#and then...it's a finger bowl...of course

[mirai-e-jump]

puppy with no manners

[loverboy-shane]

ryan and shane getting stoned together so they can sit on opposite ends of the couch under several blankets and watch a playlist of hours-long video essays on youtube, not saying a word between them

inspired by convo with @autistichollander 💚💚

[wifeblade]

gonna do something a bit new. wish me luck. ill report on whether it was good or shit afterwards

[two-calicos-in-a-trenchcoat]

Just squished some canned biscuit dough and stuffed it full of red bean paste

One of them got very overfilled so hopefully it doesn't completely flatten back out in the oven

American style red bean buns cuz im lazy and already had biscuit dough lol

[afterdarkbydel]

Leave It On

Jack Abbot x Reader

Summary: You were only unloading Jack’s dishwasher. That was all. You were in his kitchen, barefoot and comfortable in one of his old shirts, waiting for him to come home from tactical training. Domestic. Normal. Safe. And then Jack walked in wearing tactical gear. The vest. The boots. The radio. The duty belt. The quiet, knowing look on his face when he realized you could not stop staring. You tried to be normal about it. Jack noticed. Of course he did.

Warnings: 18+ only, smut, established relationship, tactical gear/uniform kink, dom/sub dynamics, praise kink, light restraint, orgasm denial, oral sex, rough sex, kitchen counter sex, consent-heavy dominance, aftercare, Jack being smug and quietly devastating.

Author's Note: You’re welcome, readers. Tactical gear Jack has been in my head for far too long, and today I am making that everyone’s problem. This is for everyone who looked at that vest and immediately understood the vision. the boots, the radio, the command voice, the smugness, the “leave it on” of it all.

We did this together, and honestly? I think we should all be ashamed.

But we won’t be.

Xoxo, Del

MDNI 18+

You knew Jack’s kitchen well enough to know he had run the dishwasher. That was the first problem. The second problem was that you also knew Jack well enough to know he had absolutely no intention of unloading it before he left for tactical training.

You found the clean dishes by accident.

You had been at his townhouse for almost an hour, tucked into the corner of his couch in one of his old T-shirts and the soft lounge shorts you kept in the bottom drawer of his dresser. Jack pretended not to notice they had taken up permanent residence there. You pretended to believe him.

The TV murmured low in the living room. Your phone was facedown beside you. Late afternoon light stretched warm across the hardwood, catching on the coffee table, the arm of the couch, the spot near the entry where Jack always kicked off his boots, even though he complained when you did the same thing.

He had told you to let yourself in.

He always did now.

That was dangerous information if you let yourself think about it too long, so mostly, you didn’t.

You used your key. You kicked off your shoes. You curled up in his house like it had started making room for you without either of you saying it out loud.

Then you wandered into the kitchen for water, saw the clean light glowing on the dishwasher, and sighed as if this were somehow your responsibility.

“Of course,” you muttered.

The dishwasher door opened with a soft hiss. Warm air rolled up, damp and clean, smelling faintly like detergent and steam. The heat brushed your bare legs. Jack had loaded the bowls in the wrong direction again, because apparently, a man could be trusted with a trauma bay, tactical medical support, and other people’s lives, but not proper dishwasher geometry.

You started unloading it anyway.

Not because you were trying to be domestic. Not because the green mug already in his cabinet made something soft move behind your ribs. Definitely not because this had started to feel like your kitchen too.

You were simply a helpful person.

A generous person.

A person who had taken her bra off the second she got comfortable because Jack was not home yet, and you had planned to do nothing more strenuous than drink water, watch terrible television, and bully him into ordering Thai food when he got back.

You put the plates away first. Then the bowls. Then the mugs. The green one went on the second shelf, where Jack always reached for it in the morning, even though he claimed he did not have a favorite.

You were stretching to slide a mug into place when the front door opened.

You did not look over right away. “You ran the dishwasher and abandoned it,” you called, rising onto your toes. “I’m choosing to believe that was a cry for help.”

Jack did not answer. That was your first clue. Your fingers paused on the cabinet handle. The house changed when Jack entered it. You never knew how to explain that without sounding ridiculous. It was not sound, exactly. Not silence. Not even presence.

It was pressure. A subtle rearranging of the air.

You lowered yourself back onto your heels and turned.

Jack stood just inside the kitchen entry.

And your entire brain stopped. Not paused. Stopped. You had seen him in scrubs. You had seen him in old T-shirts and jeans, and the gray sweatpants he pretended were not specifically engineered to ruin your life. You had seen him half-asleep at this very counter, hair flattened on one side, making coffee with the grim focus of a man performing surgery on a French press. You had even seen him at work when he got sharp and calm, voice low, hands steady, the whole room rearranging itself around him because Jack Abbot had decided panic was not useful.

But this—

This was different.

Camouflage tactical pants tucked into boots. A tan quarter-zip stretched across his chest and shoulders, darkened slightly at the collar from sweat. Camouflage sleeves pushed up enough to make his forearms a personal attack. Protective glasses shoved into his hair. A radio clipped at his shoulder. A duty belt low on his hips, heavy with equipment you did not know the names for, and suddenly wanted explained to you in unnecessary detail.

And the vest.

God help you, the vest.

It was not sleek. It was not pretty. It was bulky and practical and worn in, half-unfastened, like he had started taking it off and gotten distracted. A black patch across the front read POLICE in block letters.

It should not have done anything to you.

It did several things.

Several immediate, humiliating things.

Jack’s gaze moved from your face to the mug still in your hand.

His mouth twitched. Barely. “You okay?”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“Yeah.” Your voice caught. “I—yeah.”

Jack’s eyebrows lifted. Not much. Enough.

Heat rushed up your neck.

You turned back to the cabinet too quickly and shoved the mug onto the shelf. The wrong shelf. The green mug sat neatly beside his stack of bowls. The kitchen went horribly quiet.

Jack looked at the mug. Then at you. “That’s the bowl cabinet.”

Your fingers were still on the cabinet door. “I know.”

“You put a mug in it.”

“It’s visiting.”

Jack’s mouth curved. Small. Slow. Awful.

You shut the cabinet like that would erase the evidence, and bent for a plate from the dishwasher. A plate was normal. A plate was safe. A plate had never come home from tactical training looking like it could ruin your life with one raised eyebrow and a vest buckle.

 Jack stepped farther into the kitchen. His boots sounded heavy on the tile.

You stared very hard at the plate. “Training was good?”

Jack hummed. “Mm-hm.”

“Good.” You croaked. 

“Long.”

“Right.” You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Long is… training often is that.”

Jack went quiet. That was worse than if he had laughed. 

You lifted the plate toward the cabinet. Wrong cabinet. Again. You froze with your arm half-raised. 

Jack did not say anything. He did not have to.

You could feel him looking at the cabinet. Then at the plate. Then at you.

“Don’t,” you said.

“I didn’t.” Jack replied. 

You couldn’t look at him. “You were about to.” 

“No.”

Somehow, that was worse.

You lowered the plate slowly and opened the correct cabinet with all the dignity available to a person actively losing a fight with kitchen storage.

Jack leaned one shoulder against the doorway. Still in the gear. Still quiet. Still watching.

“You’re flustered.”

You laughed. It came out too high. “I am unloading the dishwasher.”

“Badly,” Jack murmured. 

You exhaled, “You’re welcome.”

His eyes dropped. Not crudely. Not obviously. Just enough. Bare legs. Soft lounge shorts. His T-shirt. Your bare feet on his kitchen tile. You, too comfortable in his house to have expected him like this.

When his gaze returned to your face, something had shifted. Still amused. Still warm.

But darker now. More certain. “Oh.”

Your stomach dropped. “No.”

Jack’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You said ‘oh.’”

“I did.” 

You pressed your lips together, “Don’t.”

He pushed off the doorway and took one slow step closer. You looked at the vest.

Mistake.

Jack noticed. His hand rested briefly against the front of it, fingers brushing one of the buckles like he had all the time in the world and knew exactly where your eyes were.

You looked away so fast that your shin almost caught the open dishwasher door.

Jack’s mouth curved. “Careful.”

You gripped the counter. “I’m fine.”

“Sure?”

“Yep.” Too fast.

He came closer. Not too close. Close enough. The kitchen smelled like detergent, steam, and him now. Work and heat and Jack.

You picked up another mug. Then forgot why you were holding it.

His gaze flicked to it. Then back to you. “Need help?”

“No.”

“You sure?” He asked. 

“Yes.” You answered quickly. 

Jack glanced at the mug in your hand, “You’ve been holding that for a while.”

You looked down. You were, in fact, still holding the mug. 

“Oh my God,” you muttered.

Jack’s smile deepened. Small. Unbearably pleased.

You shoved the mug into the correct cabinet this time and immediately wished you had not looked proud of yourself for completing a task toddlers could master.

Jack caught that too. “Good job.”

Your face went instantly hot. The words were mild. Too mild.

That was the problem.

He had said them like he was talking about the mug, but his voice had gone just low enough to make your pulse stumble.

You turned to him. “Don’t do that.”

His expression stayed innocent. Too innocent. “Do what?”

You glared, “You know.”

“I don’t.” Jack shrugged a shoulder. 

“You absolutely do.”

A beat passed.

His eyes dropped to the way your hand curled around the counter edge.

When he looked back up, his voice was quieter. “You like the gear.”

Your mouth went dry. “I—what?”

Jack’s eyes held yours. “You heard me.”

You shook your head, “I do not.”

He raised a brow, “No?”

“No.” Your eyes betrayed you, straight to the vest.

Jack saw. The smugness sharpened.

You shut your eyes. “Damn it.”

A low sound left him. Almost a laugh. Not quite. “That’s what I thought.”

You opened your eyes.

He was close now. Close enough that you could see the dust on his boots, the tired edge around his eyes, the way the tan quarter-zip pulled across his shoulders beneath the vest.

You swallowed.

Jack watched your throat move. Said nothing.

Which was, frankly, rude.

“You’re enjoying this,” you said.

“A little.” Too honest. Too calm.

Your stomach flipped. “You’re supposed to deny it.”

“No.” The single word landed low.

Your hand slipped on the counter.

Jack’s gaze dropped to it. Then back to your face. His smile softened into something darker.

More focused. “Oh, baby.”

Your entire body went warm. “Don’t call me that right now.”

His head tilted. “Why?”

“Because I’m already—” You stopped.

Jack waited. His eyes stayed on your face, patient and pleased and quiet enough to make the silence feel like a touch.

You cleared your throat. “Because I’m unloading the dishwasher.”

He looked at the open dishwasher. Then, at the single spoon still sitting in the rack. Then back at you. “Almost done.”

You hated him.

You wanted him so badly your knees felt unreliable.

Jack stepped closer. Your back met the counter. He did not touch you.

Not yet.

His gaze moved over your face, taking in the blush, the uneven breathing, the way you kept trying not to look at the vest and failing every time.

Then his hand lifted. Slow enough that you could have moved away. You didn’t. His fingers brushed the loose collar of your T-shirt where it rested against your shoulder.

Barely. Not enough. Too much.

His voice dropped, “You want me to take it off?”

Your eyes jumped to his. “The shirt?” 

His mouth curved. “The vest.”

Oh. Right. The vest.

You looked at it again, because apparently, you had learned nothing.

Jack watched you look. Watched your breath catch. Watched your fingers tighten against the counter.

When you dragged your eyes back to his, he looked unbearably smug. Your voice came out smaller than planned. “Maybe don’t.”

Jack went very still. The kitchen went quiet around you.

His thumb brushed once against your shoulder. “Maybe don’t.”

You nodded.  

He waited. Right. Words.

“Yes,” you said softly. “Maybe don’t.”

Jack smiled then. Slow. Private. Absolutely lethal.

“Hands on the counter.”

Your breath left you. “What?”

Jack’s eyes held yours. “You heard me.”

The words were quiet. That was the problem. Jack did not raise his voice. He did not have to. The command settled into the kitchen with the same calm certainty he carried into rooms where people were used to listening when he spoke.

Your hand tightened around the edge of the counter.

Jack saw. His gaze dropped to your fingers, then came back to your face.

“You good?”

You nodded, then caught yourself because his eyebrow moved. Barely. Still enough.

“I’m good.”

Jack believed you. That was worse. Better. Both.

His mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile, not quite mercy.

“Then, hands on the counter.”

The kitchen seemed to shrink around the sentence.

The open dishwasher breathed out the last of its heat beside you. The single spoon still sat in the rack, ridiculous and bright beneath the kitchen light. Somewhere in the living room, the television murmured to itself, low enough to be forgotten but not low enough to let the house feel empty.

You turned because he told you to. That was the first thing. The second was that Jack noticed the exact moment you realized you liked it. 

Your palms met the counter. Cool stone. Smooth beneath your hands. You spread your fingers over it and tried not to think about how exposed the gesture made you feel. Tried not to think about the soft lounge shorts riding high on your thighs, the oversized T-shirt slipping loose at your shoulder, the fact that your back was to him now, and you could no longer use his face to prepare yourself for what he might do next.

Behind you, Jack did not move.

The silence was deliberate.

You felt it travel down the line of your spine.

Your skin prickled. “Jack.”

His boots sounded once on the tile. Then again. Slow. Measured. Not stalking. Not rushing.

Just coming closer because he had decided to, and because you had put your hands where he told you to put them.

He stopped behind you, close enough that the heat of him reached you before his hands did.

The vest touched you first.

A brush of hard tactical fabric between your shoulder blades. Warm from his body underneath, rough at the edges, practical in a way that made it feel more obscene than anything designed to be sexy ever could.

Your fingers curled against the counter.

Jack’s mouth came near your ear. “I didn’t tell you to move.”

You had not moved. Not really. But your hands had lifted by a fraction, your fingers starting to curl like they wanted to reach back for him before you remembered yourself.

You flattened them again. The counter was cold. Your skin was not.

Jack’s hand settled at your waist. Warm. Steady. A single touch, and your whole body went too aware of itself. The old cotton of his shirt against your skin. The loose waistband of your shorts. The bare line of your shoulder where the collar had slipped. The cool air in the kitchen. The hard vest behind you.

His thumb moved once against your side. “Good.”

One word. No flourish. No smirk you could see.

Still, your breath went uneven.

Jack heard it.

His hand stayed where it was, not moving higher, not moving lower, like he had all the time in the world and no interest in giving you anywhere to hide. “You like that.”

Your eyes shut. “I don’t know what you mean.”

His mouth brushed the side of your neck. Barely there. “Liar.”

It should not have sounded affectionate. It did. A shiver moved through you before you could stop it. Jack’s palm flexed at your waist, grounding you without letting you pretend he had missed it.

The kitchen smelled like detergent, fading steam, and him.

Cold air still clung to his clothes from outside. Beneath that was sweat, dust, soap, and the faint metallic edge of gear and training equipment. It was not cologne. It was not polished. It was Jack after a long day doing something physical and dangerous enough that your body had apparently decided common sense was optional.

His other hand came to your opposite hip. Now he had you between him and the counter. Not trapped. Held.

There was a difference. Jack knew it. Worse, he knew you knew it too.

His mouth touched your shoulder, a slow kiss just below the place where your shirt had slipped. The touch was soft enough to make your knees go weak. His hands tightened at your hips before you could sway.

Jack’s thumbs moved in slow arcs beneath the hem of your shirt, finding skin. Your breath caught. The refrigerator hummed. The dishwasher clicked softly as it cooled. Jack’s vest shifted against your back when he leaned closer, and the sound of it—fabric, buckles, the faint scrape of equipment—went straight through you.

His fingers skimmed your stomach. Not high enough. Not low enough. Just enough to make you feel the shape of his restraint. 

You started to turn your head toward him.

 His hand left your waist and came to your jaw, two fingers beneath your chin, guiding your face forward again. “No.”

Your pulse jumped. The word was quiet. Simple. Devastating.

You faced forward again.

Jack’s thumb brushed once along your jaw before his hand dropped back to your side. “Stay there.”

You pressed your palms more firmly to the counter. “That’s bossy.”

His mouth hovered near your ear. “You like bossy.”

Your face burned. “I did not say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

A frustrated sound escaped you before you could swallow it down.

Jack stilled. Then, softly, “There.”

Your stomach flipped. “What?”

“That sound.” His lips touched the back of your shoulder. 

The hand beneath your shirt slid slowly up your stomach, then stopped at your ribs. Waiting. Teasing. Holding back exactly enough to make you feel the absence of everything he was not doing.

You went silent.

Jack’s mouth moved along your neck. Slow. Patient. Awful. Every touch felt measured. Not because he was hesitant, but because he had figured out that patience ruined you and was immediately putting that information to use.

His palm flattened over your stomach and drew you back against him. The vest pressed hard into your back. The duty belt brushed the back of your thigh. You felt him there, solid and warm and controlled, and your body gave one helpless little shift backward before your mind could stop it.

Jack’s grip tightened. Not a warning. A response. His breath changed against your neck. For the first time since he had walked through the door, the smug control slipped just enough for you to feel the man underneath it.

You caught it.

Your mouth curved despite yourself. “There he is.”

Jack went still. The air changed. His hand stayed flat over your stomach, but his thumb stopped moving. 

You had gotten him. Only a little. Only for a second. But enough.

His mouth came close to your ear. “Careful.”

Your smile widened, shaky but real. “With what?”

His hand slid to your hip and pulled you back into him again, slower this time.

Your smile disappeared. Every thought went with it.

“Thinking you’re in charge because I let you have one.”

You swallowed hard. “That was one?”

His mouth brushed your neck. “One.”

The word should not have undone you. It did. You were suddenly aware of your hands again, of how badly you wanted to take them off the counter. To reach back. To touch the vest. The straps. His belt. His hands. Anything. You wanted to turn around and get your mouth on his, wanted to make him stop sounding so calm when you could feel he was not.

Your fingers flexed.

Jack saw. “Hands.”

You flattened them. 

He kissed your shoulder. A reward. You hated how fast it worked. You loved how fast it worked.

Jack’s hand slipped beneath your shirt again, slower now, knuckles brushing bare skin on the way up. His touch stayed to the edges: waist, ribs, stomach, the underside of wanting without giving it a name. He was not rushing toward the places your body begged for. He was making you feel every inch before then.

You let your head tip to the side. More room. You did not say it.

Jack did not need you to. His mouth found the space you gave him. His lips were warm against your neck, then his teeth grazed just enough to make your breath catch, and your hands press flat again against the stone.

“That’s it,” he murmured.

The praise sank into you slowly like heat. You had been embarrassed before. Flustered. Mouthy because it was easier to be difficult than honest. But somewhere between the counter under your palms and his vest at your back, the fight in you had softened.

Not gone. Changed.

You were still aware of how ridiculous this should have been. The open dishwasher. The last spoon. The clean mug sitting in the bowl cabinet. His kitchen lit golden in the late afternoon while Jack stood behind you in tactical gear and touched you like he had all night and no intention of wasting a second.

But the embarrassment had started to dissolve into something heavier.

Relief, maybe. Relief at not having to hide how much you wanted him. Relief at being told exactly what to do by someone who would stop the moment you asked.

Relief at Jack’s quiet certainty, at the way he gave commands like promises and praise like reward. His hands slid down to the hem of your shirt. 

You tensed, not from fear. Anticipation moved through you so sharply that your breath caught in your throat.

Jack felt it. His mouth touched the back of your shoulder. “Still good?”

“Yes.”

He trusted it.

His thumbs hooked beneath the fabric. “Arms up.”

The command was simple. That made it worse. You had been told to keep your hands on the counter. Now he was telling you to move them. The shift itself felt intimate, as if he were changing the rules and trusting you to follow.

You lifted your hands slowly.

The counter disappeared from beneath your palms, leaving you briefly unanchored. Your arms rose above your head. The position pulled the shirt higher, exposing the line of your stomach, leaving you open to him in a way that made your face burn before he had even taken anything off.

Jack watched. You could feel him watching. His hands rested at your waist for one long second, as if he was taking in the fact that you were standing there because he had told you to.

The silence made your pulse beat harder.

Then he began to lift your shirt. Slowly. The cotton slid up your stomach. Over your ribs. Higher. He did not rush. Of course, he did not rush. Jack had learned that patience ruined you and had apparently decided to make it your problem.

You made a small, impatient sound before you could stop yourself.

The shirt stopped. You froze.

Jack’s mouth came near your ear. “Something you need?”

Your eyes closed. Terrible man. “No.”

His fingers held the shirt exactly where it was. Not up. Not down.

A strip of kitchen air cooled your skin. 

“No?”

Your pride made one final, useless attempt at survival. It failed immediately.

“Please.”

Jack’s breath changed. Only slightly. Enough.

His mouth touched your shoulder. “Please, what?”

The word sat on your tongue, embarrassing and simple, and exactly what he wanted.

