bsf Nerd! Toru fks you in the ass after Frat! Kuna breaks up with you
I always see Mr steal your girl Sukuna but I wanna see nerdy, whimpering, Digimon wearing Gojo wrecking our holes 💗 cracked out smut lmao - he studies this extensively for you!
How did you end up here, with Satoru Gojo - the biggest nerd in college and your childhood best friend - squirting a generous amount of lube on your ass, all down his thick cock, pressing inside and stretching you out? muttering your name like a mantra, his fingers pressed into your hips, glasses about to fall off his face?
Well, for starters - your ex boyfriend Sukuna broke your heart.
He ended up with some other girl over you, purely because she was the snow dealer, so it was quick he just brushed you aside- all of this when the night before he'd been fucking you with your back arched. Sukuna was always mean with it, pounding his thick length in your cunt, finger slipped in your other hole.
All that threatening to fuck you in the ass but he never did. He was just kind of awkward looking for a six foot five jock - when you caught him snorting lines with his new girl, at least he had the tact to break up with you before he let her sink to her knees and suck him, while you were walking back in to grab your keys.
So you go and have a good cry with your best friend, Satoru Gojo. The two of you were mathletes after all, until Sukuna you had it bad for him, but he never crossed that line. Forever in the friend zone you long gave up that crush - but he was right there for you when you knocked on his door tonight.
He has your favorite movie on, bought you your favorite wine, kissing your head so sweetly as you snuggle against him. His glasses are just a little askew when he pulls back, so you gently fix them on the straight bridge of his nose, sipping your glass and trying to just forget everything.
"You are so sweet to me Satoru," you murmur ever so softly, brushing your hand across his cheek. "I missed you lately."
Sukuna was jealous and possessive so you barely saw Satoru- especially since Sukuna was convinced the boy was in love with you.
Well he was.
So in love in fact - Satoru made sure that he still saw you every morning, even though you didn't see him. He'd sneak over where you got coffee every morning just to look at your beautiful face, to get a glimpse of you looking all cute, only to lose it when Sukuna had his hands all over you.
The endless nights of jerking it to you religiously, of knowing everything about you, of being your 'best friend' were torture. Now with you in his arms on the loveseat, your pretty eyes swimming with tears still, he can't help but want to tell you it all.
That he'd die just to sink to his knees and have your cunt in his face. That he'd love to breed your holes, all three of them, until you're pumped so full of his cum you'll never think of that asshole fratboy Sukuna again.
So of course when you needed a friend, Satoru was there. And when your back was aching from sleeping in a weird position last night, rubbing your neck just a bit and gasping in pain? He was more than ready to offer you a massage.
"Toru, are you sure," you're blushing a bit when you slip off your top, laying down on his bed, feeling pretty blue eyes study you behind thick glasses. Your tits are just in a little bra, the material so thin he can likely see everything. "You don't have to rub my back."
"Studied massage sweetheart," he slips his fingers down your spine. "I know all the pressure points."
Being oiled down and massaged by Satoru Gojo felt a little too good, you may be arching into it more than a friend should. Your hands grip his soft blankets, you feel his cock pressed against your ass when he straddles you, running his fingers down your spine, unknotting those tight muscles.
"Feels s'good, mnh," you're whining out so fucking sexy Satoru leaks pre in his Digimon boxers. He bites back a moan, moving his hands lower, until be eases down your shorts just a bit.
"This okay? You have a lot of tension in your lower back."
"Mm, yes it's fine, oh... nghh..." Satoru pauses, his fingers are brushing over the dimples right over the curve of your ass.
You're moaning, fuck. His cock is twitching now, that pretty pink tip spurting so much it's leaking onto his pants. His hands brush lower again, pressing into the curve of your ass, each cheek gripped by his hands.
"Hmm," the wine hits now, you're soaking wet and that warmth is spreading from your body. "Y'know what's funny, Toru?"
"What sweetheart," he murmurs, easing your shorts down more. "This okay?"
"S'perfect," you sigh, reaching down to slip your shorts even further, Satoru’s pulse jumps just like his cock when you're only in a thong, pretty ass on display. "Sukuna always said he was gonna fuck me there."
"Fuck you... oh..." Satoru runs his fingers down your slit, pressing against the fabric. "In your pretty pussy?"
"No," you giggle and look back at him, seeing his cheeks dusted with a pretty pink. "The other hole."
"Your ass huh," he laughs softly, furious he ever touched you. "He didn't?"
"No, guess he's fucking his new girls ass but... I'd be down to try? Is that super-"
Satoru darts off of you.
"Toru?" You lean up and blink. But Satoru's back with five different bottles of lube, holding them out and grinning at you.
"I have warming, cooling, this one is flavored, this is silicon based -" he pauses, seeing your flustered state, before sitting down, tilting your chin up and kissing you. "I should kiss you first, before I talk about lube huh?"
You bury your face in his chest, eyes shutting as he rubs your back gently. "Are you sure you wanna try this with me?"
Oh he's dreamed of fucking all your holes forever.
So that's how Satoru Gojo - your best friend - ends up with you arched in front of him, lapping at least two stripes from your clit to your ass first - he's a gentleman after all - and then pulling your cheeks apart. He bares your cute holes to him, watching them clench so adorably, before he spits right in you, watching the bubble clear mess trickle out and down to your pretty cunt.
"Oh y-you... ah!" He spreads his spit around, up on his knees now, when you feel a cold squirt right on it.
"I'll take such good care of you pretty," his fingers slip right inside your hole. Stretching it with their thickness, you whine out at the sensation, Satoru rests over you, a hand gripping your hair at the base of your neck. "Can you arch that pretty ass a little more for me?"
Fuck.
Satoru Gojo - your nerdy best friend - is curling those fingers with a mean precision, the pressure is so intense you almost pull back from it.
"Ah ah, don't tighten up, you're already doing such a good job," he leans over you, swiping your hair off one shoulder to place soothing little kisses. "You're taking them so well."
"Toru..." He grins when you relax, when it starts to feel so good, ass gripping his fingers so tight he can't imagine how good it'll be when it's strangling his cock. "Feels good... so... ah..."
"That's it," he chuckles then, pulling back and squirting more lube on your hole, you hear the sounds of his zipper and look back, blushing when you see just how huge his cock is, leaking streams of white that drip down the bed. "Good girl."
The first press of Satoru's pretty pink tip burns your unused hole, he's squirting even more and pulling your ass cheeks apart with the other hand, exhaling. And that's when it starts to feel so good. you may or may not have completely forgotten Sukuna when he's shoving his thick length in you deeper, easing so you feel every fucking inch.
Satoru has studied extensively for this very moment - and wastes no time in burying his cock to the hilt, his heavy balls ready to breed you smacking your empty cunt. He leans over you, reaching around to rub your clit, feeling you clamp down on him, the spurts of lube dripping down his inner thighs.
"Ah! S-so deep I... s'much, Toru..." Your head falls back against his hard chest, hands clinging to the blankets as he sits there buried, pelvis flush against your ass, letting you adjust.
"Takin' all of me, god I can't wait to breed all your holes," your eyes roll back when he begins to move, fucking you so deep - the burn so intense you're close with a few strokes and rolls of his fingertips.
"Breed me?"
"Mhm," he grins against your neck, fucking your ass harder, pulling back off your clit to take your fingers and put them right there so you feel it twitching. "There you go, touch yourself for me."
Sukuna who?
It's hard to remember that man when Satoru Gojo's cock was pummeling your ass, with messy smacks, all while your phone keeps going off. You're screaming into the blanket when your cunt drools and spasms around nothing, orgasm smacking you so hard, the squelches and slaps of skin echoing in Satoru's room.
"Hmm, wanna get that sweetheart?" he leans over, shoving his cock deep and bottoming out, you scream out then, as he grabs your phone, chuckling again.
Was he a nerd really or a psycho?
Maybe both.
"Ah, seems his coke dealer isn't good at head, tsk," he hands you the phone, as if your fucked out self can function or see, leaning over you with his blue eyes focused on the messages. How Satoru unlocked your phone you'll have to figure out later. "Should tell him who's fucking your ass, huh? Should we answer the facetime?"
"You're ins-sane..." But you look back, smiling and nodding.
Sukuna is furious when he sees Satoru fucking you from the back, but nothing makes him madder than when you moan out -
"Oh f-fuck, Toru! Be easy, you know I've n-never been fucked there!"
"The fuck!?" Sukuna is furious, but also you look sexy, he's still high off coke so he can't help but feel his cock twitch.
"You really fucked up, God she's taking me so well," he shoves in deep and Sukuna has to watch your eyes roll back. "Don't worry, I'll take real good care of her."
Feeling Satoru's cum flooding your hole has you gasping, his fingers pumping in your cunt and curling, having your ass just milk him for all he's worth. His balls contracting as he floods you with all that cum he's waited so long to, watching it pour out in milky streams down your needy cunt was just too perfect.
Sukuna may call you over and over, he may jerk off and snort so much coke he passes out - but Satoru is wide awake. After washing you up carefully in the shower, he makes sure to let you feel his cock in your cunt, fucking you on the shower wall, pouring even more cum, he's just kept so much for his best friend.
So much he doesn't stop when you're in bed with him, and when you're just too sore, you decide to give Gojo his first blow job. <3
Back aching, dragging swollen feet you pad across the living room towards your husband, satoru.
Approaching his slightly drowsy figure on the couch you call out his name. Slowly his sleepy gaze lifts and lights up at the sight of his 6 months pregnant wife.
“Hey…baby” his voice soft, gaze lingering at your swollen belly and the cute pout on your face.
“What’s wrong?” he questions standing up, hands automatically resting on your hips.
“Carry the baby for me” you huff out.
Satoru tilts his head amused at his wife’s command “I would honey, if I could I would turn into a male seahorse and carry all our children”.
You glare at him, too moody for his silly antics and proceed to turn around on your feet, his chest to your back.
“Give me your hands toru” and being the ever pleasing husband he is he abides.
Bending down you feel your husband in the crook of your neck watching you guide his hands under your belly.
Something clicks and he whispers “yes ma’am” as he lifts your belly gently with his large hands.
A sigh of content leaves your lips as the weight of the bump gets transferred to your husband momentarily.
After all carrying the strongest’s offspring is no easy task.
Satoru watches as you melt into his chest, snuggling into your neck and inhaling your scent.
“I wasn’t joking about the seahorse part” your chuckle vibrates against his chest, his heart beating faster as your warmth ruminates through him, your mood clearly elevated.
firefly; my first post ever! i’m so nervous posting my work hopefully i can improve my writing through this ❀ུ͏
It's your ten year high school reunion and there's just one person you're don't want to see, your first love - Satoru Gojo. He was the football captain, you were the cheerleader, it was that high school love that consumed you, only for it to all fall apart when Satoru broke your heart. Even after all these years, you still resent him for it, you hate him, in fact - so how do you two end up in the backseat of his sports car!?
˚⊹♡ pairings- ex bf! gojo x reader
˚⊹♡warnings- a little angsty, past emotions, high school sweethearts, you were a cheer captain and he was an allstar player, flashbacks, idiots in love, insecurities, teasing, mutual pining, longing, oral ( f receiving) fingering, squirting, riding him in the backseat, love confessions, happy ending <3
this one just randomly popped into my head out of nowhere, comments/rbs always appreciated if you enjoy! Wc- 7.3k
Art creds right here!
Ten years - it's been ten years since you saw him, your first love, your first kiss, the first everything.
High school reunion and truly the two of you look the same, he's a little buffer, his shoulders are broader, perhaps his jaw has sharpened ever so slightly - but it's undeniably him and you. Satoru Gojo - the top football player in the school and you - the pretty cheerleader who was always with him.
On him, near him, on top of him in the front seat of his sports car, smacking your head and giggling as he fucked up into you, stretching you out on his cock. He'd been sweet that first time, even as you all snuck around and parked in the middle of nowhere, even with the cramped confines.
Yet he'd been there - kissing you deep, messy and slow, pumping you up and down that veiny length as you took more and more from him, kissing you with his tongue ring clicking against your teeth. You'd whined out, desperately arching for more, shattering and fluttering your eyes shut.
The memories heat you up as you stand there across from him, trembling with your thighs pressed together, nails pressing into your palms, seeing him catching up with all his friends. He'd gone to university, but you'd gone out of state, and that was when it had all fallen apart.
The pain is there, lingering, eating at you - yet those feelings linger, the first love, the youth you all had where you couldn't get enough of each other, just for it all to end.
When those eerie blue eyes catch you across the room, however, he's not smirking, not laughing and shoving his friends, no he's got them locked on you now. Suguru and Nanami pause, peering over at you, then at each other, as you turn and rush to grab a drink.
You can't even stand to be in the same room with him after ten years.
You run into Shoko and Utahime, they give you a hug and the three of you throw back a shot, laughing a bit as you catch up with them.
“You two together, hmm?” Your lips twitch up in amusement, they look at each other and then kiss. “Stop that, you’re making me jealous!”
“Have you decided to stop being into men?”
“No I wish,” you pout and lean back, letting Shoko grab you another shot. “It’s been nothing but hell.”
“Another shithead?” Utahime asks, frowning a bit.
“Yeah, but it was three years…” You shake your head. “I shouldn’t talk about it, I’ll cry again, and I am not crying with Gojo at this party.”
“Ah, Gojo,” Utahime makes Shoko laugh. “What, I can’t stand him!”
“He’s not that bad, just an idiot,” she grabs her pack of cigarettes and starts smacking them on her palm, raising a dark brow as you look over at him, turning quickly when he catches you staring.
“You still have it bad, all these years, sweets?”
“No! Shoko!” You cover your face and shake your head. “Never again, I haven’t even spoken to him.”
“In ten years?” Shoko asks, surprise clear on her features.
“No, I’ve not even been in the country for five years, but he never reached out to me, and neither did I, aside from when his parents were sick and it was on the news. I did write to him, but he just… hearted it. I’m sure he had a lot going on.”
And that fucking hurt, that you couldn’t even comfort him, that you knew he faced a fuck ton of responsibilities now. Yet all these years Satoru hearted one of your photos, and reacted to the only message you sent – you swear the heart must have been a misclick, too.
It hurts so bad, that you were too stubborn to reach out in the darkest times, that he wouldn’t leave your memories. Sure – it faded, you went and got your master’s degree, you went abroad, now you’re back home, though, and you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d run into him somewhere. Yet, Satoru had been doing a lot of traveling himself this past year.
You’d know, you stalked his IG.
How pathetic after a decade to still want to know about him, but there was nothing to be done – since the breakup you’ve been even more so thinking of him.
Of how nothing ever felt like him touching you, him inside you, him looking at you the way he did. Yet it’s always overshadowed by the fact that you never heard him say those words, just three words that you craved so badly as a young girl. Even now, the words that spill from your lips never feel the same as that confession.
“He takes care of the company now, I think that’s hard for him.”
“He’s still just a dick,” Utahime says to Shoko, she laughs and shakes her head at her. “Sorry, but he is.”
“You two always hated each other,” you muse, peeking again to see him walking over. “Shit!”
“I’m… gonna smoke,” you gasp and Shoko grabs Utahime. “Outside… bye, baby!”
“You brats!” You hiss as they laugh and rush out, you tense as you smell his goddamn cologne the closer he gets.
Bergamot.
It was so distinctly him – even when he had none of it on, his smell on clean skin just did something – especially with raging hormones as a teenager. You clench your thighs just inhaling him, trying to ignore his very presence, but he’s already standing next to you, murmuring your name.
“Gojo.” He raises a brow, he’s just gotten hotter, his jaw is so cut it’s unfair, his blue eyes peeking at you.
Suddenly you’re nervous, tugging at your dress – you’re not eighteen anymore, your tits don’t sit up quite like they did, your hips widened, you’re just… different. And Satoru looks the same, if not more cut.
You become conscious of everything, almost holding your breath as he takes you in, smiling at you. His girl you’d seen him with was a fucking actress, you’re just a small town girl, nothing glamorous. Surely he wanted-
Why do you care what he wants?
Why is he sending you spiraling just coming near you?
“What do you want?” He sighs at that, the cocky grin off his face, easing back when you push at his chest just a bit, hand pausing before you tug it back, staring down into your drink.
“That’s the greeting I get, sweetheart? After a decade?”
“Should just smack you.”
“I’d probably like it,” you snort and roll your eyes, making his tentative little smile come back, sitting next to you. “Can’t I get a hi?”
“Hi,” you narrow your eyes now. “And bye.”
“God you’re mean,” he leans close, lips brushing against your ear, your heart hammers in your chest. “It’s hot on you.”
“You’re so full of it,” you lean back and sip your drink, narrowing your eyes at him. “As if you don’t have a girlfriend or five.”
“Yeah, no,” you raise a brow. “I was engaged, but that was over as of… let’s see,” he calculates in his head. “A month now.”
“Oh,” you frown, looking down at your own finger, the little change of color where the band once was. “Me too, but like two months.”
“Shit, I’m sorry,” you shrug a bit, seeing his eyes dart to your finger.
“He fucked my former best friend – and she got pregnant.”
“What!?”
“Yeah,” you throw back the rest of your wine, shaking your head. “Go ahead, laugh at it.”
“Why would I fucking do that?” You look at him and feel your heart pound in your chest at his face, at how he looks at you in that moment.
Fuck you missed him, didn’t you?
“You were mean then,” you whisper, and he falters, looking down, hurt clear on his features. “So mean to me at the end.”
“I know that,” it kills him to think of then, how upset he had been that you weren’t going to his university, the sheer upset of you moving, the fear of how desperately in love he was already.
He never even got to tell you.
His parents were pushing him to marry even back then, and it was anyone but you – a pretty middle class girl wasn’t up to ‘their standard’. It had killed him to try to keep up with that, but even so he never wanted to lose you – though he was scared shitless by what he felt for you, by the sheer obsession he had.
Even ten years ago he was searching for you, pictures of you where you’d moved, trying to keep tabs – fuck, last year he saw you with that fiance and almost got sick from it. His fiance was just someone his parents pushed enough, and with him having to take over their place soon, he’d gone along with it.
It’s not like he could ever love anyone after you.
There was nothing like what he felt, countless women underneath him, on top of him, bent over with their asses arched, but nothing came close to the breathless way he held you, how your lips brushed together. He wondered often if it was because you were his first love, you were so many of his firsts, no he wasn’t a virgin, but he didn’t do all the things you two did before you.
Before that it was awkward, fumbling around, he’d usually been so nervous he’d let the girls take the lead, but everything about you made him want to – the way you fell apart when he learned to eat pussy with every flick of his tongue on you. You didn’t know that, of course, he ended up being sort of a prodigy at it rather quickly.
Satoru may have been a jock, but he was also very much a nerd at heart, so he studied it all extensively – porn wasn’t even for jerking his cock, it was to learn how to make you squirt. It was to make his girlfriend feel good.
Satoru was good at making you cum.
Yet he failed in so many other areas of your relationship – royally failed, especially that day you said good bye at the airport, and he was so very fucking hurt by you. It rushes through his head – and is if he is on the same wavelength –you say it softly.
“That day at the airport, I can’t forget that,” you shake your head. “Call me petty, a ten year long grudge holder, I agree.”
“You’re not…” He trails off then, cupping your face in a way he shouldn’t.
How does Satoru remember your scent still? After a decade it’s as vivid as ever, the scent that if he even caught a whiff of it he’d search for you, even now.
That’s what scared him the most – how obsessed he was then.
How hopeless in love he was, and scared of getting hurt – only to hurt you.
*****
Ten years ago
You were trembling, tears streaming down your face – you get it, why Satoru didn’t think long distance could work, some fucking promise to be friends, but staring at him now has you furious. You see him holding back, his own eyes glassy with unshed tears, fists clenched at his sides.
“You’re happy I’m going far away,” you whisper, clutching your luggage as he glares.
“I’m not fucking happy, what?”
“You are,” you laugh then, swiping at your cheeks, hating those trails that revealed just how upset you were. “Why’d you take me here? To make the break up more permanent?”
“I don’t want to…” He didn’t want to lose you, it’s on the tip of his dumb ass eighteen your old brain to say it.
– I don’t want to lose you. –
Yet those words never spill – he just cups your face, thumb brushing a tear away, looking into the face of the girl he’s terrified of. He’s scared to feel it all, to lose you to someone, to be put under all that pressure to marry and cause you more pain. Then he didn’t truly know how to handle it.
“Wanted to feel better by saying goodbye?”
“We were friends for years before this,” he desperately cups your face, leaning low as the rush of people walk past you all, headed toward their flight, and the attendant is making her announcements. “I just want what’s best for you, how would us being across the country ever going to be okay?”
“I’d have made it work,” you had shut your eyes, tugged him close by his letterman’s jacket, the one you used to wear all the time after you both went on dates. He’d wrap it all around your shoulders, enveloping you in that scent, the warmth. Now it’s a cruel joke to have it underneath your fingers.
“I’m your first boyfriend, what if you…” He had swallowed down that bile in his throat at the thought. “What if you regret only being with me, what if you wanted more experience?”
“You think that?” You asked, lost in his eyes, unsure how he thinks you’d ever want a boy but him. “No, I-”
‘Boarding flight 111 now, five minutes to board.’
You curse, turning to leave when he slams his lips down on yours, and for just a moment you’re done for, you’re melting in his arms, hands slipping up his chest as he presses you right against one of the pillars, uncaring of who walked by. You meet his kisses, exhaling and letting his tongue slide in, the familiar barbell dancing on the roof of your mouth.
His hands are firm on your waist, pulling back and looking down at you. “I’m doing this for you.”
You glare then, shoving at him. “For me!? Leaving me?”
“You’re the one leaving!”
“No, I’m going to college, you’re the one who won’t try! I can’t believe I let you kiss me again!” you rush off and he grabs your wrist, you jerk back and glare up at him again. “I’m done. Satoru, just let me go – don’t hurt me more.”
“I don’t want you to-”
“You don’t know what you want,” he lets your wrist go, his own eyes glazing over with emotion, pretty even under the harsh lights of the airport. “You don’t get to tell me what I’ll want in the future, you don’t get to decide that for me, and you sure don’t get to tell me that this is ‘for my own good’. It hurts, and you have to deal with that.”
“Please, just,” you can’t. You can’t fall into his arms, how would you let him go? “Just keep talking to me, keep-”
“It’ll kill me,” you stepped forward and tiptoed then, kissing his lips softly, tasting the salt of both your tears. “It’ll kill me to have to talk to you when I can’t have you.”
“Sweetheart-”
“I love you,” he faltered then, you’d not said it because he hadn’t, but there was no stopping it now. “I’ll miss you, Toru.”
You rushed off before he could say anything, tears hot down your cheeks, Satoru had rushed to catch you, but you were…
Gone.
*****
“I shouldn’t have broken up with you,” you pause, leaning back in shock. “Though now you’re probably glad I did.”
“You… you’re… saying sorry?”
“Is it so surprising?” He rubs the back of his neck, you’re in shock clearly. “Guess so, I wasn’t one to admit I was wrong then.”
“Why do you say you shouldn’t have?” He sips his own drink, eyes shutting for a moment. “You feel bad how it happened?”
No, Satoru knows he’ll never feel that way about anyone – and a decade of loneliness has only made him regret that shit more. He could have three babies with you by now, have given you anything you wanted – he stalks your pages, he knows you work constantly, and he loves that. But another part of him wishes you didn’t have to, that you were taken care of.
You’d probably smack him and call him a misogynist for that shit, and he loves that about you.
He still loves that girl from high school, the woman sitting here with her face just a bit more defined, with her tits so soft and pretty looking, hips he bets would feel so good to grab as he bent her over. Thighs that he has to touch, they just look too smooth with whatever shimmery lotion you put on them.
He gives into the urge, fingertips brushing on your skin, eliciting a shaky little breath from your lips, your eyes catching each other. “Yeah, you could say I feel bad about how I did it. I never said…”
He’s not really gonna apologize is he?
“Shh,” you put a finger to his lips, he smirks a bit. “Don’t make me like you, Toru.”
“Toru, fuck, been forever since I heard that,” he grins all dopey and cute, taking your wrist in his hand, long fingers wrapping it. He presses a little kiss to your fingers, a gesture he used to do forever ago, pausing as it feels too natural.
“I don’t want to like you.” He nods a bit, thumb brushing over your knuckles, eyeing the place where that ring was.
“He was an idiot.”
“Yeah?”
“I’d know, I’m a big fucking idiot,” you laugh a bit, nodding. “Don’t agree with me!? Brat.”
“Well, you are,” you sigh then, he nips your finger hard with his sharp ass teeth, and Shoko and Utahime walk back in, watching you both.
You have the eyes of your entire graduating class on you both.
Satoru and you, the perfect couple – that perky cheerleader and the star player, voted in the yearbook to be the best couple in fact, most popular, the best looking, you name it. You and Satoru won so many they had to give them to other people – and all for what?
To hate looking at your yearbook?
To look at how happy you were?
“Do you ever wonder…” He eases your hand down now, but he doesn’t let it go. “If it was just the first love, the hormones, the high school puppy love?”
“Puppy love…” You’ve never even heard him say that word – love. Though he means it differently, it gets you. “I guess everyone’s first love is kind of epic.”
“Nah, not really,” he sips on his drink, a little droplet clinging to his lips, one of his thighs brushing against yours and you barely hold back a gasp at the contact. “I haven’t found many people that had… what we did.”
“A toxic ass relationship, nasty breakup?”
“That was some of it,” he admits, heart racing like he’s some inexperienced boy and not a grown man – you just make him feel that way.
“Yes I wonder,” you sigh, admitting it finally. “I wonder if it was hyped up in my head, if the nostalgia and the… pain of you breaking up mess with me more. All the what ifs.”
“I hurt you.” It’s a quiet little statement.
“You hurt me, and I hated you,” he looks down where your hand brushes on his thigh, covering it with his huge one. “You were a dick.”
“I know, I just-” you lean forward and kiss him before you can stop yourself, making him tense up, his hand on the small of your back tugging close as he relaxes into it, exhaling against your lips. You pull back with a little dazed look, lips glossy. “What did I do to deserve that?”
“I was trying to see if that’s what it was,” you whisper softly. “Puppy love.”
“Ah,” he tilts your chin up, kissing you again, your earrings fall back, brushing the side of your neck as he tugs you close until your ass is half off that barstool. “We should see, yeah? If it’s just nostalgia.”
“Yeah just for um… closure,” he laughs a bit, and you glare. “Closure and I’m horny and single.”
“I’ll take it,” fuck he’d take any of you. “For true nostalgia we should…”
He’s kissing down the side of your neck, your eyes flutter closed as his mouth leaves a wet trail, his tongue flicking over your racing pulse. You cling so tightly, it’s hard to let go, whining out and arching your hips, thankful there is loud music reverberating all over.
Satoru heard it, though, leaking pre and pulsing from your taste, your scent, the softness of your skin.
Fuck he can’t ever do this and hope to be ‘normal’.
But there was no way he didn’t take one night with you.
“Should what?” You murmur, biting down on your lip when he gently nips behind your ear, your nails cling to his jacket tightly.
“For old times sake, I’d say we go to my car,” you laugh then, shaking your head as he pulls back, kissing your lips again. “Lemme drink your pretty little cunt up again, finger you till you squirt all over my new seats.”
Fuck.
Fuck him, really.
“In your car? Are we in high school?” He looks around and you laugh then, shaking your head. “Fine, but I’m not as flexible, I haven’t tumbled since college.”
“I bet you still are,” he teases. “Used to fold you right in-”
“Now.”
“Now?” You hop down with his help, turning and just walking. “Wait!”
It’s moments and you all are devouring each other, stumbling against the cool brick wall outside as the night air brushes against your skin, you’re shivering as he walks you to his car – by walking, that meant him carrying your ass, cock pressing your needy cunt as your thighs wrap his hips.
The car is nicer than his in high school – a fancy ass Audi – you aren’t one to know anything about cars, but the damn thing looked like it was exactly what Satoru would drive. The expensive leather hits your senses as he slides you in, your mouths are all over each other, needy and desperate.
"Missed this," you almost don’t believe it, that he ever could, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip before trailing his mouth down your jaw. "Missed you."
“You don’t…”
“No?” You sigh, shaking your head as Satoru shifts, maneuvering you both until you're lying back across the wide seats, his body covering yours, an even heavier weight than you remembered, pinning you down with his hand on your wrists, his mouth claiming yours in a bruising, possessive kiss.
It's a tight fit even with how surprisingly big the interior is, the cramped space reminding you of every stolen moment you had in his old car, sneaking before curfew, fuck you two would ditch school and go drive in that car, you’d lay your feet in his lap and just let him drive you around with the tops down. The memory of his smile, of his laugh, of his kisses all come together as he captures your very breath.
This isn't the sweet, messy kissing of teenage versions of you and Satoru – this is pent up need, a decade of frustration poured into a single, desperate kiss, his hands all over you, huge palms taking you over. Satoru’s tongue is delving in and out of the hot recesses of your mouth, tongue gliding right along yours, the click of his tongue ring against your teeth shooting every bit of memory back.
God you remember when he pierced it.
You remember him buying that vibrating tongue ring so he could eat your pussy out – and oh, he did it every time he could, no one has made you feel that way since, no one could figure your body out like him. The nostalgia hits as much as the need, the pleasure, your nails digging into the corded muscles of his shoulders over his dress shirt.
“Need more,” you whisper out, pausing then as he looks at you under his lashes. “Just tonight, right?”
He doesn’t say anything – as if he’d take only one night and be fine with that.
"Fuck, I've thought about this so often it’s pathetic," he laughs out without humor, hands slipping up your hips and bunching that little dress up your hips.
“You thought of me?” You ask, and he stares at you then – swollen lips all pretty and glossy in the night, ruining him.
You don’t think he remembers?
You don’t think he regrets it all?
He kisses you softer, nipping a plump lower lip between his sharp teeth, drinking up your little gasp. "Thought about this mouth, this body, the way you used to squirt all over me."
“Satoru…” You shake your head, moaning softly when he tugs your neckline down, hands squishing your pretty tits. “You don’t mean it.”
“No?” You shake your head, eyes rolling back in your skull when his tongue swirls around your nipple ever so slowly, tongue ring flicking that sensitive peak. “You think I forgot you, huh?”
“I know you did, ah!” His fingers find you, sliding your panties aside and swiping up and down in that mess. “Toru…”
“God please,” he’s plunging them inside you, she clamps right down, spasming as he finds that spot he remembers in those tacky walls, watching your face as he presses over and over. “Call me that again.”
“Sh-should call you dickhead,” he laughs breathlessly, curving those fingers again so that your head smacks back, almost hitting the handle in the car door, he kisses your lips as he fucks his fingers into you, the stretch making you ache. “Ngh!”
“Tight as ever, god, how…” he marvels as he plays with your cunt, all pretense gone when he looks down at you, breaking the kiss, breathless from you. “I’ve thought of you an embarrassing amount of times.”
“Don’t say it,” you sniffle just a bit. “I can’t handle it.”
“The truth?”
“I can’t believe you thought of me too…” You trail off, emotional even as you are soaking wet and needy, Satoru keeps kissing down, lower, lower, feeling his breath against your skin makes you jolt. “You didn’t.”
“I did, sweetheart, I missed this so much, the sounds you make… how soaking wet you got,” he’s running his thumb on your clit, gauging your reaction, shoving your thighs even higher. “How pretty you looked when you fell apart f’me.”
“You can’t remember,” he sighs and watches you get closer, getting you so, so close until he knows it’s not enough. He’s shoving you up, damn near folding you in half. “Ah! Toru I can’t bend like that?!”
“No?” he murmurs, big hands gripping your thighs bruisingly, pushing them up and apart, you blink a bit, gasping when he’s licking the trails of slick from your inner thigh, inhaling your cunt and bumping your clit affectionately almost. “God, your scent drives me fucking crazy, why do you have to smell s’good?”
“Do I? I – ah! Satoru, what are you…" He places an open mouthed kiss on your messy, dripping entrance, peeking up at you. “You’re um…”
“I’m starving,” he teases softly, kissing it again, you feel that pleasure shoot up your body until you’re dizzy, weak from it, so exposed to him when he tugs those panties further aside, on one side of those puffy lips. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever fucking seen.”
“No…”
“Yeah, and I’ve seen alot,” you glare and he chuckles, resting his hands on those knees and flicking his tongue to gather the drops of arousal falling down between your slit. “What, ya jealous?”
“No!?” Yes.
“No?”
“No,” he smirks just a bit and then he folds you in half, those broad shoulders pressing against the backs of your thighs, forcing your knees to your chest, your dress hopelessly shoved up.
“See? Still a cheerleader,” you want to laugh but you’re smushed.
“I so am not, ah!” You're completely exposed to him then, utterly vulnerable in a way that makes you nervous.
“Relax,” he says then, softly, peeking up at you and kissing your inner thigh. “If you want me to stop, just tell me. It was enough I got to kiss you again.”
You falter, that boy you fell in love with – the sweet, nerdy one? The jock who was also an entire nerd? Goofy and yet ultimately serious Satoru Gojo, leaning his head against your inner knee, nuzzling you damn near. You’re weak then, as every feeling you’ve shoved down for over a third of your life comes back full force.
“We can go back in, or just look at the stars,” he eases up, and sees how nervous you are. “You’re so beautiful, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not in high school now,” you whisper, he eases up your body then, brushing your cheek and shaking his head.
“Neither am I, sweetheart.”
“Yet you look even better-”
“You’re even sexier, even prettier than the first time I saw you,” you kiss him again, lost in his every kiss, his every touch, afraid that he’ll just disappear, clinging to him so tightly you don’t know if you can ever let go. “You are.”
“You haven’t seen me all naked…”
“I wanna,” he grins and you giggle, even as he’s kissing up your cheeks. “I wanna see every part of you.”
God you can’t take it – it feels just like that first date all over again. “Yeah?”
“Mhm,” he slides your dress up and off you then, breath catching as he takes in your body – you’ve only gotten sexier, it’s so evident when he just looks down at you, folded in half in his damn car and the prettiest thing he’s seen.
You cover yourself a bit then ease your hands off, breasts rising and falling as Satoru looks at you, his gaze heating you up before his fingers can touch. “You’re seeing all of me.”
“I am,” he grips a tit and squishes it in his hand, that familiar barbell flicking an areola, having your back arch in the cramped confines of the car, still humming softly underneath you. “Is it bad if I say I jerked it to your IG?”
“Satoru!” He’s chuckling now, grinning all big as you smack at him. “We were having a touching moment!?”
“Yeah I know,” he’s back down between your thighs, shoving them high and sighing.
“Did you really?” His lips curve up in amusement, watching your slick pussy drip down.
“You love that, huh?”
“No!?”
Yes.
“How often?” He’s laughing now.
“I’m not tellin’ ya, no way.”
“Hmmph,” he’s too gone then, every bit of this moment the very thing he’s searched for.
He could have had it.
He’ll think of that later, the hot regret of letting you go, of being young and dumb and then too fucking stubborn, for now you’re his, underneath him, looking up in that way that you used to – like he was the very stars in the sky. The ones peppering the sky overhead and shining through that little sky light in his car, illuminating your pretty body for his gaze.
“A lot. Happy?” He whispers, you just bite your lip, not answering, letting his lips graze your entrance once more.
“Satoru!” Your eyes roll back in your skull, pleasure shooting as the tip of that tongue swirls your clit lazily, like he’s got all the time in the world.
"Look at this pretty little cunt," he breathes out softly, feeling your slick coat his tongue, lapping another filthy stripe achingly slow. "Still so fucking perfect.”
“You d-don’t have to…”
“S’perfect,” he whispers, holding back what he truly wants to say.
Mine.
You’re not his, he can’t get possessive and psychotic, even when faced with your winking hole and the soft give of your thighs underneath his fingertips. He buries his face in you, his mouth hot and messy as it drinks up every bit of those juices your pussy is pouring, lavving a broad, flat stripe up your slit and slurping you up, eliciting the prettiest whines for his ears.
“Mmm, that’s it,” he whispers, flicking his tongue on your clit and groaning as he parts those lips. “She’s jumpin’ all around, fuck… look at her.”
You cry out, your fingers tangling in the soft white strands of Satoru’s hair, only for him to place them on your thighs, looking at you in that way only Satoru Gojo can.
“Hold ‘em up f’me,” he’s slurring, mouth just full of that messy cunt, swallowing it as he watches you do just that. “Good girl.”
Fuck him.
Fuck him truly and completely, for what those damn words do to you, how they have you a needy mess for him. He groans at the sight of your manicured nails pressing on the back of your thighs, the vibrations rushing on your pretty pussy, and then his tongue is inside you, fucking your hole as if he’s never forgotten how.
“Toru!” You’re quivering, thighs threatening to close, he breathes , that barbell smacking your spongy spot over and over, with the same intensity he used to use with his cock.
Your first time with him flits through your mind, he’d made sure to lick your pussy for thirty minutes, even then he’d been worried he’d hurt you – even then he’d eased into you, watching your every movement. That Satoru and this one merge – the jock and the cheerleader now gro business people.
But you’re still just the two of you.
He's lavishing every crevice, every bit of your cunt like it’s worship – his tongue, his lips, the sharp edge of those fangs of his scraping against your clit just making you scream out, weak from it. He bites it again, groaning as your juices spill over his mouth, his chin, down his neck.
Satoru wants to drown in you.
"You like that, huh?" he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak, his chin glistening embarrassingly with how much you’re gushing. He swirls two fingers down it, raising a thin white brow. "Like me eating this pussy?”
“Yes… ah!” He’s curving his fingers up, rutting his cock along the leather seats, dying to bury it inside you.
“Missed this, didn't you? Missed my tongue on you?"
You can only nod quickly and let out a pathetic little moan, wishing you could play coy or tease – but how can you, when he’s taking you over. One hand pumping fingers into you, his tongue finding your clit again, sucking it into his mouth with a mean little hum, and the cold metal of his tongue ring just flicking.
“Toru! I’m so… I’m…”
He pulls back and sighs.
You’re so beautiful like this.
“Cum for me,” he says softly, curving up one more time, and you shatter for him, peak crashing into you so hard you see stars – ones that aren’t the ones hanging in the sky. No, they’re right behind your eyelids, pussy spasming as moans escape those lips that hold you in that kiss.
Satoru eases back, curving his fingers a few more times, every slide sensitive. “Please…”
“Please what, baby?” He whispers – he hadn’t called you that since the last time you saw him, brushing your hair back and kissing you, your juices spilling into your own mouth with a push of his tongue.
“Need you.”
“I’m here-”
“Need more,” he pauses, blushing a bit and making you giggle. “What, you think I don’t want more?”
“I didn’t know,” he trails off now, sitting up and dragging you on his lap, undoing his zipper as you’re on your knees, head smacking the ceiling, Satoru chuckles and puts his hand right over it, sighing. “You want my cock inside you?”
“You’re such a jerk,” he grins now, running his hands down your waist. “You gonna make me say it?”
“Nah but it’d be fun to hear,” he frees his cock, watching the blush dance across your cheeks when faced with his pearly pink cock, thick and veiny, leaking all that white. You gather some and swirl it on your thumb, sucking it off. “God…”
It’s moments when he’s got you positioned on his cock, slamming you down in one mean stroke, filling you so full you feel him everywhere – in your stomach, so fucking deep your cervix hurts. But fuck you want it, you want more, but he holds you down for a moment, hands brutal on your hips.
“Fuck, don’t move yet,” he barely bites out those words, looking up at you underneath that fringe of lashes, breaths coming in short pants, fogging up all the car windows. “Please, baby. Hold on a sec.”
“Feel good, Toru?” You tease, he glares and bites your shoulder. “Ah! Sharp t-teeth…”
“Jus’ stay here for a minute,” he’s mumbling against your skin, exhaling at the feeling of your pussy wrapping around his cock. “You’re so warm, so tight… god you feel s’good…”
You’re holding there, cunt gripping him so tight he’s gonna bust, and he was not doing that after ten damn years. He has stamina now, he can’t bust inside you in one minute – has it even been a minute!?
“Wanna move, please,” you’re damn near whining, wriggling as he pins you even more firmly. “Toru!”
“You’re bratty still,” he murmurs, lifting you up and slamming you back down, that mess of slick pouring all over. “You want me to cum in three pumps?”
You blush then, realizing that one key thing – he’d never cum inside you, the two of you were careful to make sure it never happened. “I um… inside me?”
“Only if you wanted… god imagine breeding your cunt,” you suck in a breath as his hands press into your hips. “Breedable fucking hips, bet you’d have so many babies for me.”
“Babies!?”
“God yes, bet you’d give me three, hah…” he’s fucking lost it now, fucking up into your cunt, your head smacks his ceiling, your hand up to brace yourself as he begins to move, feet planted on the floor of the car, cock gliding in and out of your mess even faster. “Sorry baby.”
“Sorry? You’re psychotic, j-just once,” he holds you down and runs his thumb on your clit then, watching your eyes flutter closed as you cum again, this time milking him. “Ngh!”
“So beautiful, fuck,” he’s looking right at you with those blue eyes, your arms wrap his neck, letting him lift you up and down him, huge hands just using you, you’re quivering around him, cunt squelching in the backseat of that car, his lips slamming on yours and drinking down your whines.
You hear the faint noises of the party with your ringing ears, his thumb brushing faster, your tits bouncing right in his face. “Breed k-kink tracks for you…”
He chuckles, grinning up at you, painting those pretty patterns until you’re overstimulated, thighs twitching on either side of his hips, the open leather belt pressing on your heated skin. His lips are swollen when his tongue runs across them, as if to catch any lingering juices he can, his brows drawing together as he gets closer, cheeks flushed pink in the dark.
“Should I pump you full? Hmm?” Your answer is to roll your hips, making his own eyes shut, those fluffy lashes sweeping across his cheeks. He’s pinning you down, slipping that thumb in between your lips and letting you suck as his cock twitches. “I used to jerk it to your cheer pictures b-before we w-went out…”
“Toru, you freak,” you’re breathless, struggling to take that stretch, whining out as his veiny length brushes your walls, white pre kissin’ your cute little cervix with every pump. “You did?”
“Yeah,” he’s full of confessions, you guess, but that one has you blushing, even mid fuck, giggling a bit until he slams hard, your head falling back. “You love it.”
“Cum inside,” he moans – you don’t have to tell him twice – cock pumping your hole full, so much your walls are just coated, those puffy ropes flooding you. “Ah!”
You’ve never been so full, his warmth rushing in hot and sticky as you kiss him desperately, needy, shaking as your teeth click together, your mouths messy and dripping saliva. It’s filthy, the sounds of your whines mixing with the squishing and clicking of his cock pumping impossibly more, his moans filling your mouth, tongues dancing along each other as his cock keeps twitching.
“F-fuck…” He’s whimpering in your ear as he holds you tight, burying his face in the crook of your neck, arms wrapping your waist as he bucks his hips up and fucks more cum inside you. “God I love you.”
“Wha-? Huh?” You must be fucked out and hearing shit, you barely blink any sense into yourself, as he pulls back, looking at you and sighing.
“I should have said it then, not let you leave thinking…” He swallows now, cupping your face with one hand, thumb slipping across your cheek reverently. “That I didn’t.”
“You can’t… I didn’t… you…” You’re trembling now as it all hits, breaths mingling as you hardly hold back. “You did then?”
“Of course I fucking loved you, how couldn’t I?” You kiss him then, tears slipping down between your mouths, salty on his tongue as his hand slips up the curve of your spine, the two of your hearts racing in your own ears. “I never stopped.”
“Don’t say that…” You pull back now, hands on his wrists. “That’s impossible, it’s been t-ten years and… you don’t know me now, and…”
“Do you still love me?” He asks, voice breaking, still intimately joined with you, easing you off and eyeing the mess that pours, sighing. “Fuck I shouldn’t ask that.”
“Yes,” he blinks a bit, looking up in shock as you go back to sitting on his lap, cunt pouring him right back down on his cock. “I never stopped loving you, even though I hated you, too. I hated you so much for so long… but I never quit loving you, Satoru.”
“I hated me too, s’okay,” you shake your head. “I did, for being so dumb. For letting you go – pushing you away.”
“We were so young, Toru… so young.”
“There was all that time we could have had this,” he sighs now, nose brushing yours, looking into your eyes with utter devotion. “I can’t let you go again. I can’t let this be once, this? I’ve never felt anything close to you.”
“I know…” you’re kissing again, forgetting about anything else, and soon you’re in Satoru’s pretty penthouse, fucked out after he’d lifted you right up on that glass, so many stories up.
After he’d ate his cum out of you, and you’d lapped your pussy off – after your friends started texting you both, making sure you’re all right since you two had disappeared. After Satoru orders you food, and the two of you are laughing in bed, and you’re in one of his big shirts, does he bring out that jacket, making you pause.
“Toru…”
“This was yours,” he exhales and throws it over your shoulders, tugging the lapels closed and kissing your head. You’re all flushed and pretty, your hair a tangled mess, that mascara long gone, swallowed by that letterman’s jacket. “You’re so beautiful like this.”
“I get to keep it this time?” You tease, but the emotions are rushing still, tummy fluttering as you toy with the snaps, the familiar scent bringing you right back.
“uh… why is sensei doing push-ups?” yuji asks, when he, nobara, and megumi enter the classroom.
satoru’s pushing himself up and down with one hand because, according to you, normal push-ups weren’t enough. but even then, he’s barely breaking a sweat. and he’s grinning, while you stand over him, watching with your arms crossed.
his uniform jacket is folded over the back of a chair, leaving him in his compression shirt, arm bulging and back tensing with each lift and fall of his body.
“i upset my-- hah beautiful, smart-- hah strong, gorgeous, perfect wife,” he pants, “punishment fits the crime.”
he really is right where he wants to be.
megumi doesn’t even bat an eye - this was the least unusual thing that you and satoru do. he slides into a chair with a sigh.
“how many does he have to do?”
