Y'all ever wondered what it would be like when Simon sees your big round tits and wants to milk 'em?
Warning: breastfeeding kink (or something like that, idk), drugging
I mean the guy never got a good up bringing. Not much of maternal love for him either. So now that he is grown up, his ways of finding that kind of love in his partner is...twisted. Like, he'll randomly stand behind you when you are cooking and start to fondle your tits without warning. He keeps squeezing and massaging your supple chest until your nipples are pointing and aching to be suckled on.
You refuse to let him suckle though. It's embarrassing. I mean, come on, it feels weird to let him do that when you see how he keeps looking at your chest like a creep. You keep refusing him for sometime, he is just so persistent about it. But then, he stops trying to convince you finally and you think that everything's fine, right?
But in the next course of week, your breasts start to swell and ache. By the second week, the nipples start to ache for some release but you're not sure why. It just aches all over. You massage them but end up getting overstimulated from your already sensitive tits. By the third week, you begin to leak droplets of milk, staining your bra and t-shirt. You don't know how it happened or how to stop it. But the longer you don't let the milk out, the more it aches. You don't have any other choice but to tell Simon everything.
Simon, he listens carefully and suggests, "how about I suck it out a little, Lovie?"
You feel shy but give in to the suggestion anyways. And oh boy! Simon laches on to your tits the moment you nod to let him begin. He has lifted your shirt and bra up, his one hand rubbing your one tit while the his mouth is sucking on your other tit. He drinks your milk like a man starved. He hums in the ecstasy of it all. It only got more agressive when he heard you whimpering and moaning softly.
By the time simon was done, you did feel a little relieved.
Little did you know, it was all Simon's doing to make you lactate by mixing lactation drugs in your food just so you come to him willingly and he gets to suck your tits full of milk.
a/n. i've been sitting on wanting to create a small scene like this for a while now. so here ya go! lemme tell ya'll... breastfeeding is not always this magical and beautiful thing that people make it out to be. it hurts like hell, my bloody nipples can attest.
cw: domestic fluff. angst with comfort. satoru's trying to make breastfeeding easier for you.
“Satoru,” you whisper, voice tight with frustration. “She won’t latch.”
You’re trying not to cry.
Looking down at your newborn, you can see her frustration—tiny fists clenching, soft, hungry cries spilling from her mouth as she wriggles restlessly in your arms. You shift again, adjusting her position, cradling her closer, trying—begging—for something to click.
But it doesn’t.
Her mouth bobs and searches blindly, cheeks flushing red with effort, and the desperation building in her fragile little body mirrors your own.
“I—I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” you choke out, blinking hard as tears blur your vision.
You’re exhausted. Beyond it. The sleepless nights at the hospital. Your body aches in places you didn’t even know could hurt. And this—this thing that was supposed to be natural, instinctual, beautiful—feels awkward and impossible—like a test you’re failing over and over again.
“Please, baby girl…” your voice trembles as you guide her to your breast one more time. “Just—c’mon—o-ow!”
She latches, but it’s wrong. A searing pain shoots through your chest and you flinch, instinctively pulling her away. Your nipple throbs—red, sore, screaming for relief. With a shrill cry, your baby’s tiny face crumples in protest, and your own tears finally fall—hot and helpless.
“Why is this so hard?” you whisper, voice cracking as you hold her close, shaking.
Satoru's voice is low behind you—steady, but laced with worry.
His hands come to rest gently on your shoulders, warm and trembling, his thumbs moving in slow circles like he can massage away the frustration knotting in your muscles.
“She’s only a few days old…” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss the top of your head, lips lingering in your hair. “She’s still learning. Fuck… we are too.” He exhales shakily. “You’re doing the best you can, sweetheart. Please don’t be so hard on yourself.”
He straightens, blue eyes darting around the room like he’s searching for something—anything—to help.
“What can I do? Do you need anything? Where’s that—hang on—where’s that damn pillow thing…?” he mumbles, and you watch through watery eyes as he scrambles, clumsily grabbing the nursing pillow, adjusting it like he’s trying to solve a puzzle without the picture on the box. His movements are uncoordinated, frantic—but full of love.
Satoru kneels beside you as you try again, baby blue eyes flicking between your face and your daughter’s, willing the pieces to fall into place.
"C'mon baby girl... be nice to your momma for me, yeah?"
But when your little one latches again and you gasp, pulling her off with a pained cry, your resolve shatters.
“I—I can’t do it Satoru!” you say, brokenly. “I can't get her to latch, and when she does… it just hurts. So much.”
You feel like a failure. How can you not feed your baby?
As you look up at him through watery lashes, tears clinging to your cheeks, Satoru's expression cracks. He nods quickly, white brows furrowing as his lips press into a tight line, like he’s holding back the helplessness swelling in his chest.
“I know, baby. I know. Just… wait one sec.”
He’s on his feet in an instant, practically tripping over the edge of the rug as he rushes across the room. A moment later, he’s back—dragging a stool with one hand and clutching a spare pillow in the other. Dropping down in front of you, he crouches low, gently lifting your legs and placing them on the makeshift footrest.
“There,” he murmurs, positioning the pillow with care. “Put your feet up. Maybe if you’re more comfortable…”
Satoru fluffs the nursing pillow again with extra care, tucks the baby’s blanket around her tiny frame, then grabs your water bottle from the side table—uncapping it as he gently places it in your hand.
“C’mon momma... gotta stay hydrated.”
His voice is hushed, but purposeful. You sniffle, taking a sip of water, and he's shifting back toward the kitchen, glancing over his shoulder.
“Um… do you want a snack? I think there’s some of those lactation cookies in the kitchen…" his blue eyes flick back to you, and you see the gears turning in his head. "Or... I can make you something? Or—shit—I’ll Postmate something! What do you want? Fuck, I’ll Postmate everything if it’ll help.”
A tired, wet laugh escapes you—half amusement, half relief. “Great..." you wipe the tears from your eyes, smiling softly. "Now you’re spiraling too...”
He huffs out a sheepish breath, dragging a hand down his face as he plops beside you again. “Yeah… yeah, I am definitely spiraling.”
Reaching up, he brushes a damp strand of hair from your face, fingers grazing your temple with featherlight tenderness.
“You’re in pain...” he murmurs, blue eyes shimmering with concern. “And... I feel helpless just standing here. I can’t feed her. I can’t fix this…” he pauses, lips dropping into an exaggerated pout. “My nipples are completely useless, by the way.”
A choked, breathless laugh escapes through your tears, and his entire face softens at the sound, like it’s the only thing that’s mattered all day.
“What?” he grins. “It’s true. I’ve got nothing going on up here. Decorative at best. Yours, on the other hand—” he gestures with a flourish, “—doing heroic work. Damn sexy, too. Just sayin'.”
You roll your eyes through the blur of tears, laughing again, and lean into the warmth of his palm as it cradles your cheek.
It still hurts. You’re still exhausted, still raw, still aching in every possible way.
But in this moment—wrapped in Satoru's love, soothed by his gentle chaos and relentless care—you don’t feel quite so alone.
And somehow, with him by your side, you find the strength to try again.
When you're hosting the annual Independence Day celebration picnic at a conservation area not too far from home on one of those sweltering, impossibly perfect summer days, you expect certain things; Overcooked burgers. Your uncle's recycled jokes. Kids shrieking as they cannonball into the lake. Maybe a wasp dive-bombing someone's fruit salad.
What you could never in a million years anticipate is your sundress shoved up around your hips as your only child and son, Satoru, fucks you senseless against a tree in the woods while your entire unsuspecting family lingers just around the corner.
Dead dove: do not eat
Taste like the Fourth of July
“Satoru—I won't tell you again. Get a napkin!"
The warning comes out almost like a yell but instead lands flat and agitated. Satoru sighs dramatically, as if you've asked him to complete the hardest chore in the world even though you've told him a million times already.
In reality, the syrupy ice cream has been melting all over his hands ever since you served it to him and his cousins in cones, guaranteed to leave the kind of sticky residue that, after years of being a mom, you know he'll eventually wipe on the brand-new shirt you bought just a few weeks ago. But Satoru will always argue if it means getting his way. You don't know why he chooses to pick battles like this.
"C'mon, Mom, chill. Don't tell me you're afraid of just some liquid."
Now it's your turn to sigh. "You constantly miss the point; you know that's not the reason, 'Toru."
You soften your voice, aiming for that faux high affectionate tone that usually makes him more sympathetic. And it works; his expression flickers with worry when he sees you're genuinely stressed despite your attempt at playfulness. He drops the act, finally compromising, and focuses on licking the dripping sweetness before it can make an even bigger mess.
When it comes to this, you always win. The dynamic between you and Satoru has always been close-knit. You were a teen mom; when you fell pregnant, the whole world seemed to turn its back on you. And even though you knew a child would transform your entire life, abortion was never something you could consider. Satoru was your sweet boy from birth until now, and always will be, but sometimes he can be such a pain, like at this very moment, swiping his tongue all over the vanilla residue.
"You're nasty," you mutter, unable to stop your eyes from rolling. He just keeps focusing on cleaning the mess off his hand.
The sun beats down on your back despite the big blue tarp providing at least some semblance of shade. Today is a holiday, and your extended family is gathered for a picnic in the conservation park. It's tradition at this point.
Everyone who comes around this time of year knows the Gojo family and their picnic—so iconic that if the BBQ chicken weren't so darn good, the whole event would probably be reported to law enforcement on account of the blaring music.
You remember one year, though, when Satoru was much younger, back when he'd run around with the same cousins he now vapes with. Some unfamiliar people called the cops, complaining about "community disruption" or something along those lines. You don't quite remember—they were killjoys.
To their disappointment, the cops dropped the whole thing almost immediately. It was just one day of fun out of the year, and besides, your family has never been the type to turn people away. Anyone who wanders in gets fed. And at the end of the day, the grills, the tarp, the garbage, everything, is cleaned up so thoroughly that not a speck is left behind.
The cops walked away that day with full stomachs and boxes of leftovers. And since then, not a single complaint has been filed again.
It's midday now, almost time to eat, and everyone is slowly drifting back to your family's side of the park. The kids, fresh from swimming in the lake, are busy playing games to pass the time while the food heats on the grill. Some grab popsicles, adults settle into their usual conversations, and the air hums with easy chatter.
You have no idea where Satoru's cousins are, probably off causing trouble somewhere. They're all young adults without a care in the world; of course they wouldn't be hanging around here, cooped up with the boring elders club. It makes you wonder why he isn’t out with them.
Your uncle stops by to talk to you while you clean up the snack section. Satoru is still in his own sweet-centric world—he's always had a sweet tooth.
"I knew you'd be a good cook," your uncle says, dramatically wafting the air toward himself. "The smell is circling the whole park. Better be careful, or there'll be no food left for us."
You chuckle from your stomach and brush off the praise out of courtesy. He crosses his arms, ready to catch up on your life. He complains that you're too private. "Why'd it take so long for you to host?" he asks. You don't have a reply. The truth is you're uncomfortable sharing your life with most people, even family, and what holds you back even more is knowing he was one of the loudest voices telling you to get an abortion when you were pregnant. Now you can't help feeling an invisible distance between you and your uncle.
You say something convincing enough while avoiding key details you don’t wish to share to satisfy his curiosity, and surprisingly (he usually tries to pry deeper), he shifts the conversation to something lighter.
You only half engage as he yaps about his job as a trucker, the physical toll it takes on him, and how he barely ever "gets lucky" with your aunt anymore. Blah, blah, blah—get a divorce. His voice fades into background noise, and to avoid focusing on his overly opinionated rambling, you concentrate on the task at hand. You've already wiped down the table of melted ice cream and pastry crumbs; now you're aligning the tableware for the next meal.
Somewhere between ignoring your pestering uncle and straightening the napkins, your eyes drift back to Satoru. He's already finished licking the ice cream off his skin surprisingly well—there's no stickiness left.
Now he's leaning on the table, apparently zoning out from the conversation between you and your uncle too. He's licking what remains of the ice cream in his cone—very little, really—and he struggles to reach the bit that's melted into the bottom, pushing his tongue out to scoop up the syrupy sweetness.
