synopsis: what's better to be than sukuna's crazy girlfriend? his crazy ex-girlfriend? when it comes to making up, breaking up, and everything in between, it seems sukuna's got your heart in his hands - and has no intention of letting it go. for better or worse. but probably worse.
pairing: boyfriend!sukuna x toxic!reader x landlord!toji
content: mdni. fluff and angst. porn with plot. crack treated seriously. reader and sukuna are both toxic and crazy. do NOT be like these idiots. jealousy. possessiveness. throwing shit. insecure and anxious behavior. oral sex. piv sex. rebounds. breaking up and making up.
art cr: @bitem4rked sparkle gif div cr: @pixopix div cr: @miyzluv
locking him out after boys night
sukuna eating a pudding cup goes viral
making him jealous out clubbing
hooking up with his landlord after a bad breakup
sukuna attempts to sabotage your new relationship
a tale of two boyfriends
you both know where home is.
bonus: their first breakup
this whole mini series is inspired by the incredibly talented @yenayaps hehe :3
♡ summary: debuting into high society attracts a plethora of eligible suitors, but there was only one you wanted to betroth. yet his heart seems to be with another.
♡ wc: 9k
♡ content warnings: fem! reader, widower! gojo, regency era au (sorry for any inaccuracies), pining, jealousy, marriage, oral (f. receiving), unprotected piv, naoya zenin courting, courtship, virgin r, age gap (r is 20 & gojo is 25).
♡ a/n: this was very bridgerton inspired, that garden is in bloom, baby
Prepped, primed, and ready like a precious jewel set into a crown. Since birth, you were taught everything a young girl of high status should know, how to bag a husband.
It was an art as precise and crucial as miniature portraiture. Ladies, especially those of wealthy lineage, must be prepared for the arrangements that would soon come, if they were lucky, within a year of debuting onto the marriage market.
For an event and a season so important, it is unsurprising how society pays close attention to any and every interaction, any glance held a moment too long, any dance that strayed from polite conversation. You had understood early that those on the instep had nothing better to do than to be in others’ business.
Gossip was as rich as their pockets.
Your days, once filled with piano, language, and dancing lessons, were now consumed by ballrooms, drawing rooms, and the intricate art of conversation. It was a constant parade of oneself in hopes of catching a suitor’s eye.
It was a lot less… eventful than you had imagined in your girlish daydreams.
Instead of the engaging discussions you’d hoped for, it was boring, to say the least. Most men were not interested in what you were saying, but rather what was presented below your neckline. Their eyes would glaze over your opinions on poetry or the new symphony.
Soirees, at least, held a visual appeal. People dressed in the finest of fabrics and jewels, all freshly polished to a high sheen. In a room where everyone strived to glitter, it took a great deal for someone to truly shine. And shine he did.
The moment he caught your eye, it was like fireworks blooming behind your ribs; the carefully applied rouge on your cheeks did little to hide the sudden heat blossoming beneath your skin.
It seemed you weren't the only one with eyes, unfortunately. Mothers and eligible daughters flocked to the young bachelor in seconds, a murmuration of pastel silks and eager smiles, crowding him with their dance cards and aspirations. Just as you were tempted to join the flock, a voice at your elbow intervened.
"But the Lady prefers a dance, does she not?" Lord Zenin’s tone was smooth, his offer presented as the only logical conclusion. As a lady seeking a husband, it would be madness to reject.
He was handsome, in a severe way, with dark hair and sharper eyes. But as you took his hand, your gaze strayed back to the spectacle across the room. White hair—you had never seen someone with such pale and pristine hair. Would his children inherit such a striking feature?
"I am interested in having children myself," Lord Zenin spoke. You cringed internally, hitting your own shin. All those classes, and you couldn't keep your words to yourself. You hadn't even noticed him speaking, too distracted by the figure at least twenty paces ahead. You were sure Lord Zenin was a fascinating man, yet your eyes gazed behind him more times than you would ever admit aloud.
You bowed politely at the end of your second consecutive dance with Lord Zenin. It was so early in the season that you had not expected to attract such a remarkable suitor so swiftly. As flattering as it was to catch a Zenin’s eye, your mind did not leave the white-haired man alone. You found yourself constantly peeking over shoulders and through gaps in the crowd, seeking another glimpse of the awfully popular outsider. You were quite familiar with most of the attendees, their lineages, and prospects drilled into you. He, however, was a complete mystery.
"Gojo, I presume," a voice laced with irrefutable gossip spoke beside you. You knew them, matrons, mothers of girls your age. As they spoke, you listened, your fan held still.
"The Duke? I did not know he had returned from the continent."
"Why has he returned?"
"Did you not hear?" the third murmured, leaning in. "He is single." Those were the only words you needed to hear, though there was suspicion about whether they were correct. For what other bachelor would they be speaking of in such hushed tones if not the white-haired duke?
Where your formal knowledge of society was lacking, gossip was hot and ready to serve on a silver platter.
Your skills for gathering information were not few and far between, and you certainly understood that going about in the streets asking questions about this 'Gojo '—a duke nonetheless— would raise far too many eyebrows in your far too fresh debut. You would need to be stealthy in your pursuit.
This quest for knowledge, however, was not your own secret, it seemed. The entire ton was buzzing with the reappearance of the newly available bachelor. It made your obligatory teas with fellow debutants much more enjoyable than listening to them list the contents of their overflowing drawing rooms. Your own was not empty—Lord Zenin was a persistent caller—but none of them was the duke who had captured your eye with a single, distant glance. When one of the girls mentioned, with a sigh, that he was confirmed to attend the upcoming art gallery exhibition, you felt a surge of purpose. You were very assured of your own attendance.
Paintings lined the hushed halls of the prestigious gallery, many donated by those you knew, even a modest landscape from your own family’s collection. You had seen most of them before, but one, placed on a wall of its own, caught your eye. It was different from the rest. They were all pleasing, yes, but this one had a soul about it that appealed directly to yours.
"I am quite pleased with this one myself," a voice spoke beside you, his gaze also fixed upon the canvas.
"It is beautiful," you said, your voice barely above a whisper in the hallowed quiet.
"I am delighted to find us in accord." He chuckled lightly, a warm, pleasant sound. "My apologies, we have not introduced ourselves. His Grace, Satoru Gojo." He bowed politely, and you followed suit, burying the triumphant grin that threatened to form on your lips.
Looking at him up close was a revelation. His features were not just agreeable; they were arresting. Eyes of a blue so brilliant they seemed to hold their own light, framed by those impossible white lashes. His smile was easy, and you felt a pang of irrational jealousy for anyone who had gotten to see it before you. He was a great conversationalist, effortlessly keeping a dialogue flowing, revealing a depth of knowledge about the artists and their techniques that went beyond mere aristocratic patina.
"I see you have donated this painting yourself. You have excellent taste, Your Grace." Your fan pointed delicately towards the small golden nameplate inscribed with his title and name.
"You are correct indeed. I found this during my travels and could not help but bring such an exceptional piece back home. It reminds me of the scenery near my estate in the country," he said, his tone softening with genuine affection, eyes following the direction of your fan. It seems listening to the scandalous conversations of your ladies' maids finally came in handy.
The tinge in his voice, however, you could not help but pick up. It was as though he were speaking to someone distantly and not to you in front of him.
You traveled the gallery with the Duke, a step behind yet beside him, commenting on the plethora of art. The man was certainly a talker, but an enchanting one, his wit sharp and his observations kind. You giggled at a few of his jests, the sound escaping before you could temper it, remaining as reserved as possible while trying to secure his interest. You would need to make your intentions clear but not desperate. Suitors are fleeting; you must use your teachings to keep them waiting and wanting more, a delicate game.
Unfortunately, the game was interrupted when your mother’s voice called your name from across the room, whisking you away from the Duke’s side. "I must take my leave, Your Grace; it was a pleasure," you said, your curtsy perfectly measured.
"The pleasure was entirely mine," he replied, his bow equally precise.
In the swaying carriage home, your mother could not help but question you, her eyes alight with curiosity. It seemed almost everyone knew who he was except you. The burning question hung in the air between the rhythmic clatter of hooves. "Well? Is he as available as the gossipers tell?"
Your mother let out an elated, knowing giggle. "My dear, he came back to the ton for a reason. He is very, very available, dear."
That was all you needed to know to properly begin your mission; your mother would surely have more reliable information than matrons at a ball. You were not opposed to stepping on a few toes; an open target is better than a blocked one. Not just a debutante’s duty, but a true search for happiness.
—
With Gojo in attendance at the next ball, you hoped you would have the chance to dance with him at least once. Yet, since your walk in the gallery, your drawing room, and your dance card had remained stubbornly full. A great social triumph, but none of these men, the earnest younger sons, the pompous lords, came close to sparking the connection you had felt in that quiet gallery corner.
It was, you feared, love at first sight, a notion your practical training scorned but your heart clung to.
Lord Zenin, in particular, had set his intentions very clearly upon you. He visited no other ladies' drawing rooms, his attention as focused as it was oppressive. Although you had every chance to marry well this season, the Viscount was awfully strange. A possible over-exaggeration on your part, but the man was obsessed with talking about himself—his holdings, his horses, his opinions. Boastful, to say the least. Even with him monopolizing your time, you tried to keep your options open. Yet, Lord Zenin made it his duty to ensure no other suitor would get an extra dance from you. It would not have been such an issue if his dancing skills were up to par, but you did not know if your poor slippers could survive another of his heavy, misplaced steps.
You were only able to escape by feigning a sudden, desperate thirst. Like any gentleman, he left promptly to fetch you a drink. The moment he turned, your eyes scanned the room, hurriedly searching for the man who haunted your thoughts at every outing. There he was, standing alone by a marble column—a rare sight as he always seemed to be surrounded by a captured audience—just as you had hoped. Making your way across the ballroom, you squeezed past chattering groups with polite murmurs. You found him standing idle, watching the couples waltz with a faint, unreadable smile.
"Your Grace," you bowed, coming up ever so slyly beside him. "I hope you are finding the ball pleasurable." You greeted him, your fingers nervously fiddling with the dance card dangling from your wrist. It did not seem like he had been trying to find you, or even if he had noted your attendance with half the fervor you had for him.
He turned, and his eyes crinkled in recognition. "I am indeed. And yourself?"
"It is lovely. I only wish to experience the dance floor a little more," you confessed, a slight, deliberate dig at your repetitive partner.
"Is that so?" He laughed, a genuine sound that warmed you. "Would you care for a dance? That is, if your dance card is not entirely besieged?"
"I would be honored, Your Grace."
Leading you by the hand, his grip was confident but polite. He was an excellent dancer, as fluid in movement as he was in conversation, following the tempo with an innate grace Lord Zenin lacked entirely. Your feet were safe, and your spirit soared.
"My apologies, I have not taken to the floor in some time," he said with reminiscence, his hand squeezing your gloved one ever so slightly on a turn.
"You need not worry, I assure you your skills are perfectly fine," you replied, squeezing back. You hoped the pressure conveyed what words could not, that you were interested, that you were open. "I can only hope you take to the floor more often, Your Grace."
Must you make a move too obvious, you would become the unfortunate talk of the ton. Last season, a poor girl had been relegated to a wallflower following a nasty rumor. Simply because she appeared too eager.
"That should not be a problem," he said, his eyes flickering to a point behind you. "It seems someone is waiting to reclaim this spot as we speak." He tilted his head slightly toward the waiting Lord Zenin, whose irritation was not lost on his scowling face as he watched you.
"A gentleman should have patience," you snickered, almost enjoying the look on the other man's face.
"Some are not graced with such a quality."
"I presume Your Grace is?"
"Very much so," he murmured, leaning closer. "One must wait a long time to receive such a particularly green-eyed look from Lord Zenin." His comment, whispered low in your ear so it would not carry, was scandalously funny. You could not help but laugh, quickly lowering your volume into a whisper.
"My apologies, I forget myself," he said, though his eyes sparkled with mischief.
"You are quite all right, Your Grace. I appreciate such patience and honesty," you confessed, matching his hushed tone.
"And I, you, my lady." He smiled, and as the waltz ended, he bowed deeply. "It was a pleasure dancing with you."
"Until we meet again, Your Grace." You bowed, your eyes falling to the neat script of his name now inscribed on your card. Satoru Gojo.
Gossip does what gossip is, and it spreads.
Your dance with the duke circulated through the ton with the speed you had hoped for. It helped, bringing more varied men your way—thankfully, some younger, more amiable ones—which subtly deterred some of the older suitors.
At the horse races, the day was bright, the weather peculiarly agreeable for the time of year.
The ton milled about, watching the sleek horses prance in the paddock. Men gathered, placing loud bets. You, personally, had placed a small, secret wager on a horse named Simon, a purebred with an impressive lineage. Making your way through the crowd, you eyed the booths set up at the periphery. One held decorative hairpins; the quality was discernibly middling, but they were charming to look at.
"My lady," Lord Zenin greeted, materializing at your shoulder. "Do not concern yourself with such inferior trinkets. You ladies, cannot be expected to discern quality as a gentleman can. You are lucky to have one such as myself to guide you," he spoke, pride lacquering his voice like varnish.
"I was simply admiring the craftsmanship, my lord. I assure you I can tell the difference in quality from my own pins," you said, trying to hide your offence at his assertion. It did not stop him from launching into a lecture on materials and worth, which subtly and then not so subtly morphed into a rant about how a woman’s discernment was, by nature, secondary to a man’s. The implication was clear, and it curdled your stomach.
"I will accompany you to view the horses. I have a sizable bet on Andrew," he said, taking your arm with an air of possession as he guided you toward the viewing benches.
"That is not necessary, my lord. I came with my family."
"All the more reason for my escort," he insisted, his tone brooking no argument.
Throughout the entire race, Lord Zenin talked, disregarding any opinions you voiced, even scoffing at your choice of Simon. Andrew dominated the first quarter, and Zenin’s chest puffed out. But as the race wore on, Andrew fell behind, and when Simon began his powerful surge from the middle of the pack, you couldn't help but lean forward, caught in the thrill. As Simon pulled ahead in a final, breathtaking sprint to finish first, you shouted with the crowd, a grin of pure victory spreading across your face.
"That was an excellent race, was it not, my lord?" you asked, the thrill still buzzing in your veins.
"It was a deception. The track was muddy on Andrew’s side. He should have won," he scowled, his tone souring immediately. You half-expected him to stamp his foot like a child in leading strings.
He guided you back through the booths, his mood fouling further, and he began to make loud, derogatory comments about the "common" vendors and their wares. You were praying for a glimpse of your father to effect an escape; you had more stimulating conversations with your embroidery hoop.
A flash of your father’s hat in the distance provided the excuse. You pretended he was summoning you and extracted your arm from Zenin’s. "You must excuse me, my lord."
Making your way through the press of people, your eyes caught not on your father, but on Gojo. He stood apart, seemingly oblivious to the crowd, staring intently at a small, silver locket cupped in his palm. His expression was soft, tender in a way that made your step falter. Sneaking past your actual father, you approached him.
He did not notice you, lost in the tiny portrait. It was of a beautiful woman, her name inscribed within. He looked at the locket the way you wished he would look at you—with a love that was profound and settled. Your heart dropped into the pit of your stomach.
"Your Grace," you said softly, hoping it would hide the envy scratching at your skin. His eyes, when they lifted to yours, held a trace of sorrow he quickly masked. He hesitated for a second before snapping the locket shut with a soft click. "She is beautiful," you commented, the words ash in your mouth.
"Yes," he murmured, the single word heavy with memory. "Yes, she was."
"If you do not mind my asking… may I know who she is?" you asked cautiously, praying he would not say the words you suddenly, desperately did not want to hear.
"My late wife," he said, the words quiet but clear. "She passed away four years ago."
The world seemed to be still for a moment. "I am so sorry for your loss, Your Grace. You were a beautiful couple," you confessed, forcing the word ‘couple’ out even as your own heart ached. It was painfully obvious, even in that brief glimpse, that the man was still anchored by his love for her. His heart, it seemed, would not be yours to claim.
At subsequent outings, you tried valiantly not to think of Gojo and his wife, to set your sights logically elsewhere. Yet, conversations with other suitors left your heart inert, no elation, not even a genuine smile. No one could compare to the easy wit, the surprising depth, the sheer light of him.
You had, for a foolish moment, hoped to convince him. But how could you convince a man to love you when he was so faithfully in love with a ghost?
And yet, he sought you out. He would find you wherever you stood, even when you tried half-heartedly to hide, forging a friendship that was both a balm and a torture. He stole you away for dances, shared humor, and offered effortless companionship. All your scheming to find him had caught up to you, leaving you ensnared in your own trap. To save your thoughts, you equated it to his love for attention and not the sole desire for yours.
At the Bennets’ ball, you were truly amazed. Pyrotechnics and living statues, it was a spectacle unto itself. Even the punch had a spicy, intriguing taste, fitting the fiery theme. A definite step up from the previous year, where Lord Bennet had slipped and fallen into his own fountain. You stood sipping the exotic drink from an ornate glass, watching the dancers.
A soprano’s high Latin notes soared over the instruments. Your gaze, as always, found Gojo. His eyes caught yours across the room, widening in recognition, and he made his way to you with a determined grace.
"Trying to hide again?" he jested as he arrived, falling into step beside you as if you were old friends.
"Your Grace, you ought to teach Lord Bute your skills; his partner seems in dire need of rescue," you laughed, watching the woman wince with each of Bute’s clumsy steps.
"Satoru," he said simply.
You stared at him, confused.
"My name. We are past formalities, are we not?" he prompted, a challenge in his smile.
"Satoru," you repeated, letting the unfamiliar syllables roll off your tongue. It felt intimate, scandalous, a secret shared. You enjoyed the thrill of it, even if the logical part of your brain begged you to stop.
"Much better," he smiled, that sweet, tugging smile that unraveled your resolutions. He was a drug, and you were willingly addicted.
At a ladies’ luncheon soon after, the conversation turned to courtships and the swift engagement between Lady Howe and Lord Calhoun. "And you? You are being courted, are you not?" one of the ladies asked, her eyes sharp on you.
"I am sorry?"
The table tittered. "His Grace, Gojo?" she clarified. You nearly spat out your tea. You had been so wrapped in your own conflicted feelings that you’d forgotten the omnipresent audience. You could not deny the accusation without sparking worse rumors, and since he had spoken of his wife, you hadn’t truly dared to think of it as a courtship. It was merely him, entertaining your hopeless emotions.
"I would not be surprised if there was an engagement on the horizon!" another gushed. Previously, you would have been elated. No proper lady would pursue Gojo if they knew his eyes were set upon you, a courtship tangible in the air. Now, however, his name sat bitterly on the back of your tongue.
"Or perhaps it is Lord Zenin?" a third suggested slyly.
You demurred, letting the topic flow away from you, but their talk of ardent suitors and clear intentions highlighted what was missing. Lord Zenin made his intentions brutally clear. The Duke offered friendship, laughter, and a haunting sadness. He had not declared himself, nor could you reasonably expect him to.
The balls you once awaited with butterfly excitement now filled you with a nervous dread, afraid of seeing the man whose love was reserved for another. It was disheartening to talk to him, to push your own yearning aside to learn more about him, because every detail—his terrible jests, the way his eyes lit up when you volleyed one back—only made you want him more.
You could no longer afford to look at him as a potential partner; your future was at stake.
At the next ball, you sought solace on a deserted balcony, a glass of punch in hand, away from the crush and the music. The jewels on your gown felt like anchors. The garden below was a tapestry of shadow and moonlight, beautifully kept. The chill air was a relief.
Your ears could not withstand the rantings of Lord Collens regarding his mother. You knew more about her than you did about the man himself. Your solitude was shattered by a familiar presence. White hair gleamed in the ambient light as he leaned on the balustrade beside you.
"My lady, hiding again?" Satoru asked, his voice low. He leaned closer, his shoulder nearly brushing yours.
"It is quiet out here," you said. At least it had been.
"You have not danced with me once tonight. Yet I see you’ve endured two with Lord Zenin." He tried to sound light, joking, but a thread of seriousness ran beneath it.
You pushed off the railing, walking down the shallow steps into the garden proper, hoping he would not follow. He did, of course, his longer strides easily catching up.
"Must you walk so fast?" he called, a hint of amusement in his voice.
You sped up, gathering your skirts. "Why must you follow?"
"Why must you avoid me?" he countered, catching your arm gently but firmly, forcing you to stop.
You whipped around to face him. "It should not be of any concern to you," you spoke, holding your anger and hurt in check. "I have been promised to no one, least of all to you."
"Lord Zenin-" you began.
"Zenin?" he scoffed, the sound harsh in the quiet garden. He had not shown a fraction of the direct interest Zenin had, but at least with Zenin, you would be married, settled, your duty done. "You cannot be serious."
"Yes, Zenin."
"Do you know that man? Truly? You will be miserable. More miserable than you could ever be with-" He paused, biting his lip hard, stopping the sentence. "The Zenin's see women as cattle, as breeding stock to improve their line."
"And what do you know about treating a woman?" The words flew out, sharp and bitter, before you could stop them. "You do not know Lord Zenin as I do. And above all, you have no right to monitor my potential nuptials."
You refused to let such an opportunity—the security, the position—be ruined by a man who offered nothing but confusing friendship. He would never understand the pressure, the cliff’s edge of choice that defined a woman’s life. If you were not to marry, your life would be regarded as a failure with no net to fall back on. Your cup is only half as full as man's; society would regard you no higher.
"I clearly know more than you if you are considering that basket for all your eggs. He is not an honorable man."
"And you are, Gojo?"
"Far more than he, I assure you. You mustn't marry him." His voice dipped, almost pleading. But why? Why did he care so much if his own heart was entombed? His mouth opened, those lips parting as if to speak a truth, but then they pressed into a resigned line. "I… care for you. Deeply. More than you could imagine. I could not live with myself knowing you would marry into that dreadful household." His eyes, wide and earnest in the moonlight, pulled you back into the spell. You wished, achingly, to marry for a mutual love, not to be merely cared for as a replacement for a ghost. His simple attention would not heal the tear his confession had rented in your heart.
"Would it be better to marry someone else, then? Shall I compile a list of suitors for your approval?" you shot back, offended even as a treacherous part of you trusted his warning.
"I am not your father."
"Precisely! So please, stay out of my business-"
"I cannot do that," he confessed, his gaze refusing to release yours. "I cannot simply stand aside."
"Do you hate me so much that you would deny me any marriage?" The frustration welled up as hot, stinging tears. You blinked them away furiously. Now you would need to find an excuse for the reddening of your eyes to any noisy person who asks, the truth is more shaming than your ruined appearance.
"It is not hate," he said, stepping closer. The scent of him—bergamot and night air—enveloped you. "What I feel for you is far from hate." You could not stand to listen to him dissect your prospects while offering none of his own. You would never be her.
"I apologize, Your Grace. I must take my leave." You hurriedly bowed, your voice cracking as you fought the rising tide of emotion. "Good night."
In your drawing room the following week, Lord Zenin sat sipping tea, the silence between you heavy. He had been monologuing about estate management for twenty minutes. You had been quiet, lost in thought.
"You would make an agreeable wife, do you not agree?" he said finally, a smug, knowing look in his eye. "I thought your… talkative nature might become an issue, but it seems you have learned better. I enjoy a quiet woman." It was not a compliment; it was a mandate. One you were sure would become more oppressive if his name were attached formally to yours.
"Women today forget what a man truly wants. All this talk of opinions and equality… I do hope you do not subscribe to such modern jests." It was not a question. He had made his view on women quite clear; perhaps you had been so busy with the duke that Lord Naoya Zenin's ideology was not as apparent.
You simply nodded, the disgust in your stomach turning to a hard, cold stone. Satoru’s words echoed: cattle. Naoya saw you as a decorative, quiet asset. When he left, the silence he prized felt like a suffocating corset. One that left worse wounds than the ones you wore on outings.
You could not imagine a life as Lady Zenin. Your mother, when you finally confessed you could not accept him, looked not disappointed, but profoundly relieved. "His reputation is not… kind," was all she said. Rumors of Toji Zenin's scandalous elopement only made the decision easier.
You entertained other suitors half-heartedly. Your prospects, once bright, felt dim and dwindling. After a brief, tedious promenade with Lord Phillip, you returned home. Your lady’s maid was helping you change when she appeared at the door of your sitting room.
"You have a visitor, my lady."
"At this hour? Who is it?"
"It is His Grace, Gojo."
You met him in your home's garden, the spring sun dappling through the new leaves. You walked in silence, your hand on his arm, hating how your pulse leapt at his mere presence. The quiet stretched, becoming unbearable.
"The weather is very agreeable, is it not, Your Grace?" you finally ventured.
"I did not come to discuss the weather," he said, stopping beside a camellia bush, its pink blossoms vibrant against the dark green. "I came to apologize. Properly, this time. For my conduct in the garden. It was unpardonable."
"If that is all, Your Grace, the apology is not needed. You may-"
"No," he said, his hand covering yours where it rested on his arm. "That is not my only reason. If you recall, I asked you then if your heart was with another."
The memory was repetitive. "I recall."
"And I told you I could not stand back if it was." He turned to face you fully, his expression unguarded, vulnerable in a way you had never seen. "I have spoken with your father."
"My father? What could you have possibly provoked you to speak with my father?"
"If you are truly smitten with Lord Zenin, if your heart is with him, please tell me now." He paused, taking one of your hands. "I misspoke then. I do care for you, but what I feel is far stronger; it is not that I hate the idea of you being married. I despise the idea of you marrying anyone else."
"What…what are you saying?"
"If it is Lord Zenin that you prefer over me, I will stand back, just tell me that what I feel for you is not to be reciprocated. And I will stand back," he spoke as though saying this pained him, cringing even at the word Zenin. "I should have said this then. Please allow me to make up for this."
You could only stare, your breath caught.
"Your grace, I do not have an engagement with Lord Zenin; it seems your criticisms were not unwarranted."
"Your hand is free, I presume?"
"It is," you managed.
"But is your heart?" he asked, his eyes searching yours, laying his own soul bare. "For you have utterly captured mine."
The world narrowed to the feel of his gloves on your skin, the intensity of his gaze, the hammering of your own heart. "My heart," you said, the words firm and clear as crystal, "is free."
He let out a breath that was half-laugh. He knelt there on the garden path, heedless of the gravel. He took your hand, turned it over, and pressed his lips to your gloved knuckles with a reverence that stole your breath.
"Then, if you are not opposed to a man who is flawed…would you do me the greatest honor of accepting my hand in marriage?"
—
Your marriage was steadfast, both families preparing for the union, dedicated. Satoru had not let you out of his sight, from events he was there to making sure he would be the only one you would dance with, declining anyone who came to you for a dance.
Some would come to you saying how they saw this happening, but you knew they would always say that, even if they never did.
Those who were indifferent to you before were now cozying up to the soon-to-be Duchess.
"You must set me up with one of his brothers!" you unfortunately had to give her the news that Satoru did not have any siblings.
At the modist, you tried on fine fabrics and watched as your wedding gown was constructed, the decorations prepared, and your family home got set up for the reception. You were happy, but you couldn't help but become afraid.
"Your grace?" Satoru called out to you, following behind with his own horse.
"I am not your grace yet, Satoru." You murmured.
The wedding was in only a few days, and you've done all the discussions with Satoru and your future, yet it seemed so blurry. It was not like you could not see yourself with Satoru, but now that you were betrothed and your future secure, you got everything you wanted, but something was missing. Satoru was right here, yet he seemed so far away.
"In a few days' time, you will be." He grinned, his horse next to yours. You smiled and nodded, satisfying his desire for your connection.
The days bled together in a flurry of silk and whispers until the morning dawned. You held up the jewels that Satoru had gifted, letting your lady's maid connect the pieces together. In a few hours, you would be a Duchess, a wife, and secure.
Tying the corsets and watching as they took your wardrobe into cases, packed it away, and took it to a new home, the Gojo estate.
You would not be staying in the city for your honeymoon, but rather at the estate in the country.
You looked at yourself in the mirror, and the dress was beautiful, gorgeous even. The dress was as white as Satoru's hair, and the sapphires were as beautiful as his eyes. You felt a tear roll down your face, the excitement bubbling and building into the moment. Tears rolling down your face, you had done it. He was yours, Satoru was yours.
"My lady, it is time to depart."
The ceremony was a sublime blur of vows and vibrant stained-glass. You repeated after the officiant, your voice steadier than you felt. Satoru was more than happy, smiling at you with the same look he gave that locket that felt so long ago.
You stared into his eyes as he brought your face in for a kiss, cupping your head gently. His lips were so soft, pulling you in. It took everything in you not to dive for more; you were in a church after all.
At the reception, it was full of so many people, and Satoru followed you with his eyes wherever you went. You snacked and danced, his hand at the small of your back, until finally, it was time to change from the magnificent gown into your travelling dress.
The dread hit, a cold slickness beneath the joy. After this point, you did not know what to expect as a duchess, ruling a household.
Your mother taught you well, but it was different from experience. And the wedding night... a nebulous concept.
In the carriage, Satoru sat across from you, hand massaging yours. It felt strange touching his skin without a glove, to be away from the watching eyes of the ton; to finally be who they all wanted. A duchess.
"What does your, our estate look like?" you asked slightly, trying to get a view of what your life is looking like.
