Having to pinch Yuta to be more quiet as your lips gently pressed against his. The heat between your legs growing.
Feeling the hum of his lips against yours that soon turned into small moans as you slipped your tongue into his mouth.
He couldn’t stop himself from moaning into your lips. Feeling his hips gently roll up into yours made you cock a brow before pulling away all together.
Looking at him, his pretty pink lips swollen and his face flushed red as he pouted ever so slightly..
“Why’d you stop…” he said voice soft and horse.
“Yer to loud..” you said making him avert his gaze. Embarrassment creeping up into his face.
“…I can’t help it…it’s the way you kiss me..” he mumbled before looking up at you. His hands subconsciously gripping your hips a bit more.
“Kiss you like what?” You said tilting your head as if confused on his statement.
Before he could answer your hand trailed down towards his obvious boner making his breath hitch.
With another whine of your name your only resort was to kiss him again to shut him up.
But your attempts were always futile. He moaned against you for the nth time again, showing how sensitive he was.
Starting to cry ever so slightly at your last resort to bite his lips made you internally roll your eyes.
summary: if you don't want to be with him just spit it out!
walk with me here walk with me….
being fwb with kirishima and you're over it. over him. he's too nice, and it only makes you meaner.
throughout the entirety of your "relationship" he's been nothing but sweet, even when you don't deserve it. he puts up with your attitude, your mixed signals, your way of pretending none of this matters.
it's as if it only draws him closer. and you hate it.
rule number #1 of your relationship was simple, no feelings. a boundary you set when you figured this would be nothing but sex for you. until he became the best thing you never planned for.
so you act like a brat, push him away, ignore him when he's being "too clingy". then show up at his dorm room, late at night asking why he hasn't talked to you all day.
and kirishima, ever the gentleman, will always apologize. he'll pull you into his room and lay you on the bed so sweetly, and give you the best head of your life.
so you call it quits. tell him it's over through text because he 'isn't taking this seriously'. like you're daring him to disagree, another test to see if he'll finally crack and say what you never could.
and within minutes of sending it… he's at your door. barging into the room like it never happened. like the message didn't exist.
it's only when you bring it up to him again as he makes himself comfortable on the bed that you realize he's not confused — he's certain.
he doesn't argue, doesn't push back. just nods as if he's already made peace with it.
"okay" he says softly, "one last time then"
and the way he looks at you makes your stomach twist.
"if you can still tell me you want this to be over… we can call it quits" he smiles, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes.
and what does he mean, if you can?
"say it. say this is over"
but the words don't come out, they can't.
"k-kiri-" your voice is caught in your throat as his cock hits the gummy spot inside you. over and over again. like an unrelenting force that makes it impossible to think straight.
every thrust forces a gasp from your lips, tears spilling over the apples of your cheeks as your nails dig into his back.
"if you're serious then say it, baby." he huffs, lips ghosting over yours as his hips collide with yours, each thrust emphasizing his every word. "say: eiji, i don't want to see you anymore"
and even when it goes against every bone in your body to say it, to even try, the last thing you want is for him to see through you more than he already has.
"eiji.." you start, eyes locked with his as he watches you patiently, "i d-don't want to -mm fuck- t'see you anymore" you spit the words out as if they don't belong to you, stuck on your tongue.
and when you're done talking, he only smiles against your lips, the ease of his thrusts suddenly on the forefront of your mind as he thumbs at your clit alongside it.
"mm no, not gonna work, sweets. you stuttered… must not really want it"
all you can do is pant, back arching off the bed as you beg for more, beg him to fuck you harder, to hold you closer. nails dug into his back like he might slip through your grasp.
thick fingers brush the hair out of your face, his lips pressing onto yours with a softness you know you don't deserve. the kiss serving as a moment that distracts you from the way his hips thrust into you so steadily it makes you forget what you were trying to prove. and he mutters, all quiet against your lips that 'it's okay, and he's got you now'.
and somewhere between his thrusts, and the way your body leans into his touch, you know this is just another test you never intended to win.
a/n: kirishima's been on my mind and idk why... underappreciated king
summary: Your husband, Hiromi Higuruma, is no longer the man you thought you once knew. When you ask for a divorce and one night he shows up proving just how much he still needs, what are you meant to do?
warnings: mdni (18+) — age gap (reader early 20s, Higuruma in his 30s), porn w plot, angst, mentions of divorce, idk how the divorce process works guys but like trust i know what im talking about tho, mentions of alcohol and being drunk, whiny needy Hiromi, smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, finger sucking, sooome dry humping, overtstimulation(?), raw sex, piv sex, cream pie
word count: 6k
a/n: based off the Frank Ocean song ofc <\3. I dropped everything I was previously working on in order to write this bcs a vision was plaguing me and I couldn’t stop it. I hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it <\3 !!
His eyes were the first thing you noticed when you met him.
Down turned, tired, with slight bags beneath them, he stared out at the world as if assessing every little detail it held. They wandered over every corner and inch of every room he stepped in. He stared off at walls as if in his own world, mind full of thoughts that seemed too big for his own head.
You thought he wouldn’t feel your gaze on him, thought he would be too caught up with whatever was going on in his mind.
But when his eyes met yours across the court room that day— he seemed to come to life.
A small smile tugged at his lips, the hardness of his eyes softened, and you felt your heart pound.
Your future had been decided for you in that instant, only instead of a tight noose, you had found it in his gaze.
The second he looked at you, you felt the weight of your life in your chest with every beat of the loud gavel. Or was it your heart?
It was young love. Something harsh yet full of passion.
Built over bars and coffee dates, late nights, and promises you weren’t sure either of you would even keep, it was a fire that burned quick and bright. Leaving aches and hidden scars all over, ones you wouldn’t even feel or know they were there until they scabbed.
He was older, you were freshly out of college.
A defense attorney with a life already built and a girl with her life ahead of her.
In your vows, he promised the world at your very fingertips. His heart and soul yours to keep. You promised him the rest of your life.
And it was good. The life you lived together.
A cute apartment in Tokyo, fancy dinners, late night talks in your tiny kitchen. Sunlight coming in from the windows and covering your bodies as he touched you with a gentleness that felt grounding.
His lips were soft against your skin, whispering sweet words no boys your age could ever imagine saying.
He brought you gifts, small “it made me think of you”’s written on tiny sticky pads that littered themselves all across your home.
His hands always stayed at your hips, holding you close to him. In line at the grocery store, while you cooked dinner or even just got ready. The feeling of his fingertips squeezing flesh stayed and surrounded you even when he wasn’t there.
And at night he would renew it all over again.
Your hips tilted high, your cheek in the pillow as you tried to muffle your moans.
His hands squeezed you softly, before you felt his palm make its way down to the base of your spine. He would press down at your back, deepening the arch you held while his heavy hips met with yours.
His moans were low, deep groans in your ear as he whispered words only a lover could.
“So tight.”
“So good for me.”
His hands always drifted back to your hips and held you tightly, fingertips digging into your supple flesh as his strokes became heavier and deeper with every thrust.
“Good girl, you’re mine.”
His pace would quicken, your combined whimpers growing desperate in the thick air of the room.
“I love you.”
“My love, my only love.”
He would whimper over and over when he was close. And when his hand moved to intertwine your fingers with his own, you felt him spill deep inside of you.
His presence was heavy, surrounding and filling you inside until you couldn’t breathe.
Your body ached with the marks he left you with, but it made you happy. Being his.
It made his vows feel real, a reminder of the promise he was meant to keep.
But as a bright flame does, the passion burned quick, fading away too fast.
Time went on, life started to pull you apart.
His job at the law firm began to demand more of him. He started working late into the night, leaving home earlier than usual and constantly bringing work with him back the few times he allowed himself to rest from the office.
Cases that he shouldn’t be so invested in turned into cases that consumed his entire being, the bags beneath his eyes growing until that tired stare that used to look at you with love became unrecognizable.
He was consumed by it. The strong sense of justice within his heart pulled him in and pushed you away.
You waited, told yourself you were satisfied with whatever it was he still managed to give you.
Told yourself that his soft ‘i love you’ and ‘i miss you’s were enough as they filled your ears. That the quick touches he gave you still made you feel complete.
You said nothing, did nothing but held your tongue. Told yourself that him being here was simply enough.
Until eventually, the weak kisses stopped too.
His soft whispers faded into lousy ‘working late, you can go to bed’ texts. His hands only seemed to be able to grip the countless papers he brought home with him every night instead of you.
Then one night, in the dim light of your empty bedroom as you waited for him to come home, did you realize just how different the two of you were after all.
A relationship built on burning coal. Stolen glances, quick hands and tender touches, long kisses and not enough words to truly know the other.
You realized too late that you needed love, to be held like dripping water from a sacred stream to feel alive. He needed support, a pillar to keep him up and grounded.
Passion and action were your currency, his was simply being there.
A defense attorney and a girl who had her life ahead of her.
The differences between the two of you started to burn in the wedding band he gave you.
The cold promises he whispered melted in the gold squeezing across your skin. And then everything else started to crack.
The softness of your home became tense, words being bitten back as arguments you started kept being put on hold.
It was the little things mostly. The way he left his shoes at the door and didn't bother to put them in the rack. His tie being thrown on the floor as he undressed, his jacket wrinkled when you hadn’t found the time to iron it. The way you seemed to lounge about the house, never doing anything and hardly having a life.
It was small comments, whispers.
He nibbled, you bit and chewed loud enough to try to get a reaction out. He never gave in.
You couldn’t take it anymore.
The life he promised became too small, the world he gave you too restrained. Trapped inside of an apartment you couldn’t even escape or feel like it was yours anymore, everywhere you looked you were reminded of him.
His face, his clothes, his utensils and utilities that he had bought only for you. But none of it was really yours anyways.
Living felt like a prison, the wedding band your chains.
It was solid evidence that you were still his, in name and in law, but you weren’t even sure if he was yours anymore.
“I think we should get a divorce.” You finally managed to say to him one night. The words rushed and unsure as you blurted them out, your tongue heavy with the tears you bit back from spilling from your eyes.
You words were as loud as a pin dropping in the silence of your home.
You said them at dinner, the only one he’d managed to make it back in time to catch in months.
His eyes, the one that seemed to soften and fill with words he never said when he looked at you, went blank.
They didn’t judge, they didn’t search or stare. Just… blank.
Dumbfounded. Lost.
The fork in his hand trembled before he put it down, and that lost look went away with a blink.
He coughed, “Are you sure?” And his voice was thick with something you couldn’t recognize.
“Yes.” You said too quickly, your heart pounding in time with the gavel still ringing at the back of your head.
He only nodded before finishing his meal.
He was a lawyer after all. Though not a divorce one, he tried his best and knew how to make the process the least messy as possible. Quiet and smooth, steady. The opposite of how this all had started in the first place.
You tell yourself you should be thankful for it. The fact he didn’t put up a fight, he did what you wanted and asked as he always had.
But it only made the anger inside of your chest burn hotter, brighter than before.
Why didn’t he put up a fight? How could he give up so easily? On you, on this marriage.
Though you supposed you’d already done the same to him a long time ago.
But still, it made you wonder. Was it all nothing to him?
☆
Days went by, the agreement still hung heavy in the air of your home.
It lingered loudly, like a foul smell from something nasty that you couldn’t seem to forget. It clung to your skin, sticking to every strand of your hair and settling into the very clothes you wore.
You felt it in your bed, the remaining warmth of him finally slipping away as he moved to sleeping on the couch since that night.
You never realized just how big the room was, how cold it seemed when he wasn’t there besides you. Sure, you’d already spent months like this, alone and clinging onto the safety of a blanket that only smelled like him. But even then, the soft scent of coffee and cigarettes still held the promise of him coming back to you within each thread.
He hardly looked at you now, his eyes only stealing passing glances before walking away.
His every movement was slow, quiet and calculated as to not bother you.
He made no noise when he came into the room to get ready. The sound of him brushing his teeth barely reaching past a hum in the apartment before he came back out to prepare his coffee like a whisper.
He left for work early, he came back home even later.
You knew it was for distance, he was giving you the space you hadn’t even found the courage to ask for. Yet, why did it still feel like he was everywhere?
His absence felt louder now, real in the way it hadn’t felt before.
Why did it make you miss him?
You tried to forget it, to calm down at the reality you were now facing and no longer imagining.
Divorce. Separation. Leaving. Real. Happening. The words looped over and over in your mind as you tried to process them.
“It takes some time to even get the papers, but we’ll sign them right away when we get them.” He told you before heading out to work this morning.
Thinking about them now almost made bile spit up from your throat, your body locking up as you waited and watched the front door from the corner of your eye.
It was late, the city lights twinkling like stars outside of your windows, and he still hadn’t come back home. But when was the last time he even came back on time?
You sat on the couch, curled up with your knees to your chest watching some cheesy romantic comedy when you heard the faint jingle of keys.
Your ears perked up, body involuntarily tensing as the door handle rattled.
A bang, a thump, and more rattling came from the other side.
Your brows furrowed, confusion settling in as you got half the mind to walk up and see what was wrong, but a few seconds later it finally opened.
And in came a stumbling, disheveled Hiromi.
In the time you had been together, you had never known him to be anything but the well groomed and put together man he was. His suit was never creased, his hair always combed back and not a piece of lint clung onto him. Though his eyes were always tired, permanent bags beneath the skin, they were never anything but focused and aware.
But this. This man suddenly standing in front of you was not the husband you had come to know.
His hair is messy, strands falling over his forehead and blocking the view of his eyes. His jacket is wrinkled, the shirt beneath crumbled up like some paper ball come undone. The top few buttons have popped off, as if he was gripping his chest in desperation to be free of it.
His eyes were practically bloodshot, wide and glossy with unshed tears. A look you couldn’t recognize.
They flickered all over the room, lost and worried before settling on you. You can only watch as pure devastation fills his gaze as he takes you in.
His breath is heavy, chest rising and falling at a frantic pace before he whispers your name.
The sound is like an arrow to your heart.
Another loud thump, and you realize he’s fallen onto his knees.
He says your name again, drawing out and feeling every syllable on his tongue. His hands tug at his tie, grasping and ripping the damn thing off like it was stealing the very air he breathed.
His eyes never leave you, wandering over your body before finding your own.
The look he gives you sends a chill up your spine.
“H-Hiromi.” You stutter out, though it's barely a whisper.
“My love.” He groans back.
He’s messy, throwing his shoes off before stumbling out of his jacket. His gaze doesn’t leave yours even as he positions himself on his hands and knees, body shaking and trembling with some primal want as he begins a slow and devastating crawl towards you.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I can’t.” He admits with a slur in his mouth, the wetness of his eyes only growing as he gets closer.
“You’re all I can manage to focus on, day and night.”
The sound of his pants shuffling over the carpet sounds like a roar in the quiet of the living room, your breaths caught within your chest.
He’s slow, creeping in close like some predator hunting its prey. You’re hypnotized, your heart beating too quick and too loud to even let you pull your eyes away from the sight.
He’s crawled close enough to reach the end of the couch, and you can finally smell it.
Sweet, sour.
Alcohol.
“Hiromi, you’re drunk.” You try to scold, but the way he’s looking at you with those eyes— god those fucking eyes, it sounds like anything but.
“No, ‘m not.” He replies, settling on his haunches by where you rest your knees. “I had a few. But I’m real. I’m here.”
His hand rises from the floor, slowly grazing over your skin.
He cuffs his hand around your ankle, feeling the way your pulse thrums beneath your skin.
His fingertips are light, gentle and hot as he traces over your bare calf, inching higher and higher until he settles his head within your lap.
You bite back a gasp, the weight and heat of him shocking you.
He grips your knees, holding you close and tight. As if he was willing you to not pull away. Like he was trying to convince himself you were real too.
“Please.” The man whimpers, lips practically quivering as the word leaves him. “All I have is you.”
He nuzzles his cheek into your thigh, eyes peering up at you in desperation. The gloss of his eyes finally manifests itself into tears, the droplets sliding out and now wetting your skin.
“What’s mine is yours, right? My vows.”
The look in his eyes is raw, unhidden and bare with everything that he’d been hiding before. The late nights at the office, the countless days spent apart– they all seem to come rushing and spilling out of him.
“You took my heart and had it longer than I ever did.”
He kisses your skin, hands trembling at your knees before rising up to settle at your hips.
He grips the fat harshly, he looks at you so softly. And you’re suddenly reminded of how he looked when you two met.
Strong, composed, a man who calculated every passing moment. The complete opposite of what lay in front of you now.
Your heart squeezes, an ache settling in your chest as you try to figure out what to say. But you can’t find any words that feel right, instead your body seems to react faster than your brain can.
Your fingers comb through his hair, pushing back the messy locks from his forehead so you can finally see his face.
There’s a blush high on his cheeks, a slight scrape on one side that your thumb brushes over.
You hiss imagining the slight sting he would feel, but he only moans at your touch. His mouth practically drooling as his eyes roll back into his head, closing them shut as he tries to lean in closer.
“Please…” He whimpers again, opening his eyes and blinking away a few stray tears.
His fingers dip into your skin, thumbing at the fabric of your flimsy shorts.
“I can make you feel good. Let me make you feel good.”
He grips at the cloth desperately, practically tearing it apart.
It shouldn’t have made your spine shiver the way it did. It shouldn’t have made your pussy so wet with the way he looked up at you.
But he hasn’t touched you in so long . He hasn’t whispered how much he’s needed you in ages.
There’s a need in your skin you can’t ignore, the feeling blooming and taking over every rational part of your brain that you have left.
You can’t even bring yourself to say it, only nod your head as a pathetic little whimper spills from your lips when you do so.
He’s quick to rip your shorts off, tearing the wet fabric of your panties along with them before spreading your legs.
In a swift motion, he throws a thigh over his shoulder, settling between them as if it was the place he’d always meant to belong.
He wastes no time, thick tongue immediately coming out to dive into your dripping folds.
He moans at your taste, licking a fat stripe from your fluttering hole to your clit, lapping up at the gushes of slick that seep out of your warm cunt.
“So wet f’me, baby.” He groans like a man intoxicated, the words muffled and even more slurred as he licks another stripe. “Missed your pussy so much.”
He buries his nose into your mound, the peak nudging into your clit as his tongue laps at the wetness spilling from you. He flicks and rolls the muscle all over, teasing your entrance before pushing flat and lapping up soft, quick lines to your clit.
Your hips jolt, hands burying themselves in his hair as you cry out his name.
He groans in response, eyes rolling back as he brings his tongue back down to dip into your fluttering hole, coaxing out more slick to gush as he opens his mouth wider.
Your legs start to tremble and squeeze around his head, overwhelming pleasure attacking you all at once. His hands hold you steady, knuckles turning bone white at the way they grip the fat of where your thighs and ass meet, pulling your legs further apart to feel you deeper.
He practically drools and groans at the way your hands have started to pull at his hair, fingertips gripping onto him like a lifeline as you desperately try to push him away with a weak and shaking strength.
“H-iro.” You whimper, feeling the pleasure start to spread throughout your body. It curls within your belly, spreading to your fingertip and toes until it makes you light headed.
Your body burns, bright and quick at the way he laps and gives you open mouth kisses, trying to devour and tongue every inch of you that is exposed.
You try to pull away again, your hips arching back from his touch, but he doesn’t stop.
His tongue teases and dips into your fluttering hole over and over, licking up every drop that squirts out.
His chin is covered in it, the sound obscene as he slurps and laps all over your pussy.
He licks a long stripe up your core, the tip of his tongue finding the sensitive bud of your clit and pushing his focus onto the poor thing.
It aches from sensitivity, the pressure of his lips sucking on it only making your body bow and hands grip onto his hair tighter.
“Hiromi!” You moan, the sound echoing off the walls and only making him suck harder.
The muscles of your body grow taught, thighs stiff yet still shaking as you feel a tightness in your belly start to build.
Your walls clench around nothing, breath becoming shaky as you try to whimper out some warning words, but he pulls away before you can even utter them.
The tightness of your body falls away, your bones becoming jelly and you whine at the sudden loss of his quick, needy movements.
His lips leave you with a soft pop, the sound wet and obscene as he grips the flesh of your thighs harder. Like he was trying to ground and hold himself from diving back in.
He’s panting, teary eyes gazing back up into your own as his hot breath brushes over your sensitive pussy, making you jolt and try to push away.
“Mm don’t run,” He whispers, voice hoarse and thick with need.
His hands grip harder, sliding you down the couch until your ass practically falls off of it. His hands splay themselves over your cheeks, holding your thighs over his shoulders as he tries to feel you closer.
“So good, so good, baby.” He licks his lips, savoring the taste you left upon his skin before nuzzling his cheek into the fat of your thigh.