“a hundred,” you say. satoru lifts his head to look up at you, mouth parted, little pink hearts in his eyes peering at you over the rim of his glasses. “he’s on seventy-two.”
his grin widens. “you know, this isn’t a challenge for me. why don’t you sit on my back, sweetheart?”
you crouch down in front of him and his eyes light up. “i know what you want, and you don’t deserve my touch.” you push his head down so he’s facing the floor again, and he grunts when you press extra weight, forcing his body down. “only twenty-three left. you can do it, my love.”
if his heart wasn’t beating fast enough before, it definitely was now. especially with the saccharine tone you used at the end of your sentence.
god, was he down bad.
“… call us when you’re done,” megumi says, already out of the classroom.
silly thought inspired by this video HAHA can you tell he makes me a little a lot insane
you've been friends with satoru since you both were kids. satoru always tells you about omegas are weak, clingy, and too dependent on alphas. you never really cared about secondary genders enough to argue with him. satoru turns to look at you with those bright blue eyes and grins. "we will be the strongest alphas."
the day your secondary gender test results are handed out, the class feels unusually quite. you've always doubtful that you'd present as an alpha, but the look in satoru's eyes is full of hope. you unfold the paper, eyes catch the results, an omega. you turn to look at satoru with a small shrug like it isn't a big deal, but it is for him.
you start avoiding satoru, and he never questions it. the first few months are easy enough, until you develop your pheromones. things start going missing after that. first a hair tie, handkerchief, headband. you think you've simply misplaced them. until one day, you catch a glimpse of white hair slipping out of an empty classroom, with your scraf in his hand.
you find your scarf again the next day, neatly folded on the desk, right where you left it. when you bring the scarf close to your face, satoru's pheromone clings faintly to the fabric. it calms you. so you wear it the rest of the day.
there's an alpha tries to approach you, only to stop halfway. his expression shifts the moment he catches another alpha's scent on you. across the room, satoru looks far too pleased with himself.
you start purposefully leaving your things behind on the desk, so satoru can take them whenever he wants. the scarf, hoodie, sweater are the only things he gives back. of course he always leaves his pheromones on them. then, one day, your first heat starts. you absence in the class.
satoru grows restless. he hears omega's heats aren't easy. they're painful, exhausting, and dangerous around alphas. he intimidates another omega student into delivering a bag to your dorm immediately. when you open the strange bag, there are two hoodies and spare shirts. they're all carrying the heavy scent of his pheromones.
it doesn't stop there, from the first day of your heat until the last, satoru keep sending more of his clothes. more of his scent, more of satoru. after your first heat, things between you and satoru never return to normal. he still steals your things, and you still leave them behind on purpose.
graduation comes quietly. by then, you and satoru barely speak unless necessary. still, he finds you after ceremony. "so, what are you gonna do after this?"
you glance up at him, since when did he become so tall? "I'll still work as a sorcerer, whenever they call me." you clear your throat, hiding the awkwardness. "what about you?"
"thinking of becoming a teacher."
"you? teaching?" despite everything that happened over the years, you naturally laugh when he's around. satoru just laugh with you.
"I'm sure the kids will like me, because I'm good at everything, you know." and just like that, the conversation keeps flowing.
before leaving, you stop in front of satoru. "thanks," your cheeks heated up when he gives a confusion look. "for the clothes... your pheromone helped me during heat."
"i could send my clothes to your place if you need." for once satoru doesn't joke around. and you nod your head.
you reach out a hand. "see you around, satoru."
"yeah, see you." he takes your hand, his fingers linger for a second too long before letting go. you don't notice the missing bracelet until hours later, and you don't go look for it.
years pass, you still come to solo missions and sometimes leading the new students through the assignments. one time, you go with satoru alone in a special grade mission.
your body hits the ground before satoru can catch you properly. everything goes silent for a second, then your pheromones spill into the air all at once. it's not heat, it's distress. you're in pain and exhausted.
satoru doesn't think twice, he brings you to his place. because go to infirmary, everyone could smell your pheromones. satoru carefully tends your cuts and bruises, then fill the room with the comforting scent of his pheromones.
sometime later, the smell of food slowly pulls you awake. your body still aches, the overwhelming distress from earlier is gone, replaced by the familiar comfort of satoru's pheromones lingering around the apartment.
you sit up slowly, eyes wander around the room, then stop at the box on the nightstand. you open it, there are dozens of your hair ties, bracelets, and handkerchiefs. your things, years worth of your things.
satoru walks in to check on you, he freezes, you find his secret box. when you look up at him, he lets out a breathless chuckle. "you caught me."
a small laugh slips out your lips. "no, i already knew you were the culprit."
satoru steps closer, a blush creeping up his neck. "yeah, of course you knew." he slowly sits next to you. "sometimes i look at them when i miss you."
"i thought you hated omegas." your small, hesitant voice makes satoru's head snaps back toward you. then realization slowly settles across his face, all these years, you've been avoiding him because of something he said.
"i... please ler me correct myself." his hands on your shoulders, gently turning you to face him. "i don't hate omegas, especially not you. omegas aren't weak, and i like it when you dependent on me, only me."
"i thought you wanted an alpha as a partner."
"you seriously think i care about that?" his fingers tightening on your shoulders. "wheter you're an alpha, beta, or omega... i would've still wanted you. it was always you."
your face grows warmer, instinctively look away from him. "you say embarrassing things so casually..."
a grin slowly spreads across satoru's face as he slowly leans in. "you like hearing them?"
while satoru keeps talking, your attention drifts back to the box beside you. between the bracelets and hair ties, something unfamiliar catches your eye, a small velvet ring box.you blink in confusion before picking it up. "i don't remember losing this."
the second satoru realizes what you're holding, he nearly chokes. “wait—”
too late, you already open it. the inside is a diamond ring. you turn to look at him, demand an answer.
"i was saving that." satoru's swallow hard before continues. "for romantic moments like... i take you out to candlelit dinner, dramatic confession, all that stuff."
"papa is not romantic at all." your daughter cuts into the story immediately. satoru lets out a dramatic gasp, clutching his chest like he wounded.
"that's right, papa was a coward for made mama sad for years." your eldest son is judging satoru with the same bright blue eyes.
satoru turns to look at you like he's about burst into tears. "sweets... tell our children i can be romantic."
you burst into laugh, your swell stomach trembling slightly with the movement. eventually, you force yourself to calm down, one hand resting protectively over your belly, worried the twins might get uncomfortable inside. "don't bully your papa too much, he's still trying."
your eldest son places a hand on your stomach, gently rubs the swell. "when i grow up, I'll be the best, strongest alphas. so i can protect my little siblings."
your daughter, already half asleep, crawls into satoru's arms and clings to him sleepily. "better than papa?" she mumbles.
"better than papa." your son nods seriously. satoru gasps in offense while you break into laughter all over again.
i didn't realize, i wrote this until 2 am. anw thank you for reading 🤍
synopsis : satoru gojo is a nobel-nominated genius with three phds, a devoted wife, and one tiny problem: he's accidentally turned himself into his nineteen-year-old self. now locked out of his own house and mistaken for a very persistent stalker by the love of his life (that’s you), he has one mission—fix the time machine, reclaim his face, and survive your increasingly violent attempts to defend your marriage from... him.
tags — oneshot, porn with plot, established relationship, domestic fluff, crack treated seriously, age regression/de-aging, identity shenanigans, miscommunication but it’s technically quantum, time travel(?) shenanigans, idiots in love, emotional whiplash, romantic comedy, jealous of himself, satoru gojo is so down bad, penis in vagina sex, kitchen sex, breeding kink, mating press, praise kink, overstimulation, sexual overstimulation, multiple orgasms, multiple sex positions, satoru gojo worships you like a religion, slight size kink, he’s been deprived okay, smut happens after he fixes everything
wc — 20.1k | gen. masterlist | read on ao3?
a/n: yes i wrote this in one day. yes i wrote this instead of focusing on finishing the part two of my apothecary diaries au fic. please don’t get your pitchforks out (• ▽ •;) if u see i typo, no u don’t.
two weeks.
fourteen days of existing as a walking contradiction—a twenty-nine-year-old genius trapped in the lanky, smooth-faced prison of his nineteen-year-old body. satoru adjusts his reading glasses (the same prescription, thankfully, because his eyesight had been terrible since childhood) and stares at your front door like it’s the gates of heaven guarded by the world’s most beautiful, most stubborn angel.
his hair catches the afternoon light, those fine strands the color of fresh snow that had turned this ethereal shade when he was four and his first chemistry set had gone spectacularly wrong. it had originally been a soft, milk-tea brown, the color of dusty books and early autumn. he’d tried to invent a hair-growth serum for his dad. instead, the mixture combusted, coated his scalp, and bleached every strand into something unnaturally pale. his parents had panicked, thinking he’d poisoned himself. little satoru, meanwhile, had stared into the mirror and grinned with gap-toothed delight.
now, at nineteen-again, it falls across his forehead in soft waves, glowing almost silver in the sunlight. he looks like a walking, talking academic heartthrob from a university romance novel—which would be flattering if his own wife didn’t look at him like he was an unsightly bug on her kitchen floor.
the irony tastes bitter on his tongue, metallic like blood and regret. he’d spent six years perfecting a device to slow down time—not for scientific glory or recognition, but because twenty-four hours with you had never felt like enough. he’d wanted to stretch lazy sunday mornings into eternities, to make your sleepy smiles and the way you hummed while making coffee last forever.
instead, he’d accidentally turned himself into a time paradox of the most pathetic variety. a cautionary tale about hubris wrapped in the body of a college freshman.
his phone buzzes somewhere in the basement lab, probably sending another automated message to your device: still working on the temporal displacement project. eating the sandwiches you left. miss you. love you. —satoru
the ai assistant he’d programmed to keep you from worrying had become his greatest enemy. every perfectly crafted message, every detail programmed to sound exactly like him, was another nail in the coffin of his credibility. he’d been too thorough, too careful, too much of a perfectionist even in his contingency planning.
because here he stands, looking like a college freshman who’d wandered into the wrong neighborhood, while you believe your husband is safely tucked away in his lab, probably elbow-deep in equations and caffeine addiction.
the thing is—and this is where his pride starts gnawing at his intestines like a particularly vindictive parasite—he doesn’t want to sneak into his own house. he’s the dr. satoru gojo, for crying out loud. he has three phds, a nobel prize nomination, and enough patents to wallpaper the entire first floor. he shouldn’t have to skulk through basement windows like some sort of lovesick cat burglar just to access his own laboratory.
he’s a dignified man of science. he has principles. standards. a reputation to maintain, even if that reputation is currently being dragged through the mud by his own temporal incompetence.
no, he’s going to do this the right way. he’s going to convince you, properly and thoroughly, that he is exactly who he claims to be. he’s going to walk through the front door like a civilized human being, kiss his wife hello, and pretend the last two weeks never happened.
this is a matter of scientific integrity. of personal dignity. of—
he rings the doorbell.
the sound of your footsteps approaching makes his heart perform some sort of olympic gymnastics routine, complete with triple axels and a dismount that leaves his stomach somewhere in the vicinity of his ankles. even through the door, he can picture the way you move—that particular grace you’ve always had, like you’re dancing to music only you can hear. you’re probably wearing one of those sundresses he loves, the ones that make you look like you’ve stepped out of a 1950s magazine about perfect wives, except you’re real and warm and you smell like vanilla and clean laundry and home.
the door opens, and satoru’s brain promptly short-circuits.
you’re wearing the yellow dress. the one with tiny white flowers that he’d bought you for your second anniversary because you’d mentioned once, in passing, while distracted by a butterfly in the park, that it reminded you of the field where you’d had your first picnic. he’d remembered that throwaway comment for six months before finding the perfect dress, had it tailored to fit you exactly, had even added those hidden pockets because you always lost your keys.
your hair is pinned back with the butterfly clips he’d made for you—tiny mechanical marvels that flutter their wings when you laugh, solar-powered and calibrated to respond to the specific frequency of your joy. he’d spent three weeks perfecting the mechanism after you’d mentioned liking butterflies. three weeks of delicate gear work and programming, all for the chance to see you smile when the wings moved.
you look at him, and your expression shifts from hopeful to confused to absolutely murderous in the span of three seconds.
“oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
his heart skips a beat. maybe five. this is the part where he says something clever. this is the part where he charms you back into loving him. this is the part where his superior intellect saves the day and—
before he can open his mouth to explain, to plead, to grovel at your perfect feet, you’ve already produced what looks like a small silver device from somewhere in your dress. the hidden pocket in the seam, specifically—the one he’d reinforced with extra stitching because you had a tendency to overstuff it with lip balm and emergency snacks.
the device hums ominously, a sound that sends ice water through his veins because he recognizes it immediately. it’s the personal protection gadget he’d built for you last christmas, after you’d mentioned feeling nervous walking home from your book club in the dark. he’d spent a month perfecting it—a sleek little thing that could stun, disorient, or mildly embarrass an attacker depending on the setting.
and right now, you’re turning the dial past ‘warning shot’ and heading straight for ‘regret your life choices.’
“listen here, you little creep,” you say, and your voice is deadly sweet, like honey laced with cyanide. the juxtaposition of your floral sundress and the murder in your eyes is somehow the most attractive thing he’s ever seen, which probably says something deeply concerning about his psychology. “i don’t know who you think you are, but i’m a married woman. deeply, completely, utterly in love with my husband.”
the way you say ‘my husband’ makes something in his chest crack open like a fault line. there’s so much pride in your voice, so much fierce devotion, and he wants to bask in it except you’re not talking about him. you’re talking about him, but not him-him. you’re talking about the version of him you actually want to see walking through this door.
“so whatever pathetic attempt at impersonation this is,” you continue, and the weapon in your hand starts glowing a rather alarming shade of blue, “you can take it and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.”
“wait, wait!” he holds up his hands, noting with growing horror how young they look, how smooth and unmarked by years of lab work. these hands haven’t built the music box that plays your wedding song. these fingers haven’t spent countless hours crafting the little inventions that make you smile. “i can explain! i know this looks bad, but i’m really—”
“satoru,” you finish, your eyes narrowing dangerously. “yes, i heard your little introduction yesterday. and the week before that. you know what? the name satoru only fits one person in this world, and he’s about a hundred times more attractive, intelligent, and charming than whatever discount walmart version you’re trying to pull off.”
the words hit him like a freight train loaded with emotional devastation and existential dread. discount walmart version. you—his wife, the love of his life, the woman who’s seen him drool on his pillow and still kisses him good morning—think he’s a cheap knockoff of himself.
“my husband,” you continue, and there’s that tone again, soft and dreamy and absolutely besotted, “is brilliant beyond measure. he’s kind and funny and makes me laugh every single day. he has these eyes that light up when he’s excited about something, and he gets this little crease between his eyebrows when he’s concentrating. he’s tall and gorgeous and perfect, and you...” you look him up and down with obvious disdain, “are none of those things.”
satoru feels something die inside his chest. possibly his will to live. definitely his ego.
because the thing is, you’re right. he doesn’t look like the man you married anymore. he looks like a college student, all gangly limbs and baby fat and skin that hasn’t been weathered by years of late nights in the lab. he looks like someone who might ask you for help with his homework, not someone who’s built you a smart house that anticipates your every need.
“but i know things!” he says desperately, his voice cracking in a way that makes him want to crawl into a hole and die. “i know about your scar from when you fell off your bike when you were seven! it’s shaped like a crescent moon and you hate it but i think it’s beautiful! i know you cry during dog food commercials but only the ones with golden retrievers! i know you keep our wedding photo in your recipe book, tucked between the pages for chocolate chip cookies and banana bread!”
your expression grows more dangerous with each word, and the weapon in your hand charges up another notch.
“you sick little stalker,” you hiss, and the venom in your voice could probably strip paint. “how dare you dig into our private life and try to use our precious memories against me! what kind of pathetic creep researches someone’s marriage just to play dress-up?”
“i’m not playing dress-up!” he protests, and he knows he sounds pathetic, knows he looks like exactly what you think he is—some obsessed fan who’s done way too much homework. “i know about the time you got food poisoning from that seafood place and i held your hair while you threw up! i know you have a freckle shaped like a heart on your left shoulder! i know you sing off-key in the shower but you think you sound like an angel!”
“stop it!” you snap, and your finger hovers over the trigger. “stop trying to soil our beautiful relationship with your creepy research!”
“i know about our first fight!” he rushes on, desperate now, sweat beading on his forehead. “it was about the thermostat because you like the house warm and i run hot! i know you forgave me by leaving little notes in my lab equipment! i know you doodle my name in the margins of your books when you’re daydreaming!”
each piece of intimate knowledge he reveals only seems to make you angrier, and satoru realizes with growing horror that he’s trapped in some sort of emotional paradox. the more he proves he knows you, the more you’re convinced he’s a stranger.
“and i know,” he adds, his voice dropping to something desperate and broken, “that you’re wearing the perfume i bought you for your birthday. the one that smells like vanilla and jasmine and makes me want to bury my face in your neck and never leave.”
you go very, very still.
“that’s enough,” you say quietly, and somehow that’s more terrifying than when you were shouting. “i don’t care how much you’ve stalked us, how many private details you’ve dug up, how perfectly you’ve copied his appearance. you are not my husband.”
“but—”
“my husband,” you continue, and your voice goes soft and dreamy again, like you’re talking about something holy, “is perfect. he’s brilliant and beautiful and kind, and he loves me exactly as much as i love him. he’s probably in his lab right now, working on something that’s going to change the world, missing me but dedicated to his research because that’s who he is. that’s the man i married.”
the weapon powers up another notch, and satoru is pretty sure it’s no longer set to ‘stun.’
“and you,” you say, looking him up and down with obvious disgust, “are just some sad little boy with a crush and too much time on your hands. so here’s what’s going to happen. you’re going to leave. now. and if i see you anywhere near our house again, i’m going to do something that will require a very good explanation to the police.”
satoru stares at you—really looks at you—and sees the fierce protectiveness in your eyes, the way you’re guarding not just your home but your marriage, your happiness, your love for a man you think is safely tucked away in his basement lab.
you’re magnificent. terrifying and beautiful and absolutely magnificent.
and you’re about to potentially murder him while defending his honor.
“i know about the night after our second anniversary,” he tries one more time, his voice breaking completely now. “when you wore that blue nightgown with the little ribbons, and we danced in the kitchen to that song you love, and then we—”
“that’s it.”
the blast catches him square in the chest, and suddenly satoru is airborne, flying backward off your porch and landing in the rose bushes he’d planted for your last birthday. the thorns are sharp, but not nearly as sharp as the look you’d given him right before pulling the trigger.
he lies there for a moment, stunned and possibly concussed, staring up at the sky and trying to process what just happened.
through the ringing in his ears, he hears you call out: “my husband is a genius with 845 patents and the most brilliant mind of our generation! you’re just some sad little boy who probably googled him! stay away from our house, or next time i’m setting this thing to something more permanent!”
the door slams with enough force to rattle the windows.
satoru continues lying in the roses, rose petals in his hair and thorns in his dignity, and tries to comprehend the fact that his own wife just threatened to potentially murder him while defending his honor with the very weapon he’d built to protect her.
somewhere in the distance, a bird chirps. a car drives by. the world continues spinning as if nothing momentous has just occurred.
he’s never been more in love in his entire life. which is probably a sign that he needs therapy. or a lobotomy. possibly both.
he lies there for a moment. processing. his ribs hurt. his pride hurts more. his entire soul aches in a way that is both deeply romantic and profoundly stupid.
“also!” you shout from the upstairs window, your voice carrying that indignant tone you get when you’re really worked up, “my husband has better hair! and better posture! and he’s taller! and he knows how to dress himself like an adult instead of a lost college freshman!”
each addition feels like salt in the wound. you’re systematically dismantling every aspect of his nineteen-year-old appearance while praising the twenty-nine-year-old version with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for describing paradise.
“and he smells better!” you continue, apparently not done with your character assassination. “like expensive cologne and coffee and home, not like... like drugstore body spray and desperation!”
satoru sniffs himself reflexively. he doesn’t smell like desperation. does he? the drugstore body spray comment is just mean, especially since he’d specifically chosen the brand you’d complimented on a stranger once.
“and his voice!” you’re really getting into it now, leaning out the window with the fervor of someone delivering a sermon. “his voice is deeper, and smoother, and when he says my name it sounds like music instead of like a squeaky toy!”
he touches his throat self-consciously. his voice had been deeper before the accident, richer, more confident. now he sounds like he’s going through puberty again, all cracks and uncertain intonation.
“and he would never be stupid enough to break into someone’s house like some kind of delinquent!” you conclude with devastating finality. “my husband is a gentleman and a scholar and the most wonderful man who ever lived, and you’re just some discount imposter who isn’t fit to shine his shoes!”
the window slams shut.
satoru groans. loud and dramatic and entirely justified.
he really should’ve just built a cloning machine. or left a video message in case of accidental de-aging. or tattooed a note to his own arm. but no, he had to get ambitious. he had to try and invent time-space atmospheric slowdown like a dumbass in love.
he drags himself up from the rosebush, brushing petals and leaves from his shirt. there’s one stuck in his hair, refusing to leave like it has a vendetta. his reflection in the front window shows a pathetic figure: clothes wrinkled, hair disheveled, a small cut on his cheek from the thorns, and an expression of profound defeat.
this is what rock bottom looks like, apparently. getting ejected from his own home by his own wife while she sings the praises of his other self.
the irony is suffocating. you love him so much that you’d attack anyone who even pretended to be him. your loyalty is absolute, your devotion unwavering, your protective instincts sharp enough to cut glass. it’s everything he’d ever wanted in a partner, everything he’d fallen in love with, turned against him in the cruelest possible way.
he presses his hand to his chest, where the stun device got him. it still tingles, a reminder of your precision, your preparedness, the way you’d defended your marriage without a moment’s hesitation. you’d been magnificent, absolutely magnificent, and he’d been the target.
satoru limps toward the sidewalk, his teenage body protesting every movement. his legs feel too long, his center of gravity all wrong. everything about this borrowed youth feels like wearing an ill-fitting costume to the most important performance of his life.
he looks back at the house—your house, his house, the home you’d built together—and feels the weight of his isolation settle around him like a heavy coat. inside, you’re probably making dinner, humming that song you always hum when you’re slightly stressed, maybe wondering why the strange boy keeps bothering you when your husband is working so hard in his lab.
the thought of you worrying, of you feeling unsafe in your own home because of his appearance, makes his chest tight with guilt. he’d never wanted to frighten you, never wanted to make you feel threatened or uncomfortable. he’d just wanted to come home.
but this isn’t working. two weeks of doorbell rejections, verbal demolitions, and physical removal have made it clear that the direct approach is a spectacular failure. you’re not going to believe him, not when he looks like this, not when every instinct you have is screaming that he’s an imposter.
he understands that you love your husband—him—so much that you’ll fight off anyone who threatens that love, even if it means breaking your own tender heart to do it. he understands that the depth of your devotion is exactly what makes this situation so impossible.
he also understands that his dignity, his principles, his stubborn refusal to sneak around his own house like a common criminal, has just officially been abandoned in your rose bushes along with his pride.
because two weeks without you is already too long, and the thought of spending even one more night in a hotel room that smells like industrial disinfectant instead of your vanilla perfume makes him want to invent a time machine just so he can go back and slap his past self for being such an arrogant idiot.
science is about adaptation. evolution. knowing when to abandon a failed hypothesis and try a new approach.
tonight, dr. satoru gojo, nobel prize winner and distinguished gentleman of science, is going to break into his own house like a lovesick teenager.
his dignity is already dead anyway. might as well bury it properly.
night falls like a heavy curtain draped by a particularly melodramatic theater director, and satoru crouches in the shadows of his own garden like some sort of discount romeo—if romeo had been a twenty-nine-year-old genius trapped in a nineteen-year-old’s body and juliet had been his own wife who’d recently threatened him with what appeared to be a weaponized jewelry box.
the irony tastes like burnt coffee and shattered dreams. he’s spent six years turning this place into fort knox’s prettier, more technologically advanced cousin, all in the name of protecting you from theoretical dangers that pale in comparison to the very real threat of his own stupidity. motion sensors that could detect a butterfly’s landing, cameras with night vision that would make the military weep with envy, locks that respond to seventeen different biometric markers—and here he is, plotting to break into his own fortress like the world’s most pathetic cat burglar.
the security system hums softly in the darkness, a technological lullaby he’d programmed himself. every blinking light, every nearly invisible laser grid, every pressure-sensitive tile in the walkway—his own paranoid genius, now turned against him like some sort of karmic boomerang wrapped in irony and spite.
he adjusts his reading glasses and studies the house like a general surveying a battlefield. except generals probably don’t usually have to factor in the devastating effects of seeing their beloved wearing pajamas into their strategic planning.
the kitchen window. salvation arrives in the form of his own procrastination—there’s a loose latch on the kitchen window that he’s been meaning to fix for approximately four months and seventeen days. not that he’s counting. you’d mentioned it in passing on a tuesday morning while making pancakes, your hair still mussed from sleep, wearing that ridiculous apron with the anthropomorphic strawberries that should have looked childish but instead made you look like some sort of domestic goddess descended from mount olympus to bless his unworthy kitchen with your presence.
he’d nodded and made appropriate husband noises about adding it to his mental to-do list, then promptly forgotten because you’d started humming that song—the one you always hum when you’re happy, the one that sounds like sunshine would if sunshine had a voice—and his brain had short-circuited somewhere between “fix window latch” and “marry this woman again immediately.”
procrastination, it turns out, has never felt so much like divine intervention.
satoru approaches the window with the careful precision of someone who knows exactly how much pressure the old frame can take before it creaks loud enough to wake the neighbors’ dog, which would start a chain reaction of barking that would inevitably lead to you investigating the commotion. his nineteen-year-old fingers work the latch with muscle memory that spans a decade—apparently some things transcend the space-time continuum, including his intimate knowledge of his own home’s structural weaknesses.
the window slides open with barely a whisper, and satoru feels a brief moment of triumph that’s immediately crushed under the weight of what he’s actually doing. breaking and entering. into his own house. to convince his own wife that he’s actually himself.
if there’s a support group for men who’ve been defeated by their own scientific brilliance, he’s definitely going to need the membership information.
he slips through the window with the fluid grace of his temporarily teenage body, and the contrast is jarring—he’d forgotten how easy movement used to be, before years of hunching over microscopes and circuit boards had given him the posture of a question mark and the flexibility of a particularly rigid breadstick. his nineteen-year-old joints don’t protest the maneuver, don’t crack ominously or require the careful choreography he’s grown accustomed to.
it’s like being a ghost haunting his own life, except ghosts probably don’t have to worry about whether their wives will recognize them.
the house settles around him in the darkness, familiar as his own heartbeat. every creak of the floorboards, every sigh of the old ventilation system, every subtle shift of air that speaks of home and safety and belonging. the scent of dinner lingers in the air—something with garlic and herbs that makes his stomach growl traitorously, reminding him that nineteen-year-old metabolisms apparently require more fuel than whatever laboratory subsistence he’s been surviving on.
guilt tastes like copper pennies and regret as he imagines you eating alone, probably glancing at the basement door every few minutes, wondering if your husband remembered to eat anything more substantial than the sandwiches you’d left for him. the automated messages from his ai assistant feel like lead weights in his chest—every perfectly crafted lie, every synthetic expression of love and longing, every digital deception that kept you from worrying while the real satoru stumbled around in a teenage body like some sort of scientific cautionary tale.
his feet hit the kitchen floor with barely a whisper of sound, and for a moment, he allows himself to breathe. step one: infiltration successful. step two: somehow make it to the basement without triggering any of the—
the lights explode to life like the sun deciding to have a particularly vindictive tantrum.
“gotcha, you little creep.”
and there you are.
standing in the doorway like an avenging angel who’d decided that white cotton nightgowns were the appropriate battle attire for dealing with home invaders. the nightdress—the one with the lace trim that he’d bought you for your birthday because you’d mentioned once that you felt pretty in white—catches the harsh kitchen light and transforms you into something ethereal and terrifying in equal measure.
your hair spills over your shoulders in loose waves, the same waves he’s buried his fingers in countless times, that he’s watched catch morning sunlight during lazy weekend mornings when the world consisted of nothing but you and him and the space between heartbeats. but there’s steel in your posture now, a predatory grace that speaks of skills he’d never suspected, secrets kept with the casual competence of someone who’s been protecting others while letting them think they were doing the protecting.
satoru opens his mouth to explain, to plead, to throw himself at your mercy and grovel with the desperation of a man who’s spent two weeks learning exactly how much his life means nothing without you in it—
your hand moves faster than his genius brain can process, faster than the calculations that usually come as naturally as breathing, faster than any of the combat scenarios he’s ever run through his head during his more paranoid moments.
the karate chop catches him right at the base of his neck with surgical precision, and satoru’s world doesn’t just explode into stars—it becomes a supernova of sensation and realization and the most inappropriate surge of attraction he’s ever experienced.
because even as his vision goes blurry around the edges, even as his knees buckle and his carefully planned explanations scatter like startled birds, even as consciousness starts its tactical retreat from the battlefield of his skull—you’re beautiful.
he’d known you were deadly, in the abstract way that husbands know their wives are capable of anything. but seeing it, experiencing the controlled violence of someone who’s spent years learning how to end threats efficiently and effectively, watching the way you move with the fluid confidence of someone who’s never doubted their ability to protect what matters—
it’s like falling in love all over again, except this time it’s happening while his nervous system stages a coup and his equilibrium files for immediate resignation.
the woman he’d married, the one who makes him sandwiches with the crusts cut off because you knows he eats more when food is convenient, the one who leaves little notes in his lab reminding him to drink water and take breaks, the one who hums while doing laundry and always smells like vanilla and clean cotton and home—you just incapacitated him with the casual efficiency of someone who’s been trained to handle much worse threats than lovesick scientists with poor life choices.
and he’s never been more attracted to another human being in his entire existence.
his vision swims, the edges of the world growing soft and fuzzy like someone’s smeared vaseline on the lens of reality. but even through the haze of imminent unconsciousness, he can see you clearly—the slight flush in your cheeks from adrenaline, the way your breathing has quickened just fractionally, the protective fire in your eyes that speaks of love fierce enough to level cities.
“you,” his mouth tries to form words, but his tongue feels like it’s been replaced with cotton batting soaked in novocaine. “you’re...”
“insane?” you supply helpfully, though your voice carries that particular note of concern that always appears when you think he might be hurt. “scary? criminally strong?”
“perfect,” he manages, and even slurred beyond recognition, the word carries every ounce of wonder and adoration and bone-deep reverence he feels.
you blink, clearly not expecting that response from your supposed stalker, and in that moment of confusion, satoru sees something shift in your expression. a flicker of uncertainty, a crack in the armor of your righteous fury that lets just a hint of the woman he knows peek through.
then the world tilts sideways, his legs forget how to function, and consciousness waves goodbye with all the dignity of a deflating balloon.
satoru surfaces from the depths of unconsciousness like a man drowning in reverse, fighting his way back to a reality that feels suspiciously soft and comfortable for someone who’d just been neutralized by his own wife.
the mother of all headaches pounds against his skull with the rhythm of a particularly enthusiastic drummer, and somewhere in the distance, birds are chirping with the sort of aggressive cheerfulness that makes him want to invent a device for negotiating with wildlife.
satoru opens his eyes to find himself on the porch—his porch, their porch, the one with the swing he’d installed because you’d mentioned once that you’d always wanted one—with a pillow tucked carefully under his head and a glass of water sitting nearby like a peace offering from the goddess of justified violence.
even while knocking him unconscious for breaking into his own home, you’d made sure he was comfortable.
the pillow smells like you—vanilla and that lavender fabric softener you use and something indefinably warm that he’s never been able to identify but would recognize anywhere. it’s the same scent that clings to his shirts when you do laundry, the same one that fills their bedroom in the mornings, the same one that he associates with safety and belonging and the radical concept that someone might actually love him enough to put up with his particular brand of brilliant stupidity.
he sits up slowly, his head spinning like a carnival ride operated by someone with a grudge against inner ears, and catches sight of a note tucked under the water glass. the handwriting is yours—neat, precise, with the same careful attention to detail you bring to everything from grocery lists to the birthday cards you make by hand because you say store-bought ones don’t carry enough love.
for the headache. next time, try using the front door like a normal stalker. —the wife of the REAL satoru gojo
despite everything—the splitting headache, the existential crisis, the fact that he’s been reduced to breaking into his own home like some sort of romantic criminal—he smiles. even your passive-aggressive notes are perfect. even when you’re threatening him with bodily harm, you’re taking care of him. even when you think he’s some delusional teenager with stalker tendencies, you’re making sure he’s hydrated and comfortable.
he’s never been more in love, which would be romantic if it weren’t so completely pathetic.
the front door opens with the sort of casual grace that suggests you’ve been watching him from inside, probably trying to determine whether he’s going to keel over again or attempt another round of breaking and entering. you step out wearing a blue sundress that makes his chest ache with longing so profound it feels like a physical injury—the one with tiny white flowers that he’d bought you for your second anniversary because you’d mentioned once that it reminded you of the field where you’d had your first picnic.
you’re carrying a plate of what looks like his favorite cookies, the ones you only make when you’re worried or upset, the ones that involve three different types of chocolate and a recipe you guard more jealously than state secrets. the fact that you’ve made them now, for what you think is a complete stranger, speaks to a kindness so fundamental that it makes his throat close up with emotion.
“you’re awake,” you observe, settling into the porch chair you’d insisted on buying last spring, the one he’d grumbled about because it didn’t match the aesthetic he’d carefully planned, the one that’s now his favorite spot in the world because it’s where you sit in the mornings with your coffee and your terrible romance novels and your complete contentment with the life you’ve built together. “good. i was starting to think i’d hit you too hard.”
there’s genuine concern in your voice, the same tone you use when he’s working too late and you’re worried he’s going to collapse from exhaustion, and satoru feels his dignity—what little remains of it—crumble into dust. his wife is worried about the wellbeing of someone she thinks is essentially a teenage stalker, because that’s the kind of person you are. that’s the kind of heart you have.
he struggles to his feet, swaying slightly as his nineteen-year-old equilibrium files a formal complaint about the abuse it’s recently endured. “you... you know karate?”
the question comes out slightly accusatory, tinged with the bewilderment of a man discovering that his beloved is capable of violence on a level he’d never imagined. six years of marriage, six years of thinking he knew everything about you, six years of believing he was the protector in this relationship—
“among other things.” you bite into a cookie with the satisfied air of someone who’s just discovered an interesting new fact about the world, watching him with the expression of someone observing a particularly fascinating specimen under laboratory conditions. “my husband doesn’t know. i like letting him think he needs to protect me. he makes the most adorable gadgets when he’s worried about my safety.”
the casual way you mention keeping an entire martial arts background secret from him makes satoru’s head spin worse than the concussion. not because you’ve hidden something from him—everyone deserves their secrets, their private spaces, their own mysteries to unfold in their own time—but because you’ve hidden it for the most fundamentally sweet reason imaginable.
you’ve been letting him play protector while being perfectly capable of protecting yourself, because you think his overprotectiveness is cute.
he falls in love with you all over again, which seems physically impossible given that he’s been operating at maximum love capacity for the better part of a decade, but apparently the human heart has hidden reserves for discovering new depths of adoration even when you think you’ve already catalogued every possible reason to worship someone.
“why didn’t you tell him?” he asks, genuinely curious despite the circumstances and the growing certainty that he’s about to learn something that will fundamentally reshape his understanding of the woman he married.
your expression softens in the way that always makes his chest tight with emotion, that particular look of fond exasperation mixed with infinite patience that you reserve for discussions of your husband’s more endearing quirks.
“because my satoru gojo is the smartest man alive,” you say, and the pride in your voice makes something warm and golden spread through his chest like sunrise, “but he’s also a complete idiot when it comes to the people he loves. he’d spend all his time trying to make sure i never had to use those skills instead of appreciating that i can take care of myself. this way, he gets to feel protective, i get beautiful functional jewelry and self-defense gadgets, and everyone’s happy.”
the way you say his name—their name, his name, the name you chose to take and make your own—carries so much love it’s like being hit by lightning made of pure affection. there’s pride and exasperation and devotion all wrapped up together, the voice of someone who sees all his flaws and brilliant strengths and loves him not despite them but because of the ridiculous, wonderful, impossible whole they create.
“he’s lucky,” satoru says quietly, his voice rough with emotions he can’t begin to untangle, “to have someone who understands him so well.”
“he is,” you agree, and your smile could power entire cities, could fuel space programs, could probably solve half the world’s energy crisis if properly harnessed. “he’s brilliant and kind and funny, and he makes me laugh every single day. he’s also terrible at remembering to eat when he’s working and has a tendency to forget that normal people need more than three hours of sleep, but he’s perfect. he’s mine.”
satoru has never experienced jealousy of himself before, but it turns out to be a unique form of psychological torture—listening to the woman he loves describe him with such complete adoration while being unable to claim that love for himself. it’s like being handed a gift and told you can look but never touch, like being shown paradise through bulletproof glass.
the domesticity of it, the casual way you catalogue his flaws alongside his strengths, the matter-of-fact possessiveness in that final declaration—it’s everything he’s ever wanted and everything he currently can’t have, all wrapped up in a blue sundress and served with homemade cookies.
“what if,” he tries carefully, his voice pitched to sound like idle curiosity rather than the desperate plea it actually is, “hypothetically, something happened to him? what if he was... changed somehow?”
your expression shifts faster than a summer storm, going from warm affection to arctic fury in the space between heartbeats. the cookie in your hand crumbles slightly from the sudden tension in your grip, chocolate chips scattering like the remains of his dignity.
“nothing’s going to happen to my husband,” you say, and your voice carries the kind of quiet menace that speaks of consequences beyond imagination. “and if someone tried to hurt him, they’d have to go through me first.”
the protective fire in your eyes makes something primal and deeply satisfied purr in his chest, even as his rational mind catalogs this as yet another example of how thoroughly he’s miscalculated this entire situation. you’d go to war for him. you’d fight gods and demons and the fundamental forces of the universe itself if it meant keeping him safe.
and here he is, the very person you’re trying to protect, being threatened by that same fierce love.
“but hypothetically—”
“no hypotheticals.” you stand up with sharp, efficient movements, smoothing your dress with the same precision you bring to everything, from folding fitted sheets to organizing his lab equipment when he’s too scattered to think straight. “my husband is in his lab, working on something that’s going to change the world, because that’s what he does. and you’re going to stop harassing us, because that’s what you’re going to do if you want to keep all your limbs attached.”
the dismissal is absolute, final, delivered with the authority of someone who’s never doubted their ability to follow through on threats. you disappear back into the house like an avenging angel returning to heaven, leaving satoru alone with his thoughts and the growing certainty that dignity is a luxury he can no longer afford.
he sits on the porch steps—his own porch steps, in front of his own house, locked out by his own security system and his own wife—and contemplates the spectacular wreckage of his scientific career. somewhere in that basement, his life’s work hums quietly, the temporal displacement device that was supposed to give him more time with you having instead stolen the time he already had.
the irony would be poetic if it weren’t so completely devastating.
satoru gojo, holder of 845 patents, winner of seventeen international scientific awards, the man who’d revolutionized three separate fields before his thirtieth birthday—reduced to breaking into his own home like a common criminal, only to be defeated by his wife’s previously unknown martial arts skills and her absolutely justified protective instincts.
he’s given up his dignity, his professional reputation, and apparently his door privileges, all because he’d been too excited about surprising you with a scientific breakthrough to properly test the safety protocols.
note to self: next time he wants to revolutionize temporal mechanics, maybe start with laboratory mice instead of jumping straight to human trials.
assuming there is a next time. assuming he can figure out how to convince you that the teenager on your porch is actually your husband without sounding like the world’s most delusional stalker.
the basement feels very far away suddenly, farther than when he’d been planning his infiltration, farther than the actual physical distance between the porch and the lab where his salvation waits. because now he understands the true scope of his problem: it’s not just about fixing the temporal displacement device.
it’s about rebuilding trust with someone who thinks he’s been safely contained in his laboratory while a dangerous stranger makes increasingly desperate attempts to insert himself into their life.
satoru sighs deeply like a man who has discovered that rock bottom has a basement, and that basement has a sub-basement, and he’s currently spelunking through the geological layers of his own humiliation. the pillow you’d left under his head when you dragged his unconscious body out here mocks him with its floral pattern—little daisies that seem to whisper pathetic in tiny flower voices.
his dignity lies somewhere in your rose bushes, probably fertilizing the begonias.
he stares hopelessly at his own house—the house he designed, built, and has been systematically locked out of by his own security measures. the irony tastes like pennies and poor life choices. somewhere in that house, you’re probably stress-baking again, creating cookies that could end world hunger while muttering about stalkers and the general incompetence of teenage boys who think they can impersonate geniuses.
the truly tragic part is that you’re not wrong. he is a teenage boy trying to impersonate a genius. the fact that he actually is that genius feels like a technicality that the universe is refusing to acknowledge.
satoru stands up, brushing pillow lint off his jeans (when had he started wearing jeans? his twenty-nine-year-old self exclusively wore slacks, but apparently his teenage body had different sartorial opinions). if he’s going to reclaim his life, his wife, and his chronological age, he needs to get into that lab.
the front door is obviously out of the question. you’ve made it abundantly clear that any further doorbell-related activities will result in weaponized consequences that his nineteen-year-old body might not survive. the back door is visible from the kitchen window, where you’re probably standing guard like a beautiful, homicidal sentinel.
which leaves him with the architectural equivalent of a hail mary: the basement windows.
he circles the house like a cat burglar who’s read too many heist novels and not enough actual breaking-and-entering manuals. the basement windows are small, the kind of windows that had seemed like a good idea when he was designing a lab and wanted natural light but not easy access. past-satoru had been worried about corporate espionage, not future-satoru trying to infiltrate his own laboratory while trapped in a temporal paradox of the most embarrassing variety.
the window on the east side looks promising. it’s partially hidden by the hydrangea bushes you’d planted last spring, the ones that bloom in impossible shades of blue because you’d somehow convinced them that regular hydrangea colors were beneath their potential. the glass is dirty enough to provide cover, and the latch looks old enough to have the structural integrity of a wet paper bag.
satoru crouches in the dirt, feeling like the world’s most pathetic ninja. his knees protest against the unfamiliar position—nineteen-year-old joints might be more flexible, but they’re also apparently more dramatic about being asked to crouch in garden soil.
the window latch gives way with the kind of rusty shriek that could wake the dead, the neighbors, and possibly several small woodland creatures. satoru freezes, waiting for the sound of your footsteps, the opening of doors, the general commotion that would signal his discovery and subsequent re-unconsciousness.
nothing.
either you didn’t hear it, or you’re currently sharpening something in the kitchen while humming ominously.
he slides the window open with the careful precision of someone who knows exactly how much the old frame can take before it decides to give up on life entirely. the basement yawns below him like the mouth of some scientific purgatory, all shadows and the faint hum of machines he’d built to make the world a better place.
getting through the window requires a level of physical coordination that his nineteen-year-old body possesses but his twenty-nine-year-old dignity abhors. he ends up sliding through headfirst, performing what could generously be called a controlled fall and more accurately described as a graceless tumble that would make circus performers weep.
his feet hit the concrete floor with all the stealth of a bag of hammers being dropped from a significant height.
the basement lab stretches before him like a technological cathedral, all gleaming surfaces and blinking lights that pulse in rhythm with machines whose purposes range from “revolutionary” to “probably shouldn’t exist but here we are anyway.” this is his domain, his kingdom, his sanctuary of scientific achievement and questionable decision-making.
it also feels like coming home and visiting a crime scene simultaneously.
everything is exactly as he’d left it two weeks ago, frozen in the moment when he’d stepped into the temporal field with the confidence of someone who hadn’t yet learned that the universe has a twisted sense of humor. the half-finished temporal displacement device sits on the main workbench like an accusation, all smooth curves and innocent blinking lights that belie its capacity for chronological chaos.
coffee cups are scattered around like caffeinated archaeological artifacts, each one marking a different stage of his research. there’s the mug you’d given him for his birthday with “world’s okayest scientist” written in comic sans font—your little joke about his ego that he treasures more than his nobel prize nomination. there’s the plain white cup he uses when he’s really focused, the one with the chip on the handle from when he’d gotten excited about a breakthrough and gestured too enthusiastically. there’s even the fancy porcelain teacup his mother had given him, which he only uses when he’s feeling particularly pretentious about his discoveries.
each cup tells the story of late nights, early mornings, and the kind of obsessive focus that leads to temporal displacement incidents.
his phone sits on the desk, buzzing intermittently with notifications he can’t answer. the screen lights up every few minutes with incoming messages, calls from colleagues, reminders about appointments he’s apparently missing while trapped in his own temporal feedback loop. but it’s the outgoing messages that make his stomach twist into knots that could anchor ships.
the ai assistant is working with the efficiency of a swiss watch and the emotional intelligence of someone who actually knows him. every few hours, it crafts another perfect message to your phone, each one a masterpiece of his writing style mixed with the kind of scientific romanticism that had won your heart six years ago.
making progress on the quantum stabilization matrix. the equations are beautiful—almost as beautiful as you in that yellow dress this morning. did you eat lunch? —satoru
breakthrough with the temporal field generators! i think i can increase efficiency by 34%. also, i dreamed about that weekend in kyoto again. we should go back soon. —your devoted husband
minor setback with the power coupling, but nothing i can’t fix. missing your voice. send a voice message please? maybe hum that song you like while i work? it always helps me think. —satoru
each message is a perfect imitation of his writing style, his habits, his love for you wrapped in scientific progress reports. they capture the way he thinks, the way he speaks, the way he can’t seem to separate his work from his adoration of you because everything he creates is somehow inspired by your existence.