You're not sure if it's from the overwhelming heat or the exhaustion from the two stressful weeks of planning it took just to prepare for this occasion in the first place, but suddenly goosebumps slowly crawl up your skin. Time seems to slow as your focus narrows, zeroing in on the cone and your son's tongue flicking meticulously at the cup.
The cone stands no chance against Satoru's determination as he searches thoroughly for the remaining cream. The waffle is even melting away along the top, chipped from his nibbling. His forehead wrinkles in concentration and even breaks a sweat as he works around the inside. His whole mouth is inside the cone at one point, just sloppily slurping and enjoying it without a care for his surroundings.
You swallow, your arms pausing momentarily in your work, before snapping back to reality with a quick shake on your shoulder from the nagger. "...You alright?"
"Y-yeah," you answer, perhaps a bit too quickly, finishing up the last few details and walking over to the grill to plate the food. "Just tired," you add. Satoru blinks up.
Once everything is set and your grandfather's obligatory prayer over the food is finished, everyone gathers around the table, noisily diving into lunch. The table is lined up with your hardworking treasures; there's sweet corn, potato pudding, a fruit salad—courtesy of your sister—and countless amounts of fiber options, like the fragrant roasted brussel sprouts coated with a buttery spread. Someone brought a nut roast, which you cant wait to dig into first And of course your most iconic and favourite option, your BBQ chicken, is a fan favourite—it gets devoured almost immediately. You line your plate up accordingly. Chitchatter and appreciative hums fill the table.
It's one of the things you love most about summer, the perfect blend of chaos and fun. The cousins are back, tossing jokes back and forth, each one making everyone skin their teeth in wide grins. Your seven-year-old niece joins in too, throwing out an unexpectedly funny quip that has everyone clutching their stomachs, trying not to fall off their chairs. She's got that kind of charisma, so effortlessly funny for someone her age, like someone you know. She'll do great things.
The sound of frogs chirping adds to that endless, nostalgic feeling you've come to crave, even though you know it'll be interrupted soon enough as fall gives way to winter and the park becomes a ghost town until spring.
Throughout the meal, you're showered with compliments, which you graciously accept. Maybe you'll host again next summer, you think. It's nice, every once in a while, to step away from responsibilities and just enjoy the warmth of your family's presence.
The conversation shifts toward the far end of the table, well out of earshot, leaving you unable to join in.
Instead, you take the opportunity to savour your own creation, sighing with delight at how perfectly it turned out. The meat is tender and well-seasoned, just like you practiced in your backyard a week ago. You're pleasantly surprised you managed to recreate the flavour exactly, if not improve on it. And not only that, but the potato pudding was well done, which isn’t a normal occurrence for you; it always ends up being too watery or too thick. However, some miracle must’ve taken over your hands this time; it came out just perfectly, and you deserve a pat on the back. Later you’ll commend yourself officially by finally bingeing the new series you have been putting off because of work; just the thought alone makes you giddy.
A looming presence appears behind you before settling into the chair at your side, leaving almost no space between your seat and his. The Digimon T-shirt, the soft white tuft of hair, and the unserious combination of shorts, long white socks, and slides all signal your son's return to the table… with a new dish of food in hand?
"Seconds!" he proudly announces to his cousins before digging in again. They playfully jab his shoulder, teasing and laughing—something about his obsession with food and his fresh new ex—and he replies in that sassy tone that's half serious, half joking, but you know it's a silent warning.
"What?" At that, a protective hand swings over your shoulder, pulling you in tight. "Can't appreciate my dear mom's cooking?" he challenges.
The cousins break out in exaggerated, drawn-out "ooooo's," and you can't help but smile, secretly amused that old dynamics haven't faded one bit. Before the situation can escalate, like it has in the past when the family questions the closeness of your relationship, you intervene. "You flatter me," you say, defusing the tension.
Eventually, they let the teasing die down, switching the conversation to some violent video game you're unfamiliar with, but the arm around you remains even as the moment fades. You silently observe your son's eating habits. He catches your gaze and offers you a bite, but you decline. He must barely eat at university, as he's noticeably lost weight. He's definitely gotten lankier, if that was even possible, and his cheeks are more defined now, less round and plump of fatty flesh than they used to be. His acne is starting to make a comeback, which is a telltale sign he hasn't been eating properly or taking care of himself.
When you tell him, "Eat as much as you want," he just shrugs.
Curiosity gets the better of you, and you catch him off guard when you ask about his recent breakup. "We were… not compatible," he replies, his jaw shifting uncomfortably. You notice his grip on your shoulder slacken slightly, and you don't press him any further. The last thing a young man like him needs is a nagging mother prying into his relationship status.
Still, you can't help but care for him in every way possible. After all, he's the result of your inexplicable love. Having had him so young, it often feels like he's more of a friend than a son. You practically grew up together, and you've seen him at his worst just as much as he's witnessed you overcome your own struggles. The bond between you transcends the typical mother-and-son dynamic. Your love for him cannot be described in words; he had saved you, and your affection for him stretches farther than hell will ever know.
"Okay—how's university?" You redirect the conversation.
Of course you know how his post-secondary experience is going; you call and text every single day, but texting and in-person conversations are worlds apart. You want to see his actual expressions to judge for yourself instead of relying on lifeless texts. After all, on calls he can hide behind the screen, but in person you'll catch him in a lie far too easily. You know university can be brutal; he’s an engineering major—the final boss. You can only hope the workload doesn't take too much of a toll on him. You wish there was some way you could help lift that stress from his shoulders.
For now, all you can do is visit him as often as possible, even more so now that he's single. You make food and clean up around his dorm whenever you can. Sometimes you stay beyond visiting hours and just hold him in your arms as he finally rests in your presence, but only after you've scolded him enough to convince him to take a break.
"Same old, same old," he says with a smile that doesn't reach his tired eyes, and your worst fear materializes before you; your baby boy is exhausted. They're going to work him into an early grave.
He takes bites between words as he chatters about school, and you gently slap his shoulder, a warning to slow down before he chokes. "You know me, I'm the strongest—I can handle it."
You refrain from slapping him again, this time harder. Instead, you click your tongue and pull on his ear, and he opts for the dramatics once more. He knows you haven't used that line in years, not since he was an actual boy. He only uses it to, successfully, get a rise out of you.
"That professor of yours, Fushiguro, right? Has he gotten off your case yet?"
At the mention of the professor's name, Satoru pauses his eating momentarily before resuming, now chewing less forcefully than before. It's clear he loathes that name—rightfully so.
You've never met the man, only heard bits and pieces of stories that Satoru barely shares with you. What you do know is that the professor is, quite simply, an asshole, especially when it comes to Satoru. It's as though he's taken some personal vendetta against him.
"He's… fine," Satoru says, but you don't believe him.
"Lately, there's been no trouble," he continues, chewing slowly before swallowing the last bite, leaving the plate speckled with crumbs. "Then again…" He trails off. "I've been showing up to fewer of his lectures. He has no reason to come after me anymore."
Apparently, Fushiguro is a "spunk-hater," quoting Satoru's words. The world of fun simply doesn't exist for that man. They're polar opposites, which is why they can't get along. That, and the fact that Satoru always seems to exceed his expectations. Last semester, the professor accused him of relying on artificial intelligence to complete his assignments and cut him a big fat zero.
Satoru had to go in and prove, word by word, that he understood the material and had cited all his sources. Even after proving himself and receiving a fair grade, their little rivalry didn't end.
The professor's petty, and Satoru never folds; it's rather comical, you think. They've met their match made in hell.
You tell him that regardless, he still has to attend most of the classes that you pay for, which he assures you he will when the time is right, but who knows when that'll be? "I'll just do the work—at least a watered-down version of my actual work, no biggie." His eyes crinkle in a lighthearted smile.
"Alright…" you say, not buying it.
"Yeah, right," he teases, knowing you don't.
"Wait—" your eye suddenly catches something similar to what you've been warning him about.
Satoru freezes as if he knows he's guilty and halts any movement, even his breathing, as if it would make him less conspicuous.
But you caught the ice cream stain on his white shirt before he could hide it. "Satoruuu!" you bite in that tone that tells him you were right from the start; a big splotch of yellow sits directly on the front of his brand-new, limited-edition Digimon graphic t-shirt.
You originally bought it as a joke, but he's worn it so often since the purchase that you've grown slightly attached to the cartoony piece. Partly because it's him appreciating your gesture. Now it's ruined.
Knowing he's been caught, he suddenly launches forward, encasing you in a tight hug that sucks the breath right out of you.
It's too fast, leaving you no time to push him away and give him a proper scolding for wasting your hard-earned money.
"Mom, I swear I didn't do it on purpose," he rushes to defend himself, sounding so small and regretful like a kid. He pulls you tighter, making you almost gasp in surprise as you feel your chest press right against his firm torso and his face snuggle into your neck. The table continues its chatter, used to this type of affection from you both. You gently tug on Satoru's sleeve to pry him off as you're losing air. "It's okay, I know—just wear it indoors now" you manage through your nose.
He only squeezes you tighter after you've already forgiven him, forcing himself into the closest proximity possible, where you can feel even the smallest prickle of his stubborn stubble and the contours of his muscles under the now-soiled shirt.
You attempt once again to pull him off but fail, and he just snuggles deeper into your skin, just like when he was a baby. At that, you stop struggling and slowly relax, feeling nostalgic.
Maybe you're just afraid of showing affection in public spaces like this, where people easily throw out terms like "obsessed boy mom" to pin a shameful narrative on active mothers, as if having a close connection with your son is so terrible, as if there aren't other, far more pressing problems in this world to worry about. This is the least of the issues.
It's uncomfortably sweaty as he holds you, but you don't resist; he must need this. You hold him back, breathing in his strong cologne mixed with sweat, manly and faintly sweet. Slowly, Satoru's head slides lower from your neck as if he's drifting off to sleep, though you can't quite tell from the awkward angle; his big head blocks your view.
The movement leaves goosebumps in its wake, the same sensation you felt earlier when he was absorbed in his ice cream. His warm breath tickles your skin, and you try not to think too much about it.
He takes a deliberate inhale of your sweat-dampened skin before finally settling against your partially exposed left breast. "I'm tired," he mumbles softly. The food must’ve played a part in solidly knocking him out.
You settle in once more, arms resting at your sides, and swallow hard, still unused to hugging him in public. You consider nudging him off again, but your arms stay motionless since your earlier attempts proved futile.
Gradually you relax too, appreciating the embrace, especially at his age when most young men would be mortified to still act like a clingy mama's boy. Satoru, on the other hand, has never been able to hide it no matter his age and you secretly adore his proudful nature. You gently run your fingers through his soft blonde tufts, brushing them off his damp forehead, then ease back into the conversation while comfortably cocooned together with Satoru.
His head remains angled away from the others' view when you suddenly feel wetness spreading across the skin of your breast, like something warm gliding over your chest.
At first you don't question it; Satoru has always had this odd habit of mouthing at you. "Cuteness aggression," it's called. You looked it up once, trying to understand these sudden bursts of affection. Regularly, he bites you, on your arms, shoulder, neck, tummy—anywhere that's unsheltered.
You swirl the wine in your cup, focusing on the conversation between your uncle and aunt. They're teetering on the edge of a full argument now, trading sarcastic but merciless jabs disguised as jokes, and the whole family is collectively holding their breath, knowing an inevitable argument is awaiting them at home tonight.
Little by little, though, the feeling grows, and you start to question it. The sensation of wetness intensifies as gentle nibbling accompanies Satoru's uncharacteristic silence. He gently dozed off a couple of minutes ago; you know this for a fact, otherwise you'd push him off for being inappropriate—time and space.
It's basically written into your DNA to notice these things. The slowing thump of his heart and his shoulders slumping inward signal he's out like a light. He also snores. His whole posture seems to be searching for comfort, and you find yourself sitting as still as possible so he can have it.
You don't look down, you shouldn't interrupt him. You care too much for him to disturb his sleep, knowing he definitely doesn't get enough rest at university anyway.
