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@sugurusbeloved
DAPHNE ⠀ ᛝ ⠀ she/her ﹒ twenty ﹒ submissive men enthusiast .ᐟ
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© sugurusbeloved﹕all rights reserved. reproduction, translation, or use of my content for ai training is strictly prohibited.
18+ pillow humping with gojo
solo missions were always the ultimate crucible for satoru’s fragile patience, but a particular lonely night was what destroyed his impulse control irreversibly. the antidote to his misery? simple: your favourite t-shirt, pulled taut over a plush pillow from a provincial hotel room.
propped on a sleek tripod, the phone lens captures his athletic, flaxen form hunched over the makeshift surrogate of your body. he is completely naked, his bulbous cock already weeping a glossy glaze of pre-cum that stains the cotton a deep, wet grey. letting out a small, vibrating whine, satoru buries his face in the fabric and begins to hump the pillow in a stubborn tempo. the camera records his arousal thoroughly: the prominent blue veins pulsing and bulging along the angry red tip, the tight sack of his balls slapping rhythmically against his inner thighs with each needy tilt of his pelvis as he ruts himself blind against your clothes.
“g-god, i miss you already...” he mumbles into the fabric, his snowy lashes dampening with tears only you are allowed to see. minutes after, his whole body shudders into a passionate climax, his hips locking forward to pin the ruined pillow down as his cock spasms repeatedly, firing thick, pearly ropes of cum across the cotton.
the dazed, pussydrunk euphoria vanishes the moment it appeared. with a miserable sigh, satoru crawls on his hands and knees toward the edge of the bed and yanks the phone off the stand. he brings the camera directly to his face, deliberately overexaggerating his expression into a trembling pout. his lower lip juts out with borderline obnoxious petulance, his bright blue eyes narrowed in a childish, heavy-lidded scowl as if his loneliness were completely your fault.
“look at what you made me do to myself,” he grumbles, his voice filled to the brim with an insufferable, homesick brattyness before his thumb viciously cuts the recording to black.
i told to my younger brother that i had burned the pizza (which is why it was charred) & he replied with "then why didn't you put it in the fridge?"
18+ pillow humping with gojo
solo missions were always the ultimate crucible for satoru’s fragile patience, but a particular lonely night was what destroyed his impulse control irreversibly. the antidote to his misery? simple: your favourite t-shirt, pulled taut over a plush pillow from a provincial hotel room.
propped on a sleek tripod, the phone lens captures his athletic, flaxen form hunched over the makeshift surrogate of your body. he is completely naked, his bulbous cock already weeping a glossy glaze of pre-cum that stains the cotton a deep, wet grey. letting out a small, vibrating whine, satoru buries his face in the fabric and begins to hump the pillow in a stubborn tempo. the camera records his arousal thoroughly: the prominent blue veins pulsing and bulging along the angry red tip, the tight sack of his balls slapping rhythmically against his inner thighs with each needy tilt of his pelvis as he ruts himself blind against your clothes.
“g-god, i miss you already...” he mumbles into the fabric, his snowy lashes dampening with tears only you are allowed to see. minutes after, his whole body shudders into a passionate climax, his hips locking forward to pin the ruined pillow down as his cock spasms repeatedly, firing thick, pearly ropes of cum across the cotton.
the dazed, pussydrunk euphoria vanishes the moment it appeared. with a miserable sigh, satoru crawls on his hands and knees toward the edge of the bed and yanks the phone off the stand. he brings the camera directly to his face, deliberately overexaggerating his expression into a trembling pout. his lower lip juts out with borderline obnoxious petulance, his bright blue eyes narrowed in a childish, heavy-lidded scowl as if his loneliness were completely your fault.
