hiiiiiiii im moving blogs!!! ive decided to on a whim since i figured out the main reason why i don’t write or feel even remotely motivated to is because of this account. LMFAO
i will have it up tmr and ill link it as well :3 feel free to follow me there
image frying my brain of bf!suguru gently guiding you into an alleyway so he can hold you nice and steady against the wall and kiss you the way he likes without making you feel shy about being seen in public . click post. also his lips taste like citrus fruit
IT’S TRUE I NEVER WRITE, BUT I WOULD GLADLY DIE WITH YOU. ; SUGURU GETO
synopsis; ”You think he wanted to remain a respectful underclassman, never treading too far beyond his bounds. You're pretty sure it was also something else.”
contents; suguru geto/gn!reader, cult leader era geto, (former) senpai!reader, literally just a long conversation, geto kidnaps you (kind of).
w/c; 4.0k
a/n; rip suguru geto u would’ve been sooooo cute pining for a cool upperclassman . alas the horrors must claim you . but it would’ve been so sweet
Your blood coats the asphalt in crimson dye.
There's a throbbing behind your ear, vicious and heavy. Like your skull split open, cracked right down the middle. Maybe it did — you can't tell, can't move your hands to even check. Lying on an abandoned street, with a grating ringing in your ears, your limbs numb and unresponsive. Iron blooms inside your mouth, thick and heady. It's dripping out, from the corners of your busted lip; warm, sticky liquid trickling down your jaw. When you try to move your fingers, a sharp jab of pain shoots through them.
You're bleeding out. Your skin is burning. There is no cursed energy around you.
… You figure the blast must have taken out the curse, too.
(Will you die like this, you wonder? You can't text Shoko. You doubt she'd make it in time, anyway. Once the faculty takes note of your absence, it'll be too late.)
When you try to sigh, more blood spills out, eager to exit your dying body. Wriggling, gurgling worms, made of plasma and platelets, scrambling from the underside of a rock to seek shelter in the sun. Hot flashes of pain wrack through you. Then a cold, cold feeling, when you're sure it'll melt you; shivers clattering down your neck to gnaw at your spinal cord. Your body feels as if doused in sea water. Dizziness, weariness. Your body feels like a casket.
You wish you had somebody to say goodbye to.
(Just as your consciousness begins to fade — a shadow flickers overhead.)
Then, nothing.
When you come to, you face an unfamiliar ceiling.
A square-shaped lamp shines down on you. For a moment, you wonder if you're at the morgue; the grating light an all-too familiar sensation, a shooting star burning through the roof above her operating table. But that light is colder, more sterile.
This one is warm. Yellow ripples of light.
It lulls you awake. Pinpricks behind your eyes, absent twitches of your fingertips — you can feel them, move them, puppet strings intact — you didn't die. Unless this is heaven, but you doubt your heaven would smell of anything but summertime.
Not jasmine oil. Not soft notes of laundry detergent. Velveteen blankets cover your body, thick and fluffy, freshly washed — and all you can smell is just that.
(Homey, you think. What home would feel like.)
Warmth envelops you, and not a single one of your bones ache or splinter. There's a soreness in your limbs, and the room twists when you lift yourself upright, a wave of nausea rippling through your throat — but that's all. Inhale, exhale, and you're fine.
You squeeze your eyes shut, and open them again.
All you see is black and white; the clothes you're wearing and the blankets pooled atop your thighs. Fabric against fabric, a silky friction that almost distracts you from the fact you're wearing someone else's jinbei — it's light, loose around your shoulders, a smidge too big. Someone undressed you, helped you out of your blood-soaked uniform. Someone slipped you into this and tucked you in.
Someone is just behind the door, their fingers reaching for the handle.
(Your senses must be dulled, to only notice them now.)
It opens without so much as a creak. And in comes a woman, unfamiliar, her lips dyed cherry red — you think of asphalt, of iron — her hair reaching past her shoulders in soft strawberry waves. A tight, purple dress hugs her curves, and you're fairly sure she saw you glancing at her boobs just now. There's a hint of distaste in her eyes.
Sharp cuts of jade.
"You're awake," she acknowledges, her voice carefully neutral. Staying by the door, and watching you with purpose. "How are you feeling?"