He hums at the softness of the touch, lips parting in bliss before moving to kiss along the skin. He starts with a small trail, gentle and steady before beginning to bite and nibble small marks into the flesh.
“You missed me too, right?”
His eyes are half lidded, tired in the way they always were yet burning with a raw need as they look up at you.
It makes your chest tighten again, pussy clenching around nothing as you whine out a pathetic little sound. Words are lost to you, your brain a scrambled mess as you peer at the man resting between your thighs.
The sound makes him smile, his body suddenly shifting so that only one arm holds your weight now.
You feel it before you even see it, thick fingers parting your wet lips. A soft schlick noise as he spreads you open for him to touch and see.
“Can tell you did, look at her.”
His fingers rub over your folds, spreading and moving your arousal all around. It coats his digits as he parts them, scissoring and petting your pussy while his fingertips nudge and tease your clit with featherlight touches.
Your entire body throbs, sweat building and dripping from the heat that courses through your veins until you can’t take it anymore.
He dips into your tight cunt, filling you up until you cry out.
“So wet…” He groans, watching the way you clench and tighten, poor pussy not wanting to let go after being empty for so long.
“Hiromi, please I need you.” You whimper out, finally finding enough strength in your bones to pull at his head and speak any string of words. “I need you, I need you.”
Your plea’s fall out like a mantra, slurred and barely coherent as your hips buck up into him while you feel tears start to build in your own eyes.
There’s a pout on your face, plump lips parting in a way that makes his cock twitch and spill at the sight.
He gulps, closing his eyes for a split second before opening them back up.
His gaze falls on your pussy again, watching the way you continue to gush and clench around his fingers as he slowly pumps them in and out.
“Always so needy.” He sighs, biting back a smirk as he slowly pulls his fingers out.
Before you can realize, he’s settling you back on the couch. Your back flush with the cushion, his legs spread over your own before raising one to wrap around his hip.
You gasp, surprised at the quickness in which he moved you and the sight of his presence looming over you.
Tall, tired, and just as needy as you, Hiromi Higuruma stares into your eyes the same way he did on your wedding night. Fueled by pure passion and want.
“Open,” He taps his still wet fingers on your lower lip, you obey.
He shoves them in slowly, fingers pushing past your teeth before rubbing the pads all over your wet tongue.
Your cheeks fill around his hand, drool spilling down your chin. He pushes them in and out slowly, keeping the same pace he did earlier. The push toward the back of your mouth, a small gag escaping you before you stare up at him and start to suck at them slowly.
“Good girl,” His voice is lower than a whisper as he says the words. It rumbles up from within his chest, rising out of him as he pushes the pads of his fingers down the middle of your tongue. But in it, there’s a kind of hurt.
“Always so good for me.”
His free hand comes up to swipe a stray hair that clings onto your cheek, his thumb softly rubbing at your skin.
He leans his body in closer, the clothes of his hips pushing flush against your bare ones. You can feel the heat of him even through the fabric, his cock hard and aching.
“You want my cock?” He thrust against you once, rubbing the outline of him in a slow and agonizing pull against your folds. He lets the feeling linger before pulling away.
You moan around his fingers, nodding softly and looking at him with pleading eyes.
“Aw, yeah?” He hums, his voice dripping in a mocking tone. He thrusts again, this time quicker.
A crease in his pants nudges against your clit, pressing hard against the bundle of nerves. It makes your back arch, legs trembling before you frantically start to nod again.
Tears spill from the corners of your eyes as you buck your hips against him, your mind past the point of return as his warmth envelops you.
He smirks once more, his hand brushing into your hair before pulling away.
“It’s okay, my love. I’ve got you.”
His fingers retreat from your lips, a string of saliva connecting them and falling over your breasts as he brings the hand down to unbuckle his belt.
His movements are quick, the sharp sound of him removing his pants loud and ringing through your ears as you can only watch him pull his cock out.
Your breath catches, something you always did no matter how many times you saw it.
Long, hard and aching with a soft red tip— his cock twitches and pulses with need. He takes himself in a large hand, slowly jerking himself off as he spreads the soft beads of pre spilling from his tip all over.
He groans softly, hissing through his teeth when he rolls his thumb over the sensitive top before aiming it down to rub in between your folds.
He parts your wet lips again, rubbing and pressing his aching cock between them, gathering your slick until it shines all over him. He thrusts into you gently, tip knocking against your clit until you’re both filling the air with whiny little noises.
“Please,” You moan, hands coming up to grip at his large shoulders, “Just fuck me already.”
He has to bite a groan back at that.
He gulps again, only nodding his head before breathlessly saying, “Of course, my love.”
He stretches you out slow, filling you up inch by devastating inch. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t enter in one soft swoop but instead lets you feel every vein and pulse of him inside your tight cunt.
Just like he always did.
From the way his cock curves slightly up, to the way his tip rubs against the gummy spot along your walls, you clench around the thickness of him, feeling everything that he has to give.
He’s not even moving much yet there’s still a soft squelching noise that comes from where the two of you meet, the sound ringing in your ears.
He bottoms out after what feels like an eternity, his hips flush against you as his heavy balls rest against your ass.
You feel so full, the sensation having stolen the breath from your lungs. Your hands grip at his shoulders harder, trying to steady yourself and not to focus too hard on the feeling of him inside of you.But the feeling of him consumes you entirely anyways.
From the warmth of his large chest pressed upon your own to the way his heavy thighs hold yours on them. He’s everywhere, he’s everything at this very moment. You almost forget just how long it’s been since you’d felt like this.
He whimpers softly above you, his own breath heavy as he gets used to the feeling of your fluttering walls around him.
His brows furrow, a crease in between them as he bites his tongue and holds back from moving his hips.
Inside, you can feel him twitch. The soft stutters he resists from pulling into, the way he feels you gush and try to pull him in closer.
“Move.” You gasp out after a few seconds, the fire in your fingertips running down his own back. “Need you to move.”
He nods in response, wasting no time before obeying.
His thrusts are deep, slowly and steady as he pushes his hips almost all the way back before snapping fully into you over and over again.
His cock hits the deepest parts, nudging and rubbing at the gummy spot in your walls as the soft hairs of his pelvis stimulate the small bundle of nerves with every crash of his hips.
It's soft, warm and intimate in the way he always used to take you.
Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him in closer as he dives in to kiss your neck.
He nuzzles into the softness of your skin, kissing over and over along the lines of your throat before sucking at your pulse point.
You jolt, crying out when he does so in time with his cock hitting your cervix. You clench tightly, gushing out all over him and he moans at the feeling.
He continues sucking at the skin, leaving tiny marks before trailing a small line of drool down to your chest. Your shirt had been taken off long ago, somewhere between him eating you out and laying you down.
His lips find your breast, kissing and licking along the tops before wrapping the warmth of his mouth over your tight and taut nipples.
Your body bows, fingernails scratching down the back of his wrinkled shirt as he sucks.
A purr rumbles from within his chest, savoring the way your bodies have started to move as one together now.
His hips pull away, yours rise to meet and follow them.
It’s gentle, yet raw and desperate in the way that only your bodies remember. Like this dance was something carved deep in your soul and you didn’t need to relearn it all over again.
His hands roam over you, squishing and holding onto every curve he can find, pulling you closer and closer as if he wants to merge your very skin into his own.
He grips your hips again, finding the place his hand was always meant to belong and you can feel the bruises already starting to form from the strength in which he holds you.
His other hand finds your own, pulling your arm away until your fingers intertwine. Palm against palm, his wedding band digs into your finger and you feel your body start to burn all over.
The knot in your stomach forms again, holding tight as his pace quickens. Pleasure runs through you, a shock that runs from your spine to your toes.
“Hiromi I’m-“ You whimper out, eyes shutting as you throw your head back.
“Mnn, I know, my love, I know.” He hums back, hiding his face deeper into your skin.
His pace quickens, hips rolling into yours as he angles himself deeper, filling you up even more.
He mutters something into your breasts, drool spilling past his lips as he kisses and mouths along the soft mounds.
You’re too far gone to understand anything, to hear anything but the soft plaps of where you two meet, to feel anything but the way his pelvis rolls into your clit. But if you listened closely, if you focused on the way his lips moved and ran across your skin, you would know he said the words “i love you” over and over as if trying to carve them into your heart.
His thighs pull yours higher, his movements becoming increasingly desperate as your walls tighten and clench all around him.
“Come for me, come for me.” He begs, uttering your name over and over like some kind of prayer that will save him.
It comes without warning, like a simple tug on a string as you fall apart in his arms.
It makes your legs shake, back arching as you come and lay beneath the waves of pleasure that start to wash over you. It consumes you whole, holding you prisoner and not letting you break free as he continues to chase his own high.
He says your name, breaking at the syllables in a small pitch before he fills you up with one final thrust.
Thick, warm, cum fills you from the inside. His cock twitching restlessly as he shoots rope after rope into you, the mess spilling out of you and gushing all around him. It coats your thighs, dripping down your ass and undoubtedly ruining the poor couch cushions.
Your chests are heavy, the sound of you both gasping for air fills your ears and you continue to cling onto him for dear life.
There’s a pause in the air, as if time has suddenly stopped to wait for you two to catch up.
Your hand holds onto his shoulders. His own holds your hips in the way he used to, grounding.
And suddenly you two have seemed to have forgotten the situation that brought you here.
Your bodies are flushed, sticky with sweat and lingering desire as Hiromi collapses onto you. His weight practically suffocating as he lays his chest back against your breasts.
Silence surrounds you two as the intoxicating feeling of need dies out, the heat you two created slowly turning back into the cold you’ve felt for weeks.
There are left over tears in your eyes you didn’t even know were there until you try to blink them away, suddenly confused as to why you’ve started crying.
Your lips move to say something, to utter some word of regret or apology or reason. But he beats you to it.
“I’m sorry.” He whispers.
“I should’ve been here. For you, for us.” His voice is solemn, regret cracking along the lines of every word.
“I won’t fight. I’ll do whatever it is you want me to. Just please,” His head moves to gaze up at you.
Those tired eyes shine with tears once more, need and hurt and love filling them so full that it robs you of breath all over again.
“Don’t take my heart with you.”
Thank you for reading </3 Comments and reblogs are v much appreciated! If you have any insights please leave them kindly
a/n: Mnnfggh, needy… whiny men…
tags: my beautiful @cherrys-wrld , hope you like it bbg :3
MDNI 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ jerking off your bsf's satoru gojo and suguru geto 𝜗𝜚⋆₊ m.list
you and your two bestfriends, satoru gojo and suguru geto, were innocently hanging out in your apartment— which might as well be theirs considering how much they frequent your place, countless nights of them sleeping over on your couch or on your bedroom floor after a late night movie session accompanied by one too many beers.
and tonight was no exception.
you're lounging in your living room, sat in a giant pink bean bag chair while satoru and suguru are sat on either side of the couch. and of course you just had to wear a skirt that's just a tad bit too short, showing off your lacy white panties every time you shift your legs or bend over.
then there's your two bestfriends— why do they have to be so goddamn hot for? how is it even fair? suguru’s got his inky black locks tied up into a bun that hangs loosely on the back of his head, a few long pieces framing his face. his chiseled frame hidden beneath a black sweatshirt that sits nicely—too nicely across his broad shoulders. he throws his head back and laughs at something satoru says, god, even the way his adam’s apple bobs up and down in his throat is fucking hot.
sat next to him is satoru— your extremely annoying overly-extroverted best friend. white compression shirt pulled taut over his husky frame, showing off every ridge of his hard chest, each muscle straining against the fabric. fluffy snow white hair sitting perfectly messy on his head, those bright cerulean orbs peaking out from behind.
and the worst part is, the stupid fucker knows he's hot. at least suguru was humble with his looks, never flaunting how attractive he was. unfortunately, satoru was a different story.
always teasing you, saying something stupid like, “c’mon bestie, you're telling me you've never thought of me while you're layin’ in bed late at night, using whatever sad excuse you have for a vibrator? not even once? i mean, look at me!”
you'd always respond with an eye roll or just a few blinks and a middle finger to the face.
but tonight, something just feels… different.
you're all just sitting around the tv, enjoying some cheesy comedy movie satoru threw on, the lot of you kicking back about three beers a piece already— but you swear you keep catching glimpses of suguru eyeing your legs up and down, the weight of his gaze heavy as his pupils dilate each time you uncross your legs to get comfortable, pretty white lace peeking out between your thick thighs.
at least suguru’s being subtle with it— satoru’s just fucking staring.
staring at the way your tits bounce when you laugh, the tops of your soft breasts spilling out of your thin spaghetti strap tank top, jiggling with each shake of your shoulders. his eyes raking down to your thighs, the smooth skin that's exposed by your short skirt, imagining how soft they’d feel wrapped around his—
“hey, anyone wanna do shots?” you stand up abruptly, walking to the kitchen as the two pervs on your couch follow you like lost puppies.
except, they aren't the only pervs here.
you can't ignore the heat that’s pooled in your tummy as you caught glimpses of them staring from the side of your eye, the way they'd both been adjusting those slutty gray sweats for the past twenty minutes. it's been driving you crazy. so maybe a shot will calm the nerves and the racing thoughts in your head… right?
you grab the bottle of vodka and pour the shot glasses to the brim, pulling your bottom lip in between your teeth as you try to concentrate on pouring instead of the two men towering behind you, watching your every move.
“aw you're shakin’ sweets, need some help?” satoru’s voice is dripping with feigned innocence as he leans against the counter.
“c’mon satoru, our girl can do it on her own, and she's doing such a good job.” you can hear the sly smirk that's plastered on suguru’s face, but fuck if his words don't make you squeeze your thighs together and squirm.
our girl? seriously?!
“shut up and drink, you guys talk too much.”
you turn to face them, not missing how both pairs of eyes drop down to where your cleavage is spilling out of your tank top before they reach behind you and grab their shot glasses.
the three of you throw the shots back, the cold alcohol burning in your chest, instantly making your face feel hot.
“whew, that's enough to put some hair on your balls!”
“satoru, i don't think that’s how that saying goes.” you can't help the laugh that erupts from your chest as you make your way back to the living room, plopping right down on the middle couch cushion.
suguru sits on your left, satoru hopping over the back of the couch to sit on your right— and you're sandwiched right in between them with a giant smile that you didn't even realize was there.
“what’s got you smiling like that, pretty girl?” suguru’s velvety voice hits your ears, the compliment making your cunt clench.
“o-oh, nothing, i was just… thinking.” you fidget with the hem of your skirt, your heart pounding in your ears.
“i mean, you guys are close. like, reaaally close. have you ever… touched each other?”
suguru's eye’s widen slightly at your bold question, and you can't believe you just asked that either— basically asking if your two best friends have explored each other’s bodies.
“tch, well duh! we high five all the time, right sugu?” satoru raises his palm, pearly canines on display as he smiles.
“no— satoru i meant have you guys ever fucked. or even kissed. ‘cause i… i think that'd be kinda hot.” the last sentence comes out as a whisper past your cherry glossed lips, placing a hand on each of their thighs.
you look side to side, both of the boys rendered speechless, mouths hanging open as they stare at you, then look to each other. but what happens next is what renders you speechless.
satoru leans over you, pretty pink lips pulling into a smirk.
“you hear that, suguru? she thinks it’d be hot if we kissed. why don't we give our girl a little treat? y’know, just as a thanks for being such a good best friend.”
suguru scoots closer, your hands still on each of their thighs that are now brushed up against yours, both of their faces hovering a few inches from yours.
“yeah… just as a thanks.” suguru mutters, mirroring that same smirk satoru’s wearing.
but he doesn't kiss him, not yet. he licks along satoru’s bottom lip with a long, languid stroke of his tongue, eliciting a shaky exhale from satoru, your hands tightening on their sweats as your fingers inch higher.
“that all you got? c’mon sugu, let's have some fun.” satoru breathes against suguru’s lips, voice coming out low and rough.
he grabs suguru's jaw, crashing his lips against his, the both of them groaning as their tongues fight against each other.
the kiss is sloppy, full of teeth and spit— like they’re trying to devour each other.
“mmm—” satoru hums as he pulls back, both of their lips swollen and glistening with spit as they turn to look at you.
you— who's sitting there in the middle of your two best friends who’ve just tongue fucked each other’s mouths, wearing your short little skirt and tight tank top, your white lace panties full of a sticky pool of slick.
your chest heaving slightly, breasts straining against your top, glossy lips parted as you've just watched what you think might be the most erotic thing you've ever seen.
you look down at your hands that are still resting on their upper thighs, and your eyes are drawn to the tent that’s growing in suguru’s sweats, then over to satoru’s bulge that’s throbbing under his pants.
“don't get shy on us now, sweetheart.” suguru purrs, leaning in to brush your hair from your neck, placing soft, wet kisses along your neck, alternating between bites and licks.
satoru leans over, placing his hand over yours that’s resting on suguru's leg, and leads it up, and up, and up… until it’s hovering over the waistband of suguru's pants, your thumbs instinctively hooking under seams.
suguru bites your ear lobe, his breath hot as he whispers, “you can do it, pretty girl.”
you swallow the pool of spit in your mouth, tugging down his sweats and boxers, his girthy, veiny dick springing free and slapping against his sweatshirt.
a breathy hiss escapes suguru’s throat, and you repeat the same actions on satoru's pants with your other hand.
satoru’s cock is a bit longer, not as thick, but fuck just as pretty. flushed pink tip slapping his covered abs, pearly droplets of pre staining his shirt.
both of the men make quick work to rid themselves of their tops, wide broadened shoulders trapping you in between the two of them, toned chests heaving as their breathing grows heavier and heavier.
“what's wrong sweets, need some help?” satoru grins as he leans over, his soft lips parallel to suguru’s on your neck, the both of them marking you with nips of your sensitive skin between their teeth.
your eyes flutter shut as your two best friends kiss along and suck along your neck, soft whines leaving your lips.
you firmly wrap both of your hands around the bases of their cocks, your cunt and stomach clenching at the sound of the breathy moans that vibrate against your neck.
moving your wrists up slowly, twisting and squeezing as you get closer to the tip, your thumb rubbing across the sensitive skin as you lather their shafts in glossy pre, watching as more pearly drops leak from their throbbing cocks.
“y-yeah, there you go baby, just like that— doing such a— mmph— good job for us.” suguru muses against the skin of your neck, the soft praises only making you soak your panties more.
their desperate moans encourage you to pick up your pace, your small hands gliding up their slick, veiny shafts, every twitch of their cocks making your breath catch.
satoru grabs your chin, the pads of his fingers digging into your jaw as he crashes his lips against yours, the both of you swallowing each other's moans as your tongues dance in sync.
“god, you're so fucking pretty.” suguru pulls your tank top down, your breasts springing free as he kneads the soft flesh, his cock twitching in your hand as he watches satoru tongue fuck your mouth.
suddenly, suguru places his hand behind you, tugging on your hair to make you face him— making both you and satoru whimper at the loss.
“i've always thought you had the prettiest lips.” he whispers, voice like velvet. “open up for me.”
and you do so, staring up at him with glassy eyes as he spits directly onto your tongue— and then he turns your head back to satoru.
“keep it in there for him.” suguru smirks, his hips starting to buck up into your hand to match your languid movements.
satoru’s broad, toned chest heaves as he bites back a moan, grabbing your face and smushing your cheeks as he leans in, your kiss bitten lips still parted as you hold suguru’s spit on your tongue.
“tch, always knew you were a slut suguru.” he smirks, smushing your cheeks harder as his parted lips meet yours— his eyes rolling back as he tastes the subtle hints of alcohol lingering on your mouth, greedily sucking suguru’s spit from your tongue.
“hmph-” you whimper, your wrists twisting and stroking faster, applying more and more pressure as you reach their drippings tips.
you'd never thought you'd be here. sitting in your couch, double fisting your best friend's cocks.
but honestly, there's nowhere else you'd rather be right now.
the room fills with the sounds of suguru and satoru’s groans— which are starting to turn into desperate whimpers— along with the slapping wet noises of your hands stroking up and down their lengths.
suguru continues to massage your breast, pinching your nipple between his fingers, all while satoru releases your cheeks, his hand finding their way up your skirt and to your slick soaked panties.
“god, she’s so fuckin’ wet for us.” satoru feels the sticky dampness on your underwear, so much so that it’s leaked onto your clenched thighs.
he moves your panties aside smoothly, running two long fingers up your sopping folds, coating them in your arousal.
you whimper, your eyes fluttering shut and wrists stuttering in their movements as his fingers brush your puffy clit, the pleasure from suguru playing with your tits and satoru playing with your pussy almost too much to handle.
“getting off on watching your best friends kiss while you stroke our cocks— and i thought i was the slut.” satoru huffs.
