Synopsis. When both Gojo twins want you for Valentine’s Day, do you:
A. Choose the frat boy extraordinaire you’re in a messy situationship with.
B. Choose the cute nerd that tutors you but is too afraid to confess.
C. Choose both of the above.
Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader (x Gojo Satoya)
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, GOJO TWINS, nerd!Gojo, frat boy!Gojo, college AU, they both want you, Iove triangles, yearning Gojo(s), tutoring, FWB situations, parties, frat!Gojo is slightly toxic, named twin, fights (over you), Valentine’s Day, getting them BOTH, oraI (f + m), handj’s, fírst times (nerd!Gojo), they do you but NOT each other (pls), spítting, chokíng, manhandIing, breath pIay, p talking, p sIapping, frat!Gojo is MEAN, TONGUE PlERCINGS, possessive, cIit bíting, cervíx smoochin, vírginíty Ioss (nerd!Gojo), prem. ejac, SAME DAMN TIME, heavy overstím, fuIl neIsons, fighting over you during it, DP, anaI, SAAAAAME DAMN TIME, science Ianguage, nerd!Gojo’s SENSITIVE, big stretches, big finishes, creampíes, cùmpIay, surprise at the end, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 14.5k
A/N. Y’ALL HAVE BEEN BEGGING FOR THIIIIIIIS- inspired by this art by the absolutely amazingly talented @/toriiartz_ + all the Iovely comments (Tonycries is listening…)
Gojo Satoru and Gojo Satoya.
The Sun and the Moon. The storm and the morning dew. The sweetness of spring flowers and the burning hand of summer skies—many things could be said about the Gojo twins.
Perhaps not everything so poetic: to most, they were those infamously handsome set of twins that sauntered about campus as if paid to be there (and to your left—keep your eyes peeled and you might just catch a flash of white hair). Of course, that campus tour would have to oscillate between libraries and frat parties at a worrying rate…
To others, they were the valedictorian of the Physics Department and the President of Delta Jujutsu Pi. To others, the region’s best Digimon player and the region’s best ragers.
Maybe someone could convince Gojo Satoru to do some research on how two men with the exact same face could be so different from one another?
But to you, they were your tutor and…the one you were currently in bed with-
“Oh…fuck, that was good.” Gojo Satoya hisses, pulling out of you with the loudest squelch.
You could feel the slick driiiibblin’ down your inner thighs. And he’s gnawing down on his pinkish lower lip- wishing to hear the music as he surges upwards n’ swirls that even pinker tip around your entrance.
Around and around.
You’re shaking as he does so, and he’s only pulling your hips further down against his.
“Just a little more f’me, baby.” Long fingers tightening at your waist, Satoya ruts his toned torso off of the bed. His pale lashes flutter at the sensation of you trying to clench, gracing you with such a smug smile that you’ve grown to both love and get irritated by.
You’re been riding him for what seemed like hours by now- and you’re that half his fraternity brothers were ready to break down the door with noise complaints.
Then again, they were likely used to this.
Because Gojo Satoya was always just so insatiable with you.
It’s been a few months since you’d been fucking Satoya - just an on and off little rendezvous that had started one night at one of his own parties. One of the many, many parties you’d dragged your roommates to.
Delta Jujutsu Pi was known for them. And according to the (many—you’d long since learned not to underestimate his popularity) personal recounts and Instagram stories, one minute you’d been challenging the frat president to beer pong but with vodka- and the next you both had been pressed against the mansion’s wall. Lips on each other’s.
When you’d woken up the next morning, it was to a pounding headache and Satoya’s steady heartbeat. Arm cushioned underneath your head. Leg thrown over his waist.
No clothes.
The two of you had gasped- straight into a kiss which tasted faintly like last night’s berry punch bowl.
And what was meant to be a one-night stand turned into exchanging numbers, turned into meeting up the next weekend, turned into hanging out several times a week and meeting each other’s friends, turned into a long and dragged out…something of which a ‘relationship’ was not something you’d use to describe it. It was many things but not that.
It was like the thick and cloying sweetness of the punch bowl that night, but also the bitter taste of vodka-jealousy that shot through whenever Satoya winked back at someone else.
You knew you had no right to be jealous- it’s not as if the two of you were anything committed. No expectations. No strings attached, right?
But then again, that didn’t stop the lines from blurring. It didn’t stop you from going out on dates with other men in retaliation, and it didn’t stop him from blowing your phone up all night whenever you did. You always did unmute him by the end of those nights, however, if only to complain about your latest date.
It didn’t stop him from throwing those parties he was notorious for and inviting everyone he knew and their sister- flirtations galore. But it also didn’t stop him from coming right back to you—time and time again, no matter how much you blocked and swore at him.
Didn’t stop a single thing.
Throughout it all, you’d say that the only silver lining was getting to know Gojo Satoru more in-depth.
Of course, knowing that the two were related, you’d coaxed his number out of Satoya to convince Satoru to tutor you. Which, expectedly, had turned into more of a friendship—one that was only sweetened by how openly you gawked at the man during your tutoring sessions.
That was your introduction to both brothers- worlds apart from one another.
The magnetic and heart-racing Gojo Satoya, the shy and studious Gojo Satoru. The older one by two minutes and the younger one.
The messy one and the one who’d been here to witness just how messy the latter was.
In more ways than one.
Eventually, Satoya was drawing the cutest lil’ hearts against your clit. That blushing tip of his cock moving ‘round and ‘round that sensitive spot, he hums at the smears of sheen he’s making—“Maybe we should go again…”
“Maybe you should let me go to class now.” You’re countering back.
His smile grows wider, “Maybe I shouldn’t.”
“Toya-” Your breath hitches, n’ you’re pushing back on his toned chest. It was just so defined from all those hours he spent at practice, and you’re taking more than a bit of pleasure feeling his pectorals. “-make me miss one of Professor Yaga’s lectures again and I’ll be referring him to you.”
Satoya shudders. “That man hates me.”
“Can’t imagine why…” You thought of all the classes he’d missed for matches- and perhaps being a loudmouth doesn’t help, either.
With the haunting thought of Yaga in his mind, Satoya lets you extract yourself from his arms and head to the bathroom to freshen up. By the time you’re heading back, he’d already tied-off the condom and chucked it in the bin, in the process of pulling on his fraternity-merchandise boxers (why did they even make those?)
He’s jumping in bed with you once you’re laying back down. Tugging his arms ‘round you—no one would ever believe it, but Gojo Satoya was a cuddler after sex.
The white-haired man whispers about everything and nothing as you two relax.
“Oh yeah- that reminds me.” He hums at some point, lifting his head up just a little from the crook of your neck. “I’m having a party this weekend, you should come.”
“This weekend?” It wasn’t a surprise that the frat was throwing yet another rager- and Satoya didn’t really have to ask you, either. He knew that you’d show up anyway. More of a formality than anything, as if he wouldn’t just sulk in a corner if you didn’t end up coming- before taking over the dance floor once Kendrick Lamar came on, of course.
Satoya nods sluggishly, the room still thick with sex.
But you’re turning to face him with a raised brow. “Like- this weekend?” He’s climbing up onto his elbows in confusion at your tone. “Toya, it’s Valentine’s weekend.”
“Oh.”
“You seriously didn’t know?”
“Oh.”
He runs a hand through his rumpled white hair. “So that’s why chicks n’ bros have been giving me chocolate all week- and here I thought I just got extra handsome.”
He pauses.
“Have I gotten extra hands-”
“Satoya.”
“Alright alright.” Satoya raises his hands in surrender, letting his head fall back onto the pink-cased pillows. “So uh…”
It was obvious when he didn’t know what to do with what you were throwing - hints often didn’t work on Gojo Satoya. Which was interesting to find out, because you’d always assumed that Satoru would be the oblivious one (and to a large extent, he was). But a sheer lack of committed relationships and an overt surplus of flirtations meant Satoya wouldn’t understand a hint even if you banged him upside the head with one—he’d merely look up at the sky and wonder whether it was hailing.
Though that’s not to say that he wasn’t intelligent - certainly not, you’ve witnessed his pre-tournament planning, the way he’d lead your university team, the NBA drafter that reportedly had an eye on him, how he managed good scores on most exams despite rarely attending class.
No, Gojo Satoya was just…so good at giving hints that it seemed to have balanced out by not being to receive them—yours, at least. Strangely enough, he seemed to never get your subtlety.
All but yours.
As if he couldn’t see, as if he saw but couldn’t believe.
And so you sigh. “No- no, that’s my mistake. I just assumed we’d be doing something for Valentine’s Day.”
“…Girl, the party?”
“Nevermind.”
And as Satoya launches into yet another monologue - about his most recent training regiment and the upcoming frat rush - you’re reaching over to the bedside cabinet. Grabbing your phone, it takes a few taps for you to interrupt the white-haired man-
“Actually, Toya—” Catching his attention. “I might not be able to make it to the party. Or at least not all of it.”
He sits up urgently, “Huh? But why-”
“Plans.”
“With what bastard-”
“That bastard is your brother.” And as his jaw drops, you’re turning your phone screen to flash the conversation at him. Satoya’s blue eyes narrow as he reads onwards-
You: psssssssst
Nerd-jo (Gojo brother #2): ?
You: do you have any plans for valentine’s day?
You: wanna hang out?
Nerd-jo (Gojo brother #2): ???!!!11??1!111!!??!?!
Nerd-jo (Gojo brother #2): My apologies.
Nerd-jo (Gojo brother #2): Typo.
Nerd-jo (Gojo brother #2): But yes, I would be delighted to spend time with you.
Just about the gist of it-
“—and I haven’t spent time with Satoru in a bit now so-” You were saying—and he knows, by the way. These days, Satoya had been intentionally meeting you during times he knew that his busybody brother was free from the clutches of his damn books. Just like he knew that Satoru had been meeting you during the times that Satoya had been out from practice.
‘Tutoring’ his ass- tutoring didn’t mean Satoru needed to have you over. To his apartment.
To the place mere feet away from where he knew his brother stuffed a hoodie you’d left behind underneath his pillow.
Fucking tutoring-
“Sure thing. Have fun.” Metal in his tone. Metal in his gaze locked in on you—he’s pushing your phone down to the mattress and leaning over to kiss you. Tongue piercing scraping the edge of your lips- “But just know that I’ll be a hell of a lot more fun than my brother.”
.
.
.
It’s Valentine’s Day when the sudden slam! thunders across the library.
Gojo Satoya with chest puffed out in his letterman jacket, with his forearm banged down on one of the tables. He leans over the polished mahogany and stares straight into the eyes of a man that looked like his mirror image.
White hair.
Blue eyes.
Those same unfairly pretty features- one of which was twisted into a scowl. And the other—nothing but cool indifference.
Gojo Satoru arches a stark white brow and meets his brother’s eyes. “Can I help you?”
“You can help me by fucking off-” Satoya spits. And had they been anyone else, then the gapes and gasps and stares - even the stray camera that was peeking out - would have unnerved them. But the Gojo twins were used to the attention by now.
The only difference was that where one basked in it, the other shunned away from it.
And though the tips of Satoru’s ears flush bright red—he never was the type to back down from his brother. Satoru’s jaw clenches, “Though you may be known for such philandering proclivities, I can assure you that I am not much the same.”
“And I can assure you that my fist will meet your ugly face-”
“We have the same face.”
“-if you don’t call off that date you have with my girl.” Satoya pants out. Breathless with fury.
Though there was a smile on his face- and he has the audacity to turn and wave - to fucking wave - at some of the gawking on-lookers. Shooting that charming Gojo smile that was bound to make them think this was an act of brotherly jest.
It makes the other man perk up.
“Whose girl?” Satoru asks.
Satoya freezes. “Huh?”
But his younger brother cocks his head, almost as though he’d just found the answer to a particularly tricky question. “Whose girl?”
The frat president rears back. Without warning, he reaches out and grasps at the lapels of the other’s stupid Star Wars hoodies—“You heard what I said.” Glower permanent on his face, “You’re smart. Figure it out.”
Satoru narrows his eyes, glaring at the man through his glasses. “Don’t have enough of a brain to figure it out yourself?”
“I’ll tell you what I do have…” Smile wicked. Leaning into whisper, “And it’s something that you won’t stick in her even in your wildest fuckin’ dreams-”
“You fucking-”
“Ahem.”
A cough.
Not the annoying, grating voice of his brother (thought both the brothers).
But rather…something sweeter. Softer. Stern in a way that made both their cocks prick up just a tad-
They’re snapping their heads over to stare at you—you with your eyes narrowed, and your foot tapping. They both feel a lurch in their stomach as they wonder just how long you’d been standing there - just how much you’d heard.
They both gulp.
Your gaze takes its time travelling up the vision before you: the older brother with his fingers dug into the other’s hoodie, the younger brother with his fists clenched as though he was about to punch the other. Both their forearms pop with veins that decorate their muscles- even Satoru with his bulky frame covered in his soft clothes. “Gojo Satoya…”
The man in question plasters a smile across his face, “Yes, baby?”
“Let go of him-”
His fingers unclench.
Satoru is slumping onto his chair.
Satoya turns around and starts walking to you in an instant- “Baby, what are you doing here~?”
“Tutoring, because someone made me miss another one of Yaga’s classes.” Holding up your bag in emphasis, and at least Satoya has the decency to look sheepish.
“Aw, you know m’sorry about that.” He answers, sounding utterly unapologetic.
“Right…” Not that you believed him a single bit. Your narrowed gaze drifts past him and ends up resting on the slightly-ruffled man sitting at the table. “What are you even doing here? I didn’t think you knew the way to the library.”
“Hey!”
In the slight distance, Satoru stifles a laugh.
Satoya whips behind to glare at him- before turning back to you. “Just ah- you know, extending the invite to my party tonight.” And before you could interrogate him on why exactly an invitation constituted of having one’s hand at one’s brother’s throat—he’s turning to the little audience you’d gathered and yelling out. “And you fuckers are invited as well.”
The cheers are drowning out your questions.
“Toya- what-”
“Mmmm—” Before you’re getting cut off by his mouth on yours. Tongue piercing cold. “That new lip gloss of yours tastes good, baby.”
But how strange it was that once he’s breaking away from the slightly-heated kiss, you find Satoya’s eyes on none other than his own brother. Staring at the expressionless man as he claims your lips as his own.
His own.
Satoya leaves the library with a smack on your ass.
And you’re left off-kilter by the whole ordeal, wobbling on weakened legs to the chair opposite Gojo Satoru. Head down. Books open. Fingers twitching ever-so-slightly. There was a strange air about him, as unpiercing as concrete, that reminded you of however Satoru was when he was taking a particularly tough exam. He doesn’t meet your eyes as you take your seat before him, pulling out your books, your laptop, your excuses.
The chair screeches much too loud in the awed library.
“Honestly, I don’t know what’s the matter with him.” You’re sighing, “He’s been strange all week.”
Satoru doesn’t answer, but you continue.
“And he knows that I have that thing with you tonight- he knows that but he still keeps insisting I go to that damn party.”
He still doesn’t say a word.
“I’m not going, of course.” You start to open one of your notebooks, “I promised I’d spend time with you, Satoru. It’s just so calming to be with you—”
In his peripheral vision, he can see you start to rub your temples. And he can’t help but jolt—he would never make you feel like that.
And maybe that’s what makes Gojo Satoru lurch up from his seat and kiss you.
Kiss you.
Soft.
Fleeting.
Barely even a graze- his face burns the prettiest sunset pink. Hot enough that he’s sure steam emerges from his parietal bone, that his eyes tear up, that he feels feverish. Something inexplicable bubbles up from all the way deeeep within his core, and it expels as a few wobbly apologies murmured against your lips.
Before you’re grabbing ahold of his chin n’ tugging him to you.
“Th-that was my first kiss…” He whispers.
You smile.
.
.
.
Gojo Satoya’s party would be in full swing by now.
You’ve found that they usually peaked after midnight, with most of the fraternities joining and the music concocting into one booming heartbeat. The pulse of youth. It shook the walls of the Delta Jujutsu Pi mansion, it seeped into your very circulatory system and left Satoya’s parties addictive—it would have you in his bed by the end of the night, without fail.
But time spent with Satoru was the exact opposite.
In the best way.
Even sitting next to Gojo Satoru had his warmth seeping into every particle of your being, and it left you buzzing with his soothing energy. Like dipping into a hot spring. Like taking a loooong nap during a scalding summer.
It was the same relaxing sort of feeling after a sip of wine.
Like you could speak about anything and everything with him. Like you could make as many mistakes in his presence as you liked. And it wouldn’t matter—he would still wobble out that familiar, crooked smile.
It seemed as though the more of those stern, sterile layers you cracked through- the more you wanted to surge through even more. With much more gusto than Satoru would argue that you put in during your tutoring sessions, you admit (but what he doesn’t know is that you might just…organize a few more than you actually needed). Just a few more.
Just to see him.
And Satoru was smart, you had a nagging feeling that he knew. But he let you stumble your way through your notes anyway.
He left you drunk on the proximity of him, while his brother left you exhilarated.
You suppose you had Satoya to thank for that.
Because he was the only reason you actually encountered Satoru. Just one encounter before you’d actually bothered him into giving his phone number, prompting your tutoring sessions.
Before, you’d only seen Satoru in a blur of white hair n’ Pokemon hoodies- racing about from class to class.
He was always the first - both to class, and to the top of the grades list.
The stark opposite of his brother, who’d gotten into Tokyo Jujutsu University on a basketball scholarship. Satoru had three papers published under Nature, several student lectures under his belt, and a dorm lined with more trophies than atomic specks of dust. It was also agreed-upon by most in the department that he’d been picked personally by JAXA to work there the second he graduated.
And you’d always assumed that the man would be the uptight type - most people with so many accomplishments would be so. Though his brother, Satoya, with his equally impressive athletic accolades—it’d still been a surprise to find that Gojo Satoru was rather…shy.
He’d blushed furiously the first time he’d met you - in the unfortunate circumstance of walking inside Satoya’s room without knocking. Right when his brother had his head between your legs.
Though Satoya had laughed himself hoarse, it’d taken you forty-five minutes to get the bespectacled man to stop apologizing to you. And then only five to convince him that no- you weren’t dating his brother.
You remember the glare that Satoru had leveled at him then, pushing up his bangs to help it. “Figures.” He’d scoffed, whilst Satoya had calmed down just enough to stop his snickers. “He wouldn’t have been able to woo you like that anyway-”
“Woo? Woo—telling me about wooing-” Satoya had dramatically flailed into Satoru’s arms then, hand at his chest. “Dost thou knoweth anything about bagging the baddie? And here I thoughteth thou wast a virgin-”
“Sh-shut up—!” He’d thrown Satoya off, eyes flickering urgently between you and his brother. And it wasn’t long before the last you’re seeing of the blushing, babbling mess of Satoru was a stomp towards the door.
The slam of it.
Before it’s opened again just a crack-
“And in Shakespearean terms, I would technically be a maiden!”
You giggle just thinking about it.
And it makes the man in question look over with a quirked brow, sweater matching the same shade of pastel pink that he blushes. “S-sorry, I’m probably boring you-”
“Not at all.” You’re cutting him off in an instant. Fervently shaking your head, you join Satoru down upon his bedroom floor—carefully avoiding the blocks and pinches of Lego that were scattered around him like a blood spatter. It had been a slow, almost strangely sensual night - he’d invited you to his apartment where he’d cooked dinner for you.
A traditional Japanese course of dishes that he’d learned from his mother, he told you. Topped off ice cream homemade through the principle of freezing point depression.
He’d planned to make a strawberry shortcake, he said. But it seems in his frenzy to make everything perfect, he’d lost track of time and ended up with sweet-smelling char—sure, you’d come over to hangout with Satoru before. But to hangout on Valentine’s Day…
This was territory uncharted for Gojo Satoru.
Hell, he’d had his first kiss just the other day.
And so you’d been led inside his apartment- now a wonderland of the sweetest fairy lights and crooning tunes playing from one corner of the space. There, Satoru was the perfect gentleman—giving his arm out to walk you the mere few meters to the decorated dining table, tucking in your chair, plating his creations for you.
Made just how you liked them. How did he even remember?
It was a wonder to Satoru himself how he didn’t bumble or trip over his own two feet. And before long, the two of you had finished dinner and numerous conversations- carrying them over inside his bedroom.
Where he’d…pulled out a brand-new Lego set and gotten to work on it.
You’d found it more interesting to watch him - that focused furrow between his brows, the way his tongue stuck out ever-so-slightly - from the foot of his mattress. Unable to catch a glimpse of the box before Gojo stuffed it underneath his bed, you were only left to wonder just what it was he was building with so many reds and pinks.
He’s staring up at you unsurely now, and you insist. “I wanna see you build this, Satoru.”
“Are you sure?” He lets the long green spindle drop from his hands. Tugging down on the thick sleeves of his sweater, “I know that Toya has his party tonight and I p-promise I won’t be upset if you wanted to go there instead, y’know?”
“But I decided I’d spend Valentine’s Day with you.” You insist, “And spend Valentine’s Day with you—I will. I don’t need any party.”
“But-”
“Satoru.”
He’s giggling shyly to himself.
He takes the half-built piece of Lego in his hand and gets back to work on it—and you find yourself inching even closer to him. Knees pressing against crossed knees. Shoulders against shoulders.
“What are you building, by the way?” You ask. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Lego pieces like that…”
Concentrating on the miniature pieces through his ivory bangs. “You’ll see, sweetheart.”
And you don’t know whether it’s the smile on his lips, the dimple at the end of his grin, or that little pet name he’d given you—sweetheart—that made your heart race. Feeling your heart flip in that small but noticeable way it did whenever Satoya was around. Both of them? Whatever will you do with yourself.