"… Not too bad." You cringe at the sound of your own voice, worn at the edges. "Did you rescue me?"
"No." A beat, her eyes scanning the expression on your face, as if weighing your intentions. It goes on, for a moment, this silent vivisection — a look of distrust you can't help but be amused by. "… Geto-sama is waiting for you. I'll escort you to him."
— The world comes to a standstill.
"… Huh?"
"He'll explain everything," she assures you, but you can't quite hear her through the ringing of your ears. Geto. Ge-to. It's not a coincidence, it can't be—
(That's right. His room always smelled of jasmine buds, didn't it?
You snuck in there more than once. How could you have forgotten?)
"… Geto," you echo, your voice a foreign thing, the name a buried heirloom. Vacantly, you think you can still taste the iron from before. "Geto Suguru?"
"That's right," she sighs.
A resounding clap breaks you out of your reverie. Her hands coming together.
"Come on," she beckons. "I'd rather not keep him waiting."
She turns on her heel, and exits the room. You're given no time to regain your bearings; forced to scramble out of bed, bare soles against the tatami mat on the floor, following closely behind her. No time to linger, though a pit of foreboding carves a cavern in your stomach, your innards tied in knots.
Inhale, exhale.
Geto Suguru.
(He's waiting for you. What does that mean, exactly?)
You don't know. You didn't think Suguru — Geto — whatever you should call him — was still alive, let alone still in Japan. You're forced to bear the weight of those implications, as you wade through a narrow hallway. The air smells of dust, faraway clusters of sweet-scented incense. Everything is quiet.
You can almost hear your own heart, beating slowly. Pumping hot blood to your brain.
"What's your name?" you ask, finally matching your steps to the stranger. Slipping your hands into your pockets. "That's the least you could tell me, I think."
"… Manami Suda," she tuts, restlessly. "As I've already informed you, Geto-sama will tell you of the rest."
"… sama?"
"Yes."
You eye her, another question on your lips; but you swallow it down. She doesn't seem all too keen in keeping this conversation alive.
It doesn't matter, either.
(Geto-sama. That's what he goes by, these days?
It doesn't suit the cute, polite kouhai you remember. Then again, blood never suited him, either. Neither did the taste of cheap tobacco.
… You're pretty sure he only ever tried it to impress you.)
"We're here."
Manami stops just in front of a sealed-shut sliding door, sheets of paper catching the light from within. They shimmer, in the dim corridor, beckoning you forward. A feeling of dull dread creeps into your cells.
An all-too familiar bundle of cursed energy.
"I'll leave you to it," she continues, that same concealed edge to her voice. "But just so you're aware — Geto-sama is risking a lot by bringing you here. More than you could imagine."
She turns her head, to look at you properly.
(Jade aglow with angered love.)
"… So don't be cruel to him."
And then she's leaving.
You're left behind, left alone; staring into her eyes until she turns away. A deep, steadying breath. Inhale, and exhale. Your fingers twitch for a cigarette.
They reach, instead, for the door.
— Inside, a silhouette sits under dimming moonlight.
His back is all you can see. Silky locks of black hair, pooling on the floor, spilled ink on the tatami mat beneath him; sets of robes framing his figure, cloaking him in silk. The shoji screens are agape, leaving space for him to sit by the edge and look outside — for moonlight to flood his chambers.
It makes him look illusive.
"… You're here," comes a familiar voice, tailored with silk, and all you can think is why didn't you call me? He rises to his feet before you can get any words out. When he turns around, a smile on his lips, your breath halts at the base of your throat.
"It's been a while."
Monolids. Sharp facial lines. Eyes that gleam with fondness.
(He's beautiful. Like a lioness.)
"… It has," you echo, watching his bangs sway with the breeze. "Geto-sama."
A cat's blink. His smile falls, lashes fluttering; the backdrop for a rumbling laugh.
"Ah, don't tease me." His grin blinds your world, cuts and cuts and cuts into your tender flesh. "Though I suppose I should have expected as much."
"I suppose so," you murmur, vacantly, casting a glance around you. Nothing much to see, only scrolls across the walls, mantras of some kind. A mellow scent floats about the room, chestnuts and torn up fruit flesh — it's green tea, you realize, a teapot exhaling sweet-smelling steam from a small table in the middle of the room. It drifts between the shoji screens, and up into the midnight sky. Mist-like.