“look at what you made me do to myself,” he grumbles, his voice filled to the brim with an insufferable, homesick brattyness before his thumb viciously cuts the recording to black.
having the hardest time resisting the urge to just block some of my mutuals and move on
18+ your husband might be getting a little too excited about his #DomMommy
the exact milisecond your knees settle on either side of satoru's hips to secure him down, his entire demeanour undergoes a massive transform. the languid arrogance he usually cloaks himself in evaporates on the spot, giving way to a boyish giddiness that makes him look like a maniac.
you are genuinely trying to maintain a semblance of gravity, though. your fingers dig into the dense meat of his shoulders, channeling every ounce of your body weight to keep him pinned, your features pinched into a fierce, domineering scowl meant to force him into compliance. it was supposed to be a coup—to flip the script and pressure your smug husband into a compulsive submission.
but trying to intimidate the satoru gojo is a fool's errand, akin to trying to catch a torrential downpour with your bare hands.
“ohmygod” he squeals, the sound bubbling out of his throat in a high-pitched, breathless rush. his palms slap over his cheeks, a sudden rush of blood bringing a rosy, ecstatic flush to his otherwise pale face. “are you taking charge? right in front of my salad?"
your nails bite harder into his shoulders—a feeble attempt to inject some sting into his skin and reclaim your lost authority. “shut up, satoru. lay back and don’t move.”
the command only makes his behavioural devolution tenfold worse. he lets out a delighted, muffled shriek into his palms, his ridiculously long legs instantly lifting off the bed to kick his feet back and forth, heels thumping repeatedly onto the mattress like a high schooler who just got invited to prom by their crush.
“i can’t help it!! you’re just so cute when you’re being bossy!” he giggles, throwing his arms back over his head and clawing his fingers into the pillows as his toes curl with pure enthusiasm. his baby blue eyes blow wide behind his white lashes, hellishly bright with downright glee as if you just handed him the entire cosmos on a silver platter. he is practically vibrating at this point, hips bouncing up and down against your cunt with an uncoordinated yet very much eager lurch that derails your rhythm before you can even guide his thick cock inside you.
“do it, then! ruin me! i’m all yours, captain!”
any ever-present illusion of dark romance bursts into a million pieces. you let out an exasperated groan, forehead dropping hard against his chest as he continues to wiggle beneath you with shameless joy.
⠀⠀୭ ˖ nerd!jo keeps using your sex toys !⠀ˎˊ˗
the concept of "personal property" is foreign to your roommate. what belongs to him and what belongs to you simply does not exist in the vocabulary of his.
so when you enter your shared apartment after a grueling nine-hour shift, you already recognize the rhythmic buzz echoing down the hallway. it’s the exact same sound you’ve confronted him about three times this month.
you march down the carpeted hallway and throw the bedroom door wide, not even bothered to knock because he certainly didn’t ask permission to breach your space.
and there he is, your thoroughly infuriating, completely shameless roommate, sprawled across your duvet with those absurdly long, pale legs monopolizing the entire mattress. his glasses are askew on his face, the lenses clouded from his own ragged gasps as he rubs your favourite wand's head against his sensitive cockhead—smearing his sticky pre-cum all over.
“gojo!” you snap, your delivery flat and dripping with unadulterated irritation. "you are doing it again?!"
MDNI helping your jerk of a boyfriend at the gym wasn't a wise choice
you wonder if it's the struggle that causes his cock to gorge itself so violently, swelling larger every time he drives the bar upward.
suguru getō is currently laying flat on the vinyl bench press pad. his thin cotton shirt is soaked through with sweat and turned see-through, gluing itself to the lean blocks of his six-pack and stretching over his lithe torso every time his chest heaves. he insisted you to sit directly over his lap to "spot" him—a laughable excuse, you think, considering he is literally lifting twice your entire body weight.
and with every methodical rep, it isn't just the bar that surges upward.
beneath your thighs, his cock is thick and raging for attention, hardening into a rigid rod that throbs in his gray sweatpants. you can feel how the the tip weeps into the fabric with pre-cum, nudging against you every time his pelvis subconsciously hoists up with the upward momentum of the lift.
"suguru, what is wrong with you?" you hiss, your hands slipping against the sweat-slicked brawn of his shoulders. his biceps are blown out from the pump—thick, blue veins roping down his forearms like cords as he grips the steel. "this is ridiculous..."
exhaling a raspy chuckle, his tan face flushes a lovely, deep shade of rose with the strain. he catches the iron at the lowest point, letting it graze his wet pectorals and just halts it there, holding it at the bottom so the twitching tent in his pants grinds onto the back of your thighs.