It isn’t long before Satoru’s Legos start to form a clearer picture, and he’s working nimbly with the pieces.
In just a few minutes he has his body hunched- partially obscuring your view from the final touches to his creation. And soon enough, he’s pushing his glasses up his nosebridge, leaning back and thrusting out a bouquet of the most beautiful flowers you’ve ever seen. Plumes of rose and red and creamy white.
Little ferns on the side. Little hearts in the centers of his daisies.
He flushes fever-red as you take them from him. “F-for you.”
Satoru’s tone breaks at his confession.
“Satoru, they’re…” You’re breathless. The tip of your finger runs down the delicate petals that he’d spent time assembling, “I-I don’t even know what to say.”
“It’s for you.” He repeats, slightly firmer this time. “It was always for you.”
You’re snapping your head up to meet his determined blue eyes. So intense that they almost sparkled- “What do you…”
“Everything I do is for you—and that’s hard when I’ve always…” Satoru cuts himself off short. Slightly shaking his head, “But you deserve better than him.”
“Satoya?”
“Yes—” Breathed out as if he’d been wanting to say this for forever. “It’s hard when you look at my brother like…that- and I know that this isn’t my place. I know that this isn’t right of me to say. I know that this is selfish of me to request, but if you could just see…”
“See?”
“See that you deserve better than him.” His hands clasp your own around the ever-lasting stems. “And that- this isn’t fair of me to tell you let alone ask…but if you could just see that I—”
“What- that yer fucking shit at confessions?”
But of course, who else would it be but Gojo Satoya?
Pushing Satoru’s bedroom door further open and waltzing into the space- his towering frame almost seemed too large for the small space, almost left you breathless. Even though you knew that there wasn’t much of a height difference between the two-
Satoya’s hand on your wrist is instant. He bends down to meet eye-level with his brother on the floor, “Honestly, little brother, I would’ve had more respect for you if I’d walked in here and you were fuckin’ my girl right now.” He tugs you to his chest. “But here you got to her before me.”
“Feels good to be first, older brother.”
Suddenly they’re both on their feet - and so are you. Pressed between them—attempting to push away the two brothers from each other. From Satoya spitting, “That was supposed to be me giving those flowers to her- you knew. You fucking knew-”
“You thought she’d wait around forever?” Satoru crosses his arms. “And what were you doing on Valentine’s Day, huh?”
“Oh, grow up-”
“You grow up. While you were throwing one of your damn parties I-”
“I cancelled that damn party.”
That makes everyone pause.
And Satoya continues. He was looking right at you now- “You think there’d be anything to celebrate if you aren’t there beside me?”
And you can’t help but notice that there’s something slightly more…tender in Satoya’s tone. Something slightly more vulnerable- almost broken. There’s a sincerity in his eyes that makes him look younger, and it makes you squirm.
Something that Satoru’s sharp eyes pinpoint instantly- and he’s reaching out to tug you to him. This time being wrenched from his brother’s grasp and to you, “You can’t do that- you can’t just barge in here and try to disrupt what I’ve been wanting to do for so long—”
“And you think I haven’t?”
“What makes you think-”
“I knew her first-”
“I knew I loved her longer-”
“I know I loved her better-”
Satoru hisses. Pointing an accusing finger at the other man, “Says the man without the balls to even confess.”
“Says the damn virgin who only wishes he could touch her.” Satoya’s voice grows louder. He takes a step closer, and Satoru doesn’t back down. “Don’t act so high and mighty when you and I both know about the hoodie underneath-”
“Don’t you fucking dare-”
“Can you both shut the fuck up?!”
Your exasperated tone breaks through the argument- leaving the room ringing with silence thereafter.
And so you finally say your piece—“You guys…” Massaging your throbbing temples, the Lego bouquet was still in your hands- and you’re just now realizing that the t-shirt you’d been wearing was Satoya’s. Both of them on you. Around you. “How about we solve this like the civilized adults that we are?”
Satoya scoffs, crossing his muscular arms over his chest. “Tch- yeah, and how do you suppose that?”
“Though I’d be more than happy to hear you out, sweetheart, I can’t promise to conduct myself according to such methodology.”
And so you tell them.
And the silence after is deafening—
“You want us to what-”
“Anatomically, is that even-”
“No way.” Satoya stabs a finger at his brother. “I don’t wanna see this fucker’s two-inch-”
“Mine’s likely bigger than yours-”
“Fucking right-”
“Want to bet?”
It’s only a few minutes later before both brothers have their hands on you- have their mouths dragging down your neck. From the front, from behind. One of them kissing down your spine. One of them nibblin’ on your collarbone—and you can only flutter your eyes closed and fucking moan at the sensation.
Two hot, needy mouths on you.
All over you.
Someone - it must be Satoru - leans his head down and captures your mouth as his own. He lavishes the soft edge of his tongue between your wettened crevice, and gaaasps as you’re opening your mouth for him.
Clearly never having kissed anyone so deeply- anyone like this at all—he whimpers as he’s shyly meeting your tastebuds with his. “S-sweetheart-”
“Oh, lemme show ya how it’s done.” Physically pushing his brother away with a hand on his face- Satoya cranes his neck from behind you. A hand clasping your throat and tuggin’ you to meet his ravenous lips—“This is how you kiss a girl.”
And before he’s smoochin’ you, he purses his lips and spits a great dollop of saliva that falls gently into your maw.
Sloppy.
Satoya barely spends the time wipin’ the excess splatter away before he’s roughly shoving his tongue inside. Swirling his textured tastebuds across every single inch of you—letting his curvaceous tip tickle the back of your throat.
Whenever Satoya kissed you, it almost felt as if he was fucking you with his tongue.
Again and again. And his wet muscle scrapes the sides of your mouth as he’s jostling it back and forth- leaving you weak in the knees.
“See?” He scoffs at his younger brother. “Gotta kiss her till she’s stupid.”
“How uncouth.” Satoru pushes his glasses up. “Let me try.”
And then the other twin takes over- how dizzying it was to have a man with the same features, but with such different mannerisms. Satoya relentlessly leaves half-moon nail marks on your skin when he sets you free, but Satoru leans in and cups your face like a delicacy—even as his brother scoffs at the act.
“She likes being fucked dirty, lemme tell you.”
Satoya’s lewd remark is lost to the way that Satoru purses his pretty plump lips and spits—
More like drools.
A lecherous stream of spittle that ends up fallin’ onto your tastebuds- and he watches with widened eyes as you take it all in. All of it. Throat bobbing as it hits every orifice, Satoru feels it deep down in his cock once you tilt your head back and swallow-
Looking straight into both their eyes as you do.
“O-oh my-”
“Fuck.”
“I think m’gonna cum just from that.”
Satoya looks at Satoru, and they exchange a silent conversation with their gaze. Both murky blue-eyed and narrowed down at you- you’re given absolutely no warning before you’re being scooped up in a tangle of their strong arms. Satoya on your waist. Satoru cushioning your head.
They’re sprawling you out on Satoru’s bed and barely letting you hit the second bounce before they’re on you-
“Let me.”
“I hardly think that’s-”
“And which one of us does this pretty pussy like better?” Satoya pretends to cup his ear and listen - not to you, not to his brother. He’s listening to the drenched in-betweens of your legs, where if you press your thighs together then it lets out a faint squelch! “Exactly.”
Grumbling, Satoru decides to let Satoya have the bed space between your thighs.
The mattress dips where you needed them the most, and you’re feeling hot breath against your cunt. Scorching. Simmering. Taking your attention for the slightest second before you peer up at Satoru- smiling at the pouty man.
Wordlessly, you’re beckoning him with your hand.
And he seems to startle- before following your every word. Your every action. Your every syllable.
Gojo Satoru thinks he would kill a man just to have you look at him like this—always.
With your lashes fluttering up at him as he nears, with your fingertips eager to touch him- it feels like torture as soon as he’s near enough for you to play with his drawstrings. Your fingers curving into the soft cotton of his sweatpants, your palm skidding down the looooong cylindrical print of his dick. It was just so long and thick that it made you gape.
That it made your mouth water.
That it made your digits dip just below the hemline of Satoru’s grey sweatpants-
And Satoya - gruff at the attention you were drowning his brother in - decides to then drown himself in your wet pussy—he’s like a man starved. Barely leaving enough time to shove apart your legs, barely leaving enough time to push your panties to the side-
In fact, he doesn’t push your panties to the side before licking up your entrance.
Feeling for that cute vertical line of your slit through the drenched fabric. Satoya was lapping and tuggin’ apart both the underwear and your pussylips.
Lavishing just a flick of attention down your clit before he dives into your role.
Rough. Ruthless.
Rarely wasting a single second- rarely even waiting for you to accommodate his size. He just flops his lengthy muscle between your thickened folds, licking up the first few inches of your channel, before reaching back n’ fucking you in hard, rapid thrusts.
Again and again.
He’s pressing the silver orb of his piercing into every tender lil’ spot inside you.
And though Gojo Satoya was the mean type in bed, never have you known him to be this…greedy.
“S-sweetheart—” You didn’t even realize that you’d been momentarily rendered stunned by the sheer primal streeeeetch between your legs. Not until Satoru’s gasping tone permeates the air, and he’s jerking his hips up cutely. “Sweetheart, please-”
“Heh.” Satoya snickers into your cunt. The vibrations are zapping forces of electricity right up your spine-
Satoru ignores him. “I need you.” He confesses—and the sheer desperation in his voice is enough to make you buck, and to make Satoya grumble in annoyance. The older brother uses one hand to latch onto your pretty hips, roughly draggin’ you right back down onto the creaky bedsprings. That ancient furniture protests as you’re being pinned down.
And so does Satoru-
But Satoya’s cutting him off, “I don’t care what you do- but do not fuckin’ move her from my mouth.” His frigid tongue piercing sticking against the top of your clit and making you squuuuuirm. “I haven’t eaten all night.”
And your clouded mind is almost about to ask what he means-
Before he’s slitherin’ his tongue back down and flickering in and out of your hole- sliding across every hidden inch of you. Letting his prominent nose crush up against your nub.
“And this pussy’s always so tasty—”
“Fuh-fuck—!” It’s Satoru that breaks the lecherous slurps n’ squelches this time- through the cacophony, his voice rings out so prettily. Because just then you’d properly pulled down his sweatpants and taken the nerdy man’s thiiiiick, throbbing cock in your hands.
Your lips part.
Long. Rock-hard.
So hard, in fact, that this might as well have been the first time in his life that Gojo Satoru has ever been hard. It feels as though he was buuuuuurning up all the way from his globular red tip, splurgin’ out wads of precum that coat a sheen down your wrist. Gliding down to your elbow.
Actually- it wasn’t just sappy precum. It was globular beads of gleaming white that are escaping n’ escaping out of him the second you’re touching him.
Pretty round balls flinching. Every part of him was just the most innocent pink.
He throws his head back as he empties out volume after volume of his seed- so much in just a few seconds. Though not as much as he would like to, because in a split-second, Satoru reaches his hand down and plugs his leaking hole up with a thumb.
“Awww…” You’re pouting in disappointment. The excess of his cum drivels down your arm, creating patterns between your fingers.
He looks down at the sight of your voice and- fuck, he can’t handle it. He’s looking away.
Satoru can’t help but whimper. “Fuck, don’t say that. I th-think m’gonna cum again—”
“Already?” Satoya scoffs.
“Shut up.” Satoru bites back. And he might have all the endurance he needs to last all night with a textbook and his notes in front of him, but the studious man was now fighting for his life—whispering formulas underneath his breath just to bate his impending high again. So close. “Euler’s method of sequence consists of…”
But the more you’re feeling him, the harder Satoru grows.
He lays out heavily across your palm, the girth of his erection making you falter. A heft to him that makes you clench ‘round Satoya’s mouth—and the other man can’t help but grunt. He leaves a man spank! on top of your clit that leaves you squealing. “Are you focusing on me or my brother, baby?”
Barely managing to gurgle out, “B-both?”
By now you’d wrapped your fingers around Satoru’s swollen cock- giving his bulging tip slow n’ steady pumps. He chases your hand with rhythmic bucks.
But Satoya wasn’t done just yet-
After a single slide of his piercing, you’re feeling yet another slap. Rudely smearing his fingertips ‘round your clit- “Hmmm, I don’t think that’s good enough. Isn’t that right, Satoru?”
“Sh-shit—” Satoru shivers at the feeling of eyes on him. “I believe that’s right-”
“Mhmm—”
“W-what do you…” And it leaves your head dizzy to register just how fast the two brothers had gone from fighting to friends—to toying with your body together. They were meeting eyes and briefly nodding.
And it’s the last thing you’re seeing before Satoru tucks a hand underneath your chin and tilts your gaze up to his. “Forgive my disrespect, sweetheart.”
He wraps his larger fingers ‘round your own dominant hand- the one that’d been jerking off his cock. And with it all nice n’ tight, Satoru squeezes your hand at his base and starts thrusting—rutting. Like an animal in heat, he’s fucking the circular space your hand made as if he wishes it was your cunt.
“But the one you should be focusing on is me.”
Throwing a jealous look down at his grinning brother- mouth all glowing with slick. The bespectacled man tuts and reaches down to sneak his free hand underneath your t-shirt.
Dipping underneath your bra and directly groping your tits-
“Heh, look at you.” Satoya rolls his half-lidded eyes—already looking so murky with the juices of your pussy. More n’ more of it dripping down his chin as he’s thrashing his pierced tongue between your pussylips- faster n’ faster.
And the thing about Satoya was that he didn’t care if it made you squirm.
He didn’t care if it left your body restless.
He didn’t care- in fact, it was all the better if he could overstimulate you with only a few sloppy strokes. And with both Gojo twins - one babble away
Suddenly, you’re swearing that the circular metal of his piercing was hittin’ straight into one of your best spots. G-spot throbbing with pressure- and it’s making you plant your feet onto the edge of the mattress and buck-
And get draaaagged back down by Satoya’s ruthless hands. Stuck to you like adhesive.
“You seriously think I’d let my dinner escape so easily?” He asks, more to himself. His rasping tone makes a primal part of you open up, and the frat president giggles at just how much wetter you’re getting. “Awwww, look how much wetter she’s getting f’me.”
Peeking up at his brother and watching him flinch. Possessive, possessive.
Satoru pinches your right nipple. Capturing where you were softest between two fingers, he teases that peak. “There is not enough evidence for that conclusion.”
And Satoya has to admit that he feels your cunt glistenin’ even more at Satoru’s ministrations. “I don’t do any of that science shit-”
“You don’t do anything-”
“Except eat my girl out goooooood.” Dipping his tongue in and out—this time, Satoya was expanding his tastebuds and showin’ off the sheer layers of your juices that stuck to him. He always did have an incredible length to him, shovelling properly in, in, in. “Jealous?”
Satoru shivers as the crown tip of your thumb rubs down his cockhead’s slit. “N-no, because her mind’s on me anyways-”
“You fuckin’ wish.”
You almost forgot just how competitive the two could be - united in ruining you, but breaking apart at the very seams. It both bothered and turned them on to think about havin’ to drag your attention away from the other man, to think about accelerating their pace until it was nothing but a blur—Satoru’s cock clasped between your fingertips, Satoya’s tongue dipping in and out of your hole.
Fishing out so many ribbony wires of slick that it’s formulating a puddle down below. He just knew your pussy so well, and Satoru just had this utter need to him that was-
“It’s me that you want, right?” Satoru leans down to hush against the shell of your ear- his scorching hot breath setting your entire body alight. “It’s-”
“Now that’s just playing dirty.” In retaliation, Satoya slaps your clit one more—and it makes you see stars. Just because that makes your fist tighten around his brother’s cock, he lands at least three more sharp spanks before lashin’ his tongue piercing against your clit once more. A few more times as if to soothe the sting, “Didn’t know you had it in you, Satoru.”
“Oh, please…” Satoru looks away. “That’s why she should’ve been with me from the start-”
“Now that’s pushing it.”
Two more direct slams of his fingertips against your cunt- that part of you felt just as raw as your walls by this point.
You’re bucking up against the dampened sheets- “Please- oh…”
“What’s that?”
“What is it, sweetheart?”
“I th-think I’m gonna-”
“Shush, baby.” To your shock, Satoya shushes you both. Right before you could finish your sentence- he merely lugs his gaze back down to admire your pretty pussy
And you were almost sure you were hallucinating, because there was no way, there could be absolutely no way…but Gojo Satoya was fucking your cunt with his mouth and nodding along to every noise he produces.
Humming at the slurps, affirming at the squelches.
Almost as though he was in deep conversation with your soppin’ wet core, Satoya licks a few more times up your crevice. Before he’s finally looking up with a faux-apologetic grin, “Sorry- she’s chatty today. My pussy says she’s about to cum.”
Your jaw drops-
“Toya, you’re fucking filthy.”
He slips his metallic piercing against the roof of your cunt, thud-thud-thud—! Probing in so deep as if to say that he knows he is- and his brother bucks up even harder into your soft palm. So needy. “Th-that’s not possible.” Satoru gasps out, pushing his condensation-filled glasses further up his nose. “According to my research, there is no linguistic nature of the genitalia-”
“This is why yer a fuckin’ virgin.” Satoya rolls his hazy eyes.
Before you know it, the older of the two brothers leans upwards and bites his canines around your clit. That throbbing nub was stuck between his perfect lips- he counts a few heartbeats from your cunt, before wrenching his mouth back. Murmuring deep into your pussy—“Watch and learn as I make her cum, little brother. She’ll be thinking of me as I make her cum.”
“Sh-shit, Toya…”
Blue eyes meet bespectacled blue eyes- and Satoru’s gaze narrows. “She’ll cum because of me.” His fingers - so honed from all his sharp note-taking - finds it easy to twist n’ turn your nipples in all the ways you liked.
He was alternating between both, flickering his thumb around your soft areolas.
“That’s the spirit.” Satoya says, almost talking down. “But m’doing it first-”
“I disagree-”
“At least use her mouth.” Muffling against your pussylips, Satoya’s mouth opens up so wiiiiiide to engulf every part of your dripping wet cunt. Like Satoru, he was following an alternating method that has his textured tastebuds hittin’ the inside of your channel one second, and counting the throbs of your clit the next.
Satoya raises an unimpressed brow, “Well? What’re you waiting for? I told you she’s a dirty girl-”
“Shut up, m’not delaying…” Though he was. He really, really was. Satoru hesitates - not because he didn’t want to—fuck, how he wanted to.
How he really, really wanted to.
But he’s on his sixtieth formula by now and already about to explode- already dribblin’ out milky wads of precum. It was growing thicker and more incessant by the second, and Satoru could feel himself trembling, he could feel his heavy balls start to clench—
And yet that smug look on his brother’s face is enough to spur him into action.
Satoru jerks his hips just a little too hard on purpose- and all it takes is the tiniest glide between your puckered lips for him to shatter.
Into all sorts of zillions of pieces. Into looooong ribbony wires of cum that dribble down like a waterfall from the agitated red divot at his tip.
It’s letting out all sorts of lecherous noises as he cums—and soon enough your vision’s flooded with white. Just the most gleaming layers of his ivory sap that drench you, and at this point you can’t quite worry about it getting everywhere n’ all into your hair- because Satoya’s quirking his tongue just right to make you cum.
To tip you over the edge.
Those waves of pleasure break across every inch of your being- leaving your limbs trembling. Toes curling. Spine arching - making it all the more easy for Satoya to grab your hips in one hand and make you rut against him. He’s lashin’ out thorough strokes against every inch of your clit, the tip of his tastebuds resting teasingly on your clit.
Feeling for just how much your hole quivers for him- and you’re quiverin’ away just enough, Satoya fucks you through the peaks of your high. Peak after peak.
His younger brother elongates those white-hot whizzes of pleasure by twisting your nipples. Toying. They were just so sensitive after so much contact, making you shake into him.
Your tongue sticks out to taste more of his salted caramel seed.
And your head clouds with raw carnal pleasure, “P-please, it feels so good—” Lips wobbling, both brothers lean in to see which name you’re ending your sentence off with. “-Gojo.”
They’re sharing looks with each other.
And then they’re looking at you.
“Now now, we can’t have that.” Satoya croons.
“If that was a question during our practice tests, sweetheart, you’d get zero marks.” Satoru breathes out, finally having caught his breath. Though he still slightly trembled with the aftershocks of his orgasm, swirlin’ the roundness of his cockhead down your mouth—“Shit.”
He pulls away before he cums yet again.
“Newton’s first law of gravity…”
“Fuckin’ virgin.” Satoya repeats. “Pussydrunk from just- hah, that-”
“I beg your pardon-”
“Pussydrunk from just that-” He’s spankin’ down on your clit with his tongue- “Isn’t that right, baby? He should be more like- mmpf, me—” Struggling to get through the constant thrashes of his tongue, the way his jaw unhinges further. “Should be more in control-”
“Fuck-” Fucking his pierced tongue back into your struggling channel - it makes you gasp.
“Should be more—fuck, nonchalant. Heh.”
“Toya, again-”
“Should be more…mmmm.”
And it’s then that you’re realizing that Gojo Satoya wasn’t planning to finish his sentence - he wasn’t planning to even pull away. He was further reaching between your legs and gasping as he fucked your cunt with his mouth again and again and again-
“Move.”
When pushing doesn’t work, Satoru grabs ahold of Satoya’s hair and wrenches the man away from your pussy—fuck. You could feel yourself growing unfairly wetter at the surprising forcefulness to the nerdy man.