“Take it off.”

A pause.

Then his lips curved against your skin. “That wasn’t so hard.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You’re still listening.” He lifted the shirt the rest of the way. 

The fabric dragged over your chest, your shoulders, your raised arms. For a second, it covered your face, warm cotton and the faint smell of him, and then it was gone, dropped somewhere behind you onto the kitchen floor.

The air touched your bare skin.

Jack went still. Completely. Your arms were still raised. Your breathing had gone uneven. The vest pressed warm and hard against your back. And Jack, who had been so smug, so pleased, so devastatingly in control, did not say anything. For one second. Two. 

The silence reached your pulse before his voice did. “You weren’t wearing anything under this.”

Your face went hot. “I was comfortable.”

His hand came back to your waist. Slow. Firm. “In my kitchen.”

“You weren’t home.”

His fingers tightened once. “I am now.”

The words landed low and heavy between you.

You started to lower your arms.

Jack caught the movement immediately. “Ah.”

You froze.

His mouth brushed your shoulder. “I didn’t say you could move.”

Your whole body went hot. Slowly, you lifted your arms back into place.

Jack’s hand slid over your waist, controlled, almost reverent, like he was taking a second to recover and refusing to let you see how badly he needed it.

Unfortunately for him, you knew him too well.

Your mouth curved despite the heat in your face. “Oh.”

His fingers paused.

You smiled, breathless. “Oh, baby.”

Jack’s grip tightened at your waist. “Careful.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough for your cheek to almost brush his. “Did you not know?”

His mouth hovered near your ear. His voice was low. Still controlled. Barely. “I know now.”

A shiver moved through you.

Jack felt it.

His mouth touched the side of your neck. “There you go.”

Your arms ached faintly from being raised, but you did not lower them.

He had not told you to.

Jack noticed.

You felt the exact moment he noticed: the way his hand stilled, the way his breath went rough, the way his body pressed closer behind yours until the vest brushed your bare back again.

He leaned in, mouth at your ear. “You’re waiting.”

Your eyes fluttered. “You didn’t tell me I could move.”

For a second, he was silent.

Then his hand spread over your stomach and pulled you gently back into him. “That’s my girl.”

The praise hit harder than you expected.

Your breath shook.

Jack’s mouth moved along your neck, slower now, rewarding every second you kept your arms lifted. His hand stayed at your waist, then drifted over your stomach, then back to your hip. Teasing. Learning. Not attempt to hide how much he liked the way you were listening.

Finally, his voice came low against your skin. “Hands down.”

You lowered them slowly. Relief moved through your shoulders. 

Before you could decide what to do with your hands, Jack spoke again.

“Behind your back.”

Your pulse jumped. The kitchen blurred softly at the edges. You turned your head a fraction.

Jack was waiting there over your shoulder, eyes dark and steady, giving you time because he always gave you time.

Your hands slid behind you. Slowly. Obediently.

His mouth curved. “There she is.”

The words were soft. Too soft for what they did to you. Your hands stayed behind your back, fingers curling around your opposite wrist, because you had no idea what else to do with them. The position pulled your shoulders back and left you open to him, skin still warm where his mouth had been and cooler now beneath the kitchen air.

Jack did not touch you right away. He looked. You felt the weight of it move over you. Down the side of your neck. Across your shoulders. Along the line of your spine where the vest had been brushing you. The kitchen felt too ordinary amid the silence: the open dishwasher, the clean spoon still abandoned on the rack, the soft ticking of cooling metal, the fading detergent steam caught beneath the sharper scent of him.

Then he stepped closer. The vest touched your back first. Hard fabric. Warm underneath. A scrape of tactical gear against bare skin that made your stomach pull tight.

Your breath caught.

Jack heard it. His hand moved behind you, slow enough that you could have stepped away, and closed around both of your wrists. Not tight. Not rough. Just firm. Certain.

Your eyes fluttered shut.

His thumb moved once over the inside of your wrist, and the carefulness of it almost made the whole thing worse. He held you like he meant it. Like he knew exactly what you were giving him and had no intention of taking it lightly.

“You good?” he asked against your shoulder.

Your answer came out quieter than you expected. “I’m good.”

His grip settled.

His free hand came to your waist, palm spreading warm against your skin. Then he drew you back by degrees, not pulling hard, not forcing, just guiding until your spine met the vest and your hips met the solid line of him behind you.

Your lips parted.

The air left the room.

Jack’s mouth touched the side of your neck. Barely.

You felt it everywhere.

He kissed you slowly, once beneath your ear, then again lower, where your pulse had become embarrassingly easy to find. His hand slipped from your waist to your stomach, flat and steady, holding you against him while his mouth learned what made your breath change.

You tried to swallow. It came out as a sound instead.

Jack’s grip around your wrists tightened. Not a warning. A response.

He liked that.

You knew because his breath shifted against your neck. Because the calm line of him behind you went a little less calm. Because his hand pressed you more firmly back into him, making sure you felt exactly what listening to him had done.

Your eyes opened. The kitchen cabinets blurred in front of you. The cabinet with the mugs. The bowl cabinet with the green mug still sitting in the wrong place because neither of you had bothered to fix it.

You should have found that funny.

You would have, if Jack’s mouth had not opened against your shoulder. If his teeth had not skimmed just enough to make your knees loosen. If his free hand had not slid to your hip and pulled you back again, slower this time, letting you feel him through all that gear, all that restraint.

“Jack.” His name came out thin.

He hummed against your skin. Not a question. Not yet. He knew what you wanted. That was the problem. He knew, and he was taking his time with the knowledge. His hand dragged slowly over your stomach, then back to your waist, then lower to the band of your shorts. He did not go beneath it yet. He only rested there, fingers spread, the heel of his hand warm against the place where your body had gone tight with waiting.

You pulled against his grip without meaning to. His hand around your wrists did not move. The reminder went through you like a spark.

You were not trapped.

You were held.

There was a difference, and Jack knew exactly how to make you feel it.

His mouth came to your ear. “Tell me.” 

Only two words. Soft. Rough at the edges.

You closed your eyes.

The old instinct rose—joke, dodge, say something difficult enough to make the wanting less obvious. But your shirt was on the floor. His vest was against your back. His hand was at your waistband. And you were tired of pretending you were not shaking.

“Touch me,” you whispered.

Jack went still for half a second. Then his mouth pressed to your shoulder. A reward. His hand slipped lower into the waistband of your shorts. Slowly. The first real touch made your whole body lock. Jack held you through it. One hand around your wrists, the other moving with maddening patience, his mouth warm at your neck, his breath uneven now.

He did not ask again.

He trusted the way you leaned into him. He trusted the way your head tipped back against his shoulder. He trusted the way your fingers curled helplessly in his grip instead of pulling away.

And because he trusted you, you gave him more.

A breath. A sound. His name, softer this time.

Jack moved as if he were learning you by touch and already knew he would remember every answer. Every shiver. Every little hitch of breath. Every helpless attempt to chase his hand when he slowed down.

“Easy,” he murmured.

Your body listened before your pride could object.

A low sound moved out of him, almost a laugh, pleased and dark and far too close to your ear. He liked that too. He liked it when you listened.

You could feel it in the way his grip tightened around your wrists. In the way his mouth became less patient at your neck. In the way his body leaned heavier into yours for one second before he reined himself back in.

“You’re doing so good.” The praise sank into you, warm and devastating.

Your head fell back against him. The ceiling light caught in your vision. Soft gold. Too bright. Too ordinary for this. His kitchen. His counter. The open dishwasher still breathing out the last of its heat.

Jack’s hand moved again. The world narrowed. The hard vest. The radio is brushing your shoulder. The duty belt against the back of your thigh. His mouth at your throat. His breathing is no longer even.

He brought you closer slowly. So slowly, you almost did not recognize what he was doing until your hands tightened in his hold and your legs started to tremble.

Your breath broke. “Please.”

The word slipped out raw.

Jack stopped kissing your neck. Everything in him seemed to listen. His hand did not stop.

Not yet.

“Please what?”

You made a sound that was not quite an answer.

 He slowed. Cruel. Controlled. Patient enough to ruin you.

Your forehead nearly dipped into the counter in front of you. “Jack.”

His mouth touched your shoulder. “That’s not an answer.”

Your face burned. Not shame. Something warmer. Something that made the wanting sharper because he was making you stand inside it and speak.

“Please don’t stop.”

His breath left him rough against your neck. There. That got to him. 

The knowledge made your knees weaker.

Jack gave you what you had asked for, and your whole body went soft and tight at once. Your wrists strained in his hold. His grip steadied you immediately, keeping you exactly where he wanted you while his mouth returned to your neck and his fingers worked over you in slow, tight circles.

You were close enough now that the room started to slip.

The tile beneath your feet. The cabinet in front of you. The hum of the refrigerator.

All of it blurred around him. His hand. His vest. His voice in your ear. “That’s it.”

You shook against him.

He felt it. 

He gave you more. 

Then, just as your body started to tip toward the edge, just as your breath caught and stayed caught, just as your fingers curled helplessly behind your back—

Jack stopped. Completely. 

For one impossible second, you could not process the absence. Then you made a sound so desperate it should have embarrassed you.

It didn’t.

You were too far gone for that.

Your body tried to follow his hand.

Jack’s arm came around your waist immediately, holding you still, holding you up, his mouth pressing to your shoulder in something almost tender. “Easy.”

You let out a broken breath. “Jack.”

“I’ve got you.” He murmured.

“You stopped.” 

His mouth curved against your skin. “I did.”

You pulled at your wrists, helpless now, frustrated enough that your eyes burned. “Why?”

His hand rested flat over your stomach. Still. Warm. Maddening.

His lips brushed the shell of your ear. “Because you begged so pretty.”

Heat rushed through you, full-body and humiliating. 

“And I want to hear you do it again.”

For a second, you could not answer. You could only stand there with your hands still held behind your back, Jack’s vest pressed against your bare skin, his arm firm around your waist, his breath warm at your ear. The kitchen felt too bright for what he had done to you. Too normal. Cabinets. Counter. Open dishwasher. The last spoon was still sitting in the rack like neither of you had any intention of finishing what you started.

You whispered his name.

Jack’s mouth touched your shoulder. “Turn around.”

Your pulse jumped.

His grip loosened around your wrists. For a second, you did not move. Not because you did not want to. Because the absence of his hold made you feel strangely weightless, like your body had forgotten what to do without his hand telling it where to stay.

Jack noticed. His fingers brushed once over the inside of your wrist before he let go completely.

“Slow.”

One word. You obeyed. You turned carefully, bare feet shifting against the cool tile, counter at your back now, open dishwasher to your side, Jack in front of you.

He looked almost unfairly composed for a man whose breathing had gone rough against your neck moments ago.

Almost.

His vest was still half-unfastened. The tan shirt beneath it clung to his shoulders. His hair was mussed from the protective glasses shoved into it. There was dust on his boots. A shadow along his jaw. His eyes moved over your face first, then lower, and the effort it took him to bring them back up made your stomach twist.

“There,” he said softly.

Your fingers found the edge of the counter behind you. “What?”

Jack stepped closer. His hands settled at your waist. “I wanted to see your face.”

The sentence should have been tender. It was. That made it worse. His thumbs moved once over your skin, slow and warm. He watched you take the touch. Watched your lips part, your shoulders lift, the way your body could not decide whether to lean into him or brace against the counter.

Then he bent slightly.

“Jack—”

His hands tightened at your waist. A warning. A promise.

Then he lifted you.

The counter was cold beneath you.

You gasped at the sudden shock of it, the stone pressing against the backs of your thighs, cool enough to make your whole body jolt. Jack stepped between your legs before you could close them, his gear brushing you, his hands still steady at your waist.

The house was quiet around you. Too quiet. The television in the living room had gone to some muted commercial you could not place. The refrigerator hummed. The dishwasher clicked again, cooling metal, soft and domestic and absurd.

Jack stood between your knees like he belonged there. Like he had always intended to put you there.

Your hands moved toward him before you thought better of it.

He caught your wrists. Fast.

Your breath stopped.

Jack looked down at your hands, then back at your face. “Not yet.”

You made a soft, frustrated sound.

His mouth curved. “Hands on the counter.”

You stared at him. “You just let me turn around.”

“And now I’m telling you where to put them.”

Heat crawled up your neck. “You’re very bossy.”

Jack guided your hands to the edge of the counter on either side of your hips.

His fingers pressed over yours until you gripped it. “Hold here.”

Your hands curled around the counter. The stone was cold under your palms.

Jack waited until he saw your fingers tighten. Then he let go. “Good.”

The word went through you with humiliating ease.

Jack saw that too. His gaze sharpened. “You’re going to be a problem now.”

You tried to breathe normally. “You already knew I was a problem.”

“I knew you were mouthy.” His hands slid to your knees. Slow. Firm. “This is different.”

Your heart kicked hard against your ribs as he eased your legs wider. Not rushed. Not rough. Just certain. Every inch of space he made felt deliberate.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. “You love my mouth,” you said.

Jack stopped. For half a second, the entire kitchen went still.

Then his eyes lifted to yours. Dark. Amused. Worse than amused. “Yes.”

The answer was immediate. Too immediate. Your pulse stumbled.

Jack’s thumbs moved once over the inside of your knees. “But right now,” he said, voice low, “I’m interested in what it does when I tell you to be quiet.”

Oh.

Your mouth parted. Nothing came out.

Jack’s expression warmed with satisfaction. “There she is.”

Your face burned. “That was mean.”

“No.” His hands moved higher on your thighs, slow enough to make your thoughts scatter. “That was honest.”

The kitchen air felt cool against your bare skin. Jack felt warm everywhere he touched you. The vest shifted when he leaned down, hard fabric brushing the inside of your leg before he caught himself and adjusted.

Still controlled. Still careful. Still somehow making every careful thing feel worse.

His fingers found the waistband of your shorts. You went still. Jack noticed. His gaze lifted to your face. “You good?”

Your throat worked. “I’m good.”

His thumbs slipped beneath the soft fabric. “Hands stay.”

Your fingers curled harder around the counter.

Jack drew your shorts down slowly. Not because they were difficult. Because he wanted you to feel every second of it, the fabric dragged over your hips, your thighs, catching briefly beneath you until he lifted you just enough to ease it free. The movement was smooth and effortless, one hand at your waist, one at your thigh, his body still between your knees, the vest brushing your skin whenever he leaned close.

You stared at the ceiling because looking at him felt impossible. That did not help. The ceiling was too ordinary. The kitchen light was too warm. The dishwasher was still open. Your shorts slid down your legs and fell somewhere near his boots.

Jack did not move for a moment. He just looked. 

The quiet of it made your pulse beat everywhere. “Jack.”

His hands settled back on your thighs. “I’m here.”

The answer came immediately. Grounding. Ruinous. His thumbs moved slowly over your skin, and he eased your knees apart again, reclaiming the space he had made before.

Your breath caught.

Jack’s mouth curved. “Still with me?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He lowered his head and kissed the inside of your knee.

Soft. Patient. A beginning.

Your head tipped back against the cabinet.

Jack’s voice came low against your skin. “You asked so nicely before.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. “I was desperate.”

“I know.” The smile was in his voice.

You hated that. You loved that.

His mouth moved higher. Still not enough. Your hands twitched on the counter.

Jack noticed without looking up. “Hands stay.”

Your grip tightened immediately.

The reward came as another kiss, slow and warm, higher than the last.

You let out a shaking breath. 

Jack looked up at you. Focused. The kind of focus that made rooms go quiet around him. “Then take it.”

The words emptied your lungs.

Jack lowered his mouth. 

The first touch made your whole body jerk. Your fingers clamped around the counter. The cold stone bit into your palms. Your shoulders hit the cabinet behind you with a soft thud, and Jack’s hands tightened on your thighs to keep you there, open and still and absolutely nowhere near in control. 

“Oh, my God.” The words broke out of you before you could stop them.

Jack paused. Barely.

You felt the shape of his smile against you. “Quiet.”

You inhaled sharply.  

Then he did it again. Slower this time. Like he wanted to feel the exact second you lost the fight with yourself. Your head tipped back against the cabinet. The kitchen light went soft and gold behind your closed eyes. Everything narrowed to Jack between your thighs, the rough brush of his vest against your leg, the pressure of his hands, the heat of his mouth, the way he seemed to listen with his entire body.

You tried to move.

Jack held you still. Not harsh. Firm enough. A reminder.

Your hands stayed on the counter. Barely.

His thumb stroked once over your thigh, approval without words, and the gentleness of it almost made you unravel faster than the rest. You made another sound. Smaller. More helpless.

Jack hummed low, pleased, and the vibration went through you like a spark.

Your eyes flew open.

He looked up. That was worse. His mouth was still close. His eyes were dark and steady, watching your face like he was reading every answer you gave him. “You like that?”

Your voice had vanished. You nodded.

Jack’s hands stilled.

 The silence pressed hot against your skin. Right. Words.

“Yes.”

His mouth curved. “Tell me.”

Your fingers dug into the counter. “I like that.”

He rewarded you immediately.

Your breath broke.

Jack’s hands slid beneath your thighs, adjusting you closer to the edge, and the movement made the counter colder, him warmer, the room smaller. You wanted to touch him so badly your hands ached around the stone. 

One hand slipped. Only an inch.

Jack lifted his head. “No.”

The word was quiet. Your hand froze.

He did not look angry. He looked pleased. Terribly pleased. “Where do your hands stay?”

Your face burned. “On the counter.”

His thumb stroked the inside of your thigh. “That’s right.”

He waited until your hand curled back around the edge.

Then his tongue found you again. A reward. A ruin. You were a mess within seconds. Not gracefully. Not prettily. Completely. Breath snagging. Thighs trembling. Shoulders pressed against the cabinet. Hands locked around the counter because Jack had told you to keep them there, and somehow that command had become the last solid thing in the room.

Jack took his time. Of course he did. He had learned that patience ruined you, and now he was proving it. Every time you thought you knew the rhythm, he changed it. Every time your body started to rise toward something, he softened. Every time you whispered his name, he gave you enough to make you do it again.

“Jack.”

His hands tightened. You heard his breath change. Felt it. He liked his name like that. You knew it now. 

You used it. “Jack, please.”

He lifted his mouth just enough to speak against your skin. “Please what?”

You let out a broken little laugh, almost angry with how badly you needed him. “You know.”

“I do.” His mouth brushed higher. Not enough. Not yet. “I want to hear you.”

Your head fell back. The cabinet was cool against your shoulder blades. Your own breathing sounded too loud in the small kitchen. “Please don’t stop.”

Jack’s hands flexed. There. He liked that. The knowledge made you ache.

 He gave you more. The room slipped sideways. The hum of the refrigerator disappeared. The TV disappeared. The open dishwasher, the cooling spoon, the late afternoon light across the tile — all of it blurred into sensation.

Jack’s mouth. Jack’s hands. Jack’s voice, when he murmured, “Good girl,” like praise, was another way to touch you.

Your hands started to loosen from the counter. You caught yourself.

Jack saw anyway. “That’s it,” he said, voice rougher now. “Hold on.”

You did. Your fingers curled around the edge until your knuckles ached. Your thighs trembled under his hands.

He brought you close slowly. Too slowly. You could feel it building, feel yourself tipping toward that bright, impossible edge he had denied you once already. Your breath came in pieces. Your body tried to move with him, tried to chase, tried to close around him.

Jack held you open. Held you still. Kept you there.

“Jack,” you whispered.

He lifted his eyes to yours. The sight almost ended you by itself. Still in gear. Still composed enough to look up like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. Not composed enough to hide the roughness in his breathing. 

“What do you need?” The question was quiet. Devastating.

You swallowed. The begging came easier this time. Too easy. “Please.”

His mouth touched your thigh. “Please what?”

Your cheeks burned.

You did not hide. Not this time. “Please let me.”

Jack went still. His eyes darkened. For one breath, all the smugness slipped, and what was left underneath was hunger so sharp it made your fingers tighten on the counter.

Then his mouth curved slowly. “There it is.”

He kissed your thigh. A reward. “Again.”

You shook your head once, breathless. “Jack.”

“Again.” His voice was rougher now. Less teasing. More affected.

And because you could hear what it did to him, because you could feel that he was not nearly as untouched as he pretended, you gave him the words.

“Please,” you whispered. “Please let me come.”

Jack’s eyes held yours. Then he lowered his mouth again. This time, he did not stop. Your whole body went tight. The counter edge cut into your palms. Your breath caught and stayed caught. Jack’s hands held you through the first shudder, then the next, one arm pressing over your hips to keep you exactly where he wanted you while the rest of you broke apart around him.

You heard yourself say his name. Once. Twice. Too soft to be a scream. Too ruined to be anything else.