Then there's the incense, of course.
(It's starting to fade, but you can still pick up on the main notes. Burning jasmine buds and smoke.)
"Was Manami good to you?"
The question drags your gaze up to meet his own. Suguru tilts his head, bangs framing eyes that spark and fizzle with something joyous — fireworks, a summer festival, crammed into his eye socket just for you to see. Golden, even in the dark.
"… She was a little mouthy, to be honest." You give a shrug. "Don't fire her, though."
A chuckle leaves his lips, sharpened by midnight fatigue. "Of course not," he flicks his wrist, as if to wave you off. "She isn't an employee. She's family."
A questioning gaze. You're tempted to pry, but decide against it — it's really not your business if this robe-clad emperor has a concubine or two.
… Though that look in her eye was something far deeper.
Something like trust.
"Ah, but where are my manners?" Suguru smiles, blindingly, turning to gesture towards the opened shoji. "Please, have a seat. I hope you still like tea?"
You only hum. Watching him crouch in front of the table, readying two oval cups. They're pure white, flecked with painted branches, golden ginkgo leaves. There's a reverence to the way he pours — both his hands cradling the teapot, as hot water spills, trickles against ceramic, gathers at the base of the cups and begins to fill them up. Slowly, slowly, as if each drop is precious enough to warrant a moment of silence.
You're hypnotized.
A memory comes to you; winter mornings, early missions, a kouhai in the kitchen even on days he could have slept in. Him, with a thermos in hand, warm to the touch, childish patterns of cherry blossoms etched into the plastic coverage.
You'd carry it with you, tucked between your arm and ribs. Like a second heartbeat.
His hands are larger, now. Calloused.
Gentle, even still.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, once you've plopped down on the floor. His robes flutter right next to you, carried by a pleasant nighttime breeze.
It glides across the apples of your cheeks. "Just fine," you answer, and you mostly aren't lying. He doesn't need to know about the quivers of your soul— that's the burden of an upperclassman. A burden you’d gladly have carried alone.
(It was always meant to be the other way around. You don't think he ever realized.)
It's difficult to free yourself from the straying of your thoughts. You aren't at Jujutsu High, anymore. You lull the monsters in your head to sleep. It's been ten years, and the blood that needed to spill has long been scrubbed off the walls. You were too late.
There's no use in thinking about inevitable partings.
"I'll assume you're the one who rescued me," you inhale, then exhale, leaning back with your palms on the tatami to gaze at the garden ahead. Beyond his chambers— bushes blooming with camellia, a pond gleaming moon-blue under the veil of night. Ripples upon the water. The night sky looks bottomless.
It's a painting, you think. A mess of oil and watercolour. The black is smudged with silver stains, no longer untouchable.
"I brought you here, yes," his voice buzzes to your right, dragonfly-esque. ”After you passed out."
"Mm. I think I saw you."
"Oh? Did you, now?"
He's looking at you. You can feel it. When you turn your head, amber eyes coil into slits; a matching smile flecked on his lips, before he raises his cup to cover it.
A long, silent sip.
"I was worried, you know." He turns to face the garden, and the moon dyes his skin cornflower blue. "I was sure I'd be too late. Fortunately, I got there just in time."
He's beautiful, you think, but he looks more like a statue than a human being. As if to make sure that he's really there, you give his flowing sleeves a tug. His gaze responds, flits up to meet your own — a success, a flicker, a dog jumping for a bone.
You give him a raise of your brow.
"So… you kidnapped me," you deadpan.
"Kidnapped?" he gives out a breathless chuckle. "That's a little much."
A beat.
"But you did almost die." His smile evens out, an expression of calculated calm reigning his face back into something unreadable. Tap, tap, the pads of his fingers tapping rhythmically against his bended knee. "If I hadn’t been there, you would have bled out… so, at the very least, I'd like you to reconsider your choice."
Your choice. It's spoken with an underlying note of disapproval; something that sparks a twitch at your brow, because you know exactly what he means. ”Why were you there?" you ask, a sharpness to your tongue. "Just in time… that's awfully convenient."
Suguru's fingers come to a halt. A perfect smile, eyes closed into crescents, his voice velvet smooth. ”If I told you fate brought me to you, would that be so bad…?"