You shift your feet. He somehow seems to be unconsciously clenching his jaw, which is a telltale sign of stress and an additional reason you shouldn't disturb his rest, the clench must have led to his tongue slightly lolling out in relief; that explains the wet sensation.
There's a sudden pause in his movements, which makes you think he's finally passed out and transitioning from NREM to REM sleep, when you almost gasp in shock at the unexpectedness of his next action. Out of nowhere, he moves.
You aren't quick enough to prevent it, even if you were able to predict what would happen. Suddenly the warmth shifts from the top of your left breast, moving underneath your dress, not stopped by the protection of your bralette. His mouth, too quickly, finds your nipple, latching onto it tightly with a soft pop as it enters his eager mouth, immediately pulling it into a stimulating, harsh tug and coating it with saliva.
Unintentionally, your insides clench at the unexpected feeling, and your mouth widens into an O in shock. You almost let out a sound but quickly stop yourself from drawing the table's attention, squeezing your fingers into a fist instead.
Your mind races at a hundred thoughts per second, trying to process what on God's green earth is happening. Every nerve in your body is suddenly on fire, alerting you that this is impermissible. Quickly, you nervously scan the perimeter, sighing in momentary relief when you notice no one has realized anything; they're still busy in their own conversations. Luckily, the spotlight is once again at the far end of the table, and no one's eyes are currently in your direction.
Even if they were, you could cover for a while since Satoru's back blocks most of the view of what's truly taking place. From their perspective, he looks like he's simply hugging you and lying on your chest, which isn't completely effective but still works—they can only see the back of his head. His undercut and fluffy locks block your now-exposed breast; your dress rests just below where your areola ends, freeing the sensitive round mound around your nipple to the cool air.
While they’re occupied, you can finally breathe and process your shock. Satoru is still latched onto your nipple; you can’t see his face, and now you’re suspicious of how he’s truly asleep, but you doubt that’s the matter; his drawn-out sucks seem to be more instinctual than calculated, drawing on the side of messy—hungry even—but it doesn’t truly matter; what matters most is that a serious moral boundary is being crossed, not even in private but in a public setting where one wrong move and everyone can see!
Your stomach drops as you try to scale together an efficient plan to cease improper breach of boundary.
You need to get him off you as soon as you can while raising the least suspicion as humanly possible. At first you’re unsure on how to navigate inconspicuously weaning him off your chest. You can only think of two logical options: stir him awake and hope that he unlatches when he awakes so you can efficiently redress before he or someone else notices or pull him off yourself, effectively pulling your top in the process. Somehow both seem equally as risky.
Before you can decide a particular harsh suck rattles your body, you should feel repulsed, gnarly even, and aching to pull him off already before the situation can escalate any deeper to the point where you can’t ignore it, as this shouldn’t be happening already; he’s your son.
But your natural bodily functions betray you, forcing you to react to the stimuli before you can even process the shame, his tongue caresses the small bud in a way that’s practiced when he begins in a brutal sucking, almost swallowing your areola whole in the process, like a thirsty man drinking from a bottle after just having run a marathon of some sort.
Or like his slithering tongue, spooning to find the ice cream just moments ago.
You hold your breath, and your hands twitch—the intention was to tear him off, but they instead freeze in their goal.
One half of your mind is urging you to push Satoru off your chest immediately before anyone notices what's going on between you, and the other quiet, twisted half is focused on chasing the surprising, incredible pleasure and how good it feels despite how deeply revolting it is.
The attention on your long-neglected nipple ignites something forgotten inside of you—lost over the tiring but rewarding years of motherhood, where you let go of your individuality to pour all your existence into being a good figure for your son—desires.
And now, as messed up as it is, you feel all the years of selflessness returning back to this simple moment, and oh, how the pleasure feels like heaven. Tentatively, your raised hands slowly lower back to down and instead of tugging him off like you’d originally planned on, you rest them around his back, pulling him closer to solidify that no one will see what is truly happening and submitting to the pleasure. You chose the latter.
You let him continue suckling, and you could've sworn for a second you felt a desperate, warm mumble of appreciation against your nipple, a silent—"thank you"—vibrating on the skin before a hurried resumption, as if a second without contact would make the entire boob disappear.
It's so subtle you question whether you truly felt it or if you've gone completely, utterly mad, confused from the immorality of it all.
Once you lean into it, all your previous worries slowly fizzle away as you focus on the way his hot mouth moves softly against the sensitive flesh. You try to keep a straight face but fail to quiet your expression or remain completely still. You end up arching even farther into his warm embrace, inviting his greedy mouth to twist just right around the tip of the bud.
His cheeks suction around the edges now, moving less frantically than before, and his breathing settles into something even and deep, like he's reached the highest state of sleepy contentment. It feels so good—he feels too good. The thought makes you visibly cringe at the fact that you're finding pleasure from your own son's mouth.
Eventually (unfortunately), his activities must come to a halt when it's time to resume the fun after lunch.
Everyone's clearing up the collapsible table, and suddenly worry courses through your veins once again when you realize you have to tend to other things but he's still attached at-the-nip in front of everyone.
Luckily, right on time, he coincidentally begins to stir from his nap and unlatches, simultaneously smoothly shifting your modesty, putting your top and bralette back into place as he rises from the safety of your chest, concealing what just happened before anyone can notice.
Your nipple throbs mildly with discomfort when confined in the material once again, aching from the aftershocks of continuous, fervent tugging, similar to the feeling of soreness a week before your period, when your breasts feel ten times more sensitive to any touch but not only that, it exposes you to a feeling you haven't experienced in so long that you had almost forgotten it until now—when Satoru was a baby and would nurse. It seems he may not have lost that ferocity, and the thought has you throbbing again, though not in your chest this time.
"You're up late," a mocking voice calls from across the space. Your uncle's comment once again surprises you far more than it should.
Satoru lazily rubs his eyes with his entire arm, still groggy from sleep. He responds in a half-hearted murmur, still waking up, "Mmm, could've used a couple more minutes." He smacks his lips together, either to remove the sour taste from his slumber or to savour something.
You, on the other hand, are scrambling, your brain still processing what just happened. Before you can confront the shame you'd feel if you met Satoru's gaze and dwell too long in your thoughts, you hurriedly excuse yourself, moving away from the table and confusing both Satoru and your uncle.
He eventually lifts his hand from his eyes after battling himself awake and, unbeknownst to you, observes your fleeing shape.
As you return to the main table, you can't shake the nauseating feeling that has overcome you. You grab the vinegar spray and set to work, wiping down the residual sauces from the chicken on the grill to distract yourself, but you inevitably become lost in your thoughts again.
Now that your mind has returned to normalcy, the guilt that had been concealed by the heat of the moment has vanished; you can't even cope because you're in public, no matter how hypocritical it is.
You don't want to draw unwanted attention or confront your family, especially now. You're afraid they'll see right through you and pass their rightful judgement. Now that you can think logically again, you are compelled to confront the sinful bounds you have just crossed.
What if someone witnessed you essentially nursing your adult son in full daylight? How would you have explained it, let alone that you were enjoying it? One thought bleeds into another, and your mind drifts to the opinion that matters most. Satoru's. How will this impact your relationship? What if he knows? Will he ever find the means to forgive you, as this was just one delusionary instance?
You'll never be able to look at him again without remembering that brief, intimate moment that somehow felt endless and right, despite being inherently wrong. Every conscious nerve in your body had been screaming no. Yet your heart confusingly flutters for more.
This realization shakes you even deeper. This isn't something you should ever be questioning as a decent person and a mother. Something diabolical must have taken hold of you during that mere twenty minutes to let your thoughts wander this far and debate your own moral compass.
Not long after you flee, the person who you want to see the least is back, looming innocently around your presence.
It's funny that you could never fully avoid him; even right now when you frankly can't bear the thought of seeing his face, no matter how cute it may be, you fear you'll turn around and instead of seeing the incredible young adult he's grown into, you'll only see a small kid.
His presence makes the guilt consume you even more, and you want to break down, cry, beg for forgiveness, and somehow, hypocritically, move past the incident.
You feel watched like prey as he lingers around you in silence; on a normal day you wouldn’t think twice about it, but now his idle hovering in the makeshift kitchen makes you nervous. He seems clingier than before, if that’s even possible. You avoid looking directly at him, too embarrassed to fully face him.
You can feel his eyes tracking your every movement.
Normally, he'd be with his cousins since he hardly sees them anymore under the weight of his schoolwork. They'd wandered off before he awoke, and for some unknown reason, he's chosen to stay here, exactly where he's least wanted.
If you’re this uncomfortable now, how will you manage to address what happened once you get home? He offers to help and you immediately refuse. You tell him to go socialize without looking back, but he still insists on lingering nearby. You muster the courage to try again to convince him to leave, claiming you like to be alone in your kitchen space. You both know that’s a lie; you cook together all the time, well before he left.
He doesn’t fall for it, and you internally curse yourself for even trying. You nearly give up, knowing that no excuse will drive him away. That’s why he ends up accompanying you to the waste disposal despite your flimsy protests, which he easily deflects with, “I can’t let my dear mom do all the work.” You can’t come up with a good enough rebuttal to counter him, so in the end, you submit as always, mentally preparing yourself to be alone with him, even for just a small moment, as you carry out the garbage to the woods.
As you walk, there’s an impending feeling in your lower stomach enhanced by the loud footsteps.
You know you’ll need to at least acknowledge what you’ve been dreading to even think about once away in private from the family chaos; you owe it to him. But what will you tell him, the truth? That, he suddenly went from an innocent hug to latching onto you in the middle of a family gathering, and it felt so sweet that you couldn't find a means to pull him off. Your brain struggles to come up with an acceptable way to handle the elephant in the room.
You’re confident he must have noticed something when he woke up; you just don’t know how much he remembers. You don’t want to overestimate his memory and wind up overthinking it all, exposing yourself in the process. If he didn’t notice anything, then you owe him that ignorance, for both his sake and yours.
As you walk, he’s so close up behind you that you can physically feel the heat radiating off his body, causing the hair at your neck to stand straight in protest at the proximity. Fuck.
Right as you near the disposal, just as you're about to throw the trash away, you feel a startling touch, causing you to pause in your tracks. Two terribly familiar hands snake from behind your body and pull you into a tight hug, only stopping when they reach your middle, right on top of your tummy.
"Toru—" you gasp uneasily, desperate to push him off, for good this time.
You wait for his response, but it never arrives, leaving you stuck and uncertain. You contemplate finally standing firm and shoving him away, but your thoughts are briefly distracted the moment you feel his frame seek shelter in yours. You can feel his entire solid, warm body pressing against your backside.
Your mind is racing in the most painful way from the implications of his touch, and you're torn between nipping the bud and finally putting an end to this sick, inappropriate madness, as you should've done at the table before.
You should pull away from the hug as soon as possible before this escalates any further than it has already, but there's another part of you that can't bear to deny him, some subconsciously instilled mindset from years ago to always put your son's needs first and fulfill your role as his caretaker at any cost.
“…mommy”
Satoru whines softly behind your hair in a drawn-out, needy purr, and your barriers completely melt away. You’ve never heard his voice sound so utterly desperate it has your knees buckling; if not for the grip he has on your waist, you would’ve melted away completely.
You still put up a fight, even though you know you'd choose to satisfy him every time. You don’t need to think, and you can’t, as you’re lost in desire. But even if you could, the option you’d choose is clear: you’d take care of your son.
"We… c-an't," you nervously mutter, but he swiftly hushes you with a warm, almost testing, peck to your pulse, then your ear. His moist muscle rounds the inside, leaving a slippery, wet warmth in its wake as it intently maps out the curves of your ear, as if trying to memorize the organ. Then he takes a deep breath, sinking into the skin of your neck, as if waiting for approval.
It's all so dirty, partially because it's not something he does with simple ease. You know it's practiced, which is what's so awful. You know you shouldn't know this side of your son; a mother shouldn't ever discover this part of him, reserved for an actual romantic partner. Satoru has a nasty oral fixation.