"can't help where the blood goes," he puffs, his amethyst eyes tracking your face with pure ecstasy while that insufferable shit-eating grin rests on his lips. "c’mon sweets… ride out the last two reps with me.”
18+
“do you think condoms grow on trees?”
you throw the shredded durex wrappers right onto toji's naked chest, staring down at the multiple latex tied into clumsy knots; scattered all across the rumpled bedding. "that box was fifteen bucks, and you just blew through them all in three hours!"
the grievance here isn’t the sex itself; it’s the high, expensive frequency of his releases. your husband functions with an endless stamina that transforms a simple evening into a marathon, tearing through packet after packet because his damn balls refuse to give up until he is hollowed out like a dried-up riverbed.
it's an exhausting financial tax on your bedroom routine that leaves your nightstand drawer perpetually barren. and he doesn't even have the decency to look sheepish. instead, toji just leans back against the headboard, emerald eyes crinkling with a fond, lazy amusement as he watches you fume.
“isn't it my money anyway?” heavy arms ensnare your waist, drawing you flush against him to press a languid kiss into your shoulder. “unless you’re looking to pop out a kid by next year, you better keep restocking. not that i'd mind a little hellion running around, though.”
your friends always lower their voices when they ask, leaning over the cafe table with a nagging sense of concern, eyes tracking the faint, reddish-purple blooms peeking out from the collar of your shirt.
"is everything okay at home?"
"is he... violent to you?"
they whisper, because to strangers, ryōmen sukuna is a guy that could break someone in two just for breathing wrong. they look at his mountainous physique and immediately assume he’s striking you—that the wine-stained rose traces under your clothes are from hands raised in anger, because what else does a monster do with his strength?
you just stay quiet, pulling your sleeves down, given that you can't exactly tell them that the truth is so much more embarrassing.
because how do you explain that these deep, hand-shaped marks come from him getting a sudden, overwhelming rush of affection while you are just... existing?
the second you walk through the front door, he doesn't even let you take off your shoes before his thickset arms are securing your body against him. his face is vacant, his expression as deadpan as if he were reviewing a tedious financial ledger while hauling you impossibly close; the desperate zeal of his hug making your lungs burn for every silver of air
“i missed you, baby,” the words are an incredibly sweet confession—completely at odds with his menacing demeanor as he buries his face into the crook of your neck.
sukuna possesses absolutely no concept of his own magnitude, and when these sudden surges of intense adoration overtake him, his massive hands just react by instinct. his thick fingers dig deep into the meat of your arms, squeezing and kneading the flesh while he stares down at you with heart-shaped eyes. it's pure agony for your skin; a sharp ache that you know will turn into dark spots by tomorrow.
“my pretty girl,” he mumbles, his lips caressing your skin in messy nuzzles before he sinks his teeth down on your shoulder in a brutal display of fondness that makes you whine and arch into his chest; yet he gives your body no room to escape. his lower hands come up to cup your face, big thumbs pressing into your cheeks to hold you still while he overindulges in your scent.
a rare sensibility of content descends upon sukuna as he realizes: he is exactly where he wants to be.
18+ your husband hates tongue kisses
satoru is already whimpering before you even duck your head down; that small, reedy whine spilling from his pillowy lips whenever things aren't going his way. his skull is pinned all the way back against the headboard, iridescent eyes glaring at you with a childish, petulant stubbornness.
“c’monnnn sweets, don’t do that… it’s weird,” your husband mumbles, his fingers twitching where they’re embedded in the meat of your thighs, securing your hips down onto his lap. “it’s just wet muscle, no? nothing special...”
but this stagnant cockwarming is pure agony; his thick, pulsing heat is filled to capacity within you, yet today, t feels somewhat insufficient. you crave a more vicious internal shift from your spouse, knowing just how much force it takes to shatter that paper-thin grip he has on himself.
ignoring his protests, you fist your fingers in his fluffy white hair, yanking his head forward to smother his mouth with yours. satoru lets out a muffled groan filled with exasperation, his body locking up, but you offer no reprieve. you part your lips and shove your tongue deep into his maw, slathering it across his teeth eagerly as if to fuse your bodies into one—fluids included.
ovverstimulation wrings him out, turning his spine to jelly and his buffy thighs to unstrung bows as you force him to swallow the pooling excess of your combined saliva. it is a grotesque violation of his sterile world he polishes so obsessively, and the utter humiliation of how much ecstasy it brings to his poor heart paints his cheeks a painful crimson.