Before long, Satoya’s been pushed aside whilst the bespectacled twin fits himself between your legs.
Satoya raises a brow as if waiting-
One impatient tick that turns into something of impressive nature—because without warning, Satoru spits. Messy, just like his twin had.
“I have to wash him off.” He murmurs, watching the line of spit fall vertically down your slit. Before he lurches his face into your cunt soooo far deep that you’re sure he wouldn’t be able to breathe. And he’s eating you out like he doesn’t need to.
Doesn’t care to.
White brows furrowing, a moan cracks at the back of his throat. Fingers tightening. Blue eyes going wide. There’s an electric current that runs through Satoru’s body- like the first taste of your treacly pussy had him seeing heaven itself.
Those pearly gates were openin’ up wide for him—and so were your legs.
And it’s on pure animal instinct that he jerks himself even closer. Unfastening his maw, he’s sloshin’ his wet muscle inside again and again.
And again and again.
His first time tasting pussy, and he was gone already.
The length of Satoru’s tongue was about as incredible as Satoya’s, though slightly less flexible. But it was that lumbering inexperience of his that made his entrances feel so good - constant, with no rhyme or reason other than sticking inside so sloppily that it made your eyes roll to the back of your head.
“I need to…oh.” Satoru gasps out into your pussy. Grabbing your quivering flesh even tighter- “I need to—ngh, fuck.”
“Need to what, Toru?” You’re asking in that pretty voice of yours.
And it’s damn near enough to make him cum again- urging his body to rut against yours. “I need- fuck. I need to r-remember my studies…”
“Your studies?”
“Hah- you studied?” Satoya snickers out from somewhere above you. “Nerd.”
It gives you a good jolt to realize that he’d somehow walked right up to where your body was laid, making the bed creak once he rests his thick kneecaps against the mattress. The area beside your head dips as the older brother inches closer—
Satoru nods belatedly at your question. “I r-read about this during one of my…long and lonely nights.” Peering up at you through his long lashes, something unreadable in his eyes. “Fucked my cock raw learning about how I’d make you feel good.”
Rutting. Humping the mattress.
“I read about it in medical journals- I even read about it on sex forums.” He pants out, “And I—I fucking took notes…” Looking around his room as though to grab them right now. “But now, I just can’t remember…”
Plastering those slick lips of his against your entrance—and then whimpering as he pulls away- for but a mere second before he lands back down. A few more open-mouthed kisses prior to the entire sequence repeating.
Like he was struggling not to lose himself to your cunt.
Like he was struggling not to kiss n’ kiss his swollen mouth against your pussy - you were just too addictive. He was fighting with himself to actually wrench away from your sloppy hole n’ clear his head. The valedictorian was stumped.
He stares down intensely at your drivelling pussy, his glasses frames crushing against your folds.
Pouting against your clit at this little dilemma- meanwhile Satoya comments something about how it was a miracle that Satoru found the clit in the first place.
“Pussy so good ya can’t even think.” The older twin is tittering down at you.
And it’s the last thing you’re hearing—before suddenly whatever noises erupted in your throat are being fuuuucked back down.
With a singular stripe of his rotund cockhead. Thick and aching.
Pounding away at the back of your neck. In those brief moments that you’d been distracted, the other brother had tugged down his ripped jeans and boxers. Bearing your lips with his thickening tip - from up-close, it seemed as though Satoru might actually have been longer.
But Satoya was heeeefty and fat enough that he always left your thighs pressing together.
That flared tip of his glistens in the dim light, it perfectly illuminated the patterns of his veins. So many of them coverin’ the circumference and length of him, whirling their way ‘round and ‘round and—and now you were feeling those very same patterns indent in the back of your throat.
The nerd was longer while the frat boy was thicker.
Satoya pulls his hips back and leaves you gasping- “Heh…”
Just to watch how you’re ruined on his fat fuckin’ cock.
You’re barely blinking before suddenly Satoya’s hounding figure finds itself climbing properly onto the bed- with each of his incredibly thick legs straddling your face. Muscles flexing whilst Satoya crushes you between his thighs and fucks that pretty mouth of yours.
With harsh, humpin’ thwacks! of his tannish cockhead. He tastes like a slightly sweeter version of his brother, you feel sinful admitting - and that wonderous part of your brain thinks that it might be because of Satoya’s better diet as an athlete-
Thwack! Thwack!
“Oi—” He’s slammin’ the rounded edge of his tip down on your tongue. One hand on your chin to gape your jaw wide enough for him, “Don’t zone out w’me, baby.”
“I wasn’t…” You mumble stubbornly.
“Yeah, right.” Satoya snickers. He’s then back to bumpin’ away his swollen cockhead at your throat- reaching for that lil’ dangly thing that he always loved to play with.
It was just obscene how much your lips were stretching and gaping around his thick size.
Smearing your pretty lipstick down his shaft—shit, he might just get that shit tattooed on his cock. Decorating every solid inch of him with the looooong sensual fucks he was planting into your dewy wet mouth. “See that?” Satoya calls over his shoulder, “My girl was fuckin’ bored with you eating her out.”
“Erm- actually—”
“Shut up and do yer job.”
Satoru pushes his thick glasses up his nose- “Fuck off.” Pretending he doesn’t hear his brother’s chuckles. And you have to realize that Gojo Satoru wasn’t the valedictorian for no reason - he was nothing if not determined. And if he was an academic weapon, then surely he could be a weapon between your legs, too?
Somehow, he’s so pussydrunk that he whispers this between your legs. Almost as if a promise to your pussy.
And right—there was another reason he was valedictorian.
He had a damn good memory.
“Th-the Gräfenberg spot is typically located on the anterior vaginal walls.” He’s rattling off- now removing his greedy mouth (but only with a few extra kisses) to reach up with shivering fingers. Satoru’s slender fingertips pry apart your swollen folds, pressin’ inwards sensually.
“Oh—” You’re gasping as much as you could - though it was so difficult with Satoya’s cock stuffing your orifice.
And Satoru gapes at the quivers of your pussy- “About two to three inches up the mucosa, it’s part of the prostate system that—” The rest of his sentence gets swallowed up by Satoya grabbing either side of your sweaty head and using it as leverage. Digging his neat nails into your skin, he ruts down into you like he’s furious-
“And has a theorized structure of vascular networks causing sexual stimulation.” He rasps out, mouth now moved to gulp at your pretty clit. Satoru watches his brother fuck your poor maw- and his two fingers start matching his pace. Meeting it.
Hard and frenzied.
You’re feeling one prod at the back of your throat, and then another into the deepest depths of your cunt.
Velvety walls clamping down on Satoru’s digits as though trying to memorize him in there—his pretty fingertips. Souring every inch of you. Faster and faster, he gets more ravenous to find that gooey spot inside that he knows would make you feel good-
“Need any help, little brother?”
Satoru scowls, “Never.”
“Heh, alright.” Satoya responds, “But just know that m’not going easy on my girl.”
“I’m not going easy on my girl, either.”
And then it happens- all in one go.
Satoya bottoms out until your nose presses against the curls of white at his base.
Satoru pumps his fingers into your throbbing g-spot.
And he realizes by the way you’re clenching.
Immediately. He jerks his nimble fingers back and thrashes in just a few more times- targeting that one bundle of nerves. And perhaps it’s in their genetics, because both Satoru and Satoya are able to aim every movement to perfectly strike that spot.
That round, throbbing spot.
He’s scrapin’ his fingertips on the wettened area of it—“I found it…” Breathless, as if he couldn’t believe it himself. “I really found it- it’s right here—” Demonstrating by making a long slide down that sweet spot, “Right on this part of the adventitia that has this little- fuck.”
“Ngh—fuck, that feels good.” You’re muffling out between gasps. Satoya’s furiously hard cockhead hittin’ your throat once more. He fills you up with both his dollops of pre and his inches-
“Tch, beginner’s luck.” Satoya scoffs. “Now, the real challenge is getting that pretty pussy to cum- you see, I’m her favorite so-”
“Uh-huh.” Satoru nods - not at his brother. But down at your pussy—“Really? Because she says I’m her favorite now.”
“D’you copy during your exams, too?”
“Are you a sore loser during your games, too?”
With barbed words exchanged from both sides, they’re both toying with your pretty body. So cute and overstimulated like this- so it’s no surprise that with only a few more strokes of Satoru’s fingers, and with a few more thrusts of Satoya’s cock, you’re falling apart all over again.
All because of them.
Push after push.
Rub after rub.
Fucking you through the riotous peaks of your orgasm.
Since this was your second in a short amount of time, they were sharper n’ more unpredictable than before.
The only thing you can do is lean back into the rickety mattress and take everything you’re given, those bursts of pleasure turning nearly unbearable every time Satoru bruises your pretty g-spot. Memorized its place. Studied it.
Digging past your elastic walls like he’d go even deeper if he could. He wonders how much further till your womb…
Meanwhile Satoya reaches behind him to slap your poor, puckered nipples.
They were ripe after his brother’s groping earlier, and all the other man has to do is spank you around a little to make your body writhe. “P-please-”
“Awww, don’t cry, my poor baby.” Satoya’s roughened fingertips then move to wipe your tears. Gently dragging his knobbled tips down the side of your wet face- “How’re you gonna suck my cock if you’re crying?”
At this, your jaw drops. And Satoru can’t help but startle out a laugh—“You’re a fucking animal, you know that?”
“I know.”
“Be nice.”
“Nah.”
And to your surprise, Satoru isn’t reprimanding him anymore - he’s simply peeking up and taking pleasure in the sight of you havin’ every inch of your mouth ruined. Until your lips were swollen. Until your nose tingled at the scratch of his unruly white happy trail—and Satoya himself can’t help but trek his left hand down and piiiiiinch your nostrils closed. Still shoveling his cck at a frenzied pace.
Just to watch you squirm.
Satoru hums something interested.
And pinches your clit—
You think you might be shattering into your third high of the night, your fourth.
Either way, all you know is that a few seconds have passed by the time you’re blinking your hazy eyes open again - cunt sensitive, throat shot - and staring down at the vision of Satoru and Satoya who’ve regrouped themselves to the foot of the bed now.
They’d both climbed aboard now, and it dipped with pressure.
It’s as if you were seeing double.
You stare wide-eyed at the men who looked so-very alike: their mouths swollen n’ dripping with your slick, their cocks dripping with their own.
Messy white hair.
Glazed blue eyes.
It was impossible to pick which one was more handsome- both so attractive in two completely different ways. Both so attractive even when they were…playing rock-paper-scissors?
“Rock-”
“Paper-”
“Scissors-”
“Shoot-”
“I win.”
Satoru holds up the paper in retaliation to Satoya’s rock—and the other man looked as though he could so-very-conveniently punch the other man with it. Satoya’s brows furrow, eyes flickering over from his brother to you. “I’m sorry, baby. Your Toya tried-”
“Hey-”
But the other man is merely sighing as he finds himself thrown next to you, taking off his jacket and coaxing you into his big arms. And how could you deny?
Satoya was chiselled until it was almost unfair- how could a man in real life possibly look this good? It was almost Herculean in nature, with the most luscious pecs and abs that could go on for daaaaays—there was a natural attractiveness to them that drew your eyes. And you could already feel your mouth watering at the thought of being wrapped up in him- which, of course, makes the older twin flex up at Satoru.
Despite cumming in your mouth moments prior, Satoya was rock-hard. Just the slightest cap of creamy white covering his mushroomy tip.
One that he’s swiping on his thumb and reaching up to press between your lips. “Drink up, now.” He’s cooing down at you, pushing in the rest of the remnant sap across your face. Gojo Satoya had left a mess. “Yer gonna need it with this fucker-”
“Oh.” At Satoru’s protests, you turn to him. “But I think he’ll do great- won’t you, Toru?”
Satoya looks at you incredulously, “Baby, he’s a virgin—you think he’ll be able to fuck you like he deserves-”
“I fear it has slipped your mind that I’m right here-”
“And he talks like that.”
Satoru pushes those glasses of his - now lacquered in a layer of your sweet, sweet sap - up his nose. For perhaps the first time tonight, he’s speaking out in an even tone. “Spread her legs f’me, big brother.”
“Eugh, get away from me.”
“I’m going to punch you.”
“Tch—” Satoya scoffs- but makes to rest his hands on your legs. He’s easily maneuvering you to sit against that toned chest you loved so much - your back against his front, your head falling back against his collarbone.
Practically a full nelson.
Both sets of his fingers dig against the flesh of your inner thighs- wrenching those trembly limbs open. And you’re helping him do so with a whimper- “Not too eager now, baby.” Satoya hums against your ear, “Satoru here’s gonna fuck you. And after that…this pretty pussy’s gonna be happy to feel me.”
As Satoru settles himself between your legs, Satoya’s hands dip higher and higher. The curvature of his fingertips tracing patterns across your sizzlin’ skin, he’s just about to reach between your pussylips and press on your clit when-
“Satoya.” Satoru’s voice sounds huskier than ever.
The sudden change in tone is what makes you turn your head- but it’s the sight of him that makes you keep your head tilted.
Satoru had tugged off his soft sweater by now—and what was underneath that soft sweater was anything but…Nearly as chiselled as his older brother, Satoru cocks his head to the side and watches your reaction.
Watches you gawk at the fine lines of his defined muscles, the way his biceps flexed as he throws his sweater off to the side. Toned pecs. A firm v-line.
Now, you’d always assumed that Gojo Satoru was the somewhat lanky type- perhaps somewhere in the middle? He was tall and broad, but those loose clothes of his made it hard to determine anything other than the fact that he had really good shoulders. What an utter shock to realize that he had more than just good shoulders-
“It’s my N-New Year’s Resolution.” Satoru’s voice pipes up, this time in the softer, more familiar tone that you knew was his. You’re ripping your eyes away from his body (quite the difficult task) to meet his shy gaze. “I’ve been working out.”
Your jaw drops, “But it’s still February?”
“Genetics.” Satoya pipes up from behind you. Looking at Satoru- “And unfortunately we are related.”
“Shut it.” It seems that Satoru’s brash side only ever came out when he was with his brother - and he’s narrowing his blue peripherals at your core. “And spread my girl’s legs wider. I won’t fit between them otherwise.”
“Aye aye, captain.”
It’s not long before your hamstrings are being stretched as far apart as they’d go—and the burning pleasure in your limbs are almost as satisfying as the one between your legs. The one at your very dewy pussy that squelches as Satoru perks his hips closer.
One hand guiding his thick tip, the other pressing down on your right thigh.
“Fuck.” He gasps once his furious, red cockhead slides between your pussylips- just a few liiingering slides uuuuuup and down.
Satoru’s head falls forward. His body arches into yours.
He’s letting out a slew of curses every time he’s ruttin’ his hips against yours- not even properly fucking you, just sandwiching his thickened shaft between your pussylips. Feeling the way your sodden lips were swallowing him up—clenching.
Your hole wanted him so badly.
“Fuck fuck fuck-” the feeling of your inner mucosa. Satoru stumbles across his movements, properly positioning his tip now to actually push inside your entrance. There’s a line of drool gliding down the corner of his mouth. “Fuck.”
Over a million words in the English language, over 500,000 words in Japanese. Over 370,000 words in Modern Chinese, over 40,000 words in Classical Latin, and over 10,000 words in Swahili - and that’s not counting the languages that he wasn’t fluent in.
An abundance of words, and yet he can’t truly describe what he’s feeling when he first enters your pussy.
A sudden shiver scatters goosebumps across his body, and he’s straining his arm against your legs—you swear you could almost hear the slurp! of his precum emptying straight onto your pussylips. Inside. The sensation of feeling a pussy - your pussy - for the first time was almost too much for the inexperienced man, and he’s bucking.
He’s humping.
Probin’ aside your pussylips and stretching out your entrance into a wiiiiide ‘oh’. Though his brother might have been thicker than him, Satoru himself wasn’t exactly slender.
Though smooth n’ curved in just the way that let him slip inside—
“Fuck- you’ve taken my virginity.” He’s acting like an animal. “Quantum Field Theory—” A slurring sentence leaving him with every single thrust, it almost sounded as though he was drunk. “Electromagnetism-” He’s reaching so deeply inside of you with his curvaceous pink tip, just the crowned edge of his cock that was aiming to claim every spot inside you. Every hidden spot. “Fluid dynamics- Navier–Stokes equation is the application of F = ma to fluids-”
“I have another fluid dynamic for ya…heh.” Satoya grubs against the side of your temple. With a burst of scorched laughter, he’s leaning himself back against the mattress - and taking you right along with him.
And Satoru can’t help but chase your cunt with feral need.
Barely letting Satoya rest before he’s takin’ over your slick entrance to swirl n’ swirl his tip inside. Mazing inside. Mouth watering as his older twin rests his hands underneath your thighs and peeeels your legs even further to their sides.
It makes you squeal as you feel a sudden splosh! escape from your quivering cunt. “O-oh—now that’s just unfair.”
“Unfair?” Satoya scoffs. “What’s unfair is this fucker cumming early.”
“Huh?” Satoru cranes his head to look down at wherever nonsense- oh.
Oh…he really had cum early.
Creamy white sap froths your entrance like icing. Gluing against either side of your thighs, dribbling down the line of your slit. Every time that he’s lurching his cock in just an inch, a splurge of it glazes his rude cockhead and trickles down his shaft. From there, it looked as though your cunt was wearing the prettiest gloss upon your folds- and Gojo Satoru would definitely agree.
And it’s only then that the realization hits - to both you and the utterly pussydrunk Gojo Satoru - that he’d cum just from feeling your pussy.
Sometime during the first touch up your slit, n’ the first time he had thrusted—and of course, what else is one to do but admire their handiwork? What else is one to do but reel their hips back just a little and thrust and thrust—
Making Satoya giggle at the sheer force. He’s being pushed back against the damn headboard with every single sodden thrust into you- “Easy there, little brother.”
“Fuck off. Ejaculation is simply a natural process of the urethral meatus in response to stimulation- so what?”
“I’m just saying…” And with a single flick of his thumb, Satoya has your clit pulsing between his fingertips. “Keep going like that and yer gonna wear yourself out before you can ruin her—”
“Wh-what do you mean?” At this, Satoru looks up through his thick bangs.
“Cheh, didn’t yer damn research tell you this?”
And you’re watching the exchange like a tennis match - except you might just be the ball.
“S’not just fucking her like a madman.” Satoya lectures. As if to prove his point, he’s drawin’ a cute heart on top of your sensitive nub and making you shrill—then looking up at Satoru as if to say ‘see? “You’ve gotta know when to- fuck, toy with her pussy. You’ve gotta know when to drive her so wild with pleasure that she can take your cock properly- bottomed-out yet?”
Satoru looks down. “Not yet.”
Satoya nods, looking more serious than you’ve ever seen him—except maybe when he was in the middle of some basketball tournament. The finals. Rubbin’ on your clit loooooong and slow- “Mmm, now try fucking this pretty pussy fast.”
“Mhm.”
And he does—fuck, he does.
The contrast between the frat president’s fingers on your clit - and the nerd’s cock between your trembling legs - was almost too much to handle. Your poor brain muddles up, and you’re bucking up into him—“Toru—Toya. Fuck.”
“See?” Satoya grins.
Satoru nods with an even wider grin.
“Now try going slow.”
This time, Satoya goes frenzied on top of your clit whilst Satoru’s fucking you in hard, thorough thrusts. Solid. Sudden. They were ones designed to reach the very back of your cunt, and you’re feeling the slamming pressure of each one in your throat-
Just trying to fit himself inside—
“Her- her epithelium, I can feel her stretching so much-”
After a few more minutes of this, Satoru’s hearing your cunt stutter out the loudest, most lecherous slurp! yet…
And he’s staring down with his half-lidded blue eyes to realize that he’d just bottomed-out. For the very first time in his life.
For the very first time, point-blank.
Bulging peripherals rolling to the back of his head, he swears he feels heaven in the way your sopping wet walls squeezed all of him. Every ridge and curve and even the rare vein—just a single clench more n’ he’s gonna start cumming deep into your womb.
Tears streaming down his cheeks, “Fuh-fuck.”
“I know, right?” Satoya muses from behind you. You’re whimpering as he lets go of your clit to reach a palm up- and Satoru meets the high-five with only slight wariness.
“Right on.”
And then it’s both of their urges to pleasure you.
Both working together. Both trying to one-up each other—before Satoya plants a loud smack! on top of your swollen folds.
And that will usually have Satoru startling at the sheer noise- gaping at how that only made you feel wetter ‘round his cock. “She really is a dirty fuckin’ girl…”
“Told you.”
Satoya’s thick fingertips travel from circling your clit to juuuuust a little further down, down, down. There, he teases your pussylips a little - rubbed raw from all the contact you’ve had tonight - down to your asscheeks.
Perfect and pretty.
Satoya gives them a little smack! before proceeding to spread them apart.
“Don’t tell me you’re…” Satoru sounds reproachful, but you could see the slight twitch of his lips.
“And so what?” The other twin plasters his lips to your temple, “If my pussy’s been taken over by my brother—then at least gimme that other cute hole, baby.”
Satoru shrugs, “As long as that thing isn’t touching me- eugh.”
You’re nodding, “Please-” Staring up into their two beautiful faces - one in front, one behind. “I want you both.”
“Dirty girl.” Satoya hums.
“Dirty girl.” Satoru agrees. “Can’t get enough of the Gojo twins, can you?”
You’re shaking your head.
Satoru smushes your cheeks together with one of his hands, tilting your face up to his. “Say it f’me, sweetheart?”
“I c-can’t…get enough—” And if you were in any other state right now, then you might just’ve been embarrassed at how whiny you sounded. “-of the Gojo…oh.”