"Why nottt?" he pouts childishly, holding you tighter and nibbling at the salty sweat that has accumulated on your neck from sprinting around all morning. He follows his words with a barely detectable little rut of his hips.
"You know why," you say, but he doesn't mean to listen like he normally does, despite his initial inquiry.
Growing confident in your indecision, he seizes the opportunity to finally pounce.
His large hands slowly begin to wander carefully over your body, starting in the middle and moving to your hips to stabilize you from your shaking. When he lays his hands flat, he tenderly smooths over them in a rhythmic method, attempting to calm your jumpy nerves, as affectionate as ever to his mother even in a time like this.
He talks into your skin again, this time in a low, menacing tone.
"You tasted sooo sweet," he admits.
Your cunt unconsciously clenches at the confirming comment, at the fact that he was fully aware of what he was doing the entire time. He was awake at the table when he selfishly decided to latch onto the breast of his mother for some unidentified reason.
The revelation irritates you slightly, despite the fact that it clearly turns you on; you try to push him away, but you know you're only faking.
"… What has gotten into you, Toru'?" You spit noncommitedly.
"I don't know, Mom." He doesn't even try at defending himself; instead, his hips begin to shift again, eventually leading to fully blown-out humping.
The garbage bag slips from your grasp and falls to the ground, spilling its contents as his hips thrust against your rear. He wet-kisses the pulse behind your ear again before licking a wet line up your neck.
"I just—hmpphh—I just know…that I love you," he gasps into your smooth skin, "so much."
How can you deny that? Your sweet baby boy, especially when he sounds soo fucking needy. You decide right then that you’ll deal with the consequences later; you convince yourself this is a one-time occasion, nothing more than helping out your overworked, heartbroken, needy son.
His hormones must be raging right now. After all, he just broke up with his longtime girlfriend. That's all. He needs some comfort, and he just needs his momma since his girlfriend dumped him. Since who could understand his pain and heartbreak better than you? You’re so far gone, and it’s all because of your soft spot for him.
Plus, Satoru is much taller and stronger than you are; like before, it takes a lot of strength to change his mind when he’s set on something.
Your mind goes completely blank and mushy with delight from the tight, circular rut of his hips against yours. His breath tickles your sternum now as he snuggles closer into your neck. It’s possible because he’s so tall, he hovers over you; his height gives him an advantage and the flexibility to reach over your shoulders and kiss your jawline with his eyes closed.
The angle effectively welcomes the sloppy pound of his hips against your buttocks, shielded only by your sundress. He pulls you back by your waist in synchronization with his thrusts, the pure force almost making you tumble, but he quickly stabilizes you, and you grip his forearm just in case.
"S-so horny," he chokes, now completely unrestrained. The material of your clothing slapping together, combined with the force of his thrusts, sends a muffled smacking sound through the air. You just purr, still in slight shock by everything occurring. "...Toruu—my love."
He whimpers too at the affectionate nickname, at a time like this, and at the realization that his own mom is feeling pleasure from this too.
"Been so pent up," he says, his voice cracking into a sound that’s almost a sob. A wave of concern washes over you, strong enough to make you consider stopping him, but a gentle squeeze on your hip silences the thought. It’s a silent plea: he’s fine, and he needs this. You let him continue. University has been taking its toll; you knew he was lying earlier when he said he was okay.
"All the work... it almost killed me," he admits, his voice thick as he gulps. His hips slow to a halt. The sudden stillness pulls you from your daze just as he slumps against you, letting his full weight settle on your smaller frame. For the first time since lunch, he finally meets your eyes.
You study his face, tracing details you’d missed before. Dark circles, deeper than they were just a month ago, shadow his eyes. He’s wearing his glasses now, something you hadn’t seen since you started avoiding his gaze back at the main table, the ones you bought for him in high school. His eyes have always been sensitive to light; the glasses are the only solution that ever really worked. Faint pink marks from old acne dot his cheek, and light stubble shadows his jaw. Your gaze drifts to his soft lips. He looks back at you, head tilted.
"M-missed you," he whispers. "I'm so sorry."
"I know," you reply, your own throat tight. "It’s been so hard on you since you moved out. You're doing so great." Your hand moves to his chin, your fingers gently tracing the line of it. Your faces are so close you can feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. "I'm proud of you, no matter what. It's okay. Just breathe. I'm here... Mommy's here for you."
You hadn’t understood the toll university had taken on him until now, and you fault yourself for not asking more. You look at him, and your chest tightens, your poor baby.
It must have been agony for him, being away for this long, even with your visits. You’d never been separated like this before, not for this long, not ever.
He immediately melts at your words, and you can physically feel the weight lift from his shoulders. "I-i'm sorry," he repeats, his voice trembling with sincerity. You wipe the tear that escapes his pure, doe-like eyes. He looks so pretty when he cries; a pink hue spreads across his cheeks, and his watery irises make the blue of his eyes look even more prominent.
He hiccups, and a sudden, sincere apology spills out of him as if all the guilt has finally come crashing down.
"I shouldn't have done that—at the table, it was so bad—you're my mom, but, but—"
Now it’s your turn to hush him, silencing him with a finger to his lips. You push back against him, cocking your ass into his groin, and gasp when you feel something hard poke back at you in return. He whines at the unexpected action, too. This is what your son feels like. His wet eyelashes blink at you in confusion, as if surprised that you did that, that you're somehow alright with this?
"It's okay," you permit. "You can... just this once."
Satoru pauses, sniffling, unsure how to react to the sudden grant of permission. He seems to be struggling to grasp that you want him to continue this inappropriate, immoral act.
You're granting your own son permission to use you for his pleasure, to rut against you. The thought is so staggering it’s hard to process: his innocent mother is just as depraved as he is.
He knows this is wrong; he knows he shouldn't have done it. But when he hugged you at that table, when he smelled your soft, all-consuming skin and felt the plush give of your breast against his cheek, all he could think was how dependable you were.
Something devious had taken hold, crippling his ability to think rationally and he couldn't hold back. Before a single consequence could register in his mind, his lips found your nipple, latching on as if by second nature. It was pure instinct he thought he'd outgrown over the years as he grew into a man.
All the stress from school, his targeting professor, and his girlfriend of a year dropping him out of the blue had accumulated, triggering his anxiety. That, combined with the fact that he’d missed you so fucking much after being separated for so long—albeit only a week or two—was what led him to crash.
Thank goodness for you, or else he might have gone mad. You were perfect and always right there for him. He supposed he felt comfortable enough to soothe himself with you, knowing you’d ultimately forgive him because of your bond. His brain was wired to subconsciously seize the opportunity before he could even think, all because of the mutual trust between you.
He latched onto the sweet, soft bud, and all his troubles fizzled away in an instant—something his girlfriend could never live up to. It was a coping mechanism he'd developed some time ago. He grew so antsy and jittery without something to occupy his empty mouth; it felt uncomfortable to be without a lollipop or anything sweet between his lips. Without it, his jaw would painfully clench up, and he sometimes ground his teeth in his sleep after going too long without the comfort.
The only option he could think of was his then-girlfriend. She was hesitant but allowed him to suckle for only short periods, so it wasn't even that effective.
He needed at least fifteen minutes to find relief, but she’d cut him off around three (:(just imagine the pain the poor baby had to go through), saying it got weird and made her feel like she was breastfeeding a grown man.
After a while, she denied him altogether when he tried to implement a stress-relieving sucking schedule. He’d thought he was being a thoughtful, good boyfriend by proposing it so she could be aware in advance and prepare however she needed to, but he couldn't have been more wrong. That's where she snapped, complaining that he was only using her for her tits and his own selfish reasons. Soon after, their troubles began.
For weeks, their arguments were constant. His girlfriend would trash him, accusing him of only wanting to suck on her tits for stress relief and of viewing her as a vessel rather than a romantic partner with her own needs and wants.
She finally broke during one fight, as he sat there in silence, not even denying it. In her rage, she crossed the line she’d been holding back for so long, ever since he’d first brought up his weird fixation. "You're not a baby," she'd screamed, "and I'm not your mom!"
He was a damn mess without his coping mechanism, as miserable as ever. So they broke up. She thought her words would wound him, make him realize how bizarre his tendencies were and maybe give them up. She had no idea the true impact her words would have in the heat of the moment. That one line sparked a revelation in Satoru, just not in the way she’d intended.
She left him, ghosting him, really. Predictably, he fell back into old habits. Weeks later, as he sat at your table eating your food, overwhelmed by everything, her words echoed in his head. His moral compass begged him not to, but even though he was ashamed to even think of it at first, he realized you could provide him with what he had lost.
When he really broke it down, you had nursed him before, back when he was much younger and unaware, when it was still socially acceptable to nurture his growth.
But really, what was the big harm now? The only real difference was that he was older and you no longer had the golden liquid, the nurturing aspect. However, the soothing factor could still remain. And he so desperately needed it. He wanted, more than anything, to test that theory.
When he pulled you into a hug, something snapped. The pull was too strong, and he betrayed his moral compass in an instant. Your chest provided the brief relief he was longing for. The whole world seemed to still as he wrapped his lips around the stiff warmth of your nipple, and he was finally at peace.
You, in contrast, were on alert, and he could tell you were uneasy. His care for you made him unable to resist adding a little extra technique—unnecessary for the stress relief he primarily sought, but a way to reassure you, to calm you down when he felt you were on the edge. He twirled his tongue just right over the tip to stimulate the sensitive nerve, breathing heavily and greedily into your warm, sweating skin.
He resisted caressing the covered mound of your other breast, even though his hand itched to feel its weight and flick the other bud, just so his poor mom's pleasure wouldn't be uneven. He held back, terrified of being caught red-handed at the table.
When you finally relaxed, he could doze off in peace. An unconscious appreciation slipped from his lips that he could only pray you wouldn't hear—as he was protected and nursed by your comforting body. Your tits were even better than his ex's.
Hell to society and its norms.
As he drifted off, a worry flickered through him: how could he ever stay away from your breasts now? And after all this time of hiding in shame, could you really audibly grant him consent to use you as an outlet? He couldn't begin to comprehend that those words, words of permission, had come from your mouth—his own innocent mother.
But he didn't linger on it, preferring to release all his pent-up stress right now. It was as if a beast within him, caged for fear of moral judgment, had awakened, and he couldn't help but pounce.
"Thank you," he says, trying to contain his excitement before stumbling with you toward the next tree. It was close enough to the main family gathering to hear the distant chirping of voices, but far enough away that no one could see what was truly happening between you. He quickly wrapped his hands around your tummy and effortlessly lifted you, pulling you over. You gasped at the abrupt shift, resting a hand on the tree to balance yourself, but he moved ahead, pulling you down into a deep arch, perfectly spread out in front of him, before snapping his hips forward again, moaning more openly.
"T-thank you—thank you!" he whines, bending over to kiss the sole of your back.
The position is absurd; his height prevents him from resting against you comfortably, his stomach awkwardly curled toward the air, but he manages to kiss the skin of your shoulder. He doesn't mind. All he can concentrate on is the pleasure his mother is giving him, taking over his body.
"You're the b-best, mom."
His thrusts are quick and sloppy but effective enough to get you wet—the hardness strikes your clit, even through the layers of clothes, and you repress a cry at the feeling of your own son's stiff erection. You're still preserving some kind of decorum around him. It must have hurt so much, you think.
The inexperience and lack of basic technique almost make you chuckle, but you hold back to avoid crushing his fragile ego. It makes you question if this is how the youth fuck nowadays, or if it's just... Satoru. (It's the latter.) He's always been jumpy, but you don't mind; you knew it would be the case when you agreed to this.
It's hilarious, but he's also trying to get you off, the way he pounds right where he knows your bundle of nerves is located, and somehow, it's succeeding. You're a whimpering mess, and he likes hearing your unfiltered voice. You're still somehow holding back though, veiled in shame, and it bothers him. He speeds up.
"You feel so good—fuck," he moans directly into your neck, making you tighten around nothing. This position is dangerous; his eyes scan over your jolting body, your back arched nastily, a sight that has his dick twitching hard in his shorts, and you groan. Your sundress is amazing; it’s one of those that accentuates your shape so well he can see every curve you offer. Your pudgy body, the one that carried him, is amazing.
He wants to see your breasts in full now, not hidden by any fabric. He hadn't gotten the chance to see them while he suckled, though he had wished to, if only for a split second. He had latched on so quickly that he could only feel, not see, and he couldn't risk opening his eyes in case you saw them. But you provide him with something even better when you finally look back at him, your eyes filled with lust, as if you're begging him for this. He has to clench his abs to fan away the feeling of his incoming orgasm.
Your pussy is clenching now due to the nonstop assault by Satoru, who’s breaking out in a sweat on top of you.
You can’t believe his voice and how good he sounds; it’s making all your walls crumble down, especially when you think about how you will ever return to normal after this. Will the dynamic ever be the same? It kills you, even though you’re the one who agreed to this. It’s hard to suddenly shift mindsets when for so long you were just his mother and he your son. But when you look into his blue, begging orbs, all that fades away.
You’re pulled out of your thoughts when Satoru suddenly tugs on your dress. A cool breeze follows his movement as he bunches the fabric up at your waist, freeing your skin and allowing for less restriction. You want to tell him no, you can’t let him go this far; the clothing provides some kind of moral barrier that is now gone. But when he pulls down his shorts, leaving him in only his baby blue boxers, the pleasure increases tenfold. Now you can feel every curve and vein of his cock.
Your skin, unprotected by the material, directly challenges the long-standing belief that this could never happen.
Your eyes roll back from the humping, partly because you haven’t had a romantic partner in so long, relying only on your flimsy vibrator. But the real deal, even if it’s from him, is so much better. The pressure is so much yummier and sharper than you remember.
“Look at you—” he grunts, toying with the wetness over your underwear with the tip of his thumb. “So wet.”
“Didn’t know I had such a nasty mom—getting all worked up over her own son's cock.” The dirty talk turns you on even more, though you won't admit it. What really makes you shiver is when he brings his slick fingers to the prod of your lips. You pause, and he almost freaks out, fearing he went too far, but then you pull his fingers into your mouth, twirling your tongue around his digits in the dirtiest way possible.
“Fuck. I can’t take it anymore,” he grunts, his voice pained. As you swipe your tongue over his pointer and middle fingers, a devious thought seems to take hold. The look in his eye suddenly darkens, despite its blue hue. He finally pulls his fingers from the cavern of your mouth, leaving you feeling uncharacteristically empty.
A wet string stretches and pops as he brings his digits right back to his own mouth. You watch in shock as he savors your spit, rolling his fingers in his mouth without a care.
Your whole body jolts in awe when he does the unexpected; he’s so lost in the feeling that his eyes roll back as he works them over. Your own body shows how turned on you are by the lewd scene.
“Toru—” You’re sweating, pulled taut to the edge by the messy humping. Your pussy can’t help but clench periodically around nothing as you breathe heavily through your nose, all because of Satoru.
“‘S good, Toru,” you whine.
He stops again, and this time you’re both out of breath and sweaty, gasping into each other’s warm embrace. You stare at each other in silence, amplified only by your heavy breathing. You know you’ve crossed a boundary that should never have been touched, but there’s something in his eye, like this was forthcoming, unavoidable. And then he’s on your lips, biting, slurping, hungrily nipping at the flesh. He sucks on your lips and then prods deeper into your mouth, satisfied with the swollen aftermath of his work. Your teeth clash messily, but ever so softly, a testament to the care you still have for each other.
You let him do all the work; he needs this more than you do. He needs to let go of all his stress, and you’ll allow him to in any way he pleases, because you care for him. Satoru indulges in your mouth so thoroughly that his glasses poke uncomfortably at your eyes. He forgets to take them off, but it isn’t needed—his vigor sends them tumbling to the dirt all by themselves.
When he finally pulls away, leaving a string of spit connecting you and you panting like a dog against the air, he only smiles with his eyes and shifts your underwear to the side. “I want you,” he whispers. “Am I allowed…?”
You’re dazed, but you manage to grab his undercut, pulling him close. You surge forward, crushing your mouth to his. You never knew Satoru could be this addicting, but now you have to have him. Your body is screaming for him to be inside you.
That's all it takes. He angles his hips and drives into you with one deliberate thrust. You moan into his mouth, and you’re grateful he’s swallowing the sound; otherwise, the whole family would’ve heard. He keeps his lips pressed to yours, shushing you as he finally feels your slick walls around him, fighting the urge to cry out himself as your warmth grips his swollen cock.
“Mommy, m-mommy, mommy… s’good,” he pulls away from your lips, his voice a broken whisper as he cries against your mouth.
His thrusts are careful now, almost hesitant, like he’s already on the edge after all that frantic humping. You card your fingers through his undercut, watching his face as he loses himself in you. His lips are parted in a perfect “O” of pleasure, his brows knitted together.
“Mmmph, yes.” At first, you try to keep quiet, terrified that making too much noise would make this real, would snap that last thread of morality holding you together. But then he hits that spot, that perfect gummy patch deep inside, and you can’t hold back. A sharp cry tears from your throat as his cock massages your g-spot.
“S-shit!” Satoru gasps, your clenching walls making him jump. He pulls out completely, his concern for you overriding his own need, and starts rubbing his length against your clit. “You feeling good too?” he whispers. He drags the precum-slick tip over the sensitive nub in a steady rhythm, just like he’d rubbed your waist before, sending sparks shooting through you.
“Y-yes! Keep going!” you beg. At your cry, he speeds up, his circles growing more frantic. When you rock your hips to meet him, guiding him to that spongy spot just beneath his tip, his eyes roll back.
He shoves himself back inside, and a string of broken, whiny moans spills from his lips. “Fuck—sorry, m’cumming, fuck, fuck—“ His cock pulses violently inside you, but you push past the shock to help him ride it out, grinding against him to milk every last drop. You follow moments later, so wound up that the few quick circles on your clit are all it takes to send you over the edge.
You're both shaking in the aftershocks, and the chirping of frogs in the background suddenly sounds more prominent as all the blood rushes to your ears. Satoru slumps against you, spent and in the highest state of awe and pleasure. His cock slowly slips out, sending his seed to drip and spill onto the floor. He kisses your ear again, taking in the yummy feeling. “Mmm, love you—I love you.”
Right now, you should snap out of it and be revolted at what had just occurred, but the disgust doesn’t come. Instead, you pull him back into a kiss by his neck, soaking in his tongue and swiping needily inside the hot cavern. “I love you, ‘Toru.”
After, you both soak in the afterglow, his hands caressing your sides, sweet whispers and smooches passing between you. Satoru lazily cleans you up with a handkerchief from his pocket, even though you protest, unsure of the fabric’s sanitary state. He insists it’s clean and tidies up the mess you made in the heat of the moment before you return to the gathering.
He lingers closer than before, rubbing your side affectionately and whispering if you’re okay to walk. You tell him it’s alright while the family questions what took you both so long. You almost jump but find a quick reply in time.
The evening goes by in a satisfying flash. The event was a success, and almost everyone got to go home with trays of leftovers. The cleanup was quick, and by the time you’re heading home, it’s nightfall, partially because Satoru insisted on filling in for his cousins, giving you a moment to pack the car alone.
You don’t even make it through the door before he pounces on you again, pulling you to the couch and giving you those eyes you can’t resist. You say you need to discuss things first, but eventually, you fold and say, “After,” as he pulls down your dress for the second time today. This time, you’re on the couch and he’s under you as he latches on yet again to the bud, swirling and tugging ferociously and greedily, playing with the other nipple.
He passes out just like that, and eventually, you learn about his whole fixation. Of course, you comply to his suckling schedule, unlike his girlfriend. Now, he can only have it when he’s over from uni. After long periods, Satoru gets irritated without you in his mouth, ever since establishing it, especially at family gatherings. So you schedule his self-regulation around that. When his lips twist in that way and he gets cranky, you know it’s time to pull him away from the crowd to somewhere more secluded. He whines until you free his stress toys before popping one into his mouth.
Throughout it all, you found that he prefers your right breast and that yes, he does need to play with your other breast while nursing “to feel right.”
Comments are much appreciated!! (Update, how did I not noticeI forgot to paste the ending from google docs—well now it’s there so)
Lactating König who has the most sensitive tits anyone's ever seen. His nipples are almost always hard, leaking milk the moment he got to swollen. Using pumps was convenient, but they hurt his chest. He just wanted something that would relieve him without leaving him so sore and aching.
That's when the 141 comes along. König is only there temporarily, but Kyle notices the wet spots on the front of his shirt two days in. "Hey, man, you leaking?" He teases, reaching out and giving the perky nipple a soft pinch.
König groans quietly as he grinds his teeth together, jeans getting tight. "Yes, I'm sorry. Could not find the time to pump this morning." Johnny was pushing Kyle's hands out of the way to shuck Königs shirt off.
"Why didn't you say anything, huh? Team mates help each other out." He teases as he watches the milk pebble out of the swollen buds. "Just say the word." Königs eyes flick between Kyle and Johnny's face, the pain in his chest quickly outweighing his humiliation.
"Please?" The Sargeants descend on his chest, lapping and suckling for milk. Kyle immediately starts kneading the large man's pecs to guide more milk into his greedy mouth. John stares in disappointment and hunger at the scene across from him, eyes boring into a whimpering König.
"You can't even focus through a breifing without your tits leaking." König opens his mouth to plead his case, but John hushes him immediately. "Just be a good milk bag and keep my men fed. We don't need to hear from you."
Summary: Joel gives you what you both need post partum.
A/N: This was originally planned as a short one-shot, but now thinking I might do more. Let me know what you think and if there’s anything you’d like to see Joel do for this Mama.
18+only 🥰
Masterlist
🍼🍼🍼🍼🍼🍼🍼🍼🍼🍼🍼🍼🍼🍼🍼🍼🍼
Your baby’s breath is a soft, rhythmic whisper in the dim glow of the lamp, his tiny chest rising and falling beneath the knit blanket Ellie made, his fingers curled into loose fists beside his face.
He’s beautiful, perfect, and has occupied your every waking thought and action for the last six weeks since he came screaming into the world.
You stand there, frozen for a moment, your body still thrumming from the last feed, your breasts heavy, the skin taut and sensitive, nipples damp and tender from the pull of his hungry little mouth. The air clings to you, thick with the scent of warm milk but beneath it, something darker stirs. The musk of your own arousal, the faint salt of sweat beading along your hairline, the heat pooling low in your belly.
You shouldn’t be thinking about this. Not now, with him so close and your body still so new and fragile.
But you are.
Joel doesn’t knock, or announce himself. He’s just suddenly there - a shift in the air, a warmth at your back, his presence pressing against you like a promise. His hands find your shoulders first, fingers digging into the tired, knotted muscles, thumbs tracing slow, deliberate circles at the base of your neck.
“Hey Mama…”
You can’t help but shiver, his touch electric, your skin prickling beneath his palms. His breath is hot against the shell of your ear, his voice a rough murmur, the kind that slides under your skin and settles deep in your gut.
“You’re so beautiful like this. Have I told you that?”
The words are a spark to dry tinder. Your breath hitches, back arching just enough to press into his touch, your body betraying you before your mind can protest. His lips graze the side of your neck, the scrape of his stubble sending a shiver down your spine, and you tilt your head without thinking, giving him better access, your fingers curling into the edge of the crib he fashioned with his own hands. The wood is smooth beneath your palms, cool against your heated skin.
“Joel…” Your voice is a whisper, a warning, but it’s weak and he knows it. You know it.
It’s been so long.
His hands slide down your arms, his touch lingering on the sensitive skin of your inner wrists, where your pulse flutters like a trapped thing, before slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. His shirt, the one you borrowed and have never bothered to return. The fabric is thin, worn soft from too many washes, and it does nothing to hide the heat of his palms as they glide up your ribs, thumbs brushing the heavy undersides of your breasts. You bite your lip hard enough to taste copper, nipples tightening painfully, the ache of engorgement twisting into something darker, something needier.