no wonder you believe he’s down here, buried in his work, missing you but dedicated to his research. the ai had done its job too well, creating a digital phantom that was more convincing than his actual de-aged presence.
reading them makes him want to punch his past self for being so thorough, so careful, so goddamn good at programming an assistant that could replicate his personality down to the way he signs his messages with scientific terminology and pet names in equal measure.
satoru rolls up his sleeves and approaches his workstation like a penitent approaching an altar.
the lab’s security system chirps softly as he moves through the space, sensors tracking his movement with the bored efficiency of technology that recognizes him but doesn’t particularly care about his current chronological displacement. red lights blink in sequence along the walls, a heartbeat of recognition that would normally make him feel secure and accomplished.
instead, it feels like the lab is mocking him. oh look, the blinking seems to say, it’s the genius who outsmarted himself into adolescence.
the temporal displacement device looks innocent enough sitting there on the main workbench—a sleek silver contraption about the size of a microwave, all smooth curves and the kind of blinking lights that movie audiences associate with either miracle cures or impending explosions. he’d been so proud of it when he’d finished the initial design, so excited to show you what he’d been working on for months.
the irony burns like acid in his chest: he’d built a machine to give himself more time with you, and instead, it had stolen the time he already had.
but now, looking at it with the clarity that comes from two weeks of enforced separation and multiple instances of being rendered unconscious by his own wife, he can see exactly what went wrong. the power coupling on the left side shows signs of overheating, the quantum stabilization matrix is operating at 73% efficiency instead of the required 89%, and the temporal field generators are displaying the kind of fluctuation patterns that suggest they’re one strong breeze away from turning him into quantum soup.
his nineteen-year-old hands remember the work even if they look different doing it—smoother, unlined, with calluses in different places that speak of a life not yet lived. muscle memory is a beautiful thing, and soon he’s lost in the familiar rhythm of calibration and adjustment, replacing the burnt-out components that had caused the initial malfunction.
the security system continues its soft surveillance, cameras tracking his movement as he works. somewhere in the house above, you’re probably going about your evening routine, maybe reading in the living room chair he’d bought specifically because it makes you look like a goddess of domestic tranquility, maybe taking a bath in the tub he’d designed with jets positioned exactly where you like them.
you think your husband is down here, safely contained in his laboratory, working on equations that could revolutionize temporal mechanics. you have no idea that your husband is actually down here, working on equations that could return him to the age where you might not instinctively try to karate chop him on sight.
hours pass in the peculiar way that time moves when you’re focused on something that requires every neuron in your brain to fire in perfect synchronization. his back aches from hunching over the workbench—some things never change, regardless of what decade your spine thinks it’s living in. his eyes water behind his reading glasses, the same prescription he’s had since childhood because apparently temporal displacement doesn’t fix astigmatism.
the basement air grows stale and recycled, nothing like the fresh scent of your perfume or the way the house smells when you’re baking. down here, everything smells like ozone and possibility, metal and dreams, the peculiar combination of scents that comes from trying to bend the universe to your will through applied science and stubborn determination.
component by component, equation by equation, he rebuilds what his hubris had broken. the quantum stabilization matrix purrs back to life, its efficiency climbing toward the magic number that means the difference between “successful temporal correction” and “decorating the lab walls with physicist.” the power coupling stops smoking, which he takes as a positive sign, though the bar for success has been dramatically lowered by recent events.
finally, blessedly, after what feels like several geological ages, the device hums to life with the soft blue glow that means everything is working properly. the sound it makes is almost musical, a harmony of frequencies that speaks to the part of his brain that understands how beautiful math can be when it’s applied to impossible problems.
satoru stares at it for a long moment, this machine that had caused so much chaos, so much pain, so much embarrassment. it looks the same as it had two weeks ago, before he’d stepped into it with the confidence of someone who hadn’t yet learned that the universe has a deeply personal vendetta against his happiness.
but now it’s fixed. now it can undo what it had done, return him to the chronological age where his wife doesn’t look at him like he’s a particularly offensive piece of gum stuck to her shoe.
he takes a deep breath, tasting the metallic tang of possibility and ozone, and steps into the temporal field.
the world bends.
reality stretches like taffy in the hands of a cosmic confectioner who’s had too much caffeine and not enough sleep. colors bleed into each other, the visible spectrum having what appears to be a nervous breakdown while time folds backward on itself with the sensation of falling upward through a kaleidoscope made of mathematics and regret.
his bones feel like they’re growing, stretching, settling back into familiar patterns that his muscles remember even if his consciousness is currently experiencing what could best be described as temporal vertigo. his face reshapes itself like clay in the hands of chronology, features aging forward to match the man you’d fallen in love with, married, and spent six years learning to live with.
the sensation is indescribable and entirely uncomfortable, like being turned inside out by time itself while someone plays a symphony written in mathematical equations. his cells remember being twenty-nine, and they rush toward that memory with the enthusiasm of teenagers remembering they have a curfew.
when the light fades and the world stops doing its impression of a funhouse mirror designed by someone with a degree in theoretical physics, satoru catches sight of himself in the polished surface of another machine.
he looks like himself again. twenty-nine years old, tall and lean, with the same pale hair that had turned white when he was four and stayed that way out of what he suspects is pure stubbornness. the same eyes behind the same reading glasses, the same hands that you’ve memorized, the same face that you’ve kissed goodnight for six years.
the face you’d married, the body you’d mapped with your hands on lazy sunday mornings, the version of himself that you actually wanted to see walking through the door instead of some temporal impostor with the emotional maturity of a teenager and the physical appearance to match.
he runs his hands over his face, feeling the familiar planes and angles, the slight roughness of stubble that his nineteen-year-old self had been too optimistic to grow properly. these are the hands that have held you, touched you, built you impossibly complex gifts that serve no purpose other than making you smile.
satoru straightens his sweater and climbs the basement stairs like a man ascending to heaven, or at least to the ground floor where his wife is probably stress-baking cookies and muttering about the general incompetence of teenagers who think they can impersonate geniuses.
time to go home.
time to reclaim his life, his wife, and his dignity—though he suspects the dignity might be a lost cause at this point.
the basement door opens onto the kitchen, and the smell of home washes over him like a blessing from the domestic gods: vanilla and cinnamon, the lavender detergent you use on the dish towels, the faint scent of the coffee you’d made this morning before you knew your day would include multiple instances of assault and battery against your own husband.
he’s home. finally, truly, chronologically home.
you’re in the kitchen when he emerges, standing at the stove in that pink dress with the tiny pearl buttons he’s memorized but hasn’t seen in two weeks. your hair is twisted into a messy bun secured with one of his prototype hairpins—the ones that glow soft blue when you’re stressed. they’re glowing now, just barely, a testament to how worried you’ve been about his prolonged absence from the world above ground.
the wooden spoon moves in lazy circles through whatever you’re cooking, and the scent hits him like a physical force—garlic and herbs and that particular blend of spices you use when you’re making his favorite pasta. his stomach clenches with actual hunger for the first time in two weeks, nineteen-year-old metabolism finally giving way to twenty-nine-year-old appreciation for real food.
but it’s the humming that undoes him completely. that soft, unconscious melody you make when you think no one’s listening, the same tune he’d programmed into his ai messages because he’d been missing it so desperately. hearing it live, unfiltered, coming from your actual throat instead of his memory—
satoru doesn’t think. doesn’t hesitate. doesn’t announce himself like a civilized human being.
he launches himself across the kitchen like a man possessed, arms wrapping around your waist from behind, his chest pressing flush against your back as he buries his face in the curve of your neck. you smell like vanilla body lotion and that expensive shampoo he pretends not to notice the cost of, and underneath it all, just you. warm skin and the faint sweetness that clings to your hair, the scent that’s been haunting him for fourteen endless days.
“satoru!” you yelp, startled enough that the wooden spoon goes flying, clattering across the counter and leaving a trail of red sauce in its wake. “you absolute menace, you scared me half to death!”
he makes a sound that’s half laugh, half sob, tightening his arms around you like you might evaporate if he loosens his grip even slightly. his reading glasses bump against your shoulder as he nuzzles deeper into your neck, and he can feel the butterfly clips in your hair tickling against his temple.
“missed you,” he mumbles against your skin, the words muffled and desperate. “missed you so much.”
“missed me?” your voice pitches higher, indignant and fond in equal measure. “satoru, you’ve been ten feet underground for two weeks! i’ve been cooking for you every single day, leaving plates outside your lab door, and what do i find when i check? cold food. stone cold. untouched.”
your hands come up to cover his where they’re locked around your middle, and even through your scolding, your fingers are gentle as they trace over his knuckles. “what have you even been eating? because i know it wasn’t my cooking, and if you tell me you’ve been surviving on coffee and those horrible protein bars, i’m going to—”
“also,” you continue without pausing for breath, your voice shifting into that particular tone you get when you’re gearing up for a proper lecture, ”you will not believe the past two weeks i’ve had. there’s someone who’s been lurking around our house and he who looks like some bizarre teenage version of you?”
satoru’s stomach drops. his grip on you tightens involuntarily, and he feels you notice the tension, your body shifting slightly in his arms.
“he’s been so persistent. yesterday he actually had the audacity to break into our house through the kitchen window—our kitchen window, satoru, the one with the broken latch you keep forgetting to fix.” your free hand gestures wildly, even though he can’t see it from his position behind you. “thankfully, all those self-defense gadgets you made me actually work. that little stun gun you built into my bracelet? absolutely perfect. sent him flying right off our porch.”
the embarrassment hits him like a physical weight. his face burns against your neck, and he has to resist the urge to groan out loud. you’re giving full credit to his inventions, protecting his ego even while describing how you’d defended yourself against him, and the sweetness of it makes his chest ache.
“and the motion sensors you installed last month caught him skulking around the garden at three in the morning,” you continue, oblivious to his mortification. ”honestly, the dedication is almost impressive. stalking behavior aside, you have to admire his commitment to the whole ‘young gojo’ aesthetic. though i have no idea why anyone would want to look like you did in college. you were such a baby-faced disaster back then.”
“i know you know karate,” he blurts out, the words tumbling from his mouth before he can stop them.
you go very still in his arms. the humming stops abruptly.
“what?” your voice is carefully neutral, but he can feel the way your shoulders tense, the slight shift in your breathing that means you’re calculating your next move.
“i know you know karate,” he repeats, his face burning hotter against your neck. ”you’ve been taking classes since you were twelve. you never told me because you like it when i worry about you enough to make you protection gadgets.”
the silence stretches long enough that he starts to panic. then you let out a long, shaky breath.
“how could you possibly know that?” your voice is small now, embarrassed in a way that makes him want to wrap you up and apologize for everything. “i never... i was so careful not to...”
your hands try to pull away from his, but he holds on, threading your fingers together. “because i’m the boy,” he says quietly. “the one who’s been trying to talk to you for two weeks. the one you stunned off the porch and knocked unconscious in our kitchen.”
he feels the exact moment understanding hits you. your entire body goes rigid, and then you’re spinning in his arms so fast he has to step back to avoid a collision with your elbow.
your eyes are wide, your mouth falling open in a perfect ’o’ of shock. the blush that spreads across your cheeks is magnificent and mortifying, and he watches you process the implications with the expression of someone who’s just realized they’ve been caught in the world’s most embarrassing misunderstanding.
“oh my god,” you whisper, your hands flying up to cover your face. “oh my god, satoru, i am so sorry. i thought—when he knew things about us, about our private moments, i assumed he was some kind of corporate spy, or maybe a rival scientist who’d done research on us, or—”
”a stalker,” he supplies gently, reaching up to pull your hands away from your face. “which was a completely reasonable assumption, given the circumstances.”
“i called you a discount version of yourself!” your voice cracks with horror. “i told you that you weren’t as attractive as my husband! to your face! while you were actually my husband!”
despite everything, satoru can’t help but smile at the outrage in your voice. “technically, you were defending my honor. it was actually incredibly sweet.”
“sweet?” you squeak, aghast, your palms flattening against his chest like you’re considering shoving him away. but you don’t. you stay pressed against him, trembling, overwhelmed.
“i knocked you unconscious with a karate chop!”
“you have excellent form,” he says solemnly, unable to suppress the tilt of his lips. the memory of you, so fierce, so protective, haunts him in the sweetest way—a blurred flash of your nightgown fluttering as you moved with such lethal grace. he remembers the precision, the practiced certainty in your strikes, remembers thinking you’d never looked more beautiful than in that moment where you saw him as a threat and chose violence to protect his memory.
it makes his pulse thrum in his throat. it makes him want to sink to his knees and kiss the hand that struck him.
and yet, here you are, groaning, humiliated, burying your face against his chest to escape him—as if he’s not already completely ensnared. his hands settle on your waist, loose but present, fingertips teasing over the soft fabric of your dress, as though reacquainting himself with the privilege of touching you.
he tilts his head, blue eyes gleaming behind his glasses, drinking you in with a reverence that borders on obsession. he catalogues the way you fidget, the way your lashes kiss your cheeks as you refuse to meet his gaze, the heat blooming under your skin.
there’s a little crease between your eyebrows now—he’s put it there, just as you’ve placed a permanent one on his.
his thumb brushes the edge of your jaw, coaxing you to look at him. “you kept it from me,” he murmurs, savoring the tremor that passes through you, ”because you wanted me to keep making you gadgets.”
it’s not a question. he already knows. you told him, so sweetly, so earnestly, when you believed he was a stranger, and he will hold that secret like a pressed flower tucked into the pages of his heart.
“you think my overprotectiveness is cute?” his voice softens into something breathless, incredulous, dripping with adoration. “you think it’s cute that i lose sleep making things to keep you safe? that i forget to eat because i’m too busy worrying about you?”
your blush deepens, scorching, and you tug at his shirt like you want to disappear into him. “you make me the most amazing things when you’re worried about me. and you get this little crease between your eyebrows when you’re focused, and you forget to eat or sleep, but you always remember exactly how i like my coffee, and—” he watches you falter, your words disintegrating into a strangled sound of mortification. “this is not making me sound less ridiculous. is it?”
“it’s making you sound perfect.” his forehead drops to yours, and he cradles your face like you’re breakable, like you’re the finest piece of machinery he’s ever built.“ it’s making you sound like the woman i fell in love with—the woman who’s been taking care of me, worrying about me, defending my honor against discount versions of myself.”
his grin sharpens, unable to resist, “and you defended me so well, baby. ‘not my husband.’ ‘my husband is a genius.’ ‘my husband smells better.’ ‘my husband has better posture.’”
he leans in, nipping at your bottom lip, playful, intoxicating. “my sweet wife. i’ve never felt so protected.”
your laugh bursts out of you, watery and full-bodied, your hands rising to cup his cheeks, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones in trembling circles. “i can’t believe i spent two weeks beating up my own husband.”
“i can’t believe i spent two weeks watching my wife talk about how amazing her husband is while she was actively rejecting me.” his lashes flutter as he leans into your touch, like a cat, like something basking in warmth it had been starved of. “do you have any idea how confusing that was? i was jealous of myself. i was genuinely, pathetically jealous of the man you married while being the man you married.”
it’s a confession scraped raw from his chest, but you’re laughing properly now, bright and breathless, like you’ve been untethered from something heavy. you pepper kisses over his face in rapid, dizzying succession, your lips skating over his brow, his temples, the tip of his nose.
“you’re such a dork,” you murmur, still cupping his face, like you can’t bear to let go of him.
“i’m your dork.”
his voice is rough with want, his pulse tripping over itself as he lets the weight of everything crash into him all at once. his mouth brushes over yours again, lingering, reverent. “and i missed you so much. missed being able to touch you. missed you looking at me like you’re looking at me right now instead of like i’m some creepy teenager with questionable motives.”
“you are a creepy teenager with questionable motives,” you shoot back, but your words crumble under the softness that creeps into your voice. ”you invented a time machine just so you could spend more time with me.”
“and then immediately wasted two weeks because i’m apparently the only genius in history stupid enough to de-age himself by accident.”
his thumb slides over your bottom lip, unable to resist, unable to stop touching you now that he’s allowed to. his whole body hums with the need to consume you, to drag you inside his bones, to make up for every second he’d lost.
“not wasted,” you whisper, fierce and tender all at once. “never wasted. not if it brought you back to me.”
those words detonate inside him, and suddenly the kitchen feels too small, the air too thin. he’s been existing on stolen glances and careful distance for two weeks, watching you from afar, aching with the need to touch you, to kiss you, to prove to himself that you’re real and his and finally within reach again.
“we’ve been trying for a baby,” he says hoarsely, the words spilling out before he can stop them. “for months, and i just—i wasted two weeks, and i can’t—i need—”
you silence him with a kiss, soft and desperate and tasting like the tears you’ve both been crying. your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he responds by lifting you, setting you on the counter so you’re at eye level, his hands spanning your waist, thumbs tracing circles over the soft fabric of your dress.
“i love you,” you breathe against his mouth. “i love you so much, and i’m so sorry i hurt you, and i missed you, and—”
he kisses you again, deeper this time, pouring two weeks of longing and frustration and desperate love into the contact. you taste like home, like forgiveness, like everything he’s been craving. your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and he can feel the exact moment you stop thinking and start just feeling, your body melting against his.
his glasses fog up. he doesn’t care.
your hair comes loose from its bun, the mechanical clips clattering to the counter, and he tangles his fingers in the silky strands, angling your head to deepen the kiss. you make a soft sound that goes straight through him, and he’s just starting to contemplate the structural integrity of the kitchen counter when—
ding.
the oven timer cuts through the moment like a bucket of cold water.
you break apart, both breathing hard, your lips swollen and his hair thoroughly mussed. the pink dress is wrinkled where his hands have been gripping your waist, and there’s a dazed look in your eyes that makes him want to forget dinner entirely.
“the pasta,” you say faintly.
“forget the pasta,” he growls, leaning down to press kisses along your neck, finding that spot just below your ear that makes you shiver.
ding. ding. ding.
“it’ll burn,” you protest, but your head tilts to give him better access, and your hands are still fisted in his shirt.
he doesn’t let you go. not when you say his name, not when you push at his shoulders, not when the oven timer chimes over and over like some petty background character begging for attention in a scene it no longer belongs to.
”don’t mind it,” he breathes against your throat, and it sounds less like a request, more like an instinct, as though there is nothing in this world more irrelevant than a meal when you’re in his arms again.
his lips move along the curve of your neck with reverence, brushing over your pulse, slow at first—a sweet drag of his mouth, the soft, wet pull of his tongue where your skin is most sensitive. he feels the flutter of your pulse beneath his lips, feels the way your body leans into his as though your bones have decided they’d rather trust him to hold you upright.
his breathing is uneven, shaky, like he’s on the edge of something he’s been chasing since the day he woke up in that younger body and couldn’t touch you the way he needed to. the memory claws at him now, vivid and bitter, that helpless ache of looking like himself and yet being nothing you would want to take in your arms.
you murmur something about the oven again, the protest barely formed, already dissolving into a sigh as he scrapes his teeth lightly along your skin. your hands remain curled in his shirt, not pushing anymore, just clutching—desperate, familiar, your fingers twisting into the fabric like you’re scared he might slip away again. his shirt bunches beneath your grip, your nails pressing half-moon shapes into his chest, but he craves the sting of it, the grounding pain of knowing you’re clinging to him, needing him just as much.
”it won’t burn,” he murmurs against your skin, his tongue following the line of your collarbone, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. ”it’s a timed self-shut. i programmed it myself. knew this might happen. knew i wouldn’t be able to let you go.”
he pushes his glasses up with a quick, practiced nudge of his wrist, never pulling his mouth too far from your skin. he needs to see you. needs to see every part of you. his hands are too busy, too greedy, sliding up the sides of your dress, pushing the soft fabric higher and higher until his fingertips brush the bare skin of your thighs. the dress pools around his wrists as though the fabric is surrendering to him, letting him through.
he feels you shudder when his thumbs trace slow, possessive circles just beneath the hem. he slides his hands further, the cotton dragging over your skin as if the dress itself is a barrier he’s grown to despise. ”been thinking about this for two weeks. touching you. feeling you. not some memory—you. this body.”
the tremble in your breath is sharp, palpable, sinking into his bones. your voice hitches when he catches your earlobe between his teeth, when he sucks lightly, as if tasting something he already knows belongs to him. his hands splay wide over your thighs, his touch more sure, more demanding now as though every second he isn’t inside you is unbearable. his fingertips trail along the curve of your legs, memorizing the heat and texture of your skin with the same focus he gives his research—meticulous, thorough, consumed by the need to understand everything.
he pushes his glasses up again, quick and automatic, the weight of them a familiar anchor as his vision sharpens, as though seeing you this clearly makes the need inside him all the more unbearable. he tilts his head just enough to see your lashes flutter, to watch your lips part around his name, and the sight burns into him with perfect clarity.
when his hands find your waist again, he isn’t gentle. his grip is firm, grounding, as though if he doesn’t hold you tight enough, you might vanish all over again. he tugs you back against him, hips flush to yours, and he can’t suppress the groan that punches out of him when he feels how warm you are, even through his jeans.
the heat of you burns into him, through the thin fabric, the kind of contact that makes his head spin. his cock twitches against the rough denim, aching, pulsing, a frustration that’s been building since the second he lost the chance to touch you properly.
“you’re not gonna let me feed you first?” you manage, but the breathless curl in your voice betrays you.
”you’re feeding me now,” he says, dragging his hands to your hips and grinding against you, slow and deliberate, a filthy drag of friction that has you gasping into his shoulder. he’s gone two weeks without this—without your heat, without your weight against him, without the sweetness of your mouth pressed to his.
his mouth captures yours again, the kiss messy and open-mouthed, his tongue chasing yours as though he might starve if he stops. he can’t get enough of you, can’t bear the distance, can’t stand the thought of pulling away, not even to breathe.
“but dinner—”
“it’s fine,” he murmurs, almost a laugh. “it’ll shut off on its own. you can’t burn anything while i’m loving you. made sure of it.”
his mouth moves lower, down the line of your throat, tasting the salt on your skin, the way you shiver when he noses along the curve of your shoulder. he kisses the delicate dip where your neck meets your shoulder, over and over, as though he could mark you with nothing but his mouth.
his hand slides beneath your dress again, impatient now, pushing your panties aside without ceremony. his fingertips graze your folds, and he sucks in a breath through his teeth—wet, already, and his chest tightens with something ugly and possessive because you’ve missed him just as much. the feel of you, the heat, the slick glide of his fingers dragging through your arousal—it short-circuits something in him. his jaw clenches, his breath stutters, and he presses his forehead to your shoulder to anchor himself.
“fuck, baby,” he whispers, his voice breaking apart, “look at you. missed me that much? couldn’t wait?”
his touch lingers there, gentle for a moment, tracing, teasing, his middle finger dipping to circle where you’re already aching for him. his other arm curls around your waist, holding you firm against him when your knees nearly give out. he rubs slow circles until you’re grinding into his hand, chasing the friction like you can’t stand the distance anymore. you’re warm and soft and trembling under his touch, your hips rolling helplessly, your breath hitching every time he circles just a little harder.
“satoru,” you whimper, half a plea, half a warning, but you’re already folding into him, already falling apart.
“’m here now,” he murmurs, guiding you to turn around, pressing your hands to the countertop, his body crowding you from behind. “i’m right here. gonna take care of you. gonna fuck you just like you need.”
he kisses your shoulder, slow and lingering, as though tasting your skin could imprint you deeper into him. the curve of your spine rises beneath his mouth, the faint tremble under his lips pulling something raw and animal out of him. he presses into you, his chest solid to your back, his hands smoothing over the fabric of your dress as if his touch alone could brand you as his, as if holding you like this might anchor him to this moment forever.
his jeans rasp against the softness of your thighs, each rock of his hips a little rougher, a little more desperate as he grinds against you. the friction is maddening. it makes him hiss through his teeth, makes his fingers dig into your waist like he needs to memorize the shape of you beneath his palms. when he reaches for his belt, it’s with the shaky impatience of a man on the edge of breaking. the buckle fights him, the leather dragging through the loops in a way that feels insufferably slow, and his breathing stutters, uneven, desperate.
“hurry,” you pant, your voice wrecked and pleading, your hips grinding back against him in small, frantic circles. “please, satoru, please… i need you now.”
he lets out a low curse when he finally frees himself, the tip of his cock dragging through your slick folds with a helpless groan as though even that brief touch is too much, too good, too long overdue. “fuck, baby, you’re soaked,” he breathes, half-crazed, his chest pressed tight to your back. “missed me this much, huh?”
“missed everything,” you gasp, your hands fisting around the edge of the counter, nails digging into the wood. “missed you. your voice, your hands… your cock. please, please don’t tease.”
he doesn’t wait. he can’t. he pushes into you in one, long, slow thrust, inch by aching inch, feeling you stretch and give around him, until he’s seated as deep as you can take him. the tight, wet squeeze of you makes his breath falter, a shudder wracking his frame, his body folding over you as his hands scramble for your waist, clutching like you’re the only tether left holding him to the earth.
“fuck… so full,” you whimper, your voice breaking on a gasp. “god, satoru… so good… i needed this… i needed you.”
he adjusts his glasses with a quick, shaky push, his vision sharpening just in time to burn the sight of you into memory—the delicate arch of your spine, the way your fingers clench around the countertop, the way your hips fit perfectly in his hands like you were carved just for him. the view sears itself into him, and the weight of it nearly drives him to the edge.
“shit… you feel like home,” he rasps, his voice fraying at the edges, his hands tightening until his knuckles ache. he pulls out slow, savoring the sweet, unbearable friction that drags along every nerve in his cock, only to slam back in with a force that steals his breath. again. and again. a steady, greedy pace that grows frantic under the pressure of his need.
the wet slap of skin against skin fills the kitchen, tangled with his ragged breathing and the soft, gasping sounds you make beneath him, each one sinking into him, winding tighter and tighter inside his ribs.
“oh, fuck, satoru…” you cry out, each thrust knocking the air from your lungs, your body meeting his with a desperate rhythm. “don’t stop… please, don’t stop… you feel so good, so deep… i can’t think… i can’t think when you’re fucking me like this.”
he leans over you, his chest pressed to your back, his breath hot and ragged against your ear as he drives into you with desperate force. his lips brush over the shell of your ear, trailing kisses down your neck as though his mouth can’t bear to leave your skin for more than a second. he mutters your name between each kiss, like a mantra, like it might steady him.
“you’re mine,” he pants, his words shivering with the strain of holding himself together. he kisses along your shoulder, his pace only faltering when his hips grind deep, seeking more, always more. “i’m not wasting another second, baby. i’m gonna… fuck, i’m gonna… i’m gonna make you feel me for days.”
“i already do,” you sob, your head tipping back against his shoulder, tears blurring your vision as you clutch his hand where it grips your waist. “you’re everywhere… you’re all i can feel… all i want… please, satoru, please don’t stop…”
his hand snakes between your thighs, his fingers circling your clit with practiced pressure, coaxing you to squeeze around him, to shatter for him. “come on, baby… let me feel you… let me feel you fall apart for me.”
“satoru… satoru, please, i’m so close… fuck… fuck… don’t stop, i need… i need…”
he groans low in his throat when your walls pulse around him, his body bucking forward like the sensation has stolen the air from his lungs. his other hand glides over your stomach, over the dip of your waist, greedy for the heat of your skin beneath the thin barrier of your dress. he wants to memorize every inch of you, wants to claim you in ways his body can’t quite articulate.
he buries his face in the curve of your neck, his lips brushing against the frantic pulse at your throat, his nose pressed against your skin as he breathes you in like oxygen. “talk to me,” he breathes, desperate, hoarse, the words scraping out like they cost him. “tell me you missed me. tell me i’m the only one who gets to touch you like this. tell me you’re mine.”
“yours,” you cry out, wrecked and breathless. “i’ve always been yours… satoru, fuck… you’re the only one… i missed you… i missed you so much… i can’t… i can’t do this without you… please, don’t let me go.”
“fuck, you’re so good for me,” he groans, the sound ragged and raw, and he ruts into you harder, the snap of his hips relentless as he chases you both toward the inevitable edge. “you’re perfect… fuck, baby, you’re perfect.”
“i’m… i’m coming… satoru, please… i’m—”
he doesn’t stop. he can’t. not until he feels you clench around him, feels you fall apart, your body trembling as you come, your voice cracking on his name like it’s a prayer you’ve been holding in for days. the sensation of you pulsing around him, pulling him deeper, drags a broken groan from his chest, and only then does he finally let go.
he thrusts deep, emptying himself inside you with a raw, gasping sound, his entire body shivering with the force of it. his release comes in thick waves, like his body refuses to let you go, like it’s been waiting for this, for you, to finally come home to him.
“don’t… don’t pull out,” you whimper, your voice small and trembling, your hands covering his where he grips your hips. “please, i want… i want to feel you… please, satoru… please stay…”
he doesn’t pull out. not yet. he stays there, his chest heaving against your back, his hips pressing tight to yours, as though his body could fuse to yours if he just holds on long enough. his hand slides over your stomach, his thumb brushing the fabric of your dress, his heart thundering against your spine. he wants to stay connected, to keep his body wrapped around you until the heat subsides, until the trembling quiets.
he kisses you there, the soft curve of your shoulder, his lips dragging lazy, reverent paths over your skin, savoring the tremble still coursing through you. “gonna keep you like this,” he murmurs, his voice low, thick with something that sounds almost reverent. “gonna keep you full, baby. not wasting anything.”
his hands rub slow, soothing circles into your hips, but his cock still twitches inside you, the heat of you pulling him under all over again. he presses his mouth to your spine, trailing soft, possessive kisses up to the back of your neck, his body vibrating with the hum of restless energy that refuses to ebb. it’s not enough. it’ll never be enough. he wants to keep going until the lines between you blur completely, until you forget where he ends and you begin.
he leans in, his voice breathless but steady now, a vow he lays against your skin. “this…” he pants, rolling his hips slowly, deliberately, still buried deep inside you, “this is just the start. not letting you go. not for the rest of the night.”
“don’t let go,” you whisper, arching back into him, your fingers sliding over his as though you might trap him there. ”don’t stop… please, satoru… don’t stop…”
his grip tightens, grounding you to him like he’s afraid you might dissolve between his fingers. “baby, you don’t even know how much i’ve missed you yet.”
he rolls his hips again, savoring the drag, savoring the stretch, savoring the way you arch back into him like you’re already craving more. it’s a promise—a warning—that he isn’t stopping any time soon. his hands smooth over your sides, up to your ribs, coaxing more sounds from you, coaxing more of you to open for him. his lips hover just behind your ear, his breath brushing warm against your skin as he begins to move again, slowly building the next wave, chasing the next collapse.
he hums against you, pleased, almost smug, as you tremble beneath him. ”let me make up for lost time, baby. i’m not done. not even close.”
“please…” it’s the only thing you can form now—broken, breathless. your hands tremble as you try to hold onto him, your fingers sliding helplessly against his shirt like you might fall apart without the anchor of his touch.
he tilts his head just enough to kiss the hinge of your jaw, his pace unhurried but determined. “i’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice soft even as his body hums with something feral. “all night, baby. all night to love you, to fill you, to put our baby right where it belongs.”
he pulls out with a sharp, deliberate drag, leaving you clenching around nothing, and without giving you a moment to protest, he hauls you up, one arm locking under your thighs, the other cradling your back. you cling to him instinctively, barely able to breathe as he carries you to the bedroom, his grip rough, his breathing uneven, his jaw clenched tight with restraint he’s barely holding onto.
he drops you onto the bed, his hands instantly on you, yanking your dress up over your head in one swift, tearing motion, discarding it somewhere behind him. his glasses slip lower on his nose, his blue eyes molten and sharp behind the lenses, devouring the sight of you—messy, flushed, gasping. you reach for him, your lips parted, your throat working around the desperate sound that tumbles out—a soft, helpless “please…”
his hands slam your wrists to the mattress, his body caging you in, his cock thick and heavy as he grinds against your soaked entrance. “shh, baby,” he whispers, his voice trembling as he tries to gentle himself. “i’ve got you. you’re not going anywhere. i’m gonna take care of you.”
he refuses to take off his glasses. he wants to see everything—every tear that slips from your lashes, every tremble in your lips, every mindless sound that breaks from your throat. his gaze stays locked on you, even as his cock pushes inside you in one deep, devastating thrust.
“you’re mine,” he breathes, voice ragged, the words shivering apart as he bottoms out inside you. he can feel your walls flutter around him, clenching as though your body is desperate to hold him in, to keep him there. your body jolts beneath him, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, dragging him deeper. your moan punches out, breathless, pleading, the only thing you seem capable of now. your hands cling to him, fingers clawing at his shirt like you’re trying to root yourself to him, as if the only thing anchoring you to the world is the brutal drag of his cock inside you.
his glasses slip slightly down his nose, fogging at the edges, but he refuses to push them up. he needs to see you, needs to burn every detail into his memory—the way your eyes glaze over, the tremble in your lips, the tear that slips from the corner of your eye. he wants to remember this: the raw, unguarded way you fall apart for him, the mindless way you beg him, the frantic rise and fall of your chest as you gasp for breath.
he drives into you again, harder, faster, each brutal thrust forcing the breath from your lungs, forcing more of those broken, needy noises out of you. the sound of skin slapping against skin echoes in the room, tangled with the ragged rhythm of his breathing and the choked cries that tumble from your lips. your hands scramble at his arms, your nails clawing into his sleeves, but you can’t find the words anymore. all that’s left is “please…” and the sobs that fall apart between the sharp snaps of his hips.
“i know, baby,” he pants, his breath hot and frantic against your skin, his voice frayed with restraint that’s slipping fast. ”i know what you need. you need me to fuck my baby into you, right? need me to keep you so full you can’t think of anything else? need me to fill you until it’s all you can feel?”
“please…” it spills from your throat again, almost a cry, your body tightening around him as though your own muscles are begging him to stay.
“i’ll give it to you,” he promises, soft, reverent, though the brutal rhythm of his hips betrays him. “i’ll make you a mama, baby. gonna make sure you can’t hold anything but me. gonna make sure you’re mine forever.”
he shifts, pulling your knees up to your chest, folding you underneath him, locking you into a perfect mating press. the angle punches another sob from you, your back arching, your legs trembling around his ribs. he presses his chest to yours, his mouth dragging over your ear, your jaw, his voice trembling with sweetness that contrasts the feral rhythm of his body.
“you’re doing so good, baby,” he breathes, kissing your temple, tasting the salt of your tears. “taking me so well. you want it, don’t you? want me to fill you? wanna be round with my baby? wanna feel me every time you move?”
your answer is a mindless moan, another tear slipping from the corner of your eye, your lips barely able to shape the one word that’s left in you: “toru...”
he hums against your skin, his cock grinding impossibly deeper. “that’s it, sweet girl. i’ll fill you up… keep you so full you won’t even remember what it feels like to be empty. i’ll make sure you’re carrying me by the time i’m done. i’ll fuck you so deep that my baby won’t have anywhere else to go.”
his hips slam into you harder, faster, sharp and bruising. you sob beneath him, clutching him, helpless against the rhythm that’s shaking you apart. his voice stays painfully soft, cradling you through it. “not wasting a single drop. i’m gonna fuck you until you’re mine. until you’re pregnant. until there’s nothing left but me inside you.”
“want it…”
his mouth crashes over yours, swallowing your cries, his kiss frantic, messy, desperate. you’re shaking under him, the overstimulation shredding your mind, your body trembling violently, your sobs trapped against his tongue as you beg him wordlessly to keep going, to never stop.
“that’s it,” he whispers, his voice breaking as he chases his release. “that’s it, baby. take it. take it all. take everything i give you.”
he folds you even tighter, pressing so deep you can feel him in places you didn’t know could ache. your orgasm crashes over you again, sharp and blinding, your body convulsing around him, your voice lost to the desperate gasp that splits from your lips. and he breaks with you, thrusting deep as he spills inside you, his cock pulsing hard with every grind, his breath faltering, his voice catching as he pants, “gonna make you mine… gonna make you a mama… gonna keep you full… keep you right here… where you belong.”
but he doesn’t stop.
he keeps grinding, his cock still thick, twitching inside you, his hands trembling where they hold your legs open, determined to keep every drop right where it belongs.
“not done,” he breathes, kissing your cheek, your temple, his voice sweet and low, shaking with the weight of how much he still wants you. “not done with you yet, baby. not until i know. not until i’m sure. not until you’re really mine.”
he rolls his hips again, deliberately, drawing out the stretch, dragging out the feeling, coaxing more choked gasps from you. your body arches weakly into him, clinging, helpless to do anything but take him.
“shh, sweet girl, i’ve got you. i’ll give you everything. i’ll fill you over and over until you can’t hold anything but me. i’ll give you so much you’ll feel me dripping down your thighs when i finally let you go.”
he drags his cock out slowly, savoring the sensation, just to slam back in, forcing another sharp cry from you, your legs trembling where they bracket his ribs.
“you feel so good like this,” he murmurs, his words melting against your skin. “so good and warm and perfect. i’m gonna keep going, baby. you can take it, right? you’ll let me, won’t you? you’ll let me make you mine, over and over, until there’s no space left for anything else?”
a needy whine is all you can give him now, but it’s all he needs.
he smiles against your cheek, soft and breathless, his glasses slipping lower as he kisses you again, his lips trembling against yours. “i know, baby. i know. i’ll take care of everything. i’ll make sure our baby takes. i’ll make sure you’re mine… i’ll make sure you’re full. i’ll keep going until you can’t think about anything but me…”
his pace builds again, steady, deep, his hands stroking your sides, his voice staying low, unbearably tender as he destroys you beneath him.
“i’ll give you all of me, sweet girl,” he promises, his voice cracking even as he drives for more. “all of me. again and again. until you’re carrying me… until you’re round with our baby. until you can’t breathe without thinking about me inside you.”
he shifts his weight, dragging his cock out just enough to thrust deep again, coaxing more desperate cries from you, his breathing rough as his chest brushes yours, his glasses fogged and slipping. his hands tremble where they hold you open, where they keep you pinned beneath him, where they swear to never let you go, as if letting go would unravel him entirely.
“i’ll fill you until you can’t take anymore,” he whispers, his voice raw, his lips dragging along your jaw, his breath hot and uneven. “i’ll give you so much you’ll feel me for days, baby. you’ll feel me dripping out of you every time you stand, every time you move. you’ll feel me inside you every second, every breath, every heartbeat. there won’t be a moment you’re not full of me.”
he slows down just enough to let you breathe, just enough to kiss you, just enough to hear the soft, breathy whimpers that melt into his skin. his glasses are crooked, fogged, his hair clinging to his forehead in damp strands. his lips brush yours, tasting of desperation, tasting of love, tasting of the ache he’s carried through endless nights, his body pressed flush against yours as if he could sink into you, as if he could live inside you if he tried hard enough.
“baby,” he pants, voice trembling, his hand brushing your cheek, lingering there, “roll over for me, yeah? wanna see you all pretty on your hands and knees, wanna see your ass all messy for me, wanna watch you fall apart just for me.”
his words make you shudder beneath him, make your thighs twitch, but you listen, your limbs shaky as you roll over, his hands never leaving you, his palms gliding down your waist, over your hips, steady, grounding, helping you position yourself just right. he murmurs soft praises as he lines you up, kisses pressed to the nape of your neck, to the soft curve of your shoulder, to the swell of your back as you settle on all fours, your face buried in the pillows, your breath already ragged.
“that’s it, pretty girl,” he croons, his voice thick with awe, his eyes roving over your trembling form like he can’t believe you’re his. “look at you, taking me so well. made for me, baby, yeah? your body was made for me, just to take me, just to fall apart on my cock.”
his hand slips between your thighs, his long fingers gathering your slick, coating them generously before pressing two inside you alongside his cock, working you open, stretching you around him until the burn makes you sob into the sheets, makes your hips jerk helplessly, makes you whine from the fullness, from how stuffed you are, the overwhelming stretch making tears prick at your lashes.
your knuckles turn white where you grip the sheets, trembling under the weight of him, under the delicious ache of him, your breath hitching with every slow curl of his fingers inside you. your thighs twitch, thighs spread obediently despite the tremble overtaking them, your skin fever-hot where his palms ground you in place.
his other hand steadies your hips, thumb tracing slow, grounding circles against your skin, his palm firm, his grip sinking into the plush of your waist like he’s afraid you’ll float away if he loosens it even for a second. his hair clings to his forehead in damp, clumpy strands, his cheeks flushed a lovely pink, his glasses slipping lower on his nose, fogged to uselessness but still perched stubbornly there, framing the feverish glint in his eyes.
his lips brush kisses to the curve of your spine, down to the small of your back, each press soft and lingering, like he’s tethering you to him with every touch, like he needs to brand himself into you, to make you feel him everywhere, in every breath, in every heartbeat.
“shh, you’re doing so good,” he breathes, his voice trembling with restraint, placing a tender kiss to the dip of your waist. “so good for me, baby. you’re perfect, y’know that? so perfect when you’re stuffed full of me. i love watching you stretch around me, love feeling you clench when i’m this deep inside you. it’s like your body was made to hold me. you were made to be mine.”
he slides his fingers out slowly, savoring the slick sound, savoring the way your walls flutter around him like you’re begging him to fill you again. your thighs tremble, your hips rocking back in search of him, your breath shuddering as you whine, pitiful and overwhelmed, lips parted, drooling onto the pillow.
the needy arch of your spine makes his chest squeeze, makes his cock throb painfully, makes him press flush against you as he grinds back in, deep and unhurried, pushing as far as he can go, his pace slow but devastating, each thrust a deliberate drag against every sensitive spot that makes you gasp, makes you sob into the pillows.
“that’s it, baby,” he groans, his head falling forward, his damp fringe sticking to his temple, his glasses slipping to the very tip of his nose before he finally pushes them off and tosses them blindly aside. “every time i fuck you like this, you just take me so good, like you’re meant to. you were made to take me, weren’t you? made to fall apart on my cock, yeah?”
his kisses grow more feverish, his lips dragging across your shoulders, the plane of your back, his tongue flicking along the salt of your skin as he grinds deeper, sinking lower with each thrust, each snap of his hips making you whine, making your hands claw weakly at the sheets. he listens to every gasp, every cry, every broken plea you bury into the pillows, savoring the tremble of your thighs, the collapse of your arms, the desperate way you push back into him, chasing the delicious pressure.
then he leans over, his chest pressing against your back until his lips find yours, capturing you in a desperate, clumsy kiss. it’s messy, wet, more panting and whining than kissing, but he drinks every sound from your lips like he’s starving, like he can’t bear to be separated from any part of you. his tongue traces yours, coaxing you into the kiss even as his hips grind into you harder, even as your knees threaten to buckle beneath him, your soft whimpers muffled against his mouth.
“don’t hide from me, pretty girl,” he murmurs between kisses, his breath hot against your lips, his voice honey-sweet and reverent even as he rocks into you deeper. “wanna hear you, wanna feel you, wanna kiss you while you fall apart on me. every sound you make is mine. every little sob, every little plea, mine.”
he chases your orgasm with grinding thrusts, with soft praises that melt into your skin, with kisses that sear into you, that drag along the curve of your spine, that brand you as his. his hands roam across your waist, your sides, your belly, squeezing and caressing as if memorizing the softness of you. and when you come, when your body clamps down around him like a vice, when you tremble and sob against his mouth, he doesn’t stop. he swallows every desperate sound, his pace never faltering, his grip on your hips tightening as he drives through the aftershocks, pulling even more cries from your swollen lips.
“you can take it,” he pants, fucking you through the tremors, his voice shaking with the force of his own unraveling. “you’re doing so good, baby, you’re perfect, you’re perfect, fuck, you’re made for me. made to take me, yeah? you can give me another, can’t you? just one more, pretty girl. just one more.”
his hips snap forward harder, more erratic, his sleeper build fully activated as his fingers dig bruises into your waist, as he holds you steady even as your arms give out, even as you collapse onto the bed, your cheek mashed against the pillow, your body trembling with every rough, desperate thrust. your breath hiccups, your body limp, overstimulated, but he keeps going, keeps coaxing more from you with each deep grind, dragging out your high until your thighs shake uncontrollably.
but he doesn’t stop. his grip doesn’t falter. his praises don’t cease.
he kisses the sweat-slick skin of your back, he whispers against your shoulder, he keeps telling you how good you are, how you were made for him, how he’ll fill you until you’re overflowing, until you’re leaking with him, until you can’t hold it all, until you feel him dripping down your thighs, until it’s all you can feel.
“so good, baby, you’re so good,” he breathes, his voice cracking on the edges, as if your name is the only thing keeping him tethered to this moment. “my sweet girl, my pretty baby, taking me so well. fuck, you’re made for me, you’re perfect.”
he chases his own end with frantic, desperate thrusts, with the wet, obscene slap of skin against skin, with the ragged breath of a man who has no intention of stopping until he’s poured every last drop of himself into you. his fingers flex against your waist, his lips never leaving you, his rhythm a frantic, beautiful mess, his voice breaking with every curse, every sweet nothing he pours into your skin.
and when he finally shatters, when his body tenses and he spills inside you, he groans your name like a prayer, like a curse, like a plea, his hands trembling where they clutch you, his kisses never stopping, his words still tumbling in a broken, reverent stream.
“so good, baby, you’re so good, you’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine. gonna keep you like this, gonna keep you full, just like this, just like you’re meant to be. wanna see it drip down those pretty thighs.”
his body finally stills, but his hands never leave you, his lips never stop pressing soft, lingering kisses to your back, to your shoulders, to your waist, holding you close as if you might slip away if he lets go.
he stays inside you, buried to the hilt, his breathing shaky, his heart hammering wildly against your spine, his hair clinging to his damp forehead, his cheeks flushed and glowing, his arms curling around your middle to hold you tight, to anchor himself to you, to prolong this feeling of being so deeply connected.
he whispers to you softly now, praises spilling between kisses, his touch gentle but insistent, a man desperate to stay connected, to stay tethered to you in every way he can. his fingertips trace slow, lazy circles against your belly, memorizing the feel of your skin, of your warmth, the little trembles that still ripple through you.