And at that very moment, you feel Satoya’s thick, rounded cockhead pierce through your other hole.
It starts off slow—almost soothing. Just the silken globe of his erection, that mushroomy tip that passes through with little to no resistance - your body was always so pliant with Gojo Satoya. He takes pride in that fact.
But then comes…the rest of him.
How sinful that the more thicker of the twins was going into through your asshole- you could feel the tightness of your rim struggling to accommodate him. Feeling his prominent veins rub up against tender spots inside that you had no idea even existed, feeling his raw thickness inch inside and leave you sobbing.
“Oh my god—” You’re keening out at the feeling of Satoya easing inside. “T-Toya—”
And hearing you scream out his brother’s name- well, Satoru couldn’t fall too far behind, right? He was always the first in class, the first in the Physics Department, the first of the twins to pound your pretty pussy tonight - and he’s taking advantage of the fact.
He’s planting his heels down on the rickety mattress and shovelling.
Letting the reddened, swollen tip of his cock maze inside as if a searchlight aiming to find your most tender spots.
And perhaps it was muscle memory from earlier, perhaps it was sheer carnal nature—but it takes only one or two strokes for Satoru to probe deep inside and locate your g-spot. To ready his gluttonous tip and press a passionate welcome smooch against it.
You’re jolting as though struck by a million volts of electricity. “Toru—”
Like music to his ears, Satoru looks smugly down at his brothers. To which Satoya merely rolls his eyes and spreads his capped knees- in a single second, he’s arching his hips off the dampened mattress and puuuuushing that throbbing cock of his between your ass cheeks.
Bottoming out.
With both twins fully stuffed inside you - and with both twins reachin’ for the sweetest nerves inside - it’s no surprise that you find yourself sobbing out of pleasure.
Overstimulated on their lengths already.
You’re throwing your head back and babbling- “Toru—Toya.” Repeating their first names as though you were a broken record player, that in itself being one with one very favorite syllable: To. “To- fuck…To—”
Two simultaneous whacks! into your deepest depths leave you scrambling to pick up your thoughts. And your ability to speak.
“To—”
You’re arching against Satoya’s ripped front, and you press right into Satoru’s toned chest. Stuck in-between two brothers who just couldn’t seem to get enough of you—and they’re sharing a wide-eyed look with one another that doesn’t go unnoticed.
You flit your own teary gaze between the two, attempting to figure out what it meant.
And they always do say that some twins have telepathic abilities, don’t they?
Perhaps that’s what’s happening right now- because both unspoken and at the exact same time, Satoru and Satoya are recoiling their hips backwards.
Then returning with the hardest, most honed ruts.
Barely even hammering inside- just pure, carnal half-thrusts given just to drive you wild.
Thrust after thrust.
Probe after probe.
They don’t wait for one another, merely trusting that the other will catch up. And they don’t back down, either—every rugged hit pushed into your depths only seems to spur the other brother into reciprocating that strike twofold.
They’re learning the power of teamwork through your pussy?!
Satoru snags his flared tip on the crevice of your g-spot, whilst Satoya spends his time pummeling your ass. He was stretching you out in ways you don’t think you’ve ever been stretched out before - anal wasn’t something you did with him. And now…now he’s groaning at those cute clenches of your walls as though he was slowly falling in love with them.
The rugged texture of his thumb matching n’ contrasting with whatever calculated pace that Satoru was drilling into you. The bespectacled man has no shame reachin’ one of his thumbs down and swirling it in the excess leaks of his cum, collecting it all onto his fingerpad, he forces it between your pussylips and back into your hole.
Not a single drop wasted.
Satoru raises his cum-glazed fingertips up to his own mouth- and sucks.
“And ya call me the filthy one?” Satoya snickers.
“Aren’t you?”
“You’re a secret freak, weirdo-”
“Says the public freak.” Satoru flickers his eyes down to admire your cunt- he couldn’t believe that it’d taken this long since he managed to have you. To taste you. To feel you.
But now that he had you clenchin’ around his swollen shaft like this, and now that he had your pussylips coated in all his cum, Satoru knows he needs to have you again. He needs to love on you with his cock like this again—he’s sure he’d die if he didn’t. He’s sure of it.
And that damn brother of his-
“I know yer cursing me out mentally.” Satoya’s voice echoes through the heady bedroom. His grip grows more possessive underneath your thighs, and that blushin’ red tip of his even more ravenous to activate your nerves. There was a reason that the two of you had continued a…somethingship for so long.
And one of the main reasons being that he just had so much chemistry with your body. That he’s leaving you breathless, like you left Satoya every single fucking moment he was with you. “Ya get this look on your face- jealous I could have her first, huh?”
“Doesn’t matter what’s first—” Satoru grunts. Pampering your gooey depths with a dollop of precum, “It matters who’s last.”
“Yeah, and that’s gonna be me-”
“That’ll be me-”
“Yeah, right.” Satoya starts—and in your hazy mind, you’re registering that they were about to start fighting again. But how could you bring yourself to stop them- when they’re shattering every coherent thought in your brain with their bludgeoning cocks. Faster and faster. How long can a truce really last? “A virgin that doesn’t know her pussy as well as I do-”
“And which one of us is- ngh, making her feel good with her pussy now?”
“You think you’re even half as good as me?” Satoya sounds condescending. “Man, I hate to break it to ya- but you’re just for tonight. I’m gonna be there for her every night—”
“Every night until she gets a boyfriend, that is.” Satoru cocks his head with a dimpled smile. “Me.”
“She’s out of your league, nerd.”
“She’s out of yours, too-”
“Boys.” It’s with the most significant effort - every single ounce of will in your body, actually - that you’re managing to keep your voice steady. And both men turn their matching blue eyes to meet your half-lidded gaze.
Just so botched from all the times you’d been crying out in bliss tonight. It sounds scratchy once you say- “Just sh-shut up and make me—”
“Fuckin’ cum.”
“Reach your orgasm.”
They already know the answer before you utter it.
And it doesn’t take much for them to work in a frenzied rhythm on your cunt n’ your ass - staking their claim before the other. It was dizzying to be sandwiched between them. Because they’re probing into your every sweet spot, they’re dragging across your slick channels, they’re furrowing their brows to concentrate before they themselves cum—and before long, they’re pushing you straight into your nth high of the night.
Cumming.
It takes over you swift and flashing - you think you see stars dance before your very vision. Toes curling. Body arching into them.
There weren’t as many peaks during this orgasm as you had during your last few. And it isn’t long before feeling those zaps of electricity taper off- leaving your mouth babbling, and your throat hatching in sobs.
Again and again.
Satoru and Satoya fuck you through the brief tremors of your high—their dual tips entering both your channels. No doubt that your poor g-spot n’ clit were bruised by their touching by now. Stirrin’ about your insides, pumping out heeeeeaving hot messes of cum straight into your womb and deepest insides - it sloshes about as you’re bucking.
Fucking back into both of them.
The wads of their ropey seed stick to your every nook and cranny, creating a sheen between your legs that splatters all over. So much more than you ever thought possible for you to fit - because both of them had so much stored up.
Both of them had so many pangs of pleasure that could only be achieved by ruttin’ into your glossy wet pussy. Long and hard. Hot and cloying to your insides. They were the best orgasms of their entire life.
All because of you.
Filled to the brims until those brims couldn’t handle it anymore. Globular tips only fucking those leaking wads even deeper. Creamy with sap n’ droooooling out all those glazing wads into your deepest innards- even the slightest movements make you feel the splashes inside of you.
The most lecherous sounds escape you as they finally finish off their incredible waves of bliss. Balls finished clenching and sucked all dry—
Satoya’s peering down at the mess they’ve made of you, “Next round, I want her pretty pussy- but you’ve gotta wash that nasty stuff out.”
“Oh, fuck off-”
“And we’re taking turns.”
“Taking turns on what—?”
It’s a voice you’ve never heard before, then again, it’s not a voice you register as completely unfamiliar—there was something about it. Something about the pitch of it. Something about the lilting words. Something about that sort of rich voice that both the Gojo twins shared
And so some part of you hears the connection before you see it.
Before an exact clone of the twins above n’ below you on the bed walks through those bedroom doors.
White hair.
Blue eyes.
Those exact pretty features that made people stop on the roads, hoping for a second glance.
Except…this Gojo donned a sort of cowboy hat on his head - his button-up snug and revealing a sturdy build. His boots polished till they gleamed, and his arms all tanned—sun-kissed. It really did suit the two bouquets of flowers in his hands. If Satoru was spring, Satoya was summer, then he would be autumn - how he reminded you of the sturdiness of fall trees and the warmth of seasonal pumpkin beverages. The scent. The sight.
His jaw drops.
And so does yours- “Th-there’s another one of you—?” You’re shrilling between the two twins- no, you suppose they’d be triplets now?!
Satoya shrugs, “Multiple too many.”
“Multiple- so how many are there really…” And then you shake your head, almost fearful to hear the answer. “Why didn’t you tell anyone-”
“To be quite frank, it’s simply that no one asked.” Satoru answers this time.
Meanwhile, their brother lingers awkwardly at the door—he’d turned away respectfully as soon as he realized what he was seeing. Though he doesn’t make a move to re-enter the living room, torn between actually making that escape and wondering whether he was actually hallucinating or not—
That is, until you’re beckoning him over.
Within the next few minutes, Gojo Satohiro has his back leaned against the wooden headboard n’ you between his legs. Your back turned to him, your cunt swallowed up his eeeeven thicker red cock in the most lecherous swerves, bumps, and grinds.
Reverse cowgirl.
“Giddy uuuuup, girlie.” Satohiro coos as he juuuust perks his hips and ends up stroking your g-spot - the fastest one to find it. His bulbous mushroom tip finds permanent residence smoochin’ away at that tight spot. “C’mon- just a little harder now. You got this.”
“I’m- I’m trying—” Thighs aching. Moaning.
And he’s punishing you with a sudden spank of calloused fingertips- right where your right ass cheek was still sore from all the contact with Satoya. “Not trying hard ‘nough for me, sugar.”
His slight country accent (was that Kansai?) made your cunt grow even wetter- and the oldest of the Gojo brothers could feel it—
“Let me treat the lady.”
Maybe that’s why, before long, he’s pushing you down head-first into the pillows. Fingers planting yet another slap to your ass cheeks, cock bludgeoning away- in control now, Satohiro had the penchant to alternate between torturous slow paces n’ fast speeds that left you moooooaning—
Grabbing at Satoru’s pillows for dear life-
You’re ending up slipping your hand underneath. Pulling out something soft and…warm and…familar.
“What the hell is my h-hoodie doing here?”
The two other men seated - boxers-on and five feet apart from one another - in one corner of the room jolt—and all eyes fall upon Satoru.
At least, all eyes except Satohiro’s.
He tugs the fabric out of your hand and loops it around your eyes like a blindfold.
“Hey girlie, how ‘bout we take turns fucking you n’ you try to guess which one’s which?”
when you receive your first ever daisy award, you insist that you don’t need to have a pining ceremony. you’re used to celebrating your accomplishments quietly, on your own. you have your whole life. but jack abbot is determined to change that.
fic is based on this random thought i had
warnings/tags: nurse!reader, unspecified age gap, reader’s family is emotionally absent and unsupportive, minor angst, mentions of blood, mentions of pittfest and pittfest level injuries, reader is besties with cassie, possible medical inaccuracies, no physical descriptions, no use of y/n, not explicit but mdni!
flashbacks are in italics!
⋆｡°✩
One of the earliest memories you can vividly recall from your childhood is a kindergarten spelling bee.
Halfway through the school year, you and a dozen or so other students were placed in an “academically gifted” class for children who were highly proficient in reading and writing for five year olds.
The day before school let out for summer break, your teacher thought it would be sweet to invite all of the parents to an end of the year class party and spelling bee, to celebrate how much everyone had learned since the beginning of the year.
Ironically enough, the final word was family, but none of your family was there to see you win when you spelled it correctly.
Your parents had to work. That’s what you had told your teacher and all of the other parents when they asked why yours couldn’t attend. It wasn’t really a lie. Both of your parents did have to work that day. What you didn’t tell them is that you hadn’t even bothered to give your parents the newsletter your teacher had sent home about the spelling bee, because you already knew the chances of them actually showing up were slim to none.
They likely would have to work. And if by some miracle one of them didn’t have to work, they’d have some other prior obligation that would take precedence over a school party. One of your grandparents would need help getting to a doctor’s appointment, or one of your siblings would be sick. There would be car troubles, or one or both of your parents would have an appointment that they just couldn’t find a way out of.
As an adult, you now realize that their excuses were usually somewhat reasonable on the surface. But it wasn’t ever the excuses themselves that hurt, it was the absence that you learned to expect. Damn near every time.
It only got worse with age. When you were little, they would at least tell you that they were going to make an effort to show up to whatever party, ceremony, recital, game or graduation you had coming up. But as soon as you started to approach your teen years, there seemed to be an unspoken agreement: you kept expectations low, and they stopped bullshitting you.
They came to the bigger events - the ones that their coworkers and acquaintances would side-eye them for missing, like high school and college graduations. But even then, they did the bare minimum of showing up. There were no parties thrown in your name, no thoughtful gifts or handwritten cards signed with love and well wishes for your future.
The closest thing you ever got to a celebration was the Facebook post that your mother made when you graduated from Penn Nursing. But that was for her. Not for you. She had to let everyone know that she raised someone smart enough to graduate from one of the most prestigious nursing schools in the world.
She didn’t even bother to tag you in it. God forbid she gives you credit and takes the spotlight away from herself.
That was years ago, and the last time that you tried to include her (or anyone else in your family for that matter) in any life event that one would normally excitedly text or call their closest family members about.
Moving to Pittsburgh and getting your own apartment. Starting your first official “big girl” job at PTMC. Obtaining your SANE certification.
And, most recently, being nominated for your first Daisy award.
⋆｡°✩
“Hey,” Dana calls as she walks past where you’re staring up at the patient board, checking out exactly what you’ve walked into this morning. “Walk with me for a sec.”
She doesn’t wait for you to respond before she’s walking in the opposite direction, leaving you to follow.
And follow. And follow. Until you reach the empty break room.
“Listen,” you start, your thoughts spiraling with reasons she could be taking you somewhere private at the very beginning of the shift, “if this is about the anti-vax mom that didn’t want to let her toddler get a tetanus shot after stepping on a rusty nail yesterday, I already told you. I did not call her stupid. I asked her if she’s stup—”
“Relax,” Dana cuts in dryly. “We’ll deal with that later. This isn’t about that.” She pauses, just long enough for confusion to grow on your face. “This is about the little girl you gave blood to during the PittFest mass casualty.”
You blink in surprise, the eight year old’s face appearing clear as day in your mind . “Ellie? What about—?” Your heart sinks to your stomach. Your voice rises an octave in panic. “What happened? Is she okay?”
“She’s fine, thanks to you,” Dana assures. The momentary relief that washes over you when you hear that she’s alright is quickly replaced by the fear of something else - something that has been looming in the back of your mind since the day of the mass casualty.
“Look,” you sigh, lowering your voice slightly when Cassie steps in to put her lunchbox in the fridge. “I know what I did was against protocol, but she was going to die. We were out of O-Neg and we didn’t have time to wait for more to arrive. Her mother agreed, and Dr. Abbot gave me verbal consent to—”
“Jesus,” Dana interrupts, shaking her head. She’s smirking with a kind of glint in her eyes that isn’t out of the ordinary for Dana but you can’t begin to decipher right now. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a tendency to jump to the worst possible conclusions? I’m trying to tell you that Ellie’s family has nominated you for a Daisy Award.”
For a split-second, the room is filled with the kind of silence where a pin drop could be heard.
“Wait. I’m not in trouble?”
Dana scoffs. “Not unless you keep bullying anti-vaxxers.”
A Daisy Award. The last thing you expected when Dana pulled you into this room. Some nurses go their entire careers without ever receiving a Daisy, you never would have guessed that you would be nominated for one so early in yours.
It makes sense, you suppose. If breaking about a dozen different rules and protocols by donating your own blood to a dying child in the midst of a mass casualty incident didn’t get you nominated for the award, then you doubt anything ever would have.
You exhale slowly, your brain still buffering. You’ve yet to take two sips of your coffee, so this is a lot for seven o’clock in the morning.
“Wow,” you breathe, your face suddenly warm. “I…don’t even know what to say.”
“No one ever does when they’re receiving their first Daisy,” Dana shrugs with a proud smile. “I just wanted to give you a heads up before Robby gets in and makes a whole production out of it.”
Your stomach instantly sinks to the floor. You had been so taken off guard by the news that you’re receiving a Daisy Award that you had completely forgotten what receiving a Daisy Award normally entails.
A pinning ceremony. A speech from the chief or director. All of your coworkers. Everyone in the room, staring right at you. Clapping. Pictures. Congratulations, and congratulations, and more congratulations.
“Oh, no.” You shake your head. “No, that isn’t necessary. He doesn’t need to do all of that.”
Dana folds her arms, unimpressed. “All of that is the standard procedure for a Daisy Award, kiddo.”
“Really, it’s fine,” you insist, trying to conceal the panic from your voice. “Everyone is busy enough as it is without stopping what they’re doing for me. Robby can just give me the pin and certificate and whatever else when he has time in between patients. I don’t need…” You gesture vaguely, “…a whole thing.”
She stares at you for a moment, head tilted and lips pursed like she’s trying to psychoanalyze you. “You sure?” She finally asks. “This is a big deal, you know. It’s okay to let people celebrate you for a few minutes.”
You drop her gaze. “I just…don’t want an audience. I’m good. Really.”
The look on her face says that she wants to protest, but the look on yours must convince her otherwise. “Alright,” she concedes. “Whatever you want. I’ll let Robby know before he drags half the department into the conference room.”
You exhale in relief, managing a small but grateful smile. “Thanks, Dana.”
She wraps an arm around shoulders on your way out of the break room. “Congrats, kid. We’re lucky to have ya.”
You just smile at her and nod, because those words sound like a foreign language that you’re still in the process of learning and aren’t quite comfortable speaking yourself yet.
Cassie catches up to you just moments later, on your way back to the nurse’s station. You had noticed her slip into the break room while you and Dana were talking, and judging by the smirk on her face, she definitely overheard the gist of the conversation.
“Hey, Daisy Girl,” Cassie hums under her breath as she catches up to you, lightly bumping her shoulder against yours. “Congratulations.”
You roll your eyes but the corners of your mouth threaten to betray you. “Please don’t call me that.”
“Oh, I’m absolutely calling you that,” she grins. “You deserve it, you know.”
You shrug, choosing to look up at the patient board to avoid her stare that is entirely too motherly. “I don’t know. It feels weird to be given an award for donating blood. People donate at blood drives all the time and get nothing in return.”
“I suppose,” she sighs. “People don’t always donate blood while actively performing CPR on the recipient, though. In the middle of an unprecedented mass casualty—”
“Okay, okay,” you shush her, looking around to make sure she isn’t drawing anyone’s attention. Princess and Perlah stand a few feet away, talking amongst themselves, and Jack sits at his desk, working on his charting from the night shift he’s finishing up.
As far as you can tell, he isn’t paying any mind to the two of you, but the last thing you want is to draw any unnecessary attention - especially from the doctor who is perfectly within earshot. Your cheeks blaze at the thought. “You’ve made your point. Keep your voice down.”
She shakes with silent laughter, a knowing look in her eyes. She lowers her voice. “So, what are you gonna do to celebrate?”
“Nothing,” you mumble. “I just told Dana that I don’t want a pinning ceremony or anything.”
“Yeah, I heard that,” Cassie snorts. “I mean what are you going to do to celebrate yourself.” She raises her brows. “An overpriced coffee? A pedicure? A new pair of those tennis shoes that you’re always hyping up? Take-out from your favorite restaurant? All of the above?”
You sigh, knowing that she won’t relent until you give in. “I have to buy groceries after I get off work tonight. Maybe I’ll get myself some flowers or something at Trader Joe’s.”
She smiles, accepting that’s the best she’s going to get from you. “Good. Start there.”
Dana calls her name and she walks away, leaving you alone with your thoughts for the first time since you stepped through the hospital doors this morning.
Of all the days that you’ve worked here, PittFest is by far one of the most traumatic. But it’s also the day that Ellie’s life was saved. The day that a mother didn’t have to watch her little girl bleed to death on an operating table. And that’s thanks to you.
You, and Jack Abbot backing you up.
⋆｡°✩
“She’s lost too much blood. We need O-Neg stat!” Whitaker’s voice calls through all of the chaos surrounding you. He looks over his shoulder towards Dana. “What’s the ETA on the donor blood?”
She checks her radio, her face paling. “Still twenty minutes out.”
You stare at the monitors - at Ellie’s stats that are rapidly plummeting - and then at Ellie, motionless on the table, her skin growing grayer by the second. “She doesn’t have twenty minutes,” you murmur to Whitaker, too low for Ellie’s mom to hear you. “She’s not going to make it that long. There’s no way.”
Whitaker looks around for an available attending or senior resident while you look to Ellie’s mother. “Ms. Martin, do you know Ellie’s blood type?”
“B-Positive,” she manages through a sob. “She’s - she’s B-Positive.”
You’re moving before the thought fully forms. Darting around the room, yanking open drawers, frantically searching for an empty blood bag, tubing, a sterile needle, everything that you could possibly need—
“Uh—” Whitaker freezes as you slam the supplies onto a rolling tray. “What are you doing?”
“She’s B-Positive. I’m B-Positive.”