"It's beautiful, the sunrise is like a painting, and it is vast, and the staff are well prepared for you, my love," he reassured. His thumb stroked the inside of your wrist, a slow, deliberate rhythm that made your pulse stutter. You nodded, massaging his hand in return.
You couldn't help but be drawn to his face. Caressing the sharp line of his jaw, the arch of his cheekbone-features you had dreamed of coming close to.
You had never thought you would get to touch him like this, so freely. He leaned into your touch, letting his cheek rest in your hand, his eyes closing for a moment.
He patted the seat next to him. "Come here, Your Grace." You moved, stumbling a bit in the lurching carriage, and he caught you, his hands firm on your waist as he settled you firmly beside him. Not an inch of space remained between you.
The close confines of the carriage, the dim lantern light, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels-it all felt suddenly illicit. He leaned in, not for a chaste kiss, but to press his lips to the sensitive skin of your neckline, just above the lace of your chemise.
A shocked gasp left you, and you instinctively pulled him closer, your fingers tangling in the snowy silk of his hair. "A different love, indeed," he murmured against your throat, his breath a hot caress.
His mouth was playful, nipping then soothing with his tongue, mapping a path to your collarbone. One of his hands slid from your waist to the back of your corset, fingers tracing the rigid lines of the stays. "So many barriers, even now," he groaned.
You could only whimper, arching into his touch, your own inexperience rendered mute by a wave of pure sensation. His other hand found its way beneath the hem of your skirt, his long fingers skating up your stockinged calf. The contact was electrifying. You were drowning in him, in the scent of his soap and something uniquely him.
"Toru-" you managed, the informal name slipping out in a breathy rush.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes holding a new type of joy, darkened by what you found only described as his previous words, a different type of love. One that consumes you in every breath, yet you want to fall deeper.
"Say it again."
"Toru."
He captured your mouth, nothing like the kiss in the church. It was deep, claiming, hungry. His tongue swept against yours, and you met it with clumsy, eager desperation. He tasted of sweet champagne.
His hand on your leg crept higher, past your garter, to the soft skin of your inner thigh. You jerked against him, a bolt of startling pleasure-pain shooting through you.
"You're trembling," he observed, a playful smirk on his kiss-swollen lips. "Don't be afraid. This is all for you. For us."
Before you could formulate a thought, the carriage began to slow. Satoru let out a soft, frustrated groan against your lips. "The inn," he said, his voice steadying. "We break our journey here for the night."
The interruption was a physical shock. He straightened, his expression shifting seamlessly back to one of elegant composure, though his eyes still smoldered. He helped you adjust your dress, his fingers lingering for a moment too long on the fabric covering your breast.
The inn was a respectable coaching house, and the Duke and Duchess Gojo were ushered to the best suite with efficiency. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The door clicked shut behind the retreating servant, and you were truly, utterly alone with your now husband.
The public facade fell from Satoru instantly. He prowled towards you, loosening his cravat with one hand. "Now," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the very air between you.
"Where were we?"
You stood frozen by the bed, your earlier courage faltering under the sheer weight of his focused attention. He saw it and his expression softened a fraction, though the intensity in his cerulean gaze never wavered. He came to you, taking your face in his hands, his thumbs stroking the apples of your cheeks. "Let me see you," he whispered.
He turned you gently, your back to his front. His fingers, surprisingly deft for a man of his station and power, found the intricate closures of your travelling gown, working them with a patience that you once awarded to wanting him to hurry up. The gown loosened and pooled at your feet like a discarded sigh. Your petticoats soon followed.
His hands were on the laces of your corset. He worked slowly, kissing the nape of your neck, the shell of your ear, as each tug of the lace gave you more breath, more freedom.
"These contraptions are a crime," he muttered against your skin, his breath hot, finally pulling the stiff garment away and tossing it aside. You stood in your thin chemise and stockings, feeling more exposed than you ever had, the firelight painting your forms in gold.
He turned you to face him, his gaze a physical weight as it travelled over you, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.
He lifted you then, placing you in the centre of the bed before stripping off his own clothes with an efficiency that left you breathless. His body was a revelation: long, lean, and built, all sculpted muscle and pale skin marred by the faintest silver lines of old battles. And between his legs, he was... considerable.
Your eyes widened.
The vague, clinical descriptions you'd heard had not prepared you for the reality of him, thick and heavy and very erect, the flushed tip beading with a promise.
He knelt on the bed, crawling over you like a predator claiming its territory. "The theory is one thing, my love," he said, as if reading your mind, a wicked curve to his mouth. He nudged your legs apart with his knee, settling his weight between them.
The rough hair of his thighs brushed against your sensitive inner skin. "Practice is something else entirely. And we are going to practice quite a lot."
“Practice?”
He kissed you again, swallowing your nervous gasp. His hand slipped between your bodies, his fingers finding the damp heat at your core through the thin linen of your chemise. You cried out into his mouth, bucking against his hand.
"So ready for me," he praised, his voice dripping with dark delight. He hooked his fingers in the waist of your drawers, pulling them down and off along with your stockings. The cooler air of the room kissed your skin, followed immediately by the searing heat of his body on yours.
Skin to skin. The contact was electric.
He palmed your breast, his thumb flicking over your nipple until it peaked into a tight, aching bud. Then his hand trailed down, over the quivering of your stomach.
"My sweet, brave wife," he whispered, his fingers parting your folds with a reverence that belied the hunger in his eyes.
He found your clit, slick and hot, and stroked a slow, circling pattern around the sensitive nub that made you arch off the bed with a broken cry. "Satoru!"
"I know, sweetheart. I know." He added a second finger, slipping inside you with a smooth, stretching pressure. The feeling was immense, foreign, but the glide of his fingers was aided by your own wanton wetness. He worked them in and out, curling them, seeking. When he brushed a particular spot deep inside, stars exploded behind your eyes. Your hips jerked of their own accord, seeking more of that shocking, delicious friction.
"There it is," he purred, watching your face with rapt attention as it contorted in pleasure. "That's it.
Make those pretty sounds for me." He continued his ruthless assault with his fingers, scissoring them, stretching you, preparing you even as he drove you to a trembling, gasping peak. You felt a coil tighten, unbearably so, before it snapped. Your climax washed over you, a wave of pure, mindless pleasure that left you shuddering, your inner walls fluttering around his invading fingers.
No wonder you were never taught such pleasure existed. Or then such pleasure resided between your legs, waiting.
He withdrew his hand, and before you could mourn the loss, he brought his glistening fingers to his lips. His eyes held yours as he sucked them clean, a low hum of appreciation in his throat. "Divine," he murmured. Then he shifted, his body sliding down the bed with predatory grace. "But I have not yet properly tasted my bride."
He hooked your legs over his shoulders, his breath a hot brand against your inner thighs. "None of that modesty now," he chided softly, seeing your instinct to close. "Let me see." And then his mouth was on you.
“That is n-not a proper p-place, ‘Toru!” he only paused for a moment, looking up at you with his eyes.
“Oh, but it is very, very proper, my love.” he kissed the lips, his tongue licking in between experimentally. “It would be improper for a husband not to taste his wife,” he grinned, watching as you tried to keep your face calm and intact.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was devouring. His tongue, broad and insistent, laved a stripe through your soaked folds before circling that aching nub with focused precision. You cried out, your hands fisting in the bedsheets. “Very proper indeed.” He groaned against you, the vibration shooting straight to your core.
He feasted on you as if starved, one hand splayed on your belly to hold you still while the other slid back inside you, two fingers now, pumping in time with the wicked flick of his tongue. The dual sensation was overwhelming, a riot of too-much and not-enough. You could feel the coil winding tight again, impossibly so, your hips moving of their own accord against his mouth.
"Toru, I cannot-I shall-" you babbled, a composure near shattering.
He lifted his head, his chin gleaming. "You shall," he commanded, his voice rough. "Come on, my tongue, sweetheart. Let me feel you." He dove back in, his nose nudging your sensitive flesh, and that was all it took.
You shattered with a scream, your body bowing off the bed as the pleasure crested and broke, washing through you in relentless, pulsing waves. He drank you down, gentle now, lapping at you until the sensitivity bordered on pain, and you weakly pushed at his head.
He moved back up your body, his own arousal a hard, insistent heat against your thigh. He rubbed himself against your drenched cunt, the blunt head notching at your entrance, spreading the evidence of your pleasure.
His eyes locked on yours, brilliant and unblinking in the firelight.
"Look at me," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for disobedience. You obeyed, eyes locking with his, you felt the intrusion as he pushed in.
The stretch was immense, a burning fullness that stole the air from your lungs. You choked on a sob, your nails digging into the taut muscles of his shoulders.
"Shhh, there it is," he cooed, though his own face was a mask of exquisite strain, a vein throbbing in his temple. He paused, letting your body adjust to his girth, dropping kisses on your tear-streaked cheeks.
"Just the first stretch, sweetheart. You will take me so beautifully." He began to move, shallow, rocking thrusts that gradually deepened. The burning began to melt, transforming into something else, a deep, internal friction that sparked a new, desperate heat in your belly.
Everything was new, exhilarating, and utterly addictive.
His rhythm became less controlled, more demanding. He braced himself on one arm, the other hand snaking down to where your bodies were joined. His thumb found your sensitive nub once more, circling it, just as he drove himself deeper, hitting that spot inside that made you see white.
The sensation was catastrophic. Your back arched off the bed, a broken string of moans and his name falling from your lips. "Toru-l-it is too much-"
"It is not enough," he gritted out, his own breathing ragged, his hips pistoning with a force that shook the bed. "I will be sure t-to make it enough." His words, his touch, the relentless, pounding fullness of him—it all crested and broke again. A wave of pleasure, so intense it bordered on pain, crashed through you. Your inner walls clenched around him, milking his length, and you watched, dazed, as his almost aristocratic composure now matched yours.
His eyes screwed shut, a raw, guttural moan tearing from his throat as he plunged into you one last, beautiful time. You felt a hot, flooding pulse deep inside you as he spent himself, his body shuddering with the force of his release. For long moments, the only sounds were the crackle of the fire and your combined, ragged breaths. He collapsed atop you, his weight a welcome anchor.
He nuzzled into your neck, pressing damp, open-mouthed kisses to your frantic pulse.
When he finally rolled to the side, he pulled you with him, keeping you firmly tucked atop of him, his member still nestled within you.
His fingers traced idle, possessive patterns on the slight, tender swell of your lower belly. "Feel that?" he murmured, his voice hoarse with spent passion.
"That is me. Deep inside you. Marking you. Exactly where I belong." You could only hum, your body and mind buzzing with a languid, sated stupor.
He was not done. After a while, his hands began to wander again, playful and insistent. He took you twice more that night, each time with a shifting mood—once slow and worshipful, his mouth tasting every part of you until you were mindless with need, begging him in broken phrases; fast and rough, with you on your hands and knees, him driving into you from behind, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave blooming fingerprints, his praises filthy and fervent against your ear.
As dawn threatened the horizon, he had you on your back once more, moving in you with a slow, deep, grinding rhythm that felt more like possession than passion. His forehead was pressed to yours, his breath mingling with your whimpers.
"I am going to fill you until you are dripping with me," he promised, his voice a dark velvet rasp. "Until the thought of anyone else is impossible. Until you carry my child here." He pressed his hand more firmly over your womb, and the thought, the sheer carnality of it, pushed you both over the edge together.
Later, as a grey light filtered through the curtains, you lay spent and boneless. Satoru propped himself on an elbow, looking down at you. His fingers, gentle now, traced the curve of your hip, then drifted through the sticky evidence of his spend that had seeped from between your thighs.
He brought his fingertips to his mouth, his eyes holding a possessive, satisfied glint as he tasted you both. "You must ride me, or I will die."
He was as much of an addict as you were becoming of his touch, of his love.
—
You sat in a chair, dressed in an elegant and ornate gown, Satoru beside you, his hand on your shoulder. Matching colors, a delicate blue. The painter took glances diligently, painting both of your features onto the canvas. You tried to stay as still as possible, but Satoru was making an effort to get a rise out of you.
It was your wedding portrait; thanks to Satoru's antics, you were late. It did not help that Satoru would continue poking, tickling, and even making crude jests; quietly enough for the painter not to hear but just low enough in your ear, you could make out every word.
"You forget yourself, Your Grace; we have duties to attend to." You sighed, resisting the urge to kick him in the knee.
"Well, Your Grace, I was simply remarking on the excellent skills of the painter before us." His calm face broke into a smile. He knew what he was doing and exactly what he had said. You even noticed the way he giggled when the thought formed in his mind. Each is worse than the one before it. The painter bowed, only hearing the compliment, unaware of Satoru's crude comment of 'painting your walls instead'.
"I will remember that, Your Grace," you warned, keeping your soft smile.
"Please do, we must be quiet now, the painter must do his work," he paused, tapping your shoulder lightly.
"I am sure you know-" you kicked him in the shin, stopping whatever was coming out of his mouth. It was low enough for the painter not to hear, but the wince on Satoru's face did bring you an inch of joy.
You would surely tip the painter well. Satoru did make haste with his comments immediately after the painter took his leave.
There would soon be a portrait of the Duke and Duchess Gojo, replacing the former one on the wall. Although you would never be her, you would be his, and he would be yours.
♡ summary: satoru was sleeping so peacefully, you're sure he wouldn't mind!
♡ wc: 1.3k
♡ content warnings: fem! reader, sleeping gojo, non-penetrative, established relationship, groping, needy reader, somonophilia, guilt, reader is down bad.
♡ a/n: my man back from the military, I'm abt to go crazy ₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎
Satoru especially loved having you like this— your body limp against the sheets, the delicate lace of your bra strap slipping down your arm, your breath slow and even in the quiet morning light.
The bed was massive, easily big enough for Satoru to stretch his long limbs without crowding you, yet somehow, he always managed to claim most of the space.
More often than not, you ended up teetering on the edge, one foot dangling off the mattress, half-covered by the tangled duvet. And if he hadn't somehow maneuvered you halfway off the bed, you were curled tightly against him; your leg slung over his torso, his arms locking you in place, pulling you impossibly closer until the lines between your bodies blurred. It was a perfect, chaotic tangle of limbs, warmth, and sleepy contentment.
The sunlight filtered through the gaps in your curtains, painting lazy stripes across the rumpled sheets and warming the curve of your shoulder. The room still carried traces of last night's clothes strewn across the floor, the faint scent of his cologne clinging to the pillows, the memory of his hands roaming your skin.
Now, one of those same large palms splayed possessively over the small of your back, his fingers flexing slightly in his sleep, as if even unconscious, he needed to reassure himself you were still there. It was a warmth you wouldn't trade for anything.
This morning was no different. You lay there, counting Satoru's unfairly long lashes, listening to the soft rhythm of his breathing. It was peaceful-adorable, even if not for the very present issue nudging insistently against your thigh. His morning wood pressed dangerously close to your core, and though you'd hoped it would fade after a few minutes, ten had passed with no such luck.
Satoru was a deceptively still sleeper. Aside from the occasional shift or half-conscious tug to reel you back in, he rarely stirred. But his sheer size left you perpetually fighting for space. It was rare for you to wake before him; he didn't sleep much, but when he did, he crashed hard. Once, he'd slept fourteen hours straight and hadn't even realized it. Right now, his arms were bands of steel around you, and you hesitated to move, afraid even a twitch might rouse him. But the persistent pressure against your panties was making it very difficult to focus on the sweetness of the moment.
Cautiously, you slid your arm out from under his neck, biting back a groan as you plotted your escape. Every movement was calculated— shifting your hips just enough to ease the tension, inching your leg back from where it was trapped beneath his. You held your breath as you finally freed your right arm, only to freeze at the low, throaty noise Satoru made in response. Shit.
The sunlight caught the platinum strands of his hair, gilding them like spun gold, and it only emphasized the defined muscles of his arms, the broad plane of his chest. For a wild second, you considered sinking your teeth into his shoulder-just to see if he'd wake up tasting like salt and sleep. But you forced the thought aside. Focus.
You worked his fingers loose from your waist one by one, ready to push his hand aside and reclaim those precious few inches of mattress.
But the second you tried to slip away, his grip tightened reflexively, dragging you back-closer this time. And in the process, his cock slid firmly against your clit, the thin barriers of fabric doing nothing to dull the friction. A gasp tore from your lips before you could stifle it, and you clenched your thighs together as Satoru shifted again, effortlessly rolling you halfway on top of him.
You glanced at his face-still slack with sleep, his breathing deep and even. Now, you were practically straddling him, your damp panties pressed flush to his hips. Defeated, you let yourself relax against him, surrendering to the heat pooling low in your stomach. You needed a shower anyway.
His arms adjusted in his sleep, loosening just enough to settle around your lower back, his fingers brushing the waistband of your panties.
You exhaled shakily, torn between frustration and reluctant arousal. The warmth of his body beneath you was intoxicating, and the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest only made it worse. His cock was still pressed insistently against you, and now that you were fully straddling him, the friction was impossible to ignore.
Biting your lip, you shifted experimentally, rolling your hips just enough to feel him against your clit again. A quiet sigh escaped you, and you did it again, slower this time, savoring the way the fabric dragged against your sensitive nerves. Satoru remained still, his breathing steady, his grip on you lax-completely unaware.
Emboldened, you rocked against him in slow, deliberate motions, your thighs tensing as pleasure coiled tighter in your core. You kept your movements subtle, careful not to wake him, but the heat building between your legs made it hard to stay quiet. Every drag of his cock against you sent sparks up your spine, and instinctively you breathed in his scent, your nose burying in his shoulder.
The layers between you, fabric, restraint, and his oblivious sleep felt like a cruel tease. You wanted more. The heat of his bare skin against yours, the friction of his hips meeting yours without barriers. You were starting to understand why he disliked it when you wore anything more than his clothes or underwear to bed.
A frustrated whine caught in your throat as you rocked down again, your clit throbbing, your body aching for the press of his palm against your lower back, dragging you closer. You imagined his fingers slipping beneath your waistband, calloused and sure, finally giving you the contact you'd been chasing. The fantasy alone made your next roll of your hips stutter, your breath coming faster.
It didn't take long before the tension snapped suddenly, your body shuddering as you came, your fingers digging into his chest to steady yourself. You held your breath, praying he wouldn't stir, but just as the last waves of pleasure ebbed, he let out a loud snore.
Heat flooded your cheeks as you realized what you’d just done. It's not like he hasn't eaten you out while you were asleep, but this was different. He would never let you live it down. You can just imagine the things he would say, God forbid his ego gets any bigger than it already is.
Mortification burned through you. With a sharp inhale, you scrambled off the bed, your legs unsteady beneath you. The sheets tangled around your ankles in your haste, nearly tripping you as you bolted for the bathroom. Heart pounding, half-expecting him to wake and catch you in the act. But he didn’t stir, his breathing deep and even, one arm flung carelessly over the space where you’d just been.
—
You were scrambling eggs a little too aggressively when his arms slid around your waist from behind, his chest pressing warm against your back. His lips brushed the curve of your ear as he murmured, voice still thick with sleep, “Morning.”
The spatula nearly slipped from your grip. “Morning,” you managed, keeping your eyes fixed on the pan.
He hummed, nuzzling into your hair. “Slept like a rock.” A pause. “Best sleep I’ve had in…a while,” his hand tightened just slightly on your hips, his thumbs tracing idle circles.
“Don't leave so early, the bed gets cold without you,” he whined, but you could feel the grin on his lips on your shoulder.
The best thing about having a wealthy friend isn't the endless flights to foreign countries or yacht trips the moment someone mentions "weekend." No, it's easy access to the expansive pool that sits in their backyard.
A private oasis that doesn't come with screaming children doing cannonballs, splashing constantly in your face, or worse, a subscription service.
On hot days like these, when the heat clinging to your skin, you can feel the irritation bubbling at the surface at any minor inconvenience.
The chill of a pool sends all your worries away. The water is always the perfect temperature, the expensive system keeping it neither too cold nor too warm.
Your apartment pool could never.
Thankfully, Satoru was willing to lounge around on floaties with you, his presence comforting despite his tendency to be annoying about fifty percent of the time. The other fifty percent makes it worth it, and today, that fifty percent is in full effect.
The sun beams down towards you, warming your backside as you lie flat on the clear inflatable that Satoru insists is "the superior floatie" because it lets you see the water beneath you.
Not that there's much to see besides the occasional leaf or the faint shimmer of the pool's blue iridescent tiles, but he seems to take great pride in his floatie collection.
Occasionally, Satoru will push your floatie towards the waterfalls that cascade into the pool, claiming he's just "helping you cool off" before splashing your hair to get it wet.
He tricked you once, claiming he was improving the angle so you could tan better, his voice full of faux sincerity—which you naively believed— only for cold, hard water to be dumped on your face from the waterfall.
You should have seen it coming from a mile away. His laugh echoed across the pool, and you craved revenge, but the free pool was too good to give up, so you let it slide. For now.
Anything for the free pool.
You could hear the water splashing as Satoru swam, his movements creating gentle ripples that disturbed your peaceful float.
Your floatie shifted, your body being pulled away from your perfect tanning spot, catching the optimal amount of rays without frying you to a crisp.
"Satoru, swear to god, if I feel a single drop of water, you're dead," you warned, lifting your head and pulling the sunglasses over your eyes so you weren't blinded by the sun.
"You're so scary," he laughed, elbows resting on the edge of your inflatable, his chin propped up on his arms. "You want a bomb pop?" he asked lightly. His tongue was already dyed purple, a telltale sign he seemed to have indulged himself in one already while you were busy sunbathing.
You were craving something sweet, your mouth watering at the thought of that icy, sugary goodness, so this was perfect timing.
His hair was tousled and wet with water, the white strands darkened to a soft silver where they were soaked through, and his skin was even a little tanned from the sun, a rare sight that made him look like a surfer from California.
The contrast was pretty on his white hair and cerulean eyes. You hummed, nodding your head, "Pull me back."
Obliging, Satoru pulled you with him to the pool's edge, his hands gripping the sides of your floatie with surprising care. Your floatie had traveled quite the distance across his expansive pool, and as you moved, you took in the sheer scale of his pool deck.
His home was beautiful; your own family's wealth wasn't anything to laugh at, but Gojo's was on a different planet entirely. He even had his own golf course named after him back home, a fact he brought up too casually.
You would jokingly call his family the Crazy Rich Gojo's when you found out how wealthy he was.
Your pool at home was nice, sure, but Satoru's was pretty damn close—if not better. The carefully curated landscaping that surrounded it, the infinity edge that made it look like the water went on forever. It was picturesque, residing in someone's dream home pinterest board.
Rolling over, you let the coolness of the floaty cool the warm skin on your back, the plastic slightly sticky from the heat but still refreshing. It felt nice, relaxing you further onto the floatie as you surrendered to the heat.
You kept your hand pressed to the ledge so you wouldn't float away again, your fingers gripping the edge.
You watched as Satoru climbed out of the pool, his body dripping wet from the chlorinated water, droplets cascading down his back in rivulets that caught the light. Even though you were in the deeper end, he didn't need to take the ladder; the pros of being tall meant he could just hoist himself up like it was nothing, muscles flexing with the effort.
It took a minute for him to come back with your sweet relief, his footsteps padding against the stone tiles as he made his way to the outdoor fridge. He carefully unwrapped the red, white, and blue bomb pop, holding two others in his hand.
Crouching down in front of you, his strong calves bending towards you, he waved the cold treat over your lips, the cool air touching your lips ever so slightly. You reached out to snatch it away, your fingers grazing the white wrapper, but he happened to be faster, pulling it back with a grin.
Holding the popsicle in the air, his arms reached higher than where you could grab it comfortably, his height advantage making this game incredibly unfair. He waved it back and forth, and you felt that familiar irritation prickle at your skin once again.
"Satoru, stop," you groaned, sitting up from the floatie to take it out of his hand, the movement causing water to slosh around you. You were planning on playing nice with him today, being the bigger person and all that, but he always found a way to scratch your nerves, pulling them taut until you snapped. Nevertheless, you enjoyed his company.
Knowing Satoru since your freshman year, through friends of friends who had somehow dragged both of you to the same party, you happened to become friends with Satoru; it felt practically inevitable.
When you first met him, you thought he was an egotistical prick. But the more you got to know him, the more you realized he wasn't that bad. He was there for you during breakups, letting you cry on his shoulders while he fed you ice cream and told you that your ex was "a shit loser anyway."
He was there for rough hangovers, making you drink water and bone broth even when you insisted you would die if you moved. He was there for late-night drives, windows down, music blasting, the two of you screaming lyrics at the top of your lungs like you were the only people on the quiet streets. The plentiful noise complaints proved you definitely weren't.
And you were there for him, even when he drunkenly threw up on your vintage Kelly, a bag you had gotten for your sixteenth birthday—She will be missed. He ended up buying you two more as an apology, one in the original color and one in a shade that matched your eyes, but still, Satoru was a great friend.
Even if the lines are blurred in the friend portion.
"Satoru, stop!" he mocked in a high-pitched voice, his impression of you absolutely terrible. You definitely didn't sound like that, and you snatched the already melting popsicle from his hands before he could pull it away again.
Your tongue hurriedly reached out to lick the melted juices, the sweet flavor exploding on your taste buds as you started from the base to the top, not wanting to waste a single drop. The UV was making it melt faster, so you took a bite out of the tip, crunching through the icy layers. Might as well eat it before the sun does first, you thought, chewing happily.
You hadn't noticed Satoru's gaze as he watched, his eyes fixed on your mouth, wincing slightly as you bit the bomb pop with more force than necessary.
"Don't look at me like that, you're double-fisting bomb pops over there," you rolled your eyes, lifting your glasses to the top of your head to get a better look at his face. His face was crunched up with a look of amusement.
"You're the freaky one," he mused, licking both of the popsicles at the same time, his tongue darting out to catch the melting drips with practiced ease.
You were tempted to bring up the time you found him and Suguru passed out on his bed with two other girls, a scene that had been burned into your memory forever, but you decided to let it slide. But you're the freaky one, right..
"Whatever," you said instead of bringing up his freak escapades, taking another bite of your bomb pop. You wouldn't let Satoru live that one down, but you'll live past his greed, saving that ammunition for a later date when you really need to win an argument.
"I feel bad for any of your victims," he said, his eyebrows furrowed in mock sadness, kissing up to the sky like he was praying for the souls of your hypothetical head receivers.
He sat down on the ledge, his legs dangling into the water, the ripples spreading outward from his movements.
"Luckily, there are none," you said, the words coming out louder than you intended.
He paused dramatically, his entire body freezing as he stared at your face to see if you were serious. Realizing you weren't lying, a smirk twitched at his lips, one that usually preceded with more irritating and unnecessary comments.
Much to the dismay of your many hookups, you had never given head before. Too nervous to mess up and bite someone's appendage off, you never tried. It was a confession you rarely made, one that usually got you a mix of shock and pity, but with Satoru, it felt different.
"Not even-" he started until you shook your head firmly, cutting him off. He thought for a second, his expression contemplative, before asking, "You want to practice?"
It's not like you haven't tried to practice before, using fruit and various objects in an attempt to gain some semblance of skill, but a banana is much different than a real dick. The texture, the shape, the way it moves—or lack thereof. It's just not the same.
You stared at him momentarily, thinking about his offer, your brain running through all the possible outcomes. It's not like neither of you had crossed lines before; you're the one who taught him how to make out with someone after he claimed he didn't know how.
A claim you still weren't sure was true or just an elaborate excuse to get you to kiss him.
Once, led to twice, and whenever either of you was feeling lonely enough, your lips would find his. It was convenient, and a line you had long since stopped pretending existed.
This wasn't much different, right?
"You'd really show me?" you questioned hesitantly. If you wanted to practice on a real person, you might as well do it with Satoru. He nodded, leaning closer to the edge, looking down towards you. His gaze was almost eager, excited maybe.
"Of course, I mean, what are friends for, right?" he tilted his head slightly, the sun catching the water droplets in his hair. He looked pretty, glittery even. "The same way you were eating that, just less biting, more sucking, and inside action." You nodded, taking in what he said patiently.
Lifting from your floatie, you climbed onto the sun-warm pool deck. Swallowing the rest of the bomb pop, you sat next to Satoru, ready on the ledge, your eyes hinting at the lounge chairs. He stared at you for a moment. "Oh- I see, yeah, over there m-might be better," he stuttered, getting up to go to the chairs.
He sat down on the much cooler chairs, shaded by the umbrellas from the sun. "Do I sit here?" You knelt on the pool deck's smooth concrete, your body kneeling between his spread legs.
He looked down at you, confused and partially nervous. "Don't tell me you're getting nervous about me, Satoru," you teased, laying your head on his knee.
"N-nervous? No, I was just… surprised," he muttered, clearing his throat, "Didn't think you meant practice on me." he paused for a moment, his empty hand carding through his hair.
"Not that I am opposed, practice makes perfect, you know?" he smiled, licking the remainder of his bomb pop.
"You expected me to practice on a bomb pop?" you chuckled. "I need to practice on something real," you sighed. By the hardness growing in Satoru's swim shorts, he definitely didn't seem opposed.
"Why? Tried before?" he half-joked, but you only glared at him; he didn't need to hear how you embarrassingly choked on a banana after it broke in your throat. "Well, first, you need to set the tone; it's better if the little guy is awake first," he instructed, handing you a pillow.