“i’ll fill you up again,” he promises, his voice hoarse and full of love. “i’ll give you more, baby. you can take it. you always take me so well. i’ll keep you like this all night if you let me. just wanna keep you close, keep you mine.”
slowly, he shifts, carefully pulling out, his breath catching at the sight of his spend slipping out of you, leaving a glistening trail along your thighs. he groans softly, pressing a kiss to your lower back, savoring the tremble that runs through you. his thumb brushes over the mark he left there, tracing lazy circles as if to soothe the ache, as if to seal his touch into your skin.
he gently turns you over, cradling your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing, his strong arms wrapping around you as if you’re something precious. he sits himself at the edge of the bed with you settled in his lap, your shaky thighs straddling him, your chest pressed to his, your breath still hitching as you try to find your footing in the aftermath, your arms barely strong enough to wrap around his shoulders.
his cock, still heavy, still hard, nudges against your entrance, and he shudders at the heat, at the way your body clings to him instinctively, like you never want to let him go. his hands slide over your hips, steadying you, his thumbs brushing slow circles into your skin, his touch reverent, patient, as if savoring the weight of you in his lap.
“come on, pretty girl,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your lips, his voice thick with sweetness and filth, his cerulean eyes glazed with adoration and hunger. “sit on me, yeah? just like this. let me keep you full a little longer. let me feel you, just a little more.”
he guides you down onto him, slow and patient, his large hands warm and steady on your waist as he lowers you inch by inch, savoring the sweet stretch, savoring the tremble that overtakes you as he fills you again, deeper this time, more deliberate, until his hips meet yours with a satisfying press.
your breath hitches, a sharp whimper escaping you, your head falling heavily to his shoulder as you struggle to accommodate him, your body straining around the overwhelming stretch, your fingers digging desperately into the firm muscles of his shoulders, clinging to him like you’ll drown without him.
his breath stutters at the heat of you, at how impossibly tight you are despite how many times he’s already filled you tonight. his pale hair clings damp to his temple, the ends curling from sweat, his cheeks flushed a tender pink, his lips parted and trembling as he exhales shaky, desperate breaths against your ear. his lashes flutter, his throat bobs with every ragged swallow, his entire frame taut, his biceps trembling where they hold you steady, straining to keep his composure, to keep his pace slow, to savor every second inside you.
his hands never leave you, one sliding to cradle your waist, the other splaying wide across your trembling back, as if to press you closer, to anchor you to him, to mold you to his body, to ensure that not even a breath of space separates you. he peppers kisses along your temple, the shell of your ear, your hairline, your jaw, his lips soft but insistent, his voice a low, reverent murmur that vibrates against your skin, as though he’s reciting a prayer only you can hear.
“look at you, baby,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to cradle your cheek in his palm, his thumb brushing away the stray tear that slips down your flushed skin. his ocean eyes are hazy, glassy with tenderness, with something so raw it tightens his throat and makes his breath stutter. “fuck, you’re so pretty when you’re falling apart for me. gonna let me keep you here all night, right? yeah? just like this, full of me. can’t let you go. don’t want to.”
his other hand curls into the nape of your neck, fingers threading through the damp strands of your hair, guiding your forehead to his, breath mingling, lips brushing as he steals soft, lingering kisses between his words, as if he can’t stop, as if he’s starving for you, as if kissing you is the only way he can breathe.
you can only whimper in response, the weight of him, the stretch of him, too much and not enough, your body trembling with the need to give him more, to feel him deeper, to be good for him, to make him proud, to belong to him.
his hands slide back to your waist, his grip steady but gentle as he begins to guide you, controlling your pace, moving you over him in slow, agonizing rolls. his thumbs draw slow, grounding circles into your heated skin, coaxing you to move, to ride him, to fall apart for him again. each time you rock your hips, you shudder, your breath catching on a sob, but he holds you steady, keeps you grounded, murmuring sweet words against your skin.
“shh, i’ve got you, baby. you’re doing so good,” he praises, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath shaky, his lips brushing yours between soft, trembling kisses. his silver lashes flutter with every slight tremble of his hips beneath you, his whole body trembling with restraint, with devotion, with the overwhelming need to stay inside you, to keep you close, to never let you go.
“you can do it, pretty girl,” he whispers, his voice low and rough, savoring every inch, every trembling grind of your hips. “just like that. take your time. i’ve got you. you’re mine. my sweet girl. let me take care of you. let me feel you just a little more.”
your thighs quiver, your movements sluggish and shaky, your whole body threatening to collapse from how sensitive you are, but he holds you, supports you, his hands never faltering as he coaxes you through it, guiding you with soft murmurs, with kisses pressed between your brows, against your fluttering eyelids, against the damp corner of your mouth. his hands roam your back, your ribs, your hips, memorizing the tremble of your skin, the heat of your body, the way you melt so completely into his lap, pliant and sweet.
he watches you, breathless, overwhelmed by how perfect you are, by how much he wants to keep you like this, forever tethered to him, wrapped around him, so utterly his. he savors the little gasps you give him, the soft hiccups in your breath, the desperate way you cling to him even when your body begs for rest, even when you sob softly into his shoulder, overwhelmed but unable to stop, unwilling to pull away.
when you finally falter, too sensitive, too overwhelmed to keep going, your movements slowing to weak, trembling shifts of your hips, he wraps his arms tightly around your waist and takes over, holding you close, keeping you flush against his chest as he grinds up into you in slow, deliberate rolls of his hips, savoring the sweet friction, savoring the little broken sounds you spill against his skin.
his pace is gentle but insistent, dragging sweet friction between your bodies, pulling broken moans from your lips, savoring the way you clutch at him, your fingers knotting in his damp hair, your head buried in his neck like he’s the only thing keeping you whole, the only place you feel safe, the only place you want to be. he feels your nails dig into his skin, your body trembling in his hold, but you don’t pull away. you press closer.
“that’s it, baby, i’ve got you,” he breathes, his voice cracking, trembling with the force of his own need, his own love. “just let me take care of you. just hold on to me. we’ll come together, okay? just like this. i’ve got you. i’ve always got you.”
his forehead presses to yours again, his lips parting to steal soft, desperate kisses, his hands trembling where they clutch you, his chest heaving as he rolls his hips deeper, slower, grinding against every sensitive spot inside you, savoring the desperate whines you spill against his mouth, savoring how you melt completely in his arms.
his voice is little more than a whisper now, ragged and broken, his praises melting into your skin as he rocks into you, chasing the edge with you pressed so sweetly against him, his breathing erratic, his kisses clumsy and endless.
“come with me, baby,” he pleads, his voice thick with love, with need, with desperation, his lips brushing yours as his hands tighten around your waist. “please. just like this. i need to feel you. i need you. just like this. don’t let go.”
you fall apart in his arms, your sobs trembling against his lips, your fingers tangling desperately in his hair as you cling to him, as you come so sweetly, so completely, your body shuddering in his hold, your thighs twitching, your hips stuttering as you grind against him, desperate to draw out the bliss.
he follows soon after, groaning your name like it’s a prayer, like it’s the only word he knows, his hips stuttering as he pours into you, as he holds you impossibly closer, as if he could fuse you to him, as if he could keep you here forever.
when you finally go limp in his arms, when your soft, exhausted breath fans against his neck, he holds you there, cradling you against his chest, his fingers stroking soothing lines along your spine. his hands slide to your thighs, rubbing slow circles, grounding you, savoring the weight of you in his lap, the softness of you, the way you fit so perfectly in his hold, the way you feel like home.
he presses soft kisses to your temple, to your hairline, to your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, his lips tender and slow, as if he could never kiss you enough, as if he could never hold you long enough.
“so good, baby,” he whispers, his voice thick with tenderness. “my pretty girl. my sweet girl. we can stay like this, yeah? just like this. just you and me. i don’t need anything else.”
he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing finally beginning to steady, his arms curling tighter around you, his whole body relaxing, melting into you as though he could sink into your skin and stay there forever.
you nod weakly, nuzzling into his neck, your lashes damp, your body pliant and warm against him. your arms loop lazily around his shoulders, fingers brushing the nape of his neck, and he presses one last kiss to your temple, one last kiss to your hairline, and he smiles against your skin, utterly content, utterly in love.
neither of you move. neither of you speak. you’re both too tired, too soft, too wrapped in each other to care about anything else, not even the cold dinner waiting in the kitchen.
“we’ll eat later,” he hums, his lips curling against your skin, his voice warm, tender, content. “just wanna stay here a little longer. just wanna keep you close. that’s all i need.”
his arms tighten around you as he buries his face in your shoulder, breathing you in, his body melting into yours, savoring the weight, the warmth, the softness of having you so completely, so entirely his.
୧ ‧₊˚ 𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝓖.𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 and his pretty secretary... or fiancé..? ⋅ ✰
everyone thinks gojo satoru, heir to japan’s largest corporation, is impossible to tie down. Cold, arrogant, and rumored to have a different woman on his arm every week. so when he suddenly announces that his overworked secretary is actually his fiancée, the entire company is left stunned.
art by yunonoai. i recreated the purple divider above this. please tag me if u use it ♡ other dividers by cheriisoda and pixopix
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who treats the entire office like his personal kingdom. People straighten up the second they hear his shoes clicking down the hallway, but somehow he always seems especially irritating with you. He drops folders onto your desk with a lazy, “Need this done before lunch,” then disappears before you can argue.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who is annoyingly perfect at his job. Cold, efficient, untouchable. Even when you’re furious at him, you can’t deny he’s good at what he does, which only makes your resentment worse because he clearly knows it too.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა whose office smells expensive. Crisp cologne, coffee, and the faint scent of whatever luxury detergent rich people use. You hate that you associate the smell with long nights spent working overtime because of him.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who doesn’t flirt with you at first. That’s the problem. He flirts with everyone else. Receptionists giggle when he walks by, executives’ daughters practically throw themselves at him during company dinners, and gossip spreads about whatever model or actress was spotted leaving his penthouse that week.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who makes you stay late constantly, then has the nerve to look confused when you snap at him one night and tell him you actually have a life outside this company.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who starts unconsciously relying on you for everything. His coffee order. His schedule. Which tie matches which suit. He’ll bark, “Where’s my blue file?” across the office before remembering other employees exist.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა whose grandfather absolutely adores you because you’re the only employee who doesn’t kiss his grandson’s ass. The old man laughs every single time you glare at Gojo during meetings.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who accidentally blurts out that you’re his fiancée during a family dinner because he panics after hearing the words arranged marriage for the tenth time that night.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who immediately turns to you afterward like you’re the unreasonable one for looking horrified.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who says, “Just play along for a little while,” as if he didn’t just ruin your entire life in front of a room full of billionaires.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა whose family becomes obsessed with you overnight. Suddenly flowers are arriving at your desk. His grandmother wants your ring size. His grandfather keeps asking when the wedding is.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who offers you an absurd amount of money to keep pretending to be engaged to him, and gets offended when you tell him he’s insufferable enough that no amount of money feels worth it.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who starts acting weirdly protective once the fake engagement begins. If another executive talks down to you during meetings, Gojo cuts them off with an icy smile that makes the entire room tense.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who insists on driving you home after late nights because “my fiancée taking the subway at midnight looks bad for me.”
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who absolutely cannot act normal during fake couple moments. He’s smooth with everyone else, but with you there’s this strange stiffness to him sometimes, like he’s overthinking every little thing.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who stares at you for half a second too long the first time you fix his tie before an event. His ears go slightly pink, and he immediately gets mean afterward to compensate.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who learns your habits embarrassingly quickly. He knows exactly how you take your coffee, which snacks disappear first from the office vending machine, and when you’re about to get a stress headache before you even say anything.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who keeps accidentally slipping into domestic behavior. Holding doors open for you automatically. Saving you a seat during meetings. Texting you when he gets home after business trips without realizing how boyfriend-ish it sounds.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who gets irrationally annoyed whenever someone calls you by your last name instead of “Mrs. Gojo” during fake engagement events.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who has a massive penthouse that somehow still feels lonely. The first time you go there for contract-related fake dating reasons, you realize how empty it actually is despite all the expensive furniture.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who secretly likes when you yell at him because everyone else is too intimidated to do it. You call him an arrogant asshole to his face and he just stares at you with this weirdly entertained look.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who is horrible at receiving care. If he gets sick from overworking, he insists he’s fine while looking seconds away from collapsing at his desk.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who starts smiling more around the office after the fake engagement begins, and everyone notices immediately. Unfortunately for you, this leads to endless teasing from coworkers asking if you’ve “finally tamed” him.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who’s terrifyingly good at physical affection in public. His arm around your waist feels natural. His thumb rubbing circles against your hand during family dinners feels natural. Which is a problem, because none of it should feel real.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who has absolutely zero actual relationship experience despite his reputation. You assume he’s some experienced playboy because of rumors and tabloid gossip, meanwhile he’s internally fighting for his life every time you get too close to him.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who one day realizes he’s started thinking of you as his real fiancée long before either of you have actually talked about feelings.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who shows up one morning and finds you asleep at your desk because you stayed up helping your parents with the family restaurant/store/accounting stuff the night before.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა whose fridge contains imported water, expensive champagne, and literally nothing else meanwhile your family’s fridge is packed with leftovers, labeled containers, and six different sauces in reused jars.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who cannot comprehend why you refuse to let him buy you expensive things. The first time he casually hands you a designer bag because “you looked at it too long,” you nearly throw it back at his head.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who gets dragged to your neighborhood for the first time and looks hilariously out of place in his luxury suit while old aunties openly gossip about him from across the street.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who’s painfully aware your parents don’t trust him at first. To them he’s just another cold rich man who probably sees their daughter as disposable.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who slowly starts looking forward to dinners at your house because it’s the first time in years someone’s made him feel like part of a family instead of a business asset.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who slowly starts looking forward to dinners at your house because it’s the first time in years someone’s made him feel like part of a family instead of a business asset.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who nearly malfunctions the first time your mom fusses over him and packs him leftovers to take home.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who has no idea how normal people function. You once mention waiting for payday before buying something and he genuinely pauses because the concept has literally never applied to him before.
How can we know that is a ai fanfic or one shot? I truly don’t know how to realise
there are SEVERAL indicators and it would be painfully obvs if you guys are aware
EXAMPLE:
-the inconsistent WRITING. Randomly going 1 liner sentences to full blown paragraphs.
-repetitive phrasing
-formulaic sentence structures
-“soulless" or "polished" quality that lacks the unique, often messy, voice of a true human author.
-“chaotic” watch out for these words, if it used MORE OFTEN and it doesn’t really coordinate well with other words.
-i know em dash (—) is used WAY back ai. Just have a keen eye for EXCESSIVE AND REPEATED USED OF EM DASH. That’s a high flag that it is generated by ai slop.
-AI tends to over-describe emotions, using phrases like "a pang of" (guilt, sadness, joy) repeatedly, or it explains subtext in a way that feels unnatural.
-OOC (Out of Character) behavior!!!!! Characters may feel "flat," losing their specific, nuanced personalitiesss, so look out for those flags.
-AI often repeats certain "buzzwords" or phrases across different stories likeee
“Delve into"
"At its core"
"It’s not just a [X], it’s also [Y]"
"Let out a breath they hadn't realized they were holding"
"That being said" / "To put it simply"
"A sense of [X]"
"Pivotal"
-and the SIMPLE SENTENCES in describing everything. likeeeeee a single paragraph only consists of SIMPLE SENTENCES. more likely generated by ai’s one liner slop and then this mf just put it into one paragraph hoping that the people will not notice 😭👎🏻
JUST TRUST ME,, ONCE YOU’RE THERE READING THAT SHIT YOU’LL KNOW AI SLOP WHEN YOU SEE IT 😭😭
the first time your son learned how to walk, you and your husband satoru were over the moon. it was on a random saturday afternoon with you all in your son’s playpen. already a seemingly rare occasion where satoru finally had a break from all of his missions.
at just 6 months, your baby could already crawl and stand up by using objects above to grip onto — satoru argues that the gojo genetics has him so incredibly advanced for his age.
but that wasn’t enough for your son. now at 9 months old, he kept attempting to walk only for his little legs to give up halfway. but you were determined for today to finally be the day.
satoru was sprawled out like a starfish whilst replacing the batteries for your son’s bubble machine. that which you had shoko to thank for — all of your friends collectively made sure that your baby was beyond spoiled than he already is.
you were also sat further away with all of the toys beside you to motivate your son to walk over.
“come on baby! don’t you want teddy back?” you chirp at your son.
he slowly stands up, already making improvement since he wasn’t holding onto anything for the first time. “ma–ma!” he happily claps his tiny hands as he takes two small baby steps.
“that’s it! come to mama!” you encourage him into your arms whilst he’s still deciding if he should try to walk or not. your son has a cute pout and furrow in his eyebrows painting his dedicated face as his wobbly steps grow more steady.
“oh my gosh! satoru, look!” you shake his shoulder repeatedly to face your son who was slowly but surely padding his way over to you both.
“wooow~ look at our little munchkin go!” he cheers on. you pull out your phone to commemorate the special milestone.
“dadadadada” he babbles on until stumbling over a lego block. you and satoru immediately share a look that says ‘do not react’ before he gets back up waddling and continues his string of babbles right into satoru’s arms.
“awww my smart baby! we’re so proud of you! and i think this may call for some mochi ice cream to celebrate if mama allows it…”
“alrighttt.. just this once. our baby deserves it after all.” you say in between peppering your son’s face in kisses.
little did you know how much of an adorable menace your son would grow into once learning how to walk…
fast forward to now at 12 months old, and it feels like your son was placed on earth for the sole purpose of acting as your personal trainer with the way you’re relentlessly chasing after him non-stop.
it’s early in the morning when satoru’s soft snores have once again woken you up — but he’ll always deny it. his arms are wrapped around your waist to cage you in from starting the day way too early.
“toru, let go…” you whisper whilst caressing his hair to gently wake him up.
“mmm.. five more minutes if you love me...” he croaks, reluctantly letting go eventually — but not before whining immediately when you do get up. god, sometimes he acts more like a baby than your actual infant.
when you groggily check the baby monitor on the bedside table, your heart drops. why is your baby not… in his crib? maybe you’re running on a lack of sleep which is causing you to hallucinate? you rub your eyes and focus on the screen again only to be met with the same sight.
at this point your mind is going to the worst of places. what if the gojo clan were right and you weren’t cautious enough and now your baby was made a target?
“hey– hey, what’s the matter sweets?” satoru’s words snap you out of your overthinking. it turns out you were hyperventilating without even realising which was enough to awaken the now worried sleepyhead.
“toru, he’s not in his crib! where the hell could he be?!”
“shh, it’s okay. i can sense his tiny cursed energy still in the home. let’s just get up and look for him, can you do that for me?” he softly kisses your cheek.
“o-okay, yeah. i can do that.” you get out of bed and head to the living room, satoru trailing from behind. you won’t lie and admit that you’re out of breath when you get there. ugh, curse satoru for insisting on spoiling you with a mansion after moving in together!
you scan the empty living room all over “okay so, he’s not here..” you mumble quietly, trying to compose yourself from freaking out.
“let’s not panic, we still have fifty something other rooms to check!”
you shoot him a glare, “that is not helping me right now. what if he accidentally hurt himself? a-and it’s so bad that he can’t even call out for us?!” your voice cracks as tears threaten to spill out. yeah. you were spiralling.
“stay calm sweets. i’ll check the other living room, kay?” he kisses at your pout. you hum defeatedly in response, pacing mindlessly into the kitchen until you suddenly stop in your tracks.
there you saw…your baby? sat on the floor hugging the jar of homemade cookies whilst munching away. crumbs and chocolate chips smear his face and clothes as a sign that he’s been here for a good minute.
“what on earth…” your son just giggles like he understands your confusion. “mama cookie!” he stretches out his grubby hand to show his half–bitten cookie, almost like a peace offering.
“uh, one second baby.. ahem– SATORUUU! come take a look at what your son is up to!” you have to yell knowing he’s somewhere on the other side of the massive house. your son who is completely unfazed by your shouting goes back to joyfully munching on his cookie.
satoru frantically spawns there within seconds, “you found him?” you nod, gesturing him to look down at the sight you just walked into. “oh wow–” he can’t help but burst out laughing, “that’s my son alright!”
you scoop your baby up into your arms and prop him on your waist. he whimpers when you separate him from his beloved cookie jar. “really? you couldn’t tell when he came out with glowing blue eyes?”
“heyyy! i can’t help that my genes are insanely overpowering! but you never know, perhaps our next one will be your carbon copy~” he playfully winks at you.
you roll your eyes, “how smooth of you. seriously though, how did he even end up here and reaching the jar?”
“hmm..” satoru points at the tiny stool, “he must’ve pulled out this stool to get to the jar. and as for how he got here, you must know by now that he’s an ambitious walker.”
“oh trust me i know. gosh, he’s getting way too smart for us. i think we need to lock away the goods before this continues..”
“good idea, i’ll look into investing in a safe. you go back to bed and i’ll sort out a bath for this cookie monster.” he pokes your son’s chubby cheeks which makes him squeak before you hand him over. “after all, he probably developed his newfound sweet tooth from me.”
“probably? oh please– it was most definitely you! my pregnancy cravings were the only time i was consistently having sugar to make my pickles and ice cream combo.”
“hehe– remember when you would wrap the pickles in fruit roll ups” satoru chuckles at the memory. he would taste all of your unique cravings with you as a means of showing his support in any way possible — even if he found it absolutely repulsive.
“of course, that was heavenly.” you sigh dreamily before turning to your son and holding his pudgy hand in yours “and baby, cookies are only allowed for treating good behaviour. if you have too much then you’re going to be sick. we don’t want that now, do we?”
“nooo…” your son shakes his head.
“alright mister, let’s get that bath ready then make some breakfast in bed for mama. you gave her quite the scare wandering off like that, so give her a kiss before we go.” something about satoru in dad mode always leaves your heart skipping a beat, from the very moment he carried your baby in the hospital.
“otay! bye bye mama” he cups your face with his sticky hands and places a sloppy kiss on both of your cheeks. “dada turn!”
“well, don’t mind if i do~” he catches you off guard as his lips smoothly connect to yours. you naturally melt into the kiss until a few moments later when your son has had enough and starts pounding at his dad’s chest to stop.
“hey– ow! why’re you hitting papa, hm?”
“no more! all done.” your baby shrieks in a somewhat stern tone, and satoru could’ve sworn that he saw his son’s bright blue eyes narrow at him. you only snort at his silly attempt to protect you.
“alright, let’s not be too mean on daddy. or else who’ll buy your sweets and toys?”
“GASP– is that all you think i’m good for?”
“yes.” you immediately deadpan, your baby watches you nod and copies. “yesh.”
“oh god– i never thought i’d see the day where the love of my life and my spawn are both turning against me! i– i can’t take it!” he clutches at his shirt dramatically making you and your baby giggle.
“hey! don’t call our precious son a spawn!” you lightly slap his shoulder, of course your baby follows and shoves him too. “you sound like the higher ups..” you pettily grumble under your breath, loud enough for him to hear.
“eugh– you’re right. sorry mochi, but let’s go take that bath. something seriously stinks now–” satoru grimaces, giving one last kiss to your forehead before you go back to bed for a nap whilst he cleans your baby up.
you may joke with him all the time but one thing for certain is that he’s always been an amazing husband and father. ≧◡≦
notes: i luv reading dad jjk men so writing this was soso fun, don’t be shy to req more guys, technically gojo could have teleported to the baby but i wanted to long things out 🥰, but yeah i didn’t know how to end it so hope this was okay
Pairings. [SEPARATE] Higuruma x Reader, Gojo x Reader, Ino x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, DlLFS (and MlLFS too!), age gaps (reader and JJK men are ALWAYS aduIts), arranged marriages (Toji), cIan Ieader!Toji, sIight exhíbitíonism, sIight bóndage (Nanami), mentions of kids, bréeding, manhandIing, matíng presses, HEADLOCKS, p sIapping, p talking, spítting, fíngering, rings and píercings, rockstar!Geto, headIines, use of ‘mómmy’ (Ino), miIking, overstím, súgar dáddies, running from it, oIder men, síxty-níne, talking you through it, pressing down, making it fit, he’s BIG, counting inches, overworked Higuruma, creampíes, cúmpIay, sIight cúmfIation, pIot, pet names, swéaring.
A/N. MWAHAHAH.
♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - The Arrangement.
“O-oh, sh—”
“Shhhhh.” Toji’s voice is dangerous. Low. His chin was hooked into the crook of your neck - and you’re getting pushed back down, down, dooooown his-
“Oh my…” Your mouth waters, weak arm reaching out to grasp the edge of the futon.
But Toji’s guiding it to his shaggy salt-and-pepper hair. Making you tug. Making you wrench.
His other palm - calloused after what you assume to be countless years of training his Heavenly Restriction - comes up to plaster over your mouth. “Unless ya want them to hear.” He mutters, referring to the council of elders seated behind the sliding doors.
You knew it was part of the ceremony: to make sure that you and the older clan leader…affirmed your new union.
An arranged marriage, of course. The marriage of the century in jujutsu society’s highest circles.
But even after a lavish wedding, and an even more lavish title suited to you, you still couldn’t believe that you were married to Zenin Toji.
Perhaps expected considering that the two of you had met just a few weeks ago; you’d announced to your council that you were ready for marriage. And they’d then presented you with a list of all the potential candidates for husband—every eligible bachelor from the Kamo clan to the rather obscure Fujiwara clan. The list had gone on and on with their names and ages.
And at the very end you’d spotted—
Zenin Toji—Age: 38 (once divorced).
As soon as the elders had noticed you focusing on that one name, they’d dismissed you with a nervous chuckle. “Oh, that’s just Toji. Ignore him, he’s just there out of obligation-”
“But why would I ignore him?”And that had effectively shut them up.
Although what you really wanted were more answers.
Toji.
Toji.
Most of the other candidates ranged across their twenties, and they were names you’d heard of in mere passing during those stuffy clan functions. Toji, however, was beyond that age range and once divorced—and you’d heard of him almost too well. You knew him without ever knowing him.
You’d heard of the newly-appointed Zenin clan leader as he fought against every single elder to claim his rightful title as head - the first one since…ever without a speck of cursed energy.
You’d heard of the terror of the Zenin clan - or so they whispered - who could bring down battalions with a single swipe of his cursed weapons. He didn’t need cursed energy—and what they feared above all was the power of raw humanity underneath it.
But…you’d also heard of the merciful man. The first Zenin clan leader to grant his wife a divorce when she wished for it, thus leaving him printed once more upon a paper listing jujutsu society’s bachelors.
Leaving him impressioned in your mind.
Zenin Toji was an enigma you wanted to understand.
And you laughed at the expressions upon your elders’ faces as you announced that the sole candidate you were interested in was none other than the notorious Toji. You could count on one hand how many had readily agreed to your union with the older man—and that would be exactly zero fingers.
However, the meeting had proceeded as tradition dictated. Your council of elders reached out to the uptight council of the Zenins - and they’d reached out to re-confirm thrice that the man you were really looking for was Toji. Wasn’t he much older? Wasn’t he fearsome? Wasn’t he difficult to understand?
You waved off their worries and met him over a fragrant tea ceremony.
To be quite honest; there wasn’t much talking between the two of you - although the Zenin elders kept up a constant stream of chatter with the elders of your own family. Meanwhile you simply looked at Toji over the rim of your ceramic cup—and—watched—
And he met your gaze just as intensely.
By the end of the tea ceremony, you nudged your elders to proclaim your approval for a union.
And Toji nodded his own approval.
The wedding preparations were accomplished in a week. It was a wedding for the history books - you heard that your council of elders were pushing to get it written in already - and it ended off with a lavish banquet that lasted into the long, long hours of the night.
As sunlight started seeping into the horizon, you and Toji got up from your seats at the head of the table. And you made your way to the master bedroom—where rows upon rows of elders sat outside in preparation for the consummation.
They were here to hear you-
“Fuck.” You can’t stop the sudden whimper that escapes you at the feeling of Toji hiking up one of his muscular thighs. He still had his wedding robes on - dishevelled upon his frame, the graze of expensive Zenin cotton n’ silk makes you shiver—
And as soon as you do, you feel one of his large palms settle at the base of your spine.
Toji keeps you pinned down - deliciously helpless - once he reaches that upright leg forwards and rests his heel atop your scalp. Stepping on your sweaty crown. Keeping you pinned in one place as he fucks you- with a sheer audacity that makes your jaw drop.
“Careful.” Toji’s low tone trundles out. You’re bent into such a shape that it makes his cock thicker- stretchin’ out your snug channel with a sultry squeeeelch! “Keep your mouth open like that and you’ll catch flies.”
Leaning down as far as he could, he then spits.
“Or you’ll catch me.”
A few more vicious strokes that leave you gaping.
A few more changing angles- Toji was the type to not just straightly thrust. He was stirring his cock ‘round in somewhat circular motions of his hips as he pummeled inside, managing to hit eeeeevery single nerve-ended spot inside you. “And- hah, and we wouldn’t wanna explain that to those old toads, heh?” Asking you. And then…not you. “Isn’t that right, fuckers?”
There’s restless murmuring from outside.
“W-well, maybe if you—fuuuuuck.” Just as soon as you’re mid-sentence - as though Toji had been waiting for this exact moment - he reaches forwards and slams! his ruddied tip into you hard enough that you can feel him in your damn throat. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck-”
“Loud.” Scoffing. “Though I bet they already know what’s happening- hah.”
You were in utter shambles.
Toji’s cock was sensually curved towards the right - the perfect angle to spot those areas where you were most sensitive and stimulate them until you were crying. “Y-you’re so shameless—!”
With a roll of his forest-green eyes, the clan leader crouches his body further forwards and accelerates his pace. His heel pressing down even harder.
With this position he had you in, Toji couldn’t keep his palm glued to your drivelling maw anymore. And he was letting it aaaaaall out—the more n’ more pretty moans that were leaving you, the more he’s speeding up his hips. Purposefully thumping his blushin’ red tip down your most precious spots.
And as if that wasn’t enough, he’s using his free hand to sift apart your stuffy pussy. Pressin’ aside your folds and getting a good eyeful of your entrance - getting flooded with his rock-hard inches, and then emptied out for him to do it all over again. And again. And again and again and—“And who was it that decided to marry me?”
You don’t know what’s hitting you harder: the shock of being called out, or the sudden wad of saliva that he’s spitting between your legs. “Well…me…”
Toji nods. “Pretty young thing like you…for what reason could you want to marry- me-” Every space between his words was punctured with a targeted strike to your g-spot. “Money? Name? Power?”
Your head’s getting foggy - you don’t even realize that you’re drooling before Toji looks down and tuts. He watches as a slick puddle formulates underneath you—“Did you wanna marry this ol’ clan leader for power, doll? S’that what you wanted?”
As much as you could, you’re shaking your head- difficult, given the way he still had the heel of his foot on you.
“No? Then what?” Toji pretends to think. “Hmmm, could it be that your clan elders pressured you into this, doll?” And just at that moment, he stops- even though it seems as if he wanted to say more. “I’ll kill you all if—”
It wasn’t targeted towards you.
But you’re vehemently denying—“No. No. Not at all…” Sobs and sultry moans strangle in your throat, and your poor, poor hips are driving back into his as much as you could. “Please- oh, I j-just wanted—”
“Let me think.” Now that he’d started his vigorous pace up again, your eardrums were crackling with the constant pap-pap-pap! of Toji’s toned hips hitting yours. He was just so large - in every possible way, it was as though he was engulfing you with his massive body, with his shaft stretchin’ out your insides in ways you’ve never experienced before. “Is it because- haaaaah…” Toji breathes, the cloud of his heated breath wafting down your arched spine. “Is it because you knew that those other- boys couldn’t fuck you as well as I could?”
Your jaw drops- “Fuck.”
But it seems that Toji had found his footing. He drags you even harder against him - the ramming of your two bodies almost violently shaking the flooring beneath. “Is it because you knew that- mmm, this pussy would always be satisfied with me?” Whatever little jostling you’re experiencing at his movements, he’s considering it a nod. “Is it because you’d been greedy? Because you’ve been yearning-”
Somehow, he’s tipping his head backwards and managing to perfect a stream of spit down onto your stuffed cunt.
“-for someone more mature. Someone that knows how to handle a pussy, doll?” Voice dipped in lust. “Have you been yearning for Zenin Toji to fuck you properly?”
“Y-yes—” You pitch out softly. Sniffling. Seeing stars behind your eyelids. “Toji, m’so close…”
“So cum, then?” He snickers, as though it should be the most obvious thing in the world. “What’re you waiting for? Permission?” Leaning back and projecting his voice - though, not for you. “Just so y’know, I’m gonna make my wife cum.”
“Oh-oh my god—” The words crackle in your throat as a final bash to your syrupy-sweet spot leaving you careening into your high. Stars of pleasure burst behind your shuttered lids - and you’re dragged through wave upon wave of white-hot bliss.
It overtakes you like nothing you’ve ever felt before.
And Toji was only more than happy to prolong them using his length. Hitting you right when your peaks were at their highest - and if you were in the right state, then you’d wonder how he even managed to time them - and making your veins feel molten within. Making you whimper and thrash into him. Thrashing and thrashing—fucked like you’ve never been before through your orgasm.
You’re so hazy afterwards that you barely even register the shuffling outside the bedroom - as the elders started making their way back to the banquet. Mission accomplished, you suppose.
And Toji takes his foot off your head.
“Haaaaah, fuck.” He hisses. “Want to give them an encore, my wife?”
You couldn’t nod faster.
Before you know it, he’s tipping his head back and calling out - at the elders—
“Get ready for an encore, fuckers.”
♡ NANAMI KENTO - Parent-teacher DATING?!
“Ms. Teacher…”
Itadori’s sweet, sweet voice breaks through your conversation with one of the parents; and you’re looking down to see him clasping one end of your flower-patterned apron. Pink brows furrowed. Chubby cheeks puffed. And how could anyone resist that face?
So throwing an apologetic smile at the parent, you’re leaning down slightly so that you could hear the little boy better. “Yes, Yuji?”
He cups a hand over his mouth then leans in towards your ear as if to whisper. “I have a secret to tell you.” And he does not whisper.
Still, you bite back a giggle and ask. “Oh, really? How exciting. Do I get to know that secret, Yuji?”
He nods.
Then leans in once more-
“My papa has a big, big crush on y-”
“Yuji—!”
You didn’t have to look up to see that it was none other than Nanami Kento, Itadori’s father, pushing past a few gossiping parents and kids playing jumprope- heading in your direction. He quickly clasps Itadori’s arm and gently tugs the boy away, “I am so, so sorry—I have no idea what’s gotten into him-” Nanami pinches the top of his nosebridge with a sigh. “He seems to have gotten it into his head that I have f-feelings for you, and…”
You watch, almost astounded, as the ever-stoic Nanami’s ears burn bright red.
“A-and I sincerely apologize if he made you uncomfortable in any way-”
“Oh, no.” You’re raising your hands up and fervently shaking your head. “He didn’t make me uncomfortable at all. Did you, Yuji?”
“Yup!” Those tufts of pink hair atop his head bounce as he nods as well, beaming - happy to see that you were on his side, at the very least. He then turns back to Nanami. “I didn’t make Ms. Teacher uncomfortable, papa. I just told her what you told me-”
“Sunshine…” Nanami grumbles, though with less panic in his voice this time.
And you’re biting back a smile as you look between the handsome father and his son; it’d been two years since Nanami had adopted Itadori, according to what the man had told you when he’d first enrolled the boy in Tokyo Jujutsu Elementary. Since then, you’ve had the privilege of watching over the father-son duo as they become closer, as they found family in one another, as they opened themselves up to both the school and you.
And although you knew you shouldn’t have favorites as a teacher - you can’t deny that one of the best parts of your day was seeing the two.
Yes, the two.
It didn’t quite help that Nanami Kento was the talk amongst the single ladies and men at pick-up. Tall. Tender. With his broad shoulders and his blond hair—always slicked back, not even a single strand out of line.
Nanami was the type of man to hold doors open for students, other parents, and teachers alike - he’d happily stand there for half an hour as an entire grade passed by, if he had to.
Nanami was the type of man to not worry about what anyone thought of him as he let his energetic son paste stickers all over him, or use the play make-up he’d snagged from Kugisaki.
Nanami was the type of man to buy you a large bouquet of roses for Teacher’s Day- roses. And he’d apologized for at least fifteen minutes about not meaning any sort of innuendo, and he’d completely understand if you didn’t want to take them—you’d cut him off then n’ there by taking them with a gracious thank you. Even if others at pick-up shot you knowing smiles.
So could you blame yourself if you happened to form a crush on the man?
And hearing what Itadori had to say about it now…
“I wouldn’t mind, y’know.” You speak once you’d ushered Itadori to play with some of his friends—Fushiguro and Kugisaki had just been dropped off. And Nanami was still standing next to you, watching as his son scampered off after causing perhaps the most chaos he’s ever experienced in his life.
But ah…your voice was low enough that it couldn’t be heard by anyone around you two. Perhaps not even Nanami himself- but of course, he heard.
Of course, he heard.
He turns to you with widened eyes, “I uh…I- excuse me?”
You turn back to him with a grin, “How about coffee sometime this week?”
“I have a better plan.” As soon as the first bout of shyness wears off, he’s clearing his crackling throat and answering you. “How about dinner?”
.
.
.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuh-fuck.” Nanami wrenches between clenched teeth. His hot breath sticks against the side of your throat; and every single puff makes your skin erupt with perspiration.
Which worked for him—it just let the movements between your two ravenous bodies proceed even faster, slipperier, sloppier. Nanami has you pressed flat against his neat mattress, in a bedroom that was humble and meticulously organized - and with Itadori at Fushiguro’s for a sleepover, the two of you could let those ancient bedsprings creak as much as they liked.
Nanami could fuck you as hard as you liked.
He’s grinding that golden happy trail into your front; both palms pressed flatly atop your inner thighs to keep them open. To keep you stretched as faaaaar apart as you could go—because fuck- Nanami’s cock was thick enough that he had to pin you down n’ squeeeeeeze his inches inside as far as they could go.
Rubbin’ his prominent veins along your walls. Entire body tensing up whenever you clench-
“Fuuuuuuck.” With a heavy sigh, he’s letting his head tip backwards. And honestly—you don’t think you’d ever seen a more attractive sight.
You’ve always known that Nanami was ripped underneath those office button-ups of his - but this was damn-near Herculean. The way his shoulders were defined and pulled taut as they closed in on you, the way his chest was absolutely luscious—you almost wanted to take a bite. And you’d guessed that with energetic Itadori as a son, he hadn’t had the time to hit the gym lately.
Because there was a layer of thickness over his muscles that left Nanami softer and stronger- the soft curve of his belly pushes down on your core.
Jostling your body back n’ forth with every honed thrust.
Banging at the back of your cervix and your throat- “Fuck. It feels so good, Kento.”
“S-soooooo fucking good.” And you wonder which one of you two was more gone on your syrupy cunt: you or him. Nanami struggles to keep his damn head up- collapsing into the crook of your neck and letting out botched groans- every single time his sensitive tip slid uuuuuup your channel into its deepest depths. He almost sounded as though he was in pain as he wept—“F-forgive me, darling.”
Perking your head off the plush pillows, “What for, Kento?”
“Well it’s just…” And his foggy glasses were still on his face - which Nanami pushes up his nose bridge. “I haven’t felt this good in—forever. So forgive me if I’m a little…”
And then he’s surging his hips forwards and giving you a good thwack! with the rounded end of his shaft. Enough to make stars appear in your vision-
“-rough.”
And then it’s like the floodgates have opened.
Because Nanami’s grip on you grows hard enough to leave fucking nail marks, his sweat splashes with the urgency of his movements. “And I wanted to f-fuck you all niiiiiice and slow like this pretty pussy deserves.” Those strong arms keep manhandling you open as he shovels straight into you. “W-wanted to show you that a mature man like me could- hngh, make you feel the best you’ve ever felt.”
“But I already do…” You huff out, arms thrown needily around his neck.
Yet Nanami doesn’t seem to hear—he doesn’t even seem to register. At least, the only acknowledgement that you get of your response is the way his body flinches ever-so-slightly at the mere sound of your voice. “And yet…” Those hazel-brown eyes of his widen as they run down your body, ultimately resting where your pussy was bloated all ‘round him. “And yet, one kiss of these pretty lips and I’m done for.”
“D-done for…” You repeat - mostly because you don’t know what else to do.
Don’t know what else you’re capable of doing other than wrapping your weak legs around his waist. Your hamstrings stretch and scream; and you’re sobbing yourself as his pace seems to accelerate.
“I can feel myself…” Nanami speaks through a watery mouth. “-getting fucking addicted—shit, like some hormonal punk. I should know better. A man my age…”
“Oh- oh, Kento.”
“I should know better- I should fucking know better.” He admonishes himself - though that doesn’t stop or even slow down the feral pap-pap-paps! of his pelvis hitting yours. Through scrunched-up eyes, he’s gazing upon you. “C-can’t believe you got some old man like me-” Despite your instant protests. “-to finally break.”
After a few more sudden strikes - almost animalistic - you’re managing to string together enough syllables. “But…I don’t mind, Kento.”
And that—that might just be the one thing that makes him falter. “Pardon?” He blinks up at you with glazed-over eyes.
Nodding, “I promise I don’t mind.” In fact, you’re tugging him in with a fistful of his blond strands between your fingers. “I- ngh! want you to go even harder…if you can-”
“Of course I can, my love.” The both of you are startled by his instant answer. “I-I mean, if you know that it means I might leave a few marks and—even more marks.” Perhaps most notably on your spongy cervix, welcoming his bashing thrusts.
But you don’t mind. Like you said.
You’re nodding even harder, “Yes, please.”
So polite. How could he ever refuse?
And in the blink of an eye, the blond-haired man leans over to clasp that patterned tie draped over his bedpost. It’d gotten thrown there sometime after the frenzy of getting home - quite convenient for when Nanami wanted to throw it loosely over his clammy neck and give you the other end to hold onto—
“Don’t be afraid to pull if it gets too much.” He puffs out at you in a breezy breath.
“Too much?” You ogle up at his handsome face. You half-jokingly wondered whether the bed - and perhaps you - would be in one piece by the time that Itadori gets home tomorrow. It was going to be a never-ending night…
“Mhm, because this is going to be rough, darling.”
♡ GETO SUGURU - Controversy.
WHO IS ROCKSTAR HEARTTHROB GETO SUGURU’S GIRLFRIEND? HOW CAN WE BE HER?!
GOLD DIGGER?! BASSIST OF 6EYES SHUTS DOWN MALICIOUS RUMORS SURROUNDING BEAU: SAYS THEY ARE ‘BULLSHIT’.
DILF OFF THE MARKET: GETO SUGURU CONFIRMS RELATIONSHIP OF ‘YEARS’ HE SAYS.
Everyone knew of Geto Suguru. Or so it seemed when they were screaming his name and cursing yours—everyone wanted to be with him.
Or be him.
Who wouldn’t? Thick rings. Grey-black hair. Feline smile.
A 6’2, long-haired dreamboat that just-so-happened to be the bassist of the hottest rock band on the charts right now: 6Eyes. They’d been discovered quite early on - when they’d just been out of high school, actually - and had maintained a steady presence in the music scene ever since. Shattering record after record and filling stadium after stadium. By the time you’d gone with some of your college friends to one of their concerts, they were already titans in the industry—and you’d been an instant fan.
So imagine your surprise when your friend announced that one of the security had invited your group backstage.
That was the night you’d met Geto Suguru - you’d locked eyes and the both of you had just known.
You signed that NDA. You met for dates under disguises. And you’d even met his young adopted daughters- oh, you adored them.
Several months later, when TMZ or some other site had broken the story of Geto secretly dating a fan over ten years younger than him - and that was when scandal ensued. The fandom was rabid—and you understood.
Though Geto, who was rather used to biting headlines and speculation, told you that the whole thing would blow over soon enough- you holed up in your shared penthouse. You turned off your social media notification. You tried not to turn on any celebrity news channel.
And you decided: the very least you could do is make a good first impression…
“Easy now…easy there…” Geto holds the recorder in one hand n’ the side of your hips in his other. You’re maddeningly aware of both the rolling tape and the way his puckered, pretty tip is getting guided to your entrance—“Don’t strain yourself now. Trust Suguru.”
Just the very first inch of it slipping lusciously between your pussylips and easing inside.
Geto was always so thick, donning numerous veins that creep up the sides of his shaft in zig-zagging patterns. And the sheer girth of him intruding is enough to make you gasp-
“Mmm, that’s good.” The older man murmurs with a smile- long, greying hair forming a curtain around the two of you. “Let’s try again. A little louder this time.” Before he reels his hips back the mere inches he’s squeezed inside, and then rammin’ right back in again - it sounds the loudest squelch! as you’re taking even more of him. “Ohhhh, that’s good. Maybe I can use that as the outro, heh?”
“Maybe just use it for the entire ch-chorus.” You hiss.
“Trying to take my spotlight?” Geto leans down to kiss your swollen lips- or so you think. He’s pressing his pierced mouth against yours and gnawin’ down on your lower lip.
“Scared of- mmpf. Scared of being ousted by the young new talents?”
The edges of his lips curling upwards. “A rock veteran like me? Oh, I don’t think I have anything to be scared of…”
And you can only moan straight into his greedy, greedy maw as you’re jostled back and forth. Geto’s thrusts were oh-so-merciless and puncturing deeeeep into your womb—using the smooth Prince Albert’s piercing atop his flared tip, he’s torching every hidden spot and nerve-end inside. Mazin’ around your walls and pushing into those little ridges that just made your back arch into him-
His eyes crinkle at the edges as he smiles.