“you're still the— nngh— slut, ‘toru.” you gasp as he pinches your clit before starting to rub quick circles around the sensitive bud.
“both of you— kiss me, please, i need you both.” you whimper, your back arching against the couch cushion as you grind your hips against satoru’s hand.
“needy girl.” suguru whispers against your ear before nipping at it, kissing along your cheek until he meets your lips.
satoru follows his movements, kissing along your jaw, up to your cheek, before finally meeting your lips— the three of you now sloppily making out— a complete mess of tongues and a. cacophony of pathetic whimpers leaving the three of you.
your wrists move faster, both of them fucking into your hand as you all swap spit, satoru’s fingers on your clit applying more and more pressure.
“a-hah-” your head falls back onto the couch, your eyes closing from the intense pleasure.
but when you open your eyes— you almost cum right then and there.
suguru and satoru are devouring each other's mouths once again— except this time it's more desperate, more passionate— their heads bobbing against one another, spit bubbling between their mouths, and their cocks twitching an leaking in your hands.
suguru’s hand moves from its relentless assault on your breasts down to your dripping cunt, sliding two fingers into your tight heat.
“mmm-” he groans against satoru’s mouth before pulling back to suck and bite on the soft skin of your breasts, satoru moving to suck on your neck.
“m’close— p-please, don’ stop-” you whimper, doubling your efforts with your strokes as you try to pull their orgasms out with your own.
“f-fuck— that's it, pretty girl. cum all over my— mmm— fucking fingers.” suguru pulls back from your breast that's littered in bruises, his fingers curling up against your g spot.
“c’mon baby, y-you can do it.” satoru groans against your neck, pressing harder against your clit as his fingers move faster.
“a-ah- nnngh!” a broken whimper escapes your throat as you cum hard, your silky walls clamping down around suguru’s fingers as you soak them.
as soon as they hear your wrecked moans, the look on your pretty fucked out face— they're done for.
suguru ruts into your hand, whispering your name like a prayer as thick ropes of cum shoot out onto his chest and stomach.
“f-fuuck-” satoru’s right behind him, panting against your neck as his cock twitches and spurts agaisnt your hand, ropes of white painting his sweat slicked abs.
the three of you are left a bunch of panting messes— suguru and satoru covered in their own cum, your hands a sticky mess as their cocks leak down your knuckles, and your thighs soaked from your own orgasm.
“that was—”
“fucking hot.” satoru interrupts you before licking up your neck.
suguru smirks, moving your damp hair from your face. “you did such a good job for us.”
you bite your lip, holding back a smile as you wipe your hands on your skirt.
“wait, guys— does this mean we’re a throuple now?” satoru chimes in, a goofy ass grin spreading across his face.
well… does it?
comments and reblogs appreciated! ♡
repost from my old account sytorusdoll
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lumberjack!toji getting surprised by his wife for Valentine’s Day
He ate like a man starved.
“Darlin’, this is—” he shook his head, pointing his fork at the catfish. “You tryna kill me?”
She laughed softly. “It’s just food.”
“Ain’t just food.” He leaned back, looking at her like she hung the moon. “This is love.”
Her cheeks warmed, and all she could think about was upstairs—folded under her pillow, red lace, soft, terrifying.
After he finished his third helping, he set his fork down and gave her a crooked grin. “Wait here,” he said.
Before she could ask, he disappeared into the living room. A moment later, he returned, carrying a small bouquet of pink hibiscus tied with twine, a box of her favorite candy tucked under one arm, and a little bottle of the perfume she’d been eyeing on the vanity for weeks.
Her breath caught. “Toji… you didn’t have to.”
He shrugged, his grin softening into something tender. “Yeah, I did, pumpkin. Valentine’s Day don’t come around every day, and I’m not gonna let it slide.”
She took the flowers, inhaling the sweet, tropical scent. Her fingers brushed the petals, and he watched her like she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen—which she was.
“And the candy,” he said, setting the box on the table. “Thought you might need somethin’ sweet after all that cookin’.”
Her cheeks flushed. “You’re ridiculous.”
He leaned down to press a kiss to her temple. “Yeah, well, I like it.” Then his gaze softened, darkening in that way that made her stomach flip. She laughed, heart thudding, and cleared the dishes, nerves rising higher with every plate.
“Baby.”
She turned. He was watching her again, really watching her.
“You’re quiet tonight.”
She swallowed. “Just tired.” He didn’t buy it, but he didn’t push. He stood, slow and heavy, brushing his knuckles against her hip as he passed. “Whatever it is,” he murmured, low enough just for her, “you ain’t gotta get nervous around me, love.” That almost made her fold right there.
Upstairs, her hands trembled while she changed. The lace hugged her softness in ways she wasn’t used to seeing. She touched her stomach. “Okay,” she whispered.
Then she went downstairs. Toji was leaning against the counter, and when he looked up, he went completely still. His eyes dragged down her body—slow, hungry, unapologetic.
She immediately wrapped her arms around herself. “I just thought maybe—I mean, I know I’m not—” He crossed the room fast.
“Hey.” His hands caught her wrists gently but firmly. “Don’t.”
His voice wasn’t rough now; it was steady. He pulled her arms down from where she was hiding herself. “You don’t get to talk about yourself like that. Not in my house.”
Her breath caught. His hands slid down her arms, over her waist, and rested on her hips, thumbs pressing into the soft curve there. “Darlin’,” he murmured, almost frustrated, “you think I don’t love this?” His palm spread over her stomach, slow and reverent, like he was claiming it. “This right here,” he squeezed gently, “drives me insane.”
Her knees almost gave out. He leaned down, nose brushing her neck.“ You walk around in my shirts, baby,” he muttered against her skin, “and I’m two seconds from dragging you back upstairs every time.”
His hand slid to her thigh, strong fingers curling around the softness.
“You bought this for me?”
She nodded, barely breathing. He exhaled through his nose, and finally—his voice softened. “…Y/N.”
The way he said her name sent heat straight down her spine. His forehead rested against hers. “You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
After a beat, he murmured, “Turn around for me, pumpkin.”
she turned, shy but willing.
his breath hitched. hands followed the curve of her waist, down to where the lace bit just below her belly.
“lord have mercy,” he muttered to himself. she felt it in the warmth of his palm spread over her belly.
his thumb brushed slow circles over the skin just above the waistband.
possessive.
reverent.
like he was memorizing it.
he pressed close, chest to her back, and tucked his face against her neck.
“smell so sweet,” he murmured.
his other arm came around her, forearm under her breasts, holding her flush against him. not demanding, just… there. like he couldn’t bear an inch between them. she leaned back, trusting the weight of him.
“been waitin’ all day to get my hands on you,” he admitted quietly.
his hips shifted against her.
slow, deliberate.
the hard line of him through worn denim pressed against the thin lace, and she shivered.
“toji…”
“yeah, love?”
she couldn’t finish. didn’t need to.
his free hand skimmed her hip, tracing the line of the panties down to the swell of her thigh.
“soft as a damn peach,” he muttered, almost to himself. then he squeezed.
her breath hitched.
“like it?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
she nodded, cheeks hot.
“good.”
his mouth was at her ear now.
“cause i ain’t stoppin’ anytime soon.”
he walked her forward, not letting her turn around, until her knees hit the bed. she stumbled, and he caught her. always caught her.
“on the bed, darlin’,” he murmured against her shoulder. “on your stomach.”
she hesitated for a second. and then did as he asked, sinking into the cool sheets, face turned to the side.
the bed dipped behind her.
and then she felt it. his palms, sliding up the backs of her thighs. thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, kneading, worshiping.
“ain’t nothin’ better than this,” he muttered, and she felt the vibration of it through her whole body.
he leaned down, lips brushing the base of her spine.
“nothin’.”
his hands followed the curve of her hips, thumbs pressing into the softness, then up her back, tracing the line of the bra strap.
“lift up,” he murmured.
she did, and he unhooked it with one hand. like he’d done it a thousand times.
he tossed it somewhere over his shoulder, then settled his weight over her, not heavy, just… there. present.
his chest against her bare back.
forearms braced beside her head.
“y/n.”
her breath caught. “you look at me.” she turned her head, and he was right there.
full of something she couldn’t quite name, but it made her chest ache. “you know what you do to me?”
she shook her head, helpless. His hips rocked against her. And she felt everything.
“this,” he growled softly, forehead against hers. “this is what you do.”
one hand slid down her side, over her hip, between her thighs.
his fingers found the lace, and he tugged it aside.
“toji…”
“i got you, love.”
he shifted, pressing into her slow.
so slow.
stretching, filling, until she was breathless beneath him.
he didn’t move for a long minute.
just let her feel him.
let her adjust to the weight and heat of him inside.
then he started to move. slow, deep rolls of his hips.
his mouth was at her ear, murmuring things she could barely hear over her own heartbeat.
“that feel good, pumpkin?”
she whimpered.
“yeah… thought so.”
his pace didn’t change.
just kept that steady, punishing rhythm that made her see stars.
one hand slid under her, palm flat over her stomach. pressing down.
“feel that?” he breathed. “how deep i am?”
she couldn’t answer.
just moaned against the sheets.
his other hand tangled in her hair, turning her head just enough to kiss her, slow and messy.
he was everywhere.
inside her, over her, around her.
“mine,” he muttered against her lips. “all damn mine.”
and she was.
he shifted, changing the angle just enough, and she cried out.
“there it is,” he murmured, satisfaction in his tone. “found it.”
he kept that angle, hips snapping a little faster now. but she could feel him losing it. feel the tension in his shoulders, the way his breath hitched. “come on, love,” he urged, voice rough.
He followed her through it, holding her steady as she unraveled beneath him, his hand firm over her stomach like he could keep her from drifting too far away.
“That’s it, darlin’,” he murmured against her shoulder. “I got you.”
Her fingers twisted in the sheets, her breath shaky as she came back down, every nerve still buzzing. He stayed close, his chest pressed to her back, his warmth wrapping around her. When he finally stilled, his forehead rested against her shoulder, his breathing uneven. For a moment, neither of them said anything.
Then—
“…y/n.” His voice was quieter now. She turned her head slightly. “Yeah?”
“You alright, baby?”
She let out a small, breathless laugh. “I should be askin’ you that.” His mouth twitched faintly against her skin.
“I’m serious.”
She shifted carefully so she could look at him, her hand coming up to rest over his where it still lay on her stomach.
“I’m good,” she said softly. “More than good.”
His shoulders loosened at that.
He pressed a slow kiss to her shoulder before pulling away just long enough to grab a warm washcloth from the bathroom. When he came back, he sat beside her and brushed his hand gently along her thigh.
“C’mere, pumpkin.”
She let him guide her onto her back, her cheeks warm but her body relaxed. She watched him as he cleaned her, his movements careful, his expression focused like this mattered just as much as anything else.
“You always do that,” she murmured.
He glanced up. “Do what?”
“Take care of me like I’m somethin’ fragile.”
His brow furrowed slightly. “You ain’t fragile.”
His thumb brushed over her hip.
“But you’re mine. Means I gotta take care of you.”
Her chest tightened at that.
When he finished, he pulled the blankets up over her and laid down beside her, immediately tugging her into his chest. She curled into him easily, her arm draping across his stomach.
His hand found its way back to her waist, resting there like it belonged.
“You surprised me tonight,” he murmured. She buried her face against him. “I was scared you wouldn’t like it.” He pulled back just enough to look at her, his expression soft but serious.
“Darlin’,” he said quietly, “you really think there’s any version of you I wouldn’t like?”
She hesitated. “Sometimes.” His hand slid up to cup her cheek.
“Ain’t never been a second I didn’t want you,” he said. “Just the way you are.”
Her fingers curled lightly into his shirt.
“I wanted to do somethin’ special for you,” she admitted. “You work so hard… and you always take care of me.”
His gaze softened even more. “You takin’ care of me right now,” he murmured.
She smiled faintly. “Yeah?”
He nodded, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead.
“Just bein’ here, baby.”
She relaxed fully then, her leg sliding between his, holding him close.
“I love you,” she whispered.
He didn’t hesitate.
“Love you more, pumpkin.”
His hand moved slowly along her side, absentminded, protective.
And neither of them rushed to move.
They stayed tangled together under the covers, warm and quiet, his fingers tracing lazy patterns against her skin until her breathing evened out and sleep finally took her.
𓊆ྀི warnings .ᐟ + word count— 9.3K, original!blackfemreader, boyfriend!onyankopon, plug!onyankopon, fresh out the pen!onyankopon, southerncoded!onyankopon, femreader, shy!femreader, giggly!femreader, aggressive!onyankopon, sweet!onyankopon, dominant!onyankopon, car sex, doggy style, missionary, pet names, dirty talk, aggressive pet names, squirting, creaming, condomless sex, pussy eating, dick sucking, overstimulation, minors are not welcome! 𓊇ྀི
メモ。— inspired by the destiny’s child song. i just live for a wattpad hood love story, so here’s mine. love y’all.
YOU HADN’T BEEN THIS NERVOUS IN A WHILE. You wanted to gnaw at your heart shaped pendant sunken between heavy tits, deep plum gloss outlining your full lips that you’d chewed to a swell just minutes before. This moment didn’t feel real—and yet, it was. He was coming home.
Thick Louisiana heat presses against your skin like a lover’s embrace, sprawled across the king sized bed in the heart of the 7th Ward—a place where shotgun houses and Creole cottages line the streets like old friends. The walls of your shared home hum with memories, the scent of cayenne and slow cooked roux lingering in the air from last night’s gumbo. The bedroom is a sanctuary—mahogany furniture polished to a shine, silk sheets the color of midnight draped over the mattress, and gold framed photos of y’all’s happiest moments catching the dim glow of the sunset through half closed blinds.
But something’s missing.
You bury your face into his pillow, inhaling deeply—or trying to. His scent, that intoxicating mix of sandalwood and blunt smoke, has faded to a ghost of what it once was. Three months without him sleeping beside you, without his deep voice grumbling nonsense in your ear as he pulls you closer. The emptiness is heavy.
Your massive pitbull, Bear, stretches across the bed like a living shadow, his muscular frame pressed against your thigh as if sensing your longing.
You run your fingers through his coarse fur, murmuring, “You ready for Papa to come home?”
Bear’s ears twitch at the mention of him, dark eyes flickering with something like understanding. Even the house feels quieter without his presence—no bass rattling the windows, no deep laugh shaking the walls, no rough hands tugging you into his lap just because.
Onyankopon.
Deep brown skin kissed by the Louisiana sun, glowing like polished syrup under the streetlights. His cornrows are always fresh, laid to perfection, trailing down to the nape of his neck with a crisp lineup sharp enough to cut glass. That mouth of his—shiny grills flashing when he smirks, a warning disguised as charm. His beard-goatee combo is always kept tight, framing full lips that can curse a man into the ground or praise you so sweetly it makes your knees weak.
And his body. Lord. Broad shoulders, thick arms wrapped in ink—every tattoo telling a story. The fleur-de-lis stamped near his left temple, a silent declaration of loyalty to the soil that raised him. More Louisiana love etched into his skin— oak trees, 504 in bold script. His knuckles say NO LOVE, but you know better—know the way those same hands cradle your face like you’re the air he breathes.
You’ve seen him in business mode. Jaw clenched, voice dropping to something low and lethal, a Glock tucked in the back of his waistband like a second shadow. He didn’t play—not when it came to money, not when it came to respect.
But you know the truth.
That same man who’ll put a bullet in somebody’s kneecaps over disrespect is the one slipping Mrs.LeBlanc a stack of bills every month so her lights stay on—the one who refuses to sell to fiends nodding out on the corner. The one who bought the whole block Thanksgiving turkeys last year just because.
A good man with rough edges. Yours.
Your heart aches with the knowing—the kind that lives in the quiet spaces between his laughter and the way his eyes get distant sometimes, staring out at the horizon like he’s searching for something just out of reach.
You’ve seen the flicker in his gaze when y’all pass a college campus, when he watches old men playing chess in the park with no worries weighing them down. You know he dreams of something else—legitimate money, a life where he doesn’t have to look over his shoulder every five seconds. But survival mode is a beast he can’t shake, not when the streets raised him harsher than any parent ever did.
Your mind flashes back to that night—the night.
The way his face twisted in fury as the cops swarmed, their boots kicking up gravel as they yanked his arms behind his back too rough, too eager. You remember screaming his name, lunging forward only for his voice to cut through the chaos like a blade—Go back in the fuckin’ house!—and the way your legs shook as you obeyed, tears blurring your vision until all you saw were flashing red and blue lights swallowing him whole.
Three months.
Three months of letters tucked into envelopes smelling like your perfume, of collect calls where his voice was gruff but his words were soft—“How you holdin’ up, baby?"
Three months of praying the charges wouldn’t stick, of begging your parents to understand why you couldn’t—wouldn’t—walk away.
You think God would approve of this, child? Running with a man who feeds poison to his own people?
Their words stung, but not as much as the truth burning in your chest—you loved him anyway. Loved him when he came home smelling like gunpowder and regret, loved him when he held you so tight it felt like an apology.
But still, there’s a part of you that dreams too—of lazy Sunday mornings without fear, of a future where his hands are stained with paint instead of blood. A future where he chooses differently.
You sigh, pressing your face into Bear’s fur as if he can absorb the weight of your thoughts.
Soon.
Your dark curls lay across the pillow like spilled ink as you sink deeper into Bear’s warmth, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest beneath your fingertips lulling you into a false sense of calm.
Then—movement.
Bear tenses beneath you, his massive body going rigid before he suddenly hikes up with a deep, rumbling growl—not the dangerous kind, but the kind that vibrates with recognition. In an instant, he’s off the bed, paws thudding against hardwood as he bolts toward the living room.
Then—the creak of the front door.
You left it unlocked. You knew.
Before you can even sit up fully, you hear Bear’s excited whines, the frantic scratch of his claws against the floor as he launches himself at someone—at him. Your pulse thunders in your ears as you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet hitting the floor before you even realize you’re moving.
And there he is.
Standing in the doorway like a storm, shoulders bigger than you remember, muscles straining against the thin fabric of his white muscle tee like he outgrew it in just three months. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, the same pair he’d left in before they took him, but now they cling to thighs that look harder, more defined.
His cornrows are freshly done, edges sharp enough to draw blood, that damn fleur-de-lis tattoo peeking out from beneath the slant of his brow. But it’s his eyes that grip you—dark, calculating, hungry—as they rake over you like he’s memorizing every inch.
“The fuck you leave the door unlocked for?”
Your lips part—but the second his voice hits you, really hits you, something inside cracks wide open.
“…I—I knew it was you,” you whimper, voice trembling like a leaf in the wind.
Onyankopon knows you.
‘Knows the way your bottom lip trembles right before the tears fall. ‘Knows how your voice gets small and shaky when you’re trying—and failing—to hold it together. ‘Knows that no matter how spicy your mouth gets, that tender heart of yours spills over first.
And right now?
His dark eyes drink you in all of you.
Your caramel skin glows under the dim lights, bare except for the tiniest rebellion inked along your ribs—his name, etched in delicate script, hidden beneath the swell of your tits like a secret only he’s allowed to touch.
Those freckles—god, those freckles—dusting your cheeks and the bridge of your nose like constellations. Your round face flushed, slender eyes shimmering with tears, long dark curls tumbling wildly over your shoulders as you try to hide the way your body shakes.
Hips fuller, ass heavier, waist somehow even smaller than he remembered, all wrapped up in that deep plum babydoll dress that barely covers your thighs. His gaze drags lower—no bra, just the thin lace of your panties peeking beneath the hem, your brown nipples stiff and visible through the fabric.
And then—
“You left me.”
Your tits bounce heavily as you hiccup, hands flying up to cover your face in that adorably flustered way you do when you’re overwhelmed.
“Aight, Mama—lemme’ hold you," he murmurs, voice thick with that gravelly warmth that usually melts you right where you stand. But not today.
You shake your head hard, curls whipping against your cheeks, suddenly furious—at him, at the streets, at the damn system that keeps snatching him away from you.
“No," you snap, voice wobbling despite yourself.
This is your routine.
The one where you unleash every pent up ache—where you sob about how Mrs. LeBlanc asked about him at the store last Tuesday, how you burned the first pot of gumbo because he wasn’t there to taste test it, how Bear whined at the door every night for a week after they took him.
“You missed—you missed everything—"
Onyankopon exhales through his nose, patience wearing thin. He reaches for you again, fingers brushing your waist, but you smack his hand away—or try to. Your tiny slap barely fazes him, and the way his jaw tightens tells you his sympathy’s run out.
One large hand fists into the back of your dress, yanking you against him so hard your breath whooshes out of you. His other arm bands around your waist, locking you in place as your tits press flush against his chest.