“mnh—wait a minute!!” his gasp bleeds into your mouth, six-eyes weeping from pure overload while a sullen pout rests on his lips. “i swear—it tickles me...”
yet, the degrading rush of blood goes straight to his groin. beneath your pelvic bone, you feel the sudden, predatory surge of your husband's cock gorging itself on his arousal, thickening and elongating until he is stretching your walls past their limits. he is quaking, his mind drunk on a single kiss from his beloved wife, slender fingers clawing into your hips with a miserable zeal as he fights the sudden thought that forms in his mind—
he can fill your womb just as you mercilessly filled his mouth.
is it too obvious that ive never kissed someone orrr
+18 qifrey forgot to give you aftercare... or did he?
you knew he was gentle by default, a witch who built his entire existence around caretaking his apprentices. perceiving his magnitude as a teacher, you’d fully expected him to brush your hair out of your eyes, kiss your forehead, and pour you a cup of water when it was over.
but instead, he just completely slumped against you, dead weight against your chest, dozing out the exact second he finished without a single word of aftercare or praise.
possessing a kind nature and an otherwise gentle disposition, it was plain that his dedication to the task would be absolute. he’d been so incredibly turned on by the mere sight of your bare body that it became impossible to hide the desperation he had kept locked away for years—in the deepest, coldest part of his heart. his pale, ink-stained hands were trembling as he parted your thighs, one arm locked firmly around your lower back while his hips rutted into you in a hasty, poorly coordinated rhythm that had you scrambling to clutch onto the mattress.
"l-love, am i doing it correct?" he’d pointed out, face buried firmly into the crook of your neck, his lips caressing your skin in messy smooches each time he slammed his pelvis against yours. his cock was throbbing inside, growing impossibly thicker as if it wasn't already big enough. “i-i never imagined it would feel like this...”
it was, to put it simply, violent when his apex hit. his spine arched, muscles locking into rigid stone as he came inside you. the force of it made him choke on the last breath he had, eyes rolling back in his skull with pure bliss. surge after surge of puffy liquid filled your womb until he was shooting blanks. yet, even then, his body still refused to soften, choosing instead to pour everything inside until you were full to the brim.
and then, nothing. just the heavy drop of his body flattening you into the mattress.
well—initially, you thought he was just worn out after everything that happened after hearing him letting out those flimsy huffs and puffs against your collarbone. but as the seconds ticked by, his limbs remained lax, lacking the usual soft twitch of someone drifting into a normal sleep. you tried to shift your hips beneath him, the ridiculously over-the-top-amount hotness of his overindulgence trickling down between your thighs.
and qifrey didn't groan or try to pull you closer like you expected him to do. instead, his hands were still sprawled awkwardly on the sheets, those long, slender fingers you adored staying fully unresponsive, no matter what. you suspected he might have pushed his own limits a little too far, his body overexerting itself just to empty himself into your womb.
“qifrey?” you whispered, placing a hand on his lean back, waiting for that familiar, reassuring hum. but for whatever reason, it didn't come. you pushed yourself up on one weak elbow, using your other hand to gently cup his jaw, tilting his face away from your neck. his blue eyes were half-lidded but empty, staring right through you without a single flicker of recognition. when you experimentally lifted his hand, his wrist stayed completely limp, dropping straight back like a broken doll's the moment you let go. he was just a vacant shell pinned on top of you, oblivious to the world around him.
awareness hit you, as you realized he hadn't just fallen asleep. as a consequence of the intensity of his arousal, he actually—
"oh my gosh, qifrey?! did you just faint?"