"Doesn't seem like you need any help with that," you murmured, getting more comfortable on the pillow.
"What can I say, I'm a healthy guy," he commented nonchalantly, the pink tinging his ears telling a different story. "You want to take it out," you followed, your hands nervously pulling at his trunks.
His breath hitched the second your fingers brushed against the waistband of his swim trunks, the fabric damp from the pool water he'd been lounging in moments before.
The bomb pop had long since melted down his hand, sticky sweetness dripping onto his knuckles, but he made no move to clean it off. His focus was entirely on you.
"There you go," he murmured, voice dropping as he lifted his hips just enough for you to tug the trunks down his thighs. His cock sprang free, already half-hard and flushed pink at the tip, curving slightly to the left. A bead of pre-cum glistened at the slit, catching the sunlight like a tiny pearl.
"Very healthy guy," you joked, trying to distract yourself from being too nervous. You swallowed, staring at it with wide eyes. It was big. Thick and long, veined and heavy, resting against his lower stomach with an almost casual weight.
Not really what would be your first as a beginner. You wouldn't boost his ego any further, or he might explode.
Your hand hovered over it, fingers trembling slightly, and Satoru's lips curled into that familiar smirk. "Don't just admire it, babe," he teased, reaching down to wrap his sticky fingers around yours, guiding your palm to wrap around his shaft. The heat of him seared against your skin, velvety smooth over rigid hardness. "You gotta touch it. Get familiar with it. Not gonna bite."
"Says you," you mumbled, but your fingers tightened experimentally, and his breath caught in his throat, a tiny, almost imperceptible hitch that made your confidence bloom.
"Start slow," he instructed, his voice a little rougher now, the playful edge sharpening. "Just... wrap your hand around it. Feel the weight. Get it, wet, get a rhythm going. Don't just-" You nodded, spitting onto the tip. You stroked him, once, clumsily, your grip too tight and your angle wrong. He winced, but the sound that escaped him wasn't entirely pained.
"Okay, okay," he laughed breathlessly, his head falling back against the lounge chair. "That's-that's a start. But loosen up. It's not a weapon, alright? Gentle. Like you're holding a baby bird."
"I've held birds; this does not feel like a bird," you shot back, but you adjusted, lightening your grip, letting your fingers slide down to his base and then back up. His hips twitched involuntarily, and you grinned at the reaction.
"There you go," he breathed, his hand coming up to card through his wet white hair, pushing it back from his forehead, his gaze making you even hotter. "Now, use your mouth. Just the tip, first. Get used to it."
You leaned forward, pressing a tentative kiss to the head of his cock. He tasted salty, like chlorine and sweat, and you found yourself licking your lips before you even realized what you were doing.
"Don't overthink it," he murmured, his hand dropping to rest gently on the back of your head, not pushing, just there. "Just take it slow. Let it- ah-"
You parted your lips and took him in, just the head at first, your tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge. His hips buckled up involuntarily, and you gagged, pulling off with a wet pop.
"Sorry, sorry," he panted, his cheeks flushed a pretty pink beneath the shade. "Fuck, you just-your mouth is really cold, okay? Give a guy some warning."
"Maybe you should give me some warning," you snorted.
"Fair enough," he conceded, "How about this, you get back down there, and I'll return the favor. Make it fair."
"Fair?" you echoed, your hand still wrapped around him, feeling the steady pulse of his heartbeat through the velvety skin. "You think you can keep quiet while I'm down here?"
Satoru's laugh was low, almost a purr, as he settled back into the lounge chair. His white lashes fluttered half-closed, those piercing blue eyes watching you through the slits. "I've kept quiet through worse."
Your thumb traced the ridge of his tip, spreading the glistening bead of pre-cum across the sensitive skin. His stomach muscles flinched, and you felt a surge of power at the small reaction. "Yeah, sure."
"Attagirl," he breathed, one large hand coming to rest on the back of your head again. His fingers resting gently in your hair. "Now, take a breath. Relax your jaw. You're thinking too much."
"How do you-"
"You're clenching your teeth," he interrupted, "I can feel it." You exhaled slowly, forcing your shoulders to drop, and leaned forward again. This time, when you took him into your mouth, you focused on the weight of him on your tongue. Your lips stretched around the head, and you hollowed your cheeks experimentally.
"Fuck," Satoru hissed, his fingers tightening in your hair. "Yeah, that's-that's good. Just like that. Don't try to take it all at once. Work your tongue."
You obeyed, swirling your tongue around the sensitive underside of his tip, tracing the little vein that ran along his shaft. His hips twitched again, but he held himself still, letting you explore at your own pace. His hand stayed heavy on your head, occasionally stroking your hair in a way that felt almost encouraging.
"Breathe through your nose," he instructed, his voice growing rougher. "And, mmngh- use your hand on what you can't fit in your mouth. Make it part of the same rhythm."
You pulled off with a wet sound, a string of saliva connecting your bottom lip to his flushed tip. "You're a lot better than a tiktok video."
Satoru's laugh was breathless, his chest heaving. "What am I not good at? Now get back down here before I get lonely." You rolled your eyes but complied, taking him back into your mouth with renewed determination. You wrapped your hand around the base and pumped in time with your bobbing head.
The angle was awkward, your neck starting to ache, but the way Satoru's breath hitched every time you took him deeper made it worth it.
"Sloppy," he murmured, his thumb stroking the shell of your ear. "Get sloppy. Use more spit. You're not trying to make it pretty, you're trying to make me come." You pulled off just long enough to gather a generous amount of saliva in your mouth, letting it drool down your chin and onto his shaft. The sight of it, the way his cock glistened in the dappled sunlight, made something hot curl in your belly.
You licked a stripe up the underside, from base to tip, and Satoru groaned, deep and guttural. You were starting to understand when your friends would remark that their mouths were watering.
"Fuck, okay, okay," he panted, his composure finally cracking. "You're a fast learner. That's—yeah, right there-"
You took him back into your mouth, deeper this time, pushing past the resistance in your throat. Your eyes watered, but you forced yourself to relax, just like he'd said. You focused on the sounds he was making: the broken moans, the way his breath stuttered, and the feedback loop of pleasure and power it created.
"That's it, baby," he crooned, his voice dropping into something silkier. "That's my good girl. Taking me so well, you're a natural, shit-" His hips bucked upward, and you gagged, pulling off with a cough. Saliva dripped down your chin, and you wiped at it with the back of your hand, glaring at him through watery eyes.
"Warning?" you croaked.
"Sorry, sorry," he panted, but he wasn't sorry at all. The smug look on his face was a dead giveaway, even as his chest heaved and his flush spread down to his collarbones. "You just got me excited."
"Asshole," you muttered, but you were already leaning back in, licking a slow, teasing stripe across his tip.
Satoru's hand tightened in your hair. "Watch your mouth, princess. Or I'll make you." The challenge in his voice sent a shiver down your spine.
You took him back into your mouth, sinking farther than before, feeling him hit the back of your throat. You held there for a moment, breathing through your nose, before pulling back and repeating the motion.
"That's it," he groaned, and his control was sliding, melting away with each bob of your head. "Just like that. You're doing so good, so good for me-" His grip tightened, guiding your pace faster, and you let him. You wanted this, wanted to push him over the edge, wanted to taste the proof of your progress.
His cock twitched in your mouth, opening your throat to take him deeper. "Fuuck-" he moaned loudly. He motioned for you to pull off, but you kept your head still. His seed sputtered onto your tongue. You held there for a moment as he caught his breath above you.
His cum didn't taste horrible, just foreign, a bit salty. Nevertheless, you swallowed. Wiping the outside of your mouth of spit.
"Did I do well?" You asked slowly, pulling his cock from your mouth.
"You- yeah, you did great," he breathed. Tossing the melted popsicle into the trash, licking his hand clean of the popsicle. "Since you did so well, let's make it fair."
Before you could ask what he meant, he was shifting, grabbing you by the hips and manhandling you with surprising strength, flipping you around until you were positioned over him, your knees on either side of his head, your face hovering above his already hard cock.
"Pretty skilled here too," he announced cheerfully, his voice muffled by the fact that he was already pressing his mouth to the inside of your thigh. "Best way to learn. You get to focus on your technique while I keep you...distracted."
"Distracted?" you squeaked, but the word dissolved into a moan as his tongue licked a broad stripe up your slit, through the thin fabric of your bikini bottoms. He hooked a finger under the material, pulling it aside, and the first real taste of you seemed to make him groan.
"Shit," he breathed against your cunt, his nose nudging your clit. "You taste better than those bomb pops."
"Focus, Satoru," you managed, your voice shaky as you lowered your head back down to his cock. "You're supposed to be teaching me."
"Right, right," he chuckled, the vibration of his laughter against your pussy making you jolt. "Then get to work, pretty girl. And remember-"He licked into you, slow and deliberate, "-tongue's your best friend. Use it."
You moaned, the sound vibrating around his shaft, and he groaned in response, his hips twitching up to meet your mouth.
You tried to remember his instructions: gentle, start slow, don't overthink it. It was hard when his tongue was doing that, curling inside you, tasting every inch of your slick heat.
"You're-" you gasped, pulling off his cock for a breath, "-you're not making this easy."
"Not supposed to be easy," he murmured against your folds, his lips brushing your clit with each word. "Supposed to be fun."
His thumb found your clit, rubbing lazy circles while his tongue dipped back inside you, and you cried out, your hips grinding down against his face without your permission.
He let out a pleased hum, his free hand coming up to grip your ass, squeezing the flesh hard enough to leave marks.
"That's it," he encouraged, his voice a low rumble. "Use those pretty hips. Ride my face." You took him back into your mouth, deeper this time, your head bobbing in a clumsy rhythm.
Your teeth scraped against him, and he hissed sharply. "Teeth, angel," he reminded you, his voice strained. "No teeth. Just lips and tongue."
You sucked hard, and his hips bucked, pushing himself deeper into your throat. You gagged, tears pricking at your eyes, but you didn't pull off. You were determined. "Good," he praised, his voice dripping with approval. "That's my girl. Taking it like a pro."
His tongue speared into you, and you moaned around his cock, the vibration making him shudder beneath you. His grip on your ass tightened, his hips thrusting up into your mouth in shallow, desperate little movements.
"Just like that," he breathed, his words muffled by your pussy. "Fuck, you're so beautiful. Suck it- yeah, just like that." You were drooling, strings of saliva connecting your lips to his shaft, your jaw aching, but you didn't care.
He pulled his mouth away from you for just a moment, his breath hot against your slick folds. "You're doing so well, sweetheart. Gonna make me cum again if you keep that up-" You doubled your efforts, taking him deeper, your hand pumping what your mouth couldn't reach. His hips bucked erratically, his fingers digging into your ass, his whole body tensing beneath you. "Fuck, fuck, fuck-"
He came with a choked cry, hot and thick down your throat, and you swallowed instinctively. He kept twitching in your mouth, his hips still jerking as you milked him through it, not pulling off until he went limp beneath you.
Although he had just come, he didn't let off. His moans vibrated against your cunt, pulling you closer and closer.
You barely had a moment to catch your breath before Satoru's tongue was back on you, lapping at your dripping folds like a man starved. His grip on your ass tightened, spreading you wider, and you felt the cool air against your slick skin before his mouth descended again.
"F-fuck, Satoru-" you gasped, your forehead dropping against his thigh. His cock was starting to grow half-hard beneath you, twitching against your cheek, and you could feel every pulse of his heartbeat through the velvet skin.
His tongue circled your clit, slow and deliberate, and your hips stuttered against his face. He laughed, the sound vibrating through you. "You're so responsive," he breathed, pulling back just enough to speak. "I can feel every little noise you make-" He licked a broad stripe up your slit. "-Don't think I can stop after this."
You cried out, your hips grinding down against his face without permission, and he groaned in approval. His hands gripped your ass harder, pulling you closer, and you could feel the wet sounds of his mouth against you; it was obscene. "'Toru-" you gasped, your hand tightening around his thighs.
His thumb found your clit, rubbing tight circles while his tongue plunged back inside you, and you shattered. Your orgasm hit you like a wave, your body convulsing above him, your mouth falling open in a silent scream.
You could feel him smiling against you, his tongue still working you through it, drawing out every last tremor.
"That's it," he cooed, his voice soft, almost tender. "That's my girl. Let go for me."
Your hips rocked against his face involuntarily, riding out the aftershocks, and he let you take what you needed. When you finally stilled, trembling and breathless, he pressed one last kiss to your clit before gently nudging you off him.
"Okay?" he asked, sitting up to wrap his arms around you. His voice was rough, but his eyes were soft as he looked at you, brushing a strand of hair from your face.
"Yeah," you managed, your voice hoarse. Turning towards him, you positioned your body over his lap. Your hips were still trembling from the aftershocks as you settled over his lap, the wet heat of your cunt sliding along the thick length of him. Satoru's hands found your waist immediately, fingers digging into the soft flesh there like he was grounding himself. His chest was heaving beneath you, that stupidly pretty face.
His grip on your waist tightens the moment you settle over him, fingers pressing bruises into your skin before he's even inside you. "Fuck," he breathes, the word coming out almost reverent. "You're gonna kill me, you know that?"
You don't answer with words, just roll your hips forward, letting the slick heat of your cunt drag along the underside of his cock. The sensation makes him hiss through his teeth, his head falling back against the lounge chair.
"Look at you," he murmurs, one hand leaving your waist to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward him. His thumb traces along your bottom lip, and you part your mouth instinctively, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of his skin. He groans.
"So fuckin' eager. That mouth of yours-" He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale as you sink down, just the tip, just enough to make him see stars. "Shit, baby. Don't tease."
"Thought you wanted me to take what I needed," you counter, voice breathy but carrying an edge of defiance. You lift your hips again, letting him slip out, watching the way his jaw tightens. "You said I could-"
"Sassy," he cuts you off, but there's a grin splitting his face, all teeth and mischief. His hands find your hips again, and this time he doesn't ask; he just guides you down, slow and steady, watching your face as he fills you inch by inch.
Your breath catches in your throat, fingers curling into his shoulders. The stretch is obscene, almost too much, but you take it, sinking down until you're flush against him, his cock buried to the hilt.
You moaned, feeling every ridge and vein of him inside you. Your hips start to move on their own, small, experimental circles that make him groan low in his chest.
His eyes flutter shut for a moment, and you take the opportunity to lean in, pressing your lips to the corner of his mouth. "Thank you," you murmur against his skin, and his eyes snap open. "Satoru-"
"Don't." His grip on your hips is almost bruising now. "Don't thank me, not when you're-" He bucks his hips up, just once, and the sudden jolt steals the breath from your lungs. "Not when you're doing this."
You laugh, breathless, and it dissolves into a moan as you start to move in earnest. Up and down, slow and deep, letting him watch the way your body takes him. His eyes are glued to where you're joined, watching the way your cunt glistens around his cock with every slide.
His thumbs trace patterns into your hips, not guiding, just feeling— like he can't get enough of the way your skin feels under his palms.
"Faster," he says after a moment. His voice is thick, almost strained, and there's a flush creeping up his neck. "Come on, pretty girl."
You raise an eyebrow, even as you pick up the pace. "What, you want me to-"
"I want you to ride me like you mean it." His hand comes down on your ass, sharp and sudden, and you jolt forward, a squeak escaping your throat. He grins, satisfied. "That's more like it. Now come on. Don't make me ask again."
You plant your hands on his chest, feeling the firm muscle beneath your palms, and you move. Hips rolling, thighs burning, you find a rhythm that has both of you gasping.
His head falls back again, his hands gripping your waist as you might disappear, and you feel it, the way his breathing quickens, his hips start to meet your thrusts with increasing urgency.
"Yeah," he breathes, and his voice is ragged now, all pretense of control gone. "Just like that. Fuck, baby, you feel so good-"
You lean down, pressing your forehead to his, your breath mingling. The position changes the angle, and you feel him hit something deep inside you that makes your vision white out for a second. Your nails dig into his chest, and he groans, snapping his hips up harder.
"Right there," you gasp, and he grins, that infuriatingly beautiful grin, because he knows. He knows exactly where you need him, and he's gonna give it to you. His hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced precision, and you cry out, your rhythm faltering.
"Don't stop," he commands, and his voice is a low growl now. "Don't you fucking stop, baby. You're so close, I can feel it. Just let go."
You're shaking, trembling, every muscle in your body tense as he works you higher and higher. He's watching your face, eyes dark and hungry, like he's memorizing every expression you make." 'Toru," you gasp, "I can't-"
"Yes, you can." His fingers on your clit are relentless, his hips driving up into you with a pace that's almost punishing. "You're gonna cum for me, aren't you? Gonna soak my cock like the good girl you are."
The words break you. Your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, your whole body seizing as you cry out his name. Your walls clenched around him, milking him, and he groaned, his hips stuttering as he followed you over the edge.
You feel the heat of him filling you, pulse after pulse, and the sensation sends another ripple of pleasure through your oversensitive body.
When you come back to yourself, you're collapsed against his chest, his arms wrapped around you like you're something precious. His heart is pounding against your ear, and you can feel his breath ruffling your hair.
"Fuck," he murmurs, and his voice is soft now, almost sleepy. "That was-"
"Stop talking," you mumble against his skin, but you're smiling. "You'll ruin the moment."
He laughs, and it's warm, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. "I just saved some lucky guy from getting his dick cut off, thanks to me." Smugness filling his tone.
You smacked his chest, playfully, your palm connecting with his pectoral in a light thump. "I would not do that," you rolled your eyes, but your hand stayed resting on his chest, your fingers splayed across the firm muscle.
It was soft, the skin warm and slightly damp, and you didn't feel like moving it. He didn't mind either, his fingers finding the strings of your bikini top and toying with them absently, twisting and untwisting the fabric.
"Let me use your shower. I feel disgusting," you groaned, the words muffled against his skin.
The chlorine and sweat had dried on your body, leaving you sticky and uncomfortable, your skin tight and pulling with every movement. The heat didn't make it any better, the sun still bearing down even as the afternoon wore on.
He nodded, his chin brushing against the top of your head as he played with strands of your hair, twirling them around his finger.
You missed his shower; the water pressure was perfect, hitting your shoulders with just the right amount of force.
You'd even set up the same one in your own apartment after the first time you used it, but it never quite felt the same. You were staying the night here anyway, not like Satoru was going to say no. He never did.
♡ summary: they say all big leagues break a backboard at least once, and you're about to be d1!
♡ wc: 11.9k
♡ content warnings: fem! reader, basketball player! gojo, p in v, big d gojo, enemies to still enemies, overstim, groping, gojo is very touchy, teasing, tummy bulges, arguing (a lot), mild jealousy, makeshift gág, sqúriting, fwb(kind of), manhandling, rough sex, possessive elements, reverse cowgirl, backshōts, size difference, spánking, sqúriting, p slapping, bruising, mating press, oral (f. receiving), threats of violence, swéaring, drinking.
♡ a/n: guess whos bacckkkk
You once swore that you would be caught dead before you argued with a man. Just the thought made you clench your jaw—wasting your breath on someone who either didn’t understand you or flat-out disrespected you. It always left your patience hanging by a thread. The idea made frustration well up in your chest.
Yeah, no.
However, some things in life change, and sometimes a feeling boils up so intensely that you have no choice but to act on it. Satoru was the exception, pushing your irritation past its limits. He got under your skin, genuinely upsetting you enough that you argued with him in public, your hatred bubbling to the surface for everyone to see.
“You always got some smart shit to say, your mouth is always moving. I don't think you know how to stop,” he laughed mockingly, waving you off like you were a fly buzzing in his face.
You sucked in air deeply, hoping the influx of oxygen to your brain would bring back the peace before he showed up.
“I don't think your dumbass can even get what I'm saying, did the balls to your face smooth out your brain too?” The people around you were starting to notice the heated tone shared between the two of you. Your friends were trying to calm you down by offering to step out and get some fresh air before anything else is said.
It's not like this was something new; every interaction you have had with Satoru turns into a verbal disagreement.
Your face was starting to get hot, and if you got any more heated than you already were, your entire day would be ruined, other than the embarrassment of arguing with Satoru in a Chick-fil-A, but also him destroying the rest of your day. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction, both for your own sake and for the sake of your pride.
“Yeah, let's go, my food tastes like shit now anyway.” You snatched your tray, stood up, and made sure to shoulder-check him harder than to be ever considered an accident. “Bitch,” you grimaced, realizing all the eyes on you.
That white-haired freak for sure said something, but you were out of the building before you could hear it. You've heard enough from your friends assuring you that 'he wasn't worth your time'; you knew that well enough.
Satoru was a dickhead, and you weren't going to let him play in your face. Nothing wrong with a girl defending herself, you argued.
To be fair, he wasn't that much of an issue in your everyday life. Seeing him outside of games or parties. Unfortunately, your circles overlapped enough for it to be an inconvenience. And you cared too much about school pride to avoid his arena entirely.
And he was there, always there. Front and center, soaking up attention he didn't deserve.
Nevertheless, during basketball season, you would have to get in those bleachers and watch as the team poured an exorbitant amount of money into the University's pockets. At games, you prayed he would get leveled by a player twice his size on the other team. Silently cheering when his coach would cuss him out about a relatively minor mistake.
Truly music to your ears, though you couldn't hear what he was saying to him. Those were only your small moments of joy that would be quickly ruined when the stadium would roar his name after a three-pointer.
You’d hate to admit it out loud, but Satoru was a good player. Annoyingly good. If it weren't for his shitty personality, you would rock the number 8 jersey with Gojo on it, too, like half of the student population. Unfortunately for you, you knew the real Satoru.
Behind the flashy smile and school records, he was the biggest asshole you had the misfortune of ever meeting. You don't even remember how it started. It might have been some snarky remark. Just wrong place, wrong time. Nevertheless, what you do know is that you couldn't wait till you graduate and never see him again. You prayed that no professional teams would pick him; however, with his stats, that was not happening.
A girl can dream.
Just when you thought your day couldn't get any worse, a party you didn't really want to go to with way too many athletes and frat boys to be a party free of drama. When you walked in, you avoided any of the large clusters of people, hoping not to get pulled into whatever they had going on.
One very large group seemed to be blocking the entire walkway. Your excuse me's were in vain as you tried to work your way around them. Either being swallowed by the music or completely ignored, none of them moved; the group somehow grew larger.
A cluster of tall bodies pressed so tightly together you couldn't see past them. Your final straw was when one of them pushed into you, stomping their giant foot on your shoe. You yelped in pain, pushing the man forward harshly, alerting him of your presence.
The man jerked forward from your shove, realizing that he had stepped on someone, he turned around, starting to apologize. "Sorry about-" lo and behold, it was Satoru Gojo.
You should have recognized the height; however, you were more worried about getting past this wall of people and not about ridiculously tall partygoers. He looked you up and down, dragging his eyes lazily over your figure.
"You alright?" his tone was almost sarcastic. Teetering on the edge of faux sincerity and cockiness that sent you over the edge.
"Move, you're blocking the doorway." You scowled, forcing yourself not to punch him in the nose. This is your second time seeing him this week, which is already too much. He scoffed, stepping aside, and muttering something that made his equally lame ass entourage snicker.
Oh, to have the audacity of a man.
"Excuse me?" You whipped around, grabbing the attention of those who were laughing seconds ago and their little jester. One of them made a face as though they were caught, turning around to avoid your gaze.
"Always mad, for what?" he spoke casually, tilting his head just slightly, like he was studying a wild animal through glass. It's always a man wanting to show out in front of his little friends— groupies in this instance. You don't even know how they like the prick so much. They acted like being in his orbit would get them VIP seats at the WAG table.
“The fuck you say to me?” It was rhetorical; you heard what he said loud and clear. You just wanted to see if he had the balls to say it again. He laughed, a genuine laugh. Coming right from his throat, right in your face.
“Grown ass man acting like a fucking kid. Grow up,” you spat, walking in your previously intended direction before you ended up being held up in a police station. Twice today, you have ignored the incessant urge to become violent with Satoru. You were quite proud of yourself.
You saw your friends leaning over the counter of the bar, your group peeking over with bright smiles on their faces, like they had found a full chest of buried treasure.
Well, you wanted to smile too, rushing over, you looked over as well. Standing on the tips of your toes to get over. Behold, it was the holy trinity, the BBC combo. Weird ass name, but damn did it work. Buzzball, Beatbox, and Cutwater. Six sets of them lay out on the counter.
“Pretty ain't it?” Yuki smiled smugly, like she was some alchemist; she poured some of each into a red solo cup. She swished it together to mix and chugged it in one go. Yuki was at every function as though she was paid to attend; how she was passing any of her classes was a mystery to you.
Getting to work, Yuki made 8 cups of the concoction and offered it up on the counter. “Bon appetite!” Taking a cup yourself, you chugged it down. The combo would at least get you in a better mood than previously and, at worst, make you do things you wouldn't do sober.
“Someone's excited,” one of your friends commented, noticing how quickly the cup was emptied. You blew her a simple kiss, offering your cup up for more.
A solid 10 minutes and 3 cups later, you were definitely feeling something; your friends were talking like crazy about absolutely nothing. By the 15-minute mark, your buzz dulled into frustration instead of warmth; any other time, it would get you that warm, fuzzy feeling that blanked out all the negatives.
“Where are you going?” Utahime asked, her words slurring as she tapped on your shoulder. Seeing how red her face was getting, this was not her first few drinks by a long shot.
“I'll be back, I'm going to the bathroom,” you reassured her, sliding off the stool and making your way to the bathroom. The lights were far too dim to check your makeup, and you also had to pee. On your way up the stairs, you ignored most faces that passed— no one familiar. No one that mattered.
Your legs dragged up the steps, feet getting heavier with each movement, and you groaned, holding onto the mahogany railing. Thankfully enough, the bathroom was right up the step, with three short knocks making sure that no one was inside, you opened the door and closed it shut behind you.
The bathroom was much, much cleaner than any party house you've ever seen. No sanitary products on the floor or even remnants of past functions.
You took your time fixing your makeup, blotting away that faint shine with powder. Reapplying your lip combo with practiced ease. It had been a while since you had the BBC combo; you'd learned your lesson not to do so after a particular incident. Your stomach rolled just thinking about it, uninvited flashes of Satoru’s sweaty face pressed against your stomach.
Absolutely tragic.
Washing your hands longer than necessary to distract yourself. You noticed the soap smelled especially good; it was in a dispenser, so you couldn't even see the brand. It smelled similar to peaches and mango. Hands down, the best party house bathroom you've ever been in. The last one didn't even have a real sink.
Shaking off your hands of water you had made your way outside, looking off to the side, blocking your way was none other than Satoru himself. He should really save that skill for the court.
Leaned up against the wall with no care in the world other than the girl in front of him. Expression half-focused and half-entertained, it was clear exactly where the night was going to go. Poor girl, didn’t even know what she was getting herself into. You should've minded your business. Should've walked down the stairs and left her to heartbreak or disappointment waiting.
But your mouth moved faster than your brain.
“Better off not wasting your time,” you said smoothly. “Asshole can't even get his dick up.”
The girl snapped her head toward you, eyes wide and offended on instinct. That comment seemed to straighten Satoru up, embarrassment flickering across his face before he could mask it. “Yo! The fuck is your issue?” Satoru groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose like you were the problem.
“Next time, move out of the way,” you shrugged. Your night wasn't ruined, but you sure as hell wouldn't give up the opportunity to ruin his. The look of embarrassment on Satoru’s face was pure gold.
“Just disrespectful as fuck.” he snickered, shaking his head in disbelief. The girl was obviously getting uncomfortable and looking for ways to get from between you two.
“What comes around goes around,” you laughed a little too loudly, but you wanted your point to come across clearly. “Which one is she? The eighth girl you've tried talking to tonight?” you lied, counting dramatically on your fingers.
“I got to go, ‘kay? I'll talk to you later,” the girl mumbled before practically sprinting down the steps. There was no way she was texting him back. A slow, smug smile pulled across your lips.
Mission accomplished.
“Get off my dick,” Satoru spat, stepping closer. “I don't need a random bitch watching my every move like a fucking weirdo.”
His height suddenly felt like a wall when he leaned down slightly.
“I'm not one of your weird ass fans, and no one wants that weak ass dick,” you snapped, “call me a bitch again and watch what happens.” You threatened.
“You didn't seem to mind my limp dick when we were fucking.” he said, voice low, each word enunciated with infuriating clarity. You winced slightly at his words, your stomach twisted at the faint, blurred memory.
“I'll never do that lame ass shit again, worst shit in my life. Couldn't even call that fucking.” To be honest, you barely remember what happened, especially if it was good or not. The problem with that BBC combo it can hit or it won't.
Funny how the last time you drank that concoction, it led you to one of the worst moments of your life. Brief flashes of the night and the aftermath of you waking up with Satoru snoring in your bed, and your body disgustingly sticky. It didn't help that Satoru was in his birthday suit, didn't even bother putting on boxers, nasty freak. Believing this was some messed-up nightmare, you forced yourself to lie back down.
Unfortunately, after an hour of lying in bed, you realized that it was indeed not a dream; you had fucked Satoru Gojo. As much as you wanted shit on him for his "game", you barely remembered anything. Too embarrassed to confront the elephant in the room, or bed. You decided to pretend to sleep, hoping Satoru would share the sentiment and leave quietly and quickly.