“Ony—!"
“Nah," he growls, “You done?"
And just like that—you crack.
Your fingers claw into his shirt as you bury your face into his neck, inhaling that familiar scent—jailhouse soap, and him. A choked sob escapes you as he grunts, adjusting his grip to cradle you tighter.
“Yeah," he mutters, lips brushing your temple—“That’s what I thought.”
His nose drags along the curve of your neck—inhaling deep—like he’s trying to drown himself in you. Vanilla. Spiced cinnamon. Caramel. Your scent clings to his senses, and a rough groan vibrates against your skin before he cups your face in his big, calloused hands.
Then—his mouth crashes into yours.
Not soft. Not sweet.
Claiming.
His tongue strokes against yours, hot and demanding, before he sucks your bottom lip between his teeth—sharp, just how you like it. The sound of his grunts fills the space between kisses—“Goddamn, you smell so good—” his palm smacks against your ass with a sharp CLAP!, making the flesh quiver beneath his grip as he kneads it possessively.
“Why you doin’ allat’, huh?” His voice is gruff but softer now, forehead pressed to yours—“A nigga was gon’ find his way back to you.”
“Your lawyer said…” your voice cracks, fingers tightening in his shirt—“‘Said they coulda’ gave you more time…”
His jaw ticks—once, twice—before he exhales hard through his nose.
“Look at me.”
When you do, his eyes burn with something fierce.
“Ain’t no cage gon’ keep me from you.”
And just like that—his mouth is on yours again, swallowing your whimpers, his grip tightening like he’s determined to erase every second of those three months apart.
Your whimper melts into something hotter, needier—tongue sliding bold and filthy against his, dragging slowly before plunging back in, tasting the mint on his breath mixed with something darker, smokier. Onyankopon growls against your lips, tongue stroking yours with a rhythm that makes your thighs clench.
“Greedy ass," he rumbles, voice thick with amusement—"Threw that lil’ tongue at me like you ain’t just been cryin’."
“‘Want you, Papa…" you pant this, rocking your hips against the hard ridge of him, shameless.
His hands tighten on your face—rough but reverent—as he pulls back just enough to lock eyes with you, his gaze burning through you.
“Three months, baby. Three months ‘I been dreamin’ ‘bout my pussy," he grits out—“But nah, we gon’ do this right."
Your brows knit—confused, frustrated—until his thumb swipes over your bottom lip, smug as hell.
“A nigga got a whole garden in the Hummer for you," he admits lowly, "Tulips, roses, shit you like—whole backseat covered."
That freckled smile of yours spreads slowly across your face, until you realize something.
“Wait—you got your car back?"
His smirk doesn’t falter, but something shifts behind his gaze—hooded, calculated.
“Handled it."
You blink once. Twice. Then deadpan, “I won’t even ask."
“You already knowin’," he chuckles, swiping his thumb over your bottom lip one last time like he’s erasing the question altogether.
“Go ‘head, start gettin’ yo’self pretty. Imma’ run some plays by these niggas, handle some business ‘fore we head out."
Your stomach knots. Already?
Three months gone, and the streets demand his presence before the sheets even lose your warmth. You bite your protest back regardless, swallowing it down with a soft “Okay," that barely fills the space between you.
Onyankopon studies you for half a breath—like he sees it, the tension in your jaw—before gruffly adding, “Aight? I’m happy to be home."
And just like that he’s turning away, crouching to ruffle Bear’s ears as the dog practically vibrates with joy. You watch them—the way his tattooed hands roughhouse with the beast who missed him just as much as you did—and exhale.
“Yeah," you murmur, touching the heart pendant at your throat.
“…Me too."
The afternoon light slants through sheer curtains as the scene shifts to another familiar rhythm—Onyankopon planted on the bedroom bench like a king holding court. His muscular thighs spread wide, fresh out of the shower but already dressed in that effortless urban elegance—crisp black tee straining across his chest, black Amiri cargos, icy AP watch glinting at his wrist. Cuban links drip down his neck as he barks into his phone, voice sandpaper rough—“Nah, that product ‘move different now. ‘Tell them lil’ niggas to tighten up or get got."
Meanwhile, you exist in your own world mere feet away—naked as the day you were born, lost in the ritual of getting ready.
Your reflection in the vanity mirror is sinful—that waist cutting in like an hourglass before flaring out into heavy hips and that ass he can’t stop smacking. Oversized tits sway as you lean forward to dab blush over freckled cheeks, brown nipples stiff from the breeze drifting through the window. Between your thighs—pretty pink folds glistening with arousal, still tender from the thought of him earlier.
You’re so engrossed in blending highlighter along your collarbones that you don’t notice his approach—until thick fingers suddenly part you from behind.
“Papa—!”
Your giggle bubbles up as his calloused thumb swipes through slick heat, inspecting you with a low hum of approval.
"Fuck you laughin’ for?" he grunts, still half distracted by his phone conversation—“‘Just checkin’ my property."
The juxtaposition is ridiculous—him murmuring “Two keys max,” into the receiver while his other hand teases your clit—until you slap his wrist away, cheeks burning.
"Stop it!”
“‘You the one bent over lookin’ like dessert."
Sigh. Business and pleasure, always intertwined.
Now fully dressed, you feel every bit the masterpiece you’ve crafted—your curls styled in a voluminous flip over cascading like spilled ink down your back. Dark, feathery lashes make your almond shaped eyes look bigger, doe like, while deep brown lips—blended with a hint of plum—give your mouth a sultry, kissable pout.
The outfit is pure temptation—tall, strappy heels that add inches to your shorter frame, black capris clinging to every curve of your full hips and round ass like they were painted on. The lace trimmed camisole is sinful, its sweetheart neckline framing the swell of your breasts, the sheer fabric teasing glimpses of skin beneath. Your small Coach purse twinkles with playful keychains dangling from it, a hint of softness against the fierce femininity of your look.
You do a slow, deliberate spin for him—hips swaying, lashes fluttering—before rolling your eyes dramatically when he barely glances up, his big hand absently rubbing the side of your hip as he continues growling into the phone, “Nah, lil’ bruh, that’s not how we move.”
Frustration flickers.
With a huff, you drop onto his lap without warning, your weight forcing his thighs to adjust beneath you. His free arm instinctively wraps around your waist as you play with the coarse strands of his beard, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw while he keeps talking.
You murmur against his ear, “I got all pretty for you, y’know.”
“Aight, Imma’ see you in twenty.”
You blink.
“Twenty minutes? Where?"
“Across the Westbank," he replies smoothly, fingers trailing up the curve of your thigh where the capris hug tightest—“‘Told you I had business to handle."
Your arms cross over your chest, “This was supposed to be our time."
“Youn’ think I know that? I got shit to do."
“Yeah, ‘cause a drug dealer has way less free time than the average working man."
The words hang in the air—sharp, but edged with truth. His brows lift, a silent challenge, and you bite your lip before melting back against him with a soft “Sorry…”
Your voice dropped to a whisper, “I just want you to myself today."
Onyankopon exhales through his nose, the tension in his shoulders loosening as his hands slide up your back.
“You got me," he murmurs, lips brushing the slope of your bare shoulder.
“But I got a whole neighborhood to take care of—including buyin’ everythin’ yo’ greedy lil’ ass wanna see under the sun."
His mouth trails up your neck, each kiss a quiet apology, a silent promise. You sigh, tilting your head to give him more access, your resolve crumbling beneath his touch.
“Fine," you concede, “But hurry, please?”
“Ain’t gon’ be long enough for you to miss me."
And just like that, he had you under his spell.
The first time you rode shotgun on one of his business runs, your pulse had thrummed with something illicit—the thrill of danger, the heat of rebellion licking at your skin like a forbidden flame. Back then, watching him command respect with just the tilt of his chin felt electric, his dominance a live wire beneath your fingertips.
Now?
Now you slump in the passenger seat of his freshly detailed Hummer, fingers drumming against the leather as you stare determinedly out the window. His employees—lean, hungry looking young men with eyes too old for their faces—nod at you with careful respect, like you’re some kind of queen they’re afraid to glance at too long. You offer weak smiles in return, teeth digging into your plum stained bottom lip.
Onyankopon moves like a storm—methodical, unhurried—handing off product wrapped in crisp bills, exchanging terse words with buyers who swear they can handle weight they clearly can’t. Every so often his palm lands heavy on your thigh—reassuring, possessive—but your skin feels too tight today.
Your gaze flicks to the Glock tucked between his seat and the console, the .45 holstered at his ankle, the AR barely hidden beneath the flower blankets in the back. The arsenal used to make you feel safe. Now it just makes your stomach twist.
“Can we go?"
He pauses mid sentence, dark eyes cutting to you—reading the tension in your jaw, the way your fingers twist the rings on your hands.
“Five minutes," he grunts.
Onyankopon’s jaw ticks as he leans out the driver’s side window, his deep voice dropping to a lethal calm—
“Nigga, you movin’ like you want problems.”
The young boy couldn’t be older than nineteen—puffs his chest out, fingers twitching near his waistband like he’s itching to prove something.
“I ain’t scared—”
“That’s yo’ first fuckin’ problem.”
Before the kid can retort, Onyankopon shoves the car door open and steps out, looming over him like a shadow. Even from the passenger seat, you can see the moment the boy realizes his mistake—how his shoulders tense, how his eyes dart sideways for backup that ain’t coming.
“You gon’ get smoked actin’ like this,” Onyankopon growls, jabbing a finger into the boy’s chest—“Get yo’ shit together ‘fore I help you.”
“Aight, Onyo’. Damn. My bad—”
“Get the fuck on.”
He dismisses him before sliding back into the driver’s seat, his energy crackling like live wire. You don’t say a word—just shift in your seat, crossing your legs tight, lips pressed together.
The engine roars as he peels off, tires biting pavement. At the first red light, his hand cups the back of your neck, dragging you into a kiss so filthy your toes curl in your heels.
“Good girl,” he murmurs against your lips, “Appreciate you holdin’ me down.”
You nod, still quiet, but your fingers tighten on his wrist—Where are we going?
“Yo’ lil’ candy ass arcade on Canal.”
Your frown melts instantly—the one with the vintage Pac-Man machine and strawberry mochi. A grin tugs at your lips despite yourself.
“…’Kay.”
Once again? Under his spell.
The neon glow of Canal Street buzzed around you as you stepped into the old-timey arcade, its retro facade hiding a freshly renovated interior that smelled faintly of buttered popcorn and digital nostalgia. The weekend crowd pulsed around you—laughing teenagers, couples locked in competitive banter, families chasing kids hyped up on sugar—all seeking the same escape from reality. Your fingers tightened around Onyankopon’s large hand as you tugged him inside, watching his sharp gaze flick over the space—new LED lights where flickering fluorescents once hung, sleek game consoles replacing the creaky ones he remembered.
“Ain’t been gone that long,” he muttered, but there was no real irritation in it, just the low rumble of a man recalibrating.
“Three months can feel like a sentence, Papa.”
He thinks on your words for a moment.
“‘C’mon, then. I’m tryna put ‘belt to ass in Mortal Kombat.”
“In your dreams!”
You darted away with a giggle, weaving through the crowd as his deep chuckle chased you. The sound was rare enough to make your chest ache—he was letting his guard down.
And when he did?
It was like the sun breaking through a storm.
At the game station, he was ferocious—button mashing with the precision of a man who took everything seriously, even play. His victorious howls shook your ribs where you stood pressed against him, his arm slung around your waist as he crowed about flawless victories. But then—your turn. His competitive edge melted into something softer, his hands guiding yours over the controls when you pouted about losing.
“Like this, mama—time it right.”
It was a quiet parallel to his life—his instinct to protect, to guide, even in something as trivial as a game.
Later at a secluded lounge area tucked in the back of the arcade, you both shared strawberry mochi and sweet wine. The other couples around you laughed easily—holding hands, stealing kisses without glancing over their shoulders first. Your fingers traced the rim of your glass as the thought settled heavy—Did they have regular lives? Were they happier?
Onyankopon’s voice cut through the haze.
“You been thinkin’ on somethin’ since we left the house."
His voice is low, steady—a statement, not a question.
“Hm?”
“Hm?” he repeats, “Yeah, you."
You swirl the sweet wine in your glass, avoiding his gaze for just a beat too long before answering, “I’m just happy to have you home."
He leans back in his chair, arms folding across his broad chest.
“‘You want me to believe that?”
“That’s what I’m telling you.”
A beat passes. Then another. His expression doesn’t change—just that same quiet intensity, like he’s reading every flicker of hesitation in your body language.
He stands, the chair scraping against the floor.
“We gon’ talk over dinner," he confirms, “It’s aight."
And just like that, the conversation is postponed—but not forgotten. You exhale softly, nodding as you rise to grab his hand, the unspoken weight of your thoughts lingering between you like an extra shadow.
The restaurant hums with the soul of New Orleans—exposed brick walls draped in vintage jazz posters, flickering candlelight glinting off brass fixtures, the rich scent of gumbo and buttery cornbread hanging thick in the air. Live piano notes drift from the corner, smooth and lazy like the Mississippi at dusk.
You sit across from him, legs crossed just so, your lace camisole dipping to frame the heavy swell of your breasts. Small dimples flash as you press your lips together, watching him watch you with that quiet, unnerving focus of his—like he’s peeling back every layer you’ve carefully stacked since this morning.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” you murmur, fingers tracing the rim of your water glass.
His response is a low rumble—“Ain’t gotta thank me for doin’ shit a nigga supposed to do."
Silence stretches between you. You know that look—chin tilted down, thick brows slightly furrowed—he’s turning something over in his mind.
Then, out of nowhere—“How yo’ mama doin’?"
You smile, soft and genuine.
“Still prayin’ for you."
His lips quirk—“‘Wouldn’t want it any other way. She give a nigga ‘travelin’ grace."
You tug a curl behind your ear, exhaling softly.
“Well…" You reach for your purse, heart skipping—“I got you somethin’."
Your fingers tremble slightly as you pull out the blue velvet box—small, unassuming, but holding all the hope you've tucked away.
His lips quirk before he even opens it, that deep voice laced with mischief—“Lemme’ guess—is it you, butt ass naked on top of a second Hummer? ‘Cause I was already plannin’ on makin’ that happen."
You roll your eyes, “No, boy."
He flips the lid open, thick fingers pausing as he pulls out the sleek, leather bound planner—matte black with silver detailing, masculine but refined. The attached pen glints under the soft restaurant lighting.
“i got you a planner!" you squeak, suddenly nervous.
His brow arches, thumb tracing the edge of the booklet before he meets your eyes—“That’s sweet, baby. But why?"
You fidget, twisting a curl around your finger—“Well…I thought maybe it could be a new bonding experience for us?"
Your voice is softer now—"You know…we could journal on Sundays during online sermons, make grocery lists, plan things together…"
Your next words come out in a rush—“I thought…maybe even show your parole officer that you do want more in life, you know?"
The air between you shifts.
His expression hardens, “Youn’ think I want more in life?"
"I didn’t mean it like that, I just—"
“So what you sayin’?"
His voice is calm, but there’s an edge beneath it—the kind that makes your pulse stutter. You swallow, choosing your next words carefully.
"I just…want you to try something new, On’."
Your gaze lifts, meeting his—“There are these moments where you talk about your future—goin’ to trade school, gettin’ off the streets, somethin’…practical. You’re just too smart for that to go to waste."
A beat passes. Then his lips curl—not quite a smile—“You think bein’ pragmatic gon’ pay the bills?"
"Ony—"
“Niggas out here with degrees still hustlin’ backwards. You think a planner gon’ change the fact that this city don’t give a fuck about no trade school paperwork?"
His voice drops low, gravel rough with conviction—“I got half a fuckin’ city to feed, ion’ do this shit ‘cause I like tellin’ niggas what to do. The side of town we stay on? You still there ‘cause you refuse to leave yo’ family, and I respect that."
His jaw flexes, thumb brushing over the planner still in his hand—“But I should get the same in return."
He’s right. He’s always talked about putting you up somewhere better—somewhere with gates and quiet streets, or even leaving New Orleans altogether—but he’s never pushed you. Never made you choose when you never agreed to that.
And now here you are, handing him a planner like it’s an ultimatum, like paper could fix the jagged edges of the life he’s built.
You blink hard, swallowing the lump forming—“I’m sorry…”
Fingers trembling, you reach to take the planner back, but his hand closes gently over yours before you can.
“Don’t do allat’," he murmurs, voice softer now. The planner stays in his grip—not rejected, not dismissed—just held.
“‘This the shit that’s been weighin’ on yo’ heart all day?”
The question hangs between you, raw and exposed.
“…I talked to your parole officer,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper—““Before your release.”
His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“He said if you get caught again…it’s twenty-five to life, Onyankopon. No parole.”
A single tear escapes before you can stop it, sliding hot down your cheek. You swipe at it fast, but the damage is done—your face is warm, your lips trembling as you whisper, “I can’t lose you again.”
“I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
His voice is gruff, thick with something that makes your chest ache. He doesn’t promise miracles. Doesn’t swear he’ll change overnight. But the look in his eyes—the vow in them—says more than words ever could.
“You have to be here, y’know?”
His thumb swipes under your eye, rough but tender.
“I’m knowin’, baby.”
But you can’t stop now—the words spill out like a confession, shaky and raw—
“When we have our first lil’ Papa…when we get married…when you finally graduate…”
Your breath hitches, lips quivering as you grip his wrist, needing him to hear this, to feel it like you do.
“You can’t leave me like that again.”
The words break on the last syllable, “You just can’t.”
That’s all it takes.
In one swift movement, he’s out of his seat, leaning across the table, his big hands cradling your face—not gentle, not this time—commanding your attention.
“Stop that fuckin’ cryin’,” he growls, “I’m never leavin’ you again.”
You whimper—half protest, half relief—but before you can speak, his mouth crashes into yours, stealing your breath along with the last of your tears. It’s not a sweet kiss—it’s desperate, possessive, a promise sealed in salt and heat.
The waitress approaches with a tray piled high with steaming Creole dishes—crispy fried catfish, creamy shrimp étouffée, golden cornbread muffins—but freezes mid step when she catches sight of you two, your faces still inches apart.
Her voice squeaks out, “I’ll—uh—‘come back!”
Onyankopon doesn’t even flinch, just leans back slightly, his deep voice smooth as molasses—“Nah, you good, love. We ain’t mean to stop what you gotta do.”
You quickly wipe your face with the back of your hand, giggling apologetically at her, your earlier tears replaced by a warm, flustered grin.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” you murmur as she carefully sets the plates down.
“Is there anything else y’all need?” she asks, glancing between you two like she’s half-expecting another emotional hurricane.
Onyankopon settles into his seat, stretching his long legs out before casually dropping the bomb—“Can you box her up as a to-go entrée?”
Your mouth falls open before you snatch a fry off his plate and flick it at him. He catches it between his teeth, smirk victorious as he chews.
“Damn. Nevermind then,” he murmurs, low and playful, making the waitress bite back a laugh before she scurries off.
The rest of the night feels good—normal in a way that makes your chest ache with gratitude. Before leaving, you drag him into the restaurant’s vintage black and white photo booth, cramming yourselves into the tiny space. He grumbles “This shit for teenagers,” but still lets you pose him—gruff, sexy glares mixed with moments where he suddenly pulls you in, his lips at your neck, his hands possessive on your hips while the flash captures it all.
And when you climb back into the Hummer later, the LED lights inside now glow a soft violet—you can’t help but watch him with quiet fascination.
He’s on the phone with one of his men, voice a low, authoritative rumble—“Nah, don’t move ‘til I say so”—while his free hand rolls a blunt with effortless precision, his thick fingers crimping the paper just right.
The Hummer idles softly outside your apartment building, the engine a quiet purr beneath the hum of the city at night. The LED glow from the dashboard paints his sharp features in an otherworldly hue—high cheekbones catching the light, the flicker of his chains as he moves.
You sit curled in the passenger seat, cradling the bouquet of flowers he’d surprised you with earlier—roses, peonies, all lush and fragrant. You press your nose into the petals, inhaling deeply as your lashes flutter shut for just a second. Sweet. Just like him when he wanted to be.
Across from you, Onyankopon flicks his lighter—the flame casting brief, dancing shadows across his deep brown skin, his tattoos momentarily illuminated like ancient script. He takes a long pull from the blunt, smoke curling from his nostrils in smooth, practiced streams.
“Non, fais pas ça—Nah, don’t do that. Li pa bon pou biznis.”
You watch as he takes another hit, the ember glowing bright before he exhales again, smoke filling the space between you.
“Mwen pral rele ou pli ta,” he murmurs into the phone before ending the call.
Silence settles, but it’s comfortable—heavy with the scent of weed and flowers, the quiet understanding between you two thicker than the smoke.