“We can’t - we can’t just give a patient unscreened blood,” he sputters, his voice as panicked as the expression on his face. “There’s too many risks—”
“The risk right now is her dying if she doesn’t get blood immediately.” The words come out louder than you intend, earning another sob from Ms. Martin, and the attention of Dr. Abbot.
“Fill me in.”
He isn’t talking to anyone in particular. His focus is on the little girl laying on the gurney in front of him, taking in her current state - the gunshot wound in her abdomen and the increasingly concerning stats displayed on the screens beside her.
You open your mouth to answer, but Whitaker beats you to it. “Ellie needs blood. She wants to donate hers. I told her we can’t—”
“Please,” Ellie’s mother cries from behind him. “Please let her. I can’t lose her. Please, do whatever you can, whatever you need to do. Anything.”
You haven’t worked with Dr. Abbot very much. He’s covered a few day shifts here and there since you started at PTMC, and you’ve worked a couple night shifts when needed, but for the most part, you don’t see him outside of shift change in the mornings.
But you’ve heard a lot about him. And in the years that you’ve worked here, you’ve never heard a negative word.
In fact, just earlier today, you overheard a conversation between Robby and Dr. Collins. You hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, it just happened - clear as day, you heard the words from Robby’s own lips: So, what are you saying? That Abbot low-balled his measurements to help a teen get the abortion that she wants?
If that’s true - and you’re willing to bet that it is - then that tells you everything you need to know about the kind of doctor that Jack Abbot is.
The kind that not every patient is fortunate enough to have on their side. The kind who always has his patient’s health, safety, and best interest in mind - even if it breaks protocol, even if it goes against the standard of care, even if it later comes back to bite him in the ass.
If it were any other attending or senior resident standing here right now, you might shrink. You might think that arguing your case is a lost cause. Because Whitaker isn’t wrong - there are risks with transfusing unscreened blood. It isn’t standard protocol, and most doctors would probably shut it down.
But something in your gut tells you that Jack Abbot isn’t most doctors.
“Ellie is B-Positive like me.” You turn to Jack, looking up at him, earnest and pleading. “I donate blood every six months. I’m clean. I don’t do drugs, I don’t smoke. The the donor blood is still twenty minutes out. She needs this now.”
Jack stares at you for one tense, loaded moment. You wouldn’t be able to read his expression even if you had the free time to stand here and try to figure it out. Then, he gives you a tight-lipped, curt nod before looking to Ellie's mom for consent.
The following fifteen minutes feel like something out of a fever dream.
One minute Perlah is inserting a needle into your femoral vein so that you can still have use of both of your arms and the next, Whitaker is yelling that Ellie is crashing and you’re starting compressions while blood is still being siphoned from the lower half of your body.
Jack all but pulls you off of her to take over so that Perlah can withdraw the needle from your leg. Warm blood trickles down your thigh before she has a chance to press gauze hard against the site but you barely register anything except the sound of Jack’s voice speaking low to Ellie, telling her to hold on.
Suddenly, the room around you begins to go fuzzy. The people, the monitors, everything shifts and your ears start to ring, making the voices that you’re desperately trying to pay attention to sound like you’re listening through water.
“Sit. Now,” Perlah orders, already guiding you to the closest empty stool while keeping pressure on your leg. The adrenaline that has been coursing through you for the last ten minutes begins to crash all at once, leaving your limbs feeling jellied and useless.
It takes every ounce of focus to register that Ellie has stabilized and the transfusion is now in progress. The pit of nausea in your stomach lessens the tiniest bit as Jack steps back, letting Whitaker and Cassie take over.
He turns to you now. You’re slumped in the stool, sweating, with your pants still positioned awkwardly at mid-thigh as you hold the gauze in place while you wait for Perlah to return with a bandage.
“I’m fine,” you mumble automatically, but the words sound breathless and slurred. “I’ve just gotta wait for Perlah to secure a bandage around this and then I’ll get back up—”
“No way,” he breathes, crouching down to get a better look at you. “You’re benched for twenty. You need fluids, and—”
“But—”
“No buts.” His voice is gentle but firm, leaving no room for objections. “You just lost a lot of blood in a very short amount of time. We need you out there, okay? I can’t have you passing out on me.”
The intensity of his stare is enough to make the room spin all over again. So much that all you can do is nod.
“What you just did took a lot of guts,” he says, voice low. “And it took heart. You saved a life today. Ellie’s mom won’t ever forget that. And I know I won’t, either.”
⋆｡°✩
At approximately 10:15 in the morning, you’re flushing an egregious amount of wax out of a ten year old’s ear when you see Lupe walk past the room with a colossal bouquet of flowers.
Daisies, specifically.
It causes you to momentarily lose focus and accidentally spray the kid in the face.
Daisies. A giant bouquet of daisies, on the day that you’ve received your first Daisy Award. It would be quite the coincidence if they were for someone other than you, now wouldn’t it?
But who knows. Maybe they’re not for you. Victoria has gone on a few dates with that one guy she’s been telling you about at this point. Maybe daisies are her favorite flowers. Maybe it’s someone’s anniversary and their husband sent them flowers, and they just happen to be daisies. Maybe they are for a sick patient. It is a hospital, after all.
All you know is that you don’t have anyone who would send you flowers. Dana, maybe, if you hadn’t already expressed your wishes to be as lowkey as possible with receiving your Daisy Award.
Word had still gotten around the ED, and there was no shortage of congratulations. Perlah and Princess, Whitaker and Santos, Victoria and Samira. You didn’t mind the sweet sentiments, truly. You appreciated all of them, even if the special attention is unfamiliar.
But flowers? Would someone really send you flowers?
Your question is answered by the look on everyone’s face as you walk towards the nurse’s station.
Dana, Perlah, Princess, Victoria and Santos are all huddled around the extravagant bouquet of daisies, baby’s breath and various greenery. You freeze when they all turn their attention to you, smirks and toothy grins confirming your suspicion before any of them can say a word.
“Don’t worry,” Santos snorts, holding out a small envelope. “We didn’t read the card.”
“We decided it would be much more fun to watch you open it,” Princess adds.
“And because it would be rude,” Dana says with a pointed glare.
You exhale before reluctantly taking the envelope from Santos. Your name is written across the front. Without saying a word, you open the tiny envelope and pull out the card stock note.
(And, because no one has ever done anything like send you flowers to your place of employment, your hands shake an embarrassing amount).
Your eyes skim over the words written on the note. And then you read them again. And again, and one more time for good measure.
You can buy yourself flowers, but you shouldn’t have to.
You flip the card over, expecting a signature, but it’s completely blank.
You can feel five pairs of eyes staring holes into you, just waiting for an answer to the question that you have no more of an answer to than they do.
“There’s no name, you noseys,” you sigh. “It isn’t signed.”
“What?” Princess gasps. “They’re anonymous? This bouquet had to cost more than my car insurance, and they aren’t even going to take credit?”
“You really don’t know who they’re from?” Victoria asks.
“Nope. I mean, it has to be someone here, because I haven’t told anyone outside of work, but….I don’t know who.” You shrug, glancing back down at the handwriting you don’t recognize. “Lupe didn’t say who brought them in?”
“Sorry, kid,” Dana answers. “The florist dropped them off. All she told Lupe is that they’re for you. We know as much as you do.” She smirks, her eyes crinkling in the corners. “Whoever sent them must be really fond of ya.”
And have money to blow, you think to yourself.
To your relief, they all disperse and go back to doing their jobs, leaving you with the vase of dozens of daisies and an unsigned card. You stare at the words as if you can will them to change and reveal the identity of the sender.
You can buy yourself flowers, but you shouldn’t have to.
Suddenly, your earlier conversation with Cassie echoes in your mind. In an attempt to appease her, you had told her that you might buy yourself some flowers when you go grocery shopping later today. You had no true intention of actually doing that, so you forgot the promise by the time you saw your first patient of the day.
You find her hunched over an iPad reading x-ray results.
You stand beside her, your elbows braced on the counter. “I take you didn’t believe me when I said I was going to buy myself flowers?”
She freezes, cutting her eyes to you. “What are you talking about?”
You can’t tell if she’s fucking with you or not. You stare at her for a long moment to see if she’s going to break composure. “The shit ton of daisies at the nurse’s station? The card? You can buy yourself flowers but you shouldn’t have to? Ringing any bells?”
Cassie straightens, looking over her shoulder in the direction of the nurse’s station, realization and amusement blooming across her face. She lowers her voice a smidge. “You think those are from me?”
“Who the hell else would they be from?”
She laughs. “Your guess is as good as mine, but they aren’t from me. I love you, but I’m not in love with you.”
You groan, raking your hands down your face in frustration. If they aren’t from Cassie, then you really don’t fucking know.
“I assume there’s no card?”
“There is,” you sigh, pulling the card from the breast pocket of your scrubs. You lay it down on the counter. “It’s not signed. Lupe said the florist dropped them off at check in.”
Cassie stares at the words, her eyes narrowing in thought. “Was the florist a man by chance?”
“Uh - no. I don’t think so. Why?”
She snorts a laugh, turning her attention back to the clipboard in front of her. “Because that’s definitely man-writing.”
Man-writing. Man…handwriting. The words replay over and over again in your mind for the next few hours.
Cassie’s right. The handwriting does appear to be on the more masculine side. It isn’t illegible by any means - you can make out each word. But it’s somewhat scrawled and untidy in a way that reminds you of a stereotypical doctor’s scribble.
The thought occurs to you as you’re wheeling a patient to radiology. Man-writing. Doctor’s scribble.
Jack. Jack had been sitting at his desk this morning, just feet away as Cassie had so lovingly lectured you about treating yourself for receiving your first Daisy. She hadn’t been talking too loudly, and Jack had given no indication that he had been listening to your conversation, but it isn’t impossible. He could have overheard, even unintentionally.
But that’s crazy, right?
Jack wouldn’t send you such an extravagant bouquet of flowers. Would he? For that to even cross your mind as a possibility is simply wishful thinking.
Jack, who makes your brain short-circuit in ways that are entirely, utterly irrational every time he greets you in the mornings. Jack, whose mere occasional and fleeting presence makes you realize that it’s for the better that you typically work opposite shifts because you are unable to think straight when he’s near. Jack, who you’ve had a big, fat, embarrassing crush on ever since he looked you in the eye and told you that he would never forget what you did for Ellie.
For a while, you were in complete denial that the way you feel about him is indeed a crush.
At first, you chalked it up to something in between appreciation and admiration. Appreciation because he’d given you the go ahead to donate your blood to Ellie when Whitaker had tried to stop you, and admiration because he’s one of the best doctors that you’ve ever known.
Then, you even tried to blame the feelings on daddy issues, for lack of a better term, because that was easier than being honest with yourself about your feelings. An older man supporting you and vocalizing that he’s impressed with you? It makes perfect sense that would have a lasting emotional effect, seeing as your own father has the emotional range of a teaspoon.
But months have passed since the PittFest MCI and no amount of attempted rationalization or therapy has stopped your heart from racing a little faster anytime you’re in the same room as him.
⋆｡°✩
Approximately sixteen hours into your double shift, you’re remembering exactly why you hardly ever volunteer for double shifts.
The day had been a series of unfortunate events since the moment you opened your eyes - nearly twenty minutes later than you were supposed to. You had forgotten to plug your phone into the charger and it died during the night, so your alarm didn’t go off. You were in such a rush to make it to work on time that you left your lunch box sitting on your kitchen counter.
Then you realized your gas tank was damn near empty, so you had to stop for gas, and then you got stuck in traffic. So, you ended up being fifteen minutes late for work, anyway.
It didn’t even dawn on you that you had left your lunch box at home until earlier this afternoon, when you managed to find five minutes in between patients to try to scarf down a few bites of the leftover lasagna you had packed. You opened the break room fridge to find only the same old McDonald’s bag that has been sitting on the top shelf for the last month, a Tupperware of something that looks like a biohazard, and a camo lunchbox that definitely is not yours.
Therefore, it was cafeteria corn dogs for lunch. Now, it’s nearly midnight and your options are limited to vending machine snacks.
You end up settling on a bag of pistachios and a Slim Jim.
You’re eating the last few nuts when Jack walks into the break room.
He’s only a few hours into his shift and he already looks exhausted. Still as handsome as ever, but exhausted. You briefly wonder when his last full day off was, between being here at night and working with the swat team during the day.
He acknowledges you with a small nod and a tired smile before opening the fridge and pulling out the only lunch box inside.
“Please tell me that’s not your dinner.”
You glance up as you’re dumping the remaining pistachios into the palm of your hand. He’s watching you from over the fridge door, his eyes darting between you and the empty Slim Jim wrapper on the table. The back of your neck suddenly burns hot.
You huff a tired laugh. “I woke up late this morning. I was in a rush and forgot my lunch box. Then I got talked into working a double when Mateo called out, so…” You shrug. “I’m making do.”
He stares at you, a look that says “you’re joking, right?” on his face as he unzips the lunch box without looking away from you. Then, he closes the fridge door and walks to the table, standing opposite of where you sit. He reaches in the sack, pulling out a sandwich in a ziploc bag.
“Take this,” he says, sliding it across the table.
You shake your head immediately. “No, I’m okay. Really. I’ll survive until morning.” You lean forward, pushing the sandwich back across the table. “Thank you, though.”
You expect him to protest, but instead, he reaches back into the lunch box and pulls out something wrapped in wax paper.
“Do you like chocolate croissants?”
You snort a laugh. “I mean, yeah…but I’m fine. I don’t want to take your food from you—”
“I packed two,” he says, pulling out another croissant, now holding one in each hand. “Take one. If you don’t, I will eat both of them, and I do not need to eat both of them.”
You hesitate for a second longer, your stubbornness putting up a losing fight against the fact that you are, in fact, still starving.
“If you insist,” you sigh, reaching for it. He smiles, obviously satisfied with the small win.
“You won’t regret it. Best chocolate croissant you’ll ever have.”
You unwrap it, revealing the flaky croissant with chocolate oozing out of the layers. “Did you make them yourself?” You ask, bringing the pastry to your lips.
“God no.” He takes a seat in the empty chair across from you. “They’re from a bakery not too far from here. Madeleine’s. They’ve been one of my favorite places for years.”
You’re only halfway paying attention to what he’s saying because it tastes so fucking good. Your eyes close to savor the flavor, humming in approval.
“See? Told you.”
You nod, mouth still too full to verbally agree. He stretches his legs out under the table and watches you chew, his face relaxing in a way that makes you think your ongoing streak of bad luck today has finally come to an end.
⋆｡°✩
“Your secret admirer strikes again.”
Cassie’s voice makes you look up from your current task of restocking a crash cart. Your face must give away the surprise you feel at seeing the small brown paperboard box in her hands, because she looks thoroughly amused, unable to stop herself from giggling at you as she walks towards you.
“What the hell,” you sigh under your breath, taking a step closer to inspect the box. There’s a sticker on the lid that says Madeleine Bakery & Bistro. You instantly recognize the name to be a popular bakery here in Pittsburgh.
“Having any luck figuring out who it is?”
“Not really,” you grumble as you lift the lid. “I mean, I have a suspicion, but there’s no way—”
You freeze mid sentence.
“What?” Cassie asks, confused by your abrupt pause. “What is it?”
“Holy shit.”
Inside the box lies a half dozen chocolate croissants.
Right away, your thoughts go back to that night in the break room only a month or so ago. The night you were sixteen hours into a double shift and making a meal out of vending machine snacks when Jack insisted that you take one of his chocolate croissants - the best chocolate croissant ever, as he had claimed.
The chocolate croissant from Madeleine’s.
You’re staring at the pastries, mouth agape, when you notice a folded note taped to the inside of the box. You grab the note and unfold it, ignoring Cassie's continuous questions until you’ve read the words written in the exact same handwriting as the note that came with the flowers you received.
Tradition says that Daisy recipients get cinnamon rolls. I don’t know if you like cinnamon rolls, so these felt like a safer bet - J
“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on? What does it say?”
You exhale a laugh in disbelief and hold up the note to let her read it. Her eyes skim the words, her brows furrowing together. “Remember when I told you to lower your voice this morning? Who had been sitting just a few feet away from us?”
“J…” She murmurs, glancing back and forth between you and the note, the gears in her head turning as she pieces it together. Then, realization comes over her face - visible shock that mirrors your own.
“Jack?”
⋆｡°✩
Jack.
You were right. You couldn’t fully believe it even as you were staring down at a box filled with chocolate croissants.
No, you didn’t fully believe it until you read the note inside the box and saw that it was signed with a singular initial. J.
There’s no denying it now. The daisies and the chocolate croissants were both Jack’s doing, and there’s no combination of words in the English language to accurately describe exactly how that makes you feel. The only word that begins to come close is surreal.
Surreal because no one has ever sent you flowers. No one has ever sent you baked goods. Let alone both on the same fucking day, and to your job. No one has ever gone out of their way to celebrate you so intentionally. The level of thoughtfulness is completely foreign.
So foreign, in fact, that you aren’t even sure how to approach him about it.
Of course you’re going to say thank you. But should you call him? Text him? Wait until you see him in person again? He doesn’t work tonight, so you won’t see him at shift change, and then you’re off work for the next several days. You won’t see him again until the beginning of next week at the earliest, and that feels like an awkward amount of time to wait to say thank you.
Thanks to a work group chat that Robby made forever ago so everyone could have easy access to coworker’s phone numbers if anyone ever found themselves needing to get in touch with someone, you already have Jack’s number.
But you’ve never texted him outside of messages exchanged in the group chat on rare occasion, so when you type a message in a private message thread, you read it at least twenty times before actually pressing send.
Hi. I hope it’s okay I got your number from the work group chat. I didn’t want to wait until next week to tell you thank you…so thank you. For the flowers and the croissants. You really didn’t have to do that, but it means a lot.
And then, like a fucking idiot, you send a second text clarifying that it’s you, as if he wouldn’t be able to deduce that using context clues and common sense.
The message gets marked as read within a matter of seconds. Jesus, does this man ever sleep?
He types. And types. And then the dots at the bottom of your screen disappear. And then reappear, and he types some more. It’s silly and childish, but your heart is racing as you wait for a response to come through. You’re about to give up for the time being - you’ve been sitting in the bathroom for so long that you’re surprised no one has come looking for you yet - when a new message finally appears in the thread.
Of course it’s okay. You don’t have to thank me, but you’re welcome. Next time you’re planning to buy yourself flowers, just give me some advance notice.
Before you can even start to process that, a second text comes through.
How committed are you to your plans to go grocery shopping after work tonight?
Your phone falls out of your hands and clatters against the bathroom floor.
“Shit,” you hiss under your breath, scrambling to pick it up.
Don’t seem too eager. Don’t seem too eager. Don’t seem too eager. Be cool.
Well, my fridge is pretty bare bones right now, so I’m only committed to those plans if I want to eat dinner tonight.
The bathroom door creaks open then, drawing your gaze away from your phone screen as you press send. Dana’s voice calls your name. “You good in here? Or did you fall in?”
“Yeah!” You squeak. “I’m here. I’ll be right there. Sorry, I’m uh…little backed up.”
Dana is silent for an awkward, loaded second. Long enough for you to physically recoil at your choice of words. Really? Constipation? That’s your excuse?
“Alright,” she huffs, a noise somewhere between amusement and annoyance. You can so clearly picture the expression on her face at this moment. “Sorry I asked.”
The door shuts a moment later. When you glance back down, your heart palpitates at the realization that Jack replied. Simple and straight to the point.
I could take you to dinner instead, if that sounds better than grocery shopping and cooking for yourself after a twelve hour shift.
⋆｡°✩
You do let him take you to dinner, and it is far better than grocery shopping and cooking after a twelve hour shift.
You’d be lying if you were to say that you hadn’t been nervous. That your fingers didn’t shake as you replied saying yes, and as you gave him your address, and as you agreed upon a time for him to pick you up.
You’re out of practice as far as the dating game goes. When you first moved to Pittsburgh, you knew no one. You’ve made a few friends (okay, Cassie and a couple other coworkers), but for the most part, you’ve kept to yourself. Focused on your career, furthered your education by becoming a Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner, and spent your free time investing in your hobbies and interests.
There have been a few random dates here and there, but nothing worth remembering. Nothing that made you desire a second date. They either talked too much about themselves and didn’t seem interested in you as a person, or there simply wasn’t that telltale spark that one hopes to feel on a first date.
Basically the complete opposite of this date with Jack so far.
He picked you up - right on time. Opened the car door for you, and the door at the restaurant he decided on - one that happens to serve your favorite kind of food. You aren’t sure if that was a lucky guess on his part or if he’s overheard you talking about food that you enjoy at some point in the last few years and happened to remember, but either way, it gives you the kind of butterflies that you haven’t felt in a long, long time.
The fact that he looks even more handsome in clothes that aren’t scrubs certainly doesn’t hurt, either.
Jack sets his drink down, fingers tapping lightly against the table like he wants to say something but can’t find the right words. His mouth forms a nervous smile, but he doesn’t break eye contact. He hesitates for a split-second more before speaking. “I have a small confession to make.”
Your stomach flutters, suddenly as nervous as he appears to be. “What is it?” You ask softly.
“The day of PittFest…” He trails off, shaking his head slightly. “You inspired me.”
Your brows raise in surprise. Despite your actions during PittFest being the reason you received a Daisy Award - which lead to Jack sending you flowers, which then lead to the two of you being here right now - neither of you have actually mentioned that day until now.
“I’m O-Negative,” he continues simply. “I’ve donated before. Plenty of times. But that day, in the middle of all that chaos…you didn’t even hesitate. You didn’t care about rules, or protocol, or repercussions. All you cared about was saving a life. And it inspired me to do the same.”