Jack stayed with you through all of it. Not rushing. Not moving away. His mouth is softer now, his hands gentler, easing you down instead of dropping you.

Your body went heavy. Boneless. Your head fell back against the cabinet, and the kitchen came back in pieces.

The hum of the refrigerator. The detergent smell. The cool counter under your palms. The sound of Jack breathing. He kissed the inside of your knee. Then the lower part of your thigh.

Then he looked up at you. His hair was mussed. His mouth was wet. His vest was still on. And he looked unbearably pleased with himself. “You still good?”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling hard. “I think you know I’m not.”

His mouth curved. Warm. Smug.

So comepletely Jack, you almost laughed.

 “Yeah,” he said softly. “I do.”

He rose slowly, stepping back between your thighs.

His hands settled on the counter on either side of you, caging you in without touching you. He leaned close enough that the vest brushed your bare skin again, and you shivered even now.

Jack noticed. His smile deepened. 

You closed your eyes. “I hate the vest.”

“No, you don’t.”

Your laugh came out weak. “No,” you admitted. “I really don’t.”

Jack’s mouth brushed yours. Slow. Deep. A reward and a promise. When he pulled back, his eyes had gone dark again.

Your hands slid from the counter toward him. This time, he let you touch the vest.

For one second.

Only one.

Then his hand closed gently around your wrist. “Not yet.”

Your breath caught.

Jack’s thumb moved over your pulse. “I’m not done with you.”

The words landed low.

Your hand was still caught in his. Your fingers had barely touched the vest before he stopped you, and somehow that single second had made the wanting worse. Rough fabric beneath your palm. The hard line of the strap. Heat beneath it. Jack beneath all of it.

You stared at him.

Jack stared back. His thumb moved once over your pulse. Not soothing. Not really.

A reminder.

The kitchen still felt tilted around you. Your body was loose and shaking from what he had already done, your thighs still bracketed around him, the counter cold beneath you, the cabinet cool against your back. Everything smelled like detergent and sweat and Jack. The open dishwasher had stopped steaming now, but the clean scent lingered beneath the sharper edge of his gear.

Your voice came out thin. “You’re not?”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “No.”

Your fingers flexed in his hold.

He looked down at the movement. Then back at your face. “You want to touch me.”

It was not a question.

You swallowed. “Yes.”

His eyes darkened.

For a second, the smugness softened into something heavier. Hungrier. The kind of look that made you realize he had been holding himself together too. Not unaffected. Not even close. Just disciplined enough to make you think the ruin had been one-sided.

It had not.

The proof was in the tension along his jaw. The roughness of his breathing. The way his hand tightened around your wrist before easing again, like he had to remind himself not to rush just because he wanted to.

Jack leaned in. His vest brushed your bare skin.

Your breath caught.

He noticed. “Soon,” he said.

Your eyes fluttered. That one word felt like a promise and a punishment. “Jack.”

His mouth touched yours. Not a kiss. Almost. “Hands up.”

Your pulse kicked. “What?”

Jack’s gaze held yours. “Above your head.”

The kitchen seemed to go quieter.

You were still sitting on the counter, still trembling, still trying to recover from him, and now he wanted your hands where he could see them. Where you could not reach for him. Where he could take that final inch of control before giving anything back.

Your fingers curled once against his.

Then you lifted your hands.

Slowly.

Jack guided them the rest of the way, his palm firm around your wrists as he pinned them above your head against the cabinet.

The wood was cool behind your knuckles.

Jack’s body filled the space between your thighs. His gear brushed you everywhere. The hard vest. The duty belt. The heavy weight of him still mostly dressed while you were bare and breathless on his kitchen counter.

He looked at you like that did something to him. Like he had meant to keep the upper hand and had not accounted for the sight of you listening this well.

His mouth moved against your jaw. “Still good?”

You nodded once. “I’m good.”

His grip settled around your wrists. “Stay there.”

Your answer came out as a breath. “Okay.”

Jack kissed you then. Slow at first. Deep enough to make your hands flex above your head, your wrists pressing into his palm, your body shifting toward him before he had given you permission to move. His mouth tasted like heat and restraint and the ruin he had pulled out of you minutes ago.

Then the kiss changed. Something in him shifted. The edge of all that careful patience wore thin. His free hand slid down your side, over your hip, beneath your thigh, drawing you closer to the edge of the counter with one controlled pull. Your breath broke against his mouth. The counter dragged cool beneath you. His gear scraped softly, buckles and fabric and belt, the sound rough in the quiet kitchen.

Jack’s forehead touched yours. His breathing was no longer even. Not even close.

 “You sure?” The question was rougher now. Less composed.

 You looked at him. Really looked.

At the dark focus in his eyes, the strain in his jaw, the way he was still holding himself back because your answer mattered more than his urgency.

Your chest tightened. “Yes.”

His hand tightened around your wrists. “You want this?”

“Yes.”

Jack’s eyes closed for half a second. Like the answer hit him somewhere deep. When he opened them again, the smugness was gone. What remained was worse.

Need, disciplined down to a blade. “Say it.”

Your breath caught.

His mouth hovered over yours. “Tell me.”

You swallowed. The words felt different now. Less like begging. More like choosing.

“I want you to fuck me.”

Jack went still. The whole kitchen held its breath with him. Then he kissed you hard. Not careless. Never that. But harder than before, deeper, the last of his patience burning down to something urgent and raw. His hand stayed around your wrists, keeping them above your head while his other hand moved between you.

You heard the shift of his belt. 

The low rasp of a zipper.

Your whole body went tight.

Jack felt it immediately.

His mouth brushed your cheek. “I’ve got you.”

“I know.”

He pushed his pants and boxers down only as much as he needed. No more. The gear stayed. The vest stayed. The boots, the belt, the tan fabric pulled tight across his shoulders. He was still dressed like he had walked in from training and found you in his kitchen, and that fact made everything feel sharper. More desperate. Less polished.

Jack’s hand came back to your hip.

He looked at you. Waited.

Your wrists flexed above your head. “I’m good,” you whispered.

His gaze softened for one breath. Then he moved closer. He pushed into you slowly, stealing the air from your lungs. Your head fell back against the cabinet.

Jack stopped. Completely.

Every muscle in him seemed locked with the effort of it. “You okay?”

“Yes.” The answer came immediately. Breathless. Certain.

Jack’s mouth brushed the corner of yours. “Good.”

Then he moved. Slowly at first. Controlled even now. He gave you time to feel every inch of the change, the stretch of being held open to him, the pressure of his body against yours, the hard edge of his vest against your chest every time he leaned in to kiss you. You tried to move your hands down on instinct, needing to touch him, needing something to hold onto besides the cool cabinet and his command.

His grip tightened around your wrists. “Not yet.”

A sound left you. Frustrated. Needy.

Jack’s mouth found your neck. “I know.”

He moved again, deeper this time, harder, and the whole room tilted. Your legs tightened around him. His breathing broke. A real break. Low and rough against your throat.

You caught it even through the haze. “There,” you whispered.

Jack lifted his head enough to look at you. His eyes were dark. “What?”

Your lips parted around a shaky breath. “Right there, Jack. Please.”

He drove into you again, harder, and the words disappeared from both of you. The counter creaked softly beneath you. The cabinet knocked once against your wrists. The spoon in the dishwasher shifted with a tiny metallic sound that should have been funny and was not, because Jack was moving now like the control he had used to wreck you had finally turned on him. 

Still measured. Still focused. But rougher. More urgent. His mouth found yours again, catching the sounds you could not swallow. His hand kept your wrists pinned above your head. His other hand gripped your hip, dragging you closer, holding you exactly where he wanted you while the vest brushed and pressed and turned every thrust into another reminder of how this had started.

You were shaking again.

Already.

Jack felt it. His mouth curved against yours, a flash of smugness cutting through the roughness. “Already?”

You would have snapped at him if you could breathe. Instead, you made a broken sound and pulled against his grip.

He held you there.

“You did that on purpose,” you managed. 

“I did.” His voice was rough. Pleased. Not nearly as steady as he wanted it to be.

That made you smile despite yourself. “You’re not as calm as you think.”

Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. For a second, the room narrowed to that look.

Then his hand released your wrists. “Touch me.”

You did not need to be told twice. Your hands came down fast. One grabbed the edge of the vest. The other slid to the back of his neck, fingers pushing into his hair, finally, finally holding on to him the way your whole body had been begging to since he walked through the door.

Jack groaned.  A real sound. Low. Uncontrolled. The sound ruined you.

Your fingers tightened in his hair. “There he is.” 

Jack caught your mouth with his. The kiss turned messy. Hotter. Less careful around the edges. His hand slid beneath your thigh and hitched you higher on the counter, changing the angle until your nails dug into the back of his neck and your whole body jolted against him.

The gear scraped against your skin.

His vest. His belt. The rough line of fabric and equipment. The hard, practical pieces of him still on while his control came apart under your hands. He was still dominant. Still the one setting the pace. But now you could feel what it cost him. Every breath. Every rough sound against your mouth. Every time his rhythm faltered because your hands found another strap, another edge, another place where his body was warm beneath the gear.

“Jack.”

His forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve got you.” The words came rough. Almost broken.

“You keep saying that.”

His hand tightened on your hip. “Because I do.”

Your chest pulled tight. For one second, the heat went soft at the center. Then he moved again, and you lost the thought completely. The kitchen blurred. Your hands clutched at him, one fisted in the vest, one at his neck, holding him close as he drove you higher. The refrigerator hummed somewhere far away. The counter was cold beneath you. His mouth was hot against yours. His breathing filled your ears.

 His praise came low and rough, no longer polished, no longer smug in the same way. “That’s it.”

Your eyes closed.

“Good girl.”

Your fingers tightened.

“Just like that.”

Your body answered every word.

Jack knew it. He used it. He kept one hand at your hip and brought the other to your jaw, making you look at him when your head started to fall back.

“Stay with me.”

Your eyes opened.

He was close. You could see it now. In the tension around his mouth. In the way his breath caught every time you pulled him harder against you. In the way the rhythm turned rougher, less perfect, more honest.

“Jack,” you whispered.

His thumb brushed your cheek. “I know.”

“I’m—” You tried. 

“I know.” His mouth touched yours. “Let me feel it.”

The words tipped you over. Your whole body went tight around him, hands clutching at the vest, mouth open against his, his name breaking somewhere in your throat as the room disappeared in a rush of heat and sound and Jack holding you through it.

Jack’s forehead dropped to yours, his breath breaking hot against your mouth.

“Oh, fuck.”

Your hands tightened in the front of his vest. “Jack.”

His grip dug into your hip, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to tell you he was there with you, right there, as gone as you were.

“I’m gonna come,” he said, voice wrecked now. “Oh—fu-fuck.”

The sound of him losing control almost tipped you over again.

His mouth brushed yours, messy and barely there.

“God, you’re doing so good,” he breathed. “So good for me.”

You clung to him, his vest rough beneath your hands, his body tense and shaking against yours.

“Jack,” you whispered again.

That was what did it.

His eyes closed. His breath caught. His whole body went tight, and then he buried his face against your neck with a rough, broken sound.

“Fuck,” he whispered against your skin. “Good girl. Good—God, baby.”

His hand tightened once at your waist. Then loosened. His body stayed pressed to yours, still shaking in small aftershocks he could not quite hide. For a moment, there was no command. No teasing. No smugness. Just Jack breathing hard against your throat, vest rough beneath your hands, his body warm and heavy and finally, completely undone.

His mouth pressed to your skin. His body went still.

For a long moment, there was only breathing.

Yours. His.

The hum of the refrigerator returning slowly. The cooling dishwasher. The ordinary kitchen gathering itself around the wreckage of what had just happened on the counter.

Your hands stayed on him. One in his hair. One curled into the vest.

Neither of you moved. Then Jack laughed once. Soft. Rough. Disbelieving.

His forehead stayed against your shoulder. “You okay?”

Your laugh came out weak. “I think my soul left my body.”

His shoulders moved with a quiet laugh. The sound warmed your skin. “Still good?”

You nodded against him. “I’m good.”

His hand, no longer commanding, slid slowly up your back.

Gentle now. Careful.

The dominance loosening into care before you could fully come down from it.

He lifted his head and looked at you.

His face had softened. His hair was a mess. His mouth was warm and swollen from kissing you. The vest was still on, crooked now, one strap half-loose, the POLICE patch no longer centered.

You reached up and touched it with two fingers.

Jack looked down. Then back at you. His mouth curved. Smug again. Barely. “You still hate the vest?”

You stared at him. Then at the vest. Then back at him. “I need you to understand that I am currently too vulnerable to answer questions.”

Jack laughed, low and warm. His thumb brushed your cheek. “That bad?”

You let your head fall back against the cabinet. “Worse.”

His smile softened. “Come here.”

“You are already kind of in my personal space.” You exhaled a laugh. 

“Come here anyway.”

This time, there was no command in it. Just him. You leaned into him, and Jack gathered you carefully against the front of all that gear, one arm around your waist, one hand cradling the back of your head. The vest was still hard against your skin.

Somehow, in his arms, it felt softer.

He kissed your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

“You did so good,” he said quietly.

Your eyes closed. That praise hit differently now. Not sharp. Not dangerous. Warm.

You let out a slow breath against his neck. “Don’t be smug.”

Jack’s mouth brushed your hair. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“A little.”

You laughed, boneless and breathless.

He held you tighter for a second, like the laugh mattered.

Behind you, the dishwasher clicked one last time.

Your eyes opened.

“The spoon,” you whispered.

Jack went still. Then he started laughing against your shoulder.

You felt it more than heard it. Deep. Quiet. Helpless.

You smiled into the side of his neck. “Your dishwasher is still open.”

“I know.”

“You’re breaking kitchen safety rules.”

Jack lifted his head enough to look at you.

His eyes were still dark, but softer now. “You want to finish unloading it?”

You looked down at yourself. Then at him. Then at the vest. “Absolutely not.”

His smile came slow. Warm. Entirely too pleased. “Good answer.”

You ended up in Jack’s bed after. 

Not right away. 

There was the shower first, warm water and his hands gentler than they had been in the kitchen. He washed the places where the counter had pressed into your skin. He kissed your shoulder under the spray. He wrapped you in a towel without making a joke about how unsteady your legs still were, which you appreciated enough not to mention how smug he looked about it.

Then one of his shirts.

Then water.

Then bed.

The room was dim by then, the late afternoon light gone blue at the edges of the blinds. You were curled against his side, cheek resting over his heart, one leg tangled with his beneath the sheet. Jack’s hand moved slowly over your back, up and down, steady enough that your breathing had started to match his without you meaning for it to.

He had been quiet for a while. Not distant quiet. Jack had different kinds of quiet. You knew them now.

This one was warm. Settled.

His fingers paused at the center of your back. “Hey.”

You lifted your head enough to look at him.

His face was softer than it had been in the kitchen. Hair damp. Jaw relaxed. No gear. No vest. No command in his voice now.

Just Jack.

“Hey,” you said.

His thumb moved once against your side. “You okay?”

You smiled faintly. “I’m good.”

He nodded. No hovering. No second-guessing. Just belief. Then his gaze dropped to where his hand rested against your back. For a second, you thought he might make a joke. Something about the vest. Something about the spoon. Something dry enough to pull you both back onto safer ground.

He didn’t.

His voice was low when he spoke. “Thank you.”

Your brow softened. “For what?”

Jack’s hand stilled. His eyes came back to yours. “For trusting me like that.”

The room went quiet around the words. Not empty. Full.

Your throat tightened before you could stop it.

Jack looked almost careful now, like the sentence had cost him more than any command he had given you downstairs. Like this was the part where he had less armor. No tactical vest. No smugness. No easy way to turn the weight of it into heat.

Just him, telling you he knew what you had handed him.

You shifted closer, your hand settling over his chest. “I do trust you.”

His jaw moved once. “I know.”

His fingers resumed their slow path over your back, but his voice stayed rougher than before. “I just don’t want to ever take it lightly.”

Oh.

That landed deeper than you expected.

You pressed your cheek back against his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath your ear.

“You don’t.”

Jack’s arm tightened around you.

Not much.

Enough.

You felt his mouth touch your hair. “Good.”

You closed your eyes.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

The house was quiet. The kitchen was downstairs with its open dishwasher and its abandoned spoon and the counter you were still not emotionally prepared to think about. The vest was somewhere else now. The boots. The belt. All the hard edges stripped away.

But Jack’s hand stayed warm on your back.

And when he kissed the top of your head again, it felt like the softest part of everything he had meant all along.

@nosebeers, @moonz33, @littlewolfbird, @tubby23, @gandalfthegoatsblog, @melslavalampapp, @marauvderss, @supernaturalcat7,@jennataurus, @itwas-maroon16 , @nizzasspot, @meadow0434, @chezze-its, @callmefatherr, @amacphet, @imabapical, @offsavingtheworld, @ifyoubewooedingoodtime, @justreadinghere7, @rabbotseatcarrots, @vicky066, @manly-man-whore, @rosiepoise88, @alittlerayof-pitchblack,@woodxtock, @mafercita101, @kiatjuddae, @lacy1986, @cajunebugg76, @kittenmittensssworld, @generation-zero, @taniamiller, @countryandsweetbabygirl, @fantasyreader130, @thehockeynerd30 @angelryex, @michasia24,

[liahcharms]

and baby, you're all that I want

When Marquis Gojo Satoru goes missing after the bloody fight, the entire empire is in uproar! Until his loyal soldiers accidentally discover him living in a small village working as a... noodle seller? And he has a wife?!

prequel

pairings: Gojo Satoru x Reader

content/warnings: fluff, fluff, fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, inspired by drama, Gojo yearns to have a family, domestic life he deserves, pregnancy, marriage

WC: 5.5k

a/n: loosely inspired by Chinese drama Pursuit of Jade 逐玉！

idk who the artist is, pls help!

Two men walked through plains and meadows under the scorching, merciless sun. Their full armour weighed heavily on tired shoulders, and horses were getting more tired each day. They barely had any water, and milky buns long gone stale, with their usual soft dough crumpling under their touch.

They've been looking for their general for six months already, with the hunt being fruitless from the very start. Marquis Gojo Satoru fell on the battlefield alone, with all his other soldiers getting bowled like wild deer. Since that cursed night – no one has seen him. The most powerful general in the entire empire, with the emperor himself paying in pure silver just to find his most precious warrior.

That's why Suguru – his strategist – and Nanami – most devoted general – decided to walk the vast plains of the empire, just to find their Marquis. He wasn't dead, surely, as not many things could hurt his almost divine body. As if created by the Jade Emperor himself.

Built like a boar, with the strength of a thousand men, Gojo Satoru was the strongest one in the whole empire. Surely he must've been kept hidden, with hundreds of men trying to conceal the Marquis from the world and use him as a future leverage.

Could someone from a traitorous clan kidnap him?

Maybe his wounds after the fight were truly too severe, and he just wasn't strong enough to break free?

Whatever the reason was, Suguru and Nanami were dead-set on finishing their mission.

After a half day of walking, they stepped down the mountain, following a gentle brook that let their horses drink to the brim. Both men cleaned themselves up a bit and ate last, stale buns, dreaming of having even a simple bowl of noodles.

Thus, imagine how joyous they were upon seeing a little village, hidden deep between the mountains with nothing but tall trees and a wide river spinning through it. If Suguru didn't lift his head up while drinking from the brook, surely he wouldn't notice it. Low, wooden roofs were almost fully obscured by lush forest, and nothing but a gentle, white smoke curled around some dirty chimneys.

Food!

Both men almost run that way, with stomachs squirming in hunger and sweat dripping down their backs. Nanami dreamed of sitting down with a drink and meat, while Suguru foolishly wished that the villagers would know something about their Marquis.

After all, the battle was not that far away from here, and there was a chance that someone might've seen a wounded soldier wandering around the meadows.

When their horses passed the small, wooden gate, the little child immediately ran up to them.

"Can I pet, can I pet?" his small hand reached out towards the raven horse, brushing its massive leg gently before Suguru could even nod.

He got off the mare, squatting down to be on the same level as a kid.

"Tell me, boy, do you have any nice restaurants here in the village?" he asked, and the child hummed.

"Of course we have! The best noodles in the whole region, pretty lady!" he chirped, oogling Suguru's long hair smooching his cheeks.

Nanami scoffed, while Suguru only smiled gently. "Well, could you maybe take us there? You see, these two soldiers are very, very hungry."

The boy didn't seem to care about Suguru's pressure on the soldiers and simply nodded. He left the horse and pointed a finger at the small, two-level house, with multiple people sitting outside on little stools and grey smoke twisting around its roof.

"Thank you, dearest," Suguru said warmly, placing a sliver coin in the boy's hand.

Well, it should help his family last for at least a month.

"Do you think someone may've seen him?" Nanami asked while tying the horses to the fence outside the small restaurant.

