had tears welling in your eyes, but you weren’t sad. not even in the slightest. you stood there, swaying slightly and pointed a trembling finger at him.
“you pushed me,” you glared at him, lips quivering as you made the demand that sealed his fate, the one that’s been echoing in his head for years “you have to get me a hello kitty bandaid or i’m telling on you.”
he didn’t have a hello kitty bandaid. he didn’t have any bandaids on him actually. but he really, really wished he did. he wished he had a whole box of them, a whole factory of them, just to give to you. he wanted to patch up the bruises he’d made. he wanted to wipe the tears from your eyes before they even fell. he wanted, for the first time in his life, to take care of someone else.
his feelings for you grew through awkward school dances, late-night study sessions, and the disastrous first dates he had to rescue you from.
they blossomed in the spaces between your laughter, in the comfortable silences you shared. they grew until they became so big he can barely contain them.
he’s supposed to be playing mortal kombat xi with suguru, but his mind is miles away. he’s waiting — he’s always waiting — for your text, your call. anything that says you need him. anything that says he’s the one you want. even if it’s just for a ride home from a date with someone else.
the blue light of the screen paints patterns on satoru’s face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw as he squints at the game. suguru’s character lands a critical hit, and satoru’s health bar plummets.
“fuck,” he curses, his fingers move over the controller, but he’s too scatterbrained to come back from this. he always is when you’re out with someone else
“you’re playing like shit tonight,” suguru comments, not looking away from the screen.
“shut up,” satoru mumbles. his phone sits face down on the cushion beside him. he imagines it buzzing, imagines your name lighting up the screen, and his stomach does that stupid flutter it always does. he hates it. he hates feeling like this when he knows you’ll never feel the same.
suguru lands another hit. game over. “told you,” he says, leaning back. “so who’s she with tonight? what’s his name?”
“don’t know,” satoru says, tossing the controller onto the couch. it bounces off a cushion. “don’t care either”
“bullshit,” suguru laughs, “you care more than anyone.”
( of course he cares. loving you is all he’s ever known and he’s terrified that one day, you won’t need to reach out. you won’t need him to pick up the pieces anymore because your date went great and you’ve fallen in love. the mere thought of it makes him sick to his stomach )
satoru doesn’t answer. he just reaches for his phone, heart thumping hopefully against his ribs. he tells himself he’s checking the time, but his thumb swipes the screen open anyway.
nothing. no messages. no missed calls. radio silence.
he’s about to put it down, to tell suguru to go fuck himself. to suggest they order some doordash and pretend tonight isn’t happening. pretend you’re not out there with some stranger who doesn’t deserve to be breathing the same air as you.
and then his phone buzzes. the screen lights up and there it is. your name. and five words that make his heart race.
can you come get me?
[ 10:26 pm ]
that’s it. you offer him no explanation. zero context. but he can hear the shake in your voice, see the tears in your eyes, and he hasn’t even heard you speak yet. he’s on his feet before he’s fully processed it.
“what is it?” suguru asks, sitting up straighter.
“nothing,” satoru says, already moving towards the hallway. “i gotta go. don’t wait up for me”
“again?”
“shut up,” he throws over his shoulder, grabbing his keys from the bowl by the door. his shoes are by the doormat, and he’s shoving his feet into them, not even bothering to untie them first. “you’d do the same for shoko.”
“shoko doesn’t make a habit of dating assholes, and i’m not in love with her. don’t compare apples to oranges” suguru calls after him, but satoru’s already out the door.
the drive to you is a blur of streetlights and angry horns. his foot is heavy on the gas. he’s drawn to you like a moth to a flame.
the restaurant you’re at tonight is fancy. all warm lighting and valet parking. there’s no spot, of course there’s no fucking spot, and he circles the block twice before finding a space three streets down.
he’s out of the car before the engine’s fully off, jogging down the sidewalk until he sees you through the window.
he pushes the door open and makes his way towards you. the closer he gets, the more details he can’t unsee. your shoulders are shaking and the champagne flute in front of you is empty. just how much have you had to drink?
you finally lift your head. your eyes find his impossibly blue ones, and the vulnerability in your expression is a physical blow to his chest.
( it’s the same look you had on the playground all those years ago, after he’d pushed you off and you’d scrambled to your feet, demanding he fix everything. you’re still demanding it with every breath you take. and he’s still here, doing everything in his power to make you feel better. )
“toru,” you frown, and the sound of his name on your lips makes him weak. it always does.
“i’m here,” the only comfort he has to give is himself. his arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against his chest.
you’re soft and warm. you smell like expensive champagne and your vanilla perfume. your hands fist desperately in the material of his t-shirt, clinging to him like he’s the only solid thing in a world that’s tilting on its axis. you bury your face in his chest and he can feel the tremors running through your entire body.
he holds you tighter, one hand splayed across the small of your back, the other coming up to cup the back of your head. he rubs slow circles against the silk of your dress. he wants to absorb your pain into himself and shatter it into a million pieces.