MDNI | men whimpering in 4k
you’re not stupid. you know exactly what suguru is doing.
the first time, he does it so carelessly that you persuade yourself it's nothing at all. he’s carrying heavy grocery bags into the kitchen, veins bulging on his thick forearms that are currently straining against the plastic handles, and then, right as he passes your chair: “nnnhh—ahhh, fuck.”
it’s a soft, breathy purr, like he just couldn’t hold it back. you seize up, surprise and confusion hitting you at the same time as your face heats instantly. and he has the nerve to peek at you over his shoulder, mauve eyes wide and feigning surprise. “ah, sorry about that. heavy bags.”
then there’s the mornings. he wakes up unrushed and lifts his arms above his head with a sluggish yawn, his back arching into a curve that hoists his shirt up ever so slightly, making him utter the most sinful sound has ever graced the earth.
“mmhh—ohhh god… yeahhhh.” and he does it without an ounce of shame too, as if a porn soundtrack in your bedroom at 8 a.m. is nothing extraordinary.
you choke on your breathe, clutching to the blankets a little too hard. when you glare at him, he only shushes you with a patronizing little tsk from across the pillows, cutting off your irritation before it can even start. “what? felt good to stretch. can't blame a guy.”
after that, it’s constant. sighs that sound just a little too much like wet moans, throaty hums when he pulls his raven hair loose from its man bun, even a breathless "ahhh—fuck” when he drops his bulky build onto the couch. each and every little sound is intentional and well-calculated. you can’t prove it, but god—he knows exactly what he’s doing.
the worst, though, is when you’re massaging his shoulders after a tiring day spent battling with curses. he’s sitting on the floor between your legs, head slumped forward to expose the long line of his neck, letting you release the thick knots in his back.
“oh-ohhh, yes. right there—god, you are so good with your hands.” he drags the words out like they belong in a private bedroom, pitching into a whinier, petulant cadence which makes your pulse spike immediately.
you pause, your fingers paralyzed. “suguru. stop.” he turns his head for you to observe his lazy smile, his bottom lip jutting out just the tiniest bit in a petty pout. “whattt? i’m talking to them, not you. your hands just have a mind of their own, baby.”
you press harder into the muscle, trying to punish the smugness out of him, but the heel of your hand just forces another whimper out. “ahhh, harder... right there—”
that sly fucker.
“you're doing that on purpose!”
“doing what?” he cranes his neck to look at you, eyes all wide innocence while he fights to maintain a solemn facade. “i can’t control how good it feels, no?"
his head tilts back into your lap, chasing the press of your thumbs like a curious puppy begging for attention; a satisfied, wet hum spilling from his throat.
“don’t stop. they’re the only ones who are ever nice to me after a long day.”
his weight leans more densely into your hands, forcing your thighs to squeeze together to steady him, and that’s when you notice the tiny tilt of his hips. the thin cotton of his grey sweatpants is tenting just slightly, flimsy fabric straining with the pulsing outline of his cock. every touch of your fingers drags the material tighter, causing a dark patch to bleed across the cloth.
“you’re absolutely disgusting.” though, your voice lost all of it's footing already.
suguru lets out a throaty laugh at that as if it's the most funny thing he'd ever heard today, foxy eyes crinkling even further with humour. “am i, really? or are you just finally noticing?”
as though to back up his claim, suguru junior twitches violently beneath the thin cotton, a long ridge pressing boldly against his right thigh, to be exact. he tips his head all the way back, presenting you the elation of the smirk actively feeding his handsome face.
“don't interrupt my time with your hands. i still want to see what other things they can do."
suguru geto would look exquisite if he was pregnant. you had a habit of telling him that.
it happened for the first time when you were on a mission together. a curse thirsted to take his head clean from his body, but suguru twisted—a last-second leap sideways, and offered only the clasp of his hair. it snapped free under vile claws, and you saw the voluminous river of his hair unfurling in the air around him, shining like spilled ink.
you had never seen his hair unbound before. it was always restrained, a tight man bun at his crown, or that same severe knot with a few dark strands framing the glorious architecture of his face.