"I hope so. But firstly, let's eat. I'm ready to collapse any second," Suguru mumbled, passing the wide-open doors.

The inside was rather simple but homely, with multiple families chirping joyfully over their noodles. The delicious smell of spices immediately hit Suguru's stomach, and long-withheld hunger suddenly became even worse.

They sat at the small table near the open window, enjoying the serene view of the slowly running river, with a few children playing at its crystalline water. Their laughter filled the stuffy air, and the gentle wind brushed Suguru's tired cheeks, bringing him a slight comfort. Birds chirped sweetly, and passing girls giggled under their noses, seeing two handsome, strange soldiers sitting politely in the restaurant.

And while they were waiting, with minds enjoying the peacefulness of this place, someone's voice suddenly brought them back.

"What can I get for you, gentlemen?"

Suguru turned his head, ready to order a bowl of spicy noodles and–

Oh.

Oh!

His knees went weak, and if not for the stool, he would surely fall miserably on the wooden floor. Blood immediately rushed to his head, fingers started to tremble, and if Nanami didn't grab his hand, it would surely curl around Gojo Satoru's neck.

Because why, dear heavens, the Marquis himself was standing before him perfectly fit and cheeky, with healthy rosiness blooming on his face and muscular body dressed in simple, commoner robes?

"M-Mar–" he stood up, but Satoru quickly pushed him back down.

The smile wasn't coming off his face, but his voice rolled out low and irritated. "Why are you here?"

"Why are we here?" Suguru almost burst. "Marquis, what do you mean by why are we here?!"

He couldn't quite believe it – the Marquis, man announced by the ministers themselves as surely dead, was, in fact, looking as if resurrected. His eyes, usually hued in deep ocean colour, looked rather... alive. Light and shiny, resembling the cyan paint spread over the canvas, soft and wet, glimmering under the warm beams of sunshine. His always so pale skin brimmed with healthy rosiness, usually suitable for most dearest birdies. Wet forehead was tied with milky cloth, keeping the snowy hair away from the brazen eyes.

Creamy robes hugged him loosely, with a few chilli oil stains bussing its grainy material.

He looked so... not noble. Not Marquis-like.

But much happier.

"Marquis, if we could talk–" Nanami started, but before he managed to finish, another voice chipped in.

Loud and angry, with a tired sigh and in the company of a fat finger knocking on the wooden table. "Hey, pretty boy! I ordered seconds a while ago!"

Suguru straightened up, jaw visibly tensed. He was ready to pull out his long sword and cut the man on the spot. "How dare you to talk to Ma–"

But before it, Satoru quickly smacked the back of his head.

"Sure thing, just give me a minute," he chirped politely, and Suguru almost fainted.

Never in the thirty years of his life has he ever heard the Marquis being polite to... anyone. Truly.

And so obedient at that, with a gentle smile curving his lips and a little nod of his head. The man, however, didn't seem to be satisfied, rambling under his breath and throwing a few curses every few seconds.

Six months ago, Suguru would see his head rolling on the wooden floor, with a Marquis slashing it off in a single, clean cut.

But now? Now his massive hand was keeping Suguru in place, not allowing him to stir up any trouble.

"You both eat first. I'm sure you must be hungry," he said warmly, patting the shoulders of his most reliable commanders. "We'll discuss it later."

"Marquis, but–" and, once again, before Nanami could finish, the rude customer decided to strike again.

"Pretty boy, I don't see you walking back to the kitchen for my seconds!"

Satoru sighed. His palms squeezed their shoulders, long fingers digging deep into the armour. Suguru, for a fleet moment, saw this familiar frown and blue veins popping on the Marquis's forehead, as if ready to burst with a merciless fury.

He's going to strike, Suguru thought. He won't let that bastard trash his good name.

Satoru rolled up the wide sleeves of his creamy robes, tying them with a thin rope around the elbows. Bulging muscles of his forearms glistened in sweat, with the sun cruelly smooching his pale skin.

And when he thought that Marquis, finally, finally, will deal with a man, another voice filled the heavy restaurant's air.

"Hey! Stop being rude to my husband unless you want to deal with me!"

It drove Suguru into the wooden stool, with its honeyed sweetness marked by an authoritative tone. Not many people were able to put someone into their place solely with a voice, but a fragile woman who came out from the kitchen, with a heavy chopper in her hand – could.

Husband?

Suguru's head started to spin. He looked up, seeing Marquis's lips curving in a gentle smile. Eyes cheeky, like two pale moons, while glancing back at the woman storming through the small restaurant.

"Think you can bully my husband while I'm here?"

Man's cheeks washed in embarrassment before he coughed. "My apologies, miss. If I knew he was your husband–"

"Even if he wasn't, you shouldn't be rude! He's too polite and won't harm a soul, but me?" she took a step, but Satoru quickly grabbed her. "Try me!"

She surrounded herself with an imposing aura, although standing next to Satoru, her head barely brushed his chest. Hair curled around the hearty face, with a light robe and dirty aproan hugging warmly plush hips.

"What a menace," she scoffed loudly, cleaning the chopper with a cloth, before glancing up at the Marquis. "And you should get more assertive. Must you always be so obedient?"

Obedient?

"Stop acting like a pushover, what if someone attacks you, hm? We have lots of bandits these days, and I won't always be there to protect you."

Pushover?

Protect Marquis?

Suguru sighed, grabbing his head. It pulsed with a malicious headache, and the more you talked, the more he felt like fainting.

"My dearest," Satoru smiled, looking down at your fuming cheeks. "Have I ever told you how beautiful you look with this little crease on your forehead?" he lifted up a thumb, placing it right between your eyebrows.

He started massaging it in gentle circles, rolling a sweet giggle out of your lips and finally getting rid of the frown.

"There she is," he whispered, cupping your cheeks stained in reddish oil. "My beautiful, ferocious wife. You need to stop threatening everyone with a chopper. What if one day you come upon imperial soldiers?"

You tsked, nuzzling into his warm hands. "I'll chop them too, if they try to bully you."

Suguru just couldn't listen to it anymore. Not only the intimate tension between Marquis and... you... was unbearable, but he also simply couldn't comprehend the sudden change that bloomed inside the most ruthless, powerful general of the empire.

He coughed quietly, finally getting your attention.

"Oh," rolled politely, before you quickly hid the chopper behind. "I'm sorry, gentlemen, too many people like to bully my husband and, well, you know how it is..." your hand unconsciously waved with a chopper again, and Suguru barely dodged its sharp steel. "Sometimes the wife needs to step in. You see, my husband is a scholar, so he's, hm, the more compliant one in this marriage."

Nanami laughed, but Suguru quickly threw him a cold stare.

He brought back a polite smile to his face, still slowly massaging the buzzing temple. "Miss, my friend and I have travelled a long way to meet with Mar– your husband. I hope you don't mind, we'll take him away just for a moment."

Your eyes bulged in surprise, looking up at Satoru's warm gaze.

"I didn't know Satoru had... friends," you giggled, hearing a soft scoff coming from your husband. "Of course you can, but eat first, please. You sure must be tired. If you wish, you can stay a few nights in our house too. Right, darling?"

Satoru grimaced when you looked back at Suguru, and his eyes narrowed. "Sure, baby. If that's what you want. But aren't you rather busy, my dear friends?"

It sounded like he was giving Suguru a choice, but the coldness of his gaze and slowly shaking head were enough to convey that both of them were forbidden from agreeing with his wife's idea.

Suguru, however, was furious as it was, and if staying a day or two meant taking Marquis down to size – he would be more than happy to do it.

Before Nanami murmured that they are, in fact, rather busy, the strategist quickly chirped in.

"My precious friend, I would be more than happy to stay under your roof," he said, standing up and bending down politely your way. "Miss, we're grateful for your priceless hospitality."

You giggled, waving gently with a chopper. "There's no need for courtesy. Stay as long as you want," your eyes moved back to Satoru, his arm curling around your waist. "Darling, just remember to pick up the vegetables from Fang's restaurant. Oh, and Miss Hua needs to write a letter to the magistrate, help her with that too, hm?"

You chirped while Satoru was looking down at your rosy face with a bizarre caress behind his serene eyes. As if gazing on the most precious, loveliest little nymph. In fact, he looked as though he wasn't listening at all, with fingers climbing up to your plush cheek, and a thumb brushing over the red, oil stain.

"Right, and come back before supper. You know that at that time I usually–"

"I know, the little brat makes her mommy nauseous," he smiled softly, and Suguru suddenly lost his appetite.

Wait a moment.

"Little brat?" Nanami chipped in first, with brows almost brushing his hairline. "Mar– Satoru, do you mean that your wife is..."

You looked at them, then at Satoru, then back at them, with a little tsk and hand patting his shoulder. "Truly! You didn't even tell them that you're going to be a father? What a good friend you are."

There was a second of silence, with Satoru trying to coo you sweetly and Nanami standing there like a log. With a slightly hazy gaze and mind trying to comprehend how a Marquis – the strongest man in the whole empire – got himself entangled not solely in a marriage with a commoner, but also in parenthood. His bloodline was precious, and his family would surely not accept the child whose mother was a simple noodle shop owner.

But then the three of them heard a loud thud, and a dark shadow of a man slowly hit the wooden floor.

Suguru, finally, fainted.

❀ ❀ ❀

He woke up a mere hour later, with a wet compress on his forehead and skull buzzing from the heat. The air felt sticky, like honey, sliding down his coarse throat and cumulating somewhere deep in chest. His head felt heavy, and warm beams of sun slipped through an open window, brushing his slightly wet forehead.

He noticed that heavy armour was removed from his body and replaced with thin, navy robes, with wide sleeves and a narrow, open collar.

The smell of boiled meat went straight to his stomach, although he wasn't in a restaurant anymore.

No, this room was neat and brimming with warmth, although rather small. The soft bed dipped under his weight as he slowly stood up. The wooden floor was cold against his feet, and he noticed a small table right in front of him, with a bowl of cold noodles and a cup. His knees hit the floor, and when eyes looked inside, he noticed a weird, lush mixture of herbs – probably something to help with overheating.

He inhaled noodles in a few seconds, with salty soy sauce dripping gently down his throat and into stomach, finally filling it with a delicious, homemade meal.

Suguru felt like crying, tasting something carried as if straight from the heavens. Something worthy of an emperor himself, with a perfect seasoning and spongy texture bouncing under his teeth.

The herbal mixture followed next, and he saw a small milky candy wrapped in paper, right next to the cup. When the bitterness of a drink struck his mind, he immediately took the candy and chewed on its creamy sweetness.

Although the meal made him a bit lazy and he wanted nothing more than to return to bed and sleep like a baby – the case of Marquis still hasn't been closed.

So he stood up, dusting off his knees and quietly went outside, covering eyes from the sun. It seemed that the restaurant was right below, with a few customers pottering around and your sweet laughter once again filling his mind. Going down the wooden stairs, he noticed your small figure through the window – with half-pinned-up hair brushing your cheeks and a warm smile, when another customer hummed deliciously over your noodles.

Your eyes met his lavender gaze, and you gasped, quickly going outside to meet his pale face. "Are you alright–"

"Suguru."

"Right," your hand landed on his cheeks, squeezing it softly as if kneading a bun. "You look much better now. The travel must've been tiring."

You took him by surprise, but something warm spread in his chest, feeling your gentle caress and thumb brushing over the rosy skin. Not many people treated him kindly, with care, and he tried to suppress an urge to nuzzle into your hand.

"If you're looking for Satoru, he went with your friend that way," you pointed a finger towards the small hut on the other side of the river. "This village is not big, so surely you'll find him somewhere."

Suguru nodded, still tracing the softness of your hearty face, with the kindest eyes he had ever seen. Truly, no noblewoman could be compared to the loveliness you carried like a second skin.

He strolled around the sandy paths, kicking the little stones that rolled under his feet. Curious villagers oogled him shyly, and each time he nodded politely, sending humble smiles and greeting a few children on the way. They followed him around the village, with little heads sweating under the sun and chubby hands reaching out for long, raven hair brushing his hips.

The smell of jasmine flowers filled the air when he crossed the small bridge, and a few petals slipped away from the fragile branches. A young girl laughed cheerfully in the house next door, and two old men sat calmly near the river's bank, trying to catch the splashing fish.

The village truly was... calm. Serene, almost idyllic, as if painted by the gods themselves, with the peaceful faces of the villagers and their cooing voices greeting Suguru on every corner.

He finally noticed a flash of snowy hair and quickly moved its way.

Satoru sat in the garden with a young woman and a little boy snuggling on her lap, while Nanami... dearest. Nanami was fixing the roof.

Never in his life would he have thought of seeing the first army general nailing the wooden planks with such a focus.

"I also want at least two taels of silver," the woman sighed, and Satoru politely wrote down her request. "But one is also enough. If that bastard decided to leave me, then let him pay."

"Two taels may be too much, but I'll try to bargain for you. Let's see," Satoru muttered, placing neat characters one under another. Little brush scrubbed slowly against the delicate surface, and only Suguru knew how skilled a calligrapher the Marquis was.

Truly taught by the best masters in the whole empire!

But the woman couldn't care less, for she never learnt how to read, and small characters reminded her of nothing but cute little bushes. Bending and curving under Satoru's steady hand, before he finished the letter and left it to dry under the sun.

His light eyes noticed Suguru's figure, and their cheerfulness was immediately replaced by a stroke of irritation.

What a bastard!

"Thank you, Satoru, I truly don't know how to repay you," the woman said shyly, gripping the letter in her hands.

The boy wriggled on her thighs, tugging on his mother's loose hair. Satoru lifted up a hand and pinched his chubby cheek, rolling a little giggle out of his lips.

"No worries, it's nothing. Just come to me when they reply, and I'll read it for you."

Nanami finished his little job too, and all three of them strolled outside through the wooden gate. Suguru didn't say anything for a while, taking in the rosy cheeks of his Marquis and oogling with curiosity all his exchanges with the villagers. They strolled around, picking up side jobs Satoru supposedly did every day – placing an order for vegetables and getting freshly delivered ones, checking the assortment for a little pharmacy, or giving short reading lessons to the local children.

People greeted him with this kind glimmer in their eyes, and kids hugged his legs, placing little stones, flowers and candies in his hands. He thanked them each time, ruffing silky hair, pinching their chubby faces and hiding every little, dirty stone in the sleeves of his robes.

On their way back to Satoru's house, Suguru finally managed to ask.

"Marquis, are we going to discuss it or just ignore the fact that you faked your death for six months?"

Satoru slowed his pace before finally stopping. Three men stood near the bridge, with light petals of the jasmine tree falling down on Satoru's milky hair. With no villagers around, he finally sighed.

"I didn't fake my death," he murmured, sitting near the riverbank.

The sun was slowly setting over the tall mountains surrounding the village, with tender hues of purple and pink and orange brushing the evening sky. Birds were slowly preparing for sleep, and villagers coming back from work in the fields. Big ox strolled behind them, tugging a little cart loaded with fresh fruits.

Satoru's eyes glanced up, reflecting the last rays of tangerine beams.

"After that battle, I fell into the river. The water must have thrown my body on the bank, because she saved me and took me back to her house. When I woke up, she was already there – tending my wounds and trying to stuff me full with noodles," he laughed warmly, as if remembering the first days spent in your presence. "I really wanted to heal up a bit and go back, but..."

Nanami and Suguru sat next to him, looking up at the fragrant jasmine branches hanging over the river.

"But I couldn't. You both know I never wanted to marry and have a family, but back there, after hearing her laugh the first time, something panged in my chest."

"Maybe your wound has opened," Nanami mumbled, and Suguru pinched his arm.

Satoru laughed, eyes still tracing the changing sky. "After meeting her, I finally understood what it truly means to be happy. To seek the next day and live in peacefulness, with nothing but her touch waking me every single morning."

Suguru hummed, remembering how warm you felt when your hand pinched his cheek. So kind and lovely, as if you honestly cared about this stranger you've met just an hour ago.

"She was constantly worried about people gossiping about her marriage, so I decided to use this chance and marry her. She wanted a husband, and I wished for nothing but to stay with her as long as I could," he continued, taking a white jasmine petal off his head. "But she was constantly afraid I would leave her one day, so to prove my devotion..."

Oh dearest god.

Suguru almost fainted again. "You decided to trap her with a baby? Are you crazy?"

He was crazy. So, so miserably crazy, and Suguru could see it in his eyes. In his hands, grabbing your waist in an almost possessive manner, and his always oh so gentle gaze, as if nothing else but his dear wife mattered in this world.

"I didn't trap her... well. At least she doesn't feel that way," he coughed, smiling like a fool. "She always wanted to have a family, so I decided to give it to her. What's wrong with it?"

"Marquis, are you hearing yourself?" Suguru almost hissed. "Just a year ago, you declined the most beautiful women offered to you by an emperor himself. And now you're telling me you decided to marry a simple commoner after knowing her for a month?"

"Well, he never offered me her," Satoru giggled. "And it was a week. She asked me to marry her after a week."

"She asked you?"

"Yes."

"And you agreed? Just like that?"

"Of course, it was love at first sight."

Suguru looked at Nanami, as if trying to make sure he wasn't the crazy one here. That Marquis truly went mad, and he lost all his senses.

Maybe while falling down, he hit his head? Maybe you bewitched him and forced a marriage?

But no one in this world could possibly force a tyrannical Marquis to do anything. Well, at least that's what Suguru have thought.

"Marquis, does it mean that... she doesn't know who you are?" Nanami asked, and everyone suddenly held their breath.

Including Satoru, who scratched his head sheepishly.

Oh.

Oh!

"She doesn't. You didn't tell her?!" Suguru once again almost shouted, and Satoru quickly shushed him.

"How could I? She thinks I'm a simple scholar who can do nothing but sweet-talk and read," he brushed another jasmine petal, and Suguru noticed a bit of worry behind his ocean eyes. "If she knew my real rank... There's a chance she would leave me. She's alone in this world – no parents, no family. If revealing my situation would mean losing her, I'd rather live as a commoner."

Suguru couldn't simply comprehend the weight of his words. For living as a commoner was everything people of their sort feared. To lose a status that could save your head in turmoil times such as this one was almost like a death sentence.

And Marquis was ready to do it solely for a fleeting tenderness.

"Does it mean you're not planning to go back?" Nanami asked quietly. "Do you want to stay announced as dead?"

Satoru was silent for a few minutes, with rays of sunshine slowly leaving his face. The moon lurked shyly from between jasmine branches, reflecting his wandering gaze. Suguru has never seen Marquis so quiet, so calm. As if his soul truly healed up from all the bestiality he needed to suffer just to float above anyone else.

The cold, sharp Marquis was no longer here, replaced by a man who tasted love for the first time. He was like a child learning how to walk, but at the same time, constantly looking over his shoulder to make sure his mother was watching over him.

And for Satoru – it was you.

You showed him the kindness of this world, and life deprived of the wrath he has felt for such a long time.

Marquis didn't say anything, but stood up instead and laughed under his breath. "It's almost supper time, let's go back. My wife always gets nauseous around this time, so I'll be the one cooking."

Suguru and Nanami simply nodded, following the Marquis back to the warm house.

They found you in a kitchen, humming softly and cutting the vegetables. The restaurant was already closed, and nothing but a soft beam of candles and a little buzz of crickets filled the small room.

Suguru has only now noticed your little bump, and he smiled when Satoru hugged you from behind.

"Sorry we took so long," he murmured, placing a wet kiss on your cheek. "There was simply too much to talk about."

You hummed, nodding head softly, till a few strands slipped away from your pinup. "It's okay, Satoru. Spend as much time as you need," you said, before looking up towards two men standing in the doors. "The room for you is ready. The supper will be, as soon as Satoru starts cutting the meat."

Marquis laughed, taking a heavy chopper and a fat piece of flesh. Suguru has never seen him in the kitchen, so he looked with pure curiosity at the way the iron blade slashed the tender meat.

What a bizzare sight, truly!

The supper wasn't anything special, but sitting together, talking and drinking – well, aside from you, of course – was the first time Suguru saw Marquis so relaxed.

Cheerful, free, with his head lying softly on your thighs and smooth locks caressed by your fingers. He was getting drunk faster than usual, babbling carelessly under his breath and peppering your little swell with kisses, till you flushed like the sweetest cherry and pushed him away. He joked and laughed, reminiscent of the days spent in royal academia with Suguru and Nanami (apparently, all of them met there, absolutely not on the battlefield) and delighted himself in stories about your first meeting.

About the moment he opened his eyes and saw an angel itself, to which you flushed feverishly and mumbled oh stop. Drunk Satoru was like a teenage boy boasting about his first love, and Suguru couldn't help but feel warmth spreading all over his chest every time Marquis peeked up at your lovely face.