You reach over, brushing a thumb over his knuckles.
“Teach me,” you murmur.
He arches a brow.
“Creole?”
You nod.
His lips curl into that half smirk that always makes your stomach flutter as he nudges the blunt between his fingers and murmurs, "Say ‘Mwen renmen w’."
I love you.
You bite your lip to suppress the grin threatening to take over your face—you know what it means—but you play along anyway, voice lilting sweetly, “Mwen renmen w."
His eyes darken, the low purple light catching the flecks of gold in them as he exhales smoke and leans closer, rough palm cradling your jaw.
“I love you so much fuckin’ more, girl."
You only took two hits, but it’s enough—your body melts against his side, pliant and warm, your cheek pressing into the firm curve of his shoulder as he scrolls through his phone with one hand, the other absently tracing circles on your thigh.
Messages light up the screen—coordinates, confirmations, the usual—but you’re too busy nuzzling into the scruff along his jaw, breathing in the mix of his cologne and weed. You press a feather light kiss there, right where his beard meets his cheekbone.
“Thank you, mama," he murmurs, voice gravel rough but tender.
You go in for another, but this time he turns his head just enough to meet you halfway—a quick peck at first, teasing. But when you chase his lips, he hums low in his throat and suddenly it’s not quick anymore.
His tongue swipes across your bottom lip, demanding entry, and you part for him with a breathy sigh. The kiss deepens—slow, filthy, calculated—until you’re squirming in your seat, your fingers tangled in his chains.
“Aight," he growls against your mouth, one hand already on the door handle—“"We takin’ this shit upstairs."
The kiss is molten, unhurried but heavy with intent—your foreheads bump together, lips slanting clumsily as you whimper into his mouth, needier than usual. Your heel slides up over the center console, legs spreading just enough in that shy, wordless way of yours—can’t wait, don’t make me wait.
Then—there—the rough pad of his middle finger swiping over your clothed folds, and fuck, the fabric is already damp, sticking to your skin. Your tongue stutters against his, a broken huff catching in your throat as your head falls back against the seat.
“….Ain’t even touched yo’ ass yet,” he murmurs, but his finger circles again, mimicking the lazy thrust of his tongue—slow, then slower—until you’re squirming, your hips canting up into his touch.
“Mwen renmen w,” you mewl, and his fingers curl, gripping your thigh as he licks into your mouth like he’s trying to taste the words.
“‘Fuckin’ right you do.”
The air in the Hummer is thick—hot with the weight of desperate breaths and the slick, sinful sound of his fingers teasing you through damp fabric. Your hands fist gently in his beard, the coarse strands scraping against your palms, sending a shiver down your spine. You can’t help it—you nuzzle against the roughness, craving the friction, the burn of it against your skin before dragging him down into another filthy, open mouthed kiss.
Your legs spread wider—so fucking wide—knees falling slack against the leather seats, silently begging.
His fingers then hook into the waistband of your capris, dipping just beneath. He doesn’t even push inside yet, just swipes slow along your soaked folds, gathering the slick there before dragging back up. Your hips jerk, but he pins you with a glare, forehead pressed hard against yours as his breath fans over your parted lips.
“M’gonna cum if you put ‘em in,” you whimper, voice trembling, weak.
You squirm, biting your lip—“Ony…I’m so wet.”
His nostrils flare, eyes narrowing as he leans in, his breath hot against your ear—“I’mma put ‘em in. You ‘bet not fuckin’ cum.”
The moment his thick fingers slide inside you, deep, your body betrays you in the most obscene way—your pussy clenches around him with a wet, shuddering pfft as his knuckles sink into your swollen folds.
A weak, desperate sob tears from your throat, your voice breaking high and needy like you haven’t been touched in years, like his fingers are the only thing keeping you sane. Worse? You gush around him instantly, soaking his hand in a humiliating rush of slick, your hips jerking helplessly.
“Fuck,” he growls, dragging the word out low and rough as your eyes roll back. He’s fucking you with his fingers, slow and deep, curling them just right to make your back arch off the seat.
“Ughn—ohmygod—“ you slur, voice wrecked, your mouth falling slack as he pistons his fingers in and out, your wetness squelching around them with every thrust.
He leans in, his breath hot against your ear—“Soundin’ like a fuckin’ baby.”
And you do—whimpering, gasping, your pussy clenching around his fingers like it’s trying to milk them for more.
“Ain’t even fucked you yet,” he murmurs, cruel, twisting his fingers just to hear you sob again.
A desperate whimper claws its way up your throat as you crash your mouth against his in a messy, open mouthed kiss—tongue sliding filthy against his, lips smearing wet and frantic. Your brows knit together, a tight little frown creasing your forehead as his fingers bury themselves even deeper, stretching you with that perfect, brutal coil that makes your toes curl.
“Onyo’—fuhh—!"
The words dissolve into a senseless slur, your voice cracking as your legs hike higher, knees pressing into your chest, showing him—begging him—just how badly you need it.
Your mind hazes, drifting back to those long nights alone—phone pressed to your ear, his voice rough through the receiver as he talked you through it, murmuring filthy promises while you rubbed your clit with trembling fingers, tears streaking your cheeks.
And now? You can’t even handle the real thing.
His fingers withdraw with a wet pop, leaving you empty and whimpering—until his rough grip tangles in your hair, yanking your face toward his lap with a throaty command.
“Gon’ eat this dick up," he grunts, voice dripping with dominance—“Actin’ like you can’t even take my fingers."
You surge forward, pressing a sloppy, desperate kiss against his lips—“M’sorry—"
“Ion’ wanna hear allat’,” he growls, "On yo’ knees."
He shoves the console back with one hand, his other hand still fisted in your curls, guiding you down. The sight of you beneath him is obscenely perfect—your large, teary eyes peering up through your lashes, lips parted and puffy, freckled cheeks flushed.
With trembling hands, you tug his sweats down just enough to free him—his dick springs out, thick and angry, the tip already glistening. It’s bigger than your face, heavy in your small hands, veins prominent under your fingertips.
"Fuck," you whimper—you can’t help yourself, smacking the swollen head against your tongue before licking a kittenish stripe up his shaft.
His rough palm cups the side of your face, calloused fingers pressing into your soft skin before delivering a dominant smack—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make you whimper and redden under his touch.
“How much you missed this dick?" He growls, watching with hooded eyes as you bob your head messily, spit and pre-cum slicking your lips.
Your answer comes in slurred, desperate sucks—“Mmmhh—mmph!"—the vibration of your whimpers traveling up his length. You've always struggled to take him fully, but you try so hard, your throat fluttering around the head as you choke back tears.
He chuckles darkly, reaching for the blunt still smoldering in the ashtray. Onyankopon takes a slow drag, exhaling smoke through his nose like some kind of arrogant god watching his worshipper struggle.
“Pull them pretty ass titties out," he commands, "You know what a nigga like."
With shaky hands, you tug your top down, letting your heavy breasts spill free. Your nipples are already peaked and sensitive, and when your fingers brush over them, you jolt with a breathy gasp.
“Ah—!"
“Keep goin'," he rumbles, sinking deeper into his seat, blunt dangling between his fingers as he watches you with lazy hunger.
“‘Ain't tell you to stop."
You press your tits together around his thick length, the head of his dick peeking out between the softness of your cleavage. You begin rocking your body, fucking him with your tits in slow, worshipful strokes—
"Mwen renmen w," you mewl again, voice weak and trembling, your swollen lips forming the words between gasps.
“Say that shit again.”
“Mwen renmen w!" you mewl even deeper, your hips jerking uselessly as your arousal drips down your thighs.
He grunts, finally tossing the blunt aside—“Fuck it. A nigga need yo’ pussy now."
Your fingers clutch at his shoulders, pulling him down as your back hits the leather seat—his massive frame hovers over you, swallowing you in shadow except for the violet glow of the LED lights streaking across his sweat-slicked skin. Your lips find him again in a weak, sloppy kiss, your mind too fogged with lust to form coherent thoughts—just need, just heat, just him.
“Show a nigga what he been missin’.”
Your thighs tremble as you slowly spread your legs wider beneath him, presenting your soaked folds—puffy and glistening under the dim light.
“Been waitin’ for you," you whimper, voice cracking with desperation.
The words hit him like a match to gasoline.
He crashes his mouth back onto yours in a searing kiss before trailing his lips down—lower—licking a hot stripe down your neck, sucking bruises into your throat, teeth scraping over your collarbone. Your back arches when his tongue swirls around one taut nipple, then the other, pulling whines from your chest as pleasure spikes through you.
But he doesn’t stop there.
Strong hands grip your thighs, spreading them wider as he licks his lips—"Fuck, look at you."
And then he dives in.
His tongue drags slow and filthy up your slit, savoring you before he buries his face between your legs, nose nudging your clit as he devours—deep, hungry strokes of his tongue, curling just right inside you.
Your hands fly to his braids, gripping tight as your hips jerk—
"Fuck, baby.”
His response? A low, vibrating growl against your pussy, his fingers digging into your thighs to hold you still as he feasts.
Onyankopon’s mouth is filthy—so loud, messy and wet, lips sealing around your clit with a suck that makes your whole body jerk. Saliva and arousal mix in obscene, sloppy sounds, his tongue working you open with rough, languid strokes like he's savoring every damn second.
You tuck your chin shyly, peeking down at him through fluttering lashes—his face buried between your thighs, eyes hooded with satisfaction as he eats you like his last meal. Your fingers tangle in his braids, twisting gently, playing with the silky strands as a soft pout forms on your lips.
“…Missed playin’ in your hair," you whimper, voice thick with emotion—almost fragile, like admitting it out loud makes it more real.
“Ain’t gotta miss it,” he rasps, his tongue plunging deep—"Keep playin’ in my shit. Gon’ let you braid me up again after you make a fuckin’ mess on me."
Your breath hitches, fingers tightening in his hair as you nod frantically, spreading your legs even wider—"Uh-huh—y-yeah—!"
Your words dissolve into stupid, slurred nonsense—"Ony—fuhh—I’mgonnac—“ as your pussy gushes against his mouth, the lewd squelch of his tongue working you over drowning out your weak cries. Your cheeks burn hot, embarrassment and pleasure twisting together as you feel everything—his nose grinding against your clit, his lips sucking your folds, his tongue fucking into you in slow, filthy circles.
“Taste so fuckin’ good," he growls against your skin, the vibration making you squeal peevishly.
“Mwen renmen w..."
And just like that? Switch flipped.
His grip tightens, lifting your legs effortlessly over his broad shoulders, thumbs rubbing slow circles into the arches of your feet like he’s savoring the feel of you.
“Keep tellin’ a nigga you love him,” he grunts, voice low and rough—"Let’s have a conversation."
You whimper, arms looping around his neck, pulling him closer until his forehead presses against yours—breaths mingling, hearts pounding.
“Mwen renmen w," you whisper again, barely audible, lips brushing his with each syllable.
And then—oh God—you feel him. His thick length slaps against your soaked folds, the blunt head nudging at your entrance, already making your body tense in anticipation.
“Yeah, huh? Talk to me."
You nod frantically, pliant eyes struggling to focus as he starts to sink in—slow, so damn slow—stretching you in a way you haven’t felt in too long.
Your face twists—lips parting around a shaky gasp—as the fullness steals your breath. And then? Emotion hits you like a tidal wave.
Tears prick at your eyes, your chest swelling with something so big it hurts. You feel connected—like his soul is pressing into yours with every inch.
“Mwen renmen w," you sob—weakest yet, voice cracking—as he finally bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass.
His groan is guttural, hands tightening on your thighs—“Fuck, mama—I know."
And then he moves.
His strokes are borderline punishing—each thrust forcing a choked gasp from your throat, the stretch of him bordering on too much, too deep, too everything. Yet your body clings to him greedily, walls fluttering around his length like it’s been starved—rewarding him for every inch he takes, every brutal snap of his hips that leaves you whimpering.
Your toes curl, thighs trembling where they’re hooked over his shoulders. One large hand fists at the nape of your hair, yanking your face close to his until your foreheads knock together—your head jerks back with each rough thrust, lips parted in a shaky pout, tears spilling over your flushed cheeks.
Weak little sobs hitch in your chest with every drive of his hips, your nails digging crescent moons into the sweat-slick muscles of his back. Between broken moans, your voice cracks—soft, vulnerable—
“Hurts—seein’ you leave," you sniffle, brows knitting together, “D—don’t…wanna do that again…”
His glare darkens, jaw tightening as he rams into you harder—deeper—a grunt tearing from his chest as his breath fans hot over your face.
“Then don’t," he snarls, voice raw with possessiveness, "Ain’t goin’ nowhere if you keep takin’ dick like this.”
Your next cry is swallowed by his mouth—his kiss bruising, tongue forcing its way past your lips as if to silence your doubts. And god help you, you let him—melting into the pain, the pleasure, the promise in every snap of his hips.
You’re silent now—past words, past whimpers—just taking him, your body trembling under the sheer weight of his dominance. The only sound is the obscene squelch of your pussy creaming around him, gushing embarrassingly with every withdrawal of his thick length.
“That’s it—take this shit. Ain’t no runnin’ now,” he growls, watching your teary eyes roll back as your walls clench around him.
A surrendering little sob escapes you once more—weak, broken—your hands limply gripping his shoulders as he fucks you through it, his pace never faltering.
“Fuck, girl—you drippin’ all on me."
And you are—soaking his thighs, the leather seats, everything. Your orgasm wrings you out in slow, torturous waves as he uses you, claims you, ruins you.
His touch softens just enough to soothe—calloused fingers brushing away your tears as he kisses you through your cries, lips lingering against yours in a rare moment of tenderness.
“M’sorry,” he just grunts, voice rough with sincerity.
“Ain’t leavin’ you again."
Your nods and whimpers dissolve into another aching climax, your pussy pulsing around him as you drown in the love, the passion, the need. It’s a moment that could last forever.
But just like that? The mood shifts.
His grip tightens, flipping you effortlessly onto your knees, face pressed into the leather as he drags you back onto his lap—ass up, his dick buried to the hilt inside you. Your feet tuck atop his thighs, heels digging in as you let out a tiny, shuddering “O—Ooh—!"
You start slow. Rolling your hips back tentatively, but he then growls, “Take yo’ time. ‘This dick ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
The command is clear.
You listen, setting a rhythm—slow, deliberate—skin slapping together in a steady, filthy clap that fills the heavy silence. Your thighs tremble, face smushed into the seat as your whimpers grow louder—"O—O-ooh—!"
Onyankopon’s hand cracks down on your ass, “‘There she go’. My lil’ nasty ass bitch."
Your fingers slip between your lips, stifling your moans as you rock back onto him, ass quaking with each bounce.
“I ain’t movin’," he warns, "Give me a fuckin’ show.”
You press a shaky hand against his abdomen for leverage, sitting up just enough to feel him deeper—too deep—hitting a spot so painfully good your body locks up.
His grip tightens around your waist as you whimper—"Ooh, shit!” before desperately bouncing your ass back onto him, the sound of skin slapping skin deafening in the enclosed space.
And then? Your pussy farts around him for the thousandth time, wet and obscene, the vibration dragging a trembling groan from your throat—“Ooooh, mygod—Papa—!"
You were never loud like this.
Your moans drag out—whiny, high-pitched, annoyed with yourself because you can’t stop them, each thrust pulling another pathetic sound from your lips.
Onyankopon’s hand slips around your torso, calloused fingers cupping beneath your breasts where his name brands into your skin—it’s effortless. He’s bouncing you down onto his dick like you weigh nothing, your legs kicking weakly as your cream paints his length.
“You gon’ keep takin’ this muhfucka’ like you missed it.”
And you do—each bounce, each squelch, each fatty noise your pussy makes proving it.
"That’s my muhfuckin’ girl."
Your head falls back against his shoulder, mouth drooling, eyes rolling, body melting. He owns you.
His thick forearm presses against your throat, the pressure just enough to make your vision blur at the edges as he fucks into you with even more brutal, punishing strokes. His jaw rests heavy atop your head, your weak panting the only sound you can manage past the tightness in your windpipe—your body submitting under his dominance.
“Mmmf—hot," you mewl, sweat slicked skin sticking to his, the air in the car suffocating.
Without breaking rhythm, Onyankopon reaches over and rolls the window down, the sudden rush of night air hitting your overheated skin—
Oh God.
Your noises—those pathetic, whimpering, creaming sounds—are now free to echo into the quiet neighborhood.
Panicked, you reach a shaky hand toward the window switch—but his grip tightens around your throat, cutting off your air as he rams up into you, all while tugging you down onto his dick even harder.
“Nngh—!" you choke, humiliation burning through you as you clench around him.
“You whinin’ like a bitch,” he grunts directly into your ear, the vibration shooting straight to your core.
Then, with a final rough tug, he forces your face toward the open window—forcing you to see the dimly lit houses, the quiet streets—his people, his city.
“Let everybody know I’m back home.”
And you scream. His name ripping from your throat, raw and unhinged.
“Mwen renmen w,” he growls between thrusts, the Creole rolling off his tongue like honey mixed with gravel—your words, your love, thrown back at you with the same raw intensity you’d given him all night.
Your body jerks as he nuts—deep, so deep—his release flooding you in thick, pulsing waves that make your thighs quiver.
For a long moment, there’s nothing but heavy breathing—his chest rising and falling against your back, your own breath hitching in your throat as aftershocks ripple through you.
Then, weakly, you tilt your head up, catching his lips in one last, tender kiss—your little cries soft against his mouth, voice trembling with everything—relief, exhaustion, love.
Your body melts back against his chest, muscles lax and satisfied as you peer out through the cracked window at the quiet streets of the 7th Ward. The humid night air carries the distant hum of cicadas and the faint bassline of someone’s music drifting from a porch down the block. His warmth presses into your back, steadying, as you tilt your head to murmur against his skin—
“Where would we go... if we left?"
For a beat, he stills—his breath huffing against your damp shoulder before he nuzzles into the crook of your neck, lips brushing the sensitive skin there.
“Wherever you wanna be, girl. ‘Long as it’s got a bed that can take how I fuck you."
A weak giggle bubbles from your throat—but then you say it, the words slipping out before you can second-guess them.
“‘M serious, Papa. I think it’s time to get out the 7th.”
You feel his surprise, the way his grip tightens reflexively around your waist.
“Where ‘this comin’ from?”
You swallow, suddenly shy.
"Been thinkin’... ’bout quiet. ‘Bout space. ‘Bout you—us—somewhere ain’t nobody knockin’ on the door.”
His fingers trace idle patterns on your hip as he murmurs, “A crib up in the Art District ‘don’t sound bad."
“Gives more space for Bear to run around."
“Yeah," he agrees, "A nigga could look into some trade schools ‘round there too."
Wait.
You turn slightly in his arms, searching his face.
“You’re serious?"
He nods. Then he says it—words heavy with the weight of a future he’s choosing.
“‘Wanna give you a ring. A child. ‘Can’t do allat’ bein’ on the streets.”
Your heart swells.
You clutch his face as you say, “It doesn’t matter who you are to everybody else. You got me. I love you more than life itself, Onyankopon.”
He grunts low in his throat—then crashes his lips against yours in a kiss so deep, so emotional, it makes you giggle against his mouth, cheeks burning.
“We finna’ go get a ring right fuckin’ now.”
You giggle once more, pressing a hand to his chest.
"Let’s make it into the house first, yeah? We need a shower."
"Aight. Imma’ fuck you again in there."
You squeak as he hoists you up, your half naked body tucked tight against his chest as he steps out into the humid night. A few voices call out from porches down the block—“Aye, Ony back home!"—cheery, thick with that Southern lilt.
You nestle your face against the sweat damp skin of his collarbone before murmuring, “…The 7th ain’t so bad with you here."
When you peer up, his gaze is already locked on you—dark, heavy, full of something that makes your stomach flip.
“A nigga couldn’t ask for anythin’ more than yo’ love.”
Before you can respond—scratch scratch scratch—Bear’s massive paws hit the front door, his excited whines vibrating through the wood.
Onyankopon just chuckles, adjusting you in his arms as he kicks the door open. And the last thing the neighborhood hears before it slams shut? Your giggles, his grunt as Bear tackles him, and the thud of all three of you entering inside with a heap.
˖ ࣪૮₍ 𝓟.𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐑 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𓂃 ⭒ is your toxic ex who's now making your student life hell.