It was agonizing waiting for him to get out, not only did you have to wallow in your own shame, but also listen to the same man you promised to never sleep with, butt ass naked in your bed! It was an experience you never wanted to repeat.
His snoring slowed down and eventually stopped signaling his wake, finally. He rose from the bed, yawning, but it was quickly interrupted once he noticed this was not a familiar room and definitely not his bed. You froze instantly as he leaned over you, checking to see who he was lying next to. "Oh my god…" he gasped.
He gently pushed a piece of hair from your face to confirm. He cupped his hands to his face, inhaling sharply. He sat there for a moment before gathering his things scattered on the floor and getting out of your apartment.
Thankfully, he spared you and, particularly, himself by leaving. A few weeks after the incident, both of you acted as though the other did not exist, a brief moment in time where being in the same room did not result in an argument.
That was ended when you had accidentally grabbed his frappe order that was almost identical to yours.
Until now, the affair was never mentioned. It brought back all the shame and embarrassment, yet knowing that you could make even a dent in Satoru's enormous ego, it was almost worth it.
"You wish," he scoffed, shaking his head, "So loud, had your neighbors looking at me crazy. Keep lying to yourself." He shrugged nonchalantly. Nonchalant was everything Satoru was not. The man could barely contain himself when he got something from a vending machine.
"I'm not lying to anyone; I don't know how many girls are lying to you. You suck. Ever heard of 'faking it'?" You used hand quotes emphasizing your point. Patting him on his shoulder, "I felt bad." That seemed to hit him as he pushed your hand off his shoulder, irritated.
"I suck?" he pointed to himself, exasperated.
"Do I need to repeat it? You suck." before you realized you were being pulled into an empty room right across from the stairs. The party’s chaos faded into a dull roar as the door clicked shut behind you, the noise replaced by the hush of anticipation.
Your heart hammered as you realized how close you were standing, breaths mingling in the close air. You snatched your hand away, instantly watching as he closed the door behind him. "The fuck is your deal?!"
"I suck, right? Show me?" You looked around, confused. He can't be serious…or could he? You would like to say that the alcohol was clouding your brain, but that wasn't the case; you were clear-headed. Either prove that Satoru sucks or protect the remaining dignity you have by leaving.
Then you remember all the times he's berated and humiliated you, and you couldn't blame it on the alcohol this time.
Sitting on the leather couch in the room, this was an impossible opportunity to absolutely destroy Satoru's pride and hopefully get him to shut up, forever. You were so close to diamonds, all you had to do was take the final dig.
He looked at you, a little shocked, ruffling his white hair, realizing the situation he was actually in. "What? You scared?" You taunted, preparing to get off the couch, calling his bluff. He pressed your thighs down, preventing you from getting up. He lowered down to his knees, the position surprising you; however, you kept a poker face.
His hands slid up your waist, yanking your miniskirt up, revealing your panties and bare thighs. The coldness of his fingers made you jump as he spread your legs apart, hooking his hands around your butt, yanking you down towards his face. You let out a small 'oh,' as he lifted your legs to his shoulders for a better angle.
Satoru's hands massaged your thighs affectionately, kissing the inner up to your panties, licking a strip up the gusset. His tongue was hot compared to his fingers; the contrast was distracting.
You gasped loudly as he started to suck on the fabric, holding onto your thighs roughly. You bit your lip in resistance as he continued, swirling his tongue around the outline of your clit. "Freak," you mumbled, leaning your head back in faux boredom.
Your comment seemed to tick him off as he pushed your panties to the side, neglecting the previous affection for harshness. Spitting on your pussy, attentively watching the saliva dribble down onto the leather cushion.
Diving right in, he put a hand on your lower stomach, pressing his tongue flat over your pussy. Using the muscle to vigorously tongue your clit, you bit your lip, trying to stifle the moans coming from your throat.
You pushed his head closer, burying him between your thighs. You were so absorbed in chasing your own release that you almost forgot that it was Satoru eating you out. He pressed further down on your stomach, feeling the way your breathing was speeding up. With a drawn-out groan, you were seeing stars, clutching his white hair as you came.
Just as you were coming down from your high, he just had to remind you he was there. He looked up toward the wall at a clock, "That's three minutes and 32 seconds." he grinned proudly, " I still suck, huh?" He laughed, giving your pussy a light slap as he pulled your soaked panties back in place, snapping the band against your sensitive skin.
"J-just shut up." Still catching your breath, your mind was too clouded to come up with an ample comeback. He shrugged, licking his lips and wiping your remaining juices and his saliva from his mouth and chin.
"Yeah, whatever."
Just as you were about to get up, you realized the wet puddle under you and how your ass was soaked. "Give me your shirt." You almost felt bad for the poor sofa, soiled by your fluids.
"Why?" He looked at you, crazy, as though you were asking him to go out with you. You groaned, turning around and pointing towards your ass and the very wet couch.
"This is your fault," you accused, offering your hand out for his shirt. Obediently, he pulled it off, revealing his unsurprisingly well-built body, a waste of physique. Taking the shirt you used it to wipe the fluids from your butt and dab the small puddle on the couch.
As you pulled your skirt back in place, you hadn't realized Satoru was staring, obviously giving you an up-down. Disgusted, you threw his soiled shirt at him, the wet garment landing right on his face. "You're so weird."
"That makes two of us," holding the shirt up, he examined the damage before chucking the polo in the garbage next to the door.
"We have nothing in common." You scoffed quickly, denying his allegation. You didn't think he could navigate anything that wasn't a basketball court. He mumbled something under his breath.
You would have said something, but you would prefer not to see what other tricks he has up his sleeve, or lack thereof.
You walked past him, opening the door to leave the crime scene before anyone caught you together. You'd rather not be seen with him anymore today, or ever. He followed closely behind, closing the door behind both of you. Making your way to the stairs, Satoru was interrupted by one of his buddies, who stopped him in the hall.
"What's up, man? Where the hell is your shirt, bro?" You paused by the steps, waiting for the prick's response. You'd kill him right here and now if he dared to say anything about what transpired in that room.
"Had to throw it away, someone soaked it." Whipping your head around, you glared at him; his eyes made contact with yours, amused.
"…Beer?"
"Yeah, you could say that," he smirked, watching as you rushed down the stairs, preferring not to be in his vicinity any longer. Navigating the crowd was a struggle on its own; unlike Satoru’s entourage, they did hear your “excuse me,” and moved out of the way.
Down the stairs, your friends were in the same spot. Utahime was over the counter, begging for another shot. She couldn't even handle her alcohol well, a total lightweight. Her eyes lit up when she noticed your presence, calling out your name.
"You were gone furr soo long," her words slurred, touching the sides of your face with both hands, squashing your cheeks together. "Was there a line?" you nodded, lying about a long line outside the bathroom.
"No surprising the one upstairs is so nice, I used it earlier," Yuki added, tucking the rest of the alcohol under the counter away from Utahime. Thankfully, the conversation shifted to unrelated things and stuff that you missed.
After a while of people watching and useless drama, it was time to go. The party was lame as hell, and the music sucked big time. Whoever was on aux needed to delete this playlist and burn it. Your friends echoed these sentiments as you ordered an Uber for yourself. "We are going to that bar down the street, they have this drink that has the fog coming out, hella cool. You coming?"
You paused, you really didn't want to go out again, and honestly, you felt disgusting. Your panties were still wet, and although Satoru's shirt helped, your thighs were still damp.
"Nah, I'll skip out this time." They pleaded for a bit for you to go with them, realizing you wouldn't be joining them and that all of your Uber rides were almost outside. They relented and let you leave, peppering your face with kisses as you entered the Uber.
—
As you expected, Satoru was lips sealed about what occurred. The little interactions dwindled to almost none. Now you only saw his retched face on court. Watching the way he dribbled the ball, his feet quickly maneuvering across the court.
Your team was honestly getting whooped this past quarter. They had a strong start, but after a few bad calls and players getting pulled out and in, it wasn't looking good.
In hopes of bringing the score up, the coach brought Satoru back in. He was breaking through their defense, getting the ball a few minutes after getting on the court.
Just as he raised his arms to make a shot, a player checked him in the shoulder. A collective “Ooh” filled the bleachers watching as their star boy was knocked to the ground. You snorted. Honestly, you should start betting money on these games. Your prayers may work.
The way these people bet their left arm on these games, especially championships, it might be lucrative.
The referee intervened, and both teams argued their case, but it was obvious that the other player did it on purpose. Seeing how Satoru’s face scrunched up and stormed off away from the referee back to his coach, it wasn't considered a foul. The game was called back on with the players on the court, Satoru included.
The fall didn't seem that bad, but his right shoulder was significantly red. A bruise was sure to form.
The Gojo fan club was not happy with the decision, people arguing with eachother about whether or not it was a foul. The player who did it was benched and switched out with someone else, but he didn't seem a bit mad about it.
The clock ran as both teams attempted to get to eachother baskets, with unnecessary shoving and ball hogs. Satoru was fumbling the ball like he had a severe case of butter fingers.
With 20 seconds down on the clock, a point guard on the opposing team passed the ball around like a hot potato. Landing in their players' hands only got a split second before going back to the point guard, who landed a basket.
Once the timer ran, people left the court to eat overpriced pretzels and hot dogs. $7.50 for a hot dog is outrageous! Following Utahime, a fellow Gojo hater, to a relatively short line at concessions, the game was too suspenseful to leave early for concessions, so the outside was packed.
“We should definitely come to more of these.” Utahime beamed, scrolling on her phone for replays. Laughing at Satoru fumbling the ball on the court, letting it roll in the opposing team's hands. “You know what's crazy, they aren't even ranked.
And the score is 27-20, first game of the season, we might lose,” she snickered. A D1 team losing to an unranked school is embarrassing for your school, but you were cheering for the other team to begin with. It's not like your team never loses; it's rare, but it happens.
“We? Who's we?” you laughed, “I don't recall us being on the court?!” you joked, realising you were next in line. Both of you ordered a box of popcorn and a drink; unfortunately, the pretzels were still being heated.
Taking your orders, both of you headed back to your seats. You got there early, so the seats weren't half bad. Getting to see that number 8 jersey eat dirt in 4k was worth it.
People started filling back into their seats, food in hand, and their anger from the previous quarter satiated. Both teams came in, huddling up with their coach. Probably giving them a pep talk about the last quarter. They would need to bring the score up by 7 in order to tie, at least.
The buzzer went off, and the players assembled on the court. Some new players on the court, including Suguru Geto, you were familiar with him since you had an English class with him your Sophomore year. A cool guy, but anytime he was around, Satoru would soon follow. Once there was a group project, and Satoru just had to bring Suguru his wallet and phone.
You were shocked to see someone like Suguru, friends with Satoru, of all people. Unfortunately, the more you got to know both of them, the more you realized they were the same person in different fonts. Suguru just happened to be more likable.
You made sure to keep your interactions strictly school-related.
“I was wondering when they would put him on the court, him and Gojo are insane on the court, bro,” someone mused behind you, probably drunk based on their voice level.
If you could hear them from your seat, you were sure whoever they were talking to could hear them as well. They weren't wrong; they were great on the court, probably holding out in case they ended up in the shitty position they are in now.
The ball moved throughout the court, the opposing team using the same technique right before the last quarter ended. It was so obvious the easy way they passed the ball, attempting the corner and shot.
As their center passed the ball, to the point guard Suguru swept in and intercepted it and passed the ball straight to Satoru half-court. Satoru weaves through his block and makes a half-court shot to the hoop. The ball flew in the air, rolling around the rim. The arena was full of anticipation of whether it would go in. A loud bounce to the ground through the hoop, sending a roar throughout the arena.
You jumped in your seat a little, transfixed on the game. You didn't think it would be such an exciting one, considering who they were going against, but Utahime wanted to hang out, and you had discounted tickets.
Seeing how the second quarter went, you were expecting Jujutsu to get their asses handed to them. But dunk after dunk, you were quickly proved wrong.
The game went by pretty fast. It seemed your team pulled back up and started acting like a Division 1 team. The ending score was a blowout of 40-27; you kind of felt bad for the other team. You knew Kyoto was unranked. They weren't doing the first 2 quarters terribly, but they just didn't adapt to the play.
“Damn, they got whooped, should've put me on coach!” Utahime laughed, gathering her things from the seat. You wiggled your legs, waking them back up after sitting for so long.
Thankfully, they had cushions on the seats, so it wasn't as bad as it could've been. Looking down at the court, you made eye contact with Satoru, your eyes locking in on cerulean ones. You stared back, confused. What was he looking up here for? He lifted his arm and flexed his bicep.
Your face immediately scrunched up in disgust. Something is honestly wrong with him. His shoulder was wrapped in a bandage; you hadn't even realized it during the game.
“Oh my god, what the hell is he flexing at?” Utahime gagged, hurrying you out so she could escape from the show off. “He needs to put that shoulder down before he gets put on the bench for the season,” she warned, rubbing her temple, an attempt to erase the image from her memory.
“It just started?”
“I know, he only got one more year left, if he wants to go pro, he'd better watch it.” The pros were already looking at Satoru if the news wasn't enough, and all the scouts filling the seats were waiting to snatch him up at the draft.
“That's if he is going to go pro anyway, knowing him, his ass is gonna be someone's sugar baby,” she laughed, tossing her half-empty popcorn in the trash. It wasn't even fresh and was stale and cold. $8 for some cold popcorn should be illegal.
“He's not going to go pro?” you asked, a little shocked. Utahime used to be friends with him and Suguru and went to school with them since middle school. A horror story of itself. You've known them for three years and already hate them; you couldn't even imagine nine years.
“No, I don't think so, at least,” she shook her head, “His family wants him to graduate and take their company, or something, I don't know.”
"That's- that's his choice, I guess.” You rolled your eyes. Family pressure and all, but with his talent, you never expected it. You can't expect anything with him, but the point still stands.
Utahime agreed, you're sure she's thinking the same as you, but there are too many fans of his for y'all to set up your Gojo hate club stand.
Heading out of the area, both of you took the shuttle back to the car. It was an annoying journey, and honestly, for how long it took, an Uber might be worth it. Making it in the car, you drive her back to her apartment. Blasting music as Utahime rolled down her window, hot from singing the lyrics. “I'm turning the AC on, I'm getting hot,” she said, fanning her face as she turned the air on.
“Please, it's like 30 degrees, and I'm hot as hell,” you agreed, making sure she put it on high. Pulling into her parking garage, she hands the guard her card so that you'll be let in. It's a nice apartment, and it's near school. You didn't live too far from her, so you would be her ride sometimes, but she usually rode with Shoko, as they were roommates.
“Oh, are you still coming to our game night? I do gotta warn you, Suguru and Satoru are coming.” She asked, holding the door open as she was getting out. Shivering at the even colder temperature in the parking garage.
“They are?” you sulked, rolling your eyes. You forgot that Shoko was still cool with them, family friends apparently.
“Her friends, not mine, she promised that if they start being weird, they are getting right the fuck out,” she reassured. It seemed that might be her rule, but it's whatever.
“So in the first five minutes?” you laughed, she let out a groan, complaining that she didn't want to hear them talk about basketball for an hour again, like last time.
“I swear to you they had like 6 people hypnosed as they were talking about it, I can't do it again.” You weren't surprised; it is their job, kind of. “But, besides that, it's not just them, Nanami will be there, so he might cancel out their bullshit,” she held her hands up like she was praying before climbing over the seat and kissing your cheek goodbye.
You waved her off, watching as she got onto the elevator safely before driving off.
The game night was on Sunday, so you were sure you had plenty of time to mentally prepare.
—
Obviously not prepared enough.
“You're a fucking cheater, that's what.”
“My dick, you're trash at this game, bro, it's Jackbox!” You flexed your muscles, posing for your 3rd consecutive win. “Another dub for me.” Taking a bite out of your cupcake, it was an easy game. The dumbass even voted for your prompts a few times. You adjusted the crown on your head, flaunting it in his face.
“Yeah, whatever,” Satoru rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. He is such a child, it pissed you off how immature he is. He acts like he is the only one who lost the game when there are 8 other players who also lost.
Only ever thinks of himself. You don't see what people see in him, other than the way he shoots a ball, and he doesn't even want to do that.
So fucking annoying.
“Alright, alright, cool it down. We can just play something different; we've had enough rounds of this.” Shoko suggested, noticing how you were about to get started. Unlike Satoru, you can finish what you start.
Pulling out some Uno cards and the blank cards, writing something on them, and hiding them from the rest of you. Haibara tried peaking over but was quickly swatted away. “You'll see if it gets pulled.”
Playing dealer, Utahime shuffled the cards and passed them out to each player, putting half the deck down with one card facing up. With all seven cards, you kept a poker face as you beamed. Three draw fours and two wild cards. Utahime was the GOAT.
“Did you even shuffle these?” Suguru asked, rearranging his cards.
“Obviously,” she stated shortly, whistling at her own cards. “Anyway, who's going first?” With a few orders suggested, it was decided that Suguru would go first since he wanted to get rid of his cards so badly.
The game was slow at first, not a single draw, not even a skip. That was until Suguru called Uno, putting down a blue skip card on Satoru.
“You traitor, I thought we were in this together!” Satoru gasped dramatically, watching his turn go to Nanami. Suguru simply shrugged, placing his card face down on the carpet.
Finally, people started bringing out the good cards, giving Suguru thirty cards once Mei asked if they could stack the draw fours. Suguru was quick to say no, but that was quickly overruled once Haibara placed a draw four down.
“There's no way all of you had draw fours,” he held his cards together in a stack, not even bothering to spread them.
“Shouldn't have betrayed me.”
“It was one skip, I have thirty cards!”
“Sucks to suck.” Satoru patted him on the shoulder, holding only four cards. Obviously, Suguru was out of the game unless he could switch around, which was highly unlikely.
You'd love to see someone turn the game around with a whole deck in their hands. Many betrayals later and eight cards in your hand, Nanami took the win, putting down his final card, shuffling hands with Mei, who had only one card left, and took his twelve cards.
“Thank you, thank you.” Nanami bowed as you crowned him the winner, taking the one that was previously in your head from Jackbox. You were shocked that you lost with the cards you had. Unfortunately, you used them early instead of just pulling cards.
“Don't get too cocky, I'll just win it back next game,” you challenged, crowning yourself. He laughed, making sure the crown was firmly on his head. The second game continued; you didn't have cards as good as the previous game, but they were still good.
Putting down your last reverse and calling Uno, hoping no one would change the color, or worse, get you to draw cards.
“Uno!” Utahime called excitedly, putting down her second-to-last card.
“Yo, does anyone have another reverse?” Satoru asked, getting ready to place his card, and everyone shook their head. Shrugging, he placed the white card with writing on it. “What, bro, Shoko, you have doctor handwriting!” he laughed, trying to read the card but ultimately failing. He was right, for once, Shoko’s handwriting was absolutely atrocious, and trying to decipher it gave you a headache.
“My handwriting is not that bad, it says sudden death, everyone is now down to two cards, draw one, if you are at Uno,” she said as though it was obvious. Seeing the new chance at a win and to recover from the last game, Suguru surrendered all his cards except two.
“Not that bad?!” Haibara laughed, looking at the card, making sure what she said was true, but he couldn't pick out the number 2. “No wonder you are in med.”
“Not too much on my girl, she's gonna be my kid, doctor, I need her handwriting to be as doctorly we possible,” you admitted, hugging her tightly. She thanked you, kissing the side of your cheek.
“Poor kids.” Satoru quipped, putting his other cards in the deck. Of course, he couldn't keep his fat mouth shut, just when you were slightly okay with his presence.
“Ugh, can you shut the fuck up? Just because you have a bad case of butter fingers doesn't mean the rest of us do.”
“Here she goes,” he groaned, “we still whooped their asses, so it seemed my butter fingers worked just fine,” he said, using air quotes.
“Can you not? I'll kick both of you out,” Shoko warned, pointing to the door.
“It's good, I'm sure a lot of people don't mind my butter fingers,” he laughed, getting a chuckle out of the group. You gagged, motioning with your finger. “That too,” he grinned.
“You're so disgusting, I can't believe anyone would ever let you near them.” You rolled your eyes, realizing the irony, once Satoru burst out laughing, wiping tears from his eyes.
It was not that funny. You rolled your shoulders, not letting him get under your skin.
He acts as though he is getting paid to ragebait.
Biting your tongue, you kept your mouth shut the rest of the game, or else Shoko may beat your ass for choking Satoru. Holding in the urge, you waited patiently for your turn, placing your card down.
You had a wild card, you had a chance at winning until Shoko put down a draw two with a sympathetic apology. Accepting defeat, you let the rest of the game go out with Shoko taking the win. At least it was her and not him.
Nanami passed the crown onto Shoko, who swept the last round with great fanfare. After a few games of table tennis and a short game of Monopoly that was quickly won by MeiMei, you would've been a close second had you not sold your boardwalk to Suguru for 800. At the time, it was worth it, but in retrospect, it sold your game.
As midnight started to roll around, Haibara and Nanami left, claiming they had an early class, along with MeiMei, who had work. Throwing away empty cups and packaging up all the games, all that was left were a few blankets and Utahime’s PlayStation.
“Just leave it, I might as well leave it out here anyway.” Utahime yawned, wrapping a loose blanket around herself. Folding the fuzzy blanket, you placed it at the edge of the couch. Suguru and Shoko were having a conversation of their own in the kitchen, cleaning up remnants of the charcuterie board.
“Alright, I'm heading out, I'll see you later!” you announced, putting on your coat. They wished you goodbye. Shoko offered to walk you down, but you declined. They were still cleaning up, and she would get distracted too easily and end up not doing it until next week. The elevator ride was quiet, the day’s noise fading into the background.
When the doors slid open, you braced against the chill that crept into the parking garage, heels echoing against the damp concrete as you made your way toward your car. Holding your keys tight, your car was already running since you activated remote start on the elevator. At least your car won't be as cold. Pausing, you heard footsteps behind you, not too far behind.
It's not unusual for someone else to be down here, but you didn't appreciate how they were so close behind you. Speeding up, you hoped it would create some distance, but the steps didn't get any farther.
Doing a quick look around to see who it is, you could defend yourself, but you needed to see if they could outrun you to your car. Your face instantly dropped, scrolling on his phone, of course, it was Satoru. He is nothing to be scared of. Dropping your guard, you unlocked your car door, your hands latching onto the handle. Satoru followed right behind before looking up and staring between the two cars.
“That's you parking like this?” he scoffed, unlocking the door to his vehicle. Of course, he drives a Mercedes. Trashy fits trashy. There's no Shoko to stop you in the parking garage.
“Keep saying shit, and I'm hitting your shit,” you warned. He scoffed, dangling his keys, urging, begging you to hit his car. Continuing to talk, he doesn't have to worry, you've got something for him.
—
Finally quiet, you don't have to hear that agitating voice anymore. Sure, there was some moaning here or there, but you made sure to shove your panties deep enough down his throat that it was muffled. Grinding your hips, relishing in the sensation. A sharp, stinging slap landed on your ass, the sound cracking through the humid air of the room. You gasped, your rhythm faltering.
His throat hummed, rolling your eyes, you reluctantly removed the soaked garment from his mouth. “What?”
"Keep going. Or are you already tired?" You clenched around him, a silent, petty retaliation, and were rewarded with a faint, sharp hiss of air through his teeth. A victory, however small. You wish he had a mute button. You began to move again, your thighs burning as you rose and fell, the slick, wet sound of your bodies meeting filling the silence he'd just broken.
The stretch was still a brutal, breathtaking ache, a feeling of being split open on the thick, unyielding length of him. Your own juices, a traitorous flood, made the slide easier, coating him and dripping down to soak the sheets beneath his hips.
You dared a glance down. Satoru's head was tipped back against the pillows, his white hair fanned out like a halo. His eyes were half-lidded and fixed on the place where your bodies joined. A faint, infuriatingly beautiful smirk played on his lips.
"Look at that," he murmured, his voice a lazy taunt. "Making such a mess. You're dripping all over me, and you're not even halfway there." His hands, which had been resting idly on your thighs, came up to grip your ass. His touch wasn't gentle; it was rough and controlling. His thumbs dug into the soft flesh of your cheeks.
"You're so fucking- irritating," you managed to pant out, your voice strained. The smirk on his face widened. Leaning forward, forcing his cock impossibly further inside. Your back met the sheets as he pushed your knees back towards your shoulders, folding you in half, exposing you completely.
The new angle was devastating, a ruthless, deep invasion that had you seeing stars. Each thrust was a deliberate, punishing act, aimed with cruel precision.
"Fuck- Satoru!" Your protest was weak and breathy. “If you don't shut up, I will get up and leave,” you warned, clenching your fist around the sheets below you.
He saluted you, holding his hand up to his forehead. Grabbing the discarded panties, he stuffed them back in his mouth. He grunted, his rhythm never faltering.
Tears welled in your eyes, a mixture of overwhelming sensation and sheer, undiluted hatred for the man pounding into you. A single traitorous tear escaped, tracing a hot path down your temple and into your hairline. He drove into you harder, faster, the bedframe slamming against the wall in a frantic, jarring rhythm.
The sounds were obscene—the wet, slapping union of your bodies, your choked sobs, his low, controlled grunts. You were unraveling, coming apart under his relentless, detached scrutiny, and he was savoring every second of your pleasure.
You squeezed your own eyes shut, trying to block him out, to retreat into the purely physical sensation. But it was impossible. His presence was a brand, searing into you.
The scent of his cologne, clean and expensive now, mingled with the raw, salty smell of sweat and sex, was inescapable. The feel of his hands, bruising on your hips, was an unfortunate reminder of who was fucking you.
If only it weren't for that god-awful mouth of his.
A low, guttural sound vibrated in his chest, muffled by the lace. You forced your eyes open. A thin string of saliva had escaped the corner of his mouth, glistening against the dark fabric.
It dripped, landing with a warm, wet splat on your abdomen. The sight sent a fresh wave of heat through you. The clear fluid dripping from your panties was absolutely ruined after this. There goes another pair.
Your fingers wrapped around the fitted sheet, his movements became less rhythmic, more desperate, a frantic pistonning that was all friction and need.
The brutal stretch was now a familiar, welcome burn, a feeling of being so completely filled there was no room for thought, for his voice, for your own hatred.
His hands left your hips. One slid up your sweat-slicked thigh, a strangely intimate gesture that made you flinch, before pushing it towards the bed, spreading your legs further. The other hand found your clit, his thumb circling with a brutal, practiced efficiency that was anything but tender.
A broken, ragged cry was torn from your throat. Your nails, which had been gripping the sheets, now scraped down his chest, leaving angry red trails in their wake. The pressure in your core tightened, coiling into a knot of pure, unbearable tension.
You were close. So close. And he knew it. His hips began to piston upwards to meet your frantic descents, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, more precise. The muffled grunts from behind the panties took on a sharper, more urgent edge. You could feel the quickened heartbeat beneath your splayed fingers.
"Don't stop," you gasped, the words barely audible, a plea and a threat all at once. He nodded, a desperate moan muffled. He held your gaze, unblinking, as the world dissolved into a white-hot static. Your orgasm ripped through you not with a sweet release, but with a violent, seismic convulsion.
It was a seizure of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, a raw, screaming unraveling of your very self. Your back arched violently against the hand in your hair, a silent scream trapped in your throat as your vision whited out.
You clenched around him, a series of ruthless, involuntary spasms that milked him. Through the haze, you felt his own control finally snap. A sharp, choked sound was stifled by the fabric in his mouth. His body went rigid beneath you, his hips slamming up one last, final time, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled into you with a hot, pulsing rush. His grip on your thigh tightened painfully, his other hand still working your oversensitive clit with a relentless pressure that prolonged the agonizing, exquisite waves of your climax until you were sobbing, pushing weakly at his wrist.
For a moment, there was only the sound of ragged breathing and the frantic hammering of your own heart. The room stank of sex and sweat and him. You could feel the rapid, heavy thud of his heartbeat against your skin.
His hand loosened on your thigh, his fingers uncurling to stroke the damp skin. You looked up at him. The infuriating smirk was back, though it seemed a little looser, a little more genuine. A thin trail of saliva had dried on his chin. He looked wrecked, and beautiful, and utterly, insufferably pleased with himself.
With a grimace of disgust, you reached out, hooking a finger into the side of the soaked lace in his mouth. You pulled. It came free with a wet, sucking pop. He worked his jaw, licking his swollen lips. "Fuck," he breathed, his voice hoarse. He looked up at you, his gaze traveling over your flushed, tear-streaked face, your heaving chest. "You're a nightmare."
"Don't ruin it," you shot back, your own voice raw.
You moved to get off him, but his hands shot to your hips, holding you in place. You were still joined, still connected, and the movement sent a fresh, oversensitive jolt through you. You hissed.
"Not yet," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. His thumbs stroked the sharp bones of your hips. "I'm not done looking." You wanted to argue. To slap that look off his pretty face. But a deep, pervasive lethargy was seeping into your bones. The fight was gone, drained out of you along with everything else.