When the night came, and it was time to part your ways, Suguru...

Dear heavens.

Suguru wished for nothing more than to be anywhere but right next to your room. For he heard everything.

Every sloppy kiss, every giggle, every shuddered breath of yours and silent Satoru, we can't, they're going to hear us. But Marquis, who was nothing if not madly in love, promised that don't worry baby, they won't, it will be fine, just let me taste you.

Fortunately, it seemed that you slapped his nosy hands away, because for the rest of the night, Marquis stayed silent.

Suguru and Nanami decided to stay for a few more nights, enjoying the idyllic charm of the village. Nanami would help in fixing the houses after the recent flood, and Suguru devoted his time to helping Satoru teach local kids. Marquis was the only person in the whole village who could read and write, thus local folks gladly attended his short, daily classes.

When Suguru came, the kids took a deep breath as if charmed by the gentleness and vigilance of his face. Satoru liked to fool around with little brats, but Suguru immediately put them in place, imposing a harsh, hour-long lesson as worthy of the most prominent strategist in the whole empire.

They sat with focused foreheads and beams of sweat glistening on their temples, while chubby fingers tried to draw clean, straight strokes.

Later that evening, Satoru told him that children liked the new pretty lady teacher, and you burst out in the most melodic laughter he's ever heard.

During the days, they fooled around, helped at the restaurant and did odd jobs for villagers, but the nights...

The nights were always reserved for you and Satoru.

And Suguru never dared to impose this gentle time between the two spouses, closing himself and Nanami off in the bedroom.

But he heard every little word rolled intimately between the two tender souls.

He heard the soft creak of the mattress as Satoru shifted closer to you, as if even sleep demanded less distance between your bodies.

He heard your quiet laughter, muffled into pillows, as though you didn't wish to disturb your guests.

He heard of your simple dreams and plans and all the worries you seemed to always have at the back of your mind.

He heard your quiet I love you and his trust me I love you more, followed by a silent kiss.

He heard the gentle splash of water shifting in the tub, followed by your quiet hum, almost absent-minded, while Satoru moved around you with careful hands.

He heard the faint press of lips against your temple.

The whispered goodnights that always sounded like promises.

And sometimes, he heard nothing at all.

Just silence.

But he knew that even during the most hushed nights, Satoru was always keeping you close – to his heart and soul and eyes. For he has never seen anything more precious than the peacefulness haunting his wife's forehead. And if a little, worried crease would appear between your brows, his thumb would gently massage it away. Lips would kiss it off, and you would snuggle up even closer, as if your body unconsciously yearned for your husband's touch.

There was a special kind of intimacy between the two lovers, whose odd fates and minds mixed in one lifeline. A bond most could be jealous of – in the way Satoru seemed to have you at his fingertips and you somehow always curled around them, floating near like a little goddess.

If Satoru was a believer, he would pray to nothing but the giggling eyes of his wife.

A few days later, when they were getting ready for the road, Suguru would look back at the young couple with a swelling heart.

For Marquis, who suffered enough in his short life, deserved nothing more than to gleam under the warm sun like a fair child, with his bright laughter forever carried through the mountains and meadows of the great empire.

©liahcharms all rights reserved. Do not copy, plagiarise, feed AI, translate or modify my works.

I know, I know, I'll start writing the Alexander the Great Satosugu... just let me be happy for a moment before diving into the angst.

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[tonycries]

TOPIA TWINS - G.S.

Synopsis. When both Gojo twins want you for Valentine’s Day, do you: A. Choose the frat boy extraordinaire you’re in a messy situationship with. B. Choose the cute nerd that tutors you but is too afraid to confess. C. Choose both of the above.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader (x Gojo Satoya)

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, GOJO TWINS, nerd!Gojo, frat boy!Gojo, college AU, they both want you, Iove triangles, yearning Gojo(s), tutoring, FWB situations, parties, frat!Gojo is slightly toxic, named twin, fights (over you), Valentine’s Day, getting them BOTH, oraI (f + m), handj’s, fírst times (nerd!Gojo), they do you but NOT each other (pls), spítting, chokíng, manhandIing, breath pIay, p talking, p sIapping, frat!Gojo is MEAN, TONGUE PlERCINGS, possessive, cIit bíting, cervíx smoochin, vírginíty Ioss (nerd!Gojo), prem. ejac, SAME DAMN TIME, heavy overstím, fuIl neIsons, fighting over you during it, DP, anaI, SAAAAAME DAMN TIME, science Ianguage, nerd!Gojo’s SENSITIVE, big stretches, big finishes, creampíes, cùmpIay, surprise at the end, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 14.5k

A/N. Y’ALL HAVE BEEN BEGGING FOR THIIIIIIIS- inspired by this art by the absolutely amazingly talented @/toriiartz_ + all the Iovely comments (Tonycries is listening…)

Gojo Satoru and Gojo Satoya.

The Sun and the Moon. The storm and the morning dew. The sweetness of spring flowers and the burning hand of summer skies—many things could be said about the Gojo twins.

Perhaps not everything so poetic: to most, they were those infamously handsome set of twins that sauntered about campus as if paid to be there (and to your left—keep your eyes peeled and you might just catch a flash of white hair). Of course, that campus tour would have to oscillate between libraries and frat parties at a worrying rate…

To others, they were the valedictorian of the Physics Department and the President of Delta Jujutsu Pi. To others, the region’s best Digimon player and the region’s best ragers. 

Maybe someone could convince Gojo Satoru to do some research on how two men with the exact same face could be so different from one another?

But to you, they were your tutor and…the one you were currently in bed with-

“Oh…fuck, that was good.” Gojo Satoya hisses, pulling out of you with the loudest squelch. 

You could feel the slick driiiibblin’ down your inner thighs. And he’s gnawing down on his pinkish lower lip- wishing to hear the music as he surges upwards n’ swirls that even pinker tip around your entrance.

Around and around.

You’re shaking as he does so, and he’s only pulling your hips further down against his. 

“Just a little more f’me, baby.” Long fingers tightening at your waist, Satoya ruts his toned torso off of the bed. His pale lashes flutter at the sensation of you trying to clench, gracing you with such a smug smile that you’ve grown to both love and get irritated by.

You’re been riding him for what seemed like hours by now- and you’re that half his fraternity brothers were ready to break down the door with noise complaints.

Then again, they were likely used to this.

Because Gojo Satoya was always just so insatiable with you.

It’s been a few months since you’d been fucking Satoya - just an on and off little rendezvous that had started one night at one of his own parties. One of the many, many parties you’d dragged your roommates to. 

Delta Jujutsu Pi was known for them. And according to the (many—you’d long since learned not to underestimate his popularity) personal recounts and Instagram stories, one minute you’d been challenging the frat president to beer pong but with vodka- and the next you both had been pressed against the mansion’s wall. Lips on each other’s. 

When you’d woken up the next morning, it was to a pounding headache and Satoya’s steady heartbeat. Arm cushioned underneath your head. Leg thrown over his waist.

No clothes.

The two of you had gasped- straight into a kiss which tasted faintly like last night’s berry punch bowl.

And what was meant to be a one-night stand turned into exchanging numbers, turned into meeting up the next weekend, turned into hanging out several times a week and meeting each other’s friends, turned into a long and dragged out…something of which a ‘relationship’ was not something you’d use to describe it. It was many things but not that.

It was like the thick and cloying sweetness of the punch bowl that night, but also the bitter taste of vodka-jealousy that shot through whenever Satoya winked back at someone else.

You knew you had no right to be jealous- it’s not as if the two of you were anything committed. No expectations. No strings attached, right? 

But then again, that didn’t stop the lines from blurring. It didn’t stop you from going out on dates with other men in retaliation, and it didn’t stop him from blowing your phone up all night whenever you did. You always did unmute him by the end of those nights, however, if only to complain about your latest date. 

It didn’t stop him from throwing those parties he was notorious for and inviting everyone he knew and their sister- flirtations galore. But it also didn’t stop him from coming right back to you—time and time again, no matter how much you blocked and swore at him.

Didn’t stop a single thing.

Throughout it all, you’d say that the only silver lining was getting to know Gojo Satoru more in-depth. 

Of course, knowing that the two were related, you’d coaxed his number out of Satoya to convince Satoru to tutor you. Which, expectedly, had turned into more of a friendship—one that was only sweetened by how openly you gawked at the man during your tutoring sessions.

That was your introduction to both brothers- worlds apart from one another.

The magnetic and heart-racing Gojo Satoya, the shy and studious Gojo Satoru. The older one by two minutes and the younger one. 

The messy one and the one who’d been here to witness just how messy the latter was.

In more ways than one.

Eventually, Satoya was drawing the cutest lil’ hearts against your clit. That blushing tip of his cock moving ‘round and ‘round that sensitive spot, he hums at the smears of sheen he’s making—“Maybe we should go again…”

“Maybe you should let me go to class now.” You’re countering back.

His smile grows wider, “Maybe I shouldn’t.”

“Toya-” Your breath hitches, n’ you’re pushing back on his toned chest. It was just so defined from all those hours he spent at practice, and you’re taking more than a bit of pleasure feeling his pectorals. “-make me miss one of Professor Yaga’s lectures again and I’ll be referring him to you.”

Satoya shudders. “That man hates me.”

“Can’t imagine why…” You thought of all the classes he’d missed for matches- and perhaps being a loudmouth doesn’t help, either.

With the haunting thought of Yaga in his mind, Satoya lets you extract yourself from his arms and head to the bathroom to freshen up. By the time you’re heading back, he’d already tied-off the condom and chucked it in the bin, in the process of pulling on his fraternity-merchandise boxers (why did they even make those?)

He’s jumping in bed with you once you’re laying back down. Tugging his arms ‘round you—no one would ever believe it, but Gojo Satoya was a cuddler after sex.

The white-haired man whispers about everything and nothing as you two relax.

“Oh yeah- that reminds me.” He hums at some point, lifting his head up just a little from the crook of your neck. “I’m having a party this weekend, you should come.”

“This weekend?” It wasn’t a surprise that the frat was throwing yet another rager- and Satoya didn’t really have to ask you, either. He knew that you’d show up anyway. More of a formality than anything, as if he wouldn’t just sulk in a corner if you didn’t end up coming- before taking over the dance floor once Kendrick Lamar came on, of course.

Satoya nods sluggishly, the room still thick with sex.

But you’re turning to face him with a raised brow. “Like- this weekend?” He’s climbing up onto his elbows in confusion at your tone. “Toya, it’s Valentine’s weekend.”

“Oh.”

“You seriously didn’t know?”

“Oh.” 

He runs a hand through his rumpled white hair. “So that’s why chicks n’ bros have been giving me chocolate all week- and here I thought I just got extra handsome.”

He pauses.

“Have I gotten extra hands-”

“Satoya.”

“Alright alright.” Satoya raises his hands in surrender, letting his head fall back onto the pink-cased pillows. “So uh…”

It was obvious when he didn’t know what to do with what you were throwing - hints often didn’t work on Gojo Satoya. Which was interesting to find out, because you’d always assumed that Satoru would be the oblivious one (and to a large extent, he was). But a sheer lack of committed relationships and an overt surplus of flirtations meant Satoya wouldn’t understand a hint even if you banged him upside the head with one—he’d merely look up at the sky and wonder whether it was hailing. 

Though that’s not to say that he wasn’t intelligent - certainly not, you’ve witnessed his pre-tournament planning, the way he’d lead your university team, the NBA drafter that reportedly had an eye on him, how he managed good scores on most exams despite rarely attending class. 

No, Gojo Satoya was just…so good at giving hints that it seemed to have balanced out by not being to receive them—yours, at least. Strangely enough, he seemed to never get your subtlety. 

All but yours.

As if he couldn’t see, as if he saw but couldn’t believe.

And so you sigh. “No- no, that’s my mistake. I just assumed we’d be doing something for Valentine’s Day.” 

“…Girl, the party?”

“Nevermind.”

And as Satoya launches into yet another monologue - about his most recent training regiment and the upcoming frat rush - you’re reaching over to the bedside cabinet. Grabbing your phone, it takes a few taps for you to interrupt the white-haired man-

“Actually, Toya—” Catching his attention. “I might not be able to make it to the party. Or at least not all of it.”

He sits up urgently, “Huh? But why-”

“Plans.” 

“With what bastard-”

“That bastard is your brother.” And as his jaw drops, you’re turning your phone screen to flash the conversation at him. Satoya’s blue eyes narrow as he reads onwards-

You: psssssssst

Nerd-jo (Gojo brother #2): ?

You: do you have any plans for valentine’s day?

You: wanna hang out?

Nerd-jo (Gojo brother #2): ???!!!11??1!111!!??!?!

Nerd-jo (Gojo brother #2): My apologies.

Nerd-jo (Gojo brother #2): Typo.

Nerd-jo (Gojo brother #2): But yes, I would be delighted to spend time with you.

Just about the gist of it-

“—and I haven’t spent time with Satoru in a bit now so-” You were saying—and he knows, by the way. These days, Satoya had been intentionally meeting you during times he knew that his busybody brother was free from the clutches of his damn books. Just like he knew that Satoru had been meeting you during the times that Satoya had been out from practice.

‘Tutoring’ his ass- tutoring didn’t mean Satoru needed to have you over. To his apartment.

To the place mere feet away from where he knew his brother stuffed a hoodie you’d left behind underneath his pillow.

Fucking tutoring-

“Sure thing. Have fun.” Metal in his tone. Metal in his gaze locked in on you—he’s pushing your phone down to the mattress and leaning over to kiss you. Tongue piercing scraping the edge of your lips- “But just know that I’ll be a hell of a lot more fun than my brother.”

.

.

.

It’s Valentine’s Day when the sudden slam! thunders across the library.

Gojo Satoya with chest puffed out in his letterman jacket, with his forearm banged down on one of the tables. He leans over the polished mahogany and stares straight into the eyes of a man that looked like his mirror image.

White hair.

Blue eyes.

Those same unfairly pretty features- one of which was twisted into a scowl. And the other—nothing but cool indifference.

Gojo Satoru arches a stark white brow and meets his brother’s eyes. “Can I help you?”

“You can help me by fucking off-” Satoya spits. And had they been anyone else, then the gapes and gasps and stares - even the stray camera that was peeking out - would have unnerved them. But the Gojo twins were used to the attention by now.

The only difference was that where one basked in it, the other shunned away from it.

And though the tips of Satoru’s ears flush bright red—he never was the type to back down from his brother. Satoru’s jaw clenches, “Though you may be known for such philandering proclivities, I can assure you that I am not much the same.”

“And I can assure you that my fist will meet your ugly face-”

“We have the same face.”

“-if you don’t call off that date you have with my girl.” Satoya pants out. Breathless with fury. 

Though there was a smile on his face- and he has the audacity to turn and wave - to fucking wave - at some of the gawking on-lookers. Shooting that charming Gojo smile that was bound to make them think this was an act of brotherly jest.

It makes the other man perk up. 

“Whose girl?” Satoru asks. 

Satoya freezes. “Huh?”

But his younger brother cocks his head, almost as though he’d just found the answer to a particularly tricky question. “Whose girl?”

The frat president rears back. Without warning, he reaches out and grasps at the lapels of the other’s stupid Star Wars hoodies—“You heard what I said.” Glower permanent on his face, “You’re smart. Figure it out.”

Satoru narrows his eyes, glaring at the man through his glasses. “Don’t have enough of a brain to figure it out yourself?”

“I’ll tell you what I do have…” Smile wicked. Leaning into whisper, “And it’s something that you won’t stick in her even in your wildest fuckin’ dreams-”

“You fucking-”

“Ahem.”

A cough.

Not the annoying, grating voice of his brother (thought both the brothers).

But rather…something sweeter. Softer. Stern in a way that made both their cocks prick up just a tad-

They’re snapping their heads over to stare at you—you with your eyes narrowed, and your foot tapping. They both feel a lurch in their stomach as they wonder just how long you’d been standing there - just how much you’d heard.

They both gulp.

Your gaze takes its time travelling up the vision before you: the older brother with his fingers dug into the other’s hoodie, the younger brother with his fists clenched as though he was about to punch the other. Both their forearms pop with veins that decorate their muscles- even Satoru with his bulky frame covered in his soft clothes. “Gojo Satoya…” 

The man in question plasters a smile across his face, “Yes, baby?”

“Let go of him-”

His fingers unclench.

Satoru is slumping onto his chair.

Satoya turns around and starts walking to you in an instant- “Baby, what are you doing here~?”

“Tutoring, because someone made me miss another one of Yaga’s classes.” Holding up your bag in emphasis, and at least Satoya has the decency to look sheepish. 

“Aw, you know m’sorry about that.” He answers, sounding utterly unapologetic.

“Right…” Not that you believed him a single bit. Your narrowed gaze drifts past him and ends up resting on the slightly-ruffled man sitting at the table. “What are you even doing here? I didn’t think you knew the way to the library.”

“Hey!”

In the slight distance, Satoru stifles a laugh.

Satoya whips behind to glare at him- before turning back to you. “Just ah- you know, extending the invite to my party tonight.” And before you could interrogate him on why exactly an invitation constituted of having one’s hand at one’s brother’s throat—he’s turning to the little audience you’d gathered and yelling out. “And you fuckers are invited as well.”

The cheers are drowning out your questions.

“Toya- what-”

“Mmmm—” Before you’re getting cut off by his mouth on yours. Tongue piercing cold. “That new lip gloss of yours tastes good, baby.”

But how strange it was that once he’s breaking away from the slightly-heated kiss, you find Satoya’s eyes on none other than his own brother. Staring at the expressionless man as he claims your lips as his own.

His own.

Satoya leaves the library with a smack on your ass. 

And you’re left off-kilter by the whole ordeal, wobbling on weakened legs to the chair opposite Gojo Satoru. Head down. Books open. Fingers twitching ever-so-slightly. There was a strange air about him, as unpiercing as concrete, that reminded you of however Satoru was when he was taking a particularly tough exam. He doesn’t meet your eyes as you take your seat before him, pulling out your books, your laptop, your excuses.

The chair screeches much too loud in the awed library. 

“Honestly, I don’t know what’s the matter with him.” You’re sighing, “He’s been strange all week.”

Satoru doesn’t answer, but you continue.

“And he knows that I have that thing with you tonight- he knows that but he still keeps insisting I go to that damn party.”

He still doesn’t say a word.

“I’m not going, of course.” You start to open one of your notebooks, “I promised I’d spend time with you, Satoru. It’s just so calming to be with you—”

In his peripheral vision, he can see you start to rub your temples. And he can’t help but jolt—he would never make you feel like that.

And maybe that’s what makes Gojo Satoru lurch up from his seat and kiss you.

Kiss you.

Soft.

Fleeting.

Barely even a graze- his face burns the prettiest sunset pink. Hot enough that he’s sure steam emerges from his parietal bone, that his eyes tear up, that he feels feverish. Something inexplicable bubbles up from all the way deeeep within his core, and it expels as a few wobbly apologies murmured against your lips.

Before you’re grabbing ahold of his chin n’ tugging him to you.

“Th-that was my first kiss…” He whispers.

You smile.

.

.

.

Gojo Satoya’s party would be in full swing by now.

You’ve found that they usually peaked after midnight, with most of the fraternities joining and the music concocting into one booming heartbeat. The pulse of youth. It shook the walls of the Delta Jujutsu Pi mansion, it seeped into your very circulatory system and left Satoya’s parties addictive—it would have you in his bed by the end of the night, without fail.

But time spent with Satoru was the exact opposite.

In the best way.

Even sitting next to Gojo Satoru had his warmth seeping into every particle of your being, and it left you buzzing with his soothing energy. Like dipping into a hot spring. Like taking a loooong nap during a scalding summer.

It was the same relaxing sort of feeling after a sip of wine. 

Like you could speak about anything and everything with him. Like you could make as many mistakes in his presence as you liked. And it wouldn’t matter—he would still wobble out that familiar, crooked smile. 

It seemed as though the more of those stern, sterile layers you cracked through- the more you wanted to surge through even more. With much more gusto than Satoru would argue that you put in during your tutoring sessions, you admit (but what he doesn’t know is that you might just…organize a few more than you actually needed). Just a few more.

Just to see him.

And Satoru was smart, you had a nagging feeling that he knew. But he let you stumble your way through your notes anyway.

He left you drunk on the proximity of him, while his brother left you exhilarated.

You suppose you had Satoya to thank for that.

Because he was the only reason you actually encountered Satoru. Just one encounter before you’d actually bothered him into giving his phone number, prompting your tutoring sessions.

Before, you’d only seen Satoru in a blur of white hair n’ Pokemon hoodies- racing about from class to class.

He was always the first - both to class, and to the top of the grades list.