“Hey hey-” The only thing snapping you out of your frenzy is Geto’s sharp tuts. He stalls your restless hips by hooking his fingers into your thighs and throwing them over his broad shoulders- dragging you back into him. “Don’t run away, gorgeous—the studio session’s not over yet.”
“I wasn’t running away.” You huff.
“Sure seemed like it to me.” He grins - that silver piercing of his glinting in the dim lighting. It was the type of Cheshire-cat grin that you knew wouldn’t bode well for you…and as soon as you’re thinking about it, Geto opens his sensual mouth and spits—straight between your lips.
The wad lands softly on your tongue.
And Geto himself reaches a second ringed hand up to close your jaw- to urge you to swallow. “Remember to keep those vocals hydrated, gorgeous. We’re getting to the good part now.”
You think you could gasp at the audacity—but what’s leaving you instead are a series of long, lewd moans. Mewls. Pleas.
He’s drawing them out over and over again by hiking your thighs up his shoulders and pressing you into a mean mating press- lunging his body down into yours. Crushing your pliable self underneath him. Slashing your cervix with loooooong thrusts and his ropey precum puddling sweetly at the back of your pussy.
“Yeah- yeah, louder now.” Pushing the recorder even closer. “Louder, girl.”
“I am—oh.” With the way he was fucking you like he almost hated you - though it was rather the opposite - your sentences warble with hiccups and gasps. The lines of his veins were somehow massaging the exact hidden spots that drove you wild.
“You got this.”
“Fuck-”
“Louder. S’just you and me.” This was exactly what he wanted to hear - his favorite melody was you. “Just a bit of chopping up n’ remixing- this is perfect. Gonna sound so fuckin’ pretty to my bass.”
“Fuh-feels so good-”
“Mhmmm, I know, gorgeous. Now let the listeners know.”
Making your noise pitch upwards in volume.
After a few more strokes, he bores down at you with a thoughtful expression. “Now…why don’tcha try calling me ‘Sugu’ for the recording?”
“You want me to be sappy? Okay, rockstar.” You’re unable to bite your tongue fast enough- though your snapping only makes him even more excited.
Amethyst eyes glistening. “Oh, don’t be a diva just yet, newbie.” The older musician brings the audio recorder closer to catch your every breath, “Trust me. I’ve been in this industry for a loooooong time- c’mon now. Listen to your- heh, vocal coach—say ‘Sugu’.”
How you loved riling him up just as much as he did to you. “Then give me something good to moan for, baby.”
“Don’t test my patience, superstar.”
Though he does as you say.
You should have expected it all the same; the rockstar had mapped out every single good spot inside you. And it was with a near-photographic memory that he’s inching his length backwards- until it was just his lavish red tip lickin’ up your entrance.
Just for a second…just for two…
Before slamming into your g-spot so hard n’ suddenly that you almost sob.
Making your cunt mold to the exact texture of his circular piercing- hitting your sensitive area first, before then pushing his smooth tip into it as well. You’re feeling every bit of him—and you’re making sure that your future audiences can hear it, too.
“S-Sugu—!” You’re thrashing in his arms- and he’s crashing and crashing his hips into you. Gluing the heated, stinging pink skin of his pelvis against yours so ferally that you can’t keep up with his pace no matter how fast you’re attempting to buck and bounce.
“Oh, that one’s going in the intro for sure.” He titters.
“S’fucking mean.” You whimper as he pushes down on your lower half - purposefully, so that his scruffy happy trail scratches your clit.
“Sugu knows best.” So sweetly, he kisses your forehead—and you wonder whether the loud smacking sound that he leaves behind is more for the recorder or to make you squirm. Shy, much? “Now how about I fuck you pregnant n’ we just announce the baby on the album?”
You pause for a second - before a smile twitches at your lips. “A rockstar baby? You read my mind.”
He reciprocates. “Always knew you were made f’me.”
The headlines were sure to love this.
♡ CHOSO KAMO - MY UNCLE’S GF?!
Someone had suggested playing two truths and a lie:
You weren’t a lot older than Choso- at least in his eyes. That didn’t matter to him.
Choso has always wanted you.
He’s over that now, though.
Choso’s palms are sweaty ‘round his lightweight beer as he utters the words; words just a little louder than he intended them to be. Maybe that was the pre-game finally kicking in—but he couldn’t blame it on that, either. Had it been called three truths and a lie, then Choso would have also confessed that he was stone-cold sober as he murmurs two of his deepest secrets to the little circle of drunk college kids.
And you.
You…you’re looking at him like you’d already guessed he’d say that.
Had he really been that obvious? Choso first met you three years ago, during his sophomore year in college, when he’d gone home for the holidays—and discovered that, this year, Sukuna had been dragged home, too. Except…his uncle hadn’t come alone this time.
He’d brought along- you.
You were the one to greet him at the door—and Choso remembers his breath catching in his chest. He remembers feeling his heart bang against his ribcage. He remembers his eyes widening- and his mouth gaping stupidly as you introduced yourself.
So caught up in you, he’d been forced to ask Sukuna for your name again-
“Back off.” His uncle had scoffed, crimson eyes narrowing. Honestly - Ryomen Sukuna was the only person alive that could make cotton candy-pink hair look intimidating. “Don’t think I don’t see the way yer looking at her.”
He’d probably stammered something intelligible-
“Look all ya want- if she feels uncomfortable, she’ll thump ya herself. But you can’t touch.” Sukuna set his beer bottle down. “M’actually serious about this one.”
And Choso could see why - you were the first person that Sukuna had ever brought into the Itadori family home. You were smart. You were funny. You weren’t afraid to put the pink-haired man in his place. You were fucking gorgeous—
And…you were Sukuna’s girlfriend. Ten years older than Choso.
Which is why - no matter how badly you made his heart flutter - Choso had vowed to never, never so much as even think to act upon his feelings for you.
He just had to grit his teeth and avoid prolonged conversation with you during every family function and gathering you attended with Sukuna- of which the man was making an appearance at every single one now. Almost as though to provoke him even more.
And Choso was forced to make peace with the fact that he’d never make peace with his feelings.
That is…until the two of you broke up.
He’d heard news about it just a few weeks ago, actually- his father had said something about Sukuna being down in the dumps after you’d broken up with him. Something about not making enough time and drifting apart—Choso hadn’t heard the details, he’d been too overwhelmed with the guilty glee that’d shot through his body and made his heart pound. And then just tonight - oh, how he wished he could kiss whoever was looking down at him (but no, that was saved for you…) - Choso just-so-happened to run into you at the bar he was attending with his friends.
So of course he had to invite you over to their table.
Of course, he had to ignore your protests about being older than them all. None of that shit mattered.
Of course, he had to sit right opposite you on the table and divulge his greatest secret - one he’d been keeping to himself for three years now.
You’re just opening your mouth to respond-
When Choso’s feeling a harsh smack! on his back and one of his friends crowing in his ear. “Atta boy! You never struck me as the type to like MILFs, man.”
“Technically I’m not a MILF yet.” You giggle, fixating your gaze upon him. He almost flinches. “But you’re right…I never thought you’d be the type to like older women. I’m ten years older than you, Choso, you know that right?”
Choso mumbles almost too quietly to hear. “Th-that doesn’t matter to me…”
“Yeah- and you’d probably like that ‘ma’am’ shit, eh?” His friend guffaws, making the now-bashful Choso - whatever courage he had liquified - duck his head. “Oh- sorry I didn’t mean—”
“No, no.” You dismiss the babbling college boy. “I’m not offended at all. In fact, you might be right.”
The table bursts into wolf whistles-
And it’s a blur until you’re ragging with the banter a little more - before discreetly excusing yourself to go to the bathroom. Choso’s staring up at you - totally not admiring your back like some pathetic lovesick fool - before catching your gaze and your pointed wink.
And then he’s scrambling right after you. As discreetly as a sledgehammer.
.
.
.
Nose buried into the crook of your neck. Mouth gaped wide open- letting out the sweetest crackling moans into your skin.
Choso had you pushed against the bathroom stall - clean, don’t you worry - with his arms wrapped around your body n’ his cock shoved between your legs. Dragging in and out in a way that was so messy—he’s roverin’ around his globules of cum with that fat tip of his, and then reeling his hips rapidly backwards to spray it down your walls over and over.
He’d cum as soon as he’d put it inside.
And it wasn’t his fault.
Honest!
“Oh- oh.” And now he was panting desperate breath after breath between thrusts—“I’m sorry…the condom broke, baby.” Choso’s lower lip cutely trembles as he speaks. “Can’t help it. And then your pussy’s just so warm and welcoming a-and…”
His breath hitches as he hits that one gluttonous spot that makes you clench.
“-and I just- can’t- when you’re squeezing me like that.”
Basically hypnotized, Choso’s slender fingers dip down between your legs. And so swiftly - that you’re almost surprised at his nimbleness - he pulls out of your wet hole n’ clasps his hand around his barely-wrapped length. The rubber condom had been too tight around him, and it’d shattered into a million pieces—Choso looks up at you through his doe-like lashes, and waits until you’re nodding.
That’s when he’s wringing off his broken condom and squeezing out whatever wetness it held. Pushing out the cum back onto your pussy.
Making such a mess.
Those pure-white droplets that end up splattered back down on your pussy- warm and utterly unwholesome. A sinful cover. He wasn’t leaving a single ounce wasted. “Sh-shit.” Choso’s mouth gapes wide open. “It’s all your fault…”
Just the cutest trickle of saliva makes its way down his lips - and you’re reaching upwards to wipe it away. “Awwww. Ever done it raw before, Cho?”
After a brief bout of hesitation, he shakes his head.
“I’ve never done it before.” He confesses. Your eyes widen, so he was a virgin…
“Then are you sure you can handle it, baby? No need to push yourself if-”
“No.” He gasps. Sharp. Shot-through. It leaves his lips before he even knows what’s happening- and then you’re clenching again in a way that makes his brows twist together, and his fingers dig into your waist. “No, no, no, no-” Eyes frenzied. “We don’t have to stop f’me, baby. We don’t even have to slow down—”
Cum-coated; his thickened cock gets sandwiched between your lips then jerked back and forth a few times. By now he was so wet with slick n’ sap that it was making him slip a few times before he’s actually managing to get it in again—and that, too, with your help.
You reach down to help grip Choso’s raging-hot erection, and guide it inside your cunt: an action that leaves the other man blushing down to the roots of his hair. Even his tip throbs just a little harder—“Th-thank you, ma’am.”
Your brows raise in amusement- and it only hits him then. So he was into the ‘ma’am’ thing.
“I mean- baby.” He sounds so utterly ruined. “Thank you, baby. Promise I can handle it now, m’kay?”
And oh…you can’t deny that it was just so fun to tease him. “Hmmm…I dunno, Choso-”
Chocolate-brown bangs sticking to your skin, he’s lurching his face away to bore straight into your eyes. “I-is it because I’m younger?” He asks with a hint of desperation, and your lips part as your ex’s hot nephew keeps steamrolling away with his pussydrunken mouth. Poor, poor Choso. “Because I promise I can handle it. I can fuck you- ngh, the best. Promise m’gonna make you feel sooooo—”
Choso’s hips were hammerin’ away at a pace you’d never have suspected- and his hips end up crushed against yours. So close that the scruff of his happy trail scratches your clit raw.
“-g-good.” A single tear track runs down his face - you’re unsure whether he’s talking about you or himself.
“Easy there, tiger.” You’re pushing back on a stray lock of his hair- darker now with perspiration. The sweet gesture makes Choso huffs.
It wasn’t doing him any favors, however, as that only made him look even cuter. You’re craning your neck and planting a chaste peck on his bubblegum-pink lips—only for Choso to take control of the kiss and softly bite down on your bottom lip. “Baby-” He rasps. And with just how sweet Choso had always been to you, you could’ve almost forgotten how strong he was- how easily he could bounce you down on his cock- how needy he was for you. Feral. Even though you had him wrapped ‘round your finger, he was jostling your pussy’s inside like craaaazy. “Don’t do that. Don’t baby me- I need to be taken- ngh, s-seriously by you, m’kay?”
“Oh…” You’re letting out a heated breath as his tip empties out at your cervix.
And to prolong that sensation; Choso claws his hand up and pushes on the lower part of your stomach. Right beneath where your cunt was expanding and contracting with his cock. “Feel how big I am?” He doesn’t stop putting pressure on that spot until you’re nodding - “How hard? How much I’m leaking?” Just on cue, a splatter! of precum leaks between your pussylips.
And with something like a broken whimper- Choso snakes his fingers down to push the leakage back up your channel.
“O-oh—this pussy’s so fuckin’ wet. And I can handle it- I can handle it.” He utters more to himself. The more he’s speaking, the harder and longer he’s fucking you, the more ruined he sounds. “M’not as innocent as you think, baby.”
“Oh? Do tell.” You smile.
Such a gorgeous, gorgeous smile that he almost hesitates wiping away with a roll of his thumb - stimulating the nerves of your clit. But it makes you break out into the prettiest lewd expression that leaves him rutting his hips even harder, “Do you have any idea how fuh-fucking long I’ve waited for this? How badly I’ve wanted to- ngh, stuff my cock and fuck you like an animal?” As he trails off, he feels his stinging tip start to twitch even more wildly. Dangerously. “Fuck—”
“H-how long?” You’re asking with a smug smirk.
Choso’s blinking a few times just to let the question register- and finally muttering. “Even when you were dating- him. Ever since I first saw you…” And then he rubs his thumb at an even more steadied pace, matching it to the pushes of his spearing cock. “You were wearing that red dress of yours- hah, and I could see the strap of your pretty pink bra peaking out…the one with the bows on-”
That makes you gasp.
Which Choso takes advantage of to plaster his lips against yours n’ suckle on your tongue.
“And then-” Barely managing out through kisses- through stabs of his length- through the pleasure. “And then you called me ‘baby’ as you were getting ready to leave, and I- ngh, knew you were teasing me for being younger—fuck, I h-had to run to the bathroom just to jerk off.”
Rovering his mushroomy trip straight into your nerve-ended g-spot; you’re arching into his chest as you feel Choso lose his grip on his sanity.
Already having been so loose.
He’s babbling as he cums long and hard, and oh-so-deeeeeply into your cunt. Mouth ajar. Body collapsing against yours - caging you even further against the bathroom wall. “Baby- fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck-”
“Shit, so much…” Just feeling the ribbons upon ribbons of creamy-white sap he was emptying out. Hot. hypnotizing. Every stroke managed to hit your best spots, and every push meant your pussy was getting overloaded with his cum. The inches of his shaft were curved just perfectly enough that he’s managing to slip aside your walls and use his tip to circle and circle those webs of cum at the very base of your pussy. All over.
Soon enough, you’re feeling a layer of it make its way down your inner-thighs—and Choso still didn’t seem like he was going to stop anytime soon. You moan, “H-how can you cum this much- mmpf.”
He captures your lips in another sloppy kiss. “Must be the stamina of a younger guy.”
“Choso you’re pussydrunk.” You’ve never heard him sound so drawling and dreamy.
“Hmmmm…” He’s nuzzling the crook of your neck, leaving bite marks that will be entirely too difficult to explain when you’re going back outside. “Did you cum? Promise I can- ngh, make you cum, too…” Grazing your skin with his lips.
“Prove it, then.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - 6…9?
“It’s a fuckin’ pandemic, isn’t it?”
You’re looking at your boyfriend over the rim of your book, “Excuse me?”
Sukuna was seated on the armchair in the corner of your bedroom; just having finished a video call with his brother and his nephew. The bright chatter (at least from their end) had died down some minutes ago, and they’d bid your boyfriend goodnight—which was rather the same routine for these biweekly calls. Despite how much the two of you visited, Itadori Yuji always found it too hilarious to put strange filters on his grumpy uncle.
Except, tonight…Sukuna had sat in the armchair for a few minutes longer.
Usually; he would join you in bed.
Usually; he would grumble - though with a fond smile on his face - about whatever Yuji had been chattering about before.
He was practically an honorary father to the boy, and it always made you smile to see.
Usually; he wouldn’t look up at you as expressionless as if he’d seen a ghost- as if his soul had wafted away. And ask you about some…pandemic? Did Yuji put something in his head again?
At the confused expression on your face, Sukuna was heaving out a sigh—pushing up those glasses that were totally, most definitely not glasses and merely a tool he uses to…see…better up his handsome nosebridge. Sukuna was in his late thirties, and silver was beginning to tinge the edges of his pink hair, climbing up his temples. His crows’ feet creased as he frowned at you, “The…67 thing. It’s a pandemic.”
“67 thing?” You gape, your book plopping down on the bed.
“You heard me.” He scoffs. “I’ve been thinking it’s mass hysteria- every brat at his kindergarten keeps repeating it. But there seems to be no pattern or cohesion. I thought it was just those damn kindergarteners, but the other day I even caught Jin saying it-”
“S-six…seven…thing.” You’re repeating - for no reason other than to confirm to yourself that what you’re hearing was real.
Sukuna straightens in his chair, “See? Now it’s got you—”
“Kuna, like the meme?” You’re shaking your head, “The one from the song? Oh my god, it’s not mass hysteria-”
He crinkles his nose. “The hell is a…meme?”
“You don’t know what a—” How has he been Yuji - of all people’s - uncle but still had no idea? You continue, “It’s basically an Internet inside joke- it’s been over for a while now but the kids are still obsessed with it.” Finally gripping your book once more, you level him a look. “You didn’t seriously think it was mass hysteria, did you, Kuna?”
Sukuna crosses his bulky arms and looks away. “Tch—”
And when he catches you giggling, he barks-
“What?!”
“Oh- nothing.” And from the smile upon your lips - Sukuna knew that whatever was coming out of your mouth next wasn’t about to be anything sincere.
Which is why he’s raising himself off the sofa and climbing up the foot of your bed.
You continue, “It’s just you’re getting old, Kuna.”
Joking; nothing ever riled Ryomen Sukuna up more than teasing him for not understanding some new slang or lyric.
And with how much he riled you up sometimes—you had to get back at him somehow, alright?
Soon enough, he’s pinning you down to the bed - with his toned pelvis pressing down on your waist, and his arms creeping upwards to keep your wrists pushed against the mattress. “Say that shit again. I dare you.”
You’re leaning up as though to kiss him. “Old man.”
.
.
.
Sukuna’s tongue was zig-zagging wiiiiildly between your legs- striking the soft circle of your entrance and then swervin’ as deeply inside as it could go. Deeper. Deeper.
No matter how fervently his mouth was glued to your pussy.
No matter how ravenously.
His hips rut off the bed with every single lick—and that fat, throbbing tip of his kept shovelling n’ shovelling at a synchronized pace with his tongue.
He had you twisted in sixty-nine with your pussy latched onto his lips.
Sukuna’s own cock squeezing out heavy volumes of his salty precum near your lips, then promptly pushin’ them inside with his thrusts- Sukuna was so loooong and rock-hard that he was managing to swab across every spot and directly target the back of your throat. Playing with that dangly in the back.
You’re moaning as he squeezes two ringed-decorated fingers into your tight cunt. And he grins as he feels the vibrations—“Ah ah- s’rude to talk with your mouth full.”
Just then, Sukuna’s planting a smack! on your pussy that makes you pull off of his shaft with a loud pop! “H-hey…”
“What?” He trundles. Reaching his hips up and guiding his needy tip back into your mouth, “Speak.”
All because he knew that you’d attempt to nonetheless- and it would end up with the most lewd noises being muffled into this cock. It would end up with his eyes scrunching shut, his head throwing backwards at the shocks of pleasure. “Th-thought I told you to speak? Hah- not babble. Cock got your tongue or something?”
And…it would end up with you being all huffy n’ puffy. “That’s not even f-fair…”
“Heh- fair?” From where he’d been nipping at your clit, Sukuna pulls off - just to confirm he wasn’t hearing things. He wasn’t. And though you couldn’t see his expression from this angle, you could practically hear the amusement in his tone. “What happened to me being old, huh? You surely don’t need me to go easy on you.”
“I d-didn’t say that…” You’re stubbornly answering him - though the constant drives of his fingers were driving you absolutely mad. Sure.
“Good.” And then you’re feeling two more consecutive smack-smacks! atop your bloated folds. “Because, babydoll…m’barely even started.”
In no time, Sukuna has you manhandled so that your stomach’s against the soft bed. Your back’s against his thoroughly toned front - so incredibly strong; he was bulky—with a layer of thickness to him that made your skin tingle with want - and his erect cock placed between your legs. He takes a few moments to wetten your core up- because no matter how many times you’ve taken him, you think you’ll never get used to Sukuna’s sheer size.
And before long you’re clawing onto the headboard for dear life—as he damn-near molds your tender cunt to his size. Startin’ at the tip-top of his bloated shaft, and then bouncing you down- down- down so many inches greedily.
Utterly greedily.
“Oh- oh, fuuuuuck.” Hands shooting forwards to grab onto more of the mahogany frame.
But Sukuna stops you right then n’ there by wrapping his right arm around your neck; like a wreath, your pants are immediately cut off. And his muscles bulge as they tighten—the defined ridges of his biceps pushing against your throat - it’s sensual enough to make your mouth water…“And where’d you think you’re going, huh?”
“Nowher- mmpf.” Cut off immediately by the tightening of his muscled restraint.
“Lying’s not a good look, brat.” Then his second set of fingers snakes down to spank! your stuffed pussy- right atop your bloated folds. The shockwaves that run up your spine are enough to make you buck and whine—and enough to make him drag you back into him. Again and again. “Wasn’t stuffing this mouth earlier ‘nough to teach you a little lesson?”
So stubborn. “Not at all-”
He’s spitting straight between your lips.
And when Sukuna’s fucking you; it’s with harsh, pointed jabs - scouring deeeeep into the bottom of your pussy and leaving the mark of his cockhead. That rounded bruise you feel throb-throb-throbbin’ away every time he repeats the action—he fucks you like he hates you.
And he’s only growing faster, harder by the second.
Only tightening his headlock and wrenching your body back into his. Again and again.
Over and over.
Until the globes of your ass were stinging with impact, and you’ve memorized the pattern of his happy trail. It’s practically a part of you.
Sukuna’s rugged cock knew aaaaall the right spots. Making your pupils roll around in the whites of your eyes, and leaving you wondering just how he had this much stamina still…“Awww, c’mon now.” His low voice trundles in your ears. “Get your act together, girl. You don’t wanna be this cockdrunk for someone so old, huh?”
“I-I—”
“What was it you called me?” He growls, sharp canines nipping at the shells of your ears. “Huh? What was it you called me? See, this fossil ‘ere has some trouble…remembering-”
Every syllable of his was punctured by a thorough glide across the velvety channel of your pussy- “Ummm, then in that case, I didn’t say anything?” You try your luck.
“Nice try.” Sukuna grins. “But m’not that geriatric yet.”
Another spank. “Please-”
“What did you call me?”
“I-I just meant-”
And another. “What did you call me?”
“An…old man.” You feel embarrassed just letting the words slip between your lips.
You didn’t think he could get even rougher with his movements - his shaft was throbbing, and his pelvis was smack-smack-smacking into you. So hard that you’re propelled forwards by the sheer force; and Sukuna roughly lurches you back with his headlock. “I might be an old man- cheh. I might not know all these…damn Internet memes- but I do know how to fuck this pussy right.” To prove his point, he scours in-between your pussylips to squeeze your pretty clit. “Look at her- she’s in love with me.”
“O-oh—” Eyes fluttering shut.
“I know how to make her cry with pleasure. I know how to make her- mmmngh, squeeze like she doesn’t want me leavin’…heh.” He continues muttering into your ear as his hips grow more fervent. “I know how to make her feel so good—”
Your teeth grit. “Shit.” And you recognize the twisting sensation at the pit of your stomach. “K-Kuna, I’m gonna cum-”
“And even better.” He chuckles. Gnawing at the top of your ear shell, before moving down to bite the tender crook of your neck - like a wolf catching his prey. “I might not know those fuckin’- memes like the youngsters do. But I do know how to make this pussy- cum.”
“S-sooo close—don’t stop.” You’re bouncing n’ bouncing back into his pistoning hips.
Feeling the pleasure well up. Feeling your head start to spin a little as you near your high-
You’re crashing past your tipping point. And Sukuna gives you one, two, three good strokes to fuck you through the bursts of white-hot pleasure running through your veins - before he’s suddenly setting you free of his headlock and letting you drop straight into the plush pillows.
Reeling his damn cock out.
You don’t know what’s louder: your disappointed groan or his rough cackle.
“What? Wanted this old man to be nice in bed or something?” As soon as you’re looking over your shoulder, you’re met with Sukuna’s priggish grin—his sharp canines peaking out at the edges of his lower lip.
Grumpily, you nod. “Yes? What- can’t last or—oh.”
Another smack. “That’s not gonna work on me again- sorry, babydoll.” And before you know it, you’re being flipped right over - getting your legs thrown over his shoulders and pushed into the meanest mating press you’ve ever experienced. “Because m’not letting my bratty girl properly cum until I’ve had a good few rounds to blow off some steam. And m’sure you can keep up- heh, if not…”
“And um- how many rounds might that be exactly?”
Sukuna smirks. “67.”
“I hate you.”
♡ INO TAKUMA - “M-mommy!”
AITA for seducing the HOT rich MILF (40’sF) that I (23M) pool-clean for while her ex-husband and kids were away?! In my defense, she’s reeeeeally hot.
You freeze.
Ino freezes.
The world itself seems to freeze; all except for the ruby-red tip of Ino Takuma’s cock. Shoved deeeep inside your cunt - deep enough to leave a permanent bruise there - and throbbing away wildly—he’s cumming with that particular title escaping his lips.
And then his lower lip wobbles once- twice- before he ducks down and attempts to hide his face in his arms.
“Hey hey-” Swiftly, you reach down to push his hands away - you’d be disappointed not to see his pretty expressions as you fucked him even further. All pouty lips and doe-like eyes—Ino Takuma was so pretty, and perhaps that’s what drew you to the younger pool cleaner in the first place. “What’s the matter, Taku?”
“I-I didn’t mean to call you that- honest!” He stammers out.
To which you’re cocking your head with a sly smile- time to try something. “Call me what, Taku?”
“Y’know what it is…” Ino grumbles, huffing. And when you simply continue to stare at him in slight confusion, he’s rockin’ up into your wet cunt as he speaks- “The way I c-called you—mommy- oh.” Just as you’d predicted, his velvety length jolts at the mere utterance of that title. Excitedly spurting out a few creamy-white wads of cum that glue to your cervix.
So messy. He was so fucking messy.
How ironic, considering that his entire job was to clean your pool.
You’d been introduced to Ino through one of your friends - those networks of older rich women with far too much time and money on their hands. Juggling kids and businesses. And you’d just been complaining to them over a gold-flaked brunch that your last pool cleaner had moved towns, and with your kids now entering middle school, the pool was left without use and starting to gather leaves.
That’s when they’d shared Ino’s number with you—a reliable pool cleaner. Just graduated college, and so easy on the eyes if they did say so themselves…
You’d huffed that you’d tell their husbands- meanwhile you on the other hand had just recently gotten divorced. One too many nights of your husband coming home with a cloud of mysterious perfume around him, or a lipstick stain on his collar - at least you’d gotten a good chunk of everything in the divorce!
But that was all in the past- maybe love just wasn’t for you.
You had your kids. You had your gorgeous hillside mansion. You had your hobbies and friends- men just weren’t…for…
Fuck, that’s when he’d showed up at your door.
Bright and early. Beaming with all his gorgeous pearly whites; the sweetest smile on such a killer body. Ino showed up in nothing but an unbuttoned flowery shirt and swim trunks—their lightning-yellow color perfectly complemented his slightly-tanned skin and messy brown hair. Slightly tawny from the Sun.
“Er, I hope you don’t mind.” Ino had said, a sheepish smile on his face. “I thought I’d get changed for the job before I got here.”
Mind? Mind?!
In simply what world would you mind—it took every speck of reason and rationality in you to dart your eyes away from the plane of his chest, his washboard abs. Sultry shoulders. Slender waist. There was a scattered happy trail that ran between his six-pack and- beneath his swimming trunks.
Fuck.
Instead, you focused on the tight necklace of shells around Ino’s throat. “C-come in.”
On the first day, you stayed inside - only peeking out occasionally from your bedroom window - as Ino cleaned your pool. You tipped him heavily.
On the second day, he’d told you that it was completely okay with him even if you used the pool whilst he was cleaning—and you took that as your sign. You donned a bikini you hadn’t gotten the chance to use in years, and sprawled yourself out on the nearest sun bed - making occasional conversation with him almost as an excuse to ogle him.
And if you weren’t mistaken, you’d say that he ogled you too.
But you really did discover that Ino was a sweetheart- and made you giggle like a schoolgirl, too. How embarrassing you felt admitting this!
And a part of you was almost relieved when your kids arrived home from school - escorted by their driver - so you could resume your mundane lavishness. But a bigger part of you was already yearning for when you’d see him again…
And so continued the third day.
And the fourth day.
And so on to the fifth and the sixth.
Before you knew it, Ino had been employed as your pool-cleaner for at least a month—and he’d quickly grown to become someone you and your kids were quite fond of. Even your driver had caught on, and shot you a knowing smile every time you asked him to escort Ino back to his downtown apartment. Perhaps feeling jealous of such an occurrence, your ex-husband had showed up with tickets to an amusement park - already having planned a day trip for your kids.
They’d, of course, begged to go. And so you’d agreed.
Leaving nobody inside this vast mansion: but you, Ino, and the growing tension between you two.
The only thing was, right before he left, your ex-husband had the audacity to stop Ino and snipe at him. Low and threatening. “Touch her and I’ll make you very, very sorry.”
So, of course you’d fucked Ino as soon as they were out of the house.
Squeezing your robe-covered thighs ‘round his waist—just so perfectly curved to meet your embrace. “W-we really shouldn’t be…I mean- I’m old enough to be your-”
“Works just fine for me, pretty.” He’d cut you off. Pulling on the gauzy material of your robe to let your tits spill out- fuck, he was in heaven.
Enough so that it’d taken just putting it in for Ino to cover your luscious inside in his sap. To watch the satiny liquid seep between your pussylips and leave his pelvis gleaming with a sheen. To wrench out the most pathetic calls of your name—and one particular title that made him want to get swallowed up by the Earth.
Again and again.
Ino’s cock was longer than you’d expected - and all this time, you’d been wondering where the hell he’d been hiding all that in his swimming trunks. Just reaching over six pretty inches. Just smooooth and leaned ever-so-slightly towards the left. It’s making his bulbous tip drag across every sweet spot inside you, and your thighs quiver as you take him.
Every single inch. You’re arching your back and mustering up your strength to grind your hips forwards and back, forwards and back.
Milking him—
“C’mon, baby.” You’re cooing down at the handsome man. He blinks his teary eyes open- and you just can’t help but lean down n’ kiss them away from his cheeks. “Call me ‘mommy’ again?”
“C-can’t…” Ino blushes down to the roots of his chocolate-brown hair. “It’s embarrassing-”
“But it gets me so wet, Taku.” You pout—and his eyes widen at your admission. You watch as his pupils shift down- as if making sure. “Pleeeeeeeease? Just once?”
And in response, you smush your thighs harder around him. You’re sure you leave red, red welts on his skin - but that wasn’t registering in his mind right now. Nothing was. Nothing but the smooch of your soft velvety insides embracing his cock, and the sensation of cum sploshin’ around inside you. “Fine…but only because I wanna impress you…” His breath hitches. “-mommy.”
You shiver. “Oh, I liked that—”
And he does, too, because your cunt’s just suctioning on his length as if you were trying to take his soul. His fucking soul.
The thing is- Ino would have gladly given it to you at this moment.
“It feels good- it f-feels s-sooooo good.” Tears begin to crinkle at the corners of his eyes, and Ino’s fingers dig into the sides of your hips as he bucks upwards. “Fuck, it should be illegal for it to feel this good- mommy.” And he can’t fucking help it—it echoes before he can stop himself.
“Taku, I think you like saying that more than me.” With a soft chuckle, your dominant hand ends up wrapped around his throat. “C’mon now- a little faster for mommy.”
“Sh-shut—ngh.” No matter how hard he attempts to regain control- it doesn’t work. He pushes upwards into your soft, syrupy cervix as though marking it.
After a few desperate thrusts, he asks you- “Is this okay?”
“Hmmmm…” You pretend to think - and the ruined expression on his face is oh-so-completely worth it. “How about a biiiiit faster?”
His jaw drops- but he doesn’t complain. He’s grabbing onto either side of your thighs now, and plunging straight into your deepest depths—multiple thwacks! every second, it feels like. “H-how about-”
“Just a little faster.”
Doubting himself. “Is that even possible-”
“But you’d do it for- heh, me won’t you? You’d do it to make me feel good?”
Nodding and nodding. “Yes, mommy. A-anything for you mommy—” Broken moans and pleas cycle at the back of Ino’s throat, and he’s planted his feet flat on the mattress to push himself up ravenously. “M’just here for you to use me.”
Your eyes widen - your smile grows.
“Just use me-” He gasps, face reddening as he follows your instructions. “Fucking use me like a toy. Use me- fuh-fuuuck—”
“A liiiiiittle bit—” Your head tips backwards as he’s entering the perfect pace - rapid enough to leave your thoughts stupidly muddled, but still steady enough that you’re feeling every single ridge, vein, and curve. Giving your walls such a good massage—“Th-that’s perfect, Taku.” You squeeze his pretty neck tighter, and you’re hearing him let out a little hiccup of a sob. “Mommy’s so proud of you.”
Oh, and you thought that he was ruined enough already?
You thought that he was reaching his limits?
Because after that particular sentence - oh, you’re evil for that - Ino digs his digits into the flesh of your thighs and rams deep into your womb. His pistoning cock resting there for a brief few split-seconds as he sputters—“L-let me make you a mommy all over again.”
Your breath catches. “Do you even know what you’re asking for, Taku-”
“Fucking yes.” His glazed tip twitches dangerously in a way that told you he was oh-so-close to cumming again. Again. “Yes, please- fuuuuck, let me get you pregnant. Let me make you a mommy for the third time. I-I promise I’ll be the best- ngh, dad and nothing like that asshole. I’ll take care of you and cherish you and-”
You kiss him to shut him up.
“But of course, baby.” You hum. “But you have to be quick before my ex-husband finds out.”
He’s never cum harder in his life.
Verdict: NTA (drop the fucking tutorial, OP).
♡ GOJO SATORU - Sugar, sugar…
Gojo Satoru wasn’t technically a DILF - but he was a sugar daddy.
And they called you a gold digger.
Gojo called you business-savvy.
It was a rather unique situation: the relationship between the two of you had started out as a regular sugar daddy-sugar baby relation. You met Gojo Satoru at some stuffy ol’ business function when you were the arm candy of some other businessman—one who’d been ignoring you in favor of one of his business associates the entire night, of course.
Whatever.
You’d gotten used to this routine by now - and so you’d drifted by the grazing table with microscopic clean cuts and cheeses you couldn’t even pronounce.
And that was exactly how your knight-in-shining-suit had sidled up next to you.
With two champagne glasses in-hand and a flirtatious smile upon his face, he handed you one of the drinks. Then you gestured at the businessmen you’d arrived with- and Gojo had the audacity to roll his eyes and pretend to retch. That was when you knew you’d get along.
Tall. Toned. With twinkling blue eyes—and just the slightest bit of silver creeping into his already-white hair. Gojo Satoru was as handsome as he was rich—and considering that both aspects occupied a fair share of the conversations tonight, you were rather flattered to be in his presence. Though the CEO of Gojo Corporations didn’t waste time: “Y’know, if I was lucky enough to arrive with an angel- I’d never leave her sight. Why waste time with some geezers over such a gorgeous gal?”
You smiled.
And you left that night with Gojo instead.
From the boxes of jewelries and flights around the world - to the tabloids and online speculation that couldn’t get enough of you.
CEO of Gojo Corporations finally finds love?!
Gold digger or gold-hearted: All we know about Gojo Satoru’s girlfriend!
Is it sugar baby season? The newest IT Girl’s best red-carpet looks so far—
But of course, there was always some truth to those headlines. Perhaps.
You were Gojo Satoru’s sugar baby. You were in a transactional relationship- though he never laid a hand on you. Not unless you initiated it.
So…what was it really?
You got your answer a few months into this limbo of lust—the two of you finally started dating.
And to be quite honest; it wasn’t that big of a change at first. The two of you went out for romantic dinners either way. The two of you dodged paparazzi and rumors every step. The two of you bantered and teased as much as you did anyways- the only change would be that Gojo Satoru finally let loose when he fucked you.
Though, at times, he still did like to let his sugar daddy side peek through…
“A-awwww- just look at you.” Gojo’s hands were rubbin’ furiously down his length - from those curls of white cozily decorating his base, up to that poor, pretty tip that just wouldn’t stop cumming. Up and down. Up and down.
Salty-sweet heaps of cum were pouring out of his cockhead and splashing down your front- your stomach, your inner thighs, your cunt. He watches as it creates a little waterfall effect—and Gojo reaches down to pat your stuffed pussy with his long fingers. “No matter what pretty trinkets n’ expensive lingerie you wear- you always look the prettiest covered in my cum, sweetheart.”
“S-Satoru—” You’re squirming underneath him. Hands clasping the silken sheets.
Your fingers were decked-out in diamond rings. Your lacy lingerie was tugged n’ pulled aside for access.
Around you were bracelets upon necklaces upon every piece of jewelry that your heart could desire - Gojo had taken it upon himself to empty out Tokyo’s luxury stores earlier. All for you, of course.
All to drown you in—whilst he attempted to do the same with his fucking cum-
“I fuckin’ loooooove it when it covers you like this.” He hisses- nose scrunches in a feral way as he glides his fingers across those splatters. Those smears. That ruinous mess. His favorite was to see you like this: pull out game, who? You often scoffed whenever Gojo claimed that his was unmatched. “Love the way it looks like your pretty pussy can’t keep it in-” Just another light tap on your cunt. “Love the way it looks so pretty on your skin like this—mmm, you’ve got me obsessed, girl.”
Your thighs were shaky- but not shaky enough to stop you from attempting to pull him even closer. They’re wrapping around his waist, and careening him close ‘nough to kiss your puffy pussylips with his throbbing tip. His length doesn’t stop sensitively twitching for a single second—“O-oh…greedy for more, my girl?”
“More.” Just barely managing to wrangle out. “W-want some more—”
“Fuuuuck.” He whispers underneath his breath - something so ragged in his tone. That blushin’ tip of his was twitching in excitement already, and Gojo probably doesn’t even realize before he’s slotted his still-erect length between your legs and his rockin’ away at a slow pace. “You seriously want more?”
Your eyes squeeze shut at the sensation of him intruding your hole- seemingly only growing bigger every time he feels you clenchin’ around nothing. So needy.
“Yes-” You’re nodding furiously. Perhaps had this been any other time, then you’d have been almost embarrassed at your unabashed eagerness. “B-but this time, I want it inside, Toru.”
“Inside?” Gojo’s pale brows fly to his hairline. “But you’re already stuffed so full, my sweetheart.”
And then he’s smearing his fingertips between your bloated folds- teasin’ them apart and taking a good look at your entrance. He can’t help himself - he’s spitting straight into that puckered hole—and watching at the glossy wad slips down your crevice and only adds to the mess he’s made previously. You’re shivering as he runs his nimble digits up n’ down your slit and presses on your clit.
“Yes, but—” You keen, arching into his firm core. “But you never really came inside, Toru.”
“Oh…” Those glossed lips of his part.
And you’re taking the opportunity to throw your arms weakly around him- “And I want it inside this time.” Though Gojo loved teasing you with his creamy-white sap—making you beg for it at times, he’s never properly cum inside.
He always thought it’d be too soon: you were younger, after all. And a pregnancy at this point might derail your plans-
“But I want it.” Had he been babbling this entire time? The sheer determination in your eyes sends a jolt of dark-black need through him - far more primal than he ever thought possible. Far more. Gojo’s blue peripherals glaze over as he clasps his cock even tighter, as though afraid he’s so hard now that it’d fucking fall off.
“Shouldn’t fall off now.” He whispers breathily.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Gojo quickly amends. Before he uses the pointed tip of his shaft to web up those dollops of cum he’d spurted ‘round your thighs and folds—it creates a gloss of white that he thinks would suit the insides of your pussy so well (did he mention that he was the one to pick out your lingerie colors?) ‘Round and ‘round.
It devises the most sinful sounds between your legs. And your breath catches in your throat: “A-are you gonna cum inside or not, Toru? Hurry-”
“So impatient.” He’s tutting. Voice low and husky. “I hope you know that if I fuck my cum inside—then m’gonna fuck you pregnant, sweetheart.”
Goosebumps scatter across your skin.
But Gojo doesn’t let you squirm, he doesn’t let you move about restlessly- he’s pinning you down with his hips and rumbling lowly in your ear. “M’gonna make sure it takes.” A rough sliiiiiide of his length sandwiched between your cushy pussylips - drooling for him by now. “M’gonna stuff you so full that you won’t even be able to walk—” Another rough slide. A thrust. “M’gonna give you the most precious gift of all - in my eyes.”
“P-please—!”
As you’re letting your head tip backwards, Gojo reaches his hand up to and clasps your gorgeous, gorgeous face. Smushing your cheeks together in a way that was so pathetic - “Are you okay with that, pretty baby?”
You’ve never heard him sound so serious.
And you’ve never yowled an affirmation faster in your entire life—
In the next few seconds, Gojo’s stuffed rawly all the way to the hilt and is messin’ up your insides with determined strokes. Once. Twice. Thrice- he punctures through your clingy walls and hits all the best spots - memorizing your g-spot and running his flared tip along it.
And honestly, it doesn’t take much - the two of you were already so overstimulated already - before you’re feeling the wave of euphoria start to build up in your stomach already. Almost as lewd of a sensation as the clear twitchin’ mess that Gojo and his length had turned into—babbling, gasping, sobbing as he runs his fat cock raw on your velvety walls. Fucking raw.
You were going to make him an actual DILF.
“Y-you’re gonna get it now…” It’s the last thing he’s getting out before a flood of white sap enters your tight cunt. Getting absolutely drenched from the inside. “When have I ever forgone you of a gift, my girl?”
“Never—” You’re keening out. Rushes of pleasure start up between your legs- before crackling through your veins and ultimately ending up at your brain.
Hazy and startling at the feeling of him fucking you through both your highs. Thrust after thrust. Gush after gush of both pleasure n’ his milky-white cum.
Underneath the overwhelming sensation of your orgasm; you can feel his spurts of cum start to trickle between your legs. It was just as warm as your skin was getting, and creating a little puddle beneath you that Gojo takes one looks at and gasps-
“Now now, are you wasting your gift, sweetheart—?” He cocks his head, genuinely ruined.
“N-no?”
“Or do I just have to- heh, regift it to you again?”
“Shut up.”
♡ HIGURUMA HIROMI - Ms. Babysitter.
“We have to be quiet, angel- fuck. Fuck.” Higuruma’s voice sounded ragged—
Ruined. Nothing but carnal desire creeping up into the edges of his tone; giving you a jolt, considering that you’ve known the older man to be nothing but utterly calm and collected.
He was one of the best parents that you babysat for.
One of your college friends had recommended you for the job - the hot lawyer in your neighborhood needed someone to look after his young daughter whilst he worked long nights? You were agreeing before you’d even heard the hours, you can’t deny—and despite how hasty of a decision it had been, you thoroughly enjoyed working under Higuruma Hiromi.
And being under Higuruma Hiromi…though that didn’t come until a few weeks after you’d been employed.
The first night, you’d barely seen him. Dark hair. Dark circles.
The main thing you remember was that he looked exhausted—and some strange part of you was actually enticed by the hard-working man. Especially when he was such a gentleman…
Fuck, that suit fit him so well.
He addressed you oh-so-respectfully; unlike some parents who were tempted to treat you like a live-in server. Hands behind his back. Jet-black eyes to himself as he gave you a two-minute tour around the house- you’d been thoroughly enjoying yourself admiring his broad shoulders in that suit, when a sudden call from the office meant your tour had to be paused.
Higuruma had pinched the bridge of his nose with a groan. He’d sighed.
And he was out that door before you could even confirm bedtime- which hadn’t been too much of a problem, to be honest. His daughter was extremely well-behaved and didn’t hesitate to let you know.
She also didn’t hesitate to let you know that her dad was very, very single.
You let her stay up just a liiittle past her bedtime.
And then the second night, he’d apologized for his hastiness - telling you that a recent case had them fighting to prepare before the court deadline, and there’d just been so many fucking tax audits to go through.
You nodded like you understood. But what really intrigued you was when he’d told you that his daughter had just loved having you over. Though a part of you was simply satisfied that you did your job well (buttered popcorn and K-pop Demon Hunters wins again!), you can’t deny that it made your heart…flutter hearing it from the older man like this.
It made you realize that you had a little crush.
So of course, you made him a regular.
And the pay was so good that you were able to weed out your other clients to focus predominantly on Higuruma and his bizarre babysitting schedule (some nights he worked until 3AM…)—you guessed the overtime was paying off.
Though your interactions were limited mostly to the brief conversations before and after- though you never did cross your boundaries. That all came to a head when one night - about a month or two into your babysitting gig - Higuruma suddenly perked up after a late night at the office. It was 3:31AM when he quietly let himself inside the house, sighing as he finally tugged off his tie.
It was 3:32AM by the time you got up off the couch and offered him some cookies you’d made with his daughter in the morning.
3:40AM when he suddenly remembered- and suggested resuming that house tour you didn’t get to finish. And though you’d been a bit hesitant—for nothing other than the fact that you might wake his sleeping daughter up, he promised that the two of you would be quiet.
Then, finally, 3:47AM when he was telling you to be quiet in bed-
“Wouldn’t wanna wake her up, hm?” The prominent outline of his nose runs down the side of your throat - and it makes you shiver. Fuck, you always have thought that that was one of the most handsome parts of him.