So you stayed there, impaled on his cock, enduring his leisurely, post-coital inspection. You focused on the feeling of him still inside you, the slow, soft pulse of him beginning to soften. Breaking the silence, his voice was a low rumble. "You cry pretty." He said it like an observation, a neutral fact.
"You're so weird," you mumbled, the insult lacking any real heat.
"I know." He shifted beneath you, a slight, deliberate movement that made you gasp. “I think you're a big fan of butter finger weirdos.”
You didn't deny it. Denial was a game for when you had your clothes on. Here, naked and spent, the truth was a physical thing, a sticky, cooling reality between your thighs.
You liked winning. You liked the brutal, honest physics of the friction. You liked the way he could, for brief, stolen moments like this one, be quiet. Finally, his grip on your hips loosened. You took the opportunity to push yourself off him, wincing at the slick, messy sensation as you separated.
You didn't look back at him as you swung your legs over the side of the bed, your body feeling heavy and used. You stood on shaky legs, wanting nothing more than a shower so hot it would make your skin steam.
You heard the rustle of sheets behind you as he sat up. You could feel his eyes on your back, on the marks you knew his hands had left on your ass and hips. “You're such a player,” he accused, feigning his face as though he had been used. Your wobbly legs and ruffled hair beg to differ.
“Whatever.” You rolled your eyes, putting on your clothes scattered on the floor; your panties were a no-go. Soaked on the bed leaves a dark patch on the sheets. Commando it is.
“You sure you don't want a ride?” he asked, lifting from his spot.
“No, I can drive myself.” Grabbing your keys off the bench at the end of the bed. It was noticeably crooked, not in the position it was when you entered the room. Pushing it back into the place you opened his bedroom door, making your escape.
Throwing on some underwear and a robe, tossing the tied-up condom in the trash, Satoru followed behind you. Urging him that you could get to your car on your own, he followed you all the way down, not leaving until you got in your car.
You should hold up on your promise and scratch up his car, but you'll save that for another day. One where your back isn't trying to murder you.
The world outside felt different, quieter, as you drove home in the early morning darkness. In the shower, you let the hot water wash away the night, trying to scrub off memories that stubbornly clung to your skin.
By the time you collapsed into your own bed, the sun was starting to rise, painting the ceiling in pale hues of regret and relief.
—
What was supposed to be a one-time thing became a pattern, days blurring together until you stopped bothering to make excuses for why you were at Satoru’s place again. It was easier to let the routine happen. You told yourself it was just convenience, but the lines between hate and habit were starting to get messy.
Satoru would be tolerable for a few days before he started to piss you off again, but the dick was good. The only thing was, he couldn't seem to stop leaving marks on you.
Once Utahime found a hickie on the back of your neck, the day you decide to wear an off-the-shoulder top, too. You hid it behind your hair, hoping no one else saw it except her. Flaunting around a hickie was not a badge you wanted to wear. Obviously, she didn't automatically assume it was Satoru of all people. Instead of cheering you on for finally getting laid after so long.
It felt weird now that you've had Satoru’s fingers 6 inches deep inside of you, seeing him play basketball with the same hands.
It made you think what it would be like to be in the bleachers watching him play, but not as some hidden fuck buddy, but as his. That thought sent a revolting shiver up your spine, you don't think you could last being his girlfriend, or worse wife. You didn't want to end up just a “basketball player's boo,” not when it took you so much work to get to this point.
He wasn't boyfriend material.
Sometimes he would look up and see you in your seat, where you would look back and wave, partially back to his game but also as a greeting. It was strange and unfamiliar, knowing you didn't hate him as much as you did a few weeks, even months ago.
“Satoru?” you called out, pausing before speaking up again. “Are you…thinking of going pro?” you asked. You didn't even know if it was something you should be asking; he was pulling up his briefs, turning back toward you. Conversations were usually brief, with no comments on the other's future.
“Like after I graduate?”
“Yes,” you groaned as though it were obvious, you have no idea why he acts stupid. “Like as a career,” you said it slowly, hoping it wouldn't come out like you were getting ready to ask him out. Absolutely not. The question has been bugging you every time you saw him, all this work and talent, and he doesn't want to go professional. You were sure there were plenty of teams waiting for him. Maybe then, after a few years, you could brag about how you used to mess with him. Far into the future, when your dislike is far away from him.
“Why?” he grinned, holding your shoulders tight. Based on his tone, you knew he was about to say something stupid. “You know... there's something I’ve been wanting to try, so-”
“I would rather mop the ocean, no dumbass,” you sighed, slapping him on his chest. You already knew what he was about to say, and you would die if you heard those words come out of his mouth. “I'm just curious,” you admitted.
Accepting your response, he rolled over, wrapping his arm around your waist, massaging the flesh beneath his fingers. It was a type of affection you became accustomed to after you ended up staying over for a few nights.
This was the second time this week that you've been in his bed. “Yeah, at first I didn't want to, but it's fun,” he confessed, yawning into your skin. His breath was hot but reassuring.
Maybe he wouldn't be such a waste after all. If this went on long enough, you might be able to get free tickets to games.
—
The first time it happened was an accident. A collision of convenience and contempt that should have been a one-off.
Satoru thought that adding you to his schedule would disrupt it greatly, but after two months of finding himself wrapped in the same sheets as you, the scent of your shampoo and your shared sweat clinging to his pillows, it didn't seem like it was ending anytime soon. He wasn't mad about it either.
At first, he'd been hesitant to believe that he would ever, in a million years, hear you make a sound that wasn't a cheese grater to his ears, much less one that was panting his name, begging for more.
The bed chemistry was like no other. It was an efficient language all its own. He'd let you call him all sorts of things if it meant he got to feel your warm, slick walls wrap so tightly, so lovingly around his cock.
It was on a Tuesday, three weeks in, that he made the connection. He had a major exhibition match that evening, one he'd been oddly tense about. The pressure was a low hum under his skin, a rare and unwelcome sensation.
You'd shown up at his apartment under the guise of picking up your lip gloss or something, one he didn't remember you leaving. A familiar routine of crowding you against his front door and your mouth finding his in a furious kiss, and letting him eat you out partially naked on his couch.
Later, on the court, he felt untouchable. His movements were fluid, his reflexes preternatural, his mind clear and sharp.
Every shot was perfection. He dominated the game with effortless grace that left coach Yaga stunned. Driving home, the high of victory still thrumming in his veins, he replayed the day. The only variable, the only change in his routine, had been you.
He tested the theory. The next practice match, he fucked you in his shower beforehand, your body braced against the cool tiles, his hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise.
He played like a god. The following week, before a grueling two-hour training session, he'd made you cum twice with his mouth in the back of his car, tasting your release on his tongue. His stamina that day was legendary. It became his secret. His lucky charm. Not you, specifically. He'd never grant a person that much power, but the act itself. The raw, physical expenditure.
The way your body responded to his, it drained the restless, aggressive energy from him and left only a cool, focused calm.
The sun was high, casting sharp, clean lines of light across the disheveled sheets of his bed. He was soaking up the feel of your skin like a sponge, unable to resist the urge to leave his mark on the canvas of your body.
He slid one hand down the delicate dip of your spine, a sweeping gesture, while the other pressed down firmly on your lower stomach. The pressure was intimate, invasive, making him groan as he felt the shape of himself moving deep inside you.
"Fuck," you whined, your feet pressing into the mattress, toes curling as you tried to ground yourself. The sound, the sight, the feeling.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Firm. Insistent.
“Did you hear that?” you gasped. He pressed harder, grinding the heel of his hand against you. A ragged moan was torn from his throat as your gummy walls clenched around him in a sudden, violent spasm, a direct, visceral reaction to the pressure.
"They'll go away," he breathed, his voice rough. "Just like that." You just panted, a broken, wet sound, turning your face into the pillow. He didn't like that. He wanted to see it.
To see your features twist and change because of him. He drilled into you relentlessly, the headboard tapping a steady, insistent rhythm against the wall.
Snaking his hand around your throat, he held onto it lightly, not cutting off air, just applying enough pressure for you to feel the weight of his control, the potential of his strength. Your eyes, wide and dark, flew to his.
He saw the shock, the fury, and beneath it, a thrilling, undeniable flicker of surrender. "Look at you," he murmured, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse under your jaw. With a scream that was half-sob, half-triumph, you cried out, your release flooding his sheets, your body convulsing around him.
The sensation was too much, rhythmic clenching of your inner muscles pulling his own orgasm from him with brutal efficiency. He followed you over the edge with a low, guttural groan, spilling his cum deep inside the condom, his hips stuttering through the last few, shallow thrusts.
The sunlight felt obscenely bright, illuminating the sheen of sweat on your bodies, the mess you'd made of his bed. He shifted his weight off you, but didn't pull away completely, one arm slung possessively across your waist.
This was the part he tolerated. The quiet aftermath. The way your body, spent and pliant, seemed to fit perfectly against his.
As usual, you pulled your body up, slipping on your clothes, he would've enjoyed the view a little longer had another knock come at the door. “They're still there?” you said, a little surprised by the determination to see Satoru.
Pulling up your leggings, “I have plans," you snapped, seeing how he was still oogling at you, “I don't have time."
"Plans?" he drawled, lacing his fingers behind his head. The picture of indolent satisfaction.
You shot him a glare over your shoulder as you fastened your bra. "Friends, actually. Something you probably wouldn't understand the concept of."
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, standing up, stretching with an obnoxious display of his muscular frame, making sure you were looking. He knew you were.
You hated that you did. You pulled the shirt over your head, your face emerging with your hair a mess, your lips still swollen from his kisses. You looked thoroughly ruined. It was a better look on you than the usual annoyed expression you reserved for him.
"You know, for someone who claims to hate the sound of my voice, you're awfully responsive to it when it's telling you how wet you are."
Walking out of his bedroom to the front door, he followed closely behind, fumbling to put on briefs and sweatpants. One shoe on, and pointed a finger at him.
"Do not. Start."
“C’mon, can't you just cancel, you know I wanted to try this thing where you hang-”
"I'd rather tell them I have a contagious skin disease," you retorted, shoving your other foot into your shoe. You grabbed your purse from his coat hanger and slung it over your shoulder. "Good luck with your game, I guess.” You unlocked the door and yanked it open.
“Satoru, the fuck were you doing! We have pre-game-” Suguru was standing there, his fist raised to knock again. He blinked, his dark eyes sweeping over the scene with the swift, analytical precision of a seasoned strategist.
The assessment took only a second, but the damage was done.
Suguru's jaw went slack for a fraction of a second before his composure slammed back into place, his expression shifting from impatience to stunned comprehension.
"Oh, my god." You pinched the bridge of your nose. Pushing past the statue-like Suguru, who was holding a cardboard tray with two drinks: black coffee and an iced cappuccino slathered with whipped cream. The movement was so abrupt it nearly sent the tray flying.
"This," Suguru began to laugh, his voice laced with a world of exasperation, "was not on my parlay."
Satoru shrugged, stepping back to let Suguru in. Suguru moved to the couch, placing the tray on the low table before sinking into the cushions with a weary sigh. He handed the sickeningly sweet iced cappuccino to Satoru,
“You think Yaga is going to get mad if I drink this?” Satoru asked, taking a long sip. It didn't replace the hydration he needed, but it satiated his sweet tooth.
“Yo! Don't change the subject, I didn't know you were together,” Suguru laughed, snatching the remote from Satoru to keep him on track. “And yes, Yaga will be pissed,” he answered.
"Together?!" Satoru gasped, recoiling as if struck. He looked at Suguru as though he'd just suggested the Earth was flat, one hand flying to clutch his own heart dramatically. "Have you finally lost it?"
“Fwb?” Suguru tried again, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees.
“Fuck no,” Satoru scoffed, taking another sip of his drink. “I would never be friends with her evil ass.”
Suguru studied his best friend.“So if she got with another dude, you wouldn't care, you don't like her at all?” Suguru asked, trying to understand what was going on.
Satoru fell silent. He stared into the swirling brown and white of his drink, actually thinking about it. He imagined you in the library, laughing at something some other guy said.
He pictured some faceless stranger's hands on your waist, his head bent close to your ear, sharing something only you would hear. He imagined you calling out for someone else's name while they embraced your skin. It didn't bring him joy, nor anger.
He tried to imagine the opposite, taking you on a date, holding your hand in public, calling you his girlfriend.
The concept was so revolting, so suffocatingly domestic, it almost made him gag. “That poor guy,” he said with mock pity, “I am not claiming her.” he let out a snort.
He paused, a thoughtful look crossing his features. "But I have been playing better. My stats are up since...would it really be worth it?” he mumbled to himself, grimacing at the thought of staying with you for the rest of his basketball career.
If being with you meant he would get a boost, he might be less opposed to taking your hand.
“Whatever works for you, now get up, we are going to be late.”
♡ content warnings: fem! reader, established relationship, oral (f reciceving), mentions of therapy, gojo is emotionally avoidant, nsfw.
"Emotionally constipated? Please, I am very open," he says, echoing his earlier defense, "Watch."
Satoru's tendency to not take things seriously or to disregard your advice continued to prove your point. His hands are already pushing your thighs apart, impatiently, and you're still trying to form a coherent response when his mouth descends.
Diving between your thighs, hoping you would forget the fact that you were correct, he knew it too.
The first lick is broad and flat, dragging from your entrance to your clit, and he hums against you. "See?" he murmurs against your folds, breath hot and damp. "I'm sharing. This is emotional vulnerability."
"Satoru, that's not-" Your protest dissolves into a sharp gasp as his tongue circles your clit, pressing just hard enough to make your hips buck.
"Mm, but it is," he counters, pulling back just enough to look up at you, chin already glossy with your slick. His white hair is falling into his eyes, and he looks absolutely feral. "You said I need an outlet. This is my outlet. She's my therapist. Now hush and let me work through my feelings."
He dives back in with renewed enthusiasm, and you're not sure if you should be offended or turned on. Both, probably.
His nose bumps against your clit while his tongue works lower, dipping inside you with a wet, filthy sound that echoes in the quiet room. He groans, and the vibration shoots straight up your spine.
"Fuck, 'Toru-"
"Uh-huh, that's it," he praises, pulling away again to lick a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, messy and deliberate. "Tell me more about my emotional state. I'm listening. I'm very receptive."
One thick digit pressing inside you without warning, curling immediately. Your hands fly to his hair, gripping the snowy strands, and he laughs against your pussy, listening to the noises being made by his fingers. "Oh, she's talkative today," he coos, adding a second finger, stretching you further. "My therapist has a lot to say. I'm hearing her loud and clear."
"This is not what I m-meant," you manage, breathless, hips grinding against his hand.
"Mm, sure," he scoffs, unconcerned, and his tongue finds your clit again, lapping at it in quick, teasing flicks while his fingers pump in and out of you. "But you're the one who suggested I express myself. This is me, expressing. Passionately," he chuckles slightly at his words.
Again proving your point.
“All you do is deflect-” you groaned, he’s licking up every drop of you, chin and cheeks glistening, and when he pulls back to breathe, there's a string of slick connecting his lips to your folds. He wipes it with the back of his hand.
"Quiet," he hushes, tongue thrusting inside you while his thumb circles your clit. Your back arches off the bed, a strangled moan ripping from your throat. "Can't you see I'm speaking with my therapist?" he mumbles against you, the words vibrating through your core.
"I'm opening up. I'm sharing my feelings. My feelings are that I want to be buried in this pussy forever. Very profound. Very emotional. I know."
His thumb presses harder, and your vision goes white. You can feel yourself clenching around his tongue, your orgasm building, and Satoru knows it too because he doubles down, fingers replacing his tongue so he can suck your clit into his mouth.
"Come on, Doc," he murmurs, lips brushing your sensitive bud. "This is valid communication."
You whimper as your orgasm rips through you, and Satoru doesn't slow down, just keeps lapping at you through every pulse and shudder. His fingers are still buried inside you, feeling every contraction, and when you finally go limp, he pulls back with a satisfied hum.
"Excellent session," he announces, licking his lips. "I feel so much better. Cathartic even."
You're still panting, legs trembling, and he's already positioning himself between them, the bulge in his pants impossible to miss.
"But I think we need a follow-up appointment," he continues, tugging at his waistband. "I have some deep-seated issues that require immediate attention."
♡ summary: A real vacation, away from the stress and people. All inclusive with a private beach, beautiful skies, and even prettier guys. It was perfect!
♡ wc: 3.2k
♡ content warnings: fem! rich! reader, staff! gojo, use of alcohol, oral (f. receiving), big díck gojo, plot?what plot?, vacation, reader is down bad, ovulating, overstim, unprotected, p in v, creampíes, praise, slight exhibitionism, sex on the beach, massages.
♡ a/n: I want to go vacay again so bad ૮◞ ◟𑁬∘˙˚ (I am very happy to be able to use the p w/o p tag :D)
You paid for peace. For quiet. For a room that smelled like eucalyptus and lavender and had a personal plunge pool outside the bathroom door. For fresh fruit, you didn’t have to cut yourself. For the sun. For space.
You paid to not hear your name unless it was coming from someone who had absolutely nothing to do with your job.
And it was worth every dollar.
The beach was technically private, but it felt personal. The ocean wasn’t roaring, just humming, like background music. A warm breeze slid over your skin as you lay out, your skin dewy from the sunscreen you reapplied in slow, self-loving circles, stretched across a cushioned lounger with no meetings, no heels, no schedule. Just the sand beneath you.
The private beach felt like your personal fantasy carved into a postcard, and the cherry on top? Beautiful skies—and even prettier guys.
Well, guy. Singular.
The white-haired one.
You hadn’t caught his name; somehow it never came up, but you clocked him the moment you stepped off the shuttle and into the airy lobby. He was tall, toned, and unfairly attractive in that model kind of way, with a lopsided smile that could probably bankrupt you if he wanted. He worked the beachside part of the resort—bartending, towel service, checking on guests. There was something playful and aloof in the way he lingered when he spoke to you, something that made your stomach dip…and not just from the endless margaritas.
You’d tried to keep it subtle—your wandering glances, your slightly suggestive thank-you’s. But the truth was, the moment your hormones got wind of the proximity of that man and this heat? Your body went rogue. Nothing wrong with a vacay fling, even if it was probably one-sided.
Now here you were, two days into your stay, half-sprawled across a cushioned lounge chair, letting the sun toast your skin while lazily pretending to read the same page of your romance novel over and over.
You reapplied sunscreen to your arms, the bottle sticky in your hand. You could feel the heat radiating off your back, reminding you how long you’d been lying here. Just as you were debating whether to brave the awkward gymnastics of doing your own back, movement from the corner of your eye caught your attention.
There he was. Perfect timing!
“Hey!” you called out, lifting your sunglasses with one hand to get a better look at him. The sight was even more rewarding than usual. His white hair looked almost silver under the sun, and the short-sleeved white uniform he wore did absolutely nothing to hide the strength in his arms.
He turned his head and gave you a soft grin, walking over.
“Everything alright?” he asked, eyes sliding briefly to the book in your lap and then back to your face.
“I was wondering,” you said, shaking the bottle of sunscreen, “if you could help me rub the rest of this in? I can never get my back properly.”
He took the bottle from your hand without hesitation, fingers brushing yours. “Of course,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting a smile. “That’s what I’m here for, right?”
Turning over on the chaise, you shifted your head to the side so you could peek at him, not so discreetly. The side cushion was more comfortable anyway, two birds with one stone.
The first touch sent a small jolt up your spine. His hands were cool, slick with lotion, but they warmed quickly against your sun-drenched skin. He started with your shoulders, working the lotion in slow, broad strokes—palms gliding, fingers pressing just enough to make your breath hitch. You didn’t expect his touch to be so intimate. Not inappropriate, just lingering. Familiar, almost.
“Oh wait,” you murmured, reaching behind to fumble with the knot at your back. “I should untie this.” Your nails scraped together as you struggled with the slick strings. He was already moving closer.
“Let me,” he offered, voice low and steady. And with one simple tug, the knot fell loose. The straps dropped harmlessly to your sides.
“Thanks,” you said softly.
He didn’t respond with words, just continued his careful work, hands now gliding lower. Down your shoulder blades. Across the curve of your spine. The silence between you buzzed with something more than just shared air. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting yourself lean into the sensation. His hands were strong but considerate, slightly calloused, probably from working with his hands all day. They lingered on the small of your back, thumbs grazing the top of your hips in teasing, circular motions. “Lower,” you mumbled, surprised at how hoarse your voice sounded. He hummed a little, maybe satisfied with the praise or maybe just enjoying himself. Either way, you weren’t mad.
“Right here?” he asked, as his hands moved lower, massaging the top of your glutes. His thumbs flirted with the edges of your bikini bottoms, and your legs instinctively pressed together.
Your breath hitched. “Yeah…there.”
He stayed there a beat longer than necessary. Maybe two.
You bit your lip, half-turning your head. “You always give this kind of service?” he chuckled, still focused on your glowing skin.
“Only to my favorites.”
“Mmm, keep going,” you smiled. “So thoughtful.” He did. Down your back, over your sides. His palms were warm now, smoothing over you like he was trying to memorize something. You arched a little, involuntarily, and you knew he caught it.
The pads of his thumbs grazed your lower back, flirting with the curve of your hips, inching close to the bottom of your swimsuit.
Your voice came out softer this time. “A little lower.”
He didn’t speak. Just adjusted his position, the heat of him is closer now. His hands slipped just low enough to make you hold your breath, sliding over the round of your ass in one slow, full stroke.
You felt the corner of his mouth tilt. “You like that?”
Your breath caught. “Don’t play.”
“Who’s playing?” His hands didn’t stop. He massaged like he meant, like he wanted to see how far you’d let him go without pulling away.
You stayed still. Mostly.
“Is this allowed?” you whispered, more to yourself.
“I won’t tell if you won’t,” he smirked, fingers trailing slowly up your side, grazing just under your ribs. You could feel your pulse between your thighs, your body aching in that low, hormonal way you hadn’t felt in ages. You hadn’t expected to want someone so bad on this trip—and definitely not someone who was supposed to be off-limits.
His hands found the strings of your bikini bottoms and untied the strings, his eyes never leaving yours. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop him. He kissed down your spine, the curve of your waist, your hip. Every motion unhurried, each one stretching seconds longer than the last.
Pulling you by your hips up onto your knees on the lounge, one of your legs dangling off. He peeled the bikini bottom off, dipping in between your thighs. The moment his mouth met your heated skin, a shudder ripped through you, your fingers twisting into the cushioned lounger beneath you. His tongue was relentless, lapping at your slick with a hunger that made your thighs tremble. The sound of him, wet, obscene, greedy— sent a fresh wave of arousal crashing through you, your back arching instinctively, seeking more.
"Fuck" you gasped, your voice breaking as his lips sealed around your clit, sucking hard enough to make your vision blur. His hands, those damn hands, slid under your hips, gripping hard, yanking you closer until his nose brushed against your sensitive skin, his breath hot and uneven against you.
He didn't just taste you, he devoured you. His fingers twitched with restraint. Now, nothing was holding him back. His tongue dragged slow, torturous circles around your clit before flattening against it, pressing down just enough to make you see stars.
"You taste even better than I imagined," he murmured against you, the vibrations sending a jolt straight to your core. The fact that he thought about it made you impossibly wetter. His fingers dug into your thighs, spreading you wider, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there, leaving little marks you'd feel later. “I could tell you wanted this since day one.”
You couldn't deny it, not when your body was reacting like this, not when every flick of his tongue had your legs shaking, your breath coming in ragged pants. The sun beat down on your skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat pooling low in your stomach, tightening with every sinful stroke of his tongue.
Then his fingers joined, two slipping inside you without warning, curling just right, and you whined, your hands gripping the pillow. He groaned against you, the sound muffled but unmistakable; he liked that. Liked how responsive you were, how easily you came apart for him.
"That's it," he coaxed, his voice rough, his lips brushing against your clit as he spoke. "Let me hear you. Let me feel how much you love this."
And you did. You couldn't stop the noises spilling from your lips, the broken "yes, yes, fuck" as his fingers pumped into you, his thumb circling your clit in tight, relentless motions.
The pleasure built so fast it was dizzying, your body coiling tighter and tighter until you came with a cry. Your thighs shaking, your toes curling as the orgasm tore through you. He didn't let up, didn't give you a second to recover— just kept licking, kept fucking you with his fingers. Drawing out every last shuddering wave until you were gasping, oversensitive, your hands pushing weakly at his head.
"Too much!" you whimpered, but he only chuckled, pressing one last, filthy kiss to your inner thigh before pulling back, his lips glistening, his eyes dark with satisfaction.
"Can't get enough baby," he murmured, dragging his thumb through your slick one last time before bringing it to his mouth, sucking it clean with a smirk. "Not when you taste this good."
Your chest heaved, your skin flushed and sticky with sweat and sunscreen and him. You should've been embarrassed, should've been scrambling to cover yourself, to regain some semblance of dignity. But all you could do was stare at him.
The moment his fingers slipped out of you, you felt the loss like a physical ache, your body clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled again. His smirk was downright sinful as he licked his lips, dragging the flat of his tongue over his bottom lip like he was savoring the last drop of you. The sight sent a fresh pulse of heat between your thighs, your skin prickling with the need to have him closer, to feel more.
"Turn over," he directed, voice rough, his hands already guiding your hips before you could process the command. Your body obeyed before your mind caught up, rolling onto your back, the lounger creaking beneath you. The sun blazed overhead, but all you could focus on was the way his gaze raked over you. Your chest rising and falling rapidly, your nipples pebbled under the fabric of your bikini top, holding it in so it wouldn't fall. The mess he'd made between your thighs glistened under the sunlight.
He tugged your bikini top down slowly, his thumbs brushing over your nipples as he bared you completely. The breeze ghosted over your exposed skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his mouth when he leaned down, sealing his lips around one peaked bud. You gasped, back arching off the lounger, your fingers tangling in his hair, soft, surprisingly silken. He sucked hard, his tongue flicking over the sensitive peak in torturous little circles.
"You're such a tease," you groaned, your hips lifting off the cushion, seeking friction, seeking him.
He chuckled against your skin, the vibrations making you squirm. "Impatient," he teased, his free hand sliding down your stomach, fingers dipping between your folds without hesitation. You were so wet, so swollen. His fingers slid through your slick with obscene ease, gathering it before dragging his fingertips in slow, maddening circles around your clit.
"You're dripping," he groaned, his voice thick with want. "All for me, huh?"
You rolled your eyes, your breath hitching as his fingers pressed harder. His touch is just shy of rough, just enough to make your thighs tremble. His mouth moved to your other nipple, teeth grazing the peak before sucking it deep, his fingers never stopping.
"Please," you finally choked out, your voice wrecked. Not really one to beg, but it seems he brought out many new things about you.
"Please what?" he grinned, pulling back just enough to watch your face as his fingers slid lower, dipping inside you just barely—just the tips, curling enough to make your hips jerk.
"I want you, don't wanna wait.”
His grin was wolfish. "Since you asked so nicely," you hadn't noticed his shirt was unbuttoned, revealing how ripped he was under the button-up shirt. You heard the sound of his zipper, the rustle of fabric. “It's Satoru, by the way.”
Oh god.
The blunt head of his cock nudged against your entrance, and you whimpered, pushing back against him instinctively. "Eager," he teased, his hands gripping your hips as he pressed forward, his cock stretching you open in one slow, relentless thrust.
You choked on a moan, your fingers clawing at the cushion beneath you as he bottomed out, his hips flush against your ass. He was huge, thick, pulsing inside you, filling you completely.
"Fuck," he hissed, his voice strained. "You're so tight." He didn't give you time to adjust, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in, the force of it driving you forward, your hands pressed against the chest and the back of the chair for leverage. You cried out, the pleasure so intense, your walls fluttering around him as he set a brutal pace. His hips snapping against yours with every thrust, hitting your sweet spot deliciously as you cried his name.
"Look at you," he growled, one hand fisting in your ass, gripping just enough to make your back arch. "Taking me so fucking good. Bet you'll remember my name now."
You could only moan, your words lost in the haze of pleasure, your body moving with his, meeting every thrust with a roll of your hips. His hand gripped your thigh, his other hand sliding around to your front, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles.
The double stimulation was too much; your orgasm built again, faster this time, your body coiling tighter and tighter. "Come for me," he demanded, his voice rough, his thrusts growing erratic.
You shattered.
Your climax hit you like a freight train, your body clamping down on him as pleasure exploded through you, your cries muffled against the lounger. He fucked you through it, wiping the tears off your cheeks. “Where do you want it, baby?”
“I-inside!”
He let out a low moan, his own release hitting him hard. His hips stuttering, cock pulsing inside you as he came with a groan, his fingers digging into your skin as he filled you, hot and deep.
For a moment, the only sounds were your ragged breaths and the distant crash of waves. Then he leaned down, his lips brushing your ear as he murmured, "Still think I'm just here for towels and massages?"
You laughed, breathless and spent, your body still thrumming with pleasure. "Best. Massage. Ever."
He smirked, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before pulling out, the loss of him making you whimper. "Good," he said, his voice smug. "Because we're far from done."
━━
Being back at work after your vacation was a change. Looking out the large window, you reminisced about the villa, and especially your little fling. The entire trio, he would come and eat you out till you cried whenever he found you, be it on the window reader or by the door if he was particularly impatient. And fuck you into whatever surface was nearest.