The stark opposite of his brother, who’d gotten into Tokyo Jujutsu University on a basketball scholarship. Satoru had three papers published under Nature, several student lectures under his belt, and a dorm lined with more trophies than atomic specks of dust. It was also agreed-upon by most in the department that he’d been picked personally by JAXA to work there the second he graduated.

And you’d always assumed that the man would be the uptight type - most people with so many accomplishments would be so. Though his brother, Satoya, with his equally impressive athletic accolades—it’d still been a surprise to find that Gojo Satoru was rather…shy.

He’d blushed furiously the first time he’d met you - in the unfortunate circumstance of walking inside Satoya’s room without knocking. Right when his brother had his head between your legs.

Though Satoya had laughed himself hoarse, it’d taken you forty-five minutes to get the bespectacled man to stop apologizing to you. And then only five to convince him that no- you weren’t dating his brother.

You remember the glare that Satoru had leveled at him then, pushing up his bangs to help it. “Figures.” He’d scoffed, whilst Satoya had calmed down just enough to stop his snickers. “He wouldn’t have been able to woo you like that anyway-”

“Woo? Woo—telling me about wooing-” Satoya had dramatically flailed into Satoru’s arms then, hand at his chest. “Dost thou knoweth anything about bagging the baddie? And here I thoughteth thou wast a virgin-”

“Sh-shut up—!” He’d thrown Satoya off, eyes flickering urgently between you and his brother. And it wasn’t long before the last you’re seeing of the blushing, babbling mess of Satoru was a stomp towards the door.

The slam of it.

Before it’s opened again just a crack-

“And in Shakespearean terms, I would technically be a maiden!”

You giggle just thinking about it.

And it makes the man in question look over with a quirked brow, sweater matching the same shade of pastel pink that he blushes. “S-sorry, I’m probably boring you-”

“Not at all.” You’re cutting him off in an instant. Fervently shaking your head, you join Satoru down upon his bedroom floor—carefully avoiding the blocks and pinches of Lego that were scattered around him like a blood spatter. It had been a slow, almost strangely sensual night - he’d invited you to his apartment where he’d cooked dinner for you.

A traditional Japanese course of dishes that he’d learned from his mother, he told you. Topped off ice cream homemade through the principle of freezing point depression.

He’d planned to make a strawberry shortcake, he said. But it seems in his frenzy to make everything perfect, he’d lost track of time and ended up with sweet-smelling char—sure, you’d come over to hangout with Satoru before. But to hangout on Valentine’s Day…

This was territory uncharted for Gojo Satoru.

Hell, he’d had his first kiss just the other day.

And so you’d been led inside his apartment- now a wonderland of the sweetest fairy lights and crooning tunes playing from one corner of the space. There, Satoru was the perfect gentleman—giving his arm out to walk you the mere few meters to the decorated dining table, tucking in your chair, plating his creations for you. 

Made just how you liked them. How did he even remember?

It was a wonder to Satoru himself how he didn’t bumble or trip over his own two feet. And before long, the two of you had finished dinner and numerous conversations- carrying them over inside his bedroom.

Where he’d…pulled out a brand-new Lego set and gotten to work on it.

You’d found it more interesting to watch him - that focused furrow between his brows, the way his tongue stuck out ever-so-slightly - from the foot of his mattress. Unable to catch a glimpse of the box before Gojo stuffed it underneath his bed, you were only left to wonder just what it was he was building with so many reds and pinks.

He’s staring up at you unsurely now, and you insist. “I wanna see you build this, Satoru.”

“Are you sure?” He lets the long green spindle drop from his hands. Tugging down on the thick sleeves of his sweater, “I know that Toya has his party tonight and I p-promise I won’t be upset if you wanted to go there instead, y’know?”

“But I decided I’d spend Valentine’s Day with you.” You insist, “And spend Valentine’s Day with you—I will. I don’t need any party.”

“But-”

“Satoru.”

He’s giggling shyly to himself. 

He takes the half-built piece of Lego in his hand and gets back to work on it—and you find yourself inching even closer to him. Knees pressing against crossed knees. Shoulders against shoulders. 

“What are you building, by the way?” You ask. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Lego pieces like that…”

Concentrating on the miniature pieces through his ivory bangs. “You’ll see, sweetheart.”

And you don’t know whether it’s the smile on his lips, the dimple at the end of his grin, or that little pet name he’d given you—sweetheart—that made your heart race. Feeling your heart flip in that small but noticeable way it did whenever Satoya was around. Both of them? Whatever will you do with yourself.

It isn’t long before Satoru’s Legos start to form a clearer picture, and he’s working nimbly with the pieces.

In just a few minutes he has his body hunched- partially obscuring your view from the final touches to his creation. And soon enough, he’s pushing his glasses up his nosebridge, leaning back and thrusting out a bouquet of the most beautiful flowers you’ve ever seen. Plumes of rose and red and creamy white.

Little ferns on the side. Little hearts in the centers of his daisies. 

He flushes fever-red as you take them from him. “F-for you.”

Satoru’s tone breaks at his confession.

“Satoru, they’re…” You’re breathless. The tip of your finger runs down the delicate petals that he’d spent time assembling, “I-I don’t even know what to say.”

“It’s for you.” He repeats, slightly firmer this time. “It was always for you.”

You’re snapping your head up to meet his determined blue eyes. So intense that they almost sparkled- “What do you…”

“Everything I do is for you—and that’s hard when I’ve always…” Satoru cuts himself off short. Slightly shaking his head, “But you deserve better than him.”

“Satoya?”

“Yes—” Breathed out as if he’d been wanting to say this for forever. “It’s hard when you look at my brother like…that- and I know that this isn’t my place. I know that this isn’t right of me to say. I know that this is selfish of me to request, but if you could just see…”

“See?”

“See that you deserve better than him.” His hands clasp your own around the ever-lasting stems. “And that- this isn’t fair of me to tell you let alone ask…but if you could just see that I—”

“What- that yer fucking shit at confessions?”

But of course, who else would it be but Gojo Satoya?

Pushing Satoru’s bedroom door further open and waltzing into the space- his towering frame almost seemed too large for the small space, almost left you breathless. Even though you knew that there wasn’t much of a height difference between the two-

Satoya’s hand on your wrist is instant. He bends down to meet eye-level with his brother on the floor, “Honestly, little brother, I would’ve had more respect for you if I’d walked in here and you were fuckin’ my girl right now.” He tugs you to his chest. “But here you got to her before me.”

“Feels good to be first, older brother.”

Suddenly they’re both on their feet - and so are you. Pressed between them—attempting to push away the two brothers from each other. From Satoya spitting, “That was supposed to be me giving those flowers to her- you knew. You fucking knew-”

“You thought she’d wait around forever?” Satoru crosses his arms. “And what were you doing on Valentine’s Day, huh?”

“Oh, grow up-”

“You grow up. While you were throwing one of your damn parties I-”

“I cancelled that damn party.”

That makes everyone pause.

And Satoya continues. He was looking right at you now- “You think there’d be anything to celebrate if you aren’t there beside me?” 

And you can’t help but notice that there’s something slightly more…tender in Satoya’s tone. Something slightly more vulnerable- almost broken. There’s a sincerity in his eyes that makes him look younger, and it makes you squirm.

Something that Satoru’s sharp eyes pinpoint instantly- and he’s reaching out to tug you to him. This time being wrenched from his brother’s grasp and to you, “You can’t do that- you can’t just barge in here and try to disrupt what I’ve been wanting to do for so long—”

“And you think I haven’t?”

“What makes you think-”

“I knew her first-”

“I knew I loved her longer-”

“I know I loved her better-”

Satoru hisses. Pointing an accusing finger at the other man, “Says the man without the balls to even confess.” 

“Says the damn virgin who only wishes he could touch her.” Satoya’s voice grows louder. He takes a step closer, and Satoru doesn’t back down. “Don’t act so high and mighty when you and I both know about the hoodie underneath-”

“Don’t you fucking dare-”

“Can you both shut the fuck up?!”

Your exasperated tone breaks through the argument- leaving the room ringing with silence thereafter.

And so you finally say your piece—“You guys…” Massaging your throbbing temples, the Lego bouquet was still in your hands- and you’re just now realizing that the t-shirt you’d been wearing was Satoya’s. Both of them on you. Around you. “How about we solve this like the civilized adults that we are?”

Satoya scoffs, crossing his muscular arms over his chest. “Tch- yeah, and how do you suppose that?”

“Though I’d be more than happy to hear you out, sweetheart, I can’t promise to conduct myself according to such methodology.”

And so you tell them.

And the silence after is deafening—

“You want us to what-”

“Anatomically, is that even-”

“No way.” Satoya stabs a finger at his brother. “I don’t wanna see this fucker’s two-inch-”

“Mine’s likely bigger than yours-”

“Fucking right-”

“Want to bet?”

It’s only a few minutes later before both brothers have their hands on you- have their mouths dragging down your neck. From the front, from behind. One of them kissing down your spine. One of them nibblin’ on your collarbone—and you can only flutter your eyes closed and fucking moan at the sensation.

Two hot, needy mouths on you.

All over you.

Someone - it must be Satoru - leans his head down and captures your mouth as his own. He lavishes the soft edge of his tongue between your wettened crevice, and gaaasps as you’re opening your mouth for him.

Clearly never having kissed anyone so deeply- anyone like this at all—he whimpers as he’s shyly meeting your tastebuds with his. “S-sweetheart-”

“Oh, lemme show ya how it’s done.” Physically pushing his brother away with a hand on his face- Satoya cranes his neck from behind you. A hand clasping your throat and tuggin’ you to meet his ravenous lips—“This is how you kiss a girl.”

And before he’s smoochin’ you, he purses his lips and spits a great dollop of saliva that falls gently into your maw. 

Sloppy.

Satoya barely spends the time wipin’ the excess splatter away before he’s roughly shoving his tongue inside. Swirling his textured tastebuds across every single inch of you—letting his curvaceous tip tickle the back of your throat. 

Whenever Satoya kissed you, it almost felt as if he was fucking you with his tongue.

Again and again. And his wet muscle scrapes the sides of your mouth as he’s jostling it back and forth- leaving you weak in the knees.

“See?” He scoffs at his younger brother. “Gotta kiss her till she’s stupid.”

“How uncouth.” Satoru pushes his glasses up. “Let me try.”

And then the other twin takes over- how dizzying it was to have a man with the same features, but with such different mannerisms. Satoya relentlessly leaves half-moon nail marks on your skin when he sets you free, but Satoru leans in and cups your face like a delicacy—even as his brother scoffs at the act.

“She likes being fucked dirty, lemme tell you.”

Satoya’s lewd remark is lost to the way that Satoru purses his pretty plump lips and spits—

More like drools.

A lecherous stream of spittle that ends up fallin’ onto your tastebuds- and he watches with widened eyes as you take it all in. All of it. Throat bobbing as it hits every orifice, Satoru feels it deep down in his cock once you tilt your head back and swallow-

Looking straight into both their eyes as you do.

“O-oh my-”

“Fuck.”

“I think m’gonna cum just from that.”

Satoya looks at Satoru, and they exchange a silent conversation with their gaze. Both murky blue-eyed and narrowed down at you- you’re given absolutely no warning before you’re being scooped up in a tangle of their strong arms. Satoya on your waist. Satoru cushioning your head.

They’re sprawling you out on Satoru’s bed and barely letting you hit the second bounce before they’re on you-

“Let me.”

“I hardly think that’s-”

“And which one of us does this pretty pussy like better?” Satoya pretends to cup his ear and listen - not to you, not to his brother. He’s listening to the drenched in-betweens of your legs, where if you press your thighs together then it lets out a faint squelch! “Exactly.”

Grumbling, Satoru decides to let Satoya have the bed space between your thighs.

The mattress dips where you needed them the most, and you’re feeling hot breath against your cunt. Scorching. Simmering. Taking your attention for the slightest second before you peer up at Satoru- smiling at the pouty man.

Wordlessly, you’re beckoning him with your hand.

And he seems to startle- before following your every word. Your every action. Your every syllable.

Gojo Satoru thinks he would kill a man just to have you look at him like this—always. 

With your lashes fluttering up at him as he nears, with your fingertips eager to touch him- it feels like torture as soon as he’s near enough for you to play with his drawstrings. Your fingers curving into the soft cotton of his sweatpants, your palm skidding down the looooong cylindrical print of his dick. It was just so long and thick that it made you gape.

That it made your mouth water.

That it made your digits dip just below the hemline of Satoru’s grey sweatpants-

And Satoya - gruff at the attention you were drowning his brother in - decides to then drown himself in your wet pussy—he’s like a man starved. Barely leaving enough time to shove apart your legs, barely leaving enough time to push your panties to the side-

In fact, he doesn’t push your panties to the side before licking up your entrance.

Feeling for that cute vertical line of your slit through the drenched fabric. Satoya was lapping and tuggin’ apart both the underwear and your pussylips.

Lavishing just a flick of attention down your clit before he dives into your role.

Rough. Ruthless.

Rarely wasting a single second- rarely even waiting for you to accommodate his size. He just flops his lengthy muscle between your thickened folds, licking up the first few inches of your channel, before reaching back n’ fucking you in hard, rapid thrusts.

Again and again.

He’s pressing the silver orb of his piercing into every tender lil’ spot inside you.

And though Gojo Satoya was the mean type in bed, never have you known him to be this…greedy.

“S-sweetheart—” You didn’t even realize that you’d been momentarily rendered stunned by the sheer primal streeeeetch between your legs. Not until Satoru’s gasping tone permeates the air, and he’s jerking his hips up cutely. “Sweetheart, please-”

“Heh.” Satoya snickers into your cunt. The vibrations are zapping forces of electricity right up your spine-

Satoru ignores him. “I need you.” He confesses—and the sheer desperation in his voice is enough to make you buck, and to make Satoya grumble in annoyance. The older brother uses one hand to latch onto your pretty hips, roughly draggin’ you right back down onto the creaky bedsprings. That ancient furniture protests as you’re being pinned down.

And so does Satoru-

But Satoya’s cutting him off, “I don’t care what you do- but do not fuckin’ move her from my mouth.” His frigid tongue piercing sticking against the top of your clit and making you squuuuuirm. “I haven’t eaten all night.”

And your clouded mind is almost about to ask what he means-

Before he’s slitherin’ his tongue back down and flickering in and out of your hole- sliding across every hidden inch of you. Letting his prominent nose crush up against your nub.

“And this pussy’s always so tasty—”

“Fuh-fuck—!” It’s Satoru that breaks the lecherous slurps n’ squelches this time- through the cacophony, his voice rings out so prettily. Because just then you’d properly pulled down his sweatpants and taken the nerdy man’s thiiiiick, throbbing cock in your hands.

Your lips part.

Long. Rock-hard.

So hard, in fact, that this might as well have been the first time in his life that Gojo Satoru has ever been hard. It feels as though he was buuuuuurning up all the way from his globular red tip, splurgin’ out wads of precum that coat a sheen down your wrist. Gliding down to your elbow.

Actually- it wasn’t just sappy precum. It was globular beads of gleaming white that are escaping n’ escaping out of him the second you’re touching him.

Pretty round balls flinching. Every part of him was just the most innocent pink.

He throws his head back as he empties out volume after volume of his seed- so much in just a few seconds. Though not as much as he would like to, because in a split-second, Satoru reaches his hand down and plugs his leaking hole up with a thumb. 

“Awww…” You’re pouting in disappointment. The excess of his cum drivels down your arm, creating patterns between your fingers.

He looks down at the sight of your voice and- fuck, he can’t handle it. He’s looking away. 

Satoru can’t help but whimper. “Fuck, don’t say that. I th-think m’gonna cum again—”

“Already?” Satoya scoffs.

“Shut up.” Satoru bites back. And he might have all the endurance he needs to last all night with a textbook and his notes in front of him, but the studious man was now fighting for his life—whispering formulas underneath his breath just to bate his impending high again. So close. “Euler’s method of sequence consists of…”

But the more you’re feeling him, the harder Satoru grows.

He lays out heavily across your palm, the girth of his erection making you falter. A heft to him that makes you clench ‘round Satoya’s mouth—and the other man can’t help but grunt. He leaves a man spank! on top of your clit that leaves you squealing. “Are you focusing on me or my brother, baby?”

Barely managing to gurgle out, “B-both?”

By now you’d wrapped your fingers around Satoru’s swollen cock- giving his bulging tip slow n’ steady pumps. He chases your hand with rhythmic bucks.

But Satoya wasn’t done just yet-

After a single slide of his piercing, you’re feeling yet another slap. Rudely smearing his fingertips ‘round your clit- “Hmmm, I don’t think that’s good enough. Isn’t that right, Satoru?”

“Sh-shit—” Satoru shivers at the feeling of eyes on him. “I believe that’s right-”

“Mhmm—”

“W-what do you…” And it leaves your head dizzy to register just how fast the two brothers had gone from fighting to friends—to toying with your body together. They were meeting eyes and briefly nodding.

And it’s the last thing you’re seeing before Satoru tucks a hand underneath your chin and tilts your gaze up to his. “Forgive my disrespect, sweetheart.”

He wraps his larger fingers ‘round your own dominant hand- the one that’d been jerking off his cock. And with it all nice n’ tight, Satoru squeezes your hand at his base and starts thrusting—rutting. Like an animal in heat, he’s fucking the circular space your hand made as if he wishes it was your cunt.

“But the one you should be focusing on is me.”

Throwing a jealous look down at his grinning brother- mouth all glowing with slick. The bespectacled man tuts and reaches down to sneak his free hand underneath your t-shirt.

Dipping underneath your bra and directly groping your tits-

“Heh, look at you.” Satoya rolls his half-lidded eyes—already looking so murky with the juices of your pussy. More n’ more of it dripping down his chin as he’s thrashing his pierced tongue between your pussylips- faster n’ faster.

And the thing about Satoya was that he didn’t care if it made you squirm.

He didn’t care if it left your body restless.

He didn’t care- in fact, it was all the better if he could overstimulate you with only a few sloppy strokes. And with both Gojo twins - one babble away 

Suddenly, you’re swearing that the circular metal of his piercing was hittin’ straight into one of your best spots. G-spot throbbing with pressure- and it’s making you plant your feet onto the edge of the mattress and buck-

And get draaaagged back down by Satoya’s ruthless hands. Stuck to you like adhesive. 

“You seriously think I’d let my dinner escape so easily?” He asks, more to himself. His rasping tone makes a primal part of you open up, and the frat president giggles at just how much wetter you’re getting. “Awwww, look how much wetter she’s getting f’me.”

Peeking up at his brother and watching him flinch. Possessive, possessive.

Satoru pinches your right nipple. Capturing where you were softest between two fingers, he teases that peak. “There is not enough evidence for that conclusion.” 

And Satoya has to admit that he feels your cunt glistenin’ even more at Satoru’s ministrations. “I don’t do any of that science shit-”

“You don’t do anything-”

“Except eat my girl out goooooood.” Dipping his tongue in and out—this time, Satoya was expanding his tastebuds and showin’ off the sheer layers of your juices that stuck to him. He always did have an incredible length to him, shovelling properly in, in, in. “Jealous?”

Satoru shivers as the crown tip of your thumb rubs down his cockhead’s slit. “N-no, because her mind’s on me anyways-”

“You fuckin’ wish.”

You almost forgot just how competitive the two could be - united in ruining you, but breaking apart at the very seams. It both bothered and turned them on to think about havin’ to drag your attention away from the other man, to think about accelerating their pace until it was nothing but a blur—Satoru’s cock clasped between your fingertips, Satoya’s tongue dipping in and out of your hole.

Fishing out so many ribbony wires of slick that it’s formulating a puddle down below. He just knew your pussy so well, and Satoru just had this utter need to him that was-

“It’s me that you want, right?” Satoru leans down to hush against the shell of your ear- his scorching hot breath setting your entire body alight. “It’s-”

“Now that’s just playing dirty.” In retaliation, Satoya slaps your clit one more—and it makes you see stars. Just because that makes your fist tighten around his brother’s cock, he lands at least three more sharp spanks before lashin’ his tongue piercing against your clit once more. A few more times as if to soothe the sting, “Didn’t know you had it in you, Satoru.”

“Oh, please…” Satoru looks away. “That’s why she should’ve been with me from the start-”

“Now that’s pushing it.”

Two more direct slams of his fingertips against your cunt- that part of you felt just as raw as your walls by this point. 

You’re bucking up against the dampened sheets- “Please- oh…”

“What’s that?”

“What is it, sweetheart?”

“I th-think I’m gonna-”

“Shush, baby.” To your shock, Satoya shushes you both. Right before you could finish your sentence- he merely lugs his gaze back down to admire your pretty pussy

And you were almost sure you were hallucinating, because there was no way, there could be absolutely no way…but Gojo Satoya was fucking your cunt with his mouth and nodding along to every noise he produces.