⤿ ꒰ satoru knew that his sweet girl couldn't last without him. he just had to make you realise that :: college au :: smut :: age gap ( 40s / 20s ) :: toxic dynamics :: kinda yandere behaviour :: dumbification :: p in v :: m.masturbation :: phone sex :: thigh riding :: rough sex :: degradation :: praise :: creampie :: overstimulation :: financial disparity :: mean!toru ꒱
♡ ₊˚‧ beta read by my pookie baby @aves1018 <3
˖ ࣪꒰ PROFESSOR SATORU ꒱ ˙˖ was your scandalous little secret. all heaven smiles and devil eyes. blue. bright and brutal in the same way he carried himself. he was as charming as he was cunning. the right mix of taboo and terror that made your little heart flutter whenever he cast you a glance over his rimless glasses as he set your perfect-score down in your table. muttered a “that's my girl” to your ear when brushed by him to leave the class. spanked your thigh under that skimpy little skirt when no one was looking— but anyone could see.
being professor gojo's favourite was something dangerous. something fun, something frightening, and the infinity in between.
he took care of you. showered in you in spoils. took you back to his apartment after stressful hours and fucked you into his leather couch until you left pretty red scratches down his back. with the same nails that he paid to manicure. you were always seen. always praised. you lacked nothing when it came to being in his arms.
but you couldn't do it any longer.
˖ ࣪꒰ PROFESSOR SATORU ꒱ ˙˖ was twice your age. in his forties with silvers slipping between his white strands. creases setting in the corners of his eyes. his tongue tasted like aged wine. his hands laced with experience you could only dream of. but with all the pros of dating an older man— came the deep, dreary insecurity.
insecurity that you wouldn't be enough. that you weren't permanent. that you were just a little taste but not the one that'll quench his thirst. really, what did a man with his qualification and achievements need from you other than something to pass the time?
and to top it all off? his possessiveness knew no bounds. it was quiet, not violent, but sharp. the kind of thing that left you paranoid whether you were toeing a line or not. he didn't approve of your friends. couldn't handle your classmates. hell— he failed the boy that sat next to you all semester just because you flashed him a smile.
so with all facts considered? you were gonna leave him. it was for the best rather than drag you both down a love that was doomed.
˖ ࣪꒰ PROFESSOR SATORU ꒱ ˙˖ wasn't too bothered when you told him it was over. it was in the car. he saw it coming. knew you were reaching a limit. he still snapped at the waiter who dared to laugh at your little joke that was meant for him.
but sure. you wanna break away just because he loved you so much? not an issue. he could see the tears in your eyes. the tremble in your fingers as you took the bag that he bought you as he dropped you off at your dorm building.
no. he wasn't too bothered. why would he be? you'd always be his. and little miss daddy-issues-and-academic-insecurity needed his validation to function.
˖ ࣪꒰ PROFESSOR SATORU ꒱ ˙˖ started in class. a week after you left him. your assignment was handed in with shaky hands rather than confidence. and he was more than happy to mark you down. why should he glance over your little mishaps anymore? you didn't need his special treatment. so, yeah, he didn't bat an eye as his hand sharply pressed your assignment sheet your desk as he passed. not even casting you a glance. looking on ahead as you crumbled at your B-.
“try harder next time. you're better than this.”
he said it so easily. as if he was always capable of seeing you as nothing in those cutting blues eyes.
it seemed to be a trend. he'd hand you back your assignments. they weren't what you expected. and when you slipped the spot of top ranked student in his quantum physics class?
well, he didn't bother looking up at you as you stood before his desk. hands gripping your newest assignment. almost hesitant to hand it in.
“how's that even possible?” you asked, soft.
“awww baby.” he only tilted his head. pinched his brows at the centre. looked at you with that soft look that was oh, so condescending now. “people change. you know that better than anyone, huh?”
˖ ࣪꒰ PROFESSOR SATORU ꒱ ˙˖ knew that his validation meant everything to you. now you weren't his top student, weren't the object of his praise. no more mouthed “atta girl”s or treating you to your favourite restaurant after another stellar score.
you were struggling to get by. scraping to get back to your straight a's. to achieve even a hint of his favour.
you never did. it was a downhill spiral. and everyone knew what an asshole professor gojo could be. so of course no one batted an eye when he belittled you in class.
“guess I expected too much,” he'd sigh after calling out your marks for the last test. he didn't have to. but you knew what he did.
as he leaned back in his chair with his arms behind his head. cutting that stare that you'd grown to flinch at over.
“so much for star student, huh? try better next time. know you can do it.”
he knew you could.
but knew you wouldn't. not now that you were spiralling.
not when you weren't his favourite girl anymore.
˖ ࣪꒰ PROFESSOR SATORU ꒱ ˙˖ caught you outside at the steps that day. night time. you probably spent all afternoon in the library studying to make up for the embarrassment. for your sin of slipping in your grades. he knew you would. knew how you operated.
knew you'd be all teary as you walked down the steps with your hand tight on your book bag. trying to ignore him.
“awww baby. what's wrong? you crying?”
you didn't flinch when satoru caught up to you. when he cradled your face in that way he knew you loved to be comforted. bit back a grin as you resisted the urge to press your head into his palm and fall into his arms.
“oh c'mon. you crying over me? didn't say anything bad. you know how I operate.”
all low and gentle. in that voice he used when he used to tutor you and you just couldn't grasp what he was saying. like you were his silly girl. his sweet girl.
long fingers slipped around your jaw. gripped on your cheeks and squished them as he tilted your head up. towering over you but leaning over so that his white strands tickled your tears.
“don't look like that, princess.” he muttered. pressing a firm kiss into your lips and smearing your gloss. not tender, but taunting. not comforting, but still charming enough to have you whimpering and clinging to his shirt.
and as he pulled back, a grin split his lips still hovered over yours. half-hung lashes batting at your falling tears.
“just try harder next time, yeah?”
before he patted your cheek and you left you stranded on the stairs.
˖ ࣪꒰ PROFESSOR SATORU ꒱ ˙˖ knew that you needed him in more ways than one. not only did he soothe that insecurity in your heart but he also sealed the hole in your wallet. and now? he knew you were struggling. you didn't order out as much. didn't have the luxury to. you walked back to the dorm. lifts must be costly. you sure as hell didn't have your nails done every other week. he missed the acrylics and blue you'd insist on. but hey— you made your bed.
didn't mean that he didn't feel sorry for you when he spotted you at your favourite cafe. probably ordering a tea like you did now. not your favourite sweet treat and hot chocolate.
yeah. it was pity. definitely not the need to remind you what you were missing— as he called to the barista from behind you. “get the lady a hot chocolate and a strawberry crepe, please?”
as he leaned over your stiffening form, arm grazing yours as he slid his black card over. murmuring a soft, “I've got you, sweetheart,” to your ear when the barista turned.
you let him sit with you that day. spoke to him properly for the first time in months. even if you couldn't hold his eye contact. even if you thanked him a hundred times and over.
while he gave you a gentle look, inwardly? he was grinning.
bingo.
˖ ࣪꒰ PROFESSOR SATORU ꒱ ˙˖ knew he had you slowly wrapping around his finger again. that's why he had no shame when he leaned back in his couch that day. remembering your weight in his lap. swiping through his folder that he refused to delete. full of your pretty body, your slutty expressions and your messy thighs.
that's why he didn't feel bad as his hand wrapped around his hard dick that slapped back on his tummy, smearing some pre on his abs.
why he groaned your name without care as he squeezed in his angry tip. remembered the way you'd whine as he rubbed it on your little clit. how you'd cry out as he kissed it in your cervix.
fuck. he remembered how your thighs would quiver for him. how that smart mouth of yours would reduce to a babbling, stuttering, slutty whimper of his name as he ragdolled you on his cock.
his hand sped. his other swiping to your contact. you hadn't blocked him. it's your fault for the voice note you'd receive. of his harsh grunts and his rasped gasps accompanying that wet shlick shlick shlick.
of his voice, groaning your name low like it was both his sin and salvation.
“sweetheart, fuck. look at what you do to me— fuck. still work me up so fuckin' much even when you aren't mine. miss your pretty pussy. miss my sweet girl so soooo bad."
he'd whine. he remembered how much you like that. liked hearing him lose himself as he slammed all the way in and rutted as he frothed you up.
now? it was all over his hand. and he made sure the voice note heard just how much he wished it was in your sweet little cunt instead.
˖ ࣪꒰ PROFESSOR SATORU ꒱ ˙˖ expected you to not answer him. but you still didn't block him. still didn't report him. you wouldn't. you loved him too much. loved the thought of him. did you think that while you touched yourself to his voice note?
he knew you did. knew you didn't get yourself that. knew you probably sat there playing with your cute clit and whining his name all pitifully as you tried so desperately to cum the way he'd make you squirt back then. back when you were his.
you know what else he expected? you to storm into his office and accuse him of marking you down purposefully. your mid term marks were sent out that morning. he made sure of it. made sure you'd have to face the man, your ex, who sent you a five minute long voice note of him fisting his big cock to you.
“such accusations, sweet girl.” satoru drawled, lazy, as he leaned his head on his hand and his elbow on the desk.
“if you think so, I'm not opposed to you sitting with me while I mark your next assignment. I've got the next stack set for this afternoon. wanna come confirm your claims?”
his brow arched. his diamond eyes invited you. his velvet voice dared you.
and you did. of course you did. he expected that too.
his fourth expectation? that you'd find your way in his lap. with that skirt he loved so much. with your thighs slotted over his knee and his hand cradling your ass while his other graded papers.
you were soaking through his pants. he could feel it. the same way he felt you tremble as he flipped to your assignment. squeezed your ass and bounced his knee to grind up on your cunt.
“those poor panties must be so drenched, huh pretty?” he crooned to your ear, squishing you down onto his bounces and grinds. enjoying your whimpers. your whines as your hands fisted on his shirt.
“look at that,” he pouted, dragging the edge aside of your panties aside so that your clit ground perfectly on the fabric of his pants. “such a slutty student. think this is gonna get you extra credit?”
swat! his fingertips came down in your clit. his leg bounced again to force your needier grinds.
he grinned. cruel and cold on your ear as the sharp strokes of his red pen sliced through the air.
“mm. you're gonna need it. my sweet girl's become a stupid girl in my absence.”
he laughed as you whipped around. as you looked over. saw your assignment littered in red.
and the worst thing is? as he unbuckled his belt and manhandled you over his thighs so your back faced his chest to give you a better look— as his cock slapped on your cunt and dwarfed your folds as he slid between them. as his tip rubbed on your clit in that same way that had you trembling—
you saw it.
saw that he wasn't marking you down in any way that you didn't deserve.
and as his cock plunged in and your back through in an arch. as he snatched your waist and bounced your little cunt on his cock that split you open and had you creaming in seconds. . .
he taunted you. squishing your thighs and biting on your ear. “poor girl. poor, stupid girl.”
˖ ࣪꒰ PROFESSOR SATORU ꒱ ˙˖ wasn't even surprised when he got a call the next week. an internship at that institution you'd always prattle so excitedly about. poor you. you probably thought just because he had you in his lap and called you his sweet girl— just because you were his once upon a time, that he wouldn't give you a bad reference to the job of your dreams, huh?
poor, sweet, stupid girl.
he was beginning to like your tears. your eyes looked pretty when they were glossed and your lashes were all damp. as you blinked up at him after you burst into his office again. face blotched and hands clenched.
“how could you?” you croaked. “I— you know how important that is to me—”
“you were important to me too.”
“that's not the point! so what you sabotaged me because I broke up with you? what don't you get satoru? we can't do this! what kind of person would—”
you trembled so prettily when he stood. when shook his head with a sigh and slipped his glasses into his hair.
“sweetheart, sweetheart," he tutted, circling his desk and backing you into it once he got in front of you.
“you don't get it, do you?” there's that condescending tone again. the one he used because to him, you were just his dumb, naïve girl.
big hands came down on the edge of the desk that you pressed into. trapping you against the wood and his wickedness as he leaned over. towering you as always. face pressing closer. brows pinched and knitted upwards. face that mockery of sympathy.
“baby, sweetheart, my sweetest girl. here's the thing.” his lips brushed yours. you tensed. teary eyes wide and staring into his.
“I realised. I'm not a good person when it comes to you.”
velvet and diamond. smooth and cutting. like it was simple fact. a set fate.
his head crooked. glasses slipping down his nose and brutal blues pinning you from over the rim.
“y'know. if you come back to me, you wouldn't have to worry about all this. . .”
his sly fingers brushed your hair back. a kiss pressed to your temple.
“I'd take care of you.”
˖ ࣪꒰ PROFESSOR SATORU ꒱ ˙˖ knew you were on the brink. knew it wouldn't take long before you were in his arms again. he just had to wait. even when his fingers ached for your skin. when his lips burned for yours. when his palms itched to just grab you by the waist and drag you back to him cause you were such a stubborn girl.
but he'd wait. wait for you to make the decision. wait for you to realise that you were always his and he was the best you ever had.
so you could imagine his grin when you stayed back after class. when you stood in front of his desk with your eyes batting at him. hesitant. shaky. when you asked him for extra credit in his class that you were now borderline failing. but most of all, when you offered your pretty body to him without him even uttering a word.
this is what he meant. what he waiting for. for you to make the moves. to miss him. to want him.
he fucked you into your dorm bed that night. with your face shoved down and your fingers clinging to your pillow. ass clapping and brushing with his brutal thrusts that smacked his heavy balls on your folds. cock splitting you open and spilling your creamy mess all over the wrinkled sheets.
his hand in your hair. his voice rough in your ear.
“like that, sweetheart? want it like that?” he grinned, feral and cruel as you mewled when he angled right. shoved into a sweetspot and ground so filthily until your eyes rolled back as you drooled his name into the pillow.
“missed how I fucked you— right here?”
“r-right there! please!”
“uhuh? righhhttt here?”
he drawled. hand smacking down on your ass and leaving a sting, before he reached around. pinching and pulling on your spasming clit. as he slammed! all the way in. jamming his hips with yours and rutting on your messy, creaming folds. so a lewd, clickclickclick muffled from your overly-stuffed cunt.
“fuck—” satoru rasped. eyes wild and dilated as his fingers bunched your hair tighter. shoved your face further into the pillow. “take it. take this cock like you were born to. like this slutty cunt missed it.”
he missed your squirts. missed your sobs. missed the way your hand tried to scramble back and grip on his hair as he pummelled your pussy all raw and rough into the ruined sheets.
his eyes fluttered back as you squeezed him again. as you struggled on his name and squirmed beneath him.
“s-sato— sat— hngh.”
“say it, sweetheart.” he grit, twisting your head up. slamming his hips faster. bouncing your body on the bed and slamming the headboard into the wall. making your cunt all puffy and his cock all creamy in your cum.
“say my name. say you missed it. tell me whose pussy this is.”
“satoru— toru! toru torruuuu.”
“and don't you ever—” he whined, cock plunging deep as the knot within him snapped. as he frothed him up the way he's been missing. lashes fluttering and eyes rolling back. a filthy, wet, thrust smacked on your bruising ass emphasised every word.
“— ever. fucking. forget it.”
˖ ࣪꒰ PROFESSOR SATORU ꒱ ˙˖ thought you would have came back to him after that, but he guessed you were more stubborn than he gave you credit for. that's fine. you just needed one more push. one more and then you'd be back where you finally belonged: in his arms.
so, yeah. he was responsibly fucking pissed when he saw you chatting up the campus fuckboy. hell— when he heard rumours that you two were a thing.
but he calmed himself down. enough to not snatch you by the wrist in the hallway and shove you into a wall. kiss you until your knees trembled. shoved his tongue into your mouth for all to see until he lost his job. that what you wanted? wanted him to be ruined for you?
calmed himself down enough to wait until the day ended. so he could back you into an empty corridor's corner. his hand on your jaw. tilting your face up. so that you could stare into the eyes of the man who had you squirting all over his cock just a few weeks ago. the man who was always yours no matter how much you tried to admit otherwise.
“you know he's not me, right?” he spoke, that nonchalance breaking for the first time in these wretched months you've been apart from him.
he leaned close. didn't kiss you. not your lips, but your temple. as he stared you down. cold. calloused. a warning cracked in those brutal blues.
“he'll never treat you like me. never know how to handle a sweetheart like you.”
his voice shook. breath thinned.
and for the first time since you left him, satoru shattered.
not pitifully, not pathetically, not violently nor catastrophically—
but sharp. and soft. and the kind of breathlessly that made you think his lungs were giving out— as he slumped over you. free hand trembling on the wall right beside your head. still holding your face. cradling it now.
“guys your age won't treat you like I do baby. not like you deserve.”
his thumb brushed your lower lip. he whispered. raw and wrecked.
“won't love you like I do. I love you sweetheart. I fucking love you. don't leave me here.”
˖ ࣪꒰ PROFESSOR SATORU ꒱ ˙˖ really underestimated your stubbornness. your resolve. he was almost proud when you shoved him off and he let you go. when you walked away from him.
fine. he just had to wait a little longer. a little longer and you'd come back to him.
next week. a friday night. a phone call.
he didn't blink when he saw your name. when he answered. when he heard your soft, choked sob.
his voice melted into tenderness. soothed your cries. asked you where you were. came and picked you up, because he always would. you'd always be his sweet girl, after all.
satoru warned you about that guy. so he wasn't surprised when he pulled up to the street that you were dropped off on. in the middle of the night. cold and alone. all teary eyes and trembling knees. wasn't surprised when you scrambled into his car and clung to the jacket he gave you.
he listened. as he always did. listened as you cried and ranted and raved about how that guy broke your heart several times tonight. then kicked you out of his car and left you stranded. like you were nothing.
he took you into his arms. as he always did. took you into his arms after he cradled you into his apartment. held you close as you clung to him. hiccuping into his chest and sobbing into his shirt. apologising, crying, apologising, sobbing.
apologising.
begging.
“ssshhh I've got you sweet girl.” strong arms looped you closer. cradled you in that protective warmth with one hand cupping the back of your head and the other one your hip. as he hushed your cries. assured you. squeezed your hip and whispered so tenderly.
“I've got you no sweetheart. not gonna let you go again, okay? I promise baby.”
˖ ࣪꒰ PROFESSOR SATORU ꒱ ˙˖ who cradled your head closer and pressed his lips to the top of your head.
who held your close. who promised to never let you go.
who slipped his phone out of his pocket and held it up behind your head. still cradled by his other, big hand. with his soft kiss still on your hair.
his thumb slid across the screen.
transaction completed.
the final half paid to that bum of a guy you insisted on. who broke your heart for some cash. funny how a little bit of money was all you needed to have your way.
and as satoru held your close. with his arms snuggling you to his chest, and his eyes finally fluttering shut. he relished.
because yeah. you're finally back into his arms. just needed a little nudge.
In case it wasn't bloody obvious, I hate ice with all my being and you should too. Call your representatives, go to protests, share news, DO NOT STAY QUIET. ICE KIDNAPS AND KILLS HUMAN BEINGS.
summary: under the weight of what you are, you’re slowly falling apart. you firmly believe no one can help you, and you’re destined to be alone like this forever. but your perfect match is right in front of you, you just can’t see it. and he is too afraid of himself to tell you that you’re meant to be with him.
a/n: you can try but you will really have to rip omegaverse out of my cold, dead hands. this is a commissioned work though! I was given the trope of alpha jh and I ran with it. you can check out my commissions sheet here if you like. anyway, enjoy!
The sound of the washer humming fills the room. All else is quiet, except the strange and numb buzzing in your ears. You stare blankly at the small red light on the machine, waiting for it to turn green. You’re waiting with the next load of washing, and you need to put that in before you can think about doing something else. You need it at least partially through by the time Joshua comes home.
You contemplate going out to the living room and sitting down. Your hips ache, your legs throb. The buzzing in your ears feels all encompassing. Fatigue is weighing you down like sandbags attached to your limbs. Even your eyelids are heavy. You would love nothing more than to sleep for…… well, forever. Days. Months. Maybe never wake up again.
You’re so tired.
You stiffen when you hear the front door open, blinking to banish the sleep from your eyes. You turn around just in time to see Joshua stick his head through the laundry room door. He realises what you are doing immediately, because you always do this, and he steps in with a disapproving tut.
“What did I say last time?” He huffs, walking in and eyeing the bundle of sheets and clothes in the basket, waiting to enter the next cycle in the machine, after the first load is done. You don’t reply to him, mostly because you’ve had this conversation with him so many times and it’s the one thing you can’t budge on. There’s no way you’re letting your roommate wash all your sheets and towels after a heat. Those things are filthy, remnants of slick and sweat on them. You know for a fact that it smells too strong, too dense, for anyone but you to stand. That’s why you wear scent suppressors everywhere you go.
Just another reason to hate being a prime omega.
You remember when you presented. You had barely turned fourteen years old. Your parents, siblings, extended family, everyone was shocked. People hardly presented before sixteen. Yours was way too early. Your parents were so concerned that they took you to a specialist immediately. And that’s when you got the news.