You give him a fixed stare.
Silence.
"… You're no fun," he sighs. Smile slipping right off. "I may have sent a curse or two to supervise you… on occasion. For safety reasons, mind you.”
"Of course," you exhale, weary with exasperation. You really should have known. ”You know… that's something I really hate about you, Suguru."
He blinks. Twice, like a cat — he doesn't seem upset. You wonder if the call of his name quells him from your abrasive tone. "Let's hear it," he smiles.
Outside, in his garden, bushes flutter with the breeze. Rounded, blurry leaves, golden green ripples — from where you're sitting they look like shimmering bells, flickering about. Dancing, ruthlessly, torn from the branches to join the pile of crimson red petals on the ground. It's not cold outside, only pleasantly chilly. A summer evening you’re all too used to. You think of his child-like, high school, yet-to-be-ruined face. You think of all your talks on the roof of Jujutsu High.
You turn to look at him, sparing no apologies.
"You're a hypocrite."
Suguru looks back at you, silently.
"You made the choice to leave — and, well, there was nothing I could do about it. Nothing we could do." You chew at the tender inside of your cheek. "But I can’t choose to stay a sorcerer, because… it’s dangerous? Well, that's just stupid."
What's even more stupid is being a curse user in a world with Satoru-chan in it.
The words are left unsaid.
"… You have no right to lecture me about danger."
There's an exhale on his cupid's brow. It spills out when he speaks, lips raised in cordiality. "If that's how you feel, so be it."
His nonchalance makes you twitch. Bone fatigue fuelling your bitter spiel — your sharp gaze burning holes into his body, as your lips part. ”I mean, what were you expecting? Bring me here, keep me here… and then what? Just hope I agree to join you?" you let out a breathy scoff, fighting off a bout of laughter. "After all these years. Zero phone calls, mind you."
"I'm sorry."
"I don't care." A white lie, a fiend for a fiend. "I just don't understand you, right now."
…
The lamp flickers, overhead. A housefly buzzes against the paperthin shoji sheets, like a mimicry of the cicadas singing on the tree-trunks outside. It fills the silence. Keeps you from thinking too much.
When he speaks, it's in honeyed vowels.
"… I didn’t mean to upset you," he nearly whispers, so gentle it could disappear in the space between you. He sounds sincere, if nothing else. "I’m not taking your choice away from you. I just couldn’t bear to see you lose your life in such a meaningless way…"
Sour bile settles at the base of your throat.
("If you'd like to, you can kill me, Senpai."
You're standing at a crossroads, at the very edge of the cauldron to hell. He turns to look at you, before he leaves for good. Golden eyes aglow with purpose.
”If it's you, there's meaning to it. I won't try to resist.")
"… Meaning," you sigh, smiling ruefully. The word tastes like ash. "I'm not you, Suguru. I don't need it."
A flicker in his eyes. A disapproving sputter, in the pitch-black, silver-blue sea of his soul, like a reprimand he's opted to swallow. He was always good at that — with you, at least. He'd gobble up lectures, replace them with kind nagging. You think he wanted to remain a respectful underclassman, never treading too far beyond his bounds. You're pretty sure it was also something else.
His expression shifts, just then. You feel it in the air.
Suguru is silent. His eyes flutter shut.
"… So that's your answer?"
There's no use responding. This midnight rendezvous is drawing to a close, you can feel it in your bones, in the weight of your heartbeat when you silently rise to your feet. The air tastes crispy, a mouthful of non-existent smoke. You savour it, one last time — before casting a glance towards the man at your feet.
"Thank you for the tea."
Your cup is exactly where he left it; in the too-small, too-large space between your bodies. Untouched. Suguru gazes at it, for a moment, without making a sound.
…
Right as you turn towards the door, he speaks.
"I could just keep you here, you know."
An airy scoff — you almost laugh. ”Uh huh."
"I could force you," he continues, seamlessly, as if you aren't even there. His voice takes on a chilly quality, his expression obscured. "I could keep you here, with me. Until you learn to see things from my point of view… make it so you can’t reach anyone at Jujutsu High. Make it so they'll never find you."
…
He rises to his feet. Robes swaying, like a pair of heavy bells — closing the distance between you, until you can spot every spark of gold in his eyes. His hair becomes a veil, all-encompassing, shielding you from the light of the lamp and the glow of the moon —
and his hand, ever so gently, reaches for your cheek.