God, you missed him.
It's been 8 months since your short but sweet vacation. You debated giving him your number, but by the time you were packing up and checking out, he was nowhere to be seen. Hopefully the next time you visited he would be there as well, until then you would continue life like you hadn't lost the best dick and head you've had.
Although you spent most of your time working, you did try to make time with your friends and go out on the weekends you were free. Downtown was your hotspot, especially the clubs, the best you've ever been to; lucky you were cool enough with the bouncers to get in free.
The music was good and the drinks were better. Tending your sweet cocktail, you enjoyed the buzz you were getting. Thankfully, you weren't the one driving tonight; however, next week, you were back on duty.
Realizing you finished your drink, you started to find your friends dancing up against the other groups of people on the floor. Over all the heads of people, your eyes caught one single head of white hair. Your heart stuttered as you walked towards them, pushing past tipsy dancers.
It couldn't be him, but you couldn't help but check. Fixing your hair, making sure there weren't any strange pieces around your face that shouldn't be. The height alone was a dead giveaway; not many guys were over 6 feet with white hair, even with dim lighting, you had a gut feeling that it was him.
Tapping his shoulder, ready to see a stranger's face and not the face that's been appearing in your late-night fantasies. Bracing for disappointment, you started preparing an apology.
Your name fell from familiar lips, the way he said it sent a shiver up your spine. You stared in shock, and he gave you a tight hug, kissing you on the cheek.
“It really is you.” you hugged back, breathing in the scent you'd dreamt of. He laughed, pulling you by the waist to his side. He started introducing you to his friends, explaining he was on vacation, even taking you to their booth. Both of you clicked like you hadn't seen each other in almost a year.
Your leg kicker up over his, letting his hands twirl your hair in his fingers. Leaning down toward your ear, moving the hair away from it, kissing the sides. You decided to ask the question sitting in the back of your mind. “How long are you here for?”
“A week,” he smirked, looking at your face, cerulean eyes peeking from those gorgeous white lashes. You were familiar with that glint in his eye, the way they twinkled put you under a trance.
“Are you going to leave without a goodbye this time?”
“I’m sorry about that, baby. Can you forgive me?” he smiled against your hand, kissing it. “Might not want to leave.”
♡ summary: you wanted to be mad at them but how could you when they're hitting it so good!
✰ starring: toji, choso, gojo.
♡ content warnings: fem! reader, chokíng, overstím, breaking furniture, making up, unprotected, car sex, jealousy, squírting, bréeding, mating press, cowgirl, begging, pet names, crying.
♡ a/n: running on post freak week fumes!!
TOJI ♡ FUSHIGURO
Toji was an asshole through and through. He would avoid your calls and you wouldn't see him for days. When you asked him where he was he wouldn't answer, only telling you that it wasn't your business. Perhaps you could understand that but when he missed your anniversary and didn't come home that night you had enough.
You knew you would regret this later, but the way he was looking at you when he entered through that door, your mind blanked out. The speech you had prepared, ready to tell him you were done with this back-and-forth, you even practiced in the mirror. But the curve of his cock stretching out your walls you completely forgot what you were mad at him for. His calloused hand was heavy on the bottom of your spine pushing your arch deeper.
“Never leavin’ you again baby,” Toji grumbled, forcing you to meet his powerful thrusts. You could only choke out a moan in response. Your upper body dug into the plush couch, your nails digging into the cushion. “Gotta make up for lost time-” he groaned, his eyes focused on the way your cunt wrapped around him so tightly like you were made just for him. So perfect. He doesn't even know how he lasted so long without you. He could barely restrain himself from breaking into your apartment after you told him to leave a week ago. When you called him to “pick up his things” both of you knew neither would last. He had you bent over the couch within 5 minutes of entering the apartment.
The strength in your legs was starting to give out, they slipped slightly, but Toji pulled you by the hips, keeping your lower half up. Your pussy was completely soaked, slick drooling down your thighs. You chanted his name like a prayer, a grin on his face whenever you looked over your shoulder. The couch was rocking against the flooring scratching up the wood, you almost felt bad for the apartment below you. The furniture creaked but was subdued by the sounds of moans and his skin hitting yours. “Toji- the couch,” you sobbed trying to get attention as he was too focused on your body.
“What about it?” he shrugged, not even slowing down to check. The way his tone dipped lower sent a shiver up your spine. Your walls convulsed around his cock signaling your incoming orgasm. He muttered something under his breath, you couldn't hear it over your own pants. The familiar tightening in your core pushed your tired body to keep up with him. You tried to force your voice out to the couches rocking, but only sobs came out only pushing him to chase his own climax. “We tried it your way,” he moaned your name as your gummy walls tensed around him. Your eyes rolled back, your mind going white digging your nails into the couch cushion. With a final thrust, his hips snapped into yours painting your insides white.
He sat inside you for a minute enjoying how warm you were. “Oh shit…” he laughed, pulling your body onto his lap; his cock still hard inside.
“What?”
“We broke the couch.” He smiled leaving kissing on your nape. If you weren’t so fucked out you'd kick his ass but you’ll enjoy the moment.
CHOSO ♡ KAMO
The girl smiled pushing her tits higher flaunting them to your boyfriend. Any other time you sensed some girl trying to flirt with your boyfriend right in front of you then you'd cuss her ass out and send her running where she came. Watching from one of the seats a few tables away from them. Sure Choso could be a little oblivious but this was either being blind to the girl flirting with you or letting her instead of declining. You held yourself back from getting up and socking him in the face for everyone to see. You waited patiently just so you could see how he acted when other women came up to him.
You stared daggers into them and if looks could kill they would both be six feet under. Choso’s brown eyes met yours and instantly he gave her a curt smile before nodding and she walked off with a look of glee on her face. When you approached his table you pulled the seat from across from him. He looked at you confused, you didn't try to hide the annoyance on your face. “What was that about?” you asked looking behind you to the girl at the table with her friends giggling.
“Oh, she came over to ask for my number,” he said as though it was nothing like a daily occurrence. He was attractive though you weren't the one to ask him out first you were eyeing him for a while. He picked up his phone from the table shoving it into his pockets, your eyes followed his movements like a hawk.
“Did you give it to her?” you questioned him about the waiter coming up with your drinks and setting them on the table. You would have thought it was sweet for him to order your favorite drink but the only thing on your mind was the situation that had unfolded in front of you previously. Choso thanked her as the waiter scurried away awkwardly away from the two of you.
“Hm?” he took a sip of his iced coffee looking up at you. You tried to keep your composer and not blow up on him, perhaps there is a good explanation and he didn't give it to her. Deep breathes.
“Your number. Did you give it to her?” you would like to believe you weren't one of those jealous girlfriends who would go ballistic when someone would simply talk to their partner but the way irritation picked at your nerves it was going to take your will alone to not lose your mind.
“Yeah?” he looked at you like you were crazy for asking. Your knee bounced taking a sip of your drink. The expression of plain confusion on his face sent you off the handle. You really tried, you didnt raise your voice not once instead you sucked down the rest of your drink Instead you told him that the both of you needed to go.
In the car, he tried to hold onto your thigh but you swatted him away. He may be oblivious but he wasn't an idiot. Your arms stayed crossed over your chest looking out the window. The car was silent only the sound of his playlist playing, you zoned out recapping what happened at the cafe to make sure you weren't crazy. Every time you came to the same conclusion, he must have lost his mind.
Choso pulled into an empty parking lot. “Are you okay? What is wrong?” He looked genuinely concerned. You stared at him in disbelief. If this has happened this time while you're around it has most definitely happened when you weren't.
“How would you feel if I gave my number to another guy?” you put it from his perspective, you could practically see the gears turning in your head before a lightbulb went off. His hand landed on your thigh rubbing circles on it. He knew how much you loved his touch, that when he knew you were furious even after arguments you would still let him touch you.
“Bad,” he answered shortly after the thought alone made his skin crawl. “Carrie is in my lit class and she was asking for my number for notes.” now he could see why you were mad, that's a step forward. You really tried not to look him in his eyes or else you would forgive him. You needed to stand on business.
“She was so obviously flirting with you Choso, she didnt want it for no fucking notes.” irritation laced your voice. You needed to make this very clear now or else it would happen again.
“Carrie? She knows I'm with you though.” he turned his body fully towards you. He replayed what happened in his head, Carrie was being a little weird but he assumed she was just really friendly. You started to speak up until a message from an unknown number popped up on the infotainment system.
“Hey Choso, it's Carrie, do you want to go see a movie before studying?”
The both of you stared at the message. Bingo. “Holy shit you're right.” he went on his phone pulled up her contact and typed a quick no and that he would just send the notes she missed digitally. He showed his phone to you as you stared at the messages. You might have lost it had she sent a single emoji. “I'm sorry baby I didn't realize I would've told her no had I seen it.” he looked sincere, searching your face for an ounce of approval. You held up the poker face even as he leaned over the car’s console kissing you on the cheek. His lips continued to kiss down your neck, his hair tickling at your collarbone.
“I can’t stand when you're mad at me. What can I do baby?”
Your hips grinded against his pubes giving your clit that friction you yearned for. His cock twitched inside of you, his hands sitting at his sides begging to touch you. He bit his lip resisting the urge to lift his hips to slam into you. You rode him at your own pace chasing your orgasm, his expression pushed you even further. As much as you wanted him to fuck you in the car seats you wanted to see how far he could go more.
He could feel your sweet pussy tighten around his so beautifully he couldn't help you ride it out, only watch. The car windows were slightly foggy neither of you exactly cared if anyone saw. He couldn’t touch, move, or cum unless you said otherwise. He stared at your body above him convulsing on his cock, he tried begging you but nothing went through; you were determined to make him suffer. You lay on his chest breathing in his scent, your panting breaths hitting his hot skin. He raised his hips ever so slightly, you were too distracted from your orgasm to realize until his cock slid back into your warm heat. He waited for you to say something but you let out a small moan pushing back on him.
“Can I?” he watched your head give a short nod and that's all he needed. He held you by the waist slamming your body onto his cock as he ranted out apologies and how you're the only one for him. It didn't take long for him to climax cum dripping out your hole. You looked satisfied as your boyfriend stared at your leaking hole.
Maybe you'll get the both of you matching “I love my girlfriend” and “I love my boyfriend” shirts.
SATORU ♡ GOJO
It took 3 hours, worst of all you were the one to crack first. To be fair, being in the same home didn’t help either. You were with Satoru all the time, you thought moving in would help his constant need to be near you. When people would think of you they would think of him; you felt as though you were losing yourself in him. Hanging out with friends meant Satoru would find his way to the same place “by accident” or just follow you out the door. When you’d tell him to stop he would pull out his puppy dog eyes winning you over completely.
Naturally, you suggested taking a break, but only for a little while. You would still stay in the house, but the two of you wouldn’t be doing the same things you would before. To your surprise, Satoru did not beg or complain; rather, he simply said, “Okay, if that's what you want, " in a calm tone. He threw an entire tantrum at his big age when you joked that you would never cosplay as Angewomon. You finally caved and told him you were joking when he started offering to buy you another car. His expression was composed and didn't even roll his eyes. You tried to keep a poker face from the astonishment, but the way he continued to discuss with you during dinner as if you hadn't said what you said, confirmed that he wasn't going to go against your decision.
He took your empty plates, taking them to the sink to wash. “So when is this break starting?” the way his tone was so unruffled like he didn't care pissed you off. It's not like you were searching for a reaction from him but the way he was acting just wasn't him and it threw you off big time.
“Now.” Irritation filled your voice, and you turned back on your heels and headed toward the couch. It was a little petty, but he had acted worse toward little things. Why was he acting so nonchalant?! Like a switch went off, Satoru acted as though you weren't there. He passed by the couch, not even glancing at you. He took his charge from the socket and went upstairs. Those two hours felt like a lifetime. It was complete silence, not a word spoken between the two of you. Grey’s Anatomy wasn't pulling your attention towards Satoru’s presence in the home that wasn't near or on you. This was pathetic. Sighing you headed toward the kitchen needing a snack to help with the sadness overtaking you.
Looking through the cabinets on the tips of your toes looking for the popcorn. Scanning the kitchen you saw that it was on the very top cabinet. Just as you started debating if you should climb the counters, Satoru waltzed into the kitchen. Instinctively your mouth opened to ask him to help you but you stopped yourself instantly. There was no way you were going to yield.
Determined you climbed atop the marble countertop your hand holding onto the underneath of the cabinet for balance. Successfully you grabbed the popcorn box making a small celebration in your head. Setting the box next to your knees you started to climb down until your hand slipped. You braced yourself for the fall but your back met hard muscles, large hands holding onto your waist. He picked you up, getting you off the counter. Your eyes met once your feet were safely planted onto the floor. Like a trap your eyes couldn't leave his azure ones nor did his hands leave your waist.
His cock drilled into your poor pussy taking in every inch. “Don't ever say anything like that ever again.” Satoru groaned, his fingers digging into your hips. You stood on your toes one of your legs over the island in the middle of the kitchen. You sobbed out apologies drool falling from your lips on the cold marble. The moment your lips crashed onto his a smirk on his face letting you take control desperately grasping on his skin. You lasted a lot longer than he thought you would. He estimated 30 minutes. When you suggested taking a “break” he almost had a stroke, he asked you when the “break” would start as a joke not believing you were serious. He almost pulled you on him right then and there but he resisted the urge. Those 3 hours (technically 2 and a half if you don't count dinner) were absolute torture.
The sound of your moans and pleas was music to his ears letting you cum around his cock all you wanted. The way he fucking into you as if he wanted you to forget about the words “Maybe we should take a break.” from your dictionary.
“ ‘Toru please,” you hiccuped feeling yourself wanting to cum again, “I said I’m sorry.” you pleaded tears flowing out of your doe eyes. He pushed his messy hair out of his face staring at your fucked out face in delight. He is sure you're sorry but he just had to make sure. His hips stuttered as his hips slammed into yours shooting ropes of cum into your pussy. Your walls twitched around his cock he groaned at how tight you were but he refused to pull out. Clear fluid dripped onto the floor, your body jerked a scream erupting from your lips as you came. He stuffed your cunt full making sure not a single drop fell out.
“So it's over now right?” he asked, looking down at you with a pout on his face. You nodded a smile on your face.
♡ a/n: inspired by this tiktok, yk I had to double itttt
Satoru typed on his laptop—big, bulky, probably one of those nerdy gaming ones. You tried not to stare, but your side glances betrayed you anyway.
His fingers moved fast, long and capable, skilled, that's for sure. You needed to stop.
Half the class period had already passed, and you were supposed to be paying attention to Professor Yaga. Instead, you were shoving down thoughts of last week, trying not to replay it on a loop.
That night, he had been all over you— flirting, touching, the way he whispered in your ear. And now? He was sitting a few seats ahead, focused, completely…normal.
What the hell is with the switch-up?
—
The lab was quiet. Another experiment gone wrong— his sixth attempt— and Satoru Gojo did not fail six times. Period. The word alone was foreign to him. Chemicals he shouldn't have gotten ahold of. A lab he had full access to. He was like a kid in a candy shop, and if anyone could pull this off, it was him.
Failed. Again.
Sleep pulled at him harder than it should have. Just an hour. His body could handle three days without sleep—one hour would be fine. When he woke, drool had smeared weeks of data into illegibility. He groaned, dabbing at the page. And then he froze. Beakers that had been meticulously cleaned now had fingerprints. Ones he didn't place.
Someone else had been here.
Listening, Satoru whipped his head around the room, eyes trying to catch anything in sight. Slightly panicked, no one else was meant to be here; if there was, he would be royally fucked. Facing the intruder, seeing a mirror reflection of himself, wherever his shirt had gone, along with his pants, and everything else.
Stopping in his tracks, he patted his body, making sure he was indeed wearing clothes and not raw dogging it in a lab.
Staring like a deer in headlights, Satoru watched as he(?) clenched his finger, moving his appendages like they were new and getting accustomed to them. Except it wasn't Satoru moving, but someone else who looked exactly like him.
Identical.
"Yo, what the fuck?!" the voice called out, the same to his, but had a little bit of an edge to it, not noticeable to the average listener. "Who are you?"
"I should be saying the same to you..." His eyes narrowed approaching the figure cautiously, like a stray cat on the streets that was particularly aggressive.
It was almost impossible for him to have a doppelganger who looked this similar to him, and it's not like he had a secret twin hiding somewhere; he hoped not, at least.
Satoru tried coming up with some sort of explanation, anything to explain the man before him. "A clone...perhaps?" he mumbled.
"So that's your what, hypothesis?" Satoru, the clone, asked, catching onto Satoru's drift. "What the hell is with this red and blue goo anyway?" he scoffed, wiping the remaining off of his skin.
"How did you get in that?"
"I woke up with it," he said as though the answer was obvious. "You seriously think I would roll around in mystery shit for fun?" he rolled his eyes.
Satoru finally came to the realization that perhaps it was not something out of this world coincidence, but rather his own calculated mistake in his own.
A wicked grin spread across his face. Either he has finally lost his mind from inhaling copious amounts of chemicals, or he has done something even more wonderful!
Life, not only a new life but an existing life of himself!
He couldn't possibly let this scientific breakthrough slip through his fingers. Life with his replica was uneventful, to say the least. It was hell trying to get his new experiment back home with him. Satoru told himself it would be worth it in the end, so he persevered.
For science!
He let Satoru 2.0 do what he wanted, being like himself in most aspects. Habits, diet, and build were similar. Intelligence surely differed in more ways than one. Satoru 2.0 seemed to lack the knowledge he had. He wasn't disappointed, not in the slightest; this only aided his research.
A few days in, and he had 8 pages of notes on the clone. He didn't know if or when this experiment would end. Satoru was going to make the most of this.
Personality was different; the man before him was crude and lacked the reserve Satoru had. It was like he came from a different universe. Satoru groaned in his seat, getting a headache from all the hypotheses filling his head. He'd resorted to calling him Satoru 2.0—referring to someone who wasn't technically someone else by his own name only confused his thoughts.
All Satoru 2.0 did was complain.
Satoru suspects he only does it to provoke him. It was working. He heard his own voice in his head enough, hearing it externally while his thoughts were running amok, too fast for him to grasp; his eye twitched.
"Is this what you do all day?" Satoru says, head dangling off the bed. Satoru had spent most of the day studying and documenting whatever Satoru 2.0 did. It was obvious he was itching to get outside.
Satoru didn't want to risk being out the same time and people catching on that there were more than two Satorus. They were completely different; he would be appalled if others thought they were the same person.
"Pretty much... I mean, sometimes I play D&D or a quick battle of Digimon." Satoru shrugged.
"Dude, you're seriously lame as hell," the other grimaced. "I thought your closet was the only depressing thing in here," he acts as though he isn't wearing his clothes. Sure, it was styled differently, lacking one of Satoru's flannel shirts, which he threatened to burn if it came close enough to touch his skin. "I am starting to doubt we are the same person."
"Based on our DNA results and the corroborating information, I can assure you that we are the same person." He said matter-of-factly, his clone groaned loudly, stopping whatever scientific rambling that Satoru was about to proudly go on.
"C'mon, bro, let's go out, what's the Greek life out here?" he sat up, a mischievous grin on his face."Ya' know-"
"Don't need it." Satoru quickly responded. He has never been much of a partier, much less into fraternities. There was no substantial appeal to him. Dirty, crowded houses of inebriated peers did not seem attractive in the slightest.
Alcohol dulled the senses anyway; he preferred to stay aware. The taste alone was revolting.
"Fine, stay here cooped up in here like some city rat. I don't care, but I am losing my fucking mind in here." Satoru 2.0 whined, staring outside the window.
He knew there was a party today, reading one of the texts on Satoru's phone, prompting his continuous whining. Satoru was skeptical about what his clone would do; they shared the same appearance, and he would prefer keeping his clean slate reputation on top of his stellar grades. "Imagine what kind of research you could get out of this."
"Research? What kind?" Intrigued, Satoru whirled his chair around, giving his full attention.
"You're the genius here, think about it." He wasn't wrong; there was substantial research to be found when his replica interacted with others besides himself. A change of environment was an essential scientific process.
"It's a win-win. I get to get the fuck out of here, and you get to analyze or whatever you do," he bargained, hand pushing his hair out of the way, a habit Satoru quickly wrote down. Perhaps Satoru 2.0 wasn't completely asinine.
"Fine, but you must report back everything. Interactions, behaviors, everything."
"Whatever, whatever." Satoru 2.0 lost no time readying himself, taking Satoru's spare phone. He seemed to work the technology just fine.
—
When he arrived, he didn't expect his nerd ass counterpart to know more than 4 people, himself included. To his surprise, a man with brown hair met him at the door, thoroughly shocked to see his face.
"S-Satoru?! No way— I didn't think you'd show up!" Haibara said, a name Satoru soon learned as he led him into the house. A smell Satoru had savored after he's been stuck in that lame apartment. It was just as good hearing his own name rather than 'Satoru 2.0'.
"You look so different, man, what's with the switch up?" he asked, pouring him a concoction from a jug into a red solo cup. "Almost didn't recognise you," he laughed.
Satoru shrugged, taking the cup and throwing back half of it in one go. The burn was welcome. "Needed a change of pace. Been cooped up too long."
Haibara's eyes went wide. "Dude, you never drink. Last time someone tried to get you to take a shot, you gave them a twenty-minute lecture on ethyl alcohol's effect on synaptic transmission."
"People change," he smirked.
The party was everything Satoru had been craving. Bodies pressed together, bass vibrating through the floorboards, the sticky-sweet smell of cheap alcohol.
This was living. This was what that lab rat was missing out on while he categorized his fucking beakers by size and color. He genuinely did not see the allure; while he nerded out over aspects of life, he would be living it out in this strange place.
He'd been working the room for about an hour, charming his way through clusters of people who apparently knew "Satoru" but couldn't quite place this version of him. The glasses were gone, for one.
Rolling the sleeves of the plain black t-shirt he'd found in the original's disappointing wardrobe. The shirt was too big on him—well, on them technically—but he'd made it work, the fabric draping in a way that suggested he'd just thrown it on without caring, which he had.
"Yo, 'Toru!" A voice cut through the noise, and he turned to find a guy with black frosted tips waving him over to a corner where a group had gathered around someone sitting on a couch. "Get over here, man. We're doing shots."
Now that caught his attention.
He sauntered over, pushing through the crowd with the easy confidence that apparently didn't come standard with his model. The weirdo probably would've stammered something about germ theory and backed away slowly. Fucking nerd.
And then he saw you.
You were sprawled across the couch, tiny skirt riding up just enough, legs stretched out with a red solo cup balanced on your thigh. Your eyes met his, and something sparked recognition, sure, but something else too. Interest.
"You're in my spot," he said, grinning down at you. Your long nails tapped the cup nervously, eyes glancing around as if you didn't know he was talking to you.
Your eyebrow furrowed. "Pretty sure I was here first."
"Yeah, but I'm prettier."
The laugh you gave him was worth the corny line. "You wish, Gojo."
So you knew his name, that's even more Interesting. Dweeb hadn't mentioned anyone worth mentioning, or anyone at all other than a scientist, but here you were, looking at him.
He was pretty sure you were not one of the figures Satoru spent hunched over his desk reading about. He dropped onto the couch beside you, closer than necessary, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours. "You gonna save me a shot, or what?"
You held up the cup between your legs. "Come get it."
—
Satoru left his seat, kneeling, spreading your legs as he placed the shot in between your thighs, your skirt hiking up to reveal more of your thighs. You almost didn't recognise him in his new get-up or attitude.
"Don't be shy, baby." He smirked. You didn't even know the dorky little shit could ever be like this. So charming, sexy.
His hands covered the tops of your thighs, head dipping lower to the plastic red solo cup rested in-between the the flesh.
He buried his head in your thighs, slurping the liquid from inside the cup. It was too much. He was really putting on a show. He was hot, and he knew it, just as much as he knew the answers to all the professor's questions.
Taking up all the class time he could, taking up as much space in between your ever-so shaky legs. It made you wonder if this was even the same guy, thought interrupted by his finger groping your thighs.
Your mind started to glitch, wondering what he would look like if there weren't as many people here, if your panties and skirt were off, and him licking up the wetness in your panties and not the cheap alcohol.
Fuck, you didn't even care if the others watched. You wouldn't usually get down in front of so many people, so suddenly, even. Did it really count as a record if you already knew him, spending most of the semester staring at his hair?
He was good eye candy, especially in a class you barely understood. Satoru wasn't your typical pick, well, not previously. The nerd thing was cute and all, but seeing him like this was making your pussy flutter.
His cerulean eyes look up at you, not behind a pair of thick glasses, watching you watch him. As if he were seeing your reaction.
The tips of his ears were tinged pink, even brighter in contrast with his bright white hair. You wanted to touch him so bad, take him away so that you could get the real thing.
Holding back, you lean your head back, holding your hand over your mouth to stop from saying something stupid or worse. The display was bordering on pornographic, which didn't bother you; you've done worse in worse places.
Satoru picked up the rim of the cup, tongue going up the sides, placing it flat to the rim.
Fuck...
The rest of the party blurred after that. He stayed glued to your side, hand finding your waist, then your thigh, then your waist again, like he couldn't decide where he wanted to touch but knew he needed to be touching you somewhere.
You learned things about him—about this side of him—that didn't match the guy from class at all. He reminded you of the frat guys you used to mess with, a lot smoother and a hell of a lot cuter.
You never met one who wasn't a dick for brains, at least.
But when you asked about class, about Professor Yaga's lecture on cellular biology, he went quiet for a beat too long before deflecting. "Don't wanna talk about school at a party, babe. That's against the rules."
That was suspicious to say the least, you would've thought, given the chance to 'nerd off', he'd take it happily. You brushed it off even as the thought lingered in your head.
You should've noticed then. Should've caught the discrepancy. But his hand had slipped lower, thumb tracing circles on the inside of your thigh, and rational thought had packed its bags and left the building.
He grinned, sharp and wolfish. "Made me wanna find out if you taste better than cheap vodka." You fell back onto the seat, pulling him with you.
When you mentioned you wanted a change of scenery, eyelashes falling low as you played with the thin chain around his neck. A move you have performed more times than you can count. Realisation dawned on his face as he led you to a car outside.
"Only one way to find out."
He didn't need more encouragement than that.
His mouth found your neck, teeth scraping against the sensitive skin there while his hands worked your top. Impatient. Desperate. Like he couldn't get you naked fast enough. You felt the same way, fingers fumbling with his belt, his jeans, needing to feel him, all of him, right now. Your patience was shorter than the skirt you were wearing.
"Fuck, you're so soft," he groaned against your collarbone, pushing your top aside to reveal the lace underneath. His thumb traced the edge of your bra, teasing, watching your face for every reaction. "Been thinking about these tits since I saw you on that couch. Wanna put my mouth all over 'em."
"Then do it."
He did.
His mouth was hot and wet and perfect, sucking marks into the swell of your breasts before finally, finally pulling down the lace and taking your nipple between his lips. You gasped, back arching off the bed, and he hummed in appreciation, the vibration making you squirm.
"That's it," he murmured against your skin. "Love how responsive you are. Gonna make you feel so good, baby."
His hand slid down your stomach, past the waistband of your skirt, fingers dipping between your thighs. You were already wet. "Fuck. You're soaked."
"Do something about it, Toru," you managed, breath hitching as his fingers found your clit through your panties.
He laughed, low and dirty. "I like the way you think."
He pulled back then, settling himself between your legs with a purpose that made your stomach flip.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of your thong, dragging them down your legs slowly, agonizingly slowly, watching the reveal like it was the best thing he'd seen all night.
"Pretty," he observed, running a thumb through your folds, spreading your wetness. "So fuckin' pretty."
He ate pussy like he was getting a grade for it. His tongue worked you with a rhythm that bordered on cruel, soft and teasing one moment, firm and demanding the next.
His fingers joined in, two of them sliding inside you with an ease that made you moan, made your hips buck against his face.
"You like that?" he asked, words muffled against your cunt. "Yeah, I can feel how much you like it. Squeezing my fingers so tight, baby." You couldn't form words, could only moan and grip his white hair—so soft, you'd wondered about that.
It was methodical in its intensity, thorough in a way that reminded you, absurdly, of how he answered questions in class. It made you wonder where he learned this from.
But there was nothing academic about the way he moaned against you, the way his tongue delved deeper, the way he looked up at you with those impossible blue eyes while he worked you toward the edge; you couldn't help but gush around him.
You never would have thought Satoru to be a messy eater; you didn't think him to be an eater at all, to be honest.
"Close," you gasped. "Fuck, 'toru, l'm close-"
He doubled down, fingers curling to hit that spot inside you while his mouth sucked your clit, and you shattered, crying out his name as you came on his tongue.
He didn't stop, didn't let up, worked you through every wave of it until you were shaking, oversensitive, pushing at his head. Both of you were interrupted by the ringing of his phone, tempted to ignore it till he saw the name displayed at the top. Picking up the phone, much to your dismay, he started typing viciously, irritation visibly growing on his face.
"Hate to say this, babe, but we gotta cut this short, 'kay." He grumbled, shutting the phone off and stuffing it in his back pocket. He licked up the rest of your release and pulled up your panties and skirt skillfully. You exited his car satisfied but thoroughly confused as he drove off with a wink and a wave.