The admission takes you completely off guard. “It did?”
He nods. “After Ellie stabilized, I donated. Drew from my femoral vein while working on another patient. Just like you.”
For a moment, you can only stare at him, warmth settling into your bones at the revelation. “I didn’t know that,” you murmur.
He gives a small shrug. “I just thought that now would be a good time to tell you. You deserve that award. For acting selflessly and saving Ellie’s life, of course. But you also…made me a better doctor that day.”
Your throat tightens with emotion. You reach across the small table, placing your hand on top of his and giving it a gentle squeeze that you hope conveys just how much his words mean. “Thank you,” you whisper. You don’t pull your hand away. “I have a small confession of my own,” you add with a nervous laugh.
“Oh, yeah?” He places his other hand on top of yours, sandwiching yours between his own and rubbing lazy circles over your skin with the pad of his thumb. “What’s that?”
You take a deep breath before speaking. “I’m not really used to this. Being celebrated. By myself or by others.” You glance down at where your hands are joined because it’s easier than looking him in the eye while you try to find the right words. Words you’ve never really said out loud. “I usually just do what I need to do and move on. I don’t let myself dwell on it for long enough to wonder if anyone else is going to be proud of me. It’s easier that way. Saves me from a lot of disappointment.”
“I only told Cassie I would buy myself flowers because I knew she’d keep nagging me about it if I didn’t do something,” you admit with a humorless laugh. “I wasn’t really going to.”
Jack remains quiet, giving you time and space to say whatever you want to say. His grip on your hand tightens ever so slightly. Just enough to let you know that he’s absorbing every word.
“But then you sent flowers. And the croissants.” You look back up with a shy smile. “And it caught me off guard. In a good way. I didn’t realize just how much I needed someone to notice me. Until you did.”
He leans forward, the tea light candle in the center of the table making his hazel eyes twinkle. The way he looks at you, so intensely and so sincere, makes you feel seen in a way that is entirely unfamiliar but not at all unwelcome.
“I would very much like to keep showing you just how much I notice you. If you’ll let me.”
And for the first time maybe ever in your life, you think you’ll let yourself want that, too.
⋆｡°✩
thank you for reading!! if you comment/reblog i love you so much <3
‧₊ ˚⊹ best friend's dad!toji eats you out on his son's bed 18+
part two
cw 3.7k, age gap, oral f receiving, just overall kinda wrong, mentions of hooking up with megumi but not detailed (both you and megumi are adults in this!!)
note my first ever toji fic… ive never written for him before so toji lovers i hope you enjoy this one !! (not proofread sorry :3)
you’re back in yours and megumi’s hometown during the summer break and your parents are on holiday for a while, so you decide to spend a couple of days at his place. the two of you haven’t had proper time spent together in what feels like forever, what with deadlines and exams constantly looming over your heads. finally, this summer, you can take a pause from all the stress and just unwind, and what better way to do so than spending a week with your best friend?
it’s weird, being back here as an adult. the last time you had been in megumi’s childhood home, you hadn't even moved out for university, yet. you also haven’t seen his father in years. you wonder how he’s keeping up now that megumi isn’t living at home for a majority of the year, wonder if he’s finally managed to find someone else to keep him company after tsumiki’s mother left—not that you were interested in his love life, though.
now you’re in his house for the first time in forever, and its like a warmth that wraps around you, holding on to the reminder of home. megumi goes back to the car to collect the rest of your stuff as you take in your surroundings. the house is the same. same furniture, same layout, even the same faint smell of that cheap coffee that megumi’s dad liked to drink.
then the staircase creaks, and toji is walking down in that same black tshirt that he always used to wear, but something’s different.
“megumi’s friend,” his voice is gravelly. “you’ve grown.”
oh, it’s different, all right. you don’t think you’ve ever noticed the way his voice lilts, though still low and husky. or the way his shirt clings to his biceps, muscles vaguely outlined through the cloth that hugs his skin. did he change? or did you? for some reason, you can’t seem to find the courage to greet him back.
then megumi’s back, and the thick tension has suddenly been cut but, still, it’s hard to fully relax again. for the rest of the time you spend at their house, you can never quite shake that cloying feeling you get when toji is around, and it seems as though he notices it, too. the hitch of your breath, the clench of your thighs, the flicker of your gaze; toji picks up on it all. but it’s not like it’s uncomfortable, or anything.
he’s just so fucking hot.
he’s like, all hard muscle and deep voice and he’s so caring and how could you not behold him in a different light now that you were grown? over the course of your stay, he’s always offering you snacks and drinks and making sure you feel right at home, being megumi’s best friend and all. and he’s always respectful with it, never tactless.
though, you always seem to catch his eyes lingering over your chest for a beat too long when you leave megumi’s room in the mornings, still wearing nothing but pyjama shorts and a tank top. and when you go to the kitchen in the dead of night, megumi having fallen asleep long ago, toji is somehow always still on the couch, some show playing faintly in the background. but you can’t really tell what he’s watching, because all you can focus on is how his gaze trails over your figure as you pour yourself a glass of water.
you would be lying to yourself if you said that you didn't find your own eyes wandering over to him during the day, because he just looks so good in those fitted shirts, and his arms bulge every time he folds them across his built chest. you wonder what it would feel like to have him pick you up and—
stop. what the fuck? he’s your best friend’s dad. he’s also probably twice your age. he’s also known you since forever; he would never dare do such a thing. you mentally chide yourself for letting your thoughts meander astray. you and megumi have been having a lovely summer together so far: playing games, going out to eat, taking long walks in the park. so, you try your best to extinguish the desire that burns deep in your gut, filthy and wrong.
then it’s late one night, you having crawled into bed with megumi hours ago. he must already be asleep on his side of the bed right now—he always slept before you and always woke up far earlier. you should really be asleep, too. and you’ve been trying to. really, you have.
but all you can think about is toji and what his tight muscles would feel like under your soft hands and how firm his thighs must be, what, with how thick they are. and, fuck, now you’re wet just thinking about it all. you shift in place, trying your hardest not to wake megumi next to you by rustling the blanket too much. it’s mildly annoying, your panties becoming soaked through with such quickness. because now you either have to do something about it (but then, you’d have to properly clean yourself up), or just try to will yourself to sleep despite the uncomfortable dampness growing between your thighs.
you must not have been doing a very good job at not disturbing megumi, because he clearly notices your frustration. he is your best friend, after all. who else knows you better than him? he must have picked up on your uneven breaths and the squeeze of your legs because, within a moment, he’s already got his hands on you and you’re already kissing him back without much thought.
there’s no doubt about it—megumi is your friend, nothing more. but the two of you definitely aren’t strangers to fleeting hookups every once in a while, whenever the clubs and tinder dates start to run dry and you have pent up energy aching to be released. there’s never romantic feelings in it, just a mutual agreement to help one another out when needed. it’s also not like there’s hours of foreplay or some sort of slow, sensual lovemaking session in missionary. no, there’s an unspoken rule of not trying to pursue anything more, which you’re both comfortable with.
the night spent with megumi is fine, as it always is. but that’s just it. fine. he gets you off perfectly well but you can't deny the fact that, deep down, you crave more. not from him, specifically, but you’re a woman with a sex drive! would it kill to be eaten out every once in a while? you fall asleep that night content, though not fully satisfied. it’s better than nothing, you guess.
the morning rolls around and megumi, once again, wakes up far earlier than you. you’re still half asleep, but conscious enough to feel him brush your hair from your face and whisper that he was going out to get breakfast for the two of you. he takes his time brushing his teeth and slipping out of his pyjamas and, by the time he’s left, you’ve woken up fully.
rolling over and shoving your face into a pillow, you groan. you’re mildly sore from the night before, but your clit still throbs with underlying need, still yearning for more. it’s still relatively early, sunlight peeking through the thin ribbons of megumi’s blinds. you try to will away the dull ache between your legs, but it’s literally impossible.
you find yourself succumbing to desire, lying flat on your back as your hand drifts to slip underneath the waistband of your shorts and into your underwear. you start slow, lightly grazing your sensitive bud and dipping into your hole to bring your juices up. as you begin to circle your clit, you let your mind indulge in whatever fantasies it can think up, as a little treat to yourself.
of course, the thoughts end up drifting off to toji. he’s probably still asleep, knowing him. you wonder if he heard megumi fuck you last night. you wonder if he heard you groan his son’s name, knowing his father was in the room next over. if he heard the lewd shlicks of megumi’s dick pumping in and out of you. or if he thought about fucking you the way you imagined your best friend was actually his own dad.
soft moans fill the room as you touch yourself with more fervour, more unfiltered need. it’s not long before you unconsciously find his name on your lips like a mantra.
“toji… fuck— oh my god, toji.”
it feels so good, being able to let yourself get lost in your obscene thoughts of your friend’s dad. it feels so good that you don’t hear the very man you’re lusting over swing the door open.
“you good?” he begins, then, “what the fuck?”
what the fuck, indeed. your hands fly to the blanket, scrambling to cover your face with the sheets.
“i’m sorry,” your voice is muffled from under the duvet. “i’m so sorry, i’ll leave, i’ll—”
“did megumi not satisfy you enough last night?” he replies cooly, unfazed by the fact that he just walked in on you touching yourself.
you’re completely caught off guard by his question. so he did hear the two of you. as you slowly edge the blanket off your face, your mind races with a million different responses to his question, none of which seem appropriate for the situation at hand.
but he continues to press you. “i would have thought he would be able to, seeing as he’s my son.”
“don’t talk about him like that,” you rebut. every inch of your skin feels hot, every cell on fire. “he did a perfectly good job.”
toji laughs, then. a thick, guttural laugh that makes his broad shoulders shake with every breath he takes. “i’m just saying—” he steps closer to you “—you’re a pretty girl who deserves to be pleased properly.”
you don't know what to say. what can you even say, at this point? a small part of you is telling you how wrong this is, how fucked up it is to megumi. but most of you is so fucking turned on.
“you know—” he’s still not done “—i’d have thought you were satiated from the way i could hear your moans through the walls last night.” he chuckles again, and your stomach twists with some unnamed feeling. “you’re not very discreet, are you?”
your head is shaking, no, before you can even register what you’re doing. and you feel dirty for divulging personal details between you and megumi to his own father, but your body is moving on its own, on pure instinct. this must be so many types of immoral, the way he’s inching closer to you and your thighs are clamping together and, as always, he notices. you know how wrong this must be, telling him about what you and megumi did—or, rather, didn’t do—during sex, but with the way his gaze is hot against your skin, you somehow end up confessing the fact that you’re itching to be eaten out.
toji looks startled at that. “he doesn’t go down on you?” he seems genuinely shocked. “he has a girl as pretty as you in the same bed as him and he doesn’t give your pussy a taste?” toji rubs a large hand across his face, as if utterly disappointed in his child. “what kind of son have i raised?”
before you can decipher how he’s feeling, he makes it clear. within the blink of an eye, his hands are gripping your thighs and pulling you down to the edge of the mattress so that your legs dangle over the side. you prop yourself up on your forearms so that you can see him at the foot of the bed. he’s kneeling down, now, eyeing up your clothed cunt like it’s a meal.
“let me show you how a real man pleasures a lady,” he murmurs, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your shorts and sliding them off in one foul swoop. cool air hits your pussy, making you hiss.
“shit, we shouldn’t— this isn’t—” your words are coming out in jumbled mess as he drags two long fingers through your dewy folds. “this is wrong, megumi isn’t home, we shouldn’t— not on his bed—”
“stop mentioning that boy and focus on me, pretty girl.” his voice is sultry and dripping with hunger, and his face is mere inches away from your bare heat, so you obviously have no other choice than to let him do as he wishes with you.
then his tongue is against you, warm and wet and sloooowly licking a thick stripe up, up, all the way from your drooling hole to your pulsing clit. he feels so good, and the situation is so so sinful, but it only riles you up even more, head tilting back in pleasure as he swirls his tongue against you.
“fuuuuck, mr fushiguro— feels good…” you mewl.
he grins against your pussy and the vibrations of his deep voice reverberate throughout your body, making you shudder.
“don’t pretend you weren’t just moaning my name out for the whole world to hear,” he drawls, still licking up and down your sticky sweet cunt. “call me toji.”
“oh god— toji!” your whines become strained, more desperate, as he plunges his tongue deep into your velvety walls, curling up into you.
one hand snakes around your thigh, grasping around your plush flesh as the other comes up to rub tight circles into your clit. your eyes squeeze shut, fingers gripping the sheets beside you as his tongue is fervid against you, dipping in and out of your entrance and sliding over your glistening lips. he’s groaning into you, peering up at your blissful expression through half-lidded eyes.
“know you’ve been wanting me since you got here,” he mumbles. “you’re not subtle.”
“and you—hah—haven’t been wanting me?” you reply, breath heaving at the sheer ecstasy you’re in.
“i never tried to hide it.”
then, somehow, it gets better. like, fuck, you’ve been eaten out before, sure. but never like this. he’s clearly experienced, knows exactly how to please a woman right. the muscles in his arms flex with every swipe against your clit, eyebrows furrowing slightly every time he flicks his tongue out against you.
it’s disgusting, the vulgar sounds that echo across the room, a lewd chorus of slurps and gulps and whines and moans.
“toji— shit—” you whimper, legs starting to tremble as the coil in your lower belly threatens to unfurl with ferocious magnitude. “so—fuck—so close!” your hands fly to his head, gripping his dark hair and pulling him infinitesimally close to you. your hips buck up into his mouth, practically grinding your cunt against his face as you chase your high.
and he doesn’t let up, not even for a second. whereas, before, he was alternating between tracing slow, lazy patterns on your pussy and quick, sharp pulses against your clit, he now maintains a steady pace. it feels fucking incredible.
“let go for me, pretty,” he purrs.
“fuck! toji— ‘m cumming!”
your thighs clamp around his head, hard, as you gush on his mouth, and he laps up every last drop of you, tounging you through your explosive orgasm. you push his head away, panting. he’s smirking, the bottom half of his face covered in a shining mess of your cum and his spit, his scar quirked up in amusement. and he’s licking the mixture from his lips, bringing his fingers to his mouth and sucking them clean. fucking hell, he’s hot.
“that good?” he teases.
“i didn't even know head could feel like that,” you respond earnestly, no energy left in you to be able to find a cocky retort.
“we should get you cleaned up. i’ll get you a towel.” toji stands up, stretching his arms out behind him, cocking his neck to the side. “if you ever need help like that again, you know where to find me.”
your stomach flutters again at his comment. you definitely wouldn't be opposed to that. he leaves the room, padding off to his bathroom.
looking down at the soaked sheets, darkened with your slick, you realise you have a lot more cleaning up to do than just yourself. you should probably find a way to deal with the wet patch on your friend’s bed, and quickly. what would megumi think if he came back home to this?
masterlist
note might be working on a part two...? anyone down?
Look, you didn't ask for a best friend whose dad is the god of the sea. You just wanted someone to share blue Jolly Ranchers with during Algebra II.
But here you are.
Being friends with Percy Jackson comes with a lot of hazards. Exploding toilets? Check. Gym teachers turning into monsters you cannot see? Standard Tuesday. But the biggest hazard, the one nobody warned you, is the summer.
Specifically, the part where he vanishes to Camp Half-Blood, and you stay in the mortal world.
For Percy, camp is supposed to be a safe haven. But this summer, the monsters aren't outside the borders; they’re in his head. Every time he tries to sleep in Cabin Three, listening to the fountain drip, his ADHD brain doesn't focus on quests or prophecies.
It hyper-fixates on you.
And more specifically, on the guys who get to sit next to you in the cafeteria while he’s off fighting harpies.
He tries to Iris Message you, but the connection is always misty. Once, he saw a guy’s arm draped over the back of your chair. Just a friendly gesture, right? Not to Percy.
To Percy, that arm looked like a hydra head that needed lopping off. He spent the rest of the summer slicing training dummies in half with a little too much enthusiasm, imagining they were wearing varsity jackets.
By the time August rolls around and he comes back to the city, the jealousy has crusted over his heart like barnacles on a hull.
The reunion is supposed to be sweet. You guys plan a trip to the beach, Montauk, obviously. It's his turf.
He wants to show off a little, maybe walk on water, maybe just hold your hand without worrying about a hellhound jumping him.
Then you invite Kyle.
Kyle is perfectly nice. He’s in your biology class. He has floppy hair and a laugh that sounds like a seal barking, and he brought a Frisbee. He is entirely, tragically mortal.
"I didn't know we were bringing guests," Percy says when he sees him.
His voice is casual, that easy-going tone he uses when he’s bluffing a god, but his eyes are stormy. Sea-green, darkening to a violent, deep-ocean gray.
"Kyle just wanted to tag along," you say, smiling, oblivious to the fact that the air pressure around you just dropped ten degrees. "Is that cool?"
Percy forces a crooked grin. It doesn't reach his eyes. "Yeah. Totally cool."
The drive is excruciating. Kyle talks about lacrosse. Kyle talks about his dad’s boat. Percy grips the steering wheel so hard the leather creaks, listening to the way you laugh at Kyle’s terrible jokes. In Percy's mind, he's connecting dots that don't exist.
She likes him. She forgot about me. I saved Olympus, and I'm losing her to a guy who wears Axe body spray.
When you get to the beach, the ocean greets Percy like an old friend. The waves get choppy, slamming against the sand with a rhythm that matches his heartbeat.
"Let's get in!" Kyle yells, peeling off his shirt and sprinting for the surf.
You follow him, wading in up to your waist.
The water is cold, waking you up, salty and sharp. Percy stands back for a second, watching. He watches Kyle splash you. As he watches you shriek and splash back. He watches Kyle’s hand linger on your shoulder to steady himself against a wave.
That's the line.
Percy walks into the water. He doesn't shiver. The ocean doesn't make him cold; it energizes him. He feels the currents tugging at his ankles, waiting for a command. Being the Son of Poseidon isn't just about talking to horses or breathing underwater.
It's about control.
And right now, he feels like he’s losing control of everything, except the sea.
"Hey, Jackson!" Kyle calls out, treading water out past the break. "Bet you can't swim out this far!"
Percy smirks. It’s a dark, sad little look. "You would be surprised what I can do."
He dives.
Under the surface, it’s silent. Percy opens his eyes. The salt doesn't sting. He looks at Kyle’s legs kicking aimlessly above him. He feels a pang of guilt a small, mortal part of him that says this is wrong.
But then he remembers the way Kyle looked at you, and remembers the long, lonely nights at camp wondering if you were moving on.
The jealousy roars louder than his conscience.
Percy clenches his fist.
The water obeys instantly. It doesn't look like magic from the surface. It just looks like a freak current. A riptide.
Around Kyle, the water hardens. It shifts from fluid to a vice. You’re only ten feet away, laughing as you wipe water from your eyes, waiting for Percy to pop up. You don't see the way Kyle's expression shifts from joy to confusion, then to sheer panic.
He tries to swim up, but the ocean grabs his ankles. It’s not a wave crashing down; it’s the depths reaching up.
The water fills Kyle's mouth before he can scream. It drags him down, heavy and relentless.
Percy stays under, watching. He ensures the current pushes Kyle deep, tumbling him along the sandy bottom, far away from you.
Far away from anyone. The ocean is vast, and it keeps secrets better than anyone.
When Percy finally breaks the surface, he’s right next to you. His hair is wet and messy, his eyes bright and innocent.
"Where's Kyle?" you ask, looking around. The water is calm now. Suspiciously calm. "He was just here."
Percy looks around, feigning confusion perfectly. "I don't know. Maybe he went back to shore? Or maybe he swam out further?"
"Kyle!" you yell, spinning in the water. Panic starts to set in. "Kyle!"
Percy puts a hand on your arm. His grip is firm, grounding. "Hey, hey. Don't worry. I'm here."
He pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around you to keep you steady against the gentle bob of the waves.
You're trembling, scanning the horizon for a friend who is already miles deep and miles away, carried off by a current that answered to one master.
"I’m sure he’s fine," Percy lies, his voice smooth like velvet. He rests his chin on top of your head, looking out at the endless blue.
The sea feels satisfied.
He feels satisfied.
The competition is gone. The doubt is drowned.
"It's just you and me," he whispers into your hair, holding you tight as the tide rolls in. "Just you and me."
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
Hours later, the moon is high and the house is quiet.
You are asleep inside the rented beach house, exhausted from hours of crying and talking to the Coast Guard.
While Percy is sitting on the porch railing, his legs dangling over the edge, staring at the dark horizon. He’s drinking a blue cherry Gatorade, looking for all the world like a guy who’s just bummed out about a tragic accident, not a guy who just orchestrated one.
The air smells like rain and ozone. Suddenly, the scent shifts. It smells like a sea breeze mixed with Old Spice and suntan lotion.
Percy doesn't even look up. "Hey, Dad."
Poseidon leans against the porch support beam. He’s dressed in his usual vacationing in Florida attire, khaki cargo shorts, leather sandals, and a Tommy Bahama shirt with parrots on it that seem to be actually moving. He looks relaxed, but his eyes, those same green eyes Percy has, are narrowed.
"Rough day at the beach," Poseidon says. His voice is deep, like the rumble of a wave hitting a cliff.
Percy swirls the Gatorade in the bottle. "Yeah. Current was strong. You know how it is."
"I do," Poseidon says. "I also know the difference between a natural riptide and a hydro-kinetic execution."
Percy finally looks at him. There’s no fear in his face. Usually, Percy gets nervous around the gods, worried about smiting or turning into a dolphin. But tonight, he looks hollowed out and hardened.