("I feel like I could tell you anything. I wonder why that is?")
"But I won't."
The pads of his fingers never meet your skin.
Suguru sighs, a touch longingly. Staring at your face, as if admiring something he will never get to keep. Cautiously, he tucks a lock of hair behind your ear — something in his gaze softens when you let him. For a moment, he is quiet, like a child lulled to sleep.
The phantom of his body heat sears his name into your neck.
"… I value you too much for that," he whispers.
Blurry stars shiver in the night sky above. Try as you may not to follow their example, your voice still shakes when it pries apart your lips.
"Great. Thanks.” You snort, craning your neck away from his greedy fingers. ”What a model kouhai."
”I learned from the best." His voice is caramel, teasing you, his hand falling to his side — albeit reluctantly. A moment passes, and his lips follow, falling into a thin line. Crumbling under the weight of his thoughts. "Just… be careful. If I find you like that again, I'm not sure I’ll be able to contain myself."
"I'm not like you," you remind him. "I don't want to die. Not yet, anyhow…"
Suguru doesn’t respond. You catch the haunting of ghosts, at the corners of his eyes, shadows framing his face just right. Still, a smile on his lips, just a second later.
Nothing but dead weight.
"… I suppose that'll do."
The air between you grows stale. You're vaguely aware that you should turn towards the door, but something in the back of your mind won’t let you.
"... Right," you exhale, shaking your head to get your thoughts back in order. Meeting his eyes, brushing a palm down the fabric hugging at your chest, the clothes that aren’t yours. "Want this back?"
"Hm?" he stares at your hand, before realization hits. "Ah, that's alright. Keep them."
He surveys you, for a moment. Drinking you in. His gaze spans the fabric, from where the sleeves end to the neckline, exposing the knots of your collarbone. It makes you feel like he's trying to peel off your skin, cut you open like a fruit — deft fingers finding every dip in your flesh before splitting you into halves.
… That is to say, he's practically undressing you with his eyes. They burn, against you; a trail of heat.
"They suit you," he smiles. Awfully pleased.
You decide to ignore him. ”And my uniform?"
…
Suguru glances away.
"… It was ruined," he clears his throat. "You're better off asking for another."
"So you're keeping it."
A sheepish smile creeps onto his lips. You scoff, and a chuckle stumbles through his chest, half-recklessly. It's as much of an apology as you're going to get.
"Weirdo," you shake your head, taking a step back. "Well, it was good seeing you."
You watch a flicker of joy dance through his eyes — his lashes aflutter, in an effort to hide it. Suguru hums, and you think of high school, because there's nothing else to do when he looks at you like you just fed him hand to mouth. When his eyes crinkle paper-thin, the hole in your heart tears at the corners.
"Likewise," he breathes, honeysuckle on his tongue. "You haven’t changed."
"Neither have you," you answer, honestly. "Not really."
Before you can see his expression, you turn on your heel. The midnight breeze takes the chance to slip beneath the flimsy fabric of your jinbei, ghosting at your naked chest. A cold hand, gliding right between your ribs, right where you’re most vulnerable. You can still smell the jasmine, the burning chestnut, the almond oil he brushes his hair with after showering.
A piece of paper tears to shreds, somewhere inside of you.
Right as your fingers curl around the sliding door, you find your voice. Words better shared in a whisper, under a breath — better shared in the past, with heat beneath your cheeks, but you were never that kind of person. It was never going to come out naturally, and it was never going to lead anywhere. Not anywhere at all.
"Back in high school — I loved you, too. Did you know that?"
…
"All three years," you exhale, still staring straight ahead. The room, as if eroding, begins to smell of spring. "I loved you more than anybody else, Suguru."
For a moment, you wonder if his silence is rejection. If he's pretending not to hear. If your words, miraculously, got lost somewhere in the space between you; swept into the cluster of blurry leaves outside, or buried in restless cicada cries.
Then, a rough chuckle spills into the air.
"… And you call me cruel," he draws a breath, sharp and purposeful. "Do you realize the kind of faith you're putting in my restraint?”
"Hm. Do I?"
You cast a glance behind your shoulder, flashing him a smile.