Humming at the slurps, affirming at the squelches.

Almost as though he was in deep conversation with your soppin’ wet core, Satoya licks a few more times up your crevice. Before he’s finally looking up with a faux-apologetic grin, “Sorry- she’s chatty today. My pussy says she’s about to cum.”

Your jaw drops-

“Toya, you’re fucking filthy.”

He slips his metallic piercing against the roof of your cunt, thud-thud-thud—! Probing in so deep as if to say that he knows he is- and his brother bucks up even harder into your soft palm. So needy. “Th-that’s not possible.” Satoru gasps out, pushing his condensation-filled glasses further up his nose. “According to my research, there is no linguistic nature of the genitalia-”

“This is why yer a fuckin’ virgin.” Satoya rolls his hazy eyes. 

Before you know it, the older of the two brothers leans upwards and bites his canines around your clit. That throbbing nub was stuck between his perfect lips- he counts a few heartbeats from your cunt, before wrenching his mouth back. Murmuring deep into your pussy—“Watch and learn as I make her cum, little brother. She’ll be thinking of me as I make her cum.”

“Sh-shit, Toya…” 

Blue eyes meet bespectacled blue eyes- and Satoru’s gaze narrows. “She’ll cum because of me.” His fingers - so honed from all his sharp note-taking - finds it easy to twist n’ turn your nipples in all the ways you liked.

He was alternating between both, flickering his thumb around your soft areolas.

“That’s the spirit.” Satoya says, almost talking down. “But m’doing it first-”

“I disagree-”

“At least use her mouth.” Muffling against your pussylips, Satoya’s mouth opens up so wiiiiiide to engulf every part of your dripping wet cunt. Like Satoru, he was following an alternating method that has his textured tastebuds hittin’ the inside of your channel one second, and counting the throbs of your clit the next. 

Satoya raises an unimpressed brow, “Well? What’re you waiting for? I told you she’s a dirty girl-”

“Shut up, m’not delaying…” Though he was. He really, really was. Satoru hesitates - not because he didn’t want to—fuck, how he wanted to.

How he really, really wanted to.

But he’s on his sixtieth formula by now and already about to explode- already dribblin’ out milky wads of precum. It was growing thicker and more incessant by the second, and Satoru could feel himself trembling, he could feel his heavy balls start to clench—

And yet that smug look on his brother’s face is enough to spur him into action.

Satoru jerks his hips just a little too hard on purpose- and all it takes is the tiniest glide between your puckered lips for him to shatter.

Into all sorts of zillions of pieces. Into looooong ribbony wires of cum that dribble down like a waterfall from the agitated red divot at his tip.

It’s letting out all sorts of lecherous noises as he cums—and soon enough your vision’s flooded with white. Just the most gleaming layers of his ivory sap that drench you, and at this point you can’t quite worry about it getting everywhere n’ all into your hair- because Satoya’s quirking his tongue just right to make you cum.

To tip you over the edge.

Those waves of pleasure break across every inch of your being- leaving your limbs trembling. Toes curling. Spine arching - making it all the more easy for Satoya to grab your hips in one hand and make you rut against him. He’s lashin’ out thorough strokes against every inch of your clit, the tip of his tastebuds resting teasingly on your clit.

Feeling for just how much your hole quivers for him- and you’re quiverin’ away just enough, Satoya fucks you through the peaks of your high. Peak after peak.

His younger brother elongates those white-hot whizzes of pleasure by twisting your nipples. Toying. They were just so sensitive after so much contact, making you shake into him.

Your tongue sticks out to taste more of his salted caramel seed.

And your head clouds with raw carnal pleasure, “P-please, it feels so good—” Lips wobbling, both brothers lean in to see which name you’re ending your sentence off with. “-Gojo.”

They’re sharing looks with each other.

And then they’re looking at you.

“Now now, we can’t have that.” Satoya croons.

“If that was a question during our practice tests, sweetheart, you’d get zero marks.” Satoru breathes out, finally having caught his breath. Though he still slightly trembled with the aftershocks of his orgasm, swirlin’ the roundness of his cockhead down your mouth—“Shit.”

He pulls away before he cums yet again.

“Newton’s first law of gravity…”

“Fuckin’ virgin.” Satoya repeats. “Pussydrunk from just- hah, that-”

“I beg your pardon-”

“Pussydrunk from just that-” He’s spankin’ down on your clit with his tongue- “Isn’t that right, baby? He should be more like- mmpf, me—” Struggling to get through the constant thrashes of his tongue, the way his jaw unhinges further. “Should be more in control-”

“Fuck-” Fucking his pierced tongue back into your struggling channel - it makes you gasp.

“Should be more—fuck, nonchalant. Heh.”

“Toya, again-”

“Should be more…mmmm.”

And it’s then that you’re realizing that Gojo Satoya wasn’t planning to finish his sentence - he wasn’t planning to even pull away. He was further reaching between your legs and gasping as he fucked your cunt with his mouth again and again and again-

“Move.”

When pushing doesn’t work, Satoru grabs ahold of Satoya’s hair and wrenches the man away from your pussy—fuck. You could feel yourself growing unfairly wetter at the surprising forcefulness to the nerdy man.

Before long, Satoya’s been pushed aside whilst the bespectacled twin fits himself between your legs. 

Satoya raises a brow as if waiting-

One impatient tick that turns into something of impressive nature—because without warning, Satoru spits. Messy, just like his twin had. 

“I have to wash him off.” He murmurs, watching the line of spit fall vertically down your slit. Before he lurches his face into your cunt soooo far deep that you’re sure he wouldn’t be able to breathe. And he’s eating you out like he doesn’t need to.

Doesn’t care to.

White brows furrowing, a moan cracks at the back of his throat. Fingers tightening. Blue eyes going wide. There’s an electric current that runs through Satoru’s body- like the first taste of your treacly pussy had him seeing heaven itself.

Those pearly gates were openin’ up wide for him—and so were your legs.

And it’s on pure animal instinct that he jerks himself even closer. Unfastening his maw, he’s sloshin’ his wet muscle inside again and again.

And again and again.

His first time tasting pussy, and he was gone already.

The length of Satoru’s tongue was about as incredible as Satoya’s, though slightly less flexible. But it was that lumbering inexperience of his that made his entrances feel so good - constant, with no rhyme or reason other than sticking inside so sloppily that it made your eyes roll to the back of your head.

“I need to…oh.” Satoru gasps out into your pussy. Grabbing your quivering flesh even tighter- “I need to—ngh, fuck.”

“Need to what, Toru?” You’re asking in that pretty voice of yours.

And it’s damn near enough to make him cum again- urging his body to rut against yours. “I need- fuck. I need to r-remember my studies…”

“Your studies?”

“Hah- you studied?” Satoya snickers out from somewhere above you. “Nerd.”

It gives you a good jolt to realize that he’d somehow walked right up to where your body was laid, making the bed creak once he rests his thick kneecaps against the mattress. The area beside your head dips as the older brother inches closer—

Satoru nods belatedly at your question. “I r-read about this during one of my…long and lonely nights.” Peering up at you through his long lashes, something unreadable in his eyes. “Fucked my cock raw learning about how I’d make you feel good.”

Rutting. Humping the mattress.

“I read about it in medical journals- I even read about it on sex forums.” He pants out, “And I—I fucking took notes…” Looking around his room as though to grab them right now. “But now, I just can’t remember…”

Plastering those slick lips of his against your entrance—and then whimpering as he pulls away- for but a mere second before he lands back down. A few more open-mouthed kisses prior to the entire sequence repeating. 

Like he was struggling not to lose himself to your cunt.

Like he was struggling not to kiss n’ kiss his swollen mouth against your pussy - you were just too addictive. He was fighting with himself to actually wrench away from your sloppy hole n’ clear his head. The valedictorian was stumped.

He stares down intensely at your drivelling pussy, his glasses frames crushing against your folds.

Pouting against your clit at this little dilemma- meanwhile Satoya comments something about how it was a miracle that Satoru found the clit in the first place.

“Pussy so good ya can’t even think.” The older twin is tittering down at you.

And it’s the last thing you’re hearing—before suddenly whatever noises erupted in your throat are being fuuuucked back down.

With a singular stripe of his rotund cockhead. Thick and aching.

Pounding away at the back of your neck. In those brief moments that you’d been distracted, the other brother had tugged down his ripped jeans and boxers. Bearing your lips with his thickening tip - from up-close, it seemed as though Satoru might actually have been longer.

But Satoya was heeeefty and fat enough that he always left your thighs pressing together.

That flared tip of his glistens in the dim light, it perfectly illuminated the patterns of his veins. So many of them coverin’ the circumference and length of him, whirling their way ‘round and ‘round and—and now you were feeling those very same patterns indent in the back of your throat.

The nerd was longer while the frat boy was thicker.

Satoya pulls his hips back and leaves you gasping- “Heh…”

Just to watch how you’re ruined on his fat fuckin’ cock.

You’re barely blinking before suddenly Satoya’s hounding figure finds itself climbing properly onto the bed- with each of his incredibly thick legs straddling your face. Muscles flexing whilst Satoya crushes you between his thighs and fucks that pretty mouth of yours.

With harsh, humpin’ thwacks! of his tannish cockhead. He tastes like a slightly sweeter version of his brother, you feel sinful admitting - and that wonderous part of your brain thinks that it might be because of Satoya’s better diet as an athlete-

Thwack! Thwack!

“Oi—” He’s slammin’ the rounded edge of his tip down on your tongue. One hand on your chin to gape your jaw wide enough for him, “Don’t zone out w’me, baby.”

“I wasn’t…” You mumble stubbornly.

“Yeah, right.” Satoya snickers. He’s then back to bumpin’ away his swollen cockhead at your throat- reaching for that lil’ dangly thing that he always loved to play with. 

It was just obscene how much your lips were stretching and gaping around his thick size.

Smearing your pretty lipstick down his shaft—shit, he might just get that shit tattooed on his cock. Decorating every solid inch of him with the looooong sensual fucks he was planting into your dewy wet mouth. “See that?” Satoya calls over his shoulder, “My girl was fuckin’ bored with you eating her out.”

“Erm- actually—”

“Shut up and do yer job.”

Satoru pushes his thick glasses up his nose- “Fuck off.” Pretending he doesn’t hear his brother’s chuckles. And you have to realize that Gojo Satoru wasn’t the valedictorian for no reason - he was nothing if not determined. And if he was an academic weapon, then surely he could be a weapon between your legs, too?

Somehow, he’s so pussydrunk that he whispers this between your legs. Almost as if a promise to your pussy.

And right—there was another reason he was valedictorian.

He had a damn good memory.

“Th-the Gräfenberg spot is typically located on the anterior vaginal walls.” He’s rattling off- now removing his greedy mouth (but only with a few extra kisses) to reach up with shivering fingers. Satoru’s slender fingertips pry apart your swollen folds, pressin’ inwards sensually. 

“Oh—” You’re gasping as much as you could - though it was so difficult with Satoya’s cock stuffing your orifice.

And Satoru gapes at the quivers of your pussy- “About two to three inches up the mucosa, it’s part of the prostate system that—” The rest of his sentence gets swallowed up by Satoya grabbing either side of your sweaty head and using it as leverage. Digging his neat nails into your skin, he ruts down into you like he’s furious-

“And has a theorized structure of vascular networks causing sexual stimulation.” He rasps out, mouth now moved to gulp at your pretty clit. Satoru watches his brother fuck your poor maw- and his two fingers start matching his pace. Meeting it.

Hard and frenzied.

You’re feeling one prod at the back of your throat, and then another into the deepest depths of your cunt.

Velvety walls clamping down on Satoru’s digits as though trying to memorize him in there—his pretty fingertips. Souring every inch of you. Faster and faster, he gets more ravenous to find that gooey spot inside that he knows would make you feel good-

“Need any help, little brother?”

Satoru scowls, “Never.”

“Heh, alright.” Satoya responds, “But just know that m’not going easy on my girl.”

“I’m not going easy on my girl, either.”

And then it happens- all in one go.

Satoya bottoms out until your nose presses against the curls of white at his base.

Satoru pumps his fingers into your throbbing g-spot.

And he realizes by the way you’re clenching.

Immediately. He jerks his nimble fingers back and thrashes in just a few more times- targeting that one bundle of nerves. And perhaps it’s in their genetics, because both Satoru and Satoya are able to aim every movement to perfectly strike that spot.

That round, throbbing spot.

He’s scrapin’ his fingertips on the wettened area of it—“I found it…” Breathless, as if he couldn’t believe it himself. “I really found it- it’s right here—” Demonstrating by making a long slide down that sweet spot, “Right on this part of the adventitia that has this little- fuck.”

“Ngh—fuck, that feels good.” You’re muffling out between gasps. Satoya’s furiously hard cockhead hittin’ your throat once more. He fills you up with both his dollops of pre and his inches-

“Tch, beginner’s luck.” Satoya scoffs. “Now, the real challenge is getting that pretty pussy to cum- you see, I’m her favorite so-”

“Uh-huh.” Satoru nods - not at his brother. But down at your pussy—“Really? Because she says I’m her favorite now.”

“D’you copy during your exams, too?”

“Are you a sore loser during your games, too?”

With barbed words exchanged from both sides, they’re both toying with your pretty body. So cute and overstimulated like this- so it’s no surprise that with only a few more strokes of Satoru’s fingers, and with a few more thrusts of Satoya’s cock, you’re falling apart all over again.

All because of them.

Push after push.

Rub after rub.

Fucking you through the riotous peaks of your orgasm.

Since this was your second in a short amount of time, they were sharper n’ more unpredictable than before. 

The only thing you can do is lean back into the rickety mattress and take everything you’re given, those bursts of pleasure turning nearly unbearable every time Satoru bruises your pretty g-spot. Memorized its place. Studied it.

Digging past your elastic walls like he’d go even deeper if he could. He wonders how much further till your womb…

Meanwhile Satoya reaches behind him to slap your poor, puckered nipples. 

They were ripe after his brother’s groping earlier, and all the other man has to do is spank you around a little to make your body writhe. “P-please-”

“Awww, don’t cry, my poor baby.” Satoya’s roughened fingertips then move to wipe your tears. Gently dragging his knobbled tips down the side of your wet face- “How’re you gonna suck my cock if you’re crying?”

At this, your jaw drops. And Satoru can’t help but startle out a laugh—“You’re a fucking animal, you know that?”

“I know.”

“Be nice.”

“Nah.”

And to your surprise, Satoru isn’t reprimanding him anymore - he’s simply peeking up and taking pleasure in the sight of you havin’ every inch of your mouth ruined. Until your lips were swollen. Until your nose tingled at the scratch of his unruly white happy trail—and Satoya himself can’t help but trek his left hand down and piiiiiinch your nostrils closed. Still shoveling his cck at a frenzied pace. 

Just to watch you squirm.

Satoru hums something interested.

And pinches your clit—

You think you might be shattering into your third high of the night, your fourth.

Either way, all you know is that a few seconds have passed by the time you’re blinking your hazy eyes open again - cunt sensitive, throat shot - and staring down at the vision of Satoru and Satoya who’ve regrouped themselves to the foot of the bed now.

They’d both climbed aboard now, and it dipped with pressure. 

It’s as if you were seeing double. 

You stare wide-eyed at the men who looked so-very alike: their mouths swollen n’ dripping with your slick, their cocks dripping with their own.

Messy white hair.

Glazed blue eyes.

It was impossible to pick which one was more handsome- both so attractive in two completely different ways. Both so attractive even when they were…playing rock-paper-scissors?

“Rock-”

“Paper-”

“Scissors-”

“Shoot-”

“I win.” 

Satoru holds up the paper in retaliation to Satoya’s rock—and the other man looked as though he could so-very-conveniently punch the other man with it. Satoya’s brows furrow, eyes flickering over from his brother to you. “I’m sorry, baby. Your Toya tried-”

“Hey-”

But the other man is merely sighing as he finds himself thrown next to you, taking off his jacket and coaxing you into his big arms. And how could you deny?

Satoya was chiselled until it was almost unfair- how could a man in real life possibly look this good? It was almost Herculean in nature, with the most luscious pecs and abs that could go on for daaaaays—there was a natural attractiveness to them that drew your eyes. And you could already feel your mouth watering at the thought of being wrapped up in him- which, of course, makes the older twin flex up at Satoru. 

Despite cumming in your mouth moments prior, Satoya was rock-hard. Just the slightest cap of creamy white covering his mushroomy tip.

One that he’s swiping on his thumb and reaching up to press between your lips. “Drink up, now.” He’s cooing down at you, pushing in the rest of the remnant sap across your face. Gojo Satoya had left a mess. “Yer gonna need it with this fucker-”

“Oh.” At Satoru’s protests, you turn to him. “But I think he’ll do great- won’t you, Toru?”

Satoya looks at you incredulously, “Baby, he’s a virgin—you think he’ll be able to fuck you like he deserves-”

“I fear it has slipped your mind that I’m right here-”

“And he talks like that.”

Satoru pushes those glasses of his - now lacquered in a layer of your sweet, sweet sap - up his nose. For perhaps the first time tonight, he’s speaking out in an even tone. “Spread her legs f’me, big brother.”

“Eugh, get away from me.”

“I’m going to punch you.”

“Tch—” Satoya scoffs- but makes to rest his hands on your legs. He’s easily maneuvering you to sit against that toned chest you loved so much - your back against his front, your head falling back against his collarbone.

Practically a full nelson.

Both sets of his fingers dig against the flesh of your inner thighs- wrenching those trembly limbs open. And you’re helping him do so with a whimper- “Not too eager now, baby.” Satoya hums against your ear, “Satoru here’s gonna fuck you. And after that…this pretty pussy’s gonna be happy to feel me.”

As Satoru settles himself between your legs, Satoya’s hands dip higher and higher. The curvature of his fingertips tracing patterns across your sizzlin’ skin, he’s just about to reach between your pussylips and press on your clit when-

“Satoya.” Satoru’s voice sounds huskier than ever. 

The sudden change in tone is what makes you turn your head- but it’s the sight of him that makes you keep your head tilted. 

Satoru had tugged off his soft sweater by now—and what was underneath that soft sweater was anything but…Nearly as chiselled as his older brother, Satoru cocks his head to the side and watches your reaction.

Watches you gawk at the fine lines of his defined muscles, the way his biceps flexed as he throws his sweater off to the side. Toned pecs. A firm v-line.

Now, you’d always assumed that Gojo Satoru was the somewhat lanky type- perhaps somewhere in the middle? He was tall and broad, but those loose clothes of his made it hard to determine anything other than the fact that he had really good shoulders. What an utter shock to realize that he had more than just good shoulders-

“It’s my N-New Year’s Resolution.” Satoru’s voice pipes up, this time in the softer, more familiar tone that you knew was his. You’re ripping your eyes away from his body (quite the difficult task) to meet his shy gaze. “I’ve been working out.”

Your jaw drops, “But it’s still February?”

“Genetics.” Satoya pipes up from behind you. Looking at Satoru- “And unfortunately we are related.”

“Shut it.” It seems that Satoru’s brash side only ever came out when he was with his brother - and he’s narrowing his blue peripherals at your core. “And spread my girl’s legs wider. I won’t fit between them otherwise.”

“Aye aye, captain.” 

It’s not long before your hamstrings are being stretched as far apart as they’d go—and the burning pleasure in your limbs are almost as satisfying as the one between your legs. The one at your very dewy pussy that squelches as Satoru perks his hips closer.

One hand guiding his thick tip, the other pressing down on your right thigh.

“Fuck.” He gasps once his furious, red cockhead slides between your pussylips- just a few liiingering slides uuuuuup and down.

Satoru’s head falls forward. His body arches into yours.

He’s letting out a slew of curses every time he’s ruttin’ his hips against yours- not even properly fucking you, just sandwiching his thickened shaft between your pussylips. Feeling the way your sodden lips were swallowing him up—clenching. 

Your hole wanted him so badly.

“Fuck fuck fuck-” the feeling of your inner mucosa. Satoru stumbles across his movements, properly positioning his tip now to actually push inside your entrance. There’s a line of drool gliding down the corner of his mouth. “Fuck.”

Over a million words in the English language, over 500,000 words in Japanese. Over 370,000 words in Modern Chinese, over 40,000 words in Classical Latin, and over 10,000 words in Swahili - and that’s not counting the languages that he wasn’t fluent in.

An abundance of words, and yet he can’t truly describe what he’s feeling when he first enters your pussy. 

A sudden shiver scatters goosebumps across his body, and he’s straining his arm against your legs—you swear you could almost hear the slurp! of his precum emptying straight onto your pussylips. Inside. The sensation of feeling a pussy - your pussy - for the first time was almost too much for the inexperienced man, and he’s bucking.