“She’s special.” The doctor looked almost elated. “A prime omega. Very rare. I know of only a few thousand around the world. Congratulations.”
And maybe it was because he congratulated your parents that they received it as good news. It took only some research to find out that prime omegas were above all else in terms of secondary gender hierarchy since the dawn of time, second only to apex alphas. The perfect specimens, the true representation of what the essence of an omega should be. Endlessly nurturing, empathetic, kind, and of course, the biological advantage of being very desirable. Prime omegas had repopulated great stretches of land throughout history, kept packs intact and running even during the worst of times. But around three or four centuries ago, they started dying off. There was no explanation why, but no one was presenting as a prime omega anymore, and before you knew it, they became rare, prized individuals instead of the driving force in their communities.
It all sounded incredible on paper, having a prime omega in the family. Your parents boasted about it, treated you like glass for those first couple of weeks. You were too young to really understand how to feel about it, to grapple with the implications of your rare secondary gender. You went with your parents’ joy, deciding that maybe it was a good thing.
But it all became clear to you very quickly, when you received a few pointed gifts from neighbors and acquaintances who you knew had alpha sons. It was a tragedy, truly, to realise at such a young age that your value was being reduced to what your secondary gender was, to what you could give to alphas. You watched it happen in real time. People became sweeter, in that artificial way that cherry cough syrup feels on your tongue. Your alpha teachers at school looked at you weird, like you were a lab specimen to ogle at. Very creepily, you had noticed a few of them even trying to subtly sniff you. It was a horrific experience.
You developed an aversion to alphas because of that. The thought of them wanting you only for your biology was revolting to you. You longed to be just another omega for them, but it seemed that as soon as someone knew you smelled different, all gloves were off. You became a commodity instead of a person.
In your everyday life, it became extremely difficult to deal with the problems of your secondary gender. While everyone around you went into heat or rut on a quarterly basis, once every three months, yours was unpredictable and far more frequent. Your first heat, at only age sixteen, left you near debilitated. It was agonising, no matter how many painkillers your mother forced down your throat, no matter how many times she wiped your teary, sweaty face. The fantasy built in your head, in your parents’ heads, of your presentation being a good thing for the family, were quickly dashed.
You were a burden, in every sense of the word.
In the months leading up to your high school graduation, you knew your parents and siblings grew to be resentful of you. They never said it, but it was evident. Your mother would constantly huff and puff about doing your laundry, to the point that you just started handling it yourself while she did your siblings’. Your scent, by its very nature, was very strongly omega. Of course, you had no way of telling, because you couldn’t smell yourself, but your mother made no secret of it, using any opportunity to tell you that you stank. Your father had gone far and wide to make connections and get you industrial grade scent blocking patches, the ones you use to this day, that make your scent go from incredibly potent to acceptable levels for an omega.
You hide behind those scent patches to this day.
Joshua’s hands on your arms break you from your thoughts. He nudges you gently, guiding you out of the door of the laundry room and to your bedroom. He is silent as he lays you down on the bed, the one you had put fresh sheets on just a little while ago. You don’t protest. Your mind is still muted, and you feel lost in an endless tide of emotions and memories. Post-heat is tough for you, your body still wound up, your omega screaming at you that nothing is enough, that you need more.
You don’t know how much more you can give to your omega. You don’t have anything left in you.
You lay there a long time, listening to the humming and beeping of the washer as Joshua quickly goes through your laundry. You want to beg him to let it go, that you will do your own laundry when you feel a little less like death. Your mother’s taunts of your unbearable scent are fresh in your head even today. Somehow, immediately after a heat, you remember every single thing in painful detail. But Joshua won’t hear it, you know this. He is hell bent on taking care of you.
“I told you, it’s not that bad to me.” He would always say. “Maybe I’m a beta. That’s why.”
You know for a fact that’s not true. You’ve had beta friends before. They all complained that your scent is too strong. Too omega. But not Joshua. Never Joshua. He never once complained. He has lived with you for a good year now. He has never once made you feel any different from a regular old omega.
Joshua was your first friend in university. You had moved cities after high school, armed with your scent blockers and desperate for a fresh start. He was in your first ever orientation class, and he never really left your side after that. Joshua was endlessly warm, so friendly and bright that you couldn’t help gravitating to him. Despite your nightmarish experience in high school, you were determined to make it different now, to get away from the things that haunt you. So you never told him your actual status. He could, of course, smell the omega on you, but your scent patches, carefully hidden under turtlenecks, scarves and your own hair, made you a regular omega, not a freaky prime specimen. You were normal, and you were determined to blend in.
Joshua already knew people on campus, a mix of juniors, sophomores, seniors. He was very popular, and had a large circle of friends. He introduced you to all of them immediately. You were wary of them, especially the alphas, but they didn’t seem to notice your predicament either. God bless your scent blockers. Before you knew it, you were part of their little friend group, swept up by college life and feeling, for the first time, that things might turn out okay.
So what if you had to lie about your unexpected absences? You had an excuse. Your mother was chronically ill and you had to visit her often, taking days off at a time, enough to let you deal with your painful heats and come back. Your father had put his name down on a lease for an apartment, paying half the rent while you worked to pay the rest. You had space, you had privacy to deal with your issues. You even explained away the scent blocking patches that Seungkwan noticed on your neck. They all seemed to buy it, and for a few glorious months, everything was wonderful.
They were all very close knit, some even in relationships with each other, which put you somewhat at ease about the alphas, like Seungkwan, who was mated to Hansol, his alpha. Then there was Jun, who was actively courting Minghao when you met them. They operated almost like a pack, though they weren’t explicitly in one. Seungcheol, an alpha, was good at wrangling with the more rowdy alphas in your group, like Soonyoung and Seokmin. Similar to a pack leader. It was a wonderful dynamic, and they all accepted you with open arms as a regular omega. You had friends, a makeshift pack, people who cared, people who didn’t immediately write you off as an outcast. Things were looking up.
Then, Soonyoung found out.
It was a regular afternoon. Mundane. You were working your evening shift at the store where you had a job as a cashier. You were even feeling a little sleepy. Then, you spotted the alpha in line, holding a few helpings of instant ramen. You smiled when he stepped up to the counter.
“Hi, Soonie.” You checked his items. “How’d your rut go? Feeling okay?”
He looked well, albeit a bit tired. Heats and ruts tend to do that. Of course, yours is entirely different, leaving you near paralysed by the end, taking days before you can even stand up. But it’s not as bad for normal people.
He just nodded in return with a quick uptick of his lips, but his eyes were intense as they trained on you. He watched you silently as you rang him up, very uncharacteristic for someone like him. You quirked an eyebrow up at him.
“Everything okay?” You hesitated, feeling like something was off with him. He just leaned in, watching you closely. You stared back, confused, and then he spoke the words that made your blood run ice cold.
“You’re different, aren’t you? You’re not a regular omega.”
You had stiffened immediately, watching him. There was no one in line behind him, it was a slow day. So he just stood there, sharp eyes darting between your own as if he was trying to piece you together. You didn’t like it. His eyes were too knowing, too scrutinising.
You didn’t say anything. You felt trapped.
He sighed and stepped away, grabbing the bag where you put his groceries in. He gave you a small smile, saying a few last words before leaving you where you stood.
“Call me when you’re free, okay?”
And that’s how you told him.
Turns out, he found your scarf mixed up in his things a little while before he went into rut. His alpha told him something was off about your scent, and his heightened scenes during rut only confirmed it. He didn’t know you were a prime omega, that word wasn’t really part of his vocabulary, but he knew it was something. So you just came clean.
There was relief in being truthful, but there was also anxiety. You told Soonyoung it was okay to tell everyone, because you would rather they all know or no one knows at all. So you waited, and you accepted that soon enough, they would all distance themselves from you.
Joshua showed up at your door with Seungcheol that very evening.
It took a lot of talking, a lot of tears, confessions and apologies. Joshua was hurt that you would hide something like that from them, but Seungcheol was quick to say he understood.
“Too many alphas in the pack.” He joked. “It was a good idea to not tell them immediately. They know you now, as a person and not as a prime omega. So things won’t be different.”
You nodded, feeling a little more relieved that he wasn’t being harsh with you. That he didn’t hate you for who you are.
“But I am concerned.” He continued. “I can’t imagine it’s easy for you, managing all this alone.”
You just smiled. “It’s fine. I’ve been doing it for years. I have a little bit of a routine.”
He hummed, deep in thought, unconvinced that it was all actually fine. It’s not, truthfully. You hate your heats. They leave you aching for so long, a shell of who you are, your omega, a demanding beast that keeps roaring, never satisfied. Always greedy.
You don’t know how long you can go before you completely collapse.
Over the next few weeks after that, you did notice the group acting differently, but not in the way you imagined. Instead of ostracising you, they became more considerate. Seungkwan would rub his wrist over yours when you felt anxious, and omega pheromones did help you relax. Wonwoo and Mingyu kept an eye out for any alpha who looked at you too long. Jihoon, ever the health freak, would plan meals for you that he and Joshua would then cook and freeze. Simple, ready to eat stuff that would help keep you nourished during your heats. There were always a few packets in your freezer, for any unexpected heat you might get. Seungcheol was particular about you not being alone during a time that was so dangerous for your body, and that’s when Joshua volunteered to move in.
You weren’t used to kindness or consideration, and you were given so much of it in such a short time.
Hence came to be your current routine. When your heat hits, Joshua leaves for a few days after making sure you have a good nest and plenty of meals on hand. As always, you take lots of painkillers and a tried-and-true dosage of sleeping pills that did nothing to make you sleep, but left you drowsy enough to not be able to move. In your condition, you can’t trust yourself to have the ability to leave the house. Your mother isn’t around to hold you back from seeking an alpha anymore, so medicines help instead. You struggle through a few days, usually a week, shaking and crying in numbed pain, before you’re left worn out as it wanes. For many, many cycles, Joshua has insisted he will take care of the mess afterwards, but you just can’t bring yourself to let him handle your problems. Including laundry.
Rejoining everyone after a heat is the best time, in your opinion. They all get incredibly doting, like they do with every omega in the group after a heat, taking care to feed you and nurse you back to health. In your post-heat haze, filled with self loathing, you tell yourself you don’t deserve their kindness, but then Chan runs a soothing hand over your back, his neutral beta scent like a comforting blanket, and you tell yourself it’s okay to be a little selfish sometimes.
And then there’s Jeonghan.
Jeonghan is Seungcheol’s best friend. An alpha, a quiet one, but a strong presence nonetheless. You first met him when you were introduced to the rest of the group, a flurry of introductions, but he immediately stuck out. To you, he feels like a focal point for the group. Everyone naturally gravitates towards him, seeking out his word and his opinion on everything. And you do the same as well. Jeonghan has this pull to him that is almost irresistible. He is endlessly attentive too. You feel his eyes on you many times, watching, learning, so when he speaks, it feels like he speaks to your soul.
He always buys you strawberry milk because he knows it’s your favorite. He lines up Hell’s Kitchen or Extreme Cheapskates on the television because he knows watching trash TV calms you down after a bad day. He noticed that you liked his grey wool scarf so much that he just wore it everywhere, eventually giving it to you halfway through a hangout because you always complain about being cold. Somehow, a few of your scent patches end up in his wallet, ready in case of emergency.
It’s only natural, even if you curse yourself for it, that your heart skips whenever Jeonghan looks at you a bit too long. Your omega keens when you feel his hand on the small of your back, or when he leans close enough that his soft, silky hair brushes over your cheek. His scent is strong, leather and vanilla, even when he wears those cute patches with little bunnies drawn on them. He doesn’t wear them on his neck, strangely. Only his wrists. He says it’s more for showing purposes, because he likes how they look. Your own are just a boring brown color. He puts stickers on the ones he keeps in his wallet, an action so endearing you have to hide your grin when you first see them.
“If you’re going to wear them all the time, you might as well make them pretty.” He quips.
You try to scold yourself. In no way would it be okay to fall for Jeonghan. You’re a mess. You can barely manage to get by most days. Dragging an alpha into your problems would be cruel, especially not Jeonghan, who has endless potential and hordes of omegas who would give their left arm and leg to even get half his attention. Being with you would ruin him. Your routine is unpredictable on good days, and absolute hell on the worst. You cannot even imagine what your uninhibited, unblocked scent would feel like to him. Dense and sickly, you know. Too much. Because you’ve always been too much.
So you stay silent. And you bask in whatever scraps you have of him, happy to float in his orbit. Content to just know someone like him. To get even a whiff of his scent, just enough to relax your nerves when everything becomes a little too difficult.
It takes you over two days to get back on your feet after your most recent brush with biology. You sleep through most of it, so exhausted that you can’t even open your eyes. Somewhere in between, you have a vague memory of Joshua trying to wake you up and coax food into you, but you just burst into tears, telling him to leave you alone. When you finally come to, you don’t remember any of it. All you are left with is your very concerned beta friend who is unusually quiet, boiling some tea for you as you sit on the kitchen island, watching him.
“This isn’t normal.” He mumbles. You huff out a laugh.
“Nothing about me is normal, Shua.” You try to keep your tone light and humorous. But you just sound resigned. He shakes his head, eyes trained on the kettle, his back to you.
“No. I mean for you. This isn’t even normal for you.”
Your eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean?”
He turns around, and you realise this is more than a little bit of concern. Joshua looks almost at the edge of panic. It catches you off guard.
“Your heats are more frequent now than they were a few months ago.” He mumbles, something in his tone a little urgent. “They were around once a month, but this last one came just two weeks after the one before.”
You blink. “I didn’t notice.”
He sighs. “That’s the other thing. You’ve been…. really out of it. More than usual. And you sleep for way longer afterwards. You’re completely exhausted, Y/N. This isn’t okay.”
You fidget, fiddling with your hands. Joshua is confirming what the little accusatory voice in your head has been saying for a while now. That things are getting progressively worse. That you are starving your omega. There has been a feeling of impending doom looming over you, a threat that keeps becoming more and more real.
“Have you-” Joshua pauses, hesitates. “Have you thought of taking an Alpha? Someone who can help with your heat?”
You go rigid, immediately shaking your head. “No.”
Joshua tries to barrel on. “I’m just saying-”
“No, Shua. I can’t. My heats are….. bad. I can’t trust an alpha with them.”
“But I could talk to Seungcheol. I’m sure there’s someone who-”
You stand up abruptly, gripping the marble counter when it immediately sends a wave of dizziness through your head. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
You leave the kitchen. He doesn’t mention it again.
That evening, both of you head to Seungkwan and Hansol’s place off campus for your weekly hangout and dinner. Their house has a pretty big terrace that Mingyu uses to make barbecue for everyone, so it’s the designated place for all of you to gather. Joshua is still a bit on edge, and he’s not really speaking to you, so you stay quiet as well. You don’t have the energy to entertain whatever radical idea he is suggesting. The thought of being with an alpha during your heat makes you nauseous. Especially because of how you’ve been treated by alphas all throughout high school. Like you’re some piece of meat. You can’t imagine being in your heat, so vulnerable and open, only to be used for someone else’s desires.
You can’t do that to yourself.
Most of the friend group is already there, lounging around, watching a game on the TV or helping set up the dining table. Mingyu is on the terrace with Seungcheol, sorting through the humongous portions of meat for the occasion. They’re all big eaters, so you go through a lot of food every time you have dinner together. Joshua beelines to the sliding glass door leading outside, and you trudge to the living room instead, the walk here already tiring you out. Everyone looks up and greets you loudly as you enter, making you smile.
Jeonghan is lounging lazily on the couch, eyes trained on the screen. He’s dressed in his typical oversized shirt and pants, long hair loose and curling around his neck. When he sees you, his lips stretch in a warm smile and he pats the cushion next to him. You flop down with a long sigh, happy to be off your feet. Soonyoung and Seungkwan are already bickering about something from the other couch. You watch them with amusement for a bit until you feel something brush over your shoulder.
“Okay?” Jeonghan’s voice is soft. He knows your heat just ended. Your heart twists at his consideration. You nod.
It’s a lie. You’re not okay.
He keeps rubbing your shoulder, soft and slow patterns that make you drift off in your mind. You think about what Joshua said, and for the briefest moment of lowered inhibition, you think of what it would be like if that alpha was Jeonghan. He’s the first alpha you’ve ever felt drawn to. While most alphas made you feel jumpy and uneasy, Jeonghan felt….. safe. Like if worse came to worst, he could protect you. You know he’s a strong alpha, he has a presence to him that’s equally ominous and overpowering. And yet, he’s endlessly considerate and kind. Maybe, of all the alphas in the world, Jeonghan would get it.
Maybe. You can let yourself dream.
Unbeknownst to you, Joshua steps onto the terrace in an absolutely foul mood. Seungcheol’s nose twitches and he looks up from where he’s prepping the grill. Something is definitely not okay. He exchanges a furtive look with Mingyu before turning back to the beta.
“What’s up with you?” He asks.
Joshua huffs and fiddles with one of the packets they have laid out, looking like he’s lost deep in thought. Seungcheol gives it a minute, letting his friend come to him instead of forcing it out. Mingyu stays silent.
“She didn’t agree to your suggestion.”
Comprehension dawns on Seungcheol. He huffs out a little laugh.
“Well, I didn’t have high hopes anyway.”
Joshua shakes his head. Mingyu gestures for the packet he is fiddling with, and Joshua hands it over. “It could’ve been so good for her. I don't understand why she won’t even consider it.”
Seungcheol hums, carefully laying down the first steak. It sizzles as it hits the grill. “You can’t expect her to make a decision like that when she doesn’t even have all the facts.”
Joshua gives him a dry look. “I said from the start that we should tell her.”
The alpha nods. “I know. But Jeonghan refused. He says if she wants to come to him, it has to be because he’s him, not because he’s an apex.”
Joshua rolls his eyes and starts prepping the vegetables, anything to distract himself from his frustration. “So they’re both just going to dance around each other forever.”
Seungcheol shrugs, feeling sweat build up in his hairline. “We can’t understand them, Shua. A prime omega and an apex alpha. They’re different, so they go about things differently. She’s scared he won’t want her because of what she is. He’s scared she will want him only because of what he is.”
Joshua is silent for a brief moment. When he speaks again, he sounds defeated. “And they’ll both suffer until they figure it out. If they figure it out.”
Seungcheol looks at the beta sadly, nodding. “It’s not our place. All we can do is give them a little nudge.”
Joshua turns to look inside the apartment, eyeing the pair sitting on the couch. You’re giggling at something Jeonghan has said, the first genuine happiness he has seen out of you in over a week. His heart hurts for you, because he knows you’re slowly dying on the inside. He just hopes that the alpha you’re looking at so reverently will see that you need him, and that he needs you too.
…………………………………..
Jeonghan knew even before he presented that he was different.
He doesn’t know what clued him into the fact. No one else noticed anything. But there was something in him, that he later learned was intuition, that told him he stood apart from the rest of them. He didn’t like that fact a lot, standing out means drawing attention to yourself. And Jeonghan liked remaining in the shadows a lot more, doing his own thing however he pleased without too many people in his ear.
It didn’t exactly come as a shock when he presented as an apex alpha. Yes, they were rare, but it was that damn voice in him that told him this reality a long time ago. He was different, and he hated it from the get go.
Jeonghan didn’t feel like some ideal specimen, even if he was meant to be one. Everyone ogled him wherever he went, especially the omegas. He still remembers when a girl in his Advanced Physics class went into heat the day he sat next to her. A horrifying experience, and the thing that made him start wearing scent blocking patches. All the boys in his class thought it was so cool, as if he was some badass for his mere presence being enough to trigger a heat. But he just felt uncomfortable, and he vowed to push as far away from this stereotype of alpha as he possibly could.
So he grew his hair long, he wore baggy clothes that hid his lean, cut figure. He wore patches on his wrists near constantly, the place he realised he smelled the strongest. He became docile and quiet, preferring to stay in the background rather than make himself known. Of course, anyone who knew him for long enough could tell there was something about him, a pull, a presence, but he changed himself enough that people wouldn’t jump to ‘apex alpha’.
Seungcheol knew. Immediately.
Seungcheol is not an apex alpha himself, but he is a strong and intuitive one nevertheless. He figured it out without Jeonghan saying a single word, but he never treated Jeonghan any differently. Neither did the rest of the friend group. To them, he was just Jeonghan, who was a great listener and gave great advice, all of which was because of his brain and not because of biology. Jeonghan felt like he belonged, and the distrust in him settled the longer he spent in company with his friends.
When he met you for the first time, it’s like alarm bells started going off in his head.