( he wishes you were clinging to him because you wanted him, not because someone else had thrown you away. )
he waits until your grip on his shirt loosens. he keeps one hand on your back, leaning back just enough to look at you. but you don’t lift your head, you keep your face hidden against the damp fabric of his shirt.
“look at me,” he murmurs, you can feel his words rumbling through his chest.
it takes a moment, but you slowly, reluctantly, pull back. your face is a mess but you’ve never looked more beautiful to him. he wants to kiss you, to taste the salt of your tears and the champagne on your lips. but he’s here to fix this. he’ll save the wanting for later, for the quiet hours of the night when he’s alone on your couch with nothing but the ghost of your warmth and the ache in his chest.
for now, he just has to be your friend. your best friend.
he gently cups your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones, wiping away the dampness. “what happened?”
you take a shaky breath, and your gaze darts away from his, landing on the empty champagne flute. “he was just. . .” you hiccup, swallowing hard. “he was just awful from the beginning, ‘toru. he wouldn’t let me talk. he just kept going on about himself, about his job, his car, his. . his stupid rolex.”
“i thought. . . i don’t know what i thought. i just kept ordering champagne because he was supposed to be paying and i was bored. and then. . .then he said he was going to the bathroom and he never came back.”
“one of the waitresses,” you continue, your voice dropping to a whisper, “came over and said she saw him leave. she said he left with. . . with some girl he was talking to at the bar. and then they brought the bill a-and i didn’t have enough because he ordered the most expensive thing on the menu”
rage courses through his veins, so potent it makes him dizzy. he’s not just angry at the nameless, faceless asshole who did this. he’s angry at the fact he lives in a world where someone could have you, could sit across from you, look at you, and then . . leave. how? how is that remotely possible? how could anyone be so blind, so stupid? he can’t wrap his head around it.
“he’s a fucking idiot,” he snaps, “and you’re way too good for him, he never deserved you or your time”
( satoru wishes you would finally see that he’s the one who does. if you gave him a chance he would worship the ground you walk on.
in retrospect he already does. he patches up the wounds left by other men, cleans up their messes, holds you while you cry over them. he remembers your café order and brings a cup that’s more creamer than coffee to your first lecture of the day. he sits through rewatches of ‘ten things i hate about you’ and the fear street trilogy without complaining. he pays for your gas and groceries. he does everything a boyfriend should do and more. but he’s not your boyfriend.
if you’d let him take you out on a date. he wouldn’t just sit across from you talking about himself. he would hang onto your every word.
he’d never leave you waiting, not for a second. he’d move heaven and earth to make you happy, to make you his. he just needs you to give him the chance to )
he knows you don’t believe him. you never do. you always think it’s your fault, that you weren’t pretty enough, or smart enough, or interesting enough. and it kills him, because he knows the truth. he knows you’re too good for a world full of mediocre men who can’t appreciate what’s right in front of them.
“yeah” you nod and he knows you’re just agreeing with him because that’s what he wants to hear. he lets his hands fall, but he doesn’t step away. he can’t. not yet.
he pulls out his wallet. he doesn’t even bother to look at the bill. he sifts out a thick wad of cash, the crisp edges digging into his palm, and drops it down onto the polished wood of the bar.
( it’s more than enough to cover the ridiculously expensive lobster and the multiple bubbly glasses of dom perignon. more than enough to cover a tip that’s so generous it’s obscene. but satoru doesn’t care.)
“let’s go,” he says.
you slide off the barstool and for a terrifying moment you wobble precariously. the ridiculously high heels you’d worn for a man who didn’t deserve them betray you. satoru’s there before you can even register your knees buckling. his hand wrapping around your upper arm, “i’ve got you,”
your body molds to his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. satoru has to physically force himself to breathe, to focus on the simple act of walking and not the way his heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest.
he guides you to his car, opens the door, and helps you in. he buckles your seatbelt, fingers brushing against your side, just below your ribs. you shiver and it has nothing to do with the cold.
“cold?” he asks. you shake your head, lolling back against the leather headrest.
“no ‘m just tired,” you mumble, eyes already drifting shut. long lashes casting shadows on your cheeks. but he drapes his hoodie over your frame regardless
the drive to your apartment is quiet. satoru glances over at you at every red light, at the way streetlights tinge patterns across your face, at the way your lips are slightly parted. he wants to reach over, to brush a stray strand of hair from your forehead, to trace the line of your jaw with his thumb, but he doesn’t. he can’t.
he white-knuckles the leather steering wheel and forces himself to focus on the road.
when he finally reaches your apartment and he kills the engine. he just sits there watching you sleep for a moment. he hates the thought of waking you, hates the thought of this night ending.