”Tease…" he clicks his tongue. "I really will keep you, at this rate."
There's a heat in his gaze that wasn't there before. Pupils dilated, like a wolf ready to pounce. Laughter, breathless, bubbles up your throat and out your lips. "No thank you," you quip, flicking your wrist in a lazy wave. The door slides open with a fwoosh.
Then, in a voice more silent — more suited for partings —
"See you."
Behind you, his fingers give out a restless twitch. But he nods, right as you step over the threshold and into the corridor, cicadas crying out from the gardens.
The moon dyes your back a cobalt hue. He follows it, with his eyes, until it's no longer visible.
you squirm in his hold, in the way he bullies you onto your back. you go down quick, but not easily. you fuss and fight and squirm. you push at his broad chest, now over yours.
"suguru—"
"did you think i wouldn't notice?"
your eyes flicker. ice slips inside of you, freezing you. you go limp, a fawn, frozen.
you feel his nose around your collarbone, up against the curve of your bare throat. he buries himself in the crux of your neck and for a moment, you think he'll just nuzzle there.
"hm?" he hums, "did you think i wouldn't notice the way they all look at you? the way satoru looks at you?"
"i don't—i wasn't—"
"i know." he coos sympathetically, almost a purr. "you were being so good, weren't you? it was them." he sighs against your skin, "satoru, the worst of them all."
he opens his mouth against your neck, against the fluttering pulse there, and you gasp. suck in air quick and sharp at the heat of his mouth. his tongue, wet and soft.
and then pain lances through you, sharp and brutal.
"suguru!" you squeak, nails biting into your shoulder as he bears down harder. like a dog with a bird. the pain mounts. you cry out, desperate and aching.
when he pulls away to look down at you, he's smiling softly. serene as ever.
"sorry, darling." his thumb sweeps over the broken skin of his teeth marks in your throat, "maybe now they'll know who you belong to."
send me a character or two (from the same media) + a type of touch/intimacy and i'll write a drabble!
stsg playing beach volleyball in frankly an area which is not meant for it and they get their consequences because gojo spikes the ball too hard and it lands next to your sleeping form bundled in towels.
he’s like. Sweating himself kind of but when he looks closer at you you just have this peeved expression in your sleep with your cheeks pressed in the sand and a sweet furrow in your brows and he stays there crouching next to you staring deeply until geto comes to check up on him and drags him out of it.
he gentles takes the ball that was tucked in your curled position and you shift slightly, wiggling to get more comfortable, a puff of air coming out of your nose before you fall dead asleep again and he gets such cuteness aggression he . implodes and loses every game after that
sorry but like . he’s so smug and elated you cheated on your husband w HIM and you’re aghast this petulant but stupidly handsome kid is the one you end up in bed with. like head in Hands while he’s skipping to the bathroom
It takes you approximately three weeks of what you thought was successful flirting with the handsome, dark haired guy in your calculus class, and the cute pink-haired athlete in your psych class, to realize a fatal flaw in your plan:
The two guys you happen to be crushing on?
They’re dating each other.
The realization smacks you in the face when, after psych, in the hallway adjacent to the entryway, you catch Yuuta—the dark-haired loner in your calc class—waiting there. Warmth blooms in your chest at the sight, if only because for a moment you were living in a world where Yuuta has somehow memorized your class schedule and had decided to wait for you. Yet, that moment is fleeting, ending just as quickly as it began when Yuuji—the pink-haired one—brushes past you and walks straight up to Yuuta. They share a smile, and, to your surprise, a kiss. It's quick, Yuuta leaning just a couple inches down for a peck on the lips, followed by a charming smile that you'd never seen before. That he'd never shared with you before.
You can't stop staring. It's not because they're two men; it's because Yuuji and Yuuta are so different, that you can't even move, rooted in place. How can these two polar opposite guys be dating?
Your mistake is not looking away.
It takes a few seconds of them talking to each other for them to both turn to your direction, and suddenly you're incredibly embarassed. How long had you been standing there, mouth opening and closing like a helpless fish out of water?
But they don't seem to be mad, if Yuuji's smile and Yuuta's slight smirk is any indication.
Before you can overcome the weight of heavy lead that has somehow replaced your feet, Yuuji waves at you, and Yuuta beckons you closer.