"He was touching her, Dad," Percy says. It’s not a whine; it’s a statement of fact. "He was loud, annoying, and he thought he had a chance."
"So you drowned him," Poseidon muses, stroking his beard. He doesn't sound angry. He sounds like he's reviewing a batting average.
"I removed an obstacle," Percy corrects. He sets the bottle down.
"I spend all year fighting giants and Titans. I hold up the sky. I save the world. I come back, and some mortal with a Frisbee thinks he can just take my place?" Percy shakes his head. "I didn't survive Tartarus to lose her to Kyle."
Percy waits for the lecture, waits for Poseidon to tell him that heroes don't kill mortals, that he's crossed a line, and that Zeus is going to have a field day with this.
Instead, Poseidon chuckles. It's a dry, salty sound.
"You really are my son," the god says, a strange sort of pride in his voice. He walks over and puts a heavy hand on Percy’s shoulder. "I was worried you were taking too much after your mother. Too soft. Too forgiving."
Percy blinks, surprised. "You're... not mad?"
"Mad?" Poseidon looks out at the ocean, watching the moonlight dance on the black water. "Percy, look at me. Do you know how many sailors I have dragged to the bottom just because they didn't pour enough wine overboard? Do you know what I did to Odysseus just because he blinded my son? I made him wander for ten years."
Poseidon looks back at Percy, his eyes twinkling with ancient, chaotic energy.
"We are the sea, Percy," he says softly. "The sea is beautiful, yes. But it is also jealous. It is possessive. It takes what it wants, and it does not give it back."
He squeezes Percy’s shoulder. "You saw something that belonged to you, and you made sure it stayed yours. I can’t exactly fault you for acting according to your nature."
Percy breathes out, a tension he didn't know he was holding releasing from his chest. "So, I'm good?"
"You're fine," Poseidon assures him. "The mortals will call it a tragedy, the police will find nothing and the ocean keeps its secrets." He pauses, fading slightly into mist, ready to return to Atlantis.
"Just...maybe keep the body count low, son. It makes the paperwork annoying."
"Thanks, Dad," Percy says.
"Don't mention it," Poseidon says, his form dissolving into sea spray. "And Percy? She's a catch. Don’t let anyone else cast a line."
"I won't," Percy whispers to the empty porch. He looks back toward the window where you’re sleeping. "Never again."
pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x reader
summary: you were his first home, and he was the only thing that ever made smallville feel big enough—until he left, and you let him. when you love someone, where does all that that love go? (inspired by normal people and no one noticed by the marias) listen to the playlist here.
word count: 8.8k
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, bdsm undertones, soft dom! clark, size kink, unhinged and feral reunion sex, unprotected sex, riding, multiple orgasms, creampie, clark picking the reader up multiple times, mating press, angst. a boatload of it. ungodly levels of yearning. friends to lovers to strangers to a mysterious fourth thing?????
You find him right where the gravel ends.
Right on the edge where the road starts to lose its name, where the fenceposts get swallowed up by tall grass and the corn gets all gold at the tips from a little bit too much sun. There’s humidity in the air, thick and wet and sticking hot to the back of your knees.
And Clark—he’s just standing there, straddling his old bike like it’s part of him, one foot on the ground, the other on the pedal.
Like he’s been waiting all afternoon for someone to dare him to move.
He’s in that familiar, tell-tale Royals shirt again, the one that’s been through three summers and way, way too many Fourth of Julys and baseball games. It's been washed to a soft blue, collar a little chewed out by the Kents' dryer, sleeves stretched out around the kind of arms you pretend not to notice unless you’re looking directly at 'em. There’s a glass bottle of cream soda tucked in the crook of his elbow, the kind that sweats through the label and leaves a sticky ring on tables.
You coast up smooth and slow beside him, gravel crunching under your tires, your bike squealing a little as you brake. Then, out of instinct, out of just wanting to see him do something, you nudge your front tire against his.
“Hey. You just gonna stand there brooding all summer or you gonna come help me steal peaches off the Jacobs’ tree?”
He blinks, once. Doesn’t look over yet. Just shifts the bottle between his hands like it’s giving him something to do.
“You know that’s not our tree,” he says.
“Didn’t stop you last week when it was the Johnsons’,” you point out. You raise your brows, bite back a grin. “Come on. I know you’ve got the hops, Kent.”
“I didn’t jump the fence,” he says finally, looking at you now. You catch your own reflection in his glasses for half a second before he looks down again. “You climbed it. I supervised.”
“You hovered,” you say.
“I did not hover.”
“You hovered.”
Clark exhales like the word physically pains him.
He tilts his head up, squints at the sky like it might offer him a way out of this conversation, or maybe just a distraction.
But you keep going, not to be mean, but just because it’s so damn easy. The kind of easy that only happens when someone’s been in your life since kindergarten. Since he spilled apple juice on your backpack and you kicked him in the shin with glitter shoes and he was the only one who sat next to you on the bench during school pick-up time.
“I just—” He rubs the back of his neck, cheeks pink already. “I wasn’t showing off.”
“Who said you were?”
He flinches a little, and you know, that’s the thing with Clark. He’s fast, strong, bulletproof on paper, but he’s never really quite figured out how to armor up around you.
You smirk, sweet and cruel, and take off.
“Race you to the river,” you shout behind you, already halfway into the corn.
“You know you're terrible at racing,” he calls after you.
You don’t look back. “Guess you’ll have to chase me, Kent!”
And he does. You can hear him coming, his tires slicing over the path, his breath catching in time with yours, his laughter carrying on the wind like something weightless and golden.
Swerving left, then right, darting through the cornrows until the field finally breaks into open air. The river’s just beyond, and when he catches you, it’s all momentum—his hand at your waist, both bikes skidding sideways into the soft grass, limbs tangled, gravel in your shoes, everything spinning.
You land in a heap. Your elbow in his stomach. His cheek in the crook of your shoulder. You’re both laughing so hard it’s hard to breathe.
“That was cheating,” you say, once you can talk again.
“You said to chase you,” he murmurs, lips close to your ear, voice warm like dusk. “Didn’t say I had to lose.”
You stay like that for a second too long. Sun sinking somewhere behind the barn. Your body curves into his like you’d practiced it, like you’d been preparing for this moment since you were fourteen and your mom made you sit next to him in youth group because “Clark Kent is a very polite young man.”
Then, his voice again—quieter, tentative.“You know I like you, right?”
You don’t let the silence hang.
“I hoped,” he adds quickly, and it’s so Clark that it almost knocks the wind out of you.
You roll over to face him, chin dutifully in your palm. He’s looking anywhere but at you. His lashes—they're so dark that they cast shadows on his cheek. You watch the way his mouth pulls into that same nervous line he always gets when he’s trying not to hope too hard.
“I mean, you’re not exactly subtle,” you say, casually.
“Hey—”
“You bring me my favorite drink every Sunday. You volunteered to be my lab partner after you saw what I did to the last one’s eyebrows. You walked three miles home from the county fair because I forgot my sweater and didn’t want to sit in your truck.”
He ducks his head. There’s a crooked, bashful smile starting to curl at his mouth. “Well, when you put it like that—”
“I like you too, Kent,” you say.
And there it is, oh, there it is. His eyes snap back to yours, startled. You just let the moment settle. Let him feel it. Let yourself feel it too—the absolute bigness of it, the tooth-rotting sweetness, the way it wraps around your ribs like something you might never, ever outgrow.
“Been liking you since you loaned me your gloves that one time I fell off my bike and tried to pretend I wasn’t crying.”
“That was fifth grade.”
“Yeah,” you say, voice light but honest. “You’ve been soft n' sweet since fifth grade.”
That’s when he laughs again, full-body, chin tilted up towards the clouds. “And what are you gonna do about that?”
You shrug, teasing. “Guess I’m gonna keep making fun of you until you kiss me.”
And then, he does.
It starts tentative, more of a breath of a question. Like his hand slides up to cradle the side of your jaw, thumb brushing the hinge of it like he still can’t quite believe he's got you. You tilt your face into him, into the softness of it, the want seeping through every brush of his lips.
His lips meet yours, soft and clumsy and maybe even a little surprised. But you smile into it, and that… that breaks the dam.
He goes back in again for seconds, but it doesn't land as gracefully as you two hope. His nose bumps awkwardly against yours. One of your hands fists in the front of his shirt to pull him closer, and he makes a sound that you feel more than hear. His tongue swipes at the seam of your lips, shy at first, then braver when you open up for him.
When you finally pull apart, it’s just for the barest of inches.
His forehead rests against yours, noses brushing, both of you breathless and grinning like fucking idiots. “You good?” he murmurs, voice rough, eyes flicking down to your mouth like he’s not done with you just yet.
You nod, dizzy in the best way. “Yeah. Better than good.”
And maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s the wildness of being seventeen and certain.
But you think—if kisses could keep, you’d bottle this one and carry it in your pocket for the rest of your life.
.
for you
i should be helping you read the map. i know that, i know that. but you’re laughing so hard right now and it’s doing something to my memory.
like—i want to remember the exact shape of your mouth when you do that. not just the smile part, but how it starts out small and then gets bigger when you look away, like you’re trying to stop it but just can’t. how your whole face lifts with it. how you crinkle your nose a little like you think it’s unfair to laugh too hard at me, even when i probably do deserve it.
(also, for the record, i did pack the tickets. they’re just under the jumper cables. not lost. you give me way too much crap for that.)
we’re about thirty-five minutes from the state fair, by the look of the road signs. you’ve already declared that you’re getting a funnel cake and one of those weird lemonades in the giant plastic boot, and i'll absolutely be pretending i don’t want any until you offer me some. i’ve made peace with this.
but anyway. the real reason i’m writing this is because you keep looking at me like i’m already yours, and i don’t think i’ve ever had anything in my life that felt that simple.
i love you so much it feels like i’ve been loving you my whole life — long before i knew that’s what it was. i think i loved you when you beat me at checkers in second grade and then offered me the last orange popsicle even though it was your favorite. i think i loved you when you walked your bike next to mine the whole way home after i wiped out, even though we were already running late for dinner.
all i can think about is how much i want to give you good things. little ones. always. like this day. like this letter. like the better half of my funnel cake, even if you insist you don’t want it.
yours,
clark
p.s. if i win you a goldfish again, we are not naming it after another days of our lives character.
.
You’re eighteen and you're sitting on the porch steps with your knees drawn up and your hands tucked into the sleeves of your hoodie, watching the road. His truck’s already here, parked under the elm. He’s been standing at the foot of the porch for a few minutes now, like stepping up would make everything real.
You haven’t really said anything yet. You’re scared that if you open your mouth, it’ll all spill out. Every what if, every I don’t want you to go, every please stay, just don’t make me say it first.
Never really learned how to be brave like that. Not when it comes to him.
Clark shifts his weight from one foot to the other. The porch light flickers overhead. A dying bulb, one Jonathan’s meant to change for weeks. You wonder if anyone else is going to sit on these steps after tonight and think about this moment—if that bulb will still be broken in the morning. Or if it’ll just be you, alone, in a house that still smells like childhood.
“You gonna say something?” he finally asks, quiet. His voice is careful. Not impatient. Just uncertain. And God, when did he become the one with uncertainty?
You look at him. Really look at him. His shirt’s wrinkled, that Metropolis U logo cracked a little at the corners. His bag’s already packed in the passenger seat. There’s a tightness in his shoulders that doesn’t go away even when he exhales.
And all at once, you feel like you’re watching someone walk backwards out of your life.
You love him. You know that. It’s not a crush or a phase or something you’ll forget by Thanksgiving break. It’s in your ribs now. In the soft, constant ache you’ve had every time he talked about the city like a future with a door he was already walking through.
Because deep down, you’ve always known you weren’t going. That you couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.
That part of you belonged to this place—not in some romantic, sweeping way, but in the way you belong to gravity, to habit. To people who need you here. People you can’t walk away from. And you’d resented that, sometimes. Hated it. But it’s also shaped you. It’s the reason you notice the sound the screen door makes when it closes. The reason you know how to fix the water heater without being asked to.
He’s going to learn other things. Bigger things. To save people you’ll never meet, in cities you’ve never been to. You’re not angry at him for that. Never could.
But there’s something about the inevitability of it that… that just hurts so badly.
“You look tired,” you say.
He huffs a laugh. “So do you.”
You want to say I am. Want to say you’re the only one who makes it better. But that’s dangerous territory so instead, “You’re leaving tomorrow.”
He nods. Doesn’t move.
You gesture vaguely at the truck. “You pack everything?”
“Mostly. Just gotta grab the charger from the kitchen. Ma says I’ll forget my head if it’s not bolted on.”
You try to smile. It doesn’t really come together. It just gets lost somewhere on your face, between your eyebrows and your mouth. “I don’t want this to be the end.”
“It’s not,” he says quickly, too quickly. “I’ll call. I’ll come back on weekends. I can fly back in, literally. I’ll be faster than the Greyhound, I promise.”
You look at him, and for a second, it’s like being kids again. Him with that wide-eyed, insistent hope. Like if he says it the right way, it’ll come true. Like the world will just do it, just bend to his good intentions.
Because that’s what he does. That’s what he’s always done. Turns things into plans. Into problems to solve. Like love is just logistics. Like heartbreak’s just a scheduling conflict.
You rest your chin on your knees, hoodie sleeves covering your hands. “You can’t fly your way through this one, Kent.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just presses his hand to the porch railing, fingers curling over the wood like he needs something to hold onto. His voice, when it comes, is soft and urgent and a little bit wrecked.
“I can do this,” he says. “I want to do this. I can make this work. I’ve carried tractors. I’ve held buildings together with my hands. If I can do that—if I can lift all that—I can carry us too. I can do that. Please—just please, let me do that."
You look at him then. Really look. And it breaks your heart, because you believe that he believes it.
But you also know: he’s not just trying to carry you. He’s trying to carry the whole world. And the world’s got a stronger grip than you do.
“You can’t keep both arms around me forever,” you say. “Not if the world keeps pulling you away.”
His mouth opens like he wants to argue. Then closes. And then—
“I’ll do it for you,” he says, almost breathless. “Even if it’s hard. I’ll make time. I’ll—I’ll tear the sky open if I have to.”
But you shake your head. “That’s the problem, Clark. I don’t… I don't wanna be a responsibility.”
“You’re not,” he says, stepping closer now, standing on the lowest step so you’re nearly eye-level. “You’re not. You’re—sweetheart, you’re the thing that keeps me grounded. You’re the reason I come back.”
“Then why does it still feel like you’re already gone?”
His face twists—like it hurts to hear. Like it confirms something he’s been trying very hard not to name.
You swallow hard. “Every time you leave, a little more of you stays gone. And I wait for the text, and I wait for the call, and I tell myself, ‘he’s trying, he’s doing his best,’ but Clark—your best has to be out there. Helping people. Saving cities. Being who you’re supposed to be.”
His jaw tightens. “So what? I don’t get to have anything else? I don’t get to be someone’s?”
You stand. Step down to meet him.
“You do. Just not mine. Not if it means I have to keep you from being you.”
There’s a beat. One breath. Two. Then, softly: “You think it’s selfish.”
“I think it’d be selfish to keep asking you to come home to me when the whole world needs you more.”
Clark looks down, eyes blinking fast, like if he stares hard enough at the porch wood he won’t have to cry. Like the weight of everything—his powers, his love, his heart—is finally too much. You reach out, take his hand. He lets you. His palm is warm, callused from working the farm all summer, steady like it always is.
You squeeze it. Squeeze it tighter. Then let it go.
“Be good out there,” you whisper. “Be careful. Don’t forget where you came from.”
He lifts his eyes to you, and there’s so much in them. So much love. So much grief. And that awful, awful understanding.
“Will you still think of me?” he asks, voice cracking.
You nod. “'Course, dweeb. I’ll think of you every time the wind changes.”
He lets out a breath that sounds like surrender.
And then you step back. Let him walk to the truck. Let the door close behind him. Let the engine rumble on, headlights catching your porch steps for one aching second before he pulls away.
You stand there for a long time after he’s gone.
.
Subject: checking in
hey there,
i hope this isn’t weird. i wasn’t sure if i should send something, but ma says it’s always better to write when you’re thinking of someone, and i guess i’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. not in a heavy way. just… in that way where something small reminds you of someone and then they just kind of stay in your head all day after.
finals are over (thank goodness) and i didn’t fail anything, though my rhetoric professor said i “overexplained” my last paper. which feels just a bit rude, considering i was trying really hard to underexplain it. turns out i’m just really not very good at pretending i don’t care about things.
ma sent me a shoebox full of christmas cookies even though it’s not even thanksgiving yet. most of them crumbled in the mail, but i’ve been eating the pieces with a spoon like cereal. she says she saw your cousin at the hardware store—apparently they’re fixing the porch steps. ma says the wood’s soft now, “just like everything else on this side of town.”
the city’s… a lot. i’m getting used to it, kind of. there’s this bakery on 12th that sells cinnamon rolls the size of hubcaps, and the lady behind the counter always gives me the biggest one, even when i’m last in line. she calls me “darlin,” which feels a little funny out here, but nice too.
sometimes, on sunday mornings, i bike down to the river and just sit. don’t do much, just watch the water move and try not to check my phone. it’s not the same as the spot back home, no skipping stones, no cattails, no frogs trying to race each other—but it’s something.
you crossed my mind the other day because someone in class said they’d never been on a dirt road before. i thought that was wild. i told them how my girlfriend my friend you used to ride your bike with no hands all the way down the lane by old man ridge’s cornfield, and they looked at me like i made it up.
i didn’t tell them how you’d stick your legs out like wings when you did it. that part’s mine.
anyway. i hope school’s going alright. and work. and everything else. i hope the leaves are turning slow this year, and that you’re getting time outside before the cold sets in.
write back if you want. no pressure.
i’ll be home for christmas, if you’re around.
best,
clark
.
It’s been ten years.
Not in the clean way you imagined it would be. Not in semesters or seasons or chapters.
Just a long, slow forgetting that never quite takes. You went to college eventually—state school, close enough to come home on weekends but far enough that you could pretend you weren’t waiting for him to text. You studied too hard, dated people who never asked about Smallville, never asked about the way your voice always changed when you said Clark.You kept your head down and your world small.
(Safe.)
You stopped counting anniversaries, but some part of you always remembered. It’s like he left fingerprints in your brain—certain songs, certain skies, certain kinds of kindness that you couldn’t unlearn even if you tried.
And then, in November, you see him again.
It’s nothing. A stupid errand.
You’re home for a few days, in between classes and the apartment you share with two roommates who always forget to do their dishes. You’re walking out of the grocery store, headphones in, balancing a paper bag on your hip, keys in your teeth, when he rounds the corner of the parking lot, and everything—everything—stops.
He’s taller. Or maybe just steadier. His gait, his posture—there’s this quiet confidence now, like the world no longer fights back when he walks through it.
You stop. Bag still on your hip, eggs still in jeopardy, and for a second you can’t breathe.
He’s on the phone, head tilted, brow furrowed in a way that’s still so Clark you could cry. A little more muscle in his arms. A different weight in his step. Still in a flannel shirt, sleeves shoved to his elbows like muscle memory, and that same beat-up Royals t-shirt underneath. His hair’s longer. His arms are broader.
His voice—when it reaches you, after he sees you and fumbles off the call—is just slightly deeper. A little hoarser. Like he’s had to say a lot of hard things lately.
“Hey,” he says, blinking. “You’re home.”
You nod. “Just for the week. My mom needed help with the attic.”
“Right,” he says, shifting his weight. “That old attic.”
You both laugh, quietly. It’s awkward, but not really cruel.
“How’s school?” he asks. “You’re almost done, yeah?”
“One semester left,” you say. “Then maybe grad school. If I survive biochem.”
He smiles then, really smiles, and his eyes crinkle at the corners like they used to. And it’s awful, because you remember the last time he smiled at you like that. Awful, awful, awful.
“You’ll survive,” he says. “You always do.”
You want to ask what he’s been up to, but you know. Everyone does. Superman sightings. City rescues. A train derailment in Metropolis last fall; he was on it. Someone tweeted a blurry photo of him with soot on his cheek and a woman’s baby in his arms.
You don’t bring it up. He doesn’t either.
Instead, you both stand in the parking lot like it’s still summer and you’re eighteen again, swatting mosquitoes and talking about where you’ll end up. Back when the answer still sounded like “together.”
There’s a silence. The kind that feels like a room you both used to live in.
“You look good,” he says, finally. And it’s so soft you almost miss it.
You study his face. But his eyes are still the same. Gentle and wary all at once. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he looks too long.
“So do you,” you reply. “I saw your article. The one on post-quake reconstruction.”
His eyebrows lift, surprised. “You read that?”
“I read all of them,” You don’t know why you say it. Maybe because you mean it. Maybe because it’s the only way you still get to feel close.
“I kept your voicemails,” he says, voice low. “From high school. Even the one about the raccoon that broke into your guys' pantry.”
You smile, but your throat stings. It feels like hearing the song you used to fall asleep to, back when things were quieter.
Clark steps forward. Just a little.
“Do you ever think about—” he starts. Then stops.
His hand lifts halfway like he might reach for you. But he instead doesn't. Instead, he just lets it drop again, fingers curling into his palm like he’s holding something back.
A gllance down at your shoes. The laces are still uneven. Some things haven’t changed.
You know what he was going to ask. And you know there isn’t time, will never be enough time, to answer it.
“I should go,” you say, and your voice is gentle, like setting something down. “My mom’s waiting.”
Clark nods, once. But his eyes don’t move. Like he’s still trying to memorize you right before the moment ends.
You shoulder your bag. Grip it tight. “Bye, Clark,” you murmur.