with his hair down, he looked almost like an emperor's favorite concubine, kept in the finest silks and soft beddings, waiting to be fed sweetmeats by royal hands, and bred by the emperor himself. to grow round and glowy as a child swelled inside him, a dreamy smile forming on his lips as he cradled his belly. you could almost see it, the way his hips would widen, they way his breasts would get heavier and more tender, complaining about his aching foot and the baby kicking at 4 a.m.
meanwhile, back in present, suguru summoned his rainbow dragon, sending it forth without much thought, impelling the curse to die in less than a second. the dragon returned to his side, floating around like a dog expecting praise from its owner.
you mumbled half-heartedly —something like "you have a beatiful face with your hair down... you'd look pretty if you were pregnant"— and the horror of your sentence left suguru's mouth agape. he could only stare at you, his usual assesing eyes now blown wide as a startled fawn's. then, he rapidly turned his head away, his tan cheeks blooming a faint red out of embarrassment. "what the hell...?"
all the while, the rainbow dragon hovered there, watching him with all the confusion a curse like it could possibly muster, it's iridescent head tilting as if to ask, what strange human magic is this?
18+ glasses stay on with nerdjo
satoru's plush lips are on your thigh, panting like a cornered rabbit. he’s been reduced to this wretched state for the past hour; a complete opposite of the "obnoxiously brilliant second-year" he plays in the daylight.
(he’d solved a math problem that had stumped your entire semester, then spent twenty minutes explaining it to you with big, puppy eyes, and you’d decided his reward would be this)
his hands fumble at the waistband of your shorts. “my glasses are gonna get in the way, let me take them off.” his hips thrusts against the mattress, fat bulge dragging a wet line against your bed.
“no.” you tauten your grip in his snow white hair that resembles a shocking cloud against your dark sheets. “i like them. they stay on.”
“but you don’t understand! the frame is expensive, and umm, and the lenses—ow, okay, okay!” he yelps as you tug, but it rapidly dissolves into a muffled moan when you settle over his face, rubbing your bare skin all over.
you rock against him once, drawing small circles on his face. you feel the rigid plastic of his frames, the warm slide of his straight nose. “see?” you murmur. “i won't break your glasses which you probably sold one of your balls to buy. they’re fine.”
“they’re not,” he insists, petulant voice vibrating into your cunt. "the angle is all damn wrong—”
you hump your hips anyway, a little faster, grinding down onto his mouth and tongue, which, despite his protests, is working pretty well. "l-look, i can't even do this properly—"
his resistance ceases a little as you crest, a tight lum low in your tummy. you grind down harder, holding his face prisoner, and his veiny hands grab your hips roughly, trying to take control in his own clumsy way.
it happens with a breathy moan from you: a sudden gush spraying his luminous face, dripping past the frames of his precious glasses, coating the lenses in a opaque film. it runs in rivulets down the high arches of his cheekbones, drips from his jaw, even splashes up onto the pale mess of his hairline.
you collapse to the side, sucking air in ragged gulps. satoru lies motionless, a slow drip fallling from the tip of his nose.
“...gross,” he whines, but he doesn’t move to wipe his face. “i told you. i told you they’d get in the way.”
“you loved it,” you pant, reaching over to push his fogged, streaked glasses up the bridge of his nose with a single finger. he blinks up at you, a drenched wreck, and a tremulous, embarrassed smile breaks across his glistening face.
“...you should eat more pineapples.”
you always knew your husband was silly from time to time—yet it was completely undeniable that he was the smartest human in the whole wide world. growing up in the gojo clan had sharpened both his mind & ego, and he thought he was prepared for anything.
except, when his firstborn baby arrived... joy overwhelmed his keen senses.
"...i might've cheated on you."
for a being who slaughtered the most vile curses with a lazy roll of his wrist, satoru gojo looked pretty unidentifiable. his aquatic eyes were huge and clouded with bone-crushing guilt, fat tears rolling down his cheeks as he looked at the bundle in front of him, and then back at you.
the child was beautiful, this much was plain. but he was not your child. at least not recognizably.
there was no trace of the signature white hair or blue eyes whatsoever—nor did the boy seem to bear even a fleeting resemblance to your own visage. just a tiny, wrinkled little facade that belonged to absolutely nobody.
satoru looked physically sick. all the color drained from his face, gazing at you with a kind of horrified panic, long fingers clutching to the baby's blanket. “i-i swear to you, i don't recall any of it," he stammered, his voice wobbling with dread. "i-i love you beyond measure. it... it must have happened without my knowledge."
what a fucking cliché it is, but he looked for all the world like a frightened man awaiting execution, fully engrossed in his stupid delusion.