He smelled you immediately. He’s sure the others did as well, but to them, it was just the scent of omega. Not him, though. He knew instantly that something was different about you. It wasn’t strong, probably because of the ugly brown patches you had slapped all over your neck that you thought you were hiding with that turtleneck you put on (You weren’t. He knew they were there the second he laid eyes on you). But your scent was sweet, in a way omegas rarely are to him. He remembers being shocked by how quickly he began salivating, that he had to swallow against the tight knot in his throat when you stepped closer to him. When you shook his hand with a smile, Jeonghan had to hold himself back from running his patched up wrist over yours.
It’s funny. Jeonghan has never fought instinct before. But every time he saw you, he had to hold himself back in some capacity.
It took him just ten minutes of dedicated internet sleuthing to figure out what you were. A prime omega. His antithesis, the person on the other side of the mirror he has been holding up his whole life. But it was more than that, and one look at the smile that didn’t really reach your eyes told him all he needed to know.
You’re broken, way beyond anything you can hope to fix. He sees the pattern, the endless, agonising heats, the days of fog descending over your head afterwards. Jeonghan got lucky, his ruts were the same as everyone else, quarterly, though they were very intense, much more than any alpha he has known. But your struggle is on a whole other plane. Jeonghan’s alpha, this strong apex inside him, howls. He fights the urge to go over to you, to rip those annoying, miserable patches off your neck and lick over you. Give you his scent. Your omega yearns for him, and Jeonghan suspects even you don’t know this.
So he pushes. He talks to Seungcheol, to Joshua, who then brings up the idea of an alpha to you.
The second you step into Seungkwan and Hansol’s place for barbecue night, he sees the sour look on Joshua’s face. It didn’t go well, he assumes. Joshua walks to the terrace without even saying hi, but you dawdle your way to where he sits. Jeonghan’s heart squeezes as his eyes catch the dark circles under yours. Your patches are in place, as always, but not aligned properly and some wrinkled. When you sit next to him, he sniffs. Yes, you smell stronger today. His alpha growls again, and he bites his tongue to hold himself back. You’re already spacing out, so he reaches his arm around your shoulder as gently as he can to not startle you.
“Okay?” He asks. He sees you blink a few times to regain focus, nodding at him. He wants to scoff.
You’re a good liar. But you don’t know that he is an even better one.
He runs his hand over your shoulder because he can’t help himself. It’s just a little bit of indulgence, he can allow himself this much. He watches your eyelids flutter, your face nearly melting. You’re spacing out again, cute. He leans closer.
“You can sleep a bit until dinner is ready, angel.” He hums. You shake your head at his suggestion.
“I want to spend time with you guys. It’s been a while.” You confess. Jeonghan wants to coo at you, but he holds himself back, settling on just giving your shoulder a little squeeze and resting his arm fully over them. You sink into him, and Jeonghan has to will himself to be calm. It’s scraps, he knows this. His alpha wants more, he can take more. But he won’t do that to you. It has to come from you. You have to come to him.
So he waits. He talks to you, makes little jokes that clear your head as time goes by, and when dinner comes, he keeps an eye on your plate, makes sure you eat well, and offers to drive you and Joshua back at the end of the night. You thank him with that dazzling smile of yours, and it takes everything in Jeonghan to not kiss you senseless. Instead he watches you walk up to your building, waving at him one last time before you and Joshua are gone.
He will wait. You're meant to be with him. You just don’t trust your biology yet.
……………………………
Winter melts into spring in March, warming the air a little and bringing a pleasant feeling with it. Classes are in full swing, and you lose yourself in an unending cycle of studying, heats, recovering from heats, catching up on studying, rinse and repeat. It seems that ever since Joshua verbalised their changing nature, the heats have worsened. It has progressed from the pain, the cramps and the crying, to this deep seated rift inside you. You feel so empty through all of it, so alone, that it leaves you more emotionally shaken than physically. Somehow, you hate this shift even more than the actual pain. Because bodily pain is tangible. You can use warm compresses, or hot teas, or medicines to fix that.
You don’t know what to do about this yearning inside you.
You don’t notice you’re slipping, but your friends do. Soonyoung makes it a point to text you things like ‘see you in class in an hour!’ because he knows how spacey and forgetful you've been. When you go through your bag, you often find little treats in there; a chocolate bar, a roll of biscuits, chewable sweets, a packet of those watermelon jellies you really like. You don’t know who puts them there, but you suspect Jun or Wonwoo. The fridge is constantly stocked with electrolytes even when you forget to pick them up, and someone is always at home even if Joshua isn’t. Seungkwan watches movies with you, or Jihoon coaxes you into studying sessions. Chan makes sure his notes are extra clean and legible so you can catch up on work you miss out on. Once or twice, Mingyu wanted to go on a run with you, which you immediately shot down. You can barely move on most days. You’re sure you are in no condition to run.
But it’s Jeonghan’s behavior that surprises you the most.
For most mornings of the week, he shows up at your apartment, saying he just felt like walking together to campus since he’s heading that way for his own classes anyway. What you don’t notice is the stare he levels every single alpha with when their noses twitch in your vicinity, his inherent status as an apex making them flinch and back down. He doesn’t like flaunting what he is like this, but this is about you and your safety, so he will. He’s there when you get out of classes too, accompanying you to the library or back to your place. Sometimes, if it’s not him, someone else is, like Seungcheol or Seokmin, but most of the time, it’s him.
Classes rage on. You get more tired as the days blur.
You miss your alarm one day, scrambling to get ready when Joshua shakes you awake. Jeonghan waits in the living room as you pull yourself together, and you finally join him, pushing your books into your bag.
“I’m ready, I’m ready!” You gasp, smoothing your hair down as much as you can. It’s all you can do in less than five minutes since you woke up. Jeonghan stills, eyeing you closely, and you see the corner on his lip tick up in an amused smirk.
“Hold on.” He steps closer. You blink up at him, confused. He reaches his hand towards your neck slowly, giving you room to move away, finally tugging at the corner of your scent patch and peeling it off.
Your heart skips. Your blood chills.
Mere milliseconds later, he smooths it on again, face focused as he gently presses it down on the junction of your neck and shoulder to make it stick, in a slightly different position than it was before.
“Your scent glands weren’t covered properly, angel.” He mumbles, stepping away and giving you that sweet smile of his. A strand of hair falls over his face, catching in his eyelashes when he blinks. You stare at him, dumbfounded. He took your scent blocker off. He smelled you. No one has smelled your true, unfiltered scent in years. And Jeonghan didn’t even flinch. His nose didn’t scrunch up like your mother’s would. He didn’t plug it exaggeratedly like your brothers did all the time. He didn’t react at all, just fixed it and carried on.
Did you not repulse him? How is he so calm?
You are broken from your racing thoughts when he quickly grips your wrist and tugs you to the door, claiming you have to hurry because he wants to stop for coffee on the way. You’re uncharacteristically quiet as you make your way to campus. But Jeonghan’s smile is there, quiet and knowing. He doesn’t push, doesn’t talk about it. But he’s there with all his silent reassurance. The yearning, dying omega inside you whines. When was the last time you felt the touch of an alpha like that? The answer is never.
You can barely focus on the lecture for that day, your heart beating faster than usual throughout, staring blankly at the board and not absorbing a single word. As soon as the professor dismisses you, you’re hurrying out of the hall, your strange anxiety easing when you see Jeonghan outside already, waiting for you like he always does. His tall figure stands out among everyone else. He gives you a little smile.
The knot in your chest loosens at the sight of him.
You decide to go to the library until your next class, which is about two hours later. You could go back home, but Jeonghan suggests you use this time to catch up on missing lectures, which is a good idea. You settle into a desk tucked in the very corner of the room, Jeonghan next to you, poring over his own laptop. You watch his hands move over the keys, eyes dropping to his wrists. Today, he’s chosen to wear light blue patches with little white clouds on them, two on each wrist. They match the blue of his shirt, which you think is very cute. They’re not the industrial grade stuff you use, they’re just store brand, generic ones.
“Hannie?”
“Hm?”
“Why do you use patches?”
His smiles, but his eyes remain glued to the screen. “I told you. I like the way they look.”
You snort, not believing him. He chuckles at the sound.
“My scent is pretty strong.” He says. “It’s easier to put these on than deal with people’s stares every day.”
You’re surprised. You always knew Jeonghan had a strong presence, but you didn’t know he struggled with something like that. You watch the side of his face.
“Mine is strong too.” You confess. Jeonghan hums, fingers clacking on the keyboard.
“I know, doll.” His voice is like velvet. You shift a little. Contemplate. Then, you take a deep breath, making up your mind.
“You took my patch off earlier.” You can hear your own voice shake. “You didn’t….. why didn’t you react?”
This makes him finally pause, turning to look at you. “What do you mean?”
You hesitate again, but Jeonghan’s attention is now fully yours. You soldier on.
“Everyone always told me my scent is pretty unbearable.” You stare over his shoulder, unable to meet his eye. “Everyone would…. kind of flinch away.”
There’s a small pause. Jeonghan speaks again. “I’m not everyone.”
You finally focus on his eyes, endlessly gentle, earthy brown. “You’re not?”
He shakes his head. “I’m different. Like you.”
You stare at him. All is silent in the library. Nothing shifts. It’s like the air around you is holding its breath.
“I don’t understand.” You whisper.
Jeonghan leans in just so. He enters your space, closer to your ear. His cheek brushes yours. Something hot zips down your spine. Your heart kicks painfully at your ribs. You don’t dare move a muscle.
“All those people lied to you.” He breathes. You feel it on the shell of your ear. “You smell wonderful to me, angel. Sweet. A little like honey.”
He moves away before you can process. You watch him turn back to the laptop. The clicking of the keyboard breaks the silence in your space. Your brain is whirring a mile a minute. You turn to the notes Chan lent you. Not reading a single word. Just staring.
Jeonghan doesn’t act any differently for the rest of the day. You finish up studying, taking your last class of the day before he offers to treat you to lunch. Like any other mundane routine. As if he hasn’t shattered your entire world. You eat together with idle gossip. Nothing changes outwardly, but your mind rages with storms. You don’t know what to do with Jeonghan’s confession. Your first instinct is to deny it, but Jeonghan has never lied to you. You trust him with every part of you. He wouldn’t lie about this, even as a joke. Everything from his tone to the look in his eyes was sincere.
For the first time since that night Joshua suggested finding an alpha for you, you dream about that alpha being Jeonghan. It seems real now, tangible. You don’t find the idea of letting Jeonghan in frightening, because truthfully, Jeonghan has been taking care of you for a while now. You wonder what it would feel like to just melt into him, to finally stop struggling with the omega in you, to trust him with every part of yourself without worrying that he will back away like everyone else did.
Your next heat hits in two weeks, and it’s your worst one yet.
Unfortunately, your omega knows what it wants now. It wants Jeonghan, and it whines for him. You sob through the first day, none of your normal medicines doing anything to numb you. You’re sweaty, every muscle in your body rigid and screaming, your mind muddled. You don’t even remember what time of day it is when you reach for your phone, clicking on his contact with shaking fingers and listening to the dialtone ring.
“Y/N?”
His voice makes a sharp tendril of pain shoot through your stomach.
“Alpha!” You wail. “Need- need you. Please.”
You’re sobbing too badly to hear shuffling in the background. Jeonghan sits up and turns on his bedside lamp. He stares at the clock on his phone screen before putting it back to his ear. 02.13am.
“Angel, are you alone?” He knows you are, but he needs to make sure. You only sob on the other end, and Jeonghan grits his teeth. This is bad. He knows for a fact that you’re usually docile through your heat because of the drugs you take. He pulls up Joshua’s contact, putting you on hold so he can call the beta. You’re so out of it that you don’t even notice. Joshua picks up after a few rings, sounding groggy with sleep.
“Shua, get your ass back home.” Jeonghan grits out. Something in his tone must register, he’s almost growling, something he hates doing, but hearing you sound so distressed has left him shaken. Joshua immediately hangs up, and Jeonghan gets back on call with you.
“You’re still with me?” He asks, trying to keep his tone as soothing as possible despite the fact that he’s worried sick. He hears you sniffle.
“A-are you coming?” His heart breaks at the hope in your voice. His hand fists his sheets.
“I can’t, baby. Not like this.”
When you weep, it almost feels like Jeonghan’s soul is shattering. His alpha howls, claws at him, and for the first time in his life, Jeonghan wants to give in to the apex inside him.
“Omega, listen to me.” He knows the tone he is using. He hates to play on your instincts like this, but he needs you to survive this without him somehow. You quiet down instantly at the deep timbre in his voice, so he keeps going.
“Joshua is on his way. He will take care of you, get you more meds and food. You’ll get through this, and then we can talk about it, okay?”
You sniffle. When you talk, your voice is thready and frail. “But alpha….”
“Baby,” Jeonghan coos again. When you whine, he feels the base of his stomach stir. “You’ll be a good girl for me?”
That does something. “Yes. Yes, alpha.”
Jeonghan sighs with some form of relief finally. He stays on the phone with you, gives you endless reassurances until he hears Joshua in the background. When you’re distracted by the beta, he hangs up. He stares at the wall for a long time, running everything that just happened in his head.
Jeonghan is rarely shaken by everything, but this shakes him. He knows for a fact that he can’t stay away from you after this. You’re his, and he’s tired of slowplaying it.
It takes a week for your heat to wane. It’s agonising, but Joshua helps as much as he can, getting you through it without calling Jeonghan again. He feeds you, even runs you a bath. Towards the end of it, you break down, feeling guilty for subjecting him to this. He immediately reprimands you, telling you he doesn’t mind and he wants to help you in any way that he can. But you’re embarrassed. You had worked so hard to make sure he didn’t see you like this, yet he did. Pair that with the fact that you called Jeonghan and poured your heart out to him, you feel like this heat has changed everything permanently.
You don’t even know if you can look Jeonghan in the eye again.
He texts you on Sunday night, saying he will be at your place first thing in the morning so you can head to campus together as usual. You don’t reply. Frankly, you don’t want to speak to him. You’re mortified at the fact that you called him while in heat, essentially begging him to fuck you. It’s deeply shameful, and you hate yourself for it. You stare at Jeonghan’s text, contemplating. When Joshua plops down on the couch next to you with dinner, you turn to him.
“Can you text Jeonghan that I’m not feeling well, so I can’t go to class tomorrow?”
Joshua gives you a tired look. “You can’t avoid him forever, you know?”
Of course you know. But you’re not ready yet. Just the thought of it brings you to the brink of humiliating tears. You plead with Joshua. He sighs and nods, doing as you say.
Jeonghan, of course, doesn’t listen.
You wake up the next day with a start. You didn’t set an alarm, since you had no intention of going to class. The sun is shining through the windows, indicating that you’re well into the morning. The smell of eggs is wafting into your room, and confusion riddles your body. Joshua had classes this morning, so he shouldn’t be home right now.
You’re shocked when you walk out of the room and are met with the sight of Jeonghan’s back, clad in a huge black hoodie that he’s swimming in, and grey sweats. Half his hair is pulled up in a ponytail, the other half down, brushing his neck. He doesn’t turn around, back shifting as he scrambles the eggs in a pan. Sizzling sounds fill the kitchen.
“Morning.” His voice sounds cheerful and light. He pulls the pan off the heat, dumping the eggs on a plate. He turns around to place it on the kitchen island. “Sit.”
You hesitate. “What are you-”
“Sit, omega.”
Your voice dies in your throat. You pull a stool out. He sets a fork down and you promptly start eating while he makes another batch for himself. Everything is silent.
Finally, Jeonghan joins you on the counter and sits across from you, focused on shoveling his breakfast into his mouth. You don’t say a word either, feeling exhaustion tug at your limbs. You’re tired of this, whatever this is.
“I presented when I was sixteen, just like everyone else.” Jeonghan speaks up, still focused on his plate. Your movements slow as you listen to him.
“But I still knew something about me was different. I knew it not just because everyone told me, but because something inside me was convinced I wasn’t like everyone else. And I hated it.”
“Everything I did in life, I deliberately went against my nature. I talked differently, carried myself differently, I wanted to be just like every other alpha.”
His eyes tick up suddenly, and you’re taken aback by the genuine firmness in his features. “Then I met you, and I saw how every other alpha behaved around you, how they looked at your patches weird, and I realised I never wanted to be like any of them. Me being an apex alpha meant I could take care of you in a way none of these other fuckers can.”
Apex alpha.
So that’s what he meant, when he said he was different like you. That’s why your scent didn’t bother him even when he took your patch off, and why he said he actually liked your unfiltered essence. You have heard of apex alphas all your life, but only in passing, everyone claiming an apex would be a prime omega’s perfect match. You understand now, why you’ve always felt a pull around Jeonghan even though all other alphas scared you. You were convinced it was because of him being this incredible, kind and understanding person. And it was. But the revelation of his biology eases your guilt at wanting him so much. Suddenly, it makes sense that your omega yearns for him so badly.
“Where’d you go, beautiful?” His voice breaks you from your thoughts. He’s watching you with that soft smile on his face, and it hits you acutely that he always looks at you like this. Like you’re precious. Instead of that sour, disdainful look you’ve been leveled with your whole life. You don’t know what to say to him. But you feel like crying. And maybe he can tell.
“I want to love you the way you deserve to be loved, angel.” He says, stare steadfastly on you. “If you’ll let me. If you’ll have me.”
You can feel your face crumple. For the first time in years, you feel like an invisible burden is being lifted from your shoulders. Slowly, and with the weight of all the pain you’ve endured, you nod.
Jeonghan’s smile brings a sense of finality with it. His hand is soft but sure when it curls around yours.
…………………………………..
“You two are the actual definition of a power couple.”
“It’s like the perfect match. It’s so perfect that no one would believe it.”
“I don’t even think there are enough apex alphas or prime omegas in the world to actually pair them up.”
“Dude, you’re going to give birth to super babies or some shit.”
“Soonyoung!” You scold your friend for that last comment while Jeonghan just lets out a throaty laugh. You can feel the vibration on your back where his front is pressed against you. He squeezes you a little, placating you. But you still feel flustered, your face flaming at your friends’ quips about your very new relationship with Jeonghan. It wasn’t even a proper relationship. He’s courting you, the bracelet on your wrist he gave you this morning an indication of the fact that you are now his. You were surprised when he pulled it out after you finished breakfast.
“You were that sure I would say yes?” You had asked, incredulous. He had only smiled, and his confidence made your heartbeat speed up.
There is no point hiding it from your friend group, but you kind of regret telling them about it immediately. Soonyoung and Seungkwan have been particularly insufferable, and everyone else is egging them on. It’s embarrassing, but Jeonghan is thoroughly enjoying himself, even agreeing with some of their outlandish remarks. He keeps you pressed tightly against him, his cheek brushing the side of your head, and you bask in his warmth. Across from where you stand, Joshua has a relieved smile on his face.
You return it, feeling giddy.
Mingyu is quick to announce that dinner is ready, and everyone splits up around the house with their plates after filling them up to their liking. You stand over the kitchen counter and eye the many dishes he and Seokmin have prepared, wondering what you want to eat. Everyone is already seated in the living room. Your stomach is a little queasy, so you don’t have an appetite.
You feel a hand brush your side, making you jump a little. Jeonghan chuckles.
“Just me.” His voice hits your ear. You feel the back of your neck heat up.
“Sorry. I’m not used to it yet.”
He hums and gives you a reassuring squeeze. You feel his cheek on your shoulder.
“Why aren’t you eating?”
You shrug. “All the excitement of today, I guess. I feel a little restless.”
He rubs over your side, quiet for a brief moment. You eye the dishes and contemplate not eating at all.
“I could help with the restlessness.”
You turn your head to look at the alpha curiously. “How do you mean?”
Jeonghan’s eyes dart between yours for a few seconds. “Do you trust me?”
You nod immediately. “Of course.”
His hand reaches up and he runs his thumb over the brown patch on your neck. You still, not moving a muscle, but also not stopping him. Carefully, he tugs on the corner of it before slowly peeling it off. You grit your teeth, feeling exposed. Behind you, you can hear talking and laughter in the next room. No one seems to have noticed that you and Jeonghan aren’t there.
You feel his breath right over your scent gland as he brushes your hair off your neck. It makes you gasp, something sizzling under your skin. Jeonghan’s hand runs comfortingly over your waist. Then, he leans down and gives you a chaste kiss. Your knees feel weak. Your vision swims just a little.
His tongue is tentative as he licks over you, but just that slightest touch immediately alters the scent, both of yours mixing together in this delicious amalgam that tickles your nose pleasantly. Your head lolls back onto his shoulder, and it encourages him to flatten his tongue more firmly over your neck. You feel your muscles go pliant, and he uses his other hand to steady you as you lean your weight on him.
It feels like forever, though you’re sure it’s only a few minutes before Jeonghan pulls away. He doesