even with all the light and love you harbored for your boyfriend of three months, you were seriously starting to get real fuckin’ sick of gojo’s constant mood swings.
one minute he’s curled up on top of you, outdated argyle sweater and beige slacks tossed somewhere on the floor. clunky glasses slip crooked against your boobs as he grinds into your plush thighs, half-whining, half-bargaining, half-begging—asking you to quote, “spit in his mouth” and “ride him so hard he cries post-postcoital syncope” (passing out), as a reward for completing your biochemistry homework.
“wanna explore your insides like apollo thirteen, princess. . .” he breathes, voice breaking into a soft whimper as his hips stutters, fingers pushing deeper into your tight opening, like he’s trying to map and probe every inch of you. “don’t need a cosmology textbook to know this cute cunt’s out of this world.”
“can you be normal? for once?”
“with you splayed open like this for a dork like me? how can i be?” with his free hand, he manhandles you into an almost sitting position, fingers still pistoning into you. he slides allll the way down until he’s faced with your fluttering entrance. “this pussy— and my poncho-wearing pikachu: xy promo card— are the two things i love most in the world.”
“shut up, plea—” you gasp, cut off as his tongue drags a slow stripe up your slit. his mouth seals around your clit, sucking with infuriating precision, relentless in a way that makes your thighs tremble, like he has all the time in the world and every intention of undoing you completely.
“m-might squirt, g-get off.” you attempt to pry him off, and like a puppy who wants it’s mommy’s milk, he shakes his head vigorously.
“in my mouth. now.”
the next moment, he’s got a stupid snapback and wife beater on, folding you into a meeeeean arch as he drags his fat tip slow across your ass, smearing his nut all over your reddened cheeks—courtesy of his miniature greek paddle— with a wicked smirk. somewhere behind you, there’s a faint click, followed by the soft whir of a polaroid developing.
“hold that pose, petal. yes, like that— fuuuuck. love the way my load just leaks out of that slutty little hole. i bet your classmates can’t even imagine how much of a whore their teacher’s pet is for some good fuckin’ dick. shit, i need a picture for my snap’s ‘my eyes only’ too.”
(and to send it to two very specific individuals.)
a lightbulb goes off in his empty head.
he reaches over to his bedside table, grabbing a black marker and gnawing the cap off. the sound alone makes your stomach flip.
you shift, glancing back at him. “w-what’re you doing?”
“nothing, gorgeous,” he bites his lip, one hand steadying your hip, thumb brushing slow, absent circles into your skin. there’s a grin in his voice, easy and teasing. “just sit still f’me, yeah? let daddy do his thing.”
he chuckles deviously as he admires his work. gojo property— right on your left ass cheek.
and even worse, he has days where he’s almost too normal; casually taking you out to fancy dinners in the classiest of button-ups and watches, playing your favorite songs on the piano like he’s done it a hundred times before, replacing your laptop without a second thought when yours broke, making love to you in missionary with your face cradled in his hands, coaxing you to cum together. . .
“fuckin’ beautiful. i love you so much. can’t wait ‘til you’re my wife. gonna spoil you lots. . . yeah? want me to take care of this pretty pussy forever?” he clicks his tongue when you try to hide behind your hands, voice softening just a touch. “hey. . . don’t do that, sweetheart. don’t hide from me. wanna see you— wanna watch your face when we fall apart together.”
you nod vigorously as he thrusts harder. “such a needy, clammy thing. . . cum, baby. good girl.” he purrs. “need to feel you tighten up on me.”
it was almost like you were dating two, no, three different men.
“you had her last fucking sunday, shithead,” sutarō spits, crushing another beer down in a few gulps before swearing at the empty can. “we’re already halfway through that stupid mormon show she likes. says she can’t watch it without me. then we’ve got a pilates class after my chapter meet— and i know you can’t handle that shit. i barely can.”
“she can finish the show with me,” sotari shoots back, pushing his glasses up his nose. “besides, she has an exam coming up and i promised i’d help her. i told her sunday was going to be our study date.”
satoru could only shake his head at his other, visually identical, pathetic thirds. he’s already given up his sunday with you twice. it was his turn to see you for an extra day of the week.
“look,” he starts, “i haven’t had a sunday with her in two weeks. she’s probably stressed out of her mind over that exam and could use an actual rest day. and sutarō— you seriously traumatized her at that ‘spring break spree with kaisen phi’ darty you dragged her to today. imagine how she felt when her supposedly very nerdy, piano-playing boyfriend with an. . . occasional sadistic streak suddenly did a handstand keg stand while a crowd of frat bros started chanting, ‘that’s our sexy, perverted pledge master’ around him.”
“sotari’stheactualpervert.” sutarō grumbles under his breath.
“i heard that, asshole.”
satoru exhales, running a hand through his hair.
“just let me take her out on a normal dinner date. she’s been craving sushi, and i just bought her a new bath bomb that she’s been wanting us to try. i even put my card in her phone wallet and told her to go get her nails done.”
“french tip?” they ask simultaneously, looking almost starry-eyed.
he sighs. “of course.”
“her birthday is coming up,” sutarō says, leaning back in his chair. “isn’t it about time we tell her the truth? she might even enjoy having all three of us.” he licks his lips. “at once.”
“or she’d have a cerebrovascular accident.” sotari quips.
“bitch, just say stroke. she’d have a stroke.”
“okay, know-it-all,” look in the mirror, sotari, “how about you tell me what the symptoms of a stroke are?”
“spazzing out, going brazy. . . man, you’re just mad your bread ain’t up.”
“actually, we’re both unemployed. at least i have my research lab—”
“it might be wise,” satoru cuts in, firmer now. “to tell her. we’d still have to take turns, but at least we could all spend time with her without lying.”
for once, sutarō doesn’t immediately argue. he just tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling, jaw working like he’s chewing on something he can’t quite spit out.
“or,” he mutters after a beat, “she laughs. calls us insane. slams the door in our faces. never talks to any of us again.”
“or,” satoru counters, “she doesn’t.”
the room falls quiet, thick with the weight of it. possibility, risk, all of it balanced on something as fragile as your reaction.
“she can barely handle one.”
“imagine two.” sotari shakes his head.
“no, imagine—”
click.
the triplets freeze.
a soft mechanical whir follows, unmistakable.
slowly, their heads turn.
and there you were, standing in the doorway, a freshly printed polaroid sliding out into your hand as your eyes flicker between them with an expression so unreadable.