"baby, please, you have to believe me, i could never break our vows... you know me, i-i would never—"
and throughout his meltdown, you could only stare with your mouth hanging halfway open, body frozen with absolute shock and bewilderment. is he really that braindead?
"satoru," you eventually interrupted his rambling, voice pitched a tad too high with disbelief. "the child came out of me. how exactly could you have cheated to make that happen?”
an oppressive silence descended upon the hospital room, the gears slowly grinding back to life in his brain. his "brilliant intellect" that usually fed his ego greater than anything finally returned to earth as he blinked down at the boy; the sheer idiocy of the concept clocking into him.
a breathless laugh bubbled out of his throat, the immense self-loathing leaving his frame all at once as he buried the baby's face against his broad chest ever so gently, his eyes shining with relief and a heavy humiliation.
when he finally looked up, he was wearing a wet smile on his face, cheeks flushed and damp with the tears he’d been shedding over. lunatic. the curve of his pillowy lips trembled slightly as he offered a soft, sheepish grin, fully defenseless under your judging stare.
“fuck, i’m an idiot,” he murmured, the vibration of his chest making his son startle in his cradle as he leaned in to press a tender, apologetic kiss to baby's head. “right, yeah. biology. i guess i'm the one who should be asking what you were doing nine months ago."
MDNI
“what the hell are you doing?”
“softenin' it,” your husband replied, his voice completely deadpan. he didn’t look up, his face carved into an expression of such absolute, scholarly focus you might have thought he was doing open-heart surgery rather than kneading your ass.
you’d been trying to get some rare peace and quiet, lying face down on the bed half-asleep, when the attack started. toji had the massive, beefy build of a pro athlete, a guy made wholly of dense muscle who had absolutely zero concept of "personal space"
yet, for the last ten minutes, those huge, scarred hands—hands that literally killed people for a living?—had been thoroughly squashing and massaging your ass with the obsessive devotion of a baker molding a piece of sourdough.
“softening it?” you repeated, the mere insanity of it wiping away the last of your drowsiness. “toji, it’s an ass, not a cheap steak. you’ve been doing this for ten minutes. let go.”
he was lying on his stomach right next to your thighs, his nose hovering close over your asscheeks. feeling suddenly frustrated, you planted your forearms on the sheets, trying to crawl away from... whatever he was doing.
and you couldn't even make it an inch.
a heavy, coarse palm slapped down on the small of your back, securing you to the mattress like a literal ton of bricks. when you twisted your neck to glare at him, you see that his stunning profile was pulled into a focused, childish pout. his emerald eyes stayed glued to his work while his other hand went right back to its aggressive squeezing, paying no attention to your feeble protests.
“keep still,” he grumbled, voice getting petulant like a boy refused candy “you’re messin' up the texture.”
“the texture?” a sudden rush of heat hit your cheeks—the result of your annoyance and being vividly aware of how his face was glued to your backside. “i am trying to sleep, you psycho. your hands feel like sandpaper.”
“then don't move and it won't scratch,” he reasoned in a plain tone as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
and yet, there was something weirdly mesmerizing about how engaged he was. he looked almost peaceful sitting there, if you ignored the thick fingers poking at your crack.
finally comprehending it was useless to fight a fatty bitch with two hundred pounds on his body, you collapsed face-first into the pillow, letting out a defeated groan.
“...if i see any bruises, you're gonna pay for it.”
that lazy, almost boyish grin finally shattered his straight face. toji didn't bother lifting his chest or moving back. he just rested his heavy jaw in his free hand, watching your clothed butt devotedly.
“can’t charge a guy who's broke,” he reminded, his deft fingers continuing their task. “now shut it. 'm not done tenderizing.”
stinky ass mf