His fingers spread, cupping the weight of you, his thumbs finding your nipples and rolling them between his fingertips. Pleasure lances through you, sharp and bright, and your knees nearly give out.
A cry of need escapes your throat before you can stop it, too loud in the quiet room. Your gaze darts to your son, but he doesn’t stir, his mouth slightly open, lashes dark crescents against his cheeks.
Joel chuckles, the vibration of it humming against your skin. “He’s out cold, baby. You’ve done so good today, so let me take care of you.”
His mouth finds your collarbone, his tongue hot and wet as he traces the delicate bone, his teeth grazing just enough to make you whimper. One hand moves to the buttons on the shirt, letting them out slowly one by one, peeling the fabric gently away from your burning body and letting it fall to the floor.
Slowly, he turns you to face him and your hands find their way to his hair, fingers tangling in the thick strands, holding him to you as his lips trail lower, his breath ghosting over the swell of your breast. The first flick of his tongue against your nipple sends a shockwave through your body, your back arching, breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
He doesn’t tease. His mouth simply seals over you, his lips forming a tight ring as he suckles, his tongue swirling in slow, deliberate circles, the pull of it deep and rhythmic, mimicking your son’s nursing but with a hunger that’s all his own.
It’s too much. It’s not enough.
Your head falls back, eyes slipping closed as the sensation overwhelms you. His mouth is scorching, the suction deep, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. Your nipple throbs between his lips, the pull of his mouth sending arrows of pleasure straight to your clit. You can feel yourself growing wetter, your sensible panties dampening, the ache between your thighs becoming impossible to ignore.
His free hand slides down, fingers slipping beneath the cotton, his knuckles brushing the soft curls at the apex of your thighs.
“Joel…” Your voice is a broken whisper, your hips shifting restlessly, seeking friction, seeking more. His fingers find your folds, slick and swollen, his touch feather-light as he traces your slit, fingertips gliding through the wetness gathering there. You’re dripping, arousal thick and hot, and the realisation makes you flush.
“So wet,” he murmurs against your skin, his breath hot on your nipple before he takes it between his lips again, this time biting down just enough to make you gasp. His fingers circle your clit, slow and teasing, his touch maddeningly gentle.
You want to beg and demand, but your son is still there, still sleeping, and the risk of waking him keeps your voice trapped in your throat, your pleas reduced to whimpers and hitched breaths, your fingers tightening in his hair.
His tongue flicks your nipple before he pulls back, lips glistening with faint traces of your milk, eyes dark with lust as he looks up at you. “Missed this,” he growls, voice rough, his fingers never stopping their slow, torturous circles. “Missed the way you taste. The way you sound when I touch you.”
His mouth moves lower, lips pressing kisses to the soft skin of your stomach, his tongue dipping into your navel. You bite down on your knuckles to keep from crying out, your body trembling, cunt clenching around nothing, thighs slick with need. His fingers slip lower, one digit pressing against your entrance, not entering, just teasing, the pad of his finger rubbing slow circles over your hole, the pressure maddening.
“Please…” Your hips lift, trying to force his finger inside.
“Patience, baby.” His finger presses in just the slightest bit, the tip breaching you, and you whimper, your inner muscles fluttering around him, trying to pull him deeper.
“That feels good, doesn’t it? Is this what you need, baby?”
His mouth finds your other breast, lips sealing over your nipple as his finger finally slides inside you, knuckle-deep. The stretch burns, but it’s a good burn, a needed burn, and you rock your hips against his hand, your breath coming in ragged gasps. His tongue swirls around your nipple, the suction deep and rhythmic, and you can feel the milk letting down, the strange, sharp pleasure of it mixing with the ache of your arousal.
His finger shifts inside you, finding that spot that makes your toes curl, your back arching off the crib’s railing, your nails digging into the wood.
“Joel, please…” Your voice is strained, fingers tightening in his hair. He adds a second finger, stretching you, his thumb pressing against your clit as his mouth works your breast. The dual sensations are overwhelming, pleasure coiling tight in your belly, your orgasm building with a ferocity that steals your breath. His fingers scissor inside you, his thumb rubbing tight circles over your clit, his mouth never letting up on your nipple.
You’re so close.
So fucking close.
Your thighs tremble, your cunt clamping down around his fingers, your body on the precipice…
And then he stops.
His mouth pulls away with a wet pop, his fingers slipping free of your body, leaving you empty, aching, your orgasm hovering just out of reach. You whimper in protest, body throbbing with need, but before you can voice your frustration, he’s standing, his hands gripping your hips, turning you toward the bed. The mattress dips beneath your weight as he guides you onto it, his body following you down, his lips crashing against yours before you can even process the shift.
His kiss is ravenous, tongue plunging into your mouth, tasting of you, of milk and desire and possession. You moan into him, hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt, twisting the cotton in your fists. He’s hard, his cock pressing against your thigh, the heat of him searing even through the layers of fabric that still exist between you.
His hands roam your body, squeezing you, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulls you against him, grinding his erection against your hip. The friction is maddening, the pressure of his cock against your clit sending sparks through your nerve endings.
“Need you,” he groans against your lips, his voice rough and desperate as he pulls back, tearing the shirt from his body and tossing it to the floor. His mouth finds your nipple again, tongue flicking over the sensitive peak before he sucks it between his lips, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp. Your hands fly to his belt, pulling it free, yanking on his zipper, wrenching his jeans from his hips.
He groans, rolling against you, his cock sliding between your thighs, the thick length of him pressing against your cunt through the thin fabric of your panties.
You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him closer. “Please…” you beg, body arching against his, your cunt throbbing, empty and needy. “I need you inside me. Now.”
He groans, the sound guttural, hands gripping your hips as he shifts, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. You can feel the heat of him, the dampness of his pre-cum soaking through the thin cotton, and you rock your hips, trying to force him inside.
Then, with a growl, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and pulls them down, baring you to him. The head of his cock presses against your slick folds, the first touch of him against your bare skin making you whimper. He thrusts, his thick length filling you in one deep, claiming stroke, stretching you, owning you.
“Yes…!” The word is torn from you, your back arching off the bed, your nails raking down his shoulders. He’s stretching you to the point of pain, but it’s a pain you crave, a pain that sends sparks of pleasure radiating through your body as he bottoms out, hips pressed flush against yours, cock buried to the hilt inside you. For a moment, he stills, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps, skin slick with sweat.
“So tight,” he pants. “Like you never want to let me go.”
He pulls back slowly, his cock dragging against your inner walls, every ridge of him sending fresh waves of pleasure through you. You can feel yourself clenching around him, your body trying to keep him inside, your hips lifting to meet his next thrust. He sinks into you again, slow and deep, his hands gripping your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples with every stroke. The sensation is too much - your nipples are so sensitive, the milk leaking from you in thin, hot streams, the wetness slick between your skin. His mouth finds yours again, tongue plunging between your lips as his hips roll, his cock grinding against your clit with every slow, deliberate stroke.
You pull him closer, your breaths mingling, bodies moving together in a rhythm that feels like a heartbeat. The scent of it filling the air - musky and sweet, the smell of you, of need. He groans, hips snapping harder, his thrusts growing more insistent, his cock swelling inside you.
“You feel so good,” he growls, his voice a rough whisper against your lips. “I could stay inside you forever. My girl. Mama.”
His pace quickens, his cock moving in and out of you, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room, the bed creaking beneath you, the springs whining in protest. Your orgasm builds, the coil in your belly tightening, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. His thumb presses harder against your clit, his other hand squeezing your breast, fingers rolling your nipple between his fingertips, pinching just enough to make you cry out.
“Come with me,” he pants, his thrusts growing erratic, his cock swelling inside you. “I want to feel you come on my cock, baby. We need this….you need this…”
Your body obeys before your mind can catch up, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave, your cunt clenching around him, your back arching off the bed as a broken cry spills from your lips. “Joel…yes!”
Your voice fractures, nails digging into his shoulders, your thighs trembling around his waist. He swallows the sound with a kiss, his hips stuttering as his own release hits him, his cock pulsing deep inside you, spilling himself into you in hot, thick spurts, filling you, marking you.
He collapses on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, heart pounding against yours, his skin slick with sweat, the scent of sex and milk heavy in the air between you. For a moment, there’s only the sound of your combined breathing, the slow, steady rhythm of it filling the quiet room, the sticky heat of your bodies clinging together.
Then - your son stirs.
A soft whimper escapes his lips, his tiny body shifting beneath the blanket. Joel tenses above you, his body going still before he slowly pulls back, his cock slipping free of your body with a wet, obscene sound. A fresh gush spills from you, dripping down your thighs, the warmth of it trickling against your skin. He presses a quick, hard kiss to your lips, before he shifts off the bed, his movements silent as he turns to the crib, one hand lowering to touch your son gently, soft murmurs of comfort leaving his lips.
Your body hums from your orgasm, your cunt throbbing around nothing, thighs slick with him, desire rising once more as you watch him switch so effortlessly from lover to father.
When he returns to the bed, he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before straightening, gaze lingering on the mess he’s made of you - your swollen lips, your flushed skin, milk still damp on your breasts, the essence of him glistening on your thighs.
“You look so damn good, baby,” he laughs softly, lowering himself down and pulling you to him.
“All thanks to you,” you reply, breath still catching as his fingers trace lazy circles over your hip.
“Well, you just let me know when you’re ready to go again,” he murmurs, “and we…can…”
His words trail off to nothing and when you raise your head from his chest and look up, you see his eyes closed, lips slightly parted, sleep claiming him faster than you think you’ve ever seen.
With a low chuckle, you place a soft kiss on his cheek, snuggling closer, you own eyes drooping, and soon all three Millers are safe in dreamland.
Synopsis: Gojo wants to taste readers breast milk •⩊•
Pairing: Gojo xFem!Reader
Content: some plot, mostly nasty stuff, no penetrative sex, nursing handjob, ADULT NURSING, he tries to convince reader to let him suck a lil sum, gojo being weird, mentions he didn't have a mom, BREASTFEEDING, mommy kink if you squint, PREGNANCY KINK, whiny satoru, overall just a lot of nipple and breast play
Dedicated to: @busyreader17 , my beloved for hyping me up to write this, ty<;33
(a.n) why do I only ever write about gojo being a pregnancy freak? has to be studied. wrote this listening to very dramatic classical music
MDNI
Gojo has always been hard headed, never thinking twice on talking back or starting an argument just to prove he was right. And that little quirk about him only enhanced when his child was born.
Even if you were the one who spent countless hours in the emergency room trying to give birth to his big headed child- Satoru insisted that he knew best for his offspring. And in extension- he knew what was best for you.
“Formula isn't good enough for my child.” he retorted when you mentioned how painful it was to breastfeed his gnawing child.
And when you'd bring up that you were ready to start working again- “You don't have to work- that's why you have me.”
Little by little Gojo started dictating most of the aspects of your life. There was little to no resistance from you though- you didn't mind his overbearing fatherly tendencies when it came to protecting his family.
But there was one thing, just one thing you'd complain about if you could.
As stubborn as Satoru was in day to day life- he was equally, if not more stubborn in bed. Especially in one specific area.
Gojo begged. Begged on his knees as he watched you pump. Sitting on the couch and bouncing your knee as his hands held onto your calf, “I just want to taste-” he pouted, eyebrows pinched upwards.
“Satoru.” you gritted through your teeth- hearing the whirr of the machine on your chest. He sighed as he placed his forehead to your knee, mumbling something about how mean you were to him.
This newfound need to taste the milk from your breasts was mildly irritating, not being able to take your shirt off without his eyes prying- parting his lips before asking again.
Satoru would be lying if he said that anytime your breasts would leak against his chest midway through fucking- it didn’t take every ounce of strength he had to not trail his lips down to your puffy nipple.
So, so, very tempting. But he'd refrain from acting on his urges, knowing you'd probably shake him off or tell him to stop completely. So instead of doing it without your permission, he settled on asking you anytime he could.