What the hell?!
—
When he got back to the apartment, Satoru was waiting up like an excited puppy, notebook in hand. "Well?" he asked, practically vibrating. He wouldn't be surprised if he got off on research results."What did you observe? Any notable behavioral differences in the subjects? Did anyone suspect—"
"You really pick the worst time to call. I was in the middle of something super scientific." He pouted, "I got laid," Satoru announced, just to watch his counterpart's face crumple.
"You WHAT? The experiment was for observational purposes only, not for—"
"Relax, nerd. I didn't actually sleep with anyone." He tossed himself onto the sofa, grinning at the ceiling. It was not a total lie; he didn't sleep with anyone, as close as he was to doing so, until Satoru called. "But I did meet someone." he technically met a lot of people.
Satoru's pen stopped moving. "Who?"
The replica started describing you, leaving out some details like the body shot and eating you out; the dork didn't need to know everything. "I talked to her tonight. Got her number."
"She's in my Bioethics class…you're kidding?"
"Relax, I'm not gonna steal your girl. She seemed pretty into us, bro." he leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
Satoru blinked behind his glasses, as if that thought never crossed his mind. "She did?"
"Oh yeah, super into you, can't believe you didn't hit that yet." he paused, "You know if you like her, I got you a hell of a start. If not, this may help your experiment."
"I never said that." Satoru shook his head, thinking for a moment. "I guess it wouldn't hurt..."
"I am great, I know." He pulled out the phone, scrolling to your contact. "Here. Text her tomorrow. Ask her to study or some shit. Don't know how far your nerd-ass will make it though."
"My nerd-ass has worked perfectly fine for twenty-two years."
"Yeah, and look where it's gotten you." Satoru gestured vaguely at the apartment, the stacks of books, the half-finished experiments, the single bed in the corner. "Alone with your Digimon cards."
"They're not cards, they're- you know what, never mind." Satoru took the phone, staring at your name. "And you're sure she... she seemed interested? Unwilling participants are never fun."
"Bro." He laughed, just slightly. "Take my word, she's interested as hell."
ー
It took a week for Satoru to say anything to you. Guys like him, you assumed he would be texting by the time you were pulling your panties back up.
Hey, it's Satoru. From class. I know this is random, but I was wondering if you wanted to study together sometime? There's a coffee shop near campus that's pretty quiet.
You stared at the message for a solid thirty seconds. After the party last week, you'd half convinced yourself it was a dream. But here he was. Texting you.
Sure, it pissed you off that he was now texting you, but you typed back, fingers moving with speed. He never bothered saying anything to you all semester; you were suspicious, to say the least.
If this was his way of getting into your pants, you'd give it a chance. Less blatant than many other attempts to get with you. It's better than a dick pic, you were curious about what was under those khakis though…
When were you thinking?
His response was immediate. Tomorrow? Around 2? I'll send you the address.
Tomorrow. He wanted to see you tomorrow.
Although you were planning on going shopping, checking out the new clothing store that opened at the mall. You'd been waiting for them to open, but you could postpone your shopping trip.
You spent the next twenty-four hours in a state of barely contained anticipation. It's not like this was your first dick appointment, but you knew what to expect. Satoru was different than your usual types.
A café wasn't your typical spot, but you could work with it. Changing your outfit four times before settling on something casual but cute and easy to take off.
The coffee shop was exactly the kind of place you'd expect him to like: quiet, filled with the smell of old books and fresh espresso, cozy corners with overstuffed chairs. You spotted him immediately, tucked away at a table near the window, laptop open, glasses perched on his nose, looking so fucking adorable.
"Hey," you breathed, sliding into the chair across from him.
He looked up, and for a moment, his expression was polite. "Hey. You came."
"Of course I came. I said I would."
"Right. Yeah. Of course." He pushed his glasses up, a nervous habit you were starting to find endearing. "I, uh- I got you a drink. I didn't know what you liked, so I got you a vanilla latte. That's what most people seem to— but if you don't like vanilla I can get you something else, I just didn't want you to have to wait in line and-"
"Satoru." You couldn't help but smile. "Vanilla latte is perfect. Thank you."
"Oh. Good. Good." He nodded a smile, stretching his lips slightly. "So, um. Bioethics. Chapter six?"
You studied together for two hours, and somewhere between discussing utilitarian approaches to medical resource allocation and him explaining the difference between deontological and consequentialist ethics with hand gestures that somehow helped you understand the concept further.
Your leg bounced under the table. His change from the other day was confusing. It was like whiplash trying to deal with the thoughts racing through your mind. The most repetitive one being, what the hell?
He looked so cute in his flannel and glasses, much different from the other day, but still hot. You wanted to pounce on him till you forgot his name.
You didn't do that, obviously. But you thought about it.
"Same time next week?" he asked as you packed up.
"Yeah," you said, a little confused. No offer to head to the back or to his place. "Same time next week." You couldn't believe you spent two hours getting ready to study.
The texts started slowly at first. Him sending you articles he thought you'd find interesting. He sends memes that make you laugh. Gradually, they became more frequent.
Good morning texts. Goodnight texts that made your heart clench. No unsolicited nudes or any flirtatious messages, it was puzzling.
When the coffee shop that both of you frequented was closed, and he offered that you come over instead, you took the opportunity immediately.
His apartment was huge, much more than an average college student would be able to pay for. You didn't question it, slipping your heels off. He led you inside to the couch, where he had an area set up for both of you to study.
Today, he had ditched the flannel and wore a crewneck sweater. You scooted a little closer to him on the couch. He looked through the textbook trying to find a particular page. Humming when he finally found it.
Throughout the study session, you took the first step and gradually touched him. You thought it was the alcohol that made him so bold; you can work with shy guys.
At first, his hands, your nails tracing over his veins, and then his hair, playing with the short hair of his undercut. He didn't seem to mind in the slightest, letting your hands wander where they wanted.
You did as little as graze his collar, and he was nose deep in your panties, now his little playboy exterior missing, and he was acting like you weren't even there.
"And this…" He paused, laughing slightly. "You're not even listening."
"I am." You lied, making eye contact with him. You haven't been listening for about an hour now, responding with hums. You liked the sound of his voice as he explained topics. You'll have him go over them later anyway, not like you'll be listening then either.
"Then what did I say?" He asked, putting a page through the textbook before closing it shut. He waited for a moment for your response, "See, I knew you weren't listening, starting to think you didn't come over just to study," he stated simply.
Duh, you don't usually put this much effort in, not like you ever had to anyway, men are easy.
"If I didn't?" you leaned in closer, tilting your head just slightly. Your eyes glancing down towards his plump lips, you didn't even get to kiss him last time. Lifting from your knees, you kissed him on the side of his mouth.
He froze, mind visibly thinking about what to do next. It was simply a test, but he pulled you closer onto him, practically on top of his lap. His lips were soft, tongue exploring the inside of your mouth.
You moaned into his touch, hips grinding against him. You broke away, a string of saliva connecting your mouths. You traveled down your neck, leaving hickies in your wake.
It's immediate, the way his hips buck up into you, his bulge pressing right against your core through both your clothes, and he groans in the air, the fresh mark you're sucking into his throat.
One hand squeezing your ass while the other is splaying across your lower back, pressing you harder against him. His touch was awkward, like he didn't know where to touch.
You roll your hips experimentally, whimpering when the friction hits just right, and his whole body tenses beneath you. His head falls back against the couch cushion, exposing the long column of his throat, and you watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows thickly.
Those bright blue eyes behind his glasses crack open just to stare up at you, pupils blown so wide the blue is barely visible.
"That's it," he breathes, and his hands are pushing up the hem of your shirt, leading his hands as you shove the thin fabric off over your head.
Bringing his hands to your breast— just barely shaking against your lace-covered tits. You don't even bother with the clasp— yanking your bra down, spilling your tits out into the open air, and his mouth is on them before you can process the loss of fabric.
Wet and hot and desperate, tongue dragging over your nipple while his fingers work the other, pinching and rolling. He lacked the same technique you seen before, instead slobbering over your tits.
His sweater is in the way. Too much fabric, too soft, too there when you need to feel his skin, see what has been hiding under his baggy clothes. You tug at it, and he pulls back just long enough to rip it over his head, white hair staticky and wild, and god—he's huge. Broad shoulders, thick chest, arms that make you feel tiny even straddling his lap like this.
You run your hands down his pecs, over the faint trail of hair disappearing below his waistband, and he shudders.
That phone call better have been worth it for him to take this from you.
"Yeah, touch me," he huffs, grabbing your wrists and pressing your palms flat against his stomach.
You grind down again, and his hips stutter up, his thick length pressing against your clothed cunt in a way that makes stars pop behind your eyes.
The friction is everything—denim rubbing against denim, the seam of his jeans catching right on your clit as you rock against him. His hands fly to your hips, guiding, controlling, forcing you down harder and faster until you're both panting.
"Shit-" He chokes, head dropping forward to watch the place where your bodies meet. You follow his gaze and see the way his cock strains against his jeans, the dark spot of pre-cum already soaking through, your hips move in frantic little circles trying to get more pressure exactly where you need it.
"'Toru-"
"I know, I know." He leans up to catch your mouth again, all spit and tongue and messy, open-mouthed kisses that leave both of you gasping. His hands slip down, grabbing your ass and spreading you open over his lap, and the new angle makes you see white.
You're grinding right against his length, the ridge of it catching your clit with every roll of your hips, and you can feel the coil tightening low in your belly.
He must feel it too—how close you are—because his grip turns bruising, forcing you to keep the pace even when you're shaking. "Don't stop," he stutters against your lips.
You nod frantically, unable to form words, too focused on the pressure building and building and building.
His teeth sink into your bottom lip, and that's it—the coil snaps and you're coming undone on top of him, grinding through it while he groans against your mouth and his hips jerk up helplessly beneath you.
Your vision goes spotty, coming down from your high gradually. Slumped against his chest and trembling, you feel him shake beneath you. Look down and see his jaw clenched, veins prominent in his neck, eyes squeezed shut.
"Your turn," you whisper, and you meant to sound sexy, but it comes out wrecked. Neither of you had heard the door open, and the figure standing there watching the scene unfold.
"Damn you actually did it…" Satoru stood by the door with a shocked grin on his face. You froze, your cloudy haze clearing up at the sight of two Satorus. "Y'know, I was about to complain about how dumb your classes are, but…" he whistled.
Were you losing your mind?! Sure, your orgasm was pretty damn good, but nowhere near hallucinating.
Panicked, you climbed off of Satoru, whose hands you had to swipe off of you. Satoru's nonchalance wasn't helping, as you tried covering yourself from the man at the door.
"You have the worst timing…" Satoru groaned beside you.
"You're one to talk. I was in the middle of working my magic when you decided to call over some bullshit, payback bitch."
While the two of them went at it, you were left completely dumbfounded. "Satoru?" Both of them answered, "What the hell is going on? You have a twin?" Two Gojos, standing in the same room, looking at you with expressions that ranged from inconvenienced to proud.
You stared in shock at the two men. Well, not one but two Satorus, according to both of them. That would explain why the weird behavior and why he looked so different when you saw him outside of classes and studying. "So... you're the same person?" you examined, looking between them.
"Pretty much, Alstein over here mixed the wrong shit up," he affirmed. "I wouldn't say 'same', I am nothing like him," Satoru replied, denying any accusation that he was anything like his replica.
You nodded cautiously. You may not be the smartest person in the world, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that this was insane.
"And you're just…... okay with this?" you asked, gesturing between them. "With him running around pretending to be you?"
Satoru shrugged. "It's been useful for research, when he's not trying to burn my flannels, at least. I wouldn't say he was pretending to be me, when he technically is me." He looked back at the other man, "on a biological level at least." He added scornfully. The other didn't fail flipping him off, picking up on his more than arrogant tone.
"They're an abomination against fashion." Satoru 2.0 shuddered dramatically. "Seriously, wear something else, your taste is ass."
"I like flannels."
"Again, zero fucking taste."
You couldn't help the exasperated laugh that escaped. It was absurd, standing here with two identical men arguing about fashion choices like one of them hadn't created an entire clone of himself. If he wasn't lying at least.
"So all those times at the parties, and the car," you said slowly, looking at the clone. "That was you."
"Guilty." He didn't look regretful at all, pretty proud himself. "There's no way this virgin has these skills, babe," he gestured, poking his tongue out playfully.
"The car?" Satoru looked between you, "What happened in the car?"
"The first time I got out, ate her out in the car, before you woefully interrupted." Satoru sighed, reminiscing on the moment as his eyes looked toward your breast, his gaze was anything but polite.
"You couldn't have said something two weeks ago; now I have to go back and add that to the data log." Satoru glared, rubbing his temples.
"Don't get distracted, assholes. I would have preferred not getting involved in this 'experiment'." You used your fingers to add quotations around experiment. "And all the study sessions?" You turned to the real Satoru.
"Correct." That would explain why he wasn't as eager to get in your pants compared to his counterpart.
"And the texts?"
They exchanged a look. "Uh," Satoru mumbled. "That was... both of us. Sometimes."
"Bro- babe," the other started, "think about it, you're like a research assistant, y'know." He tried to make the situation seem better than it was. You couldn't deny it; it was pretty fucking cool that he made a clone of himself, but that didn't negate the fact that you were just an unknowing subject in their schemes.
"Is that what this is? Research?" Both of them nodded cautiously. You should storm out, block them, and pretend this never happened. Go to the mall as you would have, instead of messing with these two. But then the cruel thought of missing out on two Satoru's crossed your mind.
You had worked hard fake studying to get in Satoru's pants, and his little clone wasn't half bad at giving head. Groaning, you prayed you would not regret this. "Fuck it, you better credit me in your paper."
You've already made it this far.
"You'll be in the acknowledgements, I promise," Satoru—the real one—grins, surprised by your response, and it's that same infuriatingly charming smile that made you get onto his couch and car in the first place. "But uh, we might need to collect a little more data first."
His clone's already moving before you can process the words, sliding onto the couch behind you while the original stays in front. You're trapped between two identical bodies, two sets of impossible blue eyes watching you with matching intensity.
"Wait—" The protest dies in your throat when four hands find your skin simultaneously.
The one behind you—Satoru, you need to start calling them something—drags his nose up the curve of your spine, breathes hot against your vertebrae. "Smell so good," he murmurs against your shoulder blade.
The real Satoru cups your face, tilting it up to meet his gaze. His thumb traces your swollen bottom lip, and you hate how your body responds, how your nipples peak under the clone's wandering hands. "I—" You gasp when his mouth closes over the junction of your neck and shoulder, sucking hard enough to bruise. "Fuck."
"That's not a no." The real one's eyes crinkle with amusement. He leans in, kisses you slow and deep while his twin—clone—whatever—works his way down your back. Teeth scrape against your shoulder blade, your spine, the dip just above the swell of your ass.
You break the kiss with Toru— you decided to call him that. He didn't seem to mind— his hands spread your cheeks apart, when you feel his breath against your sensitive rim.
"Look at that," one murmurs, and you can hear the grin in his voice. "She's already dripping. You think she wants my mouth here, too?"
"Only one way to find out." Satoru's watching over your shoulder, eyes darkening as his replica drags his tongue through your folds from behind, a long, slow stripe that makes your knees buckle. You missed his tongue.
"Fuck-" The word punches out of you as Toru's tongue circles your clit, then dips lower, presses against your entrance, then lower still—"Oh god, what are you—"
He answers by licking into you from behind, tongue flat and hot against that tight ring of muscle, and your brain short-circuits completely.
"That's it." Satoru's got his forehead pressed to yours, watching your eyes go wide and glassy. "Lay back." You don't have a choice—Satoru's hands guide you down until you're flat on the couch, and then they're positioning you however they want, rolling you onto your stomach and pulling your hips up until you're on your knees with your face pressed into the cushions.
"Perfect," someone breathes. Could be either of them. "Look at this view."
Something slick and cool drips down your crack—lube, you realize, lots of it—and then fingers are spreading you open, exposing you completely.
"Who wants first?" Satoru's voice, from somewhere to your left.
"She squirted on my face already. You owe me." Toru's right behind you, and you feel the thick head of his cock nudging against your wet folds.
"That was your choice. You could've fucked her anytime."
"And miss watching her come apart on my tongue? Never." He pushes in just an inch, just the tip, and you whimper into the pillow, your hole clenched around nothing, anticipating him. "But now I want to feel that tight little pussy squeezing me while I fill her up."
"Greedy," he scoffs. "Fine. But I get her mouth." Satoru's on his back now, cock standing wet and ready. Your mouth waters, tongue flicking at the slit before taking him into your mouth. He moaned, your tongue swirling around his cock expertly.
Toru, behind you, groans against your cunt, the vibration shooting straight up your spine and making you moan around the real Satoru's cock. Your thighs tremble on either side of that beautiful face, and you feel his tongue curl inside you.
"Shit—" Satoru's head falls back, hips twitching, and you feel him hit the back of your throat. "Y-you're amazing." You hum around him, sending vibrations to his cock, only making him gasp louder.
Toru pulls his mouth away just long enough to gasp, "Don't make him cum too fast, babe." Then he's diving back in, tongue stiff and pointed, fucking into your dripping hole while his nose bumps against your hole with every movement.
You're caught between them, suspended in pleasure. Every time you try to focus on sucking Satoru's cock, the clone does something devastating with his tongue that makes your throat clench and your vision blur.
Every time you try to rock back against that perfect mouth, the other pushes your head further down, cock hitting the back of your throat.
"Look at me." Satoru tugs your hair, just enough to drag your eyes up to his. They're almost completely black, pupils blown wide behind his thick glasses, cheeks flushed. "That's it. That's so fucking good."
Behind you, his replica's hands grip your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises. He pulls you down onto his face like you're nothing but a toy for his mouth, tongue plunging deep, then retreating to lap at your clit in quick, cruel circles.
You come with a broken scream around Satoru's length, your entire body convulsing, and you feel Toru behind you groan against your pulsing cunt, feel him drink everything you give him like it's the finest thing he's ever tasted.
Close, Satoru tried to pull your head off of him, you stay planted, he cums down your throat in warm spurts.
His thighs twitching under your grip, it didn't taste bad, slightly sweet even. "Jesus Christ." He falls back against the couch cushions, chest heaving. "That was-"
"Not done." Satoru's voice was determined. He's sitting up now, pulling you into his lap, and you feel his cock—still hard, still leaking— press against your soaked folds. " I'ma show you how it's done, virgin."
Satoru's eyes light up despite his recent orgasm. "How many times- I'm not a virgin." He leans forward, cups your face, kisses you slow and deep— the taste of his cum still lingering.
You nod frantically. "Fuck me, Toru." Hands finding his condom-covered cock, making slow strokes. At least he knew better.
"God- love your voice, baby." Toru's hands guide your hips, and you sink down onto him in one long, wet slide. "Ohhhh fuck- yes so tight, so fucking tight-"
You can't help the sounds you make, can't help the way your head falls back and your mouth drops open. The stretch was dizzying but so delicious. You hadn't been fucked good in weeks, savoring the feeling of his cock stretching your walls. He's so thick, so deep, and the angle lets him hit somewhere inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyes.
"Look at that." Satoru's voice is awed. He's stroking himself again, already hardening at the sight of his twin fucking you slow and deep. "How perfect she looks stretched around our cock."
Our cock. The word shouldn't make you wetter, shouldn't make you gush on his length until he groans and grips your hips hard enough to bruise. But it does.
God, it does.
"Don't cum in two pumps, virgin."
"N-not a virgin, dickhead." Satoru groaned. "Ride her." Watching with hungry eyes. "Want to see you fuck her properly, or I'll do it myself."
The other obeys instantly—because of course he does, they're the same person, they share the same brain, the same desires. Even if they deny it, they are two sides of the same shiny coin. "You wish," He lifts you easily, almost casually, and starts bouncing you on his cock like you weigh nothing. "Like this?" Each word punches out of him with every thrust. "Like- fuck watching her tits bounce?"
"Yeah." Satoru's hand moves faster on his cock. "Just like that. Harder."
"We'll give him something actually useful to report, baby."
You're nothing but a toy between them, a perfect little hole for them to share, and the realization should horrify you, but instead it sends electricity crackling through every nerve. Toru fucks up into you brutally, no gentleness now, just pure need, and you can feel every inch of him dragging against your walls.
"Oh god—oh god, I'm gonna-"
"Not yet." Toru's hand wraps around your throat—not tight, just present. You hear Satoru move. Feel the couch shift. Then his mouth is on your shoulder, teeth sinking in, and his hand joins his twin's on your hip, fingers intertwining.
"Please-" It comes out broken, desperate. "Please, I need-"
"I know what you need." Toru's thrusts are losing rhythm, getting sloppier. "Feel that? Feel how close I am? Want to come?"
"Yes—yes, please-"
"Come with me, babe." He releases your throat, hand sliding down to press against your clit, circling roughly. "Come on my cock."
The command snaps something loose inside you. You come, clenching down so hard, Toru roars, and you feel him pulse inside you, hot and deep and endless. In front of you, Satoru comes, his release splashes across your stomach, warm and wet and marking you.
"So you can ejaculate…interesting," Satoru commented, noting it in his head to write down later.
You can't speak. Can't move. Can't do anything but slump between them, trembling, completely and utterly ruined. But they're not done with you yet. "Bedroom." Satoru's voice has an edge to it now, dark and hungry, that makes your pussy stir despite itself. "We're not done. Not even close."
The other lifts you easily, still half-hard inside you, and carries you toward the hallway. "Agreed. Need to try some things. Not the only one with hypotheses, dork."
"For science, of course," they say in perfect unison.
And despite everything—despite the ache in your knees and your juices dripping down your thighs and the absolute madness of this situation—you laugh. Then moan as the movement shifts his cock inside you. "For 'science', right…" you agree weakly.
They laid you out on Satoru's bed. The sheets are cool beneath your overheated skin, a brief respite before they're on you again—one on each side, bracketing your body with their heat.
Toru's already mouthing at your neck, sucking marks into the sensitive skin while his hand trails down your stomach. "Want to try something," he murmurs against your pulse. "Want to see if we can make you squirt together."
Your breath catches. "Together?"
Satoru grins, that familiar, charming smile, made infinitely more dangerous by the context. "He fucks you from behind. I'll be in front."
"It's basic physics," Toru adds, nipping at your collarbone. "Double the stimulation, double the pleasure. Or whatever."
"Quadruple, technically." Satoru's hands on your stomach, fingers intertwining. "Since there are two of us."
"Sure-" You swallow, try again. "Just get inside of me."
They move with the kind of synchronization that only comes from being literally the same person. The clone one positions himself at your back, cock brushing against your ass, while the real one lifts your hips and settles in front of you, his length sliding through your soaked folds teasingly.
"Ready?" Satoru says behind you, his voice is strained, barely holding onto control.
You answer by taking him deep into your pussy, moaning around him, and that's all the invitation the other needs. He pushes in in one smooth motion, seating himself completely against the other, and the world narrows to the feeling of being utterly, impossibly full.
His cock stretches you perfectly, reaches places you forgot existed, and every thrust presses him against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl.
Above you, Toru groans and thrusts deeper into your cunt. "Oh fuck-"
"Can feel her clenching around me." his thrusts are measured at first, controlled, like he's savoring every inch. "Every time you move, her pussy squeezes me l-like a fist."
They find a rhythm eventually— two bodies moving as one, using you between them. "Look at that." Satoru's voice is reverent. He's pulled back just enough to watch, to see both cock disappearing into you over and over. "Look at how well she takes us. Like she was made for this."
Toru's thrusts are getting harder, faster, and less controlled. "Fuck—she's getting tighter—she's close."
"And I'm the 'virgin', sure." But Satoru's eyes are half-lidded, his hips stuttering. "Want to feel her come on both of us at the same time."
The words alone might be enough to push you over. But then Satoru reaches down, fingers finding your clit and circling brutally, and Toru tangles his hand in your hair and holds you deep. You cum gasping.
You feel Toru moan above you, feel him pulse hot and deep inside your clenching walls. Satoru follows a second later, glasses crooked on his face, hips jerking as he paints your walls, and you realize neither wore a condom. Had it been any other moment, you would've cussed both of them out and broken their dicks off, clone or not.
When you finally come down, you're shaking. Actually shaking, muscles trembling uncontrollably as they ease you onto your back and arrange themselves on either side of you.
The day blurs into night in a haze of pleasure. They take turns— sometimes literally, swapping positions so seamlessly you can't tell who's inside you anymore.
Sometimes they're both inside you, one in your cunt and one in your mouth, or one fucking you while the other watches and whispers filthy things in your ear.
—
You're in the shower— finally, blessedly cleaning up— when the curtain slides open and two identical bodies crowd in behind you. The water's hot, the steam thick, and their hands are everywhere at once.
"Thought we'd help." His voice is innocent, but his cock pressing against your ass is anything but.
"Make sure you get really clean." One in front of you, hands soaping up your breasts, your stomach, sliding lower between your legs.
You lean back against the other's chest, let the water cascade over you while the clone's hands grip your hips, steadying you as you lift one leg over the real one's shoulder, then the other. He supports your weight easily, holding you suspended while the others cock aligns with your entrance.
"Look at that," the one holding you breathes. "She's gaping a little from earlier."
"Let me see." Behind you, peers over your shoulder. "Oh. Oh, fuck. She really is."
The one holding you—you think it's the real one, but honestly, they keep switching, and you're too fucked out to tell—tilts his head. "I bet we could both fit."
"What?" Your voice comes out strangled.
The other behind you hums thoughtfully, his thumb tracing down your spine, over your tailbone, pressing gently at your tightest ring of muscle. "He's right. You're so warm and stretched already from 'Toru fucking you."
"Oh, I'm not 2.0 anymore? You got real influence, baby." Toru is holding you nuzzles against your inner thigh, tongue darting out to taste where the others' cum is still dripping from you despite the shower washing it away. "You can take more. You're a greedy girl, aren't you? Wanting both of us?"
Toru's cock slides between your cheeks, not entering, just... resting there, hot and heavy against your tightest hole while Satoru's tip nudges at your weeping cunt.
"Whatcha think, sweetheart?" They ask in unison, and the effect is devastating.
"Please put them inside me. Both of you."
"See? Told you she'd say yes."
Toru, behind you, laughs, and the sound vibrates through his chest pressed against your back. "You owe me twenty bucks."
"You bet on whether I'd beg for you at the same time?" You're indignant for approximately half a second before his cock notches against your ass, and Satoru lines up with your cunt, and all higher brain function evaporates. They don't push in together. That would be too easy, too merciful. Instead, they take turns.
Satoru slides in first—just the tip, just enough to make your eyes roll back as your abused cunt clenches around him greedily. Then he stops, holds perfectly still while the other behind you presses forward, stretching your pussy inch by agonizing inch.
You cry out. The water swallows the sound, but they feel it, feel every vibration of your body as you're stretched wider than you've ever been.
"Shh, shh, you're okay." The one in front kisses your forehead, your nose, your lips, all tender and sweet, while his twin works his cock deeper into your ass. "You're doing so well, sweet girl. Taking us both. So fucking p-perfect."
Toru's hips meet your ass with a wet slap. "I'm in. Fuck, she's tight. She's so fucking tight around me."
"I know." he starts to move, shallow thrusts that have his cock sliding against the other's cock. One thrusts while the other holds still, then they switch, then they figure out how to move together, opposite directions, so one is pushing in while the other pulls out. "I'll be sure to write that down."
You're nothing but a moaning, drooling mess between them, held upright by two sets of strong arms, fucked from both ends by identical cocks in identical bodies with identical grunts falling from identical lips.
"Want to move to the bed," you manage to gasp out. "Want to see it. Want to watch."
They exchange a look over your head that communication thing that's so unsettling when you're not being split open on their dicks, and then you're being lifted, carried, still connected, still filled, water dripping everywhere as they maneuver you out of the shower and down the hall to the bedroom.
Satoru lies back on the bed, pulling you with him so you're straddling his hips, his cock still buried deep. The clone kneels behind you, positions himself, and pushes back in with a groan.
"Look down," Satoru whispers. "Watch us fuck you."
You look.
Between your legs, two identical cocks disappear into your body, your own flesh stretched thin around them. When they move—and they do, immediately, finding that rhythm again—you can see the bulge in your lower stomach, can see the way their cocks press against each other through you.
"That's me," Toru breathes, reaching around to press on that bulge. "That's my cock right there, fucking into your pussy. Can you feel it?"
You nod frantically, tears streaming down your face, drool dripping onto his chest. "I can feel both of you. I can feel—oh god, I can feel every-"
"Good." Satoru's hands grip your hips, start bouncing you on his cock while the other fucks into you from behind. "Want you to feel us for days. Want you to sit on his cock tomorrow and still feel me stretching you open."
The other laughs, breathless and wrecked. "Possessive much?"
"Shut up and fuck her."
He does. They both do. They take turns being gentle and rough, one whispering sweet praises while the other fucks into you like he's trying to split you in half.
They switch positions—you on your stomach, you on your side, you on top of one while the other takes you from behind—and through it all, they never stop talking.
"You're taking us so well, sweet girl."
"Look at that pretty pussy gripping my cock."
"Can you feel him twitch inside you? He's close, I can tell."
"Shut up, you're closer dickhead."