A soft moan strangles in your throat as he slots his thickened tip between your folds—feeling it like this, your mind’s reeling with the question of how the fuck he’s going to fit like this.
Higuruma always did strike you as the type of man to be big; but this was enough to make your mouth water and your eyes damn-near bulge out of your skull. From here, you were feeling at least seven or eight inches of his erection, furiously hot, wrapped in throbbing red veins and having the most luscious precum dripping out from top. He seemed hard enough to fucking ruin you - just how you wanted it.
And as if reading your mind, Higuruma runs his slippery wet tip down your pussylips, and trundles in his low tone. “Are you sure you want to do it? We don’t have to rush into anything if you don’t want-”
“I do.” Cutting him off mid-sentence.
Although by the way that Higuruma’s stern lips were quirking up ever-so-slightly—you’re taking it to mean that he didn’t exactly mind. He keeps one hand underneath your ass, so that you can be pushed up into his roverin’ hips, and his other one caresses your cheek softly. “Hm, is that so…? Then I guess what I meant to say is…can you take every single inch, sugar?”
You gulp. Your eyes dart down nervously to his twitchin’, throbbing length. “Yes.”
And you’ve never been more sure of anything.
Higuruma merely horses out - “Then buckle up, angel.”
Before you know it, his round, ruddied tip is probin’ inside. Sifting your gluey walls from side-to-side before spreading you up so maddeningly open.
He spots your sweet areas with a few dollops of pre- as soon as Higuruma found himself inside you, he was fighting back whimpers of pleasure. The older man’s achin’ cock doing all the talking for him as he shovels his way in—
“Sh-shit.” Your eyes sprint to the back of your head as you take him. “Shit, you’re so big-”
The way you’re moving your hips around as though confused whether to buck right down or make him ease up- it’s just so cute. And he plants a reassuring hand on the side of your waist, “Easy now.” Higuruma hushes out, “Eeeeeeasy, angel. You can take it for me.”
“Right there—” You keen out as his flared tip rubs along your g-spot.
And although he knows what you meant, that doesn’t stop Higuruma from throwing you a ravishing smirk. Letting his second hand run down your core- “No, sugar. Right here.” He pushes down right where he knew your womb would be - that soft pressure making your walls clench around him wildly, until you could feel every throb of his engorged tip even in your brain. “And you’re gonna take it f’me, right?”
Jostling you hard with every thrust—so that you’re nodding away. Almost pathetically.
“Mhm…exactly what I thought.” He coos - so lovingly thrusting away between your quiverin’ legs. Higuruma’s skin slap-slap-slaps against yours at a steady pace, “Just a few more inches now—keep quiet, please.”
“I’m t-trying.” Gnawing down on your lower lip. “How many more?”
“Ah, just one inch…two…” And after a prolonged thrust- so deep that you swear you’re feeling it in your throat, Higuruma cracks a grin. “Maybe more.”
Five more?
Five more?
And you were already on the verge of being fucked absolutely stupid? You’re letting a groan escape you—lewd and louder than you intended- and before the realization hits you, Higuruma himself swiftly reaches over to where his work tie had been dangling off the side of the bed. Bunching it up, shoving it between those pretty lips - he couldn’t have anyone waking up now, could he?
And that’s exactly what he’s telling you: “C’mon, angel…” Shoves getting deeper and longer. Rougher- as he rams his thickened inches past where you don’t think anyone’s ever gone before. And throughout it all, the older man was so steady with you—“C’mon- c’mon. You can do this—fuuuuuck, you can do this. This pussy’s gonna take all of me, right?”
Nodding and nodding.
“Yeah? Because you’re my goooood girl, right? Taking me so well.” He continues rasping - tone pitching higher and higher as he goes on. “My good- fucking- girl—”
“O-oh, fuck, fuck, fuck-”
“You’re my goooooood fucking girl, huh?” The stubs of his five o’ clock shadow rub up against your skin. The deeper he thrusts, the hotter his body seems to become on top of yours. More and more. “Can you count how many inches m’putting in you?”
Tears flow down your eyes, “Y-yes- mmpf.” Somehow managing past the tie. “Ah- four? Five. Six.”
Higuruma’s eyes widen.
“Seven—” Your voice seems like it’s on the verge of cracking. “Eight.”
It’s just too adorable how you’re sweetly attempting to respond to him even with the gag in. And Higuruma can’t help himself as he leans in and kisses you through the tie.
It’s hot and it’s messy.
And it ends up with him smiling against your stuffed lips, “Finally bottomed-out.”
Hazily, you’re blinking a few times. It clears your vision enough for you to jerk your head down and see that it was indeed true, Higuruma had stuffed himself inside your pussy until his thick base was kissin’ your pussylips. Just the most innocent peck.
“And now…” Except…fuck, except he was reeling right back again. “-for the fun part.”
Right back until that rounded tip stretched your hole out.
Right back inside-
“Makes me wanna put a baby in you- I swear. Taking me like this.”
A/n: I saw someone on TikTok request a story like this, and it inspired me LOL. Vampire Bat!Hybrid Choso story here!
Shiu Kong’s farm was a quiet place. Until Bull Toji arrived.
The bull hybrid was massive, built like a warhorse with thick, corded muscle beneath dark hide and scars earned in too many fights. The gleaming silver septum ring in his nose had been ripped out more than once. He was a fuckin’ beast. He had no patience for fences, no respect for gates. Only Shiu’s firm voice kept him from tearing the whole damn barn down when his rut hit hard each season.
“Got ya somethin’," Shiu had told him last week while Toji chewed lazily on an apple between blunt teeth. “Pretty little cow hybrid." A smirk twisted Shiu's mouth as he leaned against the stall. “Thought ya might wanna break her in before spring."
Toji hadn't answered. Just watched with half-lidded eyes as you were led into the barn, small and trembling under your new owner’s grip. You smelled like fresh hay and fear, horns still stubby from youth but already curving sweetly beneath your tousled hair.
Now you stood frozen in the middle of his pen as Toji circled you slow, hot breath fogging against your nape while calloused fingers traced the dip of your waist.
“Cute,” he rumbled at last, “…but yer shakin’. Ain't gotta be scared.”
Toji was used to the hard life, used to a world made hard and brutal by endless violence.
You were different. You were made soft, pliable by life in a cage. You still smelled like milk for godsake.
Your tail flickers when you’re anxious, swishing slow and uncertain behind you like a nervous afterthought.
He sees the way your thighs press together when you walk, plush and soft from easy living before Shiu bought you. Sees how your waist nips in just enough for his hands to span it completely before flaring out into hips meant for breeding.
A cow hybrid’s body is made for this. Made to be mounted. Made to take whatever he gives.
And oh, does he love the little details of your appearance. The smudge of pink at your nose that darkens when you blush
The way milk still lingers sweet in the air. Even though no calf has ever suckled from those heavy tits yet.
‘That part,’ he thinks with a smirk, ‘-he’ll fix soon enough.’
Toji's eyes never leave you as he leans against the hay bales, broad shoulders dwarfing the stall. Shiu stands beside him on the outside of the fence, cigar dangling from his lips.
“Who sold her to ya," Toji mutters. “And how much did she cost?”
Shiu just shrugs, looking unbothered as ever. “The breeder went broke. Needed cash."
Shiu steps into the pen, the gate creaking behind him. His fingers curl around your wrist first, yanking you forward without ceremony before turning you toward Toji like a prized heifer on auction day.
“Good hips," Shiu notes casually, his free hand palming the curve of your ass with a rough squeeze. “Wide enough for easy birthin’. Ain’t had no calves yet, but that just means she's fresh."
He spins you around by your shoulders next, fingers tugging at one of your small horns to tilt your face up toward Toji. “Teeth are strong," he continues, thumb pressing against your bottom lip until you part them obediently. “No issues chewin’ cud or takin' feed. Healthy."
He hooks two fingers into the neckline of your dress and yanks it down just enough to expose the heavy swell of your tits beneath. “See?" Shiu grins at Toji over your shoulder. “Already fillin’ out nice. Give ‘er a season or two under ya? She'll be leakin' milk on command."
Shiu exhales through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck as he eyes Toji with rare caution. “Look, I know ya like takin’ ‘em rough," he starts slowly, “-but she ain't built for that yet. Not like the seasoned broodmares ya usually get."
Toji’s nostrils flare, a sharp huff of irritation, but Shiu doesn’t back down. Instead, he jerks his chin toward the far corner of the barn where an old but sturdy breeding rack sits dusted off and waiting. Thick leather straps dangling from its frame to secure legs apart, padding along the bar where your belly would rest once bent over it.
“Two days," Shiu says firmly. “Let ‘er get used to yer scent first. Feed from yer hand if ya have to. Or she won't survive your first knot."
Toji's silence is dangerous, a low rumble building in his chest before he finally snorts and turns away with a jerk of his head. “Fine.”
Toji takes his time the following two days: getting you used to his scent, letting you feed from his hand like Shiu suggested.
He learns your habits like a hunter who knows his prey. Knows how your eyes flutter when he speaks. Knows how you flinch and shy away when he moves suddenly. Knows how he can make you tremble by leaning close. Knows how to make you whine just by touching the base of your tail.
And the entire time? You can smell his interest. His hunger.
Day three arrives with the sharp scent of antiseptic and oiled leather.
Shiu stands at your left, calloused hands guiding you toward the rack with ease.
The veterinarian, a no-nonsense woman with a stethoscope looped around her neck, adjusts the straps. Your hooves scuff against the wooden floor as they position you over the padded bar, belly-down, hindquarters raised obscenely high for Toji’s access.
“Easy now," Shiu soothes. "Ain't gonna hurt more than it needs to."
You’ve heard stories. You know exactly what happens to cow hybrids on breeding racks when bulls like Toji mount them.
The vet fastens thick cuffs around your wrists first, then your ankles, each strap pulled snug enough to bruise before she steps back to assess her work. “Good pelvic tilt," she notes dispassionately. “Won't tear as easy."
Then she turns toward Toji, who has been watching all this from the corner like a silent storm cloud and gives a curt nod. “She's ready."
Shiu’s fingers are rough as they grab the base of your tail, lifting it high with a firm tug. The sudden exposure makes you jerk against the restraints, but there’s nowhere to go, no way to hide.
The vet hands Shiu a thin, braided rope, something used to keep tails out of the way during examinations. He loops it around your lifted appendage, securing it upward so nothing obstructs the view between your thighs.
Your cunt is on full display now: plush and swollen, already glistening with nervous arousal despite your fear. Cow hybrids drip when they are stressed. A biological cruelty that leaves you shamefully slick as Toji’s shadow looms closer behind you. Your folds flutter under their assessing gazes, clenching around nothing while Shiu tsks and thumbs at your entrance like he’s testing fruit for ripeness.
“Tight," he muses, “...but she's wet enough."
The vet hums in agreement before reaching down to spread you wider with two clinical fingers. “No abnormalities," she declares. “Virgin passage is intact. Bull shouldn't have trouble sinking his knot once she's open."
Shiu doesn’t waste time. With a grunt, he nudges Toji’s shoulder, a silent command for the bull hybrid to step back just far enough for him to work.
Toji snorts in irritation but complies, his heavy-lidded gaze never leaving your trembling form strapped over the rack. Shiu grabs the industrial-sized pump bottle of lubricant from the vet’s tray.
“Gotta make sure ya don't split her in half, Shiu mutters, squeezing a thick stream onto his palm before reaching between Toji’s legs with zero ceremony.
He fists the bull hybrid’s already-hard cock without warning, working the lube down his length with rough efficiency. Toji’s hips jerk forward instinctively into the friction.
“Fuck—” Toji growls, muscles tensing as precum beads at his tip and drips onto straw-littered floor below. “Ain't gotta fuckin' mollycoddle it.”
Shiu ignores him, just keeps stroking until every inch of that monstrous erection gleams.
He finally steps aside with a slap against Toji's ass. “Go on then."
Toji doesn’t slam into you right away, no, he teases first. The broad, flared head of his cock drags slow and deliberate between your plush folds, smearing your own slickness back against you.
He can feel how tight you are even at this shallow pressure, your walls already twitching in reflexive panic around nothing.
“Fuckin’ choke on it already,” he growls. Even as the words leave his mouth, he rocks forward just enough for that fat tip to catch. It stretches your weeping hole wide for one glorious second before retreating again.
He won’t rush. Not when Shiu was right about how easily you might break. But that doesn't mean he'll be gentle either, just methodical. He’s working that thick crown against your clenching hole over and over until the lube mixes with hybrid arousal and drips down your inner thighs.
You whimper as the first real press of his cockhead nudges against your entrance, burning with the stretch even through the lube. Instinct takes over before shame can. Your hips jerk in a weak attempt to twist away, hooves scrambling uselessly against the wooden rack.
Toji’s grip on your waist tightens like a vice, claws biting in deep enough to draw pinpricks of blood. “Nuh-uh," he growls. "Ain't runnin' from this."
And then, with one brutal roll of his hips, he sinks into you past that impossible rim. Your body splits open around him in a white-hot flare of pain-pleasure that steals your breath.
The bellow of pain makes your ears pin back. But Toji doesn’t stop. He just bottoms out inside you with a groan so visceral it shakes the dust from the rafters above.
Shiu whistles. “Damn, she took all that?"
Toji nuzzles between your trembling shoulder blades. "Knew ya could take it. Filthy girl.”
His hips piston forward with a force that rattles the breeding rack’s wooden frame. Each brutal thrust makes the leather straps groan under tension as your body is jerked back onto him over and over.
Your dangling hooves scrabble for purchase but find none; all you can do is hang there, impaled and shaking while Toji takes what he wants in deep, grinding strokes. The wet slap of skin on skin echoes through the barn like an obscene metronome.
It’s only drowned out by Toji’s ragged breaths against your neck. His teeth are latched onto your nape in a mating bite.
“Fuck—“ he snarls.
It should hurt. It does hurt. At first.
Your walls flutter wildly around Toji’s girth, spasming in protest as he stretches you out.
Then your hybrid biology kicks in, ruthless and efficient. Heat floods your core as your cervix softens on instinct, widening for his cock like a flower for the sun.
Slickness gushes around each thrust, not just lube now but the thick, fertile cream of a cow hybrid in prime breeding condition.
Your body knows its purpose. Even your womb betrays you. Your walls are clenching down greedily every time his tip bumps your cervix, it like it's trying to milk him dry already.
Toji feels it too, his rhythm stuttering when you suddenly squeeze around him with hunger. “Shit—” he stutters, “-fuckin’ greedy lil’ bitch.”
Words fail you, language devolving into broken, animalistic sounds as Toji’s cock punches deeper with every thrust. Drool strings from your lips, pooling on the padded rack beneath you while tears and snot streak your flushed face.
“M-Mmmh—! Your back arches helplessly when his knot starts to catch at your rim, thighs trembling as a pathetic moo rips from your throat. "’J-ji! ‘Ji!—p-please!”
But what are you even begging for? More? Less? You don’t know anymore. All that exists is the stretch of him splitting you open, the way your plush belly bulges with each thrust.
Your nails splinter wood from the rack as another moan-turned-mooo spills out. “S’good,” Toji rumbles against your spine, “-fuckin’ take it.”
Your tongue lolls out past your lips, slick and pink. It’s a telltale sign of a cow hybrid pushed too far into instinct.
Saliva drips in thin strands onto the padded rack beneath you, each panting breath only making it worse. Your eyes have gone glassy, unfocused. Your pupils are blown wide in need.
Shiu notices first. He leans against the barn post with crossed arms, chewing lazily on a stalk of hay before nodding toward your slack mouth. “Watch it,” he warns Toji. “She’s ‘bout to tip over.”
He means your climax. The way cow hybrids lose all control when they hit that edge: thrashing, moaning, sometimes even pissing themselves from the sheer overload of sensation.
Sure enough, your thighs start quivering like bowstrings pulled taut as another broken moo spills from your spit-slick lips.
Toji snarls at the warning but doesn’t slow down. If anything he fucks into you harder. “Yeah? Then fuckin’ cum,” he growls. “Wanna feel that cunt milk me dry ‘fore I knot ya.”
Your mind is gone. It’s drowned under a tidal wave of sensation that reduces you to nothing but flesh and instinct. Your tongue lolls out further, spit dripping in thick ropes onto the straw-littered floor beneath the rack.
Every breath comes as a shuddering moan, every thrust wrings another pathetic moo from your throat like your voice isn’t even yours anymore. “Hhhnn—‘Jiiiii!”
Shiu watches with a chuckle, patting the stall door with his palm. "There it is," he mutters around a new cigarette before nodding at Toji. “She's lockin' up."
The orgasm crashes over you like a seizure. You scream around the drool coating your chin. "MMMOOOO—!"
The vet gives a sharp nod that Shiu moving through the gate. His calloused hands clamp down on your hips, not to save you, but to hold you still. Toji’s thrusts turn jagged and brutal, each snap of his hips forcing that thickening knot against your abused entrance. Your body fights it instinctively, clamping down in protest even as your orgasm still wrings dizzying pulses of pleasure from your core.
“N-No—NO! MMMFH—OOOO!”
The stretch burns like fire as your cunt is spread so wet and sticky against the swell. Toji growls through clenched teeth, lifts a hooves to plant close to your head at an angle and shoves the rest of the way inside.
You don’t even realize you’ve pissed yourself until warm liquid splatters onto the floor beneath the rack. Overstimulation is short-circuiting your bladder along with everything else.
Shiu just grunts and tightens his grip, keeping you upright as Toji rumbles in satisfaction behind you, “Fuckkkk, there ya go.” His palm splays over your lower belly where his cock visibly distends it from within.
The moment Toji’s knot locks, your body goes slack, limp as a ragdoll between them, trembling with oversensitivity and exhaustion. Shiu chuckles as he reaches for a nearby rag, swiping it roughly over your piss-streaked thighs. “Damn, girl," he chuckles, “Didn't know we'd have to hose down the whole fuckin' barn after."
Toji, still buried balls feel, leans down to nuzzle at the sweaty hair hair sticking to your neck. “Shhh,” he soothes. “Took it so good.” He lands lazy kisses against your neck. “‘Cept for the piss part.”
Shiu barks out a laugh while tossing the soiled rag aside. “First time's always messy," he shrugs before offering you a sip of water from an old canteen.
Months later, you’re round with the proof of Toji’s claim. Your belly swells round and heavy with his calf, skin stretched taut over fertile curves that jiggle with every step. The farmhands whisper when they think you can't hear. “Toji stuffed her full.”
Toji adores you like this. Slow-moving and sleepy-eyed. Milk-heavy tits swayed beneath the frilly bows Shiu begrudgingly buys for you at market. The little brass bell around your neck chimes sweetly whenever Toji guides you by the horns to feed from his palm like some pampered prize.
He drapes you in soft cotton dresses, the fabric straining over milk-heavy tits and wide hips that sway with every step. Your ribbons are always perfectly tied, pink satin bows nestled between your horns or threaded through the bell around your neck.
And god, does he love leading you. His calloused hands are always on you, guiding you to kneel so he can palm the curve of your stomach or tugging you into his lap. He gropes those swollen udders until warm milk beads at your nipples. “Lookit that,” the white liquid spills over his thick fingers. “All pretty ‘n leaky just for me.”
Even Shiu has softened in his own way, sneaking extra sugar cubes into your feed bucket when Toji isn’t looking. “Quit spoilin’ her,” Toji snaps before handing you a ripe apple.
Now, they wait until that calf comes so you can be bred all over again.
synopsis : phainon gets a severe case of baby fever after seeing you act so motherly. shenanigans (breeding you) ensue.
MDNI, i cannot stop you from reading but i'd like you to refrain from openly engaging with my posts. do not repost or use to feed AI.
tags / cws :: baby fever, breeding kink, breeding-centered dirty talk, piv sex (obviously), mating press, porn with a bit of plot.. not beta read only proof read once or twice, i apologize in advance for any mistakes 😭
phainon feels the first seeds of his future obsession appear in his mind when he sees you tending to a young child in okhema’s streets. the two of you were out for a stroll, when you crossed paths with a little boy who had scraped his knee just moments ago. phainon’s eyes watch you intently as you kneel down to look at the tiny wound, comforting him with sweet words, drying his tears with your sleeve. you even buy the child some ice-cream, and as you retreat back to phainon’s side, you say, “he’s cute, isn’t he?” maybe it’s just phainon’s imagination, but he swears he can hear a hint of longing in your voice. well, his hormones might also make him a bit biased, making him think you might want a child, but he can’t really help that, can he?
phainon’s mind is playing this scene on loop. you looked so motherly, right by the young boy’s side. if he didn’t know you, he would have assumed you were his mother – and would have been disappointed to know such a pretty lady was already taken. he’s so absorbed in his thoughts that he accidentally walks into a lamp pole, but even then, as you cradle his face to check on him, he still has this dreamy look on his face. you, the mother of his children… that sounds nice.
that night, phainon brings you home earlier than usual. soon as the door is shut, he’s kissing you like he wants to devour you until nothing is left. you’re positively responsive, of course, but you seriously wonder what’s gotten into his head. he’s usually passionate, yes, but he likes to take his time… so you’re practically stunned when he carries you, not even to the bed, but to the kitchen counter, which is closer by just a few meters.
your clothes are ripped off. literally. you try to complain about his barbaric behavior, something about making him face aglaea’s wrath after destroying the clothes she created, but he shuts you up with a kiss so hot you forget about it (for tonight, anyway). he spreads your legs open, let the ripped fabric pool on the floor beneath you. phainon throws one leg over his shoulder, and just as he’s about to begin to pound into you, you grab his face to make him really look at you.
phainon feels his dreams of getting you pregnant shatter as you say, “hey, you forgot the condom…” he tries to swallow his disappointment. he was so blinded by his lust, he forgot that you aren’t aware yet of his need to knock you up.
“actually, i was thinking,” he starts, his tone suddenly much more nervous, “we could do it raw, tonight.”
his words make you raise a brow. “but i might get pregnant.”
“that’s… what i want.” he confesses, and before you can even say anything, he adds, “please. please, consider it. i-i know pregnancy is difficult, but i’ll take such good care of you throughout the whole thing, i’ll never leave your side, i’ll make sure all your cravings are satisfied – i’ll even carry you room to room, if you would please just let me get you pregnant.”
by the end of his speech, he’s panting, and his cock, clearly just as desperate, is resting on your stomach, leaking pre on your skin. he’s itching to put it in, but he’s holding himself back, waiting for you to agree.
you stare at him with wide eyes. clearly, you didn’t expect any of that. where did this baby fever come from? but at the same time, you can’t say you’re exactly opposed to the idea. you’ve had thoughts of starting a family with phainon – but they were fleeting, and you never thought it would amount to anything serious.
until tonight, that is. so, now that you have phainon between your legs, ready to breed you until all you can think of is his name, you give him a small nod. you hope you won’t come to regret this later, but that thought is stopped by his lips coming to crash onto yours once again.
amidst kisses, he sings your praises, thanks you like you’re his goddess, for letting him do this to you. “thank you, thank you thank you thank you thank you…” the words begin to blur, he’s making less sense, but he doesn’t care. as soon as he sinks his cock in your warmth, it’s like a beast is unleashed. you’ve never felt him fuck you so thoroughly before tonight, his hands all over your body, particularly your breasts and your stomach.
whenever you can see them, his eyes are clouded, glazed over with a lust so primal you wonder if he’s even human anymore. his hand lets go of your left tit to focus on kneading the tender flesh of your ass, and instead, he leans forward, to take your already swollen nipple into his mouth. he’s sucking desperately, his moans still audible despite the fact his mouth is full. not just that, but the pace of his hips somehow fastens.
“i’ll… i’ll get you pregnant tonight… promise,” your ears are filled with the rambles of a man that seems driven mad with lust. you’re barely able to register everything that’s happening, from his hands, to his hips, to his mouth by your ear, “you’ll be so pretty and full with my kids, ‘n i’ll take good care of you… my pretty wife, my pretty children…”
he doesn’t move away from you when he finally cums. you’ve only done it without protection once, so the sensation is foreign, and it leaves you craving more. even after that, he thrusts in a few more times, just to make sure his cum won’t spill out once he pulls out.
as he looks at you, he seems back to normal again. somewhat, anyway. he cradles your cheek, just like you did earlier today, and his voice is soft, as he asks you, “one more time… please?”
you’re weak to that soft, puppy-like look in his eyes. despite the fact you know you’re already in for a morning full of stiffness and cramps, you nod slowly. phainon grins, and he changes your position, picking you up to put you on the floor.
“can’t we move this to the bedroom, at least?”
“but i need to breed you right now. or i’ll die. i don’t wanna waste time walking all the way to the bedroom...”
you can only give him a deadpan look at his dramatic reply. the pout he was sporting as he argued with you turns into a grin once again, when he doesn’t hear you complain. he folds you in half with ease, pushing your knees to your chest. you groan, feeling your whole body stretch under his mighty hands. he remains gentle, but you can feel how he’s holding back…
“this position allows me to reach your womb more easily,” he casually explains, before beaming, “it’s called a mating press! funny name, isn’t it?”
you find the contrast between his excited attitude and the foulness of what he’s saying amusing. but you don’t really have the time to ponder it further, because phainon’s already drilling into you. he’s making sure that his first load remains deep inside you, not a single drop wasted. at the same time, phainon brings a hand between your legs, the pad of his finger pressing against your clit.
you’re left moaning even louder than before, as he rubs it hard, occasionally pinching it, just to make sure your eyes remain open.
“keep looking at me, dawnlight,” he coos, using his other hand to keep your gaze on him, “i love seeing you like this… i love you, i love you so much…”
you’re struggling, really, to follow his words. the pleasure is making your vision blurry, a mix of tears and feeling light-headed. but you try your best, even if he’s in the middle of wrecking you.
his hand knows your body all too well. while phainon wishes his mouth could do the work instead, he can see you’re enjoying yourself as it is, so he continues, flicking, rubbing, twisting – until he sees your body twitch in this oh so familiar way.
“you’re about to cum, aren’t you, my love?” phainon asks, smiling at the sight of you, ready to cum because of him, like so many times before, “go on, beautiful… be a good girl, and cum on my cock.”
you do just that, and phainon adores how you look when you’re cumming. it breaks his heart how you’ll never know just how gorgeous you look, wallowing in your orgasm – from your eyes glistening with tears, to your curves, trembling, covered in a thin veil of sweat. in fact, you’re so gorgeous, he ends up cumming seconds after you, spilling white ribbons deep inside of you.
you’re both left panting, as his hips come to a rest against you. he doesn’t dare to pull out, not just yet anyway, too scared of a single drop dripping out of you. after all, phainon is on a mission tonight (knocking you up), and he doesn’t want to fail.
“phainon,” you call out, as you attempt to move away from him, to sit up. your legs are starting to hurt from this position, and you think you’re definitely spent for the night, “let’s go shower now, okay?”
phainon immediately whines, leaning forward to press his cheek against your knees, giving you his best puppy eyes. “but… please, dawnlight, I just need one more… one more, to make sure you’re pregnant. please? can you let me do that?”
you groan, and throw your head back. you know damn well that when he says one more, what he means is “the whole night”. but… those puppy eyes of his are hard to refuse.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
the next day, you wake up to the sight of phainon nuzzling your breasts. as well as a throbbing ache in your entire body.
“phainon of aedes elysiae…” you mumble, mustering a glare you send his way. to which, he just smiles at you in pure, unbridled adoration.
“good morning, my love,” he greets back, before pressing a kiss to your left breast, “there’s nothing wrong with me admiring the body of the mother of my future children, you know…”
“children?”
“… i wouldn’t mind if kephale were to bless us with twins. or triplets.” when you pull on his ahoge, he whines, and nuzzles your chest again, “i was joking! just joking, dawnlight! although, if you want more children after the first one, i’m up to it–”
“phainon!!” you tug on his hair harder, and this time, it’s enough to make him drop the idea of children. he relents, and moves to bury his face in your neck, while his hand comes to rest on your midriff, rubbing it in circles. it hasn’t even been a week, much less a day, but phainon’s already imagining a baby bump there.
“when our little one grows older, i’d like to make him visit aedes elysiae,” he whispers, hope lacing his voice, “we can all play in the wheat fields in the morning, eat a hearty lunch my mother will make, then watch the setting sun by the dock. it would be nice, don’t you think?”
his dreams of a future amidst the golden wheats of his village make you soften. it’s idyllic, yes, but you’d love that anyway. you wrap your tired arms around him, and kiss the top of his head. “it would be nice, for sure.”
end notes : one of my friends on twitter suggested this and i immediately stopped writing whatever else i was on to focus on this. idk about you guys but i would happily let phainon impregnate me.
contents: fluff, dad!gojo x mom!reader and baby hana! she's here to stay 😡😁 (hana means flower in japanese, so that's why i called her a little bloom)
an: it's almost midnight, i saw a tiktok comment saying something like this and i felt inspired so here you go
wc: 764
you were lying down with your baby girl, satoru sitting at the foot of the couch on his phone, blindfold tucked back like a headband after doing skincare together with him. hana was babbling, but she had quieted down in the past few minutes, just breathing together with you after a snack. spending the day with her aunt and uncle had left her tired, her older cousins were just full of so much more energy than her!
and so, when you whispered into her hair, "oh, baby, i'm tired," and your darling daughter replied with a drawn out, "me too, mama, i'm exhausted!" of course you gasped! she was almost eighteen months, and she'd started speaking earlier than most children her age, but you hadn't gotten a full sentence from her yet!
satoru burst out laughing, pressing something on his phone before chucking it somewhere on the table and launching himself at the two of you.
"what was that, baby? you're tired?" satoru immediately started the questioning, whilst you just watched her confused little face, a wide smile on your own.
hana stayed sat in your lap, on the thighs of your outstretched legs, your arms holding her sides stable.
to be fair, satoru was being over the top, as what she'd said sounded a little bit more like, "me'too, myuh-myuh, i' exhaushte'," but you could still understand what she meant, and you would take what you could get from her.
in only a few seconds, satoru is nuzzled up on your side, his back facing the rest of the living room, giving him reason the reach over your knees and hold onto the back of the couch for support while his free arm was tracing yours.
hana babbled a little more before her snowy brows furrowed and she shook her head, which in turn rotated her body from side to side as well, since the movement was so comically large for someone so small.
satoru poked her cheek once to get her attention, and waited until she turned her head to him. once her focus was on her dad, he blew a raspberry at her, which she reciprocated in a much more saliva-heavy manner. that saliva then dripped down onto you as did her frame, drooping like the little bloom she was.
"oh, baby spit. nice one, mr. gojo."
"please, that's my father's name. call me satoru. also, it doesn't hit the same when you're mrs. gojo."
"oh, well, of course. y'know, if you'll agree to help me get this sleepy girl down for a nap, and maybe clean up a bit of this spit, i might actually agree to that," you retorted, handing her off to her father, who was now crouching by the side of the sofa and gladly accepting his daughter.
with her soft eyes closed, hana looked exactly like her father. warm, sleepy, starkly pale. somehow, the gojo genes had come on top once again, though satoru had prayed that maybe she'd look a little like you.
after setting her down for said nap, satoru watched his greatest feat snooze soundly on his chest, his eyes unwillingly taking in every detail of her, though it wasn't unwelcome. while he had occasions where he wished he could close his eyes and not see like you, he was grateful for his constant perception when it came to hana. there wasn't a second yet—nor would there ever be—when satoru gojo would feel completely at peace not knowing his daughter was safe in his arms.
you padded into the room, your socks tiptoeing with soft shuffles on the carpeted nursery floor as you approached your husband and the product of your love for him.
"hey, baby. hana's asleep?"
he shifted his chin on her head for half a second, then he turned his gaze to you, the intense blue tracking your figure as he mumbled, "yeah, yeah, she's down."
"out for the count, huh? sleepy baby."
with that, you finally roll yourself onto the blanket he'd laid on the floor for himself and hana, joining them in the bubble of hush the presence of limitless seemed to create.
"i think i want another one."
instead of balking dramatically, he gave you a tired side-eye. "baby, no."
"why not?"
"your body only finished the biggest parts of recovering about six months ago, i'm not doing that to you again. i remember how painful it was, how much you hated it..."
you pout, subconsciously tracking the tip of your pinky up and down hana's little nose while you mumbled out, "the epidural wasn't even that bad."
"you screamed when they took it out to show you. in fear, might i add. and i don't want to see you so pale and tired for while yet, okay?"
"but we can have another one? i don't want hana to be lonely, toru."
"i know, loneliness isn't easily adjusted to."
after some undetermined amount of time, the sun had set and satoru's breath had shifted direction from hana to your chest, almost breathing down your shirt as he stayed stuck between the lands of consciousness and dreaming. you barely heard it, but he muttered out a small, "i filmed it."
"hmm? filmed what, baby?"
"hana. 'was filming you two, got her first sentence."
“Do we seriously need to clean the basement too ?”
The complaint was accompanied with a heavy sigh.Your son was leaning against the wall, a faint sweaty look on his face. It was what you’d usually do when the kids didn’t have school, the inevitable day you decide to systematically dismantle and deep clean the entire house. “Well we are not cleaning it entirely, but if you could rearrange the boxes, i’d be really happy sweetheart” you didn’t look up from the vase you were meticulously polishing.
He sighed, a sound of pure teenage agony, and went into the kitchen to get his sister, because there’s no way he’d do that alone. They complained but did the job anyway, eventually the annoyed mumbles turned into quiet laughter and bickering and they would never admit it was pretty fun.
Tucked away in the corner of the basement behind a stack of your paperwork they found a beautiful crafted box. The top of the box was a custom print, the box was sturdy, heavy and hidden away like it was some kind of treasure.
Your daughter lifted the lid and a quiet “oh my god” escaped her lips and saw digital cameras, an album photo with a picture of you and Satoru as students on the cover.A bunch of letters, your old smartphones and braided bracelets. “Oh my god they kept their whole love life in here” said your daughter excitedly going through the box.
Her brother leaned over her shoulder, “We’re bringing it upstairs don’t say a word okay?” she nodded and closed the box.
Your daughter asked Satoru if tonight could be movie night, of course he’d never say no to his youngest child. After dinner, you were in the living room sipping on herbal tea, Satoru sank into the cushions beside you already starting to poke your cheek. “So cute, is the tea bitter?” he asked playfully.
Your daughter was messing with the tv settings, but when the screen flickered to life, a familiar melody started playing on the tv, you put your tea down. “Is this..”
A younger version of you appeared smiling all embarrassed at the lens directed towards you.
We could hear your friend’s voice bragging at how pretty you were. A friend your kids know well she’s one of their favorite aunty. Then the camera violently turned to Utahime crying, “awww our dear Utahime is crying” Shoko’s playful tone could be heard in the background.
You softly smiled, setting your tea down and leaned back against the couch. Letting nostalgia wash over you.
The tape cut to the chaotic energy of the pre-wedding dinner of Satoru and his friends, all at dinner laughing and teasing Satoru. All faces were recognized by your kids, and they realized how amazing it would be to keep their own friends that long.
Then another cut, the wedding day.
You were getting ready in your gown. Your mom in the background who was talking and rubbing your shoulder to soothe your nerves, the love in her expression was undescribable.
On Satoru's side Suguru was straightening the collar of Satoru’s suit. On his collar a discreet dentelle detail of you and Satoru’s initials are tailored carefully.
“I feel like crying already” he mumbled to Suguru mostly, Suguru smiled “It’s normal”. Well nobody was surprised anymore because Satoru probably cried the most at the traditional ceremonies.
The sequence felt so intimate. Whoever was recording did a great job. The camera turned to Nanami, who had a soft discreet smile on his face.
Your daughter chuckled softly, “such a cry baby” she mumbled to herself more than to anyone in the room
On screen, Shoko called out, “Picture time!!”, joyful moments that you knew were carefully preserved in the album.
“You’re so pretty mom” said your son, his usual grumpiness dropping completely, you smiled and mumbled a small thank you.
The tape finally reached the moment Satoru saw you in your dress, he was smiling but his nose was red from holding back the tears. When you officially became a married couple, he kissed your nose instead of your lips because he remembers how shy you had been about public displays of affection in front of the crowd.
Beside you on the couch, a soft sniffle broke the silence.
You turned your head and Satoru was quietly shedding tears. He quickly reached for the tissue box on the side table to wipe them away before his kids would tease to death.
“You guys are so sneaky, where did you dig this up?” you said “In the basement” your daughter beamed. “And thank god we did”
Satoru didn’t speak and just gave a gentle squeeze to your ankle where your leg rested against his lap.
The next clip was you at the night party you had changed into a beautiful dress. Satoru was in a crisp navy blue suit. The two of you looked so good, your daughter couldn’t believe her parents looked this good.
When the screen finally faded to black, the kids didn’t want to end the night here, your daughter immediately turned around “WHY did you never show us this?” you chuckled “I almost forgot we had this”
“Well now you got to explain the pictures” said your son before settling next to you and Satoru opening the album.
He flipped the book open on a random page.The photo showed you lying in bed at home, looking quite exhausted but so happy to be carrying your first baby. Satoru was the one who took the picture. It was a few days after you had given birth.
“I’m definitely the cutest baby,” your son bragged proudly.
“Oh please!”
Your daughter immediately flipped the pages to see herself with you, she pointed to a photo taken 2 years later where you were home on the couch holding her while her older brother did a silly pose next to you two. “I’m wayyy cuter” she said not feeling challenged at all.
Satoru just laughed, these two are definitely his.
“Oh my god our first day of school, dad cried so much” your daughter beamed pointing to a photo of the two of them posing in front of the black car. Satoru leaned over to press a soft kiss against your shoulder as the kids continued to reminisce through the album. He loved these nights. The night where you weren’t busy with work, when the outside world stopped demanding his attention and when his children weren’t buried under homework. As long as the living room was crowded, he was the happiest man alive.
An hour later the kids went to bed, and so did you and Satoru. He was already on his side of the bed watching you braid your hair in front of the mirror.
“I’m really happy you know”
“Oh, here we go. My absolute favorite moments are when you get all cheesy like this” you playfully said “Go on tell me why you’re happy my dear husband”
He laughed and bit his lip before looking at you again, “I’m really happy…because I get to love you, and cherish you, and you give me so much. And on top of that we also raised very funny kids” he said sitting up extending an arm towards you to pull you in bed. “I’m happy too Satoru” you came to him and leaned down to give him a peck on the lips.
“Our wedding was pretty nice, yeah?’ he said as you got into bed. “Extremely nice,” you agreed, closing your eyes and letting yourself sink into his warmth.
“I forgot how good it was.”
(If there’s anything you’d like to read on my page please let me know😙)
you've been friends with satoru since you both were kids. satoru always tells you about omegas are weak, clingy, and too dependent on alphas. you never really cared about secondary genders enough to argue with him. satoru turns to look at you with those bright blue eyes and grins. "we will be the strongest alphas."
the day your secondary gender test results are handed out, the class feels unusually quite. you've always doubtful that you'd present as an alpha, but the look in satoru's eyes is full of hope. you unfold the paper, eyes catch the results, an omega. you turn to look at satoru with a small shrug like it isn't a big deal, but it is for him.
you start avoiding satoru, and he never questions it. the first few months are easy enough, until you develop your pheromones. things start going missing after that. first a hair tie, handkerchief, headband. you think you've simply misplaced them. until one day, you catch a glimpse of white hair slipping out of an empty classroom, with your scraf in his hand.
you find your scarf again the next day, neatly folded on the desk, right where you left it. when you bring the scarf close to your face, satoru's pheromone clings faintly to the fabric. it calms you. so you wear it the rest of the day.
there's an alpha tries to approach you, only to stop halfway. his expression shifts the moment he catches another alpha's scent on you. across the room, satoru looks far too pleased with himself.
you start purposefully leaving your things behind on the desk, so satoru can take them whenever he wants. the scarf, hoodie, sweater are the only things he gives back. of course he always leaves his pheromones on them. then, one day, your first heat starts. you absence in the class.
satoru grows restless. he hears omega's heats aren't easy. they're painful, exhausting, and dangerous around alphas. he intimidates another omega student into delivering a bag to your dorm immediately. when you open the strange bag, there are two hoodies and spare shirts. they're all carrying the heavy scent of his pheromones.
it doesn't stop there, from the first day of your heat until the last, satoru keep sending more of his clothes. more of his scent, more of satoru. after your first heat, things between you and satoru never return to normal. he still steals your things, and you still leave them behind on purpose.
graduation comes quietly. by then, you and satoru barely speak unless necessary. still, he finds you after ceremony. "so, what are you gonna do after this?"
you glance up at him, since when did he become so tall? "I'll still work as a sorcerer, whenever they call me." you clear your throat, hiding the awkwardness. "what about you?"
"thinking of becoming a teacher."
"you? teaching?" despite everything that happened over the years, you naturally laugh when he's around. satoru just laugh with you.
"I'm sure the kids will like me, because I'm good at everything, you know." and just like that, the conversation keeps flowing.
before leaving, you stop in front of satoru. "thanks," your cheeks heated up when he gives a confusion look. "for the clothes... your pheromone helped me during heat."
"i could send my clothes to your place if you need." for once satoru doesn't joke around. and you nod your head.
you reach out a hand. "see you around, satoru."
"yeah, see you." he takes your hand, his fingers linger for a second too long before letting go. you don't notice the missing bracelet until hours later, and you don't go look for it.
years pass, you still come to solo missions and sometimes leading the new students through the assignments. one time, you go with satoru alone in a special grade mission.
your body hits the ground before satoru can catch you properly. everything goes silent for a second, then your pheromones spill into the air all at once. it's not heat, it's distress. you're in pain and exhausted.
satoru doesn't think twice, he brings you to his place. because go to infirmary, everyone could smell your pheromones. satoru carefully tends your cuts and bruises, then fill the room with the comforting scent of his pheromones.
sometime later, the smell of food slowly pulls you awake. your body still aches, the overwhelming distress from earlier is gone, replaced by the familiar comfort of satoru's pheromones lingering around the apartment.
you sit up slowly, eyes wander around the room, then stop at the box on the nightstand. you open it, there are dozens of your hair ties, bracelets, and handkerchiefs. your things, years worth of your things.
satoru walks in to check on you, he freezes, you find his secret box. when you look up at him, he lets out a breathless chuckle. "you caught me."
a small laugh slips out your lips. "no, i already knew you were the culprit."
satoru steps closer, a blush creeping up his neck. "yeah, of course you knew." he slowly sits next to you. "sometimes i look at them when i miss you."
"i thought you hated omegas." your small, hesitant voice makes satoru's head snaps back toward you. then realization slowly settles across his face, all these years, you've been avoiding him because of something he said.
"i... please ler me correct myself." his hands on your shoulders, gently turning you to face him. "i don't hate omegas, especially not you. omegas aren't weak, and i like it when you dependent on me, only me."
"i thought you wanted an alpha as a partner."
"you seriously think i care about that?" his fingers tightening on your shoulders. "wheter you're an alpha, beta, or omega... i would've still wanted you. it was always you."
your face grows warmer, instinctively look away from him. "you say embarrassing things so casually..."
a grin slowly spreads across satoru's face as he slowly leans in. "you like hearing them?"
while satoru keeps talking, your attention drifts back to the box beside you. between the bracelets and hair ties, something unfamiliar catches your eye, a small velvet ring box.you blink in confusion before picking it up. "i don't remember losing this."
the second satoru realizes what you're holding, he nearly chokes. “wait—”
too late, you already open it. the inside is a diamond ring. you turn to look at him, demand an answer.
"i was saving that." satoru's swallow hard before continues. "for romantic moments like... i take you out to candlelit dinner, dramatic confession, all that stuff."
"papa is not romantic at all." your daughter cuts into the story immediately. satoru lets out a dramatic gasp, clutching his chest like he wounded.
"that's right, papa was a coward for made mama sad for years." your eldest son is judging satoru with the same bright blue eyes.
satoru turns to look at you like he's about burst into tears. "sweets... tell our children i can be romantic."
you burst into laugh, your swell stomach trembling slightly with the movement. eventually, you force yourself to calm down, one hand resting protectively over your belly, worried the twins might get uncomfortable inside. "don't bully your papa too much, he's still trying."
your eldest son places a hand on your stomach, gently rubs the swell. "when i grow up, I'll be the best, strongest alphas. so i can protect my little siblings."
your daughter, already half asleep, crawls into satoru's arms and clings to him sleepily. "better than papa?" she mumbles.
"better than papa." your son nods seriously. satoru gasps in offense while you break into laughter all over again.
i didn't realize, i wrote this until 2 am. anw thank you for reading 🤍
Synopsis. Suguru Geto, the resident nerd who “helps” you with your homework. Tall, gloomy, mean, and- and an alpha? And he’s in rut?!
Pairing. Geto Suguru x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem! oméga! reader, alpha! nerd! Geto, ruts, OMÉGAVERSE AU, pánty-sniffer Geto, he goes FÉRAL, MEAN Geto, headIocks, slightly bímbo! reader, dúmbifícation, cervíx kíssing, creampíes, cúmplay, MANHANDLlNG, Geto with glasses + tattoos, overstím, knots, first times (Geto), pússydrunk Geto, MATÍNG BÍTES, oraI (f + m), p talking, spítting, praise, he’s POSSESSIVE, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 8.8k
A/N. Hope you have a lovely week <3
“Please, Sugu—?”
“No.”
“I’ll let you keep my panties?”
And that makes Geto shudder, breath hitching into something dangerously husky as he pushes his thick glasses further up his nose bridge. Greedy gaze darting anywhere but where you were oh-so-vulgarly leaning towards him. “Tch- as if I’d ever…”
With a grin, you shift to show him a flash of cherry pink peeking out from underneath that sinfully short skirt of yours.
Purposefully.
He was gone.