At first you thought this was just him wanting to know what it tasted like, but when you offered him a small sip from a cup he said- “If i'm gonna drink it, I want it straight from the source.” to which you said, “I guess you're never gonna taste it then.” before tossing the small sip down the sink.
He must've asked 3 times a day. Gojo needed it so bad- he would beg on his knees at your feet, looking up at you like an abused puppy that you were being far too cruel to.
And you always said no.
But, your objections sounded like ‘maybe one day’ to his ears.
So one very early morning, 4 maybe 5 am- you were standing at the kitchen counter, holding the little pumping machine to your right breast as your face churned with a grimace. Your nipples were sore, from the machine sucking harshly and from how often you had to do it.
You had just started filling one of the little bottles, and as though Gojo knew what you were doing, he walked in. Squinting at you, almost asking what you were doing at this hour- till his eyes landed on your breasts you didn't bother to cover. “Go back to sleep, I'll be done soon.” you muttered in a groggy voice as the whirring woke Satoru up from the hazy state he was in.
He took a few steps towards you- resting his elbows on the counter as he watched the machine milk you. Jealous that a stupid machine had the right to and he didn't.
The sun not even breaching the skyline made the room dim and dusky.
You didn't mind if he watched- but that's all you'd ever grant him. But directly after sex- when his chest would be drippng with the light cream colored liquid that leaked from your breasts while he fucked you- and as he looked down to his sculped body in the bathroom, the sink running on a hand towel as you waited for him to come back to help clean you up.
His fingers couldn't help but swipe at the liquid before placing it on his tongue. The whisper of your taste on his tongue made one thing clear in his mind. If he couldn’t wrap his lips around your nipple and suck till there was nothing left- if you wouldn’t grant him that one favor, the closest thing he had was to fuck you in missionary from now on. Hoping one day he would ask you mid way through- and you’d be too fucked out to say anything but yes.
True if he really wanted to taste you- he could just reach into the freezer and thaw a bag of the pumped milk to try it. But he didn't just want to taste it- he wanted to feel it fill his mouth directly from the source. How warm it would be as it slid down his throat. And god- from the small tastes he's gotten, it's so sweet. You taste so fucking sweet.
His eyes watched as the plastic bottle filled up with milk, almost hypnotized by the liquid. You winced as the machine sucked at your sore nipple, which only made the cogs in Satoru’s brain start churning with schemes.
With soft eyes he fluttered his white eyelashes up to you, “Does it hurt?” he whispered, looking at your expression that looked more irritated than pained. You nodded your head slowly, “It feels like when your foot is asleep,” you muttered, “but not the ‘numb’ kind of asleep, like the kind that hurts anytime you move it.” you continued as you closed your eyes, exhausted and very ready to go back to bed.
Satoru raised himself from the counter, taking steps over to you as you felt his presence loom next to you. “Nd you have to do it all the time too-” he scoffed, playing the sympathy card so you'd think he was on your side.
He pressed a kiss to your bare shoulder, “They always look so full,” he murmured against your skin, you hummed in response, agreeing with what he was saying as he wrapped his hand around your waist, placing his chin on your shoulder. “So painful.” he hummed as his hands dared to trace up your bare torso.
“I can help, y’know.” The tone he said those words sounded sincere- almost as though he was just trying to make this easier for you, you let out a hum in disbelief, “Unless you're a baby who refuses to latch- no you can't.” you mumbled with a groggy voice.
Your words came out as a retort- but in Gojo’s ears they sounded like a challenge.
It was true, his child had the same stubborness as Satoru, refusing to eat anything that didn’t come from a plastic bottle. Thus the pumping and the overproduction of milk that was piled high in the freezer by now. You had half the mind to sell it or empty them down the drain, I mean what child is gonna drink that much? Even if it was a Gojo heir- no child drinks that much milk.
But the thought pained Satoru, it only reminded him of the times where that frozen milk could have been in his mouth rather than in plastic bags.
Satoru kept a light touch as his hand trailed to the side of your ribs, scooping the bottom of the free breast you hadn’t pumped yet. Feeling the weight in his hand as he lifted it lightly, and you were just tired enough to let him. “They're so heavy.” he whispered in a coo as you blinked your eyes open, fully registering what he was trying to do.
You furrowed your eyebrows, “Don't be gross, ‘toru.” you spoke in a clearer voice, earning a small laugh to ring into your ear as his hand gently grasped the side of your full breast. “What's gross about wantin’ to help?” He murmured in your ear, his hand keeping a light graze as his pointer finger brushed past your tender nipple, you hissed at the feeling causing Satoru to hum an understanding ‘I know.’ into your ear.
You couldn't see his face but you were sure he was pleased with himself, “That's all I wanna do.” his words sounded wholehearted. Almost earnest as his large hand held onto your breast with a light touch, “I'll be sooo gentle, I promise.” he closed his eyes feeling your breast fill his palm with ease, “I just wanna help you,” he whispered as he pressed the off button on the little machine, guiding your hand to place it on the counter as he pressed an honest kiss to your ear.
You knew that filling those little bottles would have taken way too long, then the thought of how much faster it would be if you let him- “Let me help you.”
Satoru’s silver tongue was never your favorite part of him, you never liked how easy it was for him to hide the truth behind seemingly sincere words.
His brushing fingertips against your sore nipples didn't help either, his fingers were very, very close to squeezing the suede ring of color around the hardened peak- Satoru wanted to see if small rivulets would spurt out of your nipples if he squeezed.
You inhaled feeling the warm pads of his fingertip caress at your tender nipple. If Satoru wasn't trying to convince you of something, you'd admit it felt nice. You scoffed, “Don't make it nasty ‘toru-” you caved, sighing with an exhausted tone, feeling his warm palms lift your heavy breasts.
Gojo’s mouth had been salivating from the second he walked into the kitchen, and as you said those words he gulped hard. “Course not~” he mumbled, allowing the truth to seep out in his words.
And as he guided you to sit onto the couch as you've done plenty of times when you'd pump, he already knew how he wanted to be fed, he had thought about it over and over again. And settled on this position, his back was pressed against the tops of your thighs. His long legs extended onto the couch- unashamed of his cock rising from staring at the cream droplet that threatened to fall from your nipple.
Even if this act was obscene and borderlining on too far- you were grateful he didn't make any teasing remarks on how little it took for him to convince you this time. That and how his mouth would have been filled soon enough, so you wouldn't worry about that.
Your hand was on the back of his head, fingers filled with lily white hair as he fought back a smile. Only the gleam in his eyes showed you just how excited he was. Satoru’s lips parted as his eyes darted back and forth from your sore nipple up to your face that was warm with embarrassment. All but asking for permission as you watched his bottom lip quiver in anticipation.
With pinched eyebrows, you guided his head towards your aching breast, Gojo’s lips parted awaiting your puffy nipple. His tongue covered the bottom of his teeth- a low groan rumbled onto your skin as he lightly pressed his parted lips onto the skin around your nipple.
You watched with a grimace look on your face, not knowing why he would offer this- let alone enjoy it.
Satoru’s tongue circled at your hardening nipple, lapping softly as he tried to keep his promise of being gentle as the essence of the milk lingered on his tongue. A small huff left your lip as he rested his tongue at the bottom of your nipple, protecting it from his pearly teeth.
His hands rested atop his tummy as you caressed the back of his scalp, you nodded your head as a form of permission, giving Satoru the ‘ok’ that he could start- his lips were slow to start sucking, pulling your nipple further into his mouth with a lactogenic motion from his tongue.
Before now, Satoru wasn't fully sure how to nurse if you let him, he knew it wasn't like just sucking your nipple. But the second he felt the sore apex of your breast press against the roof of his mouth, sucking in as much of your breast as he could, his tongue massaged the bottom of your tit to coax the milk to come out.
The motion came to him as an instinct, as though nursing was engraved in his marrow from the minute he was pulled into this world.
It took very little effort to pull milk to the surface. But the moan that reverberated onto your breast from a fat droplet hitting Satoru’s tongue- it was bordering on pornographic. It was as though he saw the pearly gates of heaven when the droplet infiltrated the taste buds of his tongue.
No matter how much fantasizing he did, or any of the ghost-like tastes- nothing. Nothing, could have prepared him for how fucking heavenly you tasted.
Your milk was warm, thick enough to leave a light cast on his tongue as he tried to suckle more liquid from your nipple. Gojo’s mouth was latched onto you in a way you knew it would hurt to pull him off.
Satoru’s gaze threatened to shut as you looked down at him. His head coddled in your hand as he kept faltering eye contact with you. Only making this feel even more salacious than it should have.
No, this was only supposed to be a way for him to help- a way to remove the aching pressure from your breasts and save some time.
But that look in his eyes, the way his eyebrows were furrowed- almost as though he was sucking your tit in spite.
That was till a bigger wave of your milk rushed into his mouth, earning an almost anguished whimper to pulse against your skin.
Your eyes squinted trying to figure out if he was exaggerating- only the way his eyes struggled to stay open, the blush across his cheeks and the satisfied smile on the perked corners of his lips, convinced you he was being genuine.
With every ooze of the prized liquid he suckled from your plump breast, Satoru swallowed. Not wanting any to spill from his lips as you placed your hand on his chest that was threatening to start hyperventilating. Too focused on suckling as much milk as he could to even consider keeping a steady breathing pattern. The warmth of his mouth on your tender nipple was soothing, comforting almost.
Gojo’s eyes were half lidded and hazy- trying his very best not to let them roll to the back of his head as the dulcet milk trickled down his throat.
Unwillingly a small whimper fled his latched lips as his eyes closed, chest heaving from the taste of you coating his mouth. You huffed a small breath from his greedy tongue sucking harder on your nipple.
Rubbing your hand on his chest to soothe the little whimpers that rumbled your breast, thankful his eyes were closed when they rolled to the back of his head. His trapped cock was shouting at him for attention, be it instinct or just wanting to relieve the ache- his hand slowly trailed down his tummy, only your eyes were too focused on his seemingly intoxicated expression to notice.
Your hand holding his head up started rubbing gently at his scalp, seeing frustration form on his delicate features- unknowing why. But you were almost trying to soothe him as whimpers vibrated onto your breast. Watching his eyebrows furrow and the growing blush on his cheeks to deepen as his eyes fluttered open.
Looking up at you from the slightly obstructed view from below, your palm on his chest being able to feel how hard his heart was beating. And as your eyebrows furrowed with a breathy sigh- you watched the familiar look in Satoru’s eyes glimmer past white lashes.
You inhaled sharply, feeling his tongue trail from massaging the bottom of your nipple to the little mound that provided the milk. Tracing the tip of his tongue on your bud causing you to hiss his name in a warning.
That's all it took for him to continue suckling on your sore nipple. You were about to rest back onto the couch with a sigh, caressing the back of his head as you felt relief wash over your shoulders, allowing him to take what he needed and then some.
That was till your eye caught his bicep flexing- and you trailed your eyes down his pale arm parting your lips in shock as you watched his unashamed hand palm himself through his gray sweats.
You huffed- only it came out in a breathy sigh rather than in the reprimanding tone you meant it to. Satoru only moaned as he heard his name fall from your lips, feeling his mouth suck rougher in order to pull more milk from your heavy breast that threatened to suffocate his nose.
His hand hesitantly removed itself from the stiff bulge of his sweats, landing on your wrist that was on his chest. His hazy cerulean eyes filled with the kind of mist you only see when he's premeditated something long before you knew of it.
Satoru’s fingers wrapped around your wrist as he greedily drank from your nipple, so greedily that the corners of his mouth were threatening to leak the honeyed fluid- he was suckling so much, he couldn't swallow fast enough.
And as the little droplets stained the sides of Gojo’s jaw, trailing down his pale skin- he led your hand to extend over to his strained bulge. Knowing if you truly were uncomfortable by this, you would've pulled away the second you saw him palming himself.
You inhaled as his hand led you to his cock by your wrist, gasping softly with a tingle on your cheeks from how hard he was. Satoru placed his larger hand atop yours, pressing it onto his painful erection with a whine rippling through your skin.