“Yuuji-kun,” Yuuta gently pushes a stray lock of your hair away from your damp forehead, tucking it behind your ear. “A little gentler, yeah?”
Earlier, it took only a few minutes of your hurried apologies, Yuuji’s sweet smile, and Yuuta’s soft, placating voice for you to realize that, while Yuuta and Yuuji were dating each other, they had both, somehow, gained an interest in dating you, too. You didn’t really understand it, the way they would so easily offer themselves to you. But when Yuuta asked you if you mind, asking “if you can do this for Yuuji, at least?” With his fingers brushing over your own, hooking them into his palm,
Well…
It was so easy to say yes to Yuuji’s pleading eyes and Yuuta’s soft voice.
“Ah, sorry,” Yuuji, on his knees on the edge of the bed and between your legs, loosens his harsh grip on your hips. Mercifully, he starts fucking into you just a little slower. Not that it helps much. “I forget my own strength sometimes.”
Yuuta hums, wiping at your spit-soaked cheek as he stands at the edge of the bed, just in front of your face. You can’t say much, with lips wrapped around his cock, but your gaze softens when you look up at Yuuta. Thankful.
It’s hard, with Yuuji thrusting in and out of you, to really properly give Yuuta attention. Your body jolts with every collision, the rocking of the bed below you embarassingly loud. If it weren’t for the fact that you can feel it—each and every pulse and twitch of Yuuta’s cock in your mouth—you’d worry that he isn’t enjoying it. But each time you look up Yuuta is enchanted by something: whether its your wet, teary face, or Yuuji’s grunts and groans as he fucks you, or him simply watching where you are connected to Yuuji, to him… Yuuta’s watching it all and every moan makes his cock twitch in your mouth like you think he’s staving off the inevitable. It’s cute how hard he’s trying not to cum from watching you two.
Before either Yuuji or Yuuta hit their peak, though, Yuuta calls for Yuuji in a ragged, breathless voice.
Yuuji stops and looks up at his boyfriend. And Yuuta asks him, “Let’s do what you’ve been wanting, Yuuji-kun.” With a smile, he adds, “I know you want to be in the middle.”
Yuuji blushes, looking down at you with an embarassed sort of fondness. Like he’d been caught thinking something he shouldn’t have.
How much had these two talked about you before this, you wonder. But you’ll have to find out later.
Yuuta pulls out of your mouth, and wraps his fingers around his length, smearing your spit up and down. Yuuji keeps fucking you, a soft symphony of groans and grunts falling off his lips. Offhandedly you register Yuuta moving around the room—a snap of a cap opening, the squeezing of lube—but it’s hard to concentrate with Yuuji above you.
It’s only when Yuuji slows down, hands pressing you down by the thighs further into the mattress, that you wake from your fucked-out spell to see Yuuta behind Yuuji, pushing his cock into Yuuji’s ass. And what a sight Yuuji’s face is, lips gaping open with pleasure. His cock pulses inside your cunt, begging to move.
“Y-Yuuta,” Yuuji stutters, feeling overwhelmed with all these sensations at once. He finds it almost hard to breathe, chest filled with nothing but desire. He bends down to kiss you, as if to tell you you’re just as important at this moment. And as he does, Yuuta starts to move. Every thrust of his becomes a meeting of Yuuji’s hips with the back of your thighs. You’re pressed so hard into the mattress, you have no choice but to rest your ankles on Yuuji’s shoulders. And a shiver crawls up your spine when Yuuta pulls on your ankle, bringing the sole of your foot to his lips.
“Let’s come together,” Yuuta says to the two of you, somehow the most composed of the three. He kisses the back of Yuuji’s neck, adding, “It’s what you want, isn’t it, Yuuji?”
“Can I come inside?” Yuuji asks you, voice strained. And you nod weakly, flustered at the question.
And Yuuta doesn’t make it any easier, asking, “Can I…?”
Even Yuuji’s ears turn pink at the request, knowing Yuuta’s asking it on purpose to rile him up. With a weak shudder, a “Please,” leaves his lips that makes Yuuta’s pace quicken, if only to satisfy his lover.
And it takes nearly nothing at all to make Yuuta’s ‘lets come together’ words come to fruition; though, this is only the first of many orgasms to come tonight.