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. “See you.”
He doesn't say when. He doesn't promise soon.
.
VOICEMAIL (UNSENT DRAFT)
Timestamp: Tuesday, November 1st, 7:43 PM
Location: Hy-vee – Parking Lot
Duration: 2 minutes, 31 seconds
[BEGIN RECORDING]
Hey. Um... hey. It’s me. Clark.
(short pause)
Obviously.
I don’t really know why I’m calling. I guess—I guess I saw your car. At Hy-vee. Same spot you always used to grab, third from the cart return. Still got that dent by the taillight.
I was gonna go in, but…
I don’t know. I couldn’t.
You looked happy. Not like laughing happy, just... normal happy. Pushing your cart with that one wheel that always squeaks. list in your hand, headphones in, like any other Tuesday. and I stood outside my truck like a fool for probably five whole minutes before backing out of the space.
I wasn’t avoiding you. I just—I think part of me hoped I’d run into you again someday. Like really run into you. Same aisle, same time, some kind of weird cosmic timing thing. Not like this though. Not when i’m still figuring out how to hold all this.
I miss you.
I’m not supposed to say that, right? I know that.
But I hope whatever you were picking up tonight—milk, cereal, whatever—I hope it’s what you needed.
I’ll let you go.
Uh—not that you’re listening.
Not that I'm gonna send this.
Okay.
(quit inhale)
Night.
[END OF RECORDING]
Saved to: Voice Memos > Drafts > Not Sent
Last opened: 9:12 PM
Playback: 2x speed available
Option to Delete: [yes] [no]
.
Your car gives out somewhere past the grain elevator.
No bang, no dramatic hiss of steam—just a weird and nerve-inducing mechanical sigh. A flicker on the dash. A sudden silence as the engine stutters and gives up. Then nothing but wind.
It’s the kind of stillness that feels just a smidge personal. Punishing, even.
You sit there in the cold, breath misting against the inside of your windshield, watching it bead and vanish in ghostly little ovals. There’s a chill creeping in through the seams of the door. Your fingers are stiff where they clutch the steering wheel, like letting go will make it real.
Try the key again. Just to say you did. The engine clicks, whines, and dies all over again. Dead.
Shit.
Your fingers are quickly turning numb. You try to stretch them as best as you can in your lap, crack the knuckles like that’ll warm them.
The loneliness out here, just flat fields and old fence posts and the faint suggestion of grain silos in the distance, presses against the windows like a fog. You check your phone. One bar. Maybe half a bar. No service, not really. But it doesn’t matter.
You already know who you’re going to call.
And it’s stupid. It’s so stupid.
You promised yourself two years ago, lost at your first college party, a mosquito bite blooming on your ankle, arms crossed so tight across your chest you thought your ribs might cave in—
Don’t call him. No matter what. You don’t get to want him and let him go.
But here you are.
Still, somehow, his name’s still in your phone. Not under anything cutesy, just—Clark. And when you press it, your thumb trembles.
It only rings once.
“Hey,” Clark says, voice low and immediate.
You bite down on the inside of your cheek.
“My car—” you start, but your throat catches. Embarrassing. You force it down. “It’s dead. I’m dead. I mean, the car’s dead.”
“Where are you?” he cuts in, already moving.
“Highway 5,” you say. “Just past the turnoff. Maybe a mile out of town. I think I passed the old gas station.”
“I’ll be there,” he says. “Right now. Don’t get out. Just stay warm.”
The call ends. You don’t look at the clock. You don’t need to.
The wind outside picks up. It whistles against the passenger-side mirror, loud and thin like something almost alive. You draw your coat tighter around you, but it’s not much. Just denim and threadbare fleece and a few years too old.
You don’t even hear him land. The air shifts—just barely—and then he’s there, knocking on your window with the gentlest knuckle.
You turn and it’s Clark.
Clark Kent, standing out in the field of dead corn, boots crunching over frostbitten stalks, his hoodie shoved under his red jacket like he got dressed in a rush. Red in the cheeks from the air.
When he sees you, really sees you, they soften, then crumple. Like you’re the only thing he’s been worried about since the moment the call came through. Like he’s checking for bruises.
He opens your door without a word.
“Can I—?” he starts, already unzipping his jacket.
You nod, and he wraps it around your shoulders. It’s still warm. Heavy with him. You breathe it in—his smell, somehow exactly the same. That stupid clean laundry scent mixed with cold air and something underneath it. Something like home.
“I didn’t know if you’d still—” you begin, but he shakes his head.
“I came,” he says, and his voice is raw with it. “That’s what matters.”
He crouches down to your level. Looks you over like he’s trying to assess damage he can’t name.
“You okay?” he asks, quieter this time. The worry’s right there in the way his brow draws in. You always loved that about him—how he couldn’t ever really hide it. How being soft was never a performance.
You nod, even if it’s not entirely true. “Just cold.”
His mouth presses into a line. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you warm.”
He takes your hand, so fucking careful, like you’re glass—and lifts you out of the car like you weigh nothing. You don’t protest. You just go.
The wind hits harder once you’re out, and he doesn’t let go, just pulls you close against him and rises like it’s instinct. The field drops away beneath you. The car. The frostbitten road. Everything but the tight circle of warmth where your body presses against his chest.
You glance up at him. His jaw’s tight. There’s a little muscle that ticks when he’s tense, and it’s doing that now. He doesn’t say anything at first, just holds you tighter as the wind rushes past.
“I was already home,” he murmurs after a long moment. “Back in Smallville. Was gonna call tomorrow. I just—didn’t know if I was allowed.”
“You are,” you say, too fast. “You always are.”
His eyes flick down to yours then, and they don’t look tired anymore. They look wrecked. Not just from the cold or the flight. From you.
You don’t say anything else for a long time. Just let him carry you toward the distant lights of your house—still glowing warm through the trees, still there. Your breath fogs up in front of you and with something else too—something old and familiar. Grip his shoulders without really thinking about it.
The first time he flew you like this, it was more of a dare than a thing that was done on purpose.
Summer night right before he went off to college. You’d just finished watching some grainy old movie on the Kent’s living room TV, something with a kiss in the rain and too many dramatic violins. You’d sat too close on the couch, your knee resting against his.
When the credits rolled, you teased him—half-laughing, half-not. Told him he should try that sometime. Real romance.
He grinned at you in that crooked way he did back then, the lamp light shining softly across his face. "You think I’m not romantic?” he said. Feigned offense. Tried to play it off. But his ears were red.
They always went red when he got nervous.
And then, quieter, more serious: “I could show you something, if you want.”
You raised an eyebrow. “What, like magic?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sort of.”
Didn’t really understand what he meant, at least at the time. But you said yeah, whispered it, almost, like you were giving him something. And he took it gently, like he knew.
Then he scooped you up and lifted off the ground. Straight into the dark.
You couldn’t stop laughing at first. A wild, exhilarated kind of laughter that bubbled out of you before you could think. You tucked your face into his neck and whispered, “I didn’t know it would feel like this,” and he just held you tighter and said, “Me neither.”
The snow’s coming down harder by the time he sets you down on your porch. The light above the door buzzes faintly, flickering like it can’t decide whether to stay on. But Clark doesn’t move right away. He just stands there with you, jacket still wrapped over your shoulders, his breath clouding in the space between.
It would be so easy to say nothing. To thank him, unlock the door, step inside and let the silence swallow it all.
But that's never been yours and Clark's style.
“I never stopped loving you,” he says.
You breathe in, chest tight. Because of course he hasn’t. That’s the cruel thing—how easily you believe him. How you’ve always known.
“I know,” you say. And you do.
Clark shifts closer. “I’ve tried to put it away. Thought maybe I had. But seeing you again—” He stops, shakes his head, almost laughs. “It’s like no time passed. Like it’s all still right here.”
You close your eyes, hating how much you want to believe it could be that simple. That he could just love you and it wouldn’t undo you. “You don’t make it easy."
“What?”
“Letting you go.” Your voice shakes. “It feels like I’ve been trying for six years, and you just… you show up, and it’s all still here. Like none of it ever left.”
Clark swallows hard. “Maybe it didn’t. Maybe some things—you just don’t get rid of them. They stay.”
You let out a breath that feels almost like a laugh. Almost. “You always think that’s enough. That if you believe hard enough, it’ll hold.”
He doesn’t argue. He just looks at you, and you can see it—the faith in him. Always the immovable object in the unstoppable force that is your life.
And you reach for him before you can think any better of it. Arms circling around his waist, and he comes into you like he’s been waiting—no hesitation, no question. He bends just enough to press his chin into your hair, the slope of his chest firm against your cheek. His breath catches there, ragged, hot in the cold night air.
Snow gathers on your shoulders, melts into his collar. Neither of you moves.
After a long silence, you whisper against his chest, “I really, really don’t know what to do with you.”
He huffs a laugh, small, almost bitter. “You don’t have to do anything. Just… let me love you. That’s all.”
And your heart breaks, because it’s so simple when he says it. Because part of you wants to believe it could be enough.
You pull back, just enough to look at him. His face is so close. His eyes are wrecked with it.
“Clark,” you say quietly, like saying his name might hold you both in place. "I can't give you an answer right now."
"I know."
.
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.
It takes you three days.
Three days of pretending you're okay.
Of going through the motions—helping your mom unload groceries, fixing the leaky faucet in the laundry room, scrolling endlessly through your phone without seeing a thing. Three days of rerunning that scene like it's stitched into your brain. You replay it over and over and over.
His voice in the cold, cracked with it: I never stopped loving you. The way he said it like it was already true, no matter what you did next.
You didn’t know it could hurt to be loved that much. Not when it’s Clark. But it does, because there’s something about the way he loves that feels both weightless and heavy—like floating and falling at once. Like being known down to the bone. But now you think you know.
The house is still when you wake up. Your breath ghosts in the kitchen window when you press your face close, watching the frost sparkle on the road outside. You don’t even think about it—you just move.
Throw on a hoodie, tug on your gloves, grab your bike from the shed where it’s sat all winter. Tires soft. Chain a little rusted.
Doesn’t matter.
You start pedaling.
It’s cold enough to bite your cheeks, sting your lungs. The wind rushes past, that familiar roar in your ears. But your heart—God, your heart’s even louder if you could believe it. It beats with every push of the pedals, every mile marker, every turn in the road you know by heart.
You pass the cornfields. The old train tracks. The sign welcoming you to Smallville like it never meant anything but him. And by the time the Kent farm crests into view, your legs are shaking. Your lungs feel scraped raw. But you don’t stop.
You see him before he sees you—Clark, in the driveway, half-bent as he loads something into the bed of Pa Kent’s old truck. Hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, hair still damp from a shower. There’s a thermos of coffee on the hood, a set of gloves stuffed into his back pocket. He looks—normal. Like your Clark.
The bike skids in the gravel and you all but launch yourself off it, hitting the brakes too fast and just about let it crash to the ground behind you.
“Clark!”
He straightens, confused at first. Squints toward the road. Sees you.
And then—stillness.
You breathe hard, chest heaving. He doesn’t move.
“I’m in,” you say, voice cracking on it. “Okay? I’m in.”
He steps around the truck slowly, hesitant. Careful, like you’re a skittish deer that might bolt.
“What—what are you saying?” he asks, and it’s not disbelief in his voice exactly, it’s hope. Hope pressed down so tightly he can’t quite trust it. “You don’t have to—if you’re just saying it because you feel bad or because you miss how it was—”
“I’m not,” you say, already stepping closer. “Clark, I’m not.”
You open your mouth—then laugh, not because it’s funny but because the whole fucking thing is ridiculous. You’re standing in the driveway where you used to sneak him kisses behind the barn. You’re breathless and cold and your fingers are still trembling and somehow it still feels like the safest place on Earth.
“I don’t know,” you say, honestly. “No? Yes? I mean—I think so. I’ve been thinking about it for three days straight and it hasn’t stopped feeling like the right kind of terrifying.”
He blinks. You keep going.
“I mean, it’s not like I have it all figured out. I don’t know how to make it work. I still don’t know if I can live with the idea that someone else might need you more than I do—but I do know that I’m tired of pretending like this isn’t the only thing I want. You. Us. All of it.”
You ramble on, voice unsteady. “And—and I’ve been looking at grad schools, you know? There're some programs in Metropolis. Good ones. And maybe I don’t get in, or maybe I do and I hate it, and maybe we still mess this up, but I think—” You pause, press your hand to your chest like it’ll help hold your ribs in place. “I think I’d regret not trying more than I’d regret failing.”
A beat.
You meet his eyes. “But you’re it for me, Kent.”
He stares at you. And then shakes his head, like he can’t help it, like he needs to push the disbelief out of his system or it’ll get stuck somewhere permanent.
“You mean it?” he says, voice hoarse.
“Yes, god, Yes,” you say, stepping in close now, hands reaching for the hem of his shirt, curling in the cotton like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. “Can't stand another day without you.”
His eyes flutter shut.
“And what,” he whispers, like the memory of a grin, “are you gonna do about that?”
“Guess I’m gonna keep giving you hell until you kiss me.”
Then you kiss him.
Your back hits the side of the truck, hard enough to rattle the frame. He follows you into it, crowding you against the metal, and it’s all instinct after that—his hand tilting your chin up, your fingers fisting in his hair, your mouths moving like you’re trying to make up for lost time in a single breath.
And you gasp when he presses in even closer, overwhelming your sense, his hips pinning you to the truck door, the ridges of old metal biting into the backs of your legs.
His body's still impossibly strong. Familiar in a way that guts you. This is the same boy who used to lift hay bales with one arm, who kissed you for the first time on that field and shook with nerves while doing it.
He still feels like home. Still that boy who looked at you like the sun rose just for you.
“You haven’t changed,” you say, lips brushing his jaw, tasting sweat and salt and something you don’t have a name for.
“I have,” he breathes. “But not where it matters.”
You’re half laughing against his mouth when he finally tears himself back just enough to breathe, to look at you properly, his forehead resting against yours. His chest rises hard against yours, fast and uneven.
Then, suddenly—he bends, scooping you up into his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your back leaves the truck door, legs instinctively winding around his waist before you can think any better of it.
“Clark—” You jolt, clutching at his shoulders. His mouth finds your jaw, then your cheekbone, the soft corner beneath your eye. Kisses everywhere, everywhere he spots exposed skin. You can’t help the breathless little laugh that slips out, breathless. “Wait—what about your parents?”
“They’re not here,” he mumbles against your skin, pressing another kiss to your temple, to the corner of your mouth. He sounds desperate. “Ma and Pa are at the Coopers’, fixing the tractor. They’ll be gone for hours.”
“Clark,” you say again, but your voice falters when his lips drag along the edge of your throat, when he kisses the hollow just below your ear.
He doesn’t put you down.
Just starts walking, boots crunching against the gravel drive, carrying you up the porch steps like he’s done it over a thousand times in his head. Every few steps, another kiss—your hairline, your nose, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t stop, like making up for lost years could happen just one inch of skin at a time.
The door creaks when he shoulders it open, and you’re half terrified, half thrilled, whispering, “We shouldn’t—God, this is insane—” but you’re still kissing him anyway.
He moves through it without looking, carrying you past the kitchen where the scent of coffee still lingers, past the living room where you once sat watching movies until you both fell asleep. It’s dizzying, disorienting—being in this house again, but like this.
“Baby,” you whisper once more, fingers tightening at the back of his neck. Your voice cracks on it. “I missed you.”
His steps falter for half a beat, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t set you down. His grip on you only tightens. “I missed you so much it hurt,” he says, the words muffled against your shoulder, almost a groan. “Every damn day.”
You shut your eyes, because it’s too much, because it’s everything, and let him carry you the rest of the way—to his room.
The door clicks shut behind you.
Clark sets you down on the edge of his bed, but he doesn’t let go—his hands linger at your waist, thumbs pressing into your hoodie like he’s reminding himself you’re real. His eyes dart over your face, hungry but hesitant, like he’s still waiting for you to push him away.
You think of making a joke, an aside, but one glance down at the bulge on his jeans, and suddenly, you don't really feel like being coy anymore. "Clothes off, Kent."
His laugh bursts out. His forehead drops briefly against your shoulder, like he needs a second to catch up. “You can’t just—” he starts, voice muffled.
You tip his chin up with your hand. “I can. I did.”
God, he makes you so damn happy. It has to be lethal, the way he looks at you right then—his shirt comes off with one smooth movement, all muscle and soft skin and freckles and sweetness. You're scrambling to take your own clothes off, and then the moment, the moment they're all gone, you're tackling him back on the bed.
Clark smiles, lopsided and silly. "You're so pretty."
You kiss him for that, kiss his cheeks, his stubbled jaw, his collarbone. Cunt ghosting over his eager cock, rolling your hips experimentally just to hear him groan and go all putty in your hands again.
"Oh, fuck."
"Okay, okay, I'm—" Fuck. Of course, it's a stretch. You're wetter than you've ever been in your life, but it still always feels like this daunting task, getting him inside of you. Clark, ever the optimist, encourages you. "You can do it, sweetheart. I know you can take it."
"So full," you mumble between breaths of air, shifting slightly just to try to fit even more of him. Just to see him fall apart a little bit more. "So full, baby."
He pulls you down to kiss you, tongue licking its way inside your mouth, wants to taste every inch of you, everything he's missed out on the past few years.
There's something so damn intoxicating in seeing Clark crumble like this underneath you, . Trying so damn hard to keep his eyes on you, but eventually, those eyes roll to the back of his head, grip turning tighter on your hips before he even realizes it.
He's getting closer—you can feel it, his hands come up to palm your breasts in those big, calloused hands, thumbs rolling over your nipples until you keen out a sigh.
"Such a good girl, working so hard for me. Come on, you can do it—just a little faster now, angel—"
You moan, hips trying to cant down harder with every stroke. Using him, riding him for dear life, until you come with a silent scream.
And that's when he lifts you, airborne just for a second as he rolls the two of you over until you're practically folded in half, legs slung over his shoulders. Fuck, him being strong has never been so fucking attractive. You're completely at his mercy.
The first roll of his hips is rough—aching in a way you know will hurt the next morning. The head of his cock dragging into you, just barely managing to get a little over halfway. It doesn't even feel like he's wrenched an orgasm out of you, always takes a little bit more effort than you think is reasonable with him, but god.
God, you'll take it. You'll take all of him.
Clark slowly, slowly bottoms out and then his eyes dart across your face, one stray hand going to cup your cheek. "You okay?"
"Yes, yes," You're going to absolutely cringe over your tone later, breathless and nodding and babbling, and there might even be tears in your eyes, but you need it. You need more. "Don't you dare stop for a second."
"I won't," He rocks forward, then back, wrenching a gasp from your lips as you squirm. "I won't, I swear."
His pace turns into this agonizing, brutal grind, his cock throbbing inside of you. You're getting absolutely fucked down into the mattress, the springs creaking and the sheets sticking hot against you skin.
You look down, and he's a sight to behold. Abs formed from years of farmwork, flexing as he carves his way inside of you, arms, large and veiny, holding you in place as you cling to him helplessly.
"Wanna feel you, baby," Clark begs, his breath against your collarbone. "Need you to come at the same time, okay? Be a good girl for me."
And that's when he rams deep inside of you, thrusts turning unsteady and erratic. Your body jerks, your hands getting tangled in his hair and toes curling, and for one perfect, perfect moment, you're filled with warmth.
After a moment, both of you go still, chests heaving, eyes locked on each other. Satiated.
Graciously, you unhook your legs from behind his back as he pulls out and slumps right there next to you on the bed. He immediately turns over on his side to look at you, really look at you, one hand tracing across your hip.
“That was—” he stops, laughs, shakes his head like words aren’t big enough. “That was… unreal. You okay?”
You laugh, brushing your nose against his. “I’m fine. Better than fine.”
“Good,” he says quickly, earnest as ever. “I just… I didn’t want to mess it up. I kept thinking, don’t rush, don’t—”
“Clark.”
“I know, I know. It’s just… I really want to go again.”
You groan, dropping your head against his chest. “Slow down, cowboy. Some of us need a minute to, you know, breathe.”
He chuckles, pulling you closer, his hand drawing absent-minded shapes on your back. “Fair. I can wait. I’ll wait however long you want. Just… don’t kick me out, okay?”
You tilt your chin up at him. “Kent, I’m not kicking you out of your own room.”
His smile spreads wide. “Guess that means you’re stuck with me, then.”
.
Five hours later, you’re lying in his bed again, finally, finally spent for real this time. Clark's half-asleep, mumbling something about chores he forgot to do for the farm. You tell him he’s ridiculous, that you’ll help him feed the cows in the morning if he promises to stop worrying right now.
He just smiles, eyes still closed, and says, “Deal.”
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Apartment Listing: Metropolis Area
Looking for: 2BR / 1BA (or more) | Long-term lease | Immediate move-in
Ideal Unit Includes:
☐ South-facing windows (we like the light)
☐ Rooftop access
☐ Hardwood floors (been tracking in Kansas dirt for years, we can’t be trusted with carpet)
☐ Nearby coffee shop (within walking distance—non-negotiable)
☐ Pet-friendly (dogsit occasionally)
☐ A kitchen with enough room for two (we don’t mind bumping into each other, but some extra counter space would be nice)
☐ Decent water pressure
☐ Laundry in unit (or a laundromat that doesn’t eat socks—compromise possible)
About us:
Quiet couple in our mid-twenties. One of us works full-time (often odd hours), the other splits time between freelance and grad school. Clean, responsible tenants with references and steady income. Previously lived in small towns and small apartments—just looking for a place that makes sense for both of us now.
Let us know if you have something available or coming up!