You flashed your eyes from the gray fabric that trapped his neglected cock, back to his eyes. Threatening to blink shut as you kept a gentle grasp on his bulge. Even if he was the one in your lap, nursing at your breast in a way that can only be described as voracious. That look on his face was smug, almost as though he was right this entire time and you were the hard headed one.
Satoru trailed his hand onto your forearm, smiling to himself as you started softly palming his prominent bulge.
Your eyebrows were pinched upwards, trying very, very hard not to shift your thighs beneath his back to relieve the ache forming between them.
You felt bad, like the only reason he was palming himself- almost in a sad way, was because you allowed this to happen. It wasn't guilt- but you wanted to apologize in some way.
Satoru’s mouth suckled in no pattern, his only goal was to drain every single gush of milk you offered. No matter how fervent he must've looked right now, he didn’t care. As long as he could feel your warmth in his throat- your taste coating the cavern of his mouth- he didn’t care if he looked like a starved man.
You sighed almost in pity as he let out various throaty whimpers, firmening your fingers around the print in his sweats. “Oh ‘toru~” you soothed, knowing how hard he was- it had to be painful. Your cheeks tingling and warm as his hips bucked up into your hand for more friction.
And as your hand cradled onto the back of his head, you maneuvered the hand on his bulge to free it from its torment.
For the first time since he latched onto your nipple, his lips parted from your breast with a low moan. The cold morning air hitting his pinkening tip causing him to furrow his eyebrows, but all it took was for the feeling to settle before he attached onto your draining nipple once more.
You didn't hesitate to place your hand onto his base, feeling the light trails of his precum on his shaft from how worked up he was, tempting a gasp to leave his lips, you looked at him.
And as though he was made to do it- Satoru lightly ran his tongue at your budding nipple, lapping up the white sweetness that leaked from your breast.
You kept a light touch on his cock, his hand on your upper arm before gently resting it on the swell of your other breast. Thinking to himself how rude of him that he was neglecting your other equally tender nipple.
Satoru lightly thumbed your nipple, feeling light drips wet his thumb. Enticing you to slowly start stroking him, stopping your grasp right before your fingers could roll onto his flushed tip. Knowing he wouldn't last long if you worked over his cockhead.
The moans that rumbled from Gojo’s throat and onto your sensitive skin were full of desperation and bliss. You watched him in almost pity- trickles of your milk falling from the sides of his lips, making trails of white drip down his cheeks.
It didn’t take long for him to finish draining your breast, somewhere in his mind he knew there was nothing left in your left tit, but that didn't stop him from trying to slurp up any remaining droplets.
Gojo’s cheeks felt like they were boiling on his face, and with one last lap of your nipple, he unlatched from your breast. Huffing softly as his breath tickled your damp nipple, he looked up at you, an amazed and out of breath expression formed on his face as you wiggled your eyebrows.
It was embarrassing, the way your milk left trails of a light white film on his cheeks, the way he was breathing heavily with his cock in your hand. Vulnerable.
Satoru saw your flushed face- and to comfort you he raised himself from the tops of your thighs lightly, keeping a massaging hand on your unsucked breast as he pressed his plump lips to yours.
It was filthy- Mouths dancing against each other in pure delirium. Being able to taste yourself on his tongue- on his spit laced with milk. It was like Gojo did that to show you just how exquisite you tasted. Only for your hand to keep its snail pace, avoidant of his crying tip.
His lips pulled from yours, looking into your eyes and thumbing your weeping white nipple. Soft opened mouth moans coming from his lips as your hand stroked tenderly.
Rare were the times when Satoru was silent during intimacy, usually babbling teasing nonsense. But this time, the carnal look in his eye told you everything you needed to know. His senseless prattling wasn't even a thought in his mind right now, burning beneath his skin was pure and utter hunger. Hunger, to taste you- to drink from you. To nurse, over and over again.
The one thought that lingered in his mind was to make sure to keep you pregnant- keep you in a state to continue producing the warm comfort he hardly had as a child.
Gojo licked his bottom lip, mouth salivating as he felt the warm liquid trickle onto his palm. He leaned back slightly, looking down to your swollen nipple rolling between his fingers. Then trailing his gaze to your slow stroking hand, Gojo was sure he had never been so hard in his life till now.
He licked his lips before cupping the side of your heavy breast in his palm, slowly shifting himself down to align himself with your right breast. Your hand followed the back of his scap, guiding him to latch onto your dripping nipple.
Satoru opened his mouth, closing his eyes when he felt the skin of your breast fill his mouth again. Running his tongue across your neglected nipple and tasting the essence his fingers had squeezed out. A throaty whine leaving his nose as he started suckling, so enthralled by your taste and the gentle way you stroked him. Keeping his kneading hand on the side of your breast to assist in guiding more milk into his mouth.
Your cheeks were warm, tingling from how lewd he looked at that moment. The little whimpers that came from him didn't help either.
Happily, Satoru let those unfiltered whines pour from him, if it meant you'd know how much he was enjoying himself.
And as your hand slightly passed his tip on the upturn, he gasped against you. Almost as a warning, he sucked harder on your sore nipple in return.
Gojo let out muffled cries from your hand stroking past his tip, even if you couldn't see it- his eyes were rolled to the back of his head as he suckled instinctively. You looked away from his face- churned with an insatiable greed.
Looking at his pinkening cock in your hand as the veins on his lower abdomen stood proud beneath his skin. His chest was heaving once more, forced to take heavy inhales through his nose as he felt the knot in his tummy tighten.
Satoru’s whines started to rumble louder against you, watching an inhale reach down his torso, his tummy caving from how hard he exhaled. He was so close. So fucking close and fighting it at this point. You could see it in his scrunched eyebrows and desperate suckles.
You lightly scratched your nails onto his scalp, “It’s okay ‘toru,” you sighed softly, gaining his cerulean eyes to open slightly and look up at you. You were flustered sure, but you wanted to assure Satoru that he could cum whenever he liked. He didn't need to hold off for your sake.
Only when he saw the soft smile on your lips- something deep within him snapped. It didn't click before, even with your hand tenderly stroking him and your tit in his mouth, even as he was nursing directly from your breast. It still didn't click.
But when you soothed his whimpers, the tender smile you had on your lips as he took and took from you. The nurturing tone you assured him with. That's when it made sense. That's when he realized why he had been longing to help you in this way.
Before he didn’t really question it- thought it was just something weird he found hot amongst all his other strange fantasies. But now. Now it made sense.
Your mind was a mess, barely able to process the words that fell from your lips naturally. Gojo’s eyes rolled to the back of his head as you polished his cockhead, his hips bucking up into it in response. You watched as he let go of that final reservation, sucking harshly causing more of your milk to spill from the corners of his lips with frustrated whines. Being able to feel his orgasm tighten in his stomach.
The hand on your breast was practically milking you, squeezing milk into his mouth rather than his tongue nursing at it, his nose was scrunched as he exhaled a ragged breath through his nose. Your nipple was starting to ache from the vibrating whimpers and moans, and instead of telling him to stop, you raked your fingers through his hair gently. “Shh, I know, I know.” you crooned, keeping a steady pace on his cock as he simmered his whimpers.
Ever since Satoru told you he had little to no memories of his mother, you knew he had mommy issues. And when he started asking to taste your milk you were hesitant, knowing once that pandora's box was opened there was no use trying to close it again.
Only as you looked down at him, how content and blissful he looked- unlike anything you've ever seen before, you didn't mind if it didn’t close again.
Satoru parted his eyes, feeling his orgasm slowly slip in his tummy, you watched as his eyes fluttered back to his head- mumbling something in the sound of ‘m’cummi-’ against your skin as you sped up your pace. His hips twitching up into your hand as you jerked him quickly, his lungs could barely handle how little air he was inhaling, his brain fuzzy as he slurped and lapped at your nipple.
Gojo saw stars as you stroked him past the pinnacle you worked him up, his eyes squinted harshly as his lips unlatched from your breast, throaty groans mixed with whines fell from his lips as his orgasm oozed over your hand. When your thumb caressed the opening on his tip, his cock spurted out another pump of his cum with a whine.
As you helped work through his orgasm, smaller pumps of his seed assisted in the wet strokes you gave him, Satoru latched back onto your breast with a content sigh, needing to drain as much as he could, his cock slowly softening in your hand.
And as he drank the rest of your milk you rested your hand on his lower belly, waiting for him to finish taking what he needed. His mouth wasn’t suckling as frantically nor hurried as before. You relished in the warmth his lips provided with a sigh, closing your eyes as the sun started rising. Being able to see the light through your closed eyes.
When Satoru couldn't taste any more milk coming from your drained breast, he hesitantly pulled away. Resting his head in your hand as he looked up to the ceiling hazily, milk drunk as your breasts obstructed his view.
He inhaled, “Throw away that stupid machine.” you sighed, knowing he’s hated the breast pump since he saw you use it for the first time.
“What am I gonna do when you're not around?” you murmured, thinking of a world where you wouldn't have access to a pump.
“Call me and I'll find you.”
You let out a small laugh. Leaning your back onto the couch as Satoru setted on your hand. “So fucking weird.” You murmured, hearing him let out a smiley breath.
Satoru sat up, turning to you with an endearing gaze, “Only cause I like you soooo much.” he claimed, pressing a kiss onto your temple before standing. Reaching out for your hand, ignoring the mess on his tummy, pulling you to stand as he led you to the master bathroom.
“What do you want for breakfast?” you muttered behind him, watching him halt his steps and looking back at you, “What?” he asked with a smug smile and creased eyebrows.
You furrowed your eyebrows, “...Breakfast?” not understanding what was confusing about the question.
Satoru scoffed, “What for? You just fed me.” he spoke sweetly, watching the grimace on your face churn with an appalled ‘ugh!’ as you snapped your hand away from his. You scoffed as he reached for your hand again, pulling you into his arms. Peppering kisses over your features as you groaned.
“You’re so nasty.” you scoffed as he stepped forward, leading you into the bathroom with various kisses on your cheeks.
You were sure this little activity Satoru found so much attraction in, would make its way into your daily routine. Only you didn't mind it as much as you thought you would.
Husband!Gojo, who is so grateful that you carried his baby girl and brought her into the world, swearing that he would do right by both of you, for as long as he lived. When the three of you came back from the hospital, he doted on you and the newborn baby, refusing to let you get up in the middle of the night when the baby got fussy or let you cook for the first few months. Your once swollen ankles thanked him so much, finally having time to rest.
Husband!Gojo, who spoils you even more now that you’ve had his baby. Bringing you gifts and flowers on his way home from work, “Just because,” and it makes you smile every time. New jewelry that you begged him not to buy, but he insisted, saying that his wife deserved whatever she wanted because of how hard she worked.
Husband!Gojo walked into the house to see you curled up on the couch, breathing hard. “Are you okay?!” He asked, trying not to panic. You nodded and explained to him that your milk ducts were just clogged, and the pump that you bought didn’t have enough suction to clear them. He’ll ask to help, being the amazing husband that he is, and your face went red.
Husband!Gojo didn’t understand why you went red, but when you explained that he’d have to...drink from your breasts, he shrugged, still not understanding why you were red. He’s done it before, only when your boobs weren’t full of milk.
Soon after, Husband!Gojo's head was cradled in your lap as he sucked. A soft moan left your lips, and you covered your mouth, embarrassed to the highest power. The moan only made him suck harder, trying not to palm his hard-on in his pants.
Somehow, you ended up stroking his cock while he breastfed from you, his hips bucking up to meet your hand. Your own pussy was soaked, but Husband!Gojo was too busy milking you for all you had. After all, he has been spoiling you, so you could spoil him just a little bit today.
a/n: Heyo heyo heyoo (Sorry, guys). But I was thinking about the JJK men as your husband, and idk if I should make it into a series. So do let me know if I should in the comments. Dm me or comment 🎫 to be tagged for Gojo, and as always, this is not proofread, so read with that in mind. I hope y'all enjoy. xx
@ yourm0om est 2025 - all rights reserved. do not copy on any platform.