“F-fine.” He’s gulping, and it wouldn’t be the first time that you’d goaded the ill-tempered campus genius, Geto Suguru, into doing your- ah, “helping” you with your homework. “But-”
Before Geto can ramble away the usual lecture about something called “academic integrity”, you’re jumping up and tackling his towering frame into a hug. Pressing the curves of your tits into his Digimon t-shirt - just as a little treat - and flouncing excitedly back to your friends.
But what you didn’t notice is the way that makes Geto stiffen.
His tummy lurching, nose raising into the air-
Oh.
You smelled so sweet.
Geto’s spit-slicked lips part open to steal a sharp gasp of the sweltering lecture hall air- it couldn’t be. And his bleary irises can’t even focus, can’t lock on anything but the figure of you mere feet away.
…Could it?
With a slight tilt of your head, you’re staring back at him - and something…carnal pangs through his suddenly-boiling veins.
Then you smirk- and Geto twitches.
Fuck.
He would’ve crashed onto his knees right then and there if it wasn’t for the way that you proceed to dig through your cute, useless bag - still in the middle of a conversation with your friends - and throw something flimsy and pale pink at him.
No shame. No regrets.
None for either of you; but especially not Geto once his strong palms reach out to urgently scramble for the shred of gauzy fabric in midair.
Tangling the stringy satin between thick, ringed fingerpads, he’s sinking his face into its sugarcoated scent before sinking into the realization that you’d had the audacity to throw your fucking panties at him in the middle of a bustling seminar.
Yet, he was even worse - jaw slackening, broad chest heaving with rasping ahs! as he drinks in loooong repeated puffs of your pheromones. Coating his brain in melty molasses of sugar and spice and you.
There was a reason you were the most sought-after omega on the entire campus. With your filthy skin-tight outfits, and your flirty smiles.
And him? He couldn’t get enough.
Smearing away a sloppy splotch of saliva spilling from the corner of his mouth- when had he even started drooling? Geto watches through watery peripherals as you mouth a smug “an advance” at him, and saunter out of the class in your tightly-knit group.
Too tightly-knit, if you asked Geto. Dead-on stare narrowing, he catches the way one of your so-called friends brush away an invisible piece of lint from your shoulder.
Just barely. His head snapping towards Geto when the latter growls-
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
He was fucked.
.
.
.
Listen, it’s not as if you make Geto finish all of your homework - just the ones that you found too tedious, too complicated, or too time-consuming. Which might just happen to be all of them, but you digress!
He was more than happy to collect those slutty scraps of silk you called “panties” and you were proud to keep your streak of having the second-highest GPA in class (after the man himself, of course.)
The more important the grade the more sinful the panties.
After all, it wasn’t as if you minded all of Geto’s fiery stares at you during lectures, the spark in his eyes when he tried to drill a difficult concept into your mind, or the way his dark lashes would flutter drunkenly the moment you got too close.
In fact, you might even admit that you…like it.
Because Geto was hot. Fuck- he was fucking pretty.
You’d seen just how fawny his amethyst eyes were behind those clunky glasses. Lengthy Stygian hair, so many inches above six feet, and biceps that pull his gamer t-shirts so taut that it made you wonder what was underneath.
But it wasn’t as if a nerd - and a beta, obviously, though you didn’t care for secondary gender - like him would ever make a move.
Hell, he barely even talked to anyone other than the professors.
All grumbling and rude. It took you weeks to even get him to acknowledge your existence, and that was only by giving him an “accidental” glimpse of your red, red bra strap.
So you were mostly fine and dandy with this lecherous transaction of yours. Geto was smart; he was never a minute late in emailing you your surely A+ worthy work before their deadlines, and you’d gift him his little treat just the day after.
Except- you were lounging on your couch as the 12:00AM deadline for your latest essay rolled around and there was still no sign of Geto. Not a single ping from your inbox.
With an impatient thumb, you’re idly scrolling through the sparse chat history you’d all but bullied him into sharing with you, brows furrowing deeper and deeper at your plethora of ignored texts and calls.
Nothing new but, seriously…
Scoffing as the clock tick! tick! ticked! its way to 12:01AM.
He was late - and your homework was, too.
You’d been feeling a little too…feverish tonight to attend that one party your friends had invited you to, and thank your stars for that. Because not even minutes later, you were stomping the few blocks down to Geto’s apartment building and all the way up to his white-painted front door.
“Hey, Sugu—” You rap your knuckles harshly on the wood, exasperated. “Are you in there?”
No answer.
Huffing, your heated skin stings where it clashes even harder against his door. Impatiently, “Hah- making an omega walk all the way out here…I should take back all those panties I gave you. Yaga deducts points for late submissions and I am not leaving until you come out.”
Still no answer. Not even a sound.
“In fact, I’ll only get louder.”
Not even a breath.
That was…strange. He should’ve at least come out to shut up your racket so that he can study, if not at the mention of your panties.
And right now your annoyance was being washed away with sharp waves of concern, a nervous bout of laughter escaping you as soon as your hand falls on the door handle to find it shockingly unlocked. Oh?
You and Geto might not be the best of friends, but you wanted him to be alright goddammit.
“Better come out and stop me now, unless you want me to barge in!” You call out, jostling the cold, metallic knob for good measure. It holds firm in your hand, the only thing grounding your swimming mind as you bask in a second of silence. Two. Three. Before sighing, “Have it your way then. I’m coming in–”
Then it hits you.
Slow, at first. Like a smell from a distant memory that you find yourself aching for - find yourself stumbling a few steps inside Geto’s cozy apartment and devouring in generous lungfuls.
You slam the door shut to cloud yourself in the saturated air and gasp.
This was nothing like any expensive perfume you’d smelled before. It felt like your entire body was on fire, like every one of your pores was scorching from deep inside. Like you needed him.
Head whirling with the heady concoction of caramel salt scent and those dark undertones of wine. Something so dangerous. So tempting. So…Suguru.
You jolt. He was in rut.
Wait, rut? Geto Suguru? Wasn’t he…wasn’t he a beta?
You swear he was. You didn’t know what was happening, only angling your head up for more and more and more-
Shit, you’re shoving your thighs together before you know it. Already feeling the slippery stream of slick that sloshes past your pussy lips and puddles at the bottom of your underwear. And you know you’ve never been wetter.
“A-anyone home?” You’re straining out, the doughy mountain of your palm rubbing mindlessly up n’ down through your thin skirt.
Undoubtedly, there’s still no response. And yet, it’s almost as if he’s calling to you - and maybe he is.
Feet wrenching one jerky pitch after the other, you have to balance yourself on the hallway walls to fucking keep your sanity.
And to perhaps stop your weakened knees from slipping you into a pile on the polished hardwood floors. Perhaps to stop yourself from breaking out into a run to wherever your inner luna was clawing to take you.
You breathe, “Th-this isn’t funny, Suguru…”
The soft thuds of your padded steps thunder in time with your racing heart. Louder and louder. Deafening by the time you’re catching sight of a large mahogany door at the end of the corridor that waves ever-so-slightly ajar.
Where those hypnotic pheromones were the most saturated. And your mouth waters.
It’s only once you’re reaching it - trembling, standing stock-still, right outside what you now assumed to be his bedroom - that you realize Geto was calling to you. Well, more like he was calling out for you.
Your name.
In soft, breathy moans that make his rich baritone crack.
“Get the fuck in here.”
.
.
.
The moment Geto Suguru catches a glimpse of your oh-so-cute face - the moment he senses that you’re actually, honest-to-goodness here - he cums.
And he can’t help it- fuck, he can’t help it.
Even dabbing the fat of his massive thumb right over his bawling tip can’t stop the heaping torrents of gooey white escaping from him. Such slick ribbons upon ribbons crawling their way up Geto’s washboard abs, you can only watch with bated breath as his messy, round globs of seed trickle up n’ down until they drench his dark happy trail.
Your watery thighs stick together, maw falling agape because you’d be lying if you said you’d never imagined this.
You had. Once or twice or many, many times.
All splayed out on his Digimon sheets like this; meaty thighs cracked open, silky locks slathered across every inch, glasses fogged up. Ruined. Geto’s sweat-shimmered back arches off the outdated bed springs with a creak! while his hand flew furiously up and down his swollen cock.
Shit, you’re biting your lip. Syllables jumping roughly off of your heavy tongue, “S-Suguru?”
SLAM!
It’s like the sound of your voice does heavenly wonders to him.
Plump, tender balls squeezing, Geto’s free hand encloses behind his sweaty scalp and onto the headboard above him. Hard enough that the sturdy frame snaps, pale biceps flexing enough that you find your skin clammy with need.
“Fuh-fuck.” He’s hissing through clenched teeth. Staring right at your meandering form through dazed half-crescents, mouth departing endless husked grunts. And oh…oh a few more dewy droplets of cum spray out of his bawling orifice once you gulp. “Look what you’ve done t’me.”
“Y-you’re an alpha?” You finally manage to find your voice.
He snickers, the murky scent of the room growing ever-stronger. And even more than that was your own scent, mixing and melding until you felt dizzy. “And you’re in danger, little omega~”
Your widened gaze grows to lock on the way that his rugged fingers continue milking out creamy sploshes of cum. Expertly flying up, up, up– before fisting his hefty base with an airy sigh.
Large. He was so large.
And in so many ways more than one.
An alpha. He was an alpha.
Seductively sculptured body dwarfing his single bed with what looked like miles upon miles of toned, tall muscles. Were those tattoos spying out from the sides of his back?
A syrupy geyser of sap formulates between his two legs the size of your head- this was Geto Suguru?
And his cock - oh, he was so perfectly massive. Oversized, even in Geto’s engulfing hand.
So painfully hard that he was blushing a blossoming magenta near the very tip of his globular cockhead, throbbing. Pulsing. Thick lightning bolts of veins gripping down either side of his pink shaft and all the way down to his breeder balls.
With a harrowed gasp filling your lungs, you’re spotting just the barest fringe of something soaked-through and gauzy tangled underneath his digits.
Fuck.
“Is that-”
“This?” Geto grins - grins. You’ve never seen him smile let alone show off this dopey, predatory leer plastering all over his flushed features. A gentle dimple embeds near his curled lip, and he quirks an eager brow.
You can barely even think while he untwines the frilly pair of panties you’d thrown at him in class from around his aching cock. Sticky and stretched now, it finds home right near his flared nostrils as Geto brings it up and sniffs. Crazed. “C’mere.”
The rawest of glints twinkle in his half-lidded vision as you inch closer, the way you tremble on your two feet like a newborn fawn was adorable. And he can’t stop himself from letting out a low whistle–
“Yeah. Good fuckin’ girl.”
Your body kneels you right by Geto’s bedside before your mind can even think to catch up. Head lolling lecherously against the wide plane of his shivering thigh, you let your tongue lap up a pearl of his buttery white cum and keen. He was even bigger up close. “Sugu—”
“Nuh uh, gorgeous.” Geto tuts, gravelly tonality rendering you confused just as much as you were needy. His two palms grip the crown of your head to peer upwards, “S’all because of you. You n’ those d-damn panties. M’not your hck! nerdy fuckin’ Sugu right now. Best remember that- m’gonna make sure you remember that.”
He’s more than gazing down at you, he’s boring right through you.
Spectacle frames creeping precariously down his nose bridge, tendrils of his shaggy hair almost curtaining him, pellets of sweat trickle down his temples and hit you in thin spatters. So close. And you wanted him closer.
“Tilt your head back, lemme see that ngh- pretty mouth.” One hand slips from your head to curl around Geto’s fattened hilt, nudging his puckered tip to strike your lips with a dull thud! “Count.”
“One-”
And it’s not once.
“T-two-”
Not twice.
“Three- hah!”
Not thrice, until he’s leaving your mouth whimpering and stinging with the slam of his rock-hard shaft slapping down your tender flesh. Leaving a slimy trail of pre and salty cum that leaks between your maw and drives you wild.
Then - and only then - is he wrenching you up closer. Manhandling your pliable body until the very tip of his perfectly button nose meets yours. So close.
Your teary lashes flutter halfway shut once you feel the foggy breeze of his breath scorching your face, cunt quivering with the anticipation of a kiss. His pheromones hit you in powerful gusts, your primal urges scratching up to the surface.
Closer. Too close- for a kiss that never comes.
“Heh. Cute.”
He doesn’t kiss you.
But before you know it, Geto pitches his tongue back and wets your shimmery pouted lips with a large wad of his syrupy saliva.
In just a split-second.
Bowing you back underneath him and stuffing your chatty mouth so damn full of his swollen cock that you can’t even think of anything else. Fat droplets of tears fountain up at the edge of your eyes, you don’t think you’ve ever felt so split open.
He was eight- no, maybe nearing ten whole inches that scraped the back of your mushy throat with his ruthless mushroom tip.
Hard. Girthy.
Cratering out a wet circumference of bruises into your melty mouth with a singular thrust, and it wasn’t enough- fuck, it might never be enough.
Geto’s throwing his head back, toned core muscles tensing. “O-oh. This. Th-this is what it feels like?”
You almost wonder whether he even knew what he was doing once you feel a shaky thigh throwing behind your neck and reel you in close. Drawing you all the way up until your nose scratches his tufted pelvis, mouth hanging wiiidely agape.
“Sh-shooo big–” You’re mumbling through a scalding mouthful, slicked walls clenching at the realization that he had you trapped in a headlock. And by the looks of it, he was never going to let go.
“Yeah- yeah?” He shudders out, bass cracking into a zillion shatters near the end. Octaves higher. Unsteady. Meanly, Geto’s leg jostles you even further from behind to probe his shaft even deeper into your velvety mouth, your chin buckling underneath his curvaceous ballsack. Holding you still. Firmly. “Fuckin’ l-like that, don’t you?”
You can’t nod. You can’t hum affirmative. He was so bulky inside you that your lips sag underneath the sheer weight.
But your omega preens for the attention, sleek tongue zig-zagging over one of the pounding veins that poked into the roof of your mouth. And it’s enough of an answer for Geto.
Spitting out, “Oh yeah? Dirty girl. Didn’t expect your loser lil’ Sugu to have such a fat fuckin’ dick, huh?”
So fucking…rude, words teetering right on just the edge of being menacing. And you were just so gorgeous crying all over his cock like this, so much better than when you were hanging off of other alphas.
So much better when he strays a thumb to feel your filling throat, the way he’s lodged deep inside. Him. All him.
You let off a whiny gag the moment his blushing red cockhead twitches up ferally at the thought. The static cotton in your head making you slurp his length with a sloppy squelch!
He’s pushing up his glasses furiously, “Can you even take it? Seriously- acting so popular n’ mighty when you can’t even take my hngh- cock.”
And you’re about to rebuke, you’re about to- you swear.
But oh, he didn’t have mercy now.
“Whaaaat? M’just saying.” The ridges of his head press up all against every nook and cranny of your mouth, a silvery trail of drool now seeping from between your locked lips. Geto wipes away his own cobwebs of drool with the back of his mouth, giggling. Giggling when you scuffle, “S’it too big? Too big for our f-famous lil’ omega?”
Your throat aches something carnally delicious when he keeps a hold ‘round your neck to plunge into the waterlogged bottom. Bobbing your head in lewd maneuvers allll the way up n’ down. “Ngh- Sugu–”
“Hah- hah!” His glassy eyes gleam something wild, microscopic tastebuds watering all over again with just how intensely he was gawking down at you. If you didn’t know any better, you’d have said that his eyes were glowing- “Why are ya still fuckin’ speaking, gorgeous?”
It wasn’t a Command, but oh did it feel like one.
Only mere moments later and Geto’s springing himself off of the bouncy mattress to shovel your hot throat full of copious inches and leave you spellbound. Swirling a lazy few half-circles of his heavy tip where you were most sensitive.
“Cool that pretty lil’ head. You’re cuter when yer like th-this, y’know?” He groans, feeling your slippery cheeks grip his shaft in an adorable hug. Knee drawing up even tighter to hold you still while he fucked your mouth the way he’d been wishing he could for so long. “All shut up a-and mine and…”
Ah, breath wisping away. He’s prodding your poor gag reflexes at the very same time he rovers up a stray hand to squeeze your nostrils together. “-only mine.”
“Nghh- G-etooo—” And yet, he still doesn’t let up. You’re cupping Geto’s plumpened balls with a delicately loving touch, lustrous strands of spit layering your lips. “Want you.”
“Hm?”
“Want you.”
Oh.
Oh.
Those are the very same words he’s been dreaming of every single rut since meeting you. And he can’t help himself, he can’t stop himself from letting out a slew of swears and cumming.
Shocked.
“Sh-shit—” It’s all Geto can do to bite down on the plush of his bottom lip and wrangle back those embarrassing fucking whimpers on his tongue, dewy eyes sparkling with a few overstimulated tears. “You’re gonna- f-fucking…”
But he’s not given the privilege to finish his thought let alone his sentence.
Just flooding your senses with the caramel salt of his scent, and his gobs of pearly seed. Every jackhammer has Geto pinpricking it on the back of your bruised and battered throat, every squeeze of his hand around your neck makes him drool out in wiry oodles of sap more and more and more-
“S’what you w-wanted, right?” And you’re sensing the way his scent tinged with something maddened, leaving your eyes popping. “Prancing around with your hah- p-pre-heat panties and your- fuck!” Geto fights to keep his eyes from flapping closed, “Take it- ohhhh take it all.”
As if you could do anything else.
Every tiny twitch leaves your cavern flooded. Geto was cumming so hard that it was overspilling from each crevice of your lips, a silvery waterfall of cum that he’s dabbing around a thumb to smear.
Letting your pouted lips wobble at the fresh topping of white gloss, “There’s a good girl. My goood fuckin’ girl.”
Oh, there’s no doubt in your fractured mind right now that Geto Suguru was an alpha. Inhaling his deep puffs of contentment, you’re arching your back mindlessly in delight. Throat loosening with the motions to-
“Don’t swallow.”
So mean.
You don’t think you’re given the split-second to wonder otherwise before he’s grappling for the pretty column of your throat and kissing you raw.
You’re gasping when his depraved tongue smacks down between the seam of your mouth to lather in every scorching hot mess of sap he’d left behind. The mess that he made. And he was only making it messier.
Watching you through barely-cracked open pupils while he scooped up the sticky webs of seed dangling from your mouth. Scratchy buds taking over. A kiss so filthy that you felt shy to even call it that.
“Mmm—” Geto’s skidding his tongue down the buttered length of his lips, flicking over any stray droplets he could find. And something in his eyes told you that he was mere seconds away from doing it all over again. “Not bad for a first kiss.”
Fuck- what?
“Sugu- what-” You’re panting out measly syllables through the gaps of his sappy mouth. “I-I thought you’d be more…”
“What? A heh- bumbling loser?” His eyes narrow down at you, words purring sexily. “Oh, gorgeous…”
Fuck, and if the rasping growl in his tone didn’t shut you up, the way that Geto’s throwing you onto the bouncy bed sure does.
He doesn’t have a care in the world, he doesn’t have a single thought other than ripping off your flimsy clothes. Everything but those very same cherry pink panties you’d teased up at him, well- more see-through than anything right now.
Kneeing apart your jittery legs to watch the way your cunt gushes in pure need. Lips curling into a leer at the way she winks up at him through filthy masses of slick.
“Sh-she’s mine now, isn’t she?” Rumbling out, eyes wide. Unfocused. And the look on Geto’s face made white-hot trills sprint down your spine - ones you couldn’t decode between primal need and fear. “She’s…”
Ptwah!
The vicious goblet of spit that hits you this time is somehow even meaner than the last, striking at the very top of your sobbing pussy and disappearing riiiight between your folds.
“Mine.” Awestruck, Geto bullies one capped knee to smooch up against your slit. Gleaming his heated skin with the bucketloads of cute sap that you kept pouring out by the second. Geto was greedy, he was grunting. “Beg for it, omega.”
You’re squirming underneath him impatiently, clawing all over his unmoving wrists. You ached all over for something. Anything. “Don’t- don’t wanna-”
But Geto had ten times your strength and wasn’t afraid of using it. Oh, he wasn’t afraid of using it - wasn’t afraid of pinning down both your trembly hands on the bed springs with one of his. Rutting his knee up even more mercilessly, murking his pheromones until it burned of salt and spice. “Beg.”
You mewl, “P-please-”
“No stuttering.”
“Please.” And if that wasn’t enough, you’re batting your lacquered lashes up at Geto in exactly the way you knew was his weakness. Exactly the way that got you the second-highest GPA for so long. Jutting your back the perfect curvature off of the bed, “I’ll let you k-keep my panties, Suguru—?”
“Oh, giiiirl—” He husks out, leaning in so close to plant a yearning snog on your mouth. Blushing pink lips wrapping around your tongue and sucking. You always got what you wanted. “M’keeping those regardless.”
In his special drawer for all your slutty underwear, of course.
And just as soon as Geto’s kissing your lips, he’s trekking his way downwards to make sure that your other ones don’t feel left out.
“Look at her.” He breathes, words taking on an airy tone that makes him sound as if he was furious. Blistering with the anger that he’s been deprived of the heavenly proximity of your soft, seeping cunt for so long. “H-heh, if o-only those tch- popular friends of yours could see. Just look- look how wet she is f’me. All me.”
A fattened thumb fringes past your panties, and you flinch at the cold press of his silver rings. Rovering all the way to greet your puffy pussylips in languid drags uuuuup and down, pricking his manicured fingernail on the button of your clit.
Geto’s hooded lids widen, heat rushing all over his cheeks at the sloppy squelches he draws out. So easily. Adorably.
And it was true - he did have a tattoo. A splashing inking of a dragon all across Geto’s muscled back, somehow making him even more unintentionally hotter.
“And look how loud mmm–” He’s kissing the mound of your folds like a lover, lingering. Loving. Stealing deeeeep gasps of your scent, “M’gonna ruin you. Ngh- ohhh, m’gonna r-ruin you, gorgeous. Ruin ya for anyone else.”
And when Geto meant he was going to ruin you - he meant it.
“Shit.” He was going to mush his pretty features up into your sopping wet pussy until you could feel every minute, warm pant. Staring right up into the target of your fuzzy heart-eyes, “How do you- how do you taste so good.”
Every gasp he’s drinking in of your murked perfumed pheromones, showering ‘round every sense and making him dizzy.
“Squeeze- wanna feel-”
And maybe it’s his rut, maybe it’s the way your tension was so thick - but you instantaneously know what to do.
To close your legs in a deadlock around Geto’s oily scalp. Your weighty eyelids bat up and down subconsciously at the attractive way he was digging his bulging biceps into the sides of your thighs. Pulling you in closer and closer and closer. “That turns you on, huh?”
But that wasn’t all- oh, that wasn’t what he was making out with your cute cunt and begging for.
His mouth lathers over with a fresh bout of watery spit the moment your rubbery ring of muscle clench all around him. Making every ridge of his hot tongue catch on your gooey innards, the texture of it enough to drive you positively wild.
“Sh-shiiit–” You’re letting out a primal groan, clawing at his tattooed back. Chest shuddering underneath the strain of one powerful hand pinning you down. Holding you painfully still. “Suguru- want more. More.”
Slipping his slick tongue in and out of your fluttery hole, Geto keens at the way your entrance kept on trying to suck him back in.
“Fuckin’ know-” In one second, he’s pushing his cloudy glasses up his nose, and in the other he pries apart your puffed lips and caresses. “Yer turning into a fucking w-waterpark, dirty girl. Even wetter than all that p-porn I learned from…”
You’re whimpering, legs falling further n’ further open until it burned your inner quads. No matter how deeply Geto stuffed his face between them it just wouldn’t be enough.
It was almost as if…
“Heat.” He’s slurring a looong lap of his grooved tastebuds all over the lustre of your sweet, sweet juices. Free hand wrapping at his favorite position around your neck and making sure to angle your head so that you catch the twinkling droplets of slick pouring down his tongue. “You’re in heat, little omega.”
Gasping, “W-what?”
But it made sense. It was falling into place and that only made you wetter.
With a smirk, Geto swats your hands until they tangle into his silken tresses. “Lemme take care of you.” SWAT! The plapping sensation hits you before the realization that he’d run his crowned digits over to spank your perked clit. “Ngh- just sit tight n’ let your nerdy ol’ Sugu here take g-goood care of you.”
He was pleading with you - begging you - to latch onto his pretty locks and grind your pussy in repeated gyrations all over his face. Guiding him, using the hook of his pert nose as the perfect ridge to rest your throbbing clit on.
“Th-thank you, alpha—” Too good. You were giving into something baser, to let your head loll into the cushy pillow behind you in sweeping motions. And it was so cute he could cum.
“Yeah? Who- who?”
“You, Suguru.”
“Damn right.”
With every drag of his hoarse syllables, Geto was trawling his face across every inch between the beautiful legs that you had to offer.
Purposefully.
You’re holding back his endless, inky strands just to admire how pretty he looked. How ravenous. Greedy.
Fuck, Geto was making up for all these years he spent parched. Spitting out streak after streak of spittle that made your pussy pour out all over his snogging mouth. “Gonna- gonna fuck you like this w’my cock next.”
His tongue folds into your slobbery hole and slithers into every tender orifice - so staggeringly long that you were feeling a lump in your own throat.
Just a few flops into your earliest magical spots and Geto could already hear the way you were fighting to hide your little sobs.
“Th-this right here-” He’s probing a finger underneath the panties that stuck to your cunt like adhesive, letting it spring back to hit you with a smack! Tittering at your yelp, “S’mine.”
Rubbing a fat few crowns of his fingerpads at the tender area underneath the base of your pussy. Pressing down. Hard. “And her? All the w-way from here-”
Drawing sensual patterns up, up uuuup all the way to your sensitive clit, and oh- it felt so right to have him draw sultry little hearts on your weepy hood.
Tugging it over to nip underneath one sharp canine - one that you swear had grown even longer in the last few minutes. Geto was gone in the depths of his rut, hallowing out his cheeks to eat you out as if he was a man starved. And you were his favorite dessert. “To here? S’mine, too.”
RIIIIIP—!
Through your glossy heaps of tears, you can make out the fuzzy shapes of Geto tearing your satiny underwear into tatters. Balling it up into a wad of sugarcoated fabric that he unapologetically stuffs in your drivelling mouth.
“Gonna add these t-to my collection.” You feel him smile against the outer edges of your claggy cunt, tittering at the stupid way your overspilling lips slacken with a soggy pwah! You’re hearing and feeling a long-winded woooosh from below once he takes a deeeep breath in with his over-delicate senses. “Th-thereeee we go. Cum all over my mouth, gorgeous.”
And if you were in any better state of mind perhaps you’d have noticed the way that Geto’s driving his hips into the bed like a damn dog when he sensed your scent peaking. Sensed you getting closer.
Ragged breaths striking your quivering pussy mercilessly and making your teeth sink desperately into the muggy jumble of underwear in your mouth.
Your broken moans burst out even through that particular watergate, right along with a slithery trickle of saliva and a huff of “S-Suguru—” Craning your head to watch his nostrils flare with knowing, “Close- clo- cumming.”
Eyes flashing. Heart thumping not just within your rib cage.
When it rains, it pours.
But you weren’t just pouring - you were flooding.
Such glutinous ropes of your orgasm, it sprays Geto’s sexy face in squirts. Clinging onto the edge of his glasses and forming little puddles right at the apples of his high cheeks.
Suddenly, you were oh-so-thankful for the way he’d stuffed your mouth mercilessly full - because by the rusted rasp in your throat, you’re sure you’re singing out shrill trills loud enough that his neighbors would file a noise complaint.
But that was the last thing on his mind.
The last thing- well, fuck, it wasn’t on his mind at all. Geto’s cooing at how unstable you feel, treacherous fingers mazing across your fat clit and giving her a goood few pushes just the way he would with his gameboys.
“Good girl-” he spits into your gapingly widened cunt, still suffering from the remnant tremors of your high and still slopping out wads of juices. Like a mantra, Geto’s dark brows scrunch in concentration, “Good girl good girl gooood fucking girl.”
Words hitching up into something shrill near the edge, he sounded as if he was fraying his sanity with every droplet of slick you pumped into his mouth. With every single second.
Pushing his aching hot cock deeper and deeper into the sullied sheets. More. He needed more.
Every sloppy swivel of your widely pried-apart pussy on his tongue made him leave an open-palmed smack! on your thigh. Other hand traipsing to pin your hips down with his big, vein-decorated forearm.
He doesn’t want to let go.
You’re barely letting off a whine at the lack of friction before Geto lets his mouth depart from your cunt with a soggy pwah! Leaving a final few French kisses on his favorite sweet orifice, he’s pecking a loooong open-mouthed pathway up to your loosened maw.
“Good girl…” He hiccups, clammy forehead sticking against yours. Each syllable struggles to wrench past the leaden ball slowly forming on Geto’s mouth.
The syrup-glazed lenses of his glasses clash into you, and Geto himself seems to notice. “Look what a fuckin’ mess ya made.” He’s gruffing out at the thick topping of oozing gloss that made the frame impossible to see through.
Immediately pulling back a few millimeters to take them off and dump them on your own nose bridge. Unceremoniously.
And it was so wet.
Almost as wet as Geto’s features were - all showered in gunky dredges of glistening sap. It streaks all the way from his pointed chin and up to his handsome cheekbones. Beads of it hitting your panting chest in a pat! pat! pat!
Heaving out a shaky exhale, he’s pushing away a few elegant strands of charcoal bangs.
“M’gonna…m’gonna fuck you now.” Sounding more as if he was talking to himself rather than you. Or perhaps both. Puffy folds being rubbed all raw with the depraved back and forth of his veiny under-shaft. “Gonna fuck you. So take it- take it.”
Geto stares deep into your whirling eyes while he sinks his hefty cock into you just as thoroughly. A clingy film sticks to his gaze, dazed and all half-hooded that you wondered if he could even register what was in front of him.
Crazed.
And he’s such a fucking tease, too.
Creating a slimy trail of pasty pre all over your weakened inner thighs, he drags his bawling divot all over every stretch of your entrance. Around and around in circles.
“B-big, huh? Better take it b-before I- make it- fit-” He’s echoing, dimples peaking out at the cute way your breath hitches once you feel the sheerly massive circumference of his fat tip. “Shhhh shh sh, s’alright- s’where you’re m-meant to ngh- be.”
Even for an alpha, he was always staggering - but having him stuffing you to the brim would be a whole other feeling. Would have you ruined.
You’re peering up at him through humid lashes, borrowed glasses smearing wet splotches of slick underneath your skin. Eventually, those panties had found themselves spilling out of your unfastened jaw, “Meant to- hah! be?”
“Mhmmm— pretty omega.” You’re hit with a sudden wave of coaxing pheromones, the gentle salty breeze making your hips buck subconsciously upwards. Subconsciously aching. “This s’where you’re ngh- meant to be.”
And as much as Geto loved hearing whiny questions bubble their way up to your spit-layered lips, oh- was it so much more fun to eye down at your speechless self when he snugly squeezes just a mere sensual inch.
Leaning back to watch the way his bustling cock was stretching and stretching and stretching your tender walls flawlessly. You were taking him so ridiculously well.
“Fuh-fuck you-” His plush pecs rumble with his bass from above, words tumbling. Hips rolling. And Geto was fucking gone- staring at you with wide, humorless eyes that you doubt were even seeing. “Fuck you- m’fucking you…fuck you fuck you fuck!”
With every sharp fah! being whirled into your loose mouth, Geto rubs his puffed-up veins into the tender mound of your cunt. You can’t help but count every rapid ba-dump—! his achy length throbs.
Desperately. Rutting and rutting just to fit himself inside.
Around the time he’s only halfway in, Geto circles one hand over his drenched base to skid taut O’s at the edge of your hole. Nudging his fat girth past your entrance and keening-
“M-more!” You’re barking out primally, your tongue tied into all sorts of bows and ribbons with the way this stretch was searing. And it was the best sort of tight fit, you were practically drooling all over again at the fleshy thwack! of Geto’s rounded balls smacking your thighs. “More, Sugu—”
“M-more…?”
It wasn’t just you - your luna needed more, too.
You’re nodding and nodding- only to realize with a harsh muffle of Geto’s palm over your noisy mouth that he wasn’t even talking to you.
No, he was tittering away in a small sort of voice. Octaves higher. Strained. Goosebumps smatter all across your skin at the way he sounded so unstable.
“More…” Irises flashing a glowy purple, fingers twitching where he held you. A loser like him. A nerd like him. “M-more she says.”
Fuck.
Without another word - without another breath - Geto’s flipping you around with only one beefy palm clawing at your hip. Shoving your face deep into the puff of his nerdy pillows, he’s bottoming out with just one thrust-
You think you scream, you think you bawl once you feel his plummy mushroom head draw a long line of pre along the insides of your cervix. And your pussy felt so full you could burst, your walls crushed with all overpacked inches of his.
Finally.
“Thaaaat’s it, that’s it-” He’s grunting through furiously clenched teeth, a hand crowning the back of your scalp and muffling your words into the bed. Hard. Fuck- he was going to pass out if you made another pretty sound. “S’where you belong.”
Ah, there it is - that little broken prayer.
Except, this time it was being respired in boiling hot pants against the tips of your ears. Was being wheezed out of Geto when he lurches his sweat-simmered hips back to hit your ass with a resounding pap!
“All f-fucked dumb on my ngh- biiig fucking cock, hm?” He tilts your head up with one hand, smiling to himself once he catches a glittery flash of spit leaking from your lips. “All…” A warm splatter! strikes your back, and only then do you realize that he’s slobbering. “Mine.”
And where Geto was talking all possessively - he was fucking you even more so.
In the blink of an eye, he’s planting two sets of fingers on either of your wrists and pulling all the way back, back, back. A length foot being placed right at the small of your spine to get you to bend in a delicious arch-
“Fuck!” Your cute voice rings hoarse, like music to his blushing ears. Struggling to regain the gasps of air leaving your lungs, “There- th-there.”
Oh, shit.
The way Geto was manhandling you was not only bending you in all sorts of lecherously pliable ways that had your slit dripping, it was making his rotund cockhead stub oh-so-viciously into your cervix.
Rough. Probing.
“H-heh, guess I lost my first kiss there, too.” He’s giggling out, biting down on the rugged mewls that threaten to depart every time your cunt swallows him whole. “Congrats on being my ngh- first, little omega— yer e-even better than my ngh- bodypillows of you.”
Bending you over ever-deeper, honestly- your walls were cloying onto him so desperately that it was making Geto’s heart pang with disappointment every time his ruddied tip recoiled back from the bottom of your sloppy pussy.
He wanted to be this close to you forever.
Treacling out stringy wads of pre, he’s furrowing brows and making sure each n’ every jackhammer fills you up impossibly.
You can barely grapple for air at this point, the sloshes of syrup left after each barrelling strike leaving you star-struck.
He grins, “Shit, d-do ya ever stop fuckin’ drooling? Gonna hafta call the f-fire department, girl.”
“Can’t help it–!” All you can do it let your mouth unlatch to warble whimper after whimper–
“C’mon now, gorgeous- aren’t ya ashamed?” Licking his lips free of your taste, Geto diverts more pressure to his foot. Hefty balls rippling wickedly against the sobbing end of your slit with just how easy you were to throw around like his favorite toy. Like his favorite figurines. “Look at what a mess yer making. Being fucked so f-filthy. And I haven’t even ngh- found it, yet.”
Haven’t found it. Oh, but he knew he was going to. He was going to make you scream.
Your syrupy whines slip into something desperate, “Y-you don’t know…?”
“Of course I f-fuckin’ know. Who d’ya think you’re ngh talking to?” As if you could forget you were being thoroughly pounded by the smartest person on campus right now. And evidently the filthiest, too.
A ringed finger treks down to your sensitive nub, soothing over where you were throbbing the most violently. Cute. Lulling you into a sweet, sweet state of bliss before Geto pinches–
“Oh p-please!” You’re targeting your hazy vision over your shoulder, and somewhere along the lines Geto’s spectacles had slid cleanly off of you. Toes curling as his bloated head bludgeons just the creamy edges near your g-spot. “Please- y-you’re so close, Suguru-”
You didn’t know whether it was your heat or just Geto that had you so desperate. Your sparkless mind blames the latter.
“Am I?” He hums, leaning over so that the soft tendrils of his hair tickled your back.
Whacking his painfully achy crownhead mere centimeters below your magical spots, and you’re starting to think he’s doing this on purpose.
Geto starts holding it there for lingering French snogs into the steamy inner depths of your cunt and then you know he’s doing this on purpose. Spitting in your mouth with a smile.
That mean bastard.
Jittering your hips to chase the texture of his curly pubic hair against your ass, he snickers. “Are you ngh- suuuure? You haven’t done a s-single one of your ngh- human biology essays lately, dirty girl.”
You’re molding your lips into a pout - difficult, with just how many loads of saliva were pouring out of you and cementing a puddle onto the Digimon pillows. “F-fuck you.”
“No…” You set free a gasp of air you didn’t know you were holding the very second he lets go of the rough foot anchoring your spine, instead- in only mere nanoseconds you find yourself jerked up into Geto Suguru’s hold with a hand at your throat. Back gluing against his glissading abs, even his voice was unbalanced and trembling now. “I’m fucking you, little omega.”
And you were about to remember it.
With an immediate pitch of his gasping breaths, Geto’s angled hips go from steadily ruined to sloppy. Calculated.
He didn’t care if he made a mess of stringy slick that circled in the satiny sheets around the two of you, he didn’t care if your eyes were bulging out of their poor sockets when his pronounced hips dig into your backside with blistering bruises.
He didn’t care for anything but digging the curled fringe of his fatly bloated tip right into the target of your g-spot.
Mazing through your gluey folds and keeping them snugly open with his reddened girth, Geto knocks your sweetest spots with vengeance.
“There–!” You call out, as if he hadn’t already felt the gooey seize of your pussy trying to hold him hostage.
His mouth trudges over your throat, fingers roaming over to give your clit a nice few pinches. Meaningfully, “Here? Orrrr–” Punctuating each word, each second with a thorough drilling into your g-spot. “-here? Make up th-that ditzy lil’ mind. Seriously.”
Your head drunkenly crashes on top of his collarbone and stays there, “R-right here- there. Both, Sugu.”
“Again with the f-fucking Sugu-” Geto snarls out, though you can sense by his cloudy scent that he was anything but irritated with you.
Your whines had quietened down into something more of an incoherent mess, and the main things ringing in Geto’s ears right now were the creaky protests of his bed and the clammy plops of his thrusts.
“C’mon now— where’s my bossy fuck! omega? The one who loves her poor, nerdy Sugu?”
Arousal reaching a peak, and now that he’d found your g-spot, he was probing into it with fat thuds. Not just once or twice. Nooooo, it was over and over and-
“Just w-wanna cum—” you’re sobbing out. Jerking your body like a bobble-head up and down to further feel the drag of his Herculean form behind you, to savor each ridge and sculpted curve sweatily massaging your back. “P-pleeeeease, Suguru. Let me cum?”
Swerving his tensing hips out alllll the way back to leave solid smooches ‘round your pussy entrance each and every time, and then there were the squelches-
Oh, you were just flooding a slippery sheen all over his hefty, swelling base. A viscid luster of slick that glided all the way down to drip off of his sack n’ between his legs.
Your eyes manage to snatch themselves open- hissing at the realization that it was pooling especially around that particularly ballooned-up ring right over Geto’s breeder balls.
Was that? With a shiver you’re rutting backwards, feeling for yourself the slow drag of his proud knot. Bigger than any else you’ve ever seen. It was.
You rasp, throat itchy and raw. Sweltering droplets of tears streaming down your cheeks when he matches the stuttering beat of your heart with every pressurized push- “P-please.”
“Needy thing. Cum, huh?” Geto drawls out, voice thick with need and something else you were too stupid to register right now. He collides you even tighter against rippling pecs. Taking the sweet, sweet opportunity to poke his nose into your scent gland and steal a looooong breath of your overdriven pheromones.
“Cum then, c-cum. Fucking cum all over my cock.”
Fuck, it’s with those exact words in mind that you do.
Startling straight headfirst into your high - and you don’t think you’ve even crashed into one wave of bliss before the other overtakes you. And another. And another-
“Oh g-god—” You’re trilling, only held up by the ruthless grip that Geto was maintaining. His hips were deep, and your pleasure even deeper. “-please. Please- please, Sugu-”
He’s hunching over your body ever-so-slightly, resting your thighs against his thick, flexing ones. Only bending you over to kiss your g-spot even more sinfully, Geto’s response comes out ragged into your lobes. “Tch, wh-what now?”
His ruby-red tip was blushing like a strawberry and just as plump - swirling around your treasure trove of spots, pounding you through each peak of your orgasm until you saw stars.
“Cum i-insiiiide-” Your barely-audible groans spring out into the heady air, adding to its hypnotic mix of perfumes. And it’s not just the heat that made you crave Geto carnally, every pap! against the puffy ring at his base making you crave more more more- “Want it a-all up…”
You’re trailing off, melted mind unable to do multiple things at once.
With tottering fingerpads, you’re trapping one of his palms underneath your own. Homing itself right above where his rounded tip was stretching open your insides, right above your womb.
“H-here, okay? Don’t miss-”
You blink up at him and Geto thinks he might just be having a heart attack. Sparks fizzing around his sloshed brain, “Fuh-fuuuuck– don’t talk out of yer pussy, gorgeous.” He spanks your clit once. Twice just to watch your eyes glaze over stupidly. “Or m’gonna get you pregnant.”
Soothing over that faint bulge he was fucking into your tummy, “Gonna h-have my baby growing allll up in here. Make you round and…” His voice sounds faint, whispering. “-big and…glowing. And…and pregnant.”
But, ah- you never did make it easy for him. Did you? Always had to have your way.
Which Geto Suguru gladly gave.
“But I want that, Sugu—” You pout, “Wan’ your knot…please?”
You didn’t have to say another word before Geto’s finishing off in such a messy way, reaching the biggest fucking orgasm he’s had in his entire life. The strongest. The most heavenly and oh- oh, were you an angel?
He’s collapsing onto the drenched sheets before he knows it, pinning you down with the strong v-line of his hips.
“Shit-” Geto emits through the cracks in his bitten canines. “Shit shit shit- shit-”
You don’t know who’s losing their mind more, you or him. Falling into the well of a second, third, perhaps even fourth orgasm with how blissfully his fattened, split-ended cock bruised every nook of your adhesive-like walls.
Your saliva cascades in puddles that soak the pillows through. “Suguruuu— a-are you okay-”
“Do I look okay?”
Sexily ridged abs kneading your back, hands scrambling on the mattress, inked shoulders shivering. His swollen knot hits and hits your pussymound.
And it’s only once his trembly fingers latch around his glasses - fumbling, dropping it copious times before Geto manages to push them haphazardly onto his face.
Tilting his head back just enough degrees to watch as the curved fringe of his knot disappears past your puffy folds.
“There we- there…” He’s driveling clingy wads of translucent saliva, letting the stray pouring excess hit your fluttering hole with a splat! One eager thumb of Geto’s hooks into your entrance and bullies it aside to let his incredible perimeter sink iiiiiiiiin-
He’s melting into you now, spent. Ruined. “Get pregnant.” Geto whispers into your sweat-glossed shoulder blade once he feels the back of his knot get fully enveloped into your pussy with a gummy pop! Once he feels himself finally tip over- “Get pregnant.”
And it’s not just mindless babbling - it’s a promise.
A promise that he rasps out time and time against with every wadded slip of seed that dollops out across your cervix. Pushing it so deep. Smearing acres of ribbony streaks all over your most precious orifices and spots.
“Gonna know wh-what we did.” Geto whimpers, shit- he couldn’t pound his voluminous ounces of cum into you as aggressively as he wanted with this damn knot. “Entire campus. Professors. Everyone’s gonna know ngh- how I fucked ya full. F-fucked you pregnant. Gonna wonder.”
But that didn’t stop him from trying.
That didn’t stop him from wrenching out a hand to squeeze the ends of your sopping wet slit, forcing down on his very knot. Squeezing out so many numerous dredges of syrupy white cum that thwack! thwack! thwacks! a filthy second skin against your walls.
“Fuh-fuuuuck— get pregnant, gorgeous.” He’s rutting. Grinding. Humping you like some beast more than man. “Gonna l-look at you all round n’ big and see me- me me me. Get pregnant get pregnant get-”
Geto’s mouth parts at the pearly dewdrops of seed that leak from the overstuffed ends of your cunt. He can feel his entire body twitch, can feel his sharpened teeth lacquer so rabidly.
He still wasn’t done.
Still letting one prespired forearm of his dangle around your neck, manhandling you into a fucking headlock. The other tracing the edges of his digits over your glands, squeezing until your skin was all tender and raw.
And puffy.
Perfect for him to tilt his head and bite—
“Ohhh- yes!” Every fibre of your being delights at the way Geto’s biting you so hard that you can smell crimson iron. Your pheromone bubble pops! to mix together with his own. Becoming one. And you can scent him - you can feel him.
Glasses clashing, teeth tearing. Before you know it, you’re doing the same. “Suguruuuu— m’yours.”
Your mate latches onto the curves of your hips - your soon-to-be birthing hips.
And the way Geto rediscovers that - tucking his face into the ruined, drenched fabric of those cherry pink panties and taking an endless, husky sniff - tells you that this was going to be a long, loooong night.
Synopsis. Suguru Geto, the resident nerd who “helps” you with your homework. Tall, gloomy, mean, and- and an alpha? And he’s in rut?!
Pairing. Geto Suguru x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem! oméga! reader, alpha! nerd! Geto, ruts, OMÉGAVERSE AU, pánty-sniffer Geto, he goes FÉRAL, MEAN Geto, headIocks, slightly bímbo! reader, dúmbifícation, cervíx kíssing, creampíes, cúmplay, MANHANDLlNG, Geto with glasses + tattoos, overstím, knots, first times (Geto), pússydrunk Geto, MATÍNG BÍTES, oraI (f + m), p talking, spítting, praise, he’s POSSESSIVE, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 8.8k
A/N. Hope you have a lovely week <3
“Please, Sugu—?”