"Y-you're both-"
You come first, finally, spectacularly, squirting around their cocks while they fuck you through it, both of them groaning at the added wetness, at the way you clench and flutter around them. Satoru follows seconds later, filling your cunt with hot ropes of cum that leak out around his cock immediately.
Toru pistons into your pussy twice, three times, before he stills and you feel him emptying himself deep inside you.
Between their bodies, with their cum leaking out of both your holes onto the ruined sheets, you think maybe sharing isn't the worst idea in the world.
"Round whatever in an hour?" you ask hopefully. Both groan, but they're grinning. You settle back against the pillows, feeling thoroughly used and utterly satisfied. "I'm serious about that credit in your paper." At first, you didn't care that much; it wouldn't hurt having your name down in the history books.
Satoru slides his glasses on after cleaning the lenses. "You'll be the co-author, baby."
"I'm here too, ya know."
"Why would I credit you?" You close your eyes, letting their bickering wash over you like white noise. But looking at the two of them, still arguing while their hands never stop touching, you, one drawing circles on your hip, the other playing with your hair.
The best thing about having a wealthy friend isn't the endless flights to foreign countries or yacht trips the moment someone mentions "weekend." No, it's easy access to the expansive pool that sits in their backyard.
A private oasis that doesn't come with screaming children doing cannonballs, splashing constantly in your face, or worse, a subscription service.
On hot days like these, when the heat clinging to your skin, you can feel the irritation bubbling at the surface at any minor inconvenience.
The chill of a pool sends all your worries away. The water is always the perfect temperature, the expensive system keeping it neither too cold nor too warm.
Your apartment pool could never.
Thankfully, Satoru was willing to lounge around on floaties with you, his presence comforting despite his tendency to be annoying about fifty percent of the time. The other fifty percent makes it worth it, and today, that fifty percent is in full effect.
The sun beams down towards you, warming your backside as you lie flat on the clear inflatable that Satoru insists is "the superior floatie" because it lets you see the water beneath you.
Not that there's much to see besides the occasional leaf or the faint shimmer of the pool's blue iridescent tiles, but he seems to take great pride in his floatie collection.
Occasionally, Satoru will push your floatie towards the waterfalls that cascade into the pool, claiming he's just "helping you cool off" before splashing your hair to get it wet.
He tricked you once, claiming he was improving the angle so you could tan better, his voice full of faux sincerity—which you naively believed— only for cold, hard water to be dumped on your face from the waterfall.
You should have seen it coming from a mile away. His laugh echoed across the pool, and you craved revenge, but the free pool was too good to give up, so you let it slide. For now.
Anything for the free pool.
You could hear the water splashing as Satoru swam, his movements creating gentle ripples that disturbed your peaceful float.
Your floatie shifted, your body being pulled away from your perfect tanning spot, catching the optimal amount of rays without frying you to a crisp.
"Satoru, swear to god, if I feel a single drop of water, you're dead," you warned, lifting your head and pulling the sunglasses over your eyes so you weren't blinded by the sun.
"You're so scary," he laughed, elbows resting on the edge of your inflatable, his chin propped up on his arms. "You want a bomb pop?" he asked lightly. His tongue was already dyed purple, a telltale sign he seemed to have indulged himself in one already while you were busy sunbathing.
You were craving something sweet, your mouth watering at the thought of that icy, sugary goodness, so this was perfect timing.
His hair was tousled and wet with water, the white strands darkened to a soft silver where they were soaked through, and his skin was even a little tanned from the sun, a rare sight that made him look like a surfer from California.
The contrast was pretty on his white hair and cerulean eyes. You hummed, nodding your head, "Pull me back."
Obliging, Satoru pulled you with him to the pool's edge, his hands gripping the sides of your floatie with surprising care. Your floatie had traveled quite the distance across his expansive pool, and as you moved, you took in the sheer scale of his pool deck.
His home was beautiful; your own family's wealth wasn't anything to laugh at, but Gojo's was on a different planet entirely. He even had his own golf course named after him back home, a fact he brought up too casually.
You would jokingly call his family the Crazy Rich Gojo's when you found out how wealthy he was.
Your pool at home was nice, sure, but Satoru's was pretty damn close—if not better. The carefully curated landscaping that surrounded it, the infinity edge that made it look like the water went on forever. It was picturesque, residing in someone's dream home pinterest board.
Rolling over, you let the coolness of the floaty cool the warm skin on your back, the plastic slightly sticky from the heat but still refreshing. It felt nice, relaxing you further onto the floatie as you surrendered to the heat.
You kept your hand pressed to the ledge so you wouldn't float away again, your fingers gripping the edge.
You watched as Satoru climbed out of the pool, his body dripping wet from the chlorinated water, droplets cascading down his back in rivulets that caught the light. Even though you were in the deeper end, he didn't need to take the ladder; the pros of being tall meant he could just hoist himself up like it was nothing, muscles flexing with the effort.
It took a minute for him to come back with your sweet relief, his footsteps padding against the stone tiles as he made his way to the outdoor fridge. He carefully unwrapped the red, white, and blue bomb pop, holding two others in his hand.
Crouching down in front of you, his strong calves bending towards you, he waved the cold treat over your lips, the cool air touching your lips ever so slightly. You reached out to snatch it away, your fingers grazing the white wrapper, but he happened to be faster, pulling it back with a grin.
Holding the popsicle in the air, his arms reached higher than where you could grab it comfortably, his height advantage making this game incredibly unfair. He waved it back and forth, and you felt that familiar irritation prickle at your skin once again.
"Satoru, stop," you groaned, sitting up from the floatie to take it out of his hand, the movement causing water to slosh around you. You were planning on playing nice with him today, being the bigger person and all that, but he always found a way to scratch your nerves, pulling them taut until you snapped. Nevertheless, you enjoyed his company.
Knowing Satoru since your freshman year, through friends of friends who had somehow dragged both of you to the same party, you happened to become friends with Satoru; it felt practically inevitable.
When you first met him, you thought he was an egotistical prick. But the more you got to know him, the more you realized he wasn't that bad. He was there for you during breakups, letting you cry on his shoulders while he fed you ice cream and told you that your ex was "a shit loser anyway."
He was there for rough hangovers, making you drink water and bone broth even when you insisted you would die if you moved. He was there for late-night drives, windows down, music blasting, the two of you screaming lyrics at the top of your lungs like you were the only people on the quiet streets. The plentiful noise complaints proved you definitely weren't.
And you were there for him, even when he drunkenly threw up on your vintage Kelly, a bag you had gotten for your sixteenth birthday—She will be missed. He ended up buying you two more as an apology, one in the original color and one in a shade that matched your eyes, but still, Satoru was a great friend.
Even if the lines are blurred in the friend portion.
"Satoru, stop!" he mocked in a high-pitched voice, his impression of you absolutely terrible. You definitely didn't sound like that, and you snatched the already melting popsicle from his hands before he could pull it away again.
Your tongue hurriedly reached out to lick the melted juices, the sweet flavor exploding on your taste buds as you started from the base to the top, not wanting to waste a single drop. The UV was making it melt faster, so you took a bite out of the tip, crunching through the icy layers. Might as well eat it before the sun does first, you thought, chewing happily.
You hadn't noticed Satoru's gaze as he watched, his eyes fixed on your mouth, wincing slightly as you bit the bomb pop with more force than necessary.
"Don't look at me like that, you're double-fisting bomb pops over there," you rolled your eyes, lifting your glasses to the top of your head to get a better look at his face. His face was crunched up with a look of amusement.
"You're the freaky one," he mused, licking both of the popsicles at the same time, his tongue darting out to catch the melting drips with practiced ease.
You were tempted to bring up the time you found him and Suguru passed out on his bed with two other girls, a scene that had been burned into your memory forever, but you decided to let it slide. But you're the freaky one, right..
"Whatever," you said instead of bringing up his freak escapades, taking another bite of your bomb pop. You wouldn't let Satoru live that one down, but you'll live past his greed, saving that ammunition for a later date when you really need to win an argument.
"I feel bad for any of your victims," he said, his eyebrows furrowed in mock sadness, kissing up to the sky like he was praying for the souls of your hypothetical head receivers.
He sat down on the ledge, his legs dangling into the water, the ripples spreading outward from his movements.
"Luckily, there are none," you said, the words coming out louder than you intended.
He paused dramatically, his entire body freezing as he stared at your face to see if you were serious. Realizing you weren't lying, a smirk twitched at his lips, one that usually preceded with more irritating and unnecessary comments.
Much to the dismay of your many hookups, you had never given head before. Too nervous to mess up and bite someone's appendage off, you never tried. It was a confession you rarely made, one that usually got you a mix of shock and pity, but with Satoru, it felt different.
"Not even-" he started until you shook your head firmly, cutting him off. He thought for a second, his expression contemplative, before asking, "You want to practice?"
It's not like you haven't tried to practice before, using fruit and various objects in an attempt to gain some semblance of skill, but a banana is much different than a real dick. The texture, the shape, the way it moves—or lack thereof. It's just not the same.
You stared at him momentarily, thinking about his offer, your brain running through all the possible outcomes. It's not like neither of you had crossed lines before; you're the one who taught him how to make out with someone after he claimed he didn't know how.
A claim you still weren't sure was true or just an elaborate excuse to get you to kiss him.
Once, led to twice, and whenever either of you was feeling lonely enough, your lips would find his. It was convenient, and a line you had long since stopped pretending existed.
This wasn't much different, right?
"You'd really show me?" you questioned hesitantly. If you wanted to practice on a real person, you might as well do it with Satoru. He nodded, leaning closer to the edge, looking down towards you. His gaze was almost eager, excited maybe.
"Of course, I mean, what are friends for, right?" he tilted his head slightly, the sun catching the water droplets in his hair. He looked pretty, glittery even. "The same way you were eating that, just less biting, more sucking, and inside action." You nodded, taking in what he said patiently.
Lifting from your floatie, you climbed onto the sun-warm pool deck. Swallowing the rest of the bomb pop, you sat next to Satoru, ready on the ledge, your eyes hinting at the lounge chairs. He stared at you for a moment. "Oh- I see, yeah, over there m-might be better," he stuttered, getting up to go to the chairs.
He sat down on the much cooler chairs, shaded by the umbrellas from the sun. "Do I sit here?" You knelt on the pool deck's smooth concrete, your body kneeling between his spread legs.
He looked down at you, confused and partially nervous. "Don't tell me you're getting nervous about me, Satoru," you teased, laying your head on his knee.
"N-nervous? No, I was just… surprised," he muttered, clearing his throat, "Didn't think you meant practice on me." he paused for a moment, his empty hand carding through his hair.
"Not that I am opposed, practice makes perfect, you know?" he smiled, licking the remainder of his bomb pop.
"You expected me to practice on a bomb pop?" you chuckled. "I need to practice on something real," you sighed. By the hardness growing in Satoru's swim shorts, he definitely didn't seem opposed.
"Why? Tried before?" he half-joked, but you only glared at him; he didn't need to hear how you embarrassingly choked on a banana after it broke in your throat. "Well, first, you need to set the tone; it's better if the little guy is awake first," he instructed, handing you a pillow.
"Doesn't seem like you need any help with that," you murmured, getting more comfortable on the pillow.
"What can I say, I'm a healthy guy," he commented nonchalantly, the pink tinging his ears telling a different story. "You want to take it out," you followed, your hands nervously pulling at his trunks.
His breath hitched the second your fingers brushed against the waistband of his swim trunks, the fabric damp from the pool water he'd been lounging in moments before.
The bomb pop had long since melted down his hand, sticky sweetness dripping onto his knuckles, but he made no move to clean it off. His focus was entirely on you.
"There you go," he murmured, voice dropping as he lifted his hips just enough for you to tug the trunks down his thighs. His cock sprang free, already half-hard and flushed pink at the tip, curving slightly to the left. A bead of pre-cum glistened at the slit, catching the sunlight like a tiny pearl.
"Very healthy guy," you joked, trying to distract yourself from being too nervous. You swallowed, staring at it with wide eyes. It was big. Thick and long, veined and heavy, resting against his lower stomach with an almost casual weight.
Not really what would be your first as a beginner. You wouldn't boost his ego any further, or he might explode.
Your hand hovered over it, fingers trembling slightly, and Satoru's lips curled into that familiar smirk. "Don't just admire it, babe," he teased, reaching down to wrap his sticky fingers around yours, guiding your palm to wrap around his shaft. The heat of him seared against your skin, velvety smooth over rigid hardness. "You gotta touch it. Get familiar with it. Not gonna bite."
"Says you," you mumbled, but your fingers tightened experimentally, and his breath caught in his throat, a tiny, almost imperceptible hitch that made your confidence bloom.
"Start slow," he instructed, his voice a little rougher now, the playful edge sharpening. "Just... wrap your hand around it. Feel the weight. Get it, wet, get a rhythm going. Don't just-" You nodded, spitting onto the tip. You stroked him, once, clumsily, your grip too tight and your angle wrong. He winced, but the sound that escaped him wasn't entirely pained.
"Okay, okay," he laughed breathlessly, his head falling back against the lounge chair. "That's-that's a start. But loosen up. It's not a weapon, alright? Gentle. Like you're holding a baby bird."
"I've held birds; this does not feel like a bird," you shot back, but you adjusted, lightening your grip, letting your fingers slide down to his base and then back up. His hips twitched involuntarily, and you grinned at the reaction.
"There you go," he breathed, his hand coming up to card through his wet white hair, pushing it back from his forehead, his gaze making you even hotter. "Now, use your mouth. Just the tip, first. Get used to it."
You leaned forward, pressing a tentative kiss to the head of his cock. He tasted salty, like chlorine and sweat, and you found yourself licking your lips before you even realized what you were doing.
"Don't overthink it," he murmured, his hand dropping to rest gently on the back of your head, not pushing, just there. "Just take it slow. Let it- ah-"
You parted your lips and took him in, just the head at first, your tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge. His hips buckled up involuntarily, and you gagged, pulling off with a wet pop.
"Sorry, sorry," he panted, his cheeks flushed a pretty pink beneath the shade. "Fuck, you just-your mouth is really cold, okay? Give a guy some warning."
"Maybe you should give me some warning," you snorted.
"Fair enough," he conceded, "How about this, you get back down there, and I'll return the favor. Make it fair."
"Fair?" you echoed, your hand still wrapped around him, feeling the steady pulse of his heartbeat through the velvety skin. "You think you can keep quiet while I'm down here?"
Satoru's laugh was low, almost a purr, as he settled back into the lounge chair. His white lashes fluttered half-closed, those piercing blue eyes watching you through the slits. "I've kept quiet through worse."
Your thumb traced the ridge of his tip, spreading the glistening bead of pre-cum across the sensitive skin. His stomach muscles flinched, and you felt a surge of power at the small reaction. "Yeah, sure."
"Attagirl," he breathed, one large hand coming to rest on the back of your head again. His fingers resting gently in your hair. "Now, take a breath. Relax your jaw. You're thinking too much."
"How do you-"
"You're clenching your teeth," he interrupted, "I can feel it." You exhaled slowly, forcing your shoulders to drop, and leaned forward again. This time, when you took him into your mouth, you focused on the weight of him on your tongue. Your lips stretched around the head, and you hollowed your cheeks experimentally.
"Fuck," Satoru hissed, his fingers tightening in your hair. "Yeah, that's-that's good. Just like that. Don't try to take it all at once. Work your tongue."
You obeyed, swirling your tongue around the sensitive underside of his tip, tracing the little vein that ran along his shaft. His hips twitched again, but he held himself still, letting you explore at your own pace. His hand stayed heavy on your head, occasionally stroking your hair in a way that felt almost encouraging.
"Breathe through your nose," he instructed, his voice growing rougher. "And, mmngh- use your hand on what you can't fit in your mouth. Make it part of the same rhythm."
You pulled off with a wet sound, a string of saliva connecting your bottom lip to his flushed tip. "You're a lot better than a tiktok video."
Satoru's laugh was breathless, his chest heaving. "What am I not good at? Now get back down here before I get lonely." You rolled your eyes but complied, taking him back into your mouth with renewed determination. You wrapped your hand around the base and pumped in time with your bobbing head.
The angle was awkward, your neck starting to ache, but the way Satoru's breath hitched every time you took him deeper made it worth it.
"Sloppy," he murmured, his thumb stroking the shell of your ear. "Get sloppy. Use more spit. You're not trying to make it pretty, you're trying to make me come." You pulled off just long enough to gather a generous amount of saliva in your mouth, letting it drool down your chin and onto his shaft. The sight of it, the way his cock glistened in the dappled sunlight, made something hot curl in your belly.
You licked a stripe up the underside, from base to tip, and Satoru groaned, deep and guttural. You were starting to understand when your friends would remark that their mouths were watering.
"Fuck, okay, okay," he panted, his composure finally cracking. "You're a fast learner. That's—yeah, right there-"
You took him back into your mouth, deeper this time, pushing past the resistance in your throat. Your eyes watered, but you forced yourself to relax, just like he'd said. You focused on the sounds he was making: the broken moans, the way his breath stuttered, and the feedback loop of pleasure and power it created.
"That's it, baby," he crooned, his voice dropping into something silkier. "That's my good girl. Taking me so well, you're a natural, shit-" His hips bucked upward, and you gagged, pulling off with a cough. Saliva dripped down your chin, and you wiped at it with the back of your hand, glaring at him through watery eyes.
"Warning?" you croaked.
"Sorry, sorry," he panted, but he wasn't sorry at all. The smug look on his face was a dead giveaway, even as his chest heaved and his flush spread down to his collarbones. "You just got me excited."
"Asshole," you muttered, but you were already leaning back in, licking a slow, teasing stripe across his tip.
Satoru's hand tightened in your hair. "Watch your mouth, princess. Or I'll make you." The challenge in his voice sent a shiver down your spine.
You took him back into your mouth, sinking farther than before, feeling him hit the back of your throat. You held there for a moment, breathing through your nose, before pulling back and repeating the motion.
"That's it," he groaned, and his control was sliding, melting away with each bob of your head. "Just like that. You're doing so good, so good for me-" His grip tightened, guiding your pace faster, and you let him. You wanted this, wanted to push him over the edge, wanted to taste the proof of your progress.
His cock twitched in your mouth, opening your throat to take him deeper. "Fuuck-" he moaned loudly. He motioned for you to pull off, but you kept your head still. His seed sputtered onto your tongue. You held there for a moment as he caught his breath above you.
His cum didn't taste horrible, just foreign, a bit salty. Nevertheless, you swallowed. Wiping the outside of your mouth of spit.
"Did I do well?" You asked slowly, pulling his cock from your mouth.
"You- yeah, you did great," he breathed. Tossing the melted popsicle into the trash, licking his hand clean of the popsicle. "Since you did so well, let's make it fair."
Before you could ask what he meant, he was shifting, grabbing you by the hips and manhandling you with surprising strength, flipping you around until you were positioned over him, your knees on either side of his head, your face hovering above his already hard cock.
"Pretty skilled here too," he announced cheerfully, his voice muffled by the fact that he was already pressing his mouth to the inside of your thigh. "Best way to learn. You get to focus on your technique while I keep you...distracted."
"Distracted?" you squeaked, but the word dissolved into a moan as his tongue licked a broad stripe up your slit, through the thin fabric of your bikini bottoms. He hooked a finger under the material, pulling it aside, and the first real taste of you seemed to make him groan.
"Shit," he breathed against your cunt, his nose nudging your clit. "You taste better than those bomb pops."
"Focus, Satoru," you managed, your voice shaky as you lowered your head back down to his cock. "You're supposed to be teaching me."
"Right, right," he chuckled, the vibration of his laughter against your pussy making you jolt. "Then get to work, pretty girl. And remember-"He licked into you, slow and deliberate, "-tongue's your best friend. Use it."
You moaned, the sound vibrating around his shaft, and he groaned in response, his hips twitching up to meet your mouth.
You tried to remember his instructions: gentle, start slow, don't overthink it. It was hard when his tongue was doing that, curling inside you, tasting every inch of your slick heat.
"You're-" you gasped, pulling off his cock for a breath, "-you're not making this easy."
"Not supposed to be easy," he murmured against your folds, his lips brushing your clit with each word. "Supposed to be fun."
His thumb found your clit, rubbing lazy circles while his tongue dipped back inside you, and you cried out, your hips grinding down against his face without your permission.
He let out a pleased hum, his free hand coming up to grip your ass, squeezing the flesh hard enough to leave marks.
"That's it," he encouraged, his voice a low rumble. "Use those pretty hips. Ride my face." You took him back into your mouth, deeper this time, your head bobbing in a clumsy rhythm.
Your teeth scraped against him, and he hissed sharply. "Teeth, angel," he reminded you, his voice strained. "No teeth. Just lips and tongue."
You sucked hard, and his hips bucked, pushing himself deeper into your throat. You gagged, tears pricking at your eyes, but you didn't pull off. You were determined. "Good," he praised, his voice dripping with approval. "That's my girl. Taking it like a pro."
His tongue speared into you, and you moaned around his cock, the vibration making him shudder beneath you. His grip on your ass tightened, his hips thrusting up into your mouth in shallow, desperate little movements.
"Just like that," he breathed, his words muffled by your pussy. "Fuck, you're so beautiful. Suck it- yeah, just like that." You were drooling, strings of saliva connecting your lips to his shaft, your jaw aching, but you didn't care.
He pulled his mouth away from you for just a moment, his breath hot against your slick folds. "You're doing so well, sweetheart. Gonna make me cum again if you keep that up-" You doubled your efforts, taking him deeper, your hand pumping what your mouth couldn't reach. His hips bucked erratically, his fingers digging into your ass, his whole body tensing beneath you. "Fuck, fuck, fuck-"
He came with a choked cry, hot and thick down your throat, and you swallowed instinctively. He kept twitching in your mouth, his hips still jerking as you milked him through it, not pulling off until he went limp beneath you.
Although he had just come, he didn't let off. His moans vibrated against your cunt, pulling you closer and closer.
You barely had a moment to catch your breath before Satoru's tongue was back on you, lapping at your dripping folds like a man starved. His grip on your ass tightened, spreading you wider, and you felt the cool air against your slick skin before his mouth descended again.
"F-fuck, Satoru-" you gasped, your forehead dropping against his thigh. His cock was starting to grow half-hard beneath you, twitching against your cheek, and you could feel every pulse of his heartbeat through the velvet skin.
His tongue circled your clit, slow and deliberate, and your hips stuttered against his face. He laughed, the sound vibrating through you. "You're so responsive," he breathed, pulling back just enough to speak. "I can feel every little noise you make-" He licked a broad stripe up your slit. "-Don't think I can stop after this."
You cried out, your hips grinding down against his face without permission, and he groaned in approval. His hands gripped your ass harder, pulling you closer, and you could feel the wet sounds of his mouth against you; it was obscene. "'Toru-" you gasped, your hand tightening around his thighs.
His thumb found your clit, rubbing tight circles while his tongue plunged back inside you, and you shattered. Your orgasm hit you like a wave, your body convulsing above him, your mouth falling open in a silent scream.
You could feel him smiling against you, his tongue still working you through it, drawing out every last tremor.
"That's it," he cooed, his voice soft, almost tender. "That's my girl. Let go for me."
Your hips rocked against his face involuntarily, riding out the aftershocks, and he let you take what you needed. When you finally stilled, trembling and breathless, he pressed one last kiss to your clit before gently nudging you off him.
"Okay?" he asked, sitting up to wrap his arms around you. His voice was rough, but his eyes were soft as he looked at you, brushing a strand of hair from your face.
"Yeah," you managed, your voice hoarse. Turning towards him, you positioned your body over his lap. Your hips were still trembling from the aftershocks as you settled over his lap, the wet heat of your cunt sliding along the thick length of him. Satoru's hands found your waist immediately, fingers digging into the soft flesh there like he was grounding himself. His chest was heaving beneath you, that stupidly pretty face.
His grip on your waist tightens the moment you settle over him, fingers pressing bruises into your skin before he's even inside you. "Fuck," he breathes, the word coming out almost reverent. "You're gonna kill me, you know that?"
You don't answer with words, just roll your hips forward, letting the slick heat of your cunt drag along the underside of his cock. The sensation makes him hiss through his teeth, his head falling back against the lounge chair.
"Look at you," he murmurs, one hand leaving your waist to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward him. His thumb traces along your bottom lip, and you part your mouth instinctively, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of his skin. He groans.
"So fuckin' eager. That mouth of yours-" He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale as you sink down, just the tip, just enough to make him see stars. "Shit, baby. Don't tease."
"Thought you wanted me to take what I needed," you counter, voice breathy but carrying an edge of defiance. You lift your hips again, letting him slip out, watching the way his jaw tightens. "You said I could-"
"Sassy," he cuts you off, but there's a grin splitting his face, all teeth and mischief. His hands find your hips again, and this time he doesn't ask; he just guides you down, slow and steady, watching your face as he fills you inch by inch.
Your breath catches in your throat, fingers curling into his shoulders. The stretch is obscene, almost too much, but you take it, sinking down until you're flush against him, his cock buried to the hilt.
You moaned, feeling every ridge and vein of him inside you. Your hips start to move on their own, small, experimental circles that make him groan low in his chest.
His eyes flutter shut for a moment, and you take the opportunity to lean in, pressing your lips to the corner of his mouth. "Thank you," you murmur against his skin, and his eyes snap open. "Satoru-"
"Don't." His grip on your hips is almost bruising now. "Don't thank me, not when you're-" He bucks his hips up, just once, and the sudden jolt steals the breath from your lungs. "Not when you're doing this."
You laugh, breathless, and it dissolves into a moan as you start to move in earnest. Up and down, slow and deep, letting him watch the way your body takes him. His eyes are glued to where you're joined, watching the way your cunt glistens around his cock with every slide.
His thumbs trace patterns into your hips, not guiding, just feeling— like he can't get enough of the way your skin feels under his palms.
"Faster," he says after a moment. His voice is thick, almost strained, and there's a flush creeping up his neck. "Come on, pretty girl."
You raise an eyebrow, even as you pick up the pace. "What, you want me to-"
"I want you to ride me like you mean it." His hand comes down on your ass, sharp and sudden, and you jolt forward, a squeak escaping your throat. He grins, satisfied. "That's more like it. Now come on. Don't make me ask again."
You plant your hands on his chest, feeling the firm muscle beneath your palms, and you move. Hips rolling, thighs burning, you find a rhythm that has both of you gasping.
His head falls back again, his hands gripping your waist as you might disappear, and you feel it, the way his breathing quickens, his hips start to meet your thrusts with increasing urgency.
"Yeah," he breathes, and his voice is ragged now, all pretense of control gone. "Just like that. Fuck, baby, you feel so good-"
You lean down, pressing your forehead to his, your breath mingling. The position changes the angle, and you feel him hit something deep inside you that makes your vision white out for a second. Your nails dig into his chest, and he groans, snapping his hips up harder.
"Right there," you gasp, and he grins, that infuriatingly beautiful grin, because he knows. He knows exactly where you need him, and he's gonna give it to you. His hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced precision, and you cry out, your rhythm faltering.
"Don't stop," he commands, and his voice is a low growl now. "Don't you fucking stop, baby. You're so close, I can feel it. Just let go."
You're shaking, trembling, every muscle in your body tense as he works you higher and higher. He's watching your face, eyes dark and hungry, like he's memorizing every expression you make." 'Toru," you gasp, "I can't-"
"Yes, you can." His fingers on your clit are relentless, his hips driving up into you with a pace that's almost punishing. "You're gonna cum for me, aren't you? Gonna soak my cock like the good girl you are."
The words break you. Your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, your whole body seizing as you cry out his name. Your walls clenched around him, milking him, and he groaned, his hips stuttering as he followed you over the edge.
You feel the heat of him filling you, pulse after pulse, and the sensation sends another ripple of pleasure through your oversensitive body.
When you come back to yourself, you're collapsed against his chest, his arms wrapped around you like you're something precious. His heart is pounding against your ear, and you can feel his breath ruffling your hair.
"Fuck," he murmurs, and his voice is soft now, almost sleepy. "That was-"
"Stop talking," you mumble against his skin, but you're smiling. "You'll ruin the moment."
He laughs, and it's warm, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. "I just saved some lucky guy from getting his dick cut off, thanks to me." Smugness filling his tone.
You smacked his chest, playfully, your palm connecting with his pectoral in a light thump. "I would not do that," you rolled your eyes, but your hand stayed resting on his chest, your fingers splayed across the firm muscle.
It was soft, the skin warm and slightly damp, and you didn't feel like moving it. He didn't mind either, his fingers finding the strings of your bikini top and toying with them absently, twisting and untwisting the fabric.
"Let me use your shower. I feel disgusting," you groaned, the words muffled against his skin.
The chlorine and sweat had dried on your body, leaving you sticky and uncomfortable, your skin tight and pulling with every movement. The heat didn't make it any better, the sun still bearing down even as the afternoon wore on.
He nodded, his chin brushing against the top of your head as he played with strands of your hair, twirling them around his finger.
You missed his shower; the water pressure was perfect, hitting your shoulders with just the right amount of force.
You'd even set up the same one in your own apartment after the first time you used it, but it never quite felt the same. You were staying the night here anyway, not like Satoru was going to say no. He never did.
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