“hey,” he whispers, his voice barely perceptible. he reaches out, shaking your shoulder gently. “we’re here.”
your eyes flutter open. they’re heavy-lidded, and hazy with sleep and alcohol. you’re too pretty, even like this
“c’mon let’s get you inside,” he murmurs. he practically carries you through the foyer and into the elevator, his body pressed against yours, your head lolling against his chest.
the elevator ride is torturous. he’s drowning in you and it makes your head spin. his weakness is exacerbated the second he steps into your apartment. it smells too much like you. it makes his chest ache with longing.
he lays you down on your bed, carefully turning you onto your side —the way he knows you like to sleep.
your heels are a nightmare — all delicate straps and tiny buckles — and his fingers are clumsy as he works them free. he tries not to wake you, tries not to linger too long on the warm skin of your ankles.
your dress looks like it’ll be uncomfortable to sleep in. he hesitates, hand hovering over the zipper at the back. he’s seen you in less — during those endless shopping trips you’d dragged him on, trying on lacy bras for your dates and asking his opinion. completely oblivious to the way his throat would close up.
but this feels different. more intimate. a line he’s not sure he’s ready to cross
“fuck it,” he mutters and turns away, heading for your bathroom. he finds your makeup wipes where he knows they’ll be, in the little wicker basket by the sink.
he grabs the small trash can from under the counter, setting it by your bedside, just in case you wake up sick. then he kneels beside you, heart pounding against his ribs.
your skin is warm beneath his touch as he gently wipes away the concealer, the mascara, and the lipgloss that’s smeared at the corners of your mouth.
he’s careful, touch light as a feather. he does this because he knows you’ll complain in the morning —about waking up with makeup on, about the inevitable breakouts — and he can’t stand the thought of you being unhappy, not even about something so small.
you stir, murmuring something unintelligible, but don’t wake. he trashes the soiled wipes and clambers to his feet. he’s almost at the door, hand on the doorknob, ready to retreat to the couch, to be the good friend he’s supposed to be. when he hears you call out to him.
“don’t go.” you sigh. he freezes, his breath catching in his throat. he turns slowly, heart hammering against his ribs.
your face is illuminated by the moonlight filtering through your curtains. your lip is quivering and he can make out the tortured expression on your face. satoru wants to wrap you in his arms and never let go.
“please,” you whisper, voice thick with sleep and alcohol and something he can’t quite place a finger on. he hopes it’s affection.
something inside him breaks. something that’s been held together by sheer willpower. by the conscious effort to keep his distance, to be what you need him to be. “okay,” he practically whimpers
he crosses back to your bed hesitantly. you shift, making room, so, so trusting. “need a shirt,” you mumble, pointing a shaky finger at your dresser. he grabs the first one he finds, cotton worn thin from a hundred washes. it smells faintly of detergent and you.
you sit up, swaying and he’s there in an instant, his hand cupping the back of your head, steadying you against the headboard. “careful”
satoru focuses on the wall, on the ceiling, on anything but the sound of fabric rustling. the glimpse of skin he catches in his peripheral vision — the delicate curve of your spine — makes his cheeks flush. you toss your dress on the floor in a heap of silk and sequins and you pull the shirt on.
“bra,” you say, your voice muffled. you fumble behind your back, your fingers clumsy, useless. “. . . help”
( satoru knows you’re trying to kill him, he just can’t prove it yet )
“okay,” his voice is a strangled whisper. he’s not sure he can manage more than a syllable. his hand trembles as he reaches behind you, fingers trailing up your back, brushing against your warm skin as he finds the clasp.
it’s a piece of fabric with tiny pieces of metal, he knows it’s not going to bite him. but he’s still shaking because this feels too monumental. you shiver at his touch when he finally gets it loose. he pulls back as if he’s been burned.
“thanks,” you murmur, pulling your straps beneath your t-shirt and shrugging your bra off. you settle back against your pillows, and after a moment’s hesitation, satoru lies beside you, the mattress dips beneath his weight.
you shift closer, until you’re pressed against his side, your head on his shoulder, body fitting against his like it was made to be there. beside him.
“you’re too good to me,” you whisper, “you’re the best friend i’ve ever had.”
satoru can’t respond. can’t trust his voice not to crack. he just hums, a short, pained sound that gets lost in the darkness of your room.
best friend.
the words echo in his head. he’s perpetually stuck in the friendzone. and the absolute worst part, is he’d rather be here than anywhere else in the world. he’d rather suffer like this, than not have you at all.
he listens as your breathing evens out, as you drift deeper into sleep, your body growing heavy and limp against his. his arm’s gone numb from your weight but he wouldn’t move for the world.
in the morning, you’ll wake up embarrassed, make jokes about how you owe him one, and satoru will smile, will pretend it doesn’t hurt, will go back to being just your best friend.
but right now, he lets himself pretend this is normal, pretend that he gets to have you like this always. deludes himself into thinking that when you wake up, you’ll see what’s been right in front of you all along.