“No.”
“I’ll let you keep my panties?”
And that makes Geto shudder, breath hitching into something dangerously husky as he pushes his thick glasses further up his nose bridge. Greedy gaze darting anywhere but where you were oh-so-vulgarly leaning towards him. “Tch- as if I’d ever…”
With a grin, you shift to show him a flash of cherry pink peeking out from underneath that sinfully short skirt of yours.
Purposefully.
He was gone.
“F-fine.” He’s gulping, and it wouldn’t be the first time that you’d goaded the ill-tempered campus genius, Geto Suguru, into doing your- ah, “helping” you with your homework. “But-”
Before Geto can ramble away the usual lecture about something called “academic integrity”, you’re jumping up and tackling his towering frame into a hug. Pressing the curves of your tits into his Digimon t-shirt - just as a little treat - and flouncing excitedly back to your friends.
But what you didn’t notice is the way that makes Geto stiffen.
His tummy lurching, nose raising into the air-
Oh.
You smelled so sweet.
Geto’s spit-slicked lips part open to steal a sharp gasp of the sweltering lecture hall air- it couldn’t be. And his bleary irises can’t even focus, can’t lock on anything but the figure of you mere feet away.
…Could it?
With a slight tilt of your head, you’re staring back at him - and something…carnal pangs through his suddenly-boiling veins.
Then you smirk- and Geto twitches.
Fuck.
He would’ve crashed onto his knees right then and there if it wasn’t for the way that you proceed to dig through your cute, useless bag - still in the middle of a conversation with your friends - and throw something flimsy and pale pink at him.
No shame. No regrets.
None for either of you; but especially not Geto once his strong palms reach out to urgently scramble for the shred of gauzy fabric in midair.
Tangling the stringy satin between thick, ringed fingerpads, he’s sinking his face into its sugarcoated scent before sinking into the realization that you’d had the audacity to throw your fucking panties at him in the middle of a bustling seminar.
Yet, he was even worse - jaw slackening, broad chest heaving with rasping ahs! as he drinks in loooong repeated puffs of your pheromones. Coating his brain in melty molasses of sugar and spice and you.
There was a reason you were the most sought-after omega on the entire campus. With your filthy skin-tight outfits, and your flirty smiles.
And him? He couldn’t get enough.
Smearing away a sloppy splotch of saliva spilling from the corner of his mouth- when had he even started drooling? Geto watches through watery peripherals as you mouth a smug “an advance” at him, and saunter out of the class in your tightly-knit group.
Too tightly-knit, if you asked Geto. Dead-on stare narrowing, he catches the way one of your so-called friends brush away an invisible piece of lint from your shoulder.
Just barely. His head snapping towards Geto when the latter growls-
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
He was fucked.
.
.
.
Listen, it’s not as if you make Geto finish all of your homework - just the ones that you found too tedious, too complicated, or too time-consuming. Which might just happen to be all of them, but you digress!
He was more than happy to collect those slutty scraps of silk you called “panties” and you were proud to keep your streak of having the second-highest GPA in class (after the man himself, of course.)
The more important the grade the more sinful the panties.
After all, it wasn’t as if you minded all of Geto’s fiery stares at you during lectures, the spark in his eyes when he tried to drill a difficult concept into your mind, or the way his dark lashes would flutter drunkenly the moment you got too close.
In fact, you might even admit that you…like it.
Because Geto was hot. Fuck- he was fucking pretty.
You’d seen just how fawny his amethyst eyes were behind those clunky glasses. Lengthy Stygian hair, so many inches above six feet, and biceps that pull his gamer t-shirts so taut that it made you wonder what was underneath.
But it wasn’t as if a nerd - and a beta, obviously, though you didn’t care for secondary gender - like him would ever make a move.
Hell, he barely even talked to anyone other than the professors.
All grumbling and rude. It took you weeks to even get him to acknowledge your existence, and that was only by giving him an “accidental” glimpse of your red, red bra strap.
So you were mostly fine and dandy with this lecherous transaction of yours. Geto was smart; he was never a minute late in emailing you your surely A+ worthy work before their deadlines, and you’d gift him his little treat just the day after.
Except- you were lounging on your couch as the 12:00AM deadline for your latest essay rolled around and there was still no sign of Geto. Not a single ping from your inbox.
With an impatient thumb, you’re idly scrolling through the sparse chat history you’d all but bullied him into sharing with you, brows furrowing deeper and deeper at your plethora of ignored texts and calls.
Nothing new but, seriously…
Scoffing as the clock tick! tick! ticked! its way to 12:01AM.
He was late - and your homework was, too.
You’d been feeling a little too…feverish tonight to attend that one party your friends had invited you to, and thank your stars for that. Because not even minutes later, you were stomping the few blocks down to Geto’s apartment building and all the way up to his white-painted front door.
“Hey, Sugu—” You rap your knuckles harshly on the wood, exasperated. “Are you in there?”
No answer.
Huffing, your heated skin stings where it clashes even harder against his door. Impatiently, “Hah- making an omega walk all the way out here…I should take back all those panties I gave you. Yaga deducts points for late submissions and I am not leaving until you come out.”
Still no answer. Not even a sound.
“In fact, I’ll only get louder.”
Not even a breath.
That was…strange. He should’ve at least come out to shut up your racket so that he can study, if not at the mention of your panties.
And right now your annoyance was being washed away with sharp waves of concern, a nervous bout of laughter escaping you as soon as your hand falls on the door handle to find it shockingly unlocked. Oh?
You and Geto might not be the best of friends, but you wanted him to be alright goddammit.
“Better come out and stop me now, unless you want me to barge in!” You call out, jostling the cold, metallic knob for good measure. It holds firm in your hand, the only thing grounding your swimming mind as you bask in a second of silence. Two. Three. Before sighing, “Have it your way then. I’m coming in–”
Then it hits you.
Slow, at first. Like a smell from a distant memory that you find yourself aching for - find yourself stumbling a few steps inside Geto’s cozy apartment and devouring in generous lungfuls.
You slam the door shut to cloud yourself in the saturated air and gasp.
This was nothing like any expensive perfume you’d smelled before. It felt like your entire body was on fire, like every one of your pores was scorching from deep inside. Like you needed him.
Head whirling with the heady concoction of caramel salt scent and those dark undertones of wine. Something so dangerous. So tempting. So…Suguru.
You jolt. He was in rut.
Wait, rut? Geto Suguru? Wasn’t he…wasn’t he a beta?
You swear he was. You didn’t know what was happening, only angling your head up for more and more and more-
Shit, you’re shoving your thighs together before you know it. Already feeling the slippery stream of slick that sloshes past your pussy lips and puddles at the bottom of your underwear. And you know you’ve never been wetter.
“A-anyone home?” You’re straining out, the doughy mountain of your palm rubbing mindlessly up n’ down through your thin skirt.
Undoubtedly, there’s still no response. And yet, it’s almost as if he’s calling to you - and maybe he is.
Feet wrenching one jerky pitch after the other, you have to balance yourself on the hallway walls to fucking keep your sanity.
And to perhaps stop your weakened knees from slipping you into a pile on the polished hardwood floors. Perhaps to stop yourself from breaking out into a run to wherever your inner luna was clawing to take you.
You breathe, “Th-this isn’t funny, Suguru…”
The soft thuds of your padded steps thunder in time with your racing heart. Louder and louder. Deafening by the time you’re catching sight of a large mahogany door at the end of the corridor that waves ever-so-slightly ajar.
Where those hypnotic pheromones were the most saturated. And your mouth waters.
It’s only once you’re reaching it - trembling, standing stock-still, right outside what you now assumed to be his bedroom - that you realize Geto was calling to you. Well, more like he was calling out for you.
Your name.
In soft, breathy moans that make his rich baritone crack.
“Get the fuck in here.”
.
.
.
The moment Geto Suguru catches a glimpse of your oh-so-cute face - the moment he senses that you’re actually, honest-to-goodness here - he cums.
And he can’t help it- fuck, he can’t help it.
Even dabbing the fat of his massive thumb right over his bawling tip can’t stop the heaping torrents of gooey white escaping from him. Such slick ribbons upon ribbons crawling their way up Geto’s washboard abs, you can only watch with bated breath as his messy, round globs of seed trickle up n’ down until they drench his dark happy trail.
Your watery thighs stick together, maw falling agape because you’d be lying if you said you’d never imagined this.
You had. Once or twice or many, many times.
All splayed out on his Digimon sheets like this; meaty thighs cracked open, silky locks slathered across every inch, glasses fogged up. Ruined. Geto’s sweat-shimmered back arches off the outdated bed springs with a creak! while his hand flew furiously up and down his swollen cock.
Shit, you’re biting your lip. Syllables jumping roughly off of your heavy tongue, “S-Suguru?”
SLAM!
It’s like the sound of your voice does heavenly wonders to him.
Plump, tender balls squeezing, Geto’s free hand encloses behind his sweaty scalp and onto the headboard above him. Hard enough that the sturdy frame snaps, pale biceps flexing enough that you find your skin clammy with need.
“Fuh-fuck.” He’s hissing through clenched teeth. Staring right at your meandering form through dazed half-crescents, mouth departing endless husked grunts. And oh…oh a few more dewy droplets of cum spray out of his bawling orifice once you gulp. “Look what you’ve done t’me.”
“Y-you’re an alpha?” You finally manage to find your voice.
He snickers, the murky scent of the room growing ever-stronger. And even more than that was your own scent, mixing and melding until you felt dizzy. “And you’re in danger, little omega~”
Your widened gaze grows to lock on the way that his rugged fingers continue milking out creamy sploshes of cum. Expertly flying up, up, up– before fisting his hefty base with an airy sigh.
Large. He was so large.
And in so many ways more than one.
An alpha. He was an alpha.
Seductively sculptured body dwarfing his single bed with what looked like miles upon miles of toned, tall muscles. Were those tattoos spying out from the sides of his back?
A syrupy geyser of sap formulates between his two legs the size of your head- this was Geto Suguru?
And his cock - oh, he was so perfectly massive. Oversized, even in Geto’s engulfing hand.
So painfully hard that he was blushing a blossoming magenta near the very tip of his globular cockhead, throbbing. Pulsing. Thick lightning bolts of veins gripping down either side of his pink shaft and all the way down to his breeder balls.
With a harrowed gasp filling your lungs, you’re spotting just the barest fringe of something soaked-through and gauzy tangled underneath his digits.
Fuck.
“Is that-”
“This?” Geto grins - grins. You’ve never seen him smile let alone show off this dopey, predatory leer plastering all over his flushed features. A gentle dimple embeds near his curled lip, and he quirks an eager brow.
You can barely even think while he untwines the frilly pair of panties you’d thrown at him in class from around his aching cock. Sticky and stretched now, it finds home right near his flared nostrils as Geto brings it up and sniffs. Crazed. “C’mere.”
The rawest of glints twinkle in his half-lidded vision as you inch closer, the way you tremble on your two feet like a newborn fawn was adorable. And he can’t stop himself from letting out a low whistle–
“Yeah. Good fuckin’ girl.”
Your body kneels you right by Geto’s bedside before your mind can even think to catch up. Head lolling lecherously against the wide plane of his shivering thigh, you let your tongue lap up a pearl of his buttery white cum and keen. He was even bigger up close. “Sugu—”
“Nuh uh, gorgeous.” Geto tuts, gravelly tonality rendering you confused just as much as you were needy. His two palms grip the crown of your head to peer upwards, “S’all because of you. You n’ those d-damn panties. M’not your hck! nerdy fuckin’ Sugu right now. Best remember that- m’gonna make sure you remember that.”
He’s more than gazing down at you, he’s boring right through you.
Spectacle frames creeping precariously down his nose bridge, tendrils of his shaggy hair almost curtaining him, pellets of sweat trickle down his temples and hit you in thin spatters. So close. And you wanted him closer.
“Tilt your head back, lemme see that ngh- pretty mouth.” One hand slips from your head to curl around Geto’s fattened hilt, nudging his puckered tip to strike your lips with a dull thud! “Count.”
“One-”
And it’s not once.
“T-two-”
Not twice.
“Three- hah!”
Not thrice, until he’s leaving your mouth whimpering and stinging with the slam of his rock-hard shaft slapping down your tender flesh. Leaving a slimy trail of pre and salty cum that leaks between your maw and drives you wild.
Then - and only then - is he wrenching you up closer. Manhandling your pliable body until the very tip of his perfectly button nose meets yours. So close.
Your teary lashes flutter halfway shut once you feel the foggy breeze of his breath scorching your face, cunt quivering with the anticipation of a kiss. His pheromones hit you in powerful gusts, your primal urges scratching up to the surface.
Closer. Too close- for a kiss that never comes.
“Heh. Cute.”
He doesn’t kiss you.
But before you know it, Geto pitches his tongue back and wets your shimmery pouted lips with a large wad of his syrupy saliva.
In just a split-second.
Bowing you back underneath him and stuffing your chatty mouth so damn full of his swollen cock that you can’t even think of anything else. Fat droplets of tears fountain up at the edge of your eyes, you don’t think you’ve ever felt so split open.
He was eight- no, maybe nearing ten whole inches that scraped the back of your mushy throat with his ruthless mushroom tip.
Hard. Girthy.
Cratering out a wet circumference of bruises into your melty mouth with a singular thrust, and it wasn’t enough- fuck, it might never be enough.
Geto’s throwing his head back, toned core muscles tensing. “O-oh. This. Th-this is what it feels like?”
You almost wonder whether he even knew what he was doing once you feel a shaky thigh throwing behind your neck and reel you in close. Drawing you all the way up until your nose scratches his tufted pelvis, mouth hanging wiiidely agape.
“Sh-shooo big–” You’re mumbling through a scalding mouthful, slicked walls clenching at the realization that he had you trapped in a headlock. And by the looks of it, he was never going to let go.
“Yeah- yeah?” He shudders out, bass cracking into a zillion shatters near the end. Octaves higher. Unsteady. Meanly, Geto’s leg jostles you even further from behind to probe his shaft even deeper into your velvety mouth, your chin buckling underneath his curvaceous ballsack. Holding you still. Firmly. “Fuckin’ l-like that, don’t you?”
You can’t nod. You can’t hum affirmative. He was so bulky inside you that your lips sag underneath the sheer weight.
But your omega preens for the attention, sleek tongue zig-zagging over one of the pounding veins that poked into the roof of your mouth. And it’s enough of an answer for Geto.
Spitting out, “Oh yeah? Dirty girl. Didn’t expect your loser lil’ Sugu to have such a fat fuckin’ dick, huh?”
So fucking…rude, words teetering right on just the edge of being menacing. And you were just so gorgeous crying all over his cock like this, so much better than when you were hanging off of other alphas.
So much better when he strays a thumb to feel your filling throat, the way he’s lodged deep inside. Him. All him.
You let off a whiny gag the moment his blushing red cockhead twitches up ferally at the thought. The static cotton in your head making you slurp his length with a sloppy squelch!
He’s pushing up his glasses furiously, “Can you even take it? Seriously- acting so popular n’ mighty when you can’t even take my hngh- cock.”
And you’re about to rebuke, you’re about to- you swear.
But oh, he didn’t have mercy now.
“Whaaaat? M’just saying.” The ridges of his head press up all against every nook and cranny of your mouth, a silvery trail of drool now seeping from between your locked lips. Geto wipes away his own cobwebs of drool with the back of his mouth, giggling. Giggling when you scuffle, “S’it too big? Too big for our f-famous lil’ omega?”
Your throat aches something carnally delicious when he keeps a hold ‘round your neck to plunge into the waterlogged bottom. Bobbing your head in lewd maneuvers allll the way up n’ down. “Ngh- Sugu–”
“Hah- hah!” His glassy eyes gleam something wild, microscopic tastebuds watering all over again with just how intensely he was gawking down at you. If you didn’t know any better, you’d have said that his eyes were glowing- “Why are ya still fuckin’ speaking, gorgeous?”
It wasn’t a Command, but oh did it feel like one.
Only mere moments later and Geto’s springing himself off of the bouncy mattress to shovel your hot throat full of copious inches and leave you spellbound. Swirling a lazy few half-circles of his heavy tip where you were most sensitive.
“Cool that pretty lil’ head. You’re cuter when yer like th-this, y’know?” He groans, feeling your slippery cheeks grip his shaft in an adorable hug. Knee drawing up even tighter to hold you still while he fucked your mouth the way he’d been wishing he could for so long. “All shut up a-and mine and…”
Ah, breath wisping away. He’s prodding your poor gag reflexes at the very same time he rovers up a stray hand to squeeze your nostrils together. “-only mine.”
“Nghh- G-etooo—” And yet, he still doesn’t let up. You’re cupping Geto’s plumpened balls with a delicately loving touch, lustrous strands of spit layering your lips. “Want you.”
“Hm?”
“Want you.”
Oh.
Oh.
Those are the very same words he’s been dreaming of every single rut since meeting you. And he can’t help himself, he can’t stop himself from letting out a slew of swears and cumming.
Shocked.
“Sh-shit—” It’s all Geto can do to bite down on the plush of his bottom lip and wrangle back those embarrassing fucking whimpers on his tongue, dewy eyes sparkling with a few overstimulated tears. “You’re gonna- f-fucking…”
But he’s not given the privilege to finish his thought let alone his sentence.
Just flooding your senses with the caramel salt of his scent, and his gobs of pearly seed. Every jackhammer has Geto pinpricking it on the back of your bruised and battered throat, every squeeze of his hand around your neck makes him drool out in wiry oodles of sap more and more and more-
“S’what you w-wanted, right?” And you’re sensing the way his scent tinged with something maddened, leaving your eyes popping. “Prancing around with your hah- p-pre-heat panties and your- fuck!” Geto fights to keep his eyes from flapping closed, “Take it- ohhhh take it all.”
As if you could do anything else.
Every tiny twitch leaves your cavern flooded. Geto was cumming so hard that it was overspilling from each crevice of your lips, a silvery waterfall of cum that he’s dabbing around a thumb to smear.
Letting your pouted lips wobble at the fresh topping of white gloss, “There’s a good girl. My goood fuckin’ girl.”
Oh, there’s no doubt in your fractured mind right now that Geto Suguru was an alpha. Inhaling his deep puffs of contentment, you’re arching your back mindlessly in delight. Throat loosening with the motions to-
“Don’t swallow.”
So mean.
You don’t think you’re given the split-second to wonder otherwise before he’s grappling for the pretty column of your throat and kissing you raw.
You’re gasping when his depraved tongue smacks down between the seam of your mouth to lather in every scorching hot mess of sap he’d left behind. The mess that he made. And he was only making it messier.
Watching you through barely-cracked open pupils while he scooped up the sticky webs of seed dangling from your mouth. Scratchy buds taking over. A kiss so filthy that you felt shy to even call it that.
“Mmm—” Geto’s skidding his tongue down the buttered length of his lips, flicking over any stray droplets he could find. And something in his eyes told you that he was mere seconds away from doing it all over again. “Not bad for a first kiss.”
Fuck- what?
“Sugu- what-” You’re panting out measly syllables through the gaps of his sappy mouth. “I-I thought you’d be more…”
“What? A heh- bumbling loser?” His eyes narrow down at you, words purring sexily. “Oh, gorgeous…”
Fuck, and if the rasping growl in his tone didn’t shut you up, the way that Geto’s throwing you onto the bouncy bed sure does.
He doesn’t have a care in the world, he doesn’t have a single thought other than ripping off your flimsy clothes. Everything but those very same cherry pink panties you’d teased up at him, well- more see-through than anything right now.
Kneeing apart your jittery legs to watch the way your cunt gushes in pure need. Lips curling into a leer at the way she winks up at him through filthy masses of slick.
“Sh-she’s mine now, isn’t she?” Rumbling out, eyes wide. Unfocused. And the look on Geto’s face made white-hot trills sprint down your spine - ones you couldn’t decode between primal need and fear. “She’s…”
Ptwah!
The vicious goblet of spit that hits you this time is somehow even meaner than the last, striking at the very top of your sobbing pussy and disappearing riiiight between your folds.
“Mine.” Awestruck, Geto bullies one capped knee to smooch up against your slit. Gleaming his heated skin with the bucketloads of cute sap that you kept pouring out by the second. Geto was greedy, he was grunting. “Beg for it, omega.”
You’re squirming underneath him impatiently, clawing all over his unmoving wrists. You ached all over for something. Anything. “Don’t- don’t wanna-”
But Geto had ten times your strength and wasn’t afraid of using it. Oh, he wasn’t afraid of using it - wasn’t afraid of pinning down both your trembly hands on the bed springs with one of his. Rutting his knee up even more mercilessly, murking his pheromones until it burned of salt and spice. “Beg.”
You mewl, “P-please-”
“No stuttering.”
“Please.” And if that wasn’t enough, you’re batting your lacquered lashes up at Geto in exactly the way you knew was his weakness. Exactly the way that got you the second-highest GPA for so long. Jutting your back the perfect curvature off of the bed, “I’ll let you k-keep my panties, Suguru—?”
“Oh, giiiirl—” He husks out, leaning in so close to plant a yearning snog on your mouth. Blushing pink lips wrapping around your tongue and sucking. You always got what you wanted. “M’keeping those regardless.”
In his special drawer for all your slutty underwear, of course.
And just as soon as Geto’s kissing your lips, he’s trekking his way downwards to make sure that your other ones don’t feel left out.
“Look at her.” He breathes, words taking on an airy tone that makes him sound as if he was furious. Blistering with the anger that he’s been deprived of the heavenly proximity of your soft, seeping cunt for so long. “H-heh, if o-only those tch- popular friends of yours could see. Just look- look how wet she is f’me. All me.”
A fattened thumb fringes past your panties, and you flinch at the cold press of his silver rings. Rovering all the way to greet your puffy pussylips in languid drags uuuuup and down, pricking his manicured fingernail on the button of your clit.
Geto’s hooded lids widen, heat rushing all over his cheeks at the sloppy squelches he draws out. So easily. Adorably.
And it was true - he did have a tattoo. A splashing inking of a dragon all across Geto’s muscled back, somehow making him even more unintentionally hotter.
“And look how loud mmm–” He’s kissing the mound of your folds like a lover, lingering. Loving. Stealing deeeeep gasps of your scent, “M’gonna ruin you. Ngh- ohhh, m’gonna r-ruin you, gorgeous. Ruin ya for anyone else.”
And when Geto meant he was going to ruin you - he meant it.
“Shit.” He was going to mush his pretty features up into your sopping wet pussy until you could feel every minute, warm pant. Staring right up into the target of your fuzzy heart-eyes, “How do you- how do you taste so good.”
Every gasp he’s drinking in of your murked perfumed pheromones, showering ‘round every sense and making him dizzy.
“Squeeze- wanna feel-”
And maybe it’s his rut, maybe it’s the way your tension was so thick - but you instantaneously know what to do.
To close your legs in a deadlock around Geto’s oily scalp. Your weighty eyelids bat up and down subconsciously at the attractive way he was digging his bulging biceps into the sides of your thighs. Pulling you in closer and closer and closer. “That turns you on, huh?”
But that wasn’t all- oh, that wasn’t what he was making out with your cute cunt and begging for.
His mouth lathers over with a fresh bout of watery spit the moment your rubbery ring of muscle clench all around him. Making every ridge of his hot tongue catch on your gooey innards, the texture of it enough to drive you positively wild.
“Sh-shiiit–” You’re letting out a primal groan, clawing at his tattooed back. Chest shuddering underneath the strain of one powerful hand pinning you down. Holding you painfully still. “Suguru- want more. More.”
Slipping his slick tongue in and out of your fluttery hole, Geto keens at the way your entrance kept on trying to suck him back in.
“Fuckin’ know-” In one second, he’s pushing his cloudy glasses up his nose, and in the other he pries apart your puffed lips and caresses. “Yer turning into a fucking w-waterpark, dirty girl. Even wetter than all that p-porn I learned from…”
You’re whimpering, legs falling further n’ further open until it burned your inner quads. No matter how deeply Geto stuffed his face between them it just wouldn’t be enough.
It was almost as if…
“Heat.” He’s slurring a looong lap of his grooved tastebuds all over the lustre of your sweet, sweet juices. Free hand wrapping at his favorite position around your neck and making sure to angle your head so that you catch the twinkling droplets of slick pouring down his tongue. “You’re in heat, little omega.”
Gasping, “W-what?”
But it made sense. It was falling into place and that only made you wetter.
With a smirk, Geto swats your hands until they tangle into his silken tresses. “Lemme take care of you.” SWAT! The plapping sensation hits you before the realization that he’d run his crowned digits over to spank your perked clit. “Ngh- just sit tight n’ let your nerdy ol’ Sugu here take g-goood care of you.”
He was pleading with you - begging you - to latch onto his pretty locks and grind your pussy in repeated gyrations all over his face. Guiding him, using the hook of his pert nose as the perfect ridge to rest your throbbing clit on.
“Th-thank you, alpha—” Too good. You were giving into something baser, to let your head loll into the cushy pillow behind you in sweeping motions. And it was so cute he could cum.
“Yeah? Who- who?”
“You, Suguru.”
“Damn right.”
With every drag of his hoarse syllables, Geto was trawling his face across every inch between the beautiful legs that you had to offer.
Purposefully.
You’re holding back his endless, inky strands just to admire how pretty he looked. How ravenous. Greedy.
Fuck, Geto was making up for all these years he spent parched. Spitting out streak after streak of spittle that made your pussy pour out all over his snogging mouth. “Gonna- gonna fuck you like this w’my cock next.”
His tongue folds into your slobbery hole and slithers into every tender orifice - so staggeringly long that you were feeling a lump in your own throat.
Just a few flops into your earliest magical spots and Geto could already hear the way you were fighting to hide your little sobs.
“Th-this right here-” He’s probing a finger underneath the panties that stuck to your cunt like adhesive, letting it spring back to hit you with a smack! Tittering at your yelp, “S’mine.”
Rubbing a fat few crowns of his fingerpads at the tender area underneath the base of your pussy. Pressing down. Hard. “And her? All the w-way from here-”
Drawing sensual patterns up, up uuuup all the way to your sensitive clit, and oh- it felt so right to have him draw sultry little hearts on your weepy hood.
Tugging it over to nip underneath one sharp canine - one that you swear had grown even longer in the last few minutes. Geto was gone in the depths of his rut, hallowing out his cheeks to eat you out as if he was a man starved. And you were his favorite dessert. “To here? S’mine, too.”
RIIIIIP—!
Through your glossy heaps of tears, you can make out the fuzzy shapes of Geto tearing your satiny underwear into tatters. Balling it up into a wad of sugarcoated fabric that he unapologetically stuffs in your drivelling mouth.
“Gonna add these t-to my collection.” You feel him smile against the outer edges of your claggy cunt, tittering at the stupid way your overspilling lips slacken with a soggy pwah! You’re hearing and feeling a long-winded woooosh from below once he takes a deeeep breath in with his over-delicate senses. “Th-thereeee we go. Cum all over my mouth, gorgeous.”
And if you were in any better state of mind perhaps you’d have noticed the way that Geto’s driving his hips into the bed like a damn dog when he sensed your scent peaking. Sensed you getting closer.
Ragged breaths striking your quivering pussy mercilessly and making your teeth sink desperately into the muggy jumble of underwear in your mouth.
Your broken moans burst out even through that particular watergate, right along with a slithery trickle of saliva and a huff of “S-Suguru—” Craning your head to watch his nostrils flare with knowing, “Close- clo- cumming.”
Eyes flashing. Heart thumping not just within your rib cage.
When it rains, it pours.
But you weren’t just pouring - you were flooding.
Such glutinous ropes of your orgasm, it sprays Geto’s sexy face in squirts. Clinging onto the edge of his glasses and forming little puddles right at the apples of his high cheeks.
Suddenly, you were oh-so-thankful for the way he’d stuffed your mouth mercilessly full - because by the rusted rasp in your throat, you’re sure you’re singing out shrill trills loud enough that his neighbors would file a noise complaint.
But that was the last thing on his mind.
The last thing- well, fuck, it wasn’t on his mind at all. Geto’s cooing at how unstable you feel, treacherous fingers mazing across your fat clit and giving her a goood few pushes just the way he would with his gameboys.
“Good girl-” he spits into your gapingly widened cunt, still suffering from the remnant tremors of your high and still slopping out wads of juices. Like a mantra, Geto’s dark brows scrunch in concentration, “Good girl good girl gooood fucking girl.”
Words hitching up into something shrill near the edge, he sounded as if he was fraying his sanity with every droplet of slick you pumped into his mouth. With every single second.
Pushing his aching hot cock deeper and deeper into the sullied sheets. More. He needed more.
Every sloppy swivel of your widely pried-apart pussy on his tongue made him leave an open-palmed smack! on your thigh. Other hand traipsing to pin your hips down with his big, vein-decorated forearm.
He doesn’t want to let go.
You’re barely letting off a whine at the lack of friction before Geto lets his mouth depart from your cunt with a soggy pwah! Leaving a final few French kisses on his favorite sweet orifice, he’s pecking a loooong open-mouthed pathway up to your loosened maw.
“Good girl…” He hiccups, clammy forehead sticking against yours. Each syllable struggles to wrench past the leaden ball slowly forming on Geto’s mouth.
The syrup-glazed lenses of his glasses clash into you, and Geto himself seems to notice. “Look what a fuckin’ mess ya made.” He’s gruffing out at the thick topping of oozing gloss that made the frame impossible to see through.
Immediately pulling back a few millimeters to take them off and dump them on your own nose bridge. Unceremoniously.
And it was so wet.
Almost as wet as Geto’s features were - all showered in gunky dredges of glistening sap. It streaks all the way from his pointed chin and up to his handsome cheekbones. Beads of it hitting your panting chest in a pat! pat! pat!
Heaving out a shaky exhale, he’s pushing away a few elegant strands of charcoal bangs.
“M’gonna…m’gonna fuck you now.” Sounding more as if he was talking to himself rather than you. Or perhaps both. Puffy folds being rubbed all raw with the depraved back and forth of his veiny under-shaft. “Gonna fuck you. So take it- take it.”
Geto stares deep into your whirling eyes while he sinks his hefty cock into you just as thoroughly. A clingy film sticks to his gaze, dazed and all half-hooded that you wondered if he could even register what was in front of him.
Crazed.
And he’s such a fucking tease, too.
Creating a slimy trail of pasty pre all over your weakened inner thighs, he drags his bawling divot all over every stretch of your entrance. Around and around in circles.
“B-big, huh? Better take it b-before I- make it- fit-” He’s echoing, dimples peaking out at the cute way your breath hitches once you feel the sheerly massive circumference of his fat tip. “Shhhh shh sh, s’alright- s’where you’re m-meant to ngh- be.”
Even for an alpha, he was always staggering - but having him stuffing you to the brim would be a whole other feeling. Would have you ruined.
You’re peering up at him through humid lashes, borrowed glasses smearing wet splotches of slick underneath your skin. Eventually, those panties had found themselves spilling out of your unfastened jaw, “Meant to- hah! be?”
“Mhmmm— pretty omega.” You’re hit with a sudden wave of coaxing pheromones, the gentle salty breeze making your hips buck subconsciously upwards. Subconsciously aching. “This s’where you’re ngh- meant to be.”
And as much as Geto loved hearing whiny questions bubble their way up to your spit-layered lips, oh- was it so much more fun to eye down at your speechless self when he snugly squeezes just a mere sensual inch.
Leaning back to watch the way his bustling cock was stretching and stretching and stretching your tender walls flawlessly. You were taking him so ridiculously well.
“Fuh-fuck you-” His plush pecs rumble with his bass from above, words tumbling. Hips rolling. And Geto was fucking gone- staring at you with wide, humorless eyes that you doubt were even seeing. “Fuck you- m’fucking you…fuck you fuck you fuck!”
With every sharp fah! being whirled into your loose mouth, Geto rubs his puffed-up veins into the tender mound of your cunt. You can’t help but count every rapid ba-dump—! his achy length throbs.
Desperately. Rutting and rutting just to fit himself inside.
Around the time he’s only halfway in, Geto circles one hand over his drenched base to skid taut O’s at the edge of your hole. Nudging his fat girth past your entrance and keening-
“M-more!” You’re barking out primally, your tongue tied into all sorts of bows and ribbons with the way this stretch was searing. And it was the best sort of tight fit, you were practically drooling all over again at the fleshy thwack! of Geto’s rounded balls smacking your thighs. “More, Sugu—”
“M-more…?”
It wasn’t just you - your luna needed more, too.
You’re nodding and nodding- only to realize with a harsh muffle of Geto’s palm over your noisy mouth that he wasn’t even talking to you.
No, he was tittering away in a small sort of voice. Octaves higher. Strained. Goosebumps smatter all across your skin at the way he sounded so unstable.
“More…” Irises flashing a glowy purple, fingers twitching where he held you. A loser like him. A nerd like him. “M-more she says.”
Fuck.
Without another word - without another breath - Geto’s flipping you around with only one beefy palm clawing at your hip. Shoving your face deep into the puff of his nerdy pillows, he’s bottoming out with just one thrust-
You think you scream, you think you bawl once you feel his plummy mushroom head draw a long line of pre along the insides of your cervix. And your pussy felt so full you could burst, your walls crushed with all overpacked inches of his.
Finally.
“Thaaaat’s it, that’s it-” He’s grunting through furiously clenched teeth, a hand crowning the back of your scalp and muffling your words into the bed. Hard. Fuck- he was going to pass out if you made another pretty sound. “S’where you belong.”
Ah, there it is - that little broken prayer.
Except, this time it was being respired in boiling hot pants against the tips of your ears. Was being wheezed out of Geto when he lurches his sweat-simmered hips back to hit your ass with a resounding pap!
“All f-fucked dumb on my ngh- biiig fucking cock, hm?” He tilts your head up with one hand, smiling to himself once he catches a glittery flash of spit leaking from your lips. “All…” A warm splatter! strikes your back, and only then do you realize that he’s slobbering. “Mine.”
And where Geto was talking all possessively - he was fucking you even more so.
In the blink of an eye, he’s planting two sets of fingers on either of your wrists and pulling all the way back, back, back. A length foot being placed right at the small of your spine to get you to bend in a delicious arch-
“Fuck!” Your cute voice rings hoarse, like music to his blushing ears. Struggling to regain the gasps of air leaving your lungs, “There- th-there.”
Oh, shit.
The way Geto was manhandling you was not only bending you in all sorts of lecherously pliable ways that had your slit dripping, it was making his rotund cockhead stub oh-so-viciously into your cervix.
Rough. Probing.
“H-heh, guess I lost my first kiss there, too.” He’s giggling out, biting down on the rugged mewls that threaten to depart every time your cunt swallows him whole. “Congrats on being my ngh- first, little omega— yer e-even better than my ngh- bodypillows of you.”
Bending you over ever-deeper, honestly- your walls were cloying onto him so desperately that it was making Geto’s heart pang with disappointment every time his ruddied tip recoiled back from the bottom of your sloppy pussy.
He wanted to be this close to you forever.
Treacling out stringy wads of pre, he’s furrowing brows and making sure each n’ every jackhammer fills you up impossibly.
You can barely grapple for air at this point, the sloshes of syrup left after each barrelling strike leaving you star-struck.
He grins, “Shit, d-do ya ever stop fuckin’ drooling? Gonna hafta call the f-fire department, girl.”
“Can’t help it–!” All you can do it let your mouth unlatch to warble whimper after whimper–
“C’mon now, gorgeous- aren’t ya ashamed?” Licking his lips free of your taste, Geto diverts more pressure to his foot. Hefty balls rippling wickedly against the sobbing end of your slit with just how easy you were to throw around like his favorite toy. Like his favorite figurines. “Look at what a mess yer making. Being fucked so f-filthy. And I haven’t even ngh- found it, yet.”
Haven’t found it. Oh, but he knew he was going to. He was going to make you scream.
Your syrupy whines slip into something desperate, “Y-you don’t know…?”
“Of course I f-fuckin’ know. Who d’ya think you’re ngh talking to?” As if you could forget you were being thoroughly pounded by the smartest person on campus right now. And evidently the filthiest, too.
A ringed finger treks down to your sensitive nub, soothing over where you were throbbing the most violently. Cute. Lulling you into a sweet, sweet state of bliss before Geto pinches–
“Oh p-please!” You’re targeting your hazy vision over your shoulder, and somewhere along the lines Geto’s spectacles had slid cleanly off of you. Toes curling as his bloated head bludgeons just the creamy edges near your g-spot. “Please- y-you’re so close, Suguru-”
You didn’t know whether it was your heat or just Geto that had you so desperate. Your sparkless mind blames the latter.
“Am I?” He hums, leaning over so that the soft tendrils of his hair tickled your back.
Whacking his painfully achy crownhead mere centimeters below your magical spots, and you’re starting to think he’s doing this on purpose.
Geto starts holding it there for lingering French snogs into the steamy inner depths of your cunt and then you know he’s doing this on purpose. Spitting in your mouth with a smile.
That mean bastard.
Jittering your hips to chase the texture of his curly pubic hair against your ass, he snickers. “Are you ngh- suuuure? You haven’t done a s-single one of your ngh- human biology essays lately, dirty girl.”
You’re molding your lips into a pout - difficult, with just how many loads of saliva were pouring out of you and cementing a puddle onto the Digimon pillows. “F-fuck you.”
“No…” You set free a gasp of air you didn’t know you were holding the very second he lets go of the rough foot anchoring your spine, instead- in only mere nanoseconds you find yourself jerked up into Geto Suguru’s hold with a hand at your throat. Back gluing against his glissading abs, even his voice was unbalanced and trembling now. “I’m fucking you, little omega.”
And you were about to remember it.
With an immediate pitch of his gasping breaths, Geto’s angled hips go from steadily ruined to sloppy. Calculated.
He didn’t care if he made a mess of stringy slick that circled in the satiny sheets around the two of you, he didn’t care if your eyes were bulging out of their poor sockets when his pronounced hips dig into your backside with blistering bruises.
He didn’t care for anything but digging the curled fringe of his fatly bloated tip right into the target of your g-spot.
Mazing through your gluey folds and keeping them snugly open with his reddened girth, Geto knocks your sweetest spots with vengeance.
“There–!” You call out, as if he hadn’t already felt the gooey seize of your pussy trying to hold him hostage.
His mouth trudges over your throat, fingers roaming over to give your clit a nice few pinches. Meaningfully, “Here? Orrrr–” Punctuating each word, each second with a thorough drilling into your g-spot. “-here? Make up th-that ditzy lil’ mind. Seriously.”
Your head drunkenly crashes on top of his collarbone and stays there, “R-right here- there. Both, Sugu.”
“Again with the f-fucking Sugu-” Geto snarls out, though you can sense by his cloudy scent that he was anything but irritated with you.
Your whines had quietened down into something more of an incoherent mess, and the main things ringing in Geto’s ears right now were the creaky protests of his bed and the clammy plops of his thrusts.
“C’mon now— where’s my bossy fuck! omega? The one who loves her poor, nerdy Sugu?”
Arousal reaching a peak, and now that he’d found your g-spot, he was probing into it with fat thuds. Not just once or twice. Nooooo, it was over and over and-
“Just w-wanna cum—” you’re sobbing out. Jerking your body like a bobble-head up and down to further feel the drag of his Herculean form behind you, to savor each ridge and sculpted curve sweatily massaging your back. “P-pleeeeease, Suguru. Let me cum?”
Swerving his tensing hips out alllll the way back to leave solid smooches ‘round your pussy entrance each and every time, and then there were the squelches-
Oh, you were just flooding a slippery sheen all over his hefty, swelling base. A viscid luster of slick that glided all the way down to drip off of his sack n’ between his legs.
Your eyes manage to snatch themselves open- hissing at the realization that it was pooling especially around that particularly ballooned-up ring right over Geto’s breeder balls.
Was that? With a shiver you’re rutting backwards, feeling for yourself the slow drag of his proud knot. Bigger than any else you’ve ever seen. It was.
You rasp, throat itchy and raw. Sweltering droplets of tears streaming down your cheeks when he matches the stuttering beat of your heart with every pressurized push- “P-please.”
“Needy thing. Cum, huh?” Geto drawls out, voice thick with need and something else you were too stupid to register right now. He collides you even tighter against rippling pecs. Taking the sweet, sweet opportunity to poke his nose into your scent gland and steal a looooong breath of your overdriven pheromones.
“Cum then, c-cum. Fucking cum all over my cock.”
Fuck, it’s with those exact words in mind that you do.
Startling straight headfirst into your high - and you don’t think you’ve even crashed into one wave of bliss before the other overtakes you. And another. And another-
“Oh g-god—” You’re trilling, only held up by the ruthless grip that Geto was maintaining. His hips were deep, and your pleasure even deeper. “-please. Please- please, Sugu-”
He’s hunching over your body ever-so-slightly, resting your thighs against his thick, flexing ones. Only bending you over to kiss your g-spot even more sinfully, Geto’s response comes out ragged into your lobes. “Tch, wh-what now?”
His ruby-red tip was blushing like a strawberry and just as plump - swirling around your treasure trove of spots, pounding you through each peak of your orgasm until you saw stars.
“Cum i-insiiiide-” Your barely-audible groans spring out into the heady air, adding to its hypnotic mix of perfumes. And it’s not just the heat that made you crave Geto carnally, every pap! against the puffy ring at his base making you crave more more more- “Want it a-all up…”
You’re trailing off, melted mind unable to do multiple things at once.
With tottering fingerpads, you’re trapping one of his palms underneath your own. Homing itself right above where his rounded tip was stretching open your insides, right above your womb.
“H-here, okay? Don’t miss-”
You blink up at him and Geto thinks he might just be having a heart attack. Sparks fizzing around his sloshed brain, “Fuh-fuuuuck– don’t talk out of yer pussy, gorgeous.” He spanks your clit once. Twice just to watch your eyes glaze over stupidly. “Or m’gonna get you pregnant.”
Soothing over that faint bulge he was fucking into your tummy, “Gonna h-have my baby growing allll up in here. Make you round and…” His voice sounds faint, whispering. “-big and…glowing. And…and pregnant.”
But, ah- you never did make it easy for him. Did you? Always had to have your way.
Which Geto Suguru gladly gave.
“But I want that, Sugu—” You pout, “Wan’ your knot…please?”
You didn’t have to say another word before Geto’s finishing off in such a messy way, reaching the biggest fucking orgasm he’s had in his entire life. The strongest. The most heavenly and oh- oh, were you an angel?
He’s collapsing onto the drenched sheets before he knows it, pinning you down with the strong v-line of his hips.
“Shit-” Geto emits through the cracks in his bitten canines. “Shit shit shit- shit-”
You don’t know who’s losing their mind more, you or him. Falling into the well of a second, third, perhaps even fourth orgasm with how blissfully his fattened, split-ended cock bruised every nook of your adhesive-like walls.
Your saliva cascades in puddles that soak the pillows through. “Suguruuu— a-are you okay-”
“Do I look okay?”
Sexily ridged abs kneading your back, hands scrambling on the mattress, inked shoulders shivering. His swollen knot hits and hits your pussymound.
And it’s only once his trembly fingers latch around his glasses - fumbling, dropping it copious times before Geto manages to push them haphazardly onto his face.
Tilting his head back just enough degrees to watch as the curved fringe of his knot disappears past your puffy folds.
“There we- there…” He’s driveling clingy wads of translucent saliva, letting the stray pouring excess hit your fluttering hole with a splat! One eager thumb of Geto’s hooks into your entrance and bullies it aside to let his incredible perimeter sink iiiiiiiiin-
He’s melting into you now, spent. Ruined. “Get pregnant.” Geto whispers into your sweat-glossed shoulder blade once he feels the back of his knot get fully enveloped into your pussy with a gummy pop! Once he feels himself finally tip over- “Get pregnant.”
And it’s not just mindless babbling - it’s a promise.
A promise that he rasps out time and time against with every wadded slip of seed that dollops out across your cervix. Pushing it so deep. Smearing acres of ribbony streaks all over your most precious orifices and spots.
“Gonna know wh-what we did.” Geto whimpers, shit- he couldn’t pound his voluminous ounces of cum into you as aggressively as he wanted with this damn knot. “Entire campus. Professors. Everyone’s gonna know ngh- how I fucked ya full. F-fucked you pregnant. Gonna wonder.”
But that didn’t stop him from trying.
That didn’t stop him from wrenching out a hand to squeeze the ends of your sopping wet slit, forcing down on his very knot. Squeezing out so many numerous dredges of syrupy white cum that thwack! thwack! thwacks! a filthy second skin against your walls.
“Fuh-fuuuuck— get pregnant, gorgeous.” He’s rutting. Grinding. Humping you like some beast more than man. “Gonna l-look at you all round n’ big and see me- me me me. Get pregnant get pregnant get-”
Geto’s mouth parts at the pearly dewdrops of seed that leak from the overstuffed ends of your cunt. He can feel his entire body twitch, can feel his sharpened teeth lacquer so rabidly.
He still wasn’t done.
Still letting one prespired forearm of his dangle around your neck, manhandling you into a fucking headlock. The other tracing the edges of his digits over your glands, squeezing until your skin was all tender and raw.
And puffy.
Perfect for him to tilt his head and bite—
“Ohhh- yes!” Every fibre of your being delights at the way Geto’s biting you so hard that you can smell crimson iron. Your pheromone bubble pops! to mix together with his own. Becoming one. And you can scent him - you can feel him.
Glasses clashing, teeth tearing. Before you know it, you’re doing the same. “Suguruuuu— m’yours.”
Your mate latches onto the curves of your hips - your soon-to-be birthing hips.
And the way Geto rediscovers that - tucking his face into the ruined, drenched fabric of those cherry pink panties and taking an endless, husky sniff - tells you that this was going to be a long, loooong night.