He’s humping.

Probin’ aside your pussylips and stretching out your entrance into a wiiiiide ‘oh’. Though his brother might have been thicker than him, Satoru himself wasn’t exactly slender.

Though smooth n’ curved in just the way that let him slip inside—

“Fuck- you’ve taken my virginity.” He’s acting like an animal. “Quantum Field Theory—” A slurring sentence leaving him with every single thrust, it almost sounded as though he was drunk. “Electromagnetism-” He’s reaching so deeply inside of you with his curvaceous pink tip, just the crowned edge of his cock that was aiming to claim every spot inside you. Every hidden spot. “Fluid dynamics- Navier–Stokes equation is the application of F = ma to fluids-”

“I have another fluid dynamic for ya…heh.” Satoya grubs against the side of your temple. With a burst of scorched laughter, he’s leaning himself back against the mattress - and taking you right along with him.

And Satoru can’t help but chase your cunt with feral need.

Barely letting Satoya rest before he’s takin’ over your slick entrance to swirl n’ swirl his tip inside. Mazing inside. Mouth watering as his older twin rests his hands underneath your thighs and peeeels your legs even further to their sides.

It makes you squeal as you feel a sudden splosh! escape from your quivering cunt. “O-oh—now that’s just unfair.”

“Unfair?” Satoya scoffs. “What’s unfair is this fucker cumming early.”

“Huh?” Satoru cranes his head to look down at wherever nonsense- oh.

Oh…he really had cum early.

Creamy white sap froths your entrance like icing. Gluing against either side of your thighs, dribbling down the line of your slit. Every time that he’s lurching his cock in just an inch, a splurge of it glazes his rude cockhead and trickles down his shaft. From there, it looked as though your cunt was wearing the prettiest gloss upon your folds- and Gojo Satoru would definitely agree. 

And it’s only then that the realization hits - to both you and the utterly pussydrunk Gojo Satoru - that he’d cum just from feeling your pussy.

Sometime during the first touch up your slit, n’ the first time he had thrusted—and of course, what else is one to do but admire their handiwork? What else is one to do but reel their hips back just a little and thrust and thrust—

Making Satoya giggle at the sheer force. He’s being pushed back against the damn headboard with every single sodden thrust into you- “Easy there, little brother.”

“Fuck off. Ejaculation is simply a natural process of the urethral meatus in response to stimulation- so what?”

“I’m just saying…” And with a single flick of his thumb, Satoya has your clit pulsing between his fingertips. “Keep going like that and yer gonna wear yourself out before you can ruin her—”

“Wh-what do you mean?” At this, Satoru looks up through his thick bangs.

“Cheh, didn’t yer damn research tell you this?”

And you’re watching the exchange like a tennis match - except you might just be the ball.

“S’not just fucking her like a madman.” Satoya lectures. As if to prove his point, he’s drawin’ a cute heart on top of your sensitive nub and making you shrill—then looking up at Satoru as if to say ‘see? “You’ve gotta know when to- fuck, toy with her pussy. You’ve gotta know when to drive her so wild with pleasure that she can take your cock properly- bottomed-out yet?”

Satoru looks down. “Not yet.”

Satoya nods, looking more serious than you’ve ever seen him—except maybe when he was in the middle of some basketball tournament. The finals. Rubbin’ on your clit loooooong and slow- “Mmm, now try fucking this pretty pussy fast.”

“Mhm.”

And he does—fuck, he does.

The contrast between the frat president’s fingers on your clit - and the nerd’s cock between your trembling legs - was almost too much to handle. Your poor brain muddles up, and you’re bucking up into him—“Toru—Toya. Fuck.”

“See?” Satoya grins.

Satoru nods with an even wider grin.

“Now try going slow.”

This time, Satoya goes frenzied on top of your clit whilst Satoru’s fucking you in hard, thorough thrusts. Solid. Sudden. They were ones designed to reach the very back of your cunt, and you’re feeling the slamming pressure of each one in your throat- 

Just trying to fit himself inside—

“Her- her epithelium, I can feel her stretching so much-”

After a few more minutes of this, Satoru’s hearing your cunt stutter out the loudest, most lecherous slurp! yet…

And he’s staring down with his half-lidded blue eyes to realize that he’d just bottomed-out. For the very first time in his life.

For the very first time, point-blank.

Bulging peripherals rolling to the back of his head, he swears he feels heaven in the way your sopping wet walls squeezed all of him. Every ridge and curve and even the rare vein—just a single clench more n’ he’s gonna start cumming deep into your womb.

Tears streaming down his cheeks, “Fuh-fuck.”

“I know, right?” Satoya muses from behind you. You’re whimpering as he lets go of your clit to reach a palm up- and Satoru meets the high-five with only slight wariness. 

“Right on.”

And then it’s both of their urges to pleasure you.

Both working together. Both trying to one-up each other—before Satoya plants a loud smack! on top of your swollen folds.

And that will usually have Satoru startling at the sheer noise- gaping at how that only made you feel wetter ‘round his cock. “She really is a dirty fuckin’ girl…”

“Told you.”

Satoya’s thick fingertips travel from circling your clit to juuuuust a little further down, down, down. There, he teases your pussylips a little - rubbed raw from all the contact you’ve had tonight - down to your asscheeks.

Perfect and pretty.

Satoya gives them a little smack! before proceeding to spread them apart.

“Don’t tell me you’re…” Satoru sounds reproachful, but you could see the slight twitch of his lips.

“And so what?” The other twin plasters his lips to your temple, “If my pussy’s been taken over by my brother—then at least gimme that other cute hole, baby.”

Satoru shrugs, “As long as that thing isn’t touching me- eugh.”

You’re nodding, “Please-” Staring up into their two beautiful faces - one in front, one behind. “I want you both.”

“Dirty girl.” Satoya hums.

“Dirty girl.” Satoru agrees. “Can’t get enough of the Gojo twins, can you?”

You’re shaking your head.

Satoru smushes your cheeks together with one of his hands, tilting your face up to his. “Say it f’me, sweetheart?”

“I c-can’t…get enough—” And if you were in any other state right now, then you might just’ve been embarrassed at how whiny you sounded. “-of the Gojo…oh.”

And at that very moment, you feel Satoya’s thick, rounded cockhead pierce through your other hole.

It starts off slow—almost soothing. Just the silken globe of his erection, that mushroomy tip that passes through with little to no resistance - your body was always so pliant with Gojo Satoya. He takes pride in that fact.

But then comes…the rest of him.

How sinful that the more thicker of the twins was going into through your asshole- you could feel the tightness of your rim struggling to accommodate him. Feeling his prominent veins rub up against tender spots inside that you had no idea even existed, feeling his raw thickness inch inside and leave you sobbing.

“Oh my god—” You’re keening out at the feeling of Satoya easing inside. “T-Toya—”

And hearing you scream out his brother’s name- well, Satoru couldn’t fall too far behind, right? He was always the first in class, the first in the Physics Department, the first of the twins to pound your pretty pussy tonight - and he’s taking advantage of the fact. 

He’s planting his heels down on the rickety mattress and shovelling.

Letting the reddened, swollen tip of his cock maze inside as if a searchlight aiming to find your most tender spots.

And perhaps it was muscle memory from earlier, perhaps it was sheer carnal nature—but it takes only one or two strokes for Satoru to probe deep inside and locate your g-spot. To ready his gluttonous tip and press a passionate welcome smooch against it.

You’re jolting as though struck by a million volts of electricity. “Toru—” 

Like music to his ears, Satoru looks smugly down at his brothers. To which Satoya merely rolls his eyes and spreads his capped knees- in a single second, he’s arching his hips off the dampened mattress and puuuuushing that throbbing cock of his between your ass cheeks. 

Bottoming out.

With both twins fully stuffed inside you - and with both twins reachin’ for the sweetest nerves inside - it’s no surprise that you find yourself sobbing out of pleasure.

Overstimulated on their lengths already.

You’re throwing your head back and babbling- “Toru—Toya.” Repeating their first names as though you were a broken record player, that in itself being one with one very favorite syllable: To. “To- fuck…To—” 

Two simultaneous whacks! into your deepest depths leave you scrambling to pick up your thoughts. And your ability to speak.

“To—”

You’re arching against Satoya’s ripped front, and you press right into Satoru’s toned chest. Stuck in-between two brothers who just couldn’t seem to get enough of you—and they’re sharing a wide-eyed look with one another that doesn’t go unnoticed.

You flit your own teary gaze between the two, attempting to figure out what it meant.

And they always do say that some twins have telepathic abilities, don’t they?

Perhaps that’s what’s happening right now- because both unspoken and at the exact same time, Satoru and Satoya are recoiling their hips backwards.

Then returning with the hardest, most honed ruts.

Barely even hammering inside- just pure, carnal half-thrusts given just to drive you wild.

Thrust after thrust.

Probe after probe.

They don’t wait for one another, merely trusting that the other will catch up. And they don’t back down, either—every rugged hit pushed into your depths only seems to spur the other brother into reciprocating that strike twofold.

They’re learning the power of teamwork through your pussy?!

Satoru snags his flared tip on the crevice of your g-spot, whilst Satoya spends his time pummeling your ass. He was stretching you out in ways you don’t think you’ve ever been stretched out before - anal wasn’t something you did with him. And now…now he’s groaning at those cute clenches of your walls as though he was slowly falling in love with them.

The rugged texture of his thumb matching n’ contrasting with whatever calculated pace that Satoru was drilling into you. The bespectacled man has no shame reachin’ one of his thumbs down and swirling it in the excess leaks of his cum, collecting it all onto his fingerpad, he forces it between your pussylips and back into your hole.

Not a single drop wasted.

Satoru raises his cum-glazed fingertips up to his own mouth- and sucks.

“And ya call me the filthy one?” Satoya snickers.

“Aren’t you?”

“You’re a secret freak, weirdo-”

“Says the public freak.” Satoru flickers his eyes down to admire your cunt- he couldn’t believe that it’d taken this long since he managed to have you. To taste you. To feel you. 

But now that he had you clenchin’ around his swollen shaft like this, and now that he had your pussylips coated in all his cum, Satoru knows he needs to have you again. He needs to love on you with his cock like this again—he’s sure he’d die if he didn’t. He’s sure of it. 

And that damn brother of his-

“I know yer cursing me out mentally.” Satoya’s voice echoes through the heady bedroom. His grip grows more possessive underneath your thighs, and that blushin’ red tip of his even more ravenous to activate your nerves. There was a reason that the two of you had continued a…somethingship for so long. 

And one of the main reasons being that he just had so much chemistry with your body. That he’s leaving you breathless, like you left Satoya every single fucking moment he was with you. “Ya get this look on your face- jealous I could have her first, huh?”

“Doesn’t matter what’s first—” Satoru grunts. Pampering your gooey depths with a dollop of precum, “It matters who’s last.”

“Yeah, and that’s gonna be me-”

“That’ll be me-”

“Yeah, right.” Satoya starts—and in your hazy mind, you’re registering that they were about to start fighting again. But how could you bring yourself to stop them- when they’re shattering every coherent thought in your brain with their bludgeoning cocks. Faster and faster. How long can a truce really last? “A virgin that doesn’t know her pussy as well as I do-”

“And which one of us is- ngh, making her feel good with her pussy now?”

“You think you’re even half as good as me?” Satoya sounds condescending. “Man, I hate to break it to ya- but you’re just for tonight. I’m gonna be there for her every night—”

“Every night until she gets a boyfriend, that is.” Satoru cocks his head with a dimpled smile. “Me.”

“She’s out of your league, nerd.”

“She’s out of yours, too-”

“Boys.” It’s with the most significant effort - every single ounce of will in your body, actually - that you’re managing to keep your voice steady. And both men turn their matching blue eyes to meet your half-lidded gaze. 

Just so botched from all the times you’d been crying out in bliss tonight. It sounds scratchy once you say- “Just sh-shut up and make me—”

“Fuckin’ cum.”

“Reach your orgasm.”

They already know the answer before you utter it.

And it doesn’t take much for them to work in a frenzied rhythm on your cunt n’ your ass - staking their claim before the other. It was dizzying to be sandwiched between them. Because they’re probing into your every sweet spot, they’re dragging across your slick channels, they’re furrowing their brows to concentrate before they themselves cum—and before long, they’re pushing you straight into your nth high of the night.

Cumming.

It takes over you swift and flashing - you think you see stars dance before your very vision. Toes curling. Body arching into them.

There weren’t as many peaks during this orgasm as you had during your last few. And it isn’t long before feeling those zaps of electricity taper off- leaving your mouth babbling, and your throat hatching in sobs.

Again and again.

Satoru and Satoya fuck you through the brief tremors of your high—their dual tips entering both your channels. No doubt that your poor g-spot n’ clit were bruised by their touching by now. Stirrin’ about your insides, pumping out heeeeeaving hot messes of cum straight into your womb and deepest insides - it sloshes about as you’re bucking.

Fucking back into both of them.

The wads of their ropey seed stick to your every nook and cranny, creating a sheen between your legs that splatters all over. So much more than you ever thought possible for you to fit - because both of them had so much stored up.

Both of them had so many pangs of pleasure that could only be achieved by ruttin’ into your glossy wet pussy. Long and hard. Hot and cloying to your insides. They were the best orgasms of their entire life.

All because of you.

Filled to the brims until those brims couldn’t handle it anymore. Globular tips only fucking those leaking wads even deeper. Creamy with sap n’ droooooling out all those glazing wads into your deepest innards- even the slightest movements make you feel the splashes inside of you.

The most lecherous sounds escape you as they finally finish off their incredible waves of bliss. Balls finished clenching and sucked all dry—

Satoya’s peering down at the mess they’ve made of you, “Next round, I want her pretty pussy- but you’ve gotta wash that nasty stuff out.”

“Oh, fuck off-”

“And we’re taking turns.”

“Taking turns on what—?”

It’s a voice you’ve never heard before, then again, it’s not a voice you register as completely unfamiliar—there was something about it. Something about the pitch of it. Something about the lilting words. Something about that sort of rich voice that both the Gojo twins shared

And so some part of you hears the connection before you see it.

Before an exact clone of the twins above n’ below you on the bed walks through those bedroom doors. 

White hair.

Blue eyes.

Those exact pretty features that made people stop on the roads, hoping for a second glance.

Except…this Gojo donned a sort of cowboy hat on his head - his button-up snug and revealing a sturdy build. His boots polished till they gleamed, and his arms all tanned—sun-kissed. It really did suit the two bouquets of flowers in his hands. If Satoru was spring, Satoya was summer, then he would be autumn - how he reminded you of the sturdiness of fall trees and the warmth of seasonal pumpkin beverages. The scent. The sight. 

His jaw drops.

And so does yours- “Th-there’s another one of you—?” You’re shrilling between the two twins- no, you suppose they’d be triplets now?! 

Satoya shrugs, “Multiple too many.”

“Multiple- so how many are there really…” And then you shake your head, almost fearful to hear the answer. “Why didn’t you tell anyone-”

“To be quite frank, it’s simply that no one asked.” Satoru answers this time.

Meanwhile, their brother lingers awkwardly at the door—he’d turned away respectfully as soon as he realized what he was seeing. Though he doesn’t make a move to re-enter the living room, torn between actually making that escape and wondering whether he was actually hallucinating or not—

That is, until you’re beckoning him over.

Within the next few minutes, Gojo Satohiro has his back leaned against the wooden headboard n’ you between his legs. Your back turned to him, your cunt swallowed up his eeeeven thicker red cock in the most lecherous swerves, bumps, and grinds.

Reverse cowgirl.

“Giddy uuuuup, girlie.” Satohiro coos as he juuuust perks his hips and ends up stroking your g-spot - the fastest one to find it. His bulbous mushroom tip finds permanent residence smoochin’ away at that tight spot. “C’mon- just a little harder now. You got this.”

“I’m- I’m trying—” Thighs aching. Moaning. 

And he’s punishing you with a sudden spank of calloused fingertips- right where your right ass cheek was still sore from all the contact with Satoya. “Not trying hard ‘nough for me, sugar.”

His slight country accent (was that Kansai?) made your cunt grow even wetter- and the oldest of the Gojo brothers could feel it—

“Let me treat the lady.”

Maybe that’s why, before long, he’s pushing you down head-first into the pillows. Fingers planting yet another slap to your ass cheeks, cock bludgeoning away- in control now, Satohiro had the penchant to alternate between torturous slow paces n’ fast speeds that left you moooooaning—

Grabbing at Satoru’s pillows for dear life-

You’re ending up slipping your hand underneath. Pulling out something soft and…warm and…familar.

“What the hell is my h-hoodie doing here?”

The two other men seated - boxers-on and five feet apart from one another - in one corner of the room jolt—and all eyes fall upon Satoru.

At least, all eyes except Satohiro’s.

He tugs the fabric out of your hand and loops it around your eyes like a blindfold.

“Hey girlie, how ‘bout we take turns fucking you n’ you try to guess which one’s which?”

Whose team are you on, babygirls?

TEAM SATORU

TEAM SATOYA

TEAM SATOHIRO

Voting ended onFeb 17

A/N. JSDJHSDDJH I just had to-

Plagiarism not authorized.

[classyrbf]

dilf!nanami who is a regular at the restaurant you work at. He always comes in late when there’s barely any customers, hand in hand with his son, the little kid with pink hair. The only thing they order is ice cream, most likely for the little boy who’s scarfing it down the moment you set it on the table.

You’ve grown a friendly bond with them, always excited to see the boy and of course his handsome father who always glances at you and tips you well.

“Say, thank you,” his father says, pointing to you and smiling.

“Thank you! Bye, bye miss y/n!” Yuji exclaims, remnants of ice cream on the corners of his mouth.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Nanami says. You know he doesn’t mean in a flirtatious manner, but your heart can’t help but skip a beat when he flashes a smile.

“Of course! See you guys again next week!” You wave.

Next week comes, the restaurant empty beside one couple who were almost finished with their meal. You’re wiping down tables, finishing up with some side tasks to kill time when you see him walk him, except yuji isn’t with him.

“Hi, Mr. Nanami,” you greet, as he sits down. “The usual?” You place your hands on your hips, giving a kind smile.

“Yes, please.” He nods.

“No little yuji today?” You question, chuckling bit.

“Oh, no, he’s sleeping over at his cousins.” He nodded tapping his hands on the wooden table.

“Awe, well when you see him again tell him I said hi. I’ll be right back with your ice cream.” It takes no longer than two minutes to grab him a small bowl of chocolate fudge brownie ice cream.

“Thank you.” He reaches for the spoon.

“Of course, let me know if you need anything else.” You turn to walk away before he clears his throat, calling out your name. Quickly, you look over your shoulder, brows raised.

“Excuse me if this is an odd question, but…when do you leave?” He laughs, shy and awkward as he blinks up at you.

“Nine. May I ask why?” Your brows furrow.

An hour later you’re in his bed, face pressed down into the sheets, his hand gripping the back of your neck as he slams his hips into you. A string of curses fall past your lips, barely able to think properly with how deep he is inside you.

“Mr. Nanamiiii—nnngh!” Your eyes roll back, drooling when feel him against you, your ass pressed against his pelvis. He’s breathing heavy, chest rising and falling as a light sheen of sweat coats his skin.

“Ah—fuck, sweetheart. You’re gripping me so tight…so fucking wet too—mmph!” He runs a hand down your spine, goosebumps littering your skin. “Have you been thinking about this just as much as I have?” He leans in close, mounting you so his chest now flush against your back. “Tell me,” he whispers in your ear, moving his hips slow, grinding into you.

“Mhm.” You nod, biting down on your bottom lip, fingers entangled in the sheets.

“I need to hear you say it. Use—mmph—your words,” he rasps.

“Y-yes,” you croak, nodding again.

“Atta girl,” he chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple as he picks up pace, moving his hips back and forth as he fucks you deep, his tip rubbing against your sweet spot. “You look even prettier when you’re a cock drunk mess.” He hisses when he feels you tighten around him, sucking him in and milking his cock.

“Mmm—I-I’m gonna…cummm,” you squeak, voice broken and raspy. “You feel so good—nngh—please don’t stop!” Your entire body begins to shake, toes curling, cunt clenching around him. “Fuckkkk, yes, yes, yes!” Your moans are muffled by the mattress.

“Ohhh, yes, baby. That’s it, cum all over my cock—oh shit—you deserve it.” He softly grunts into your ear, still fucking you deep, rolling his hips against your ass. “I’m not stopping anytime soon. You’re all mine for tonight, sweetheart. Yeah,” he whimpers, “yeah, you’re all mine,” he breathily says. He presses a kiss to your temple again, lips resting against your skin, your sweaty bodies practically glued together.

This time, he gave you a different kind of tip for your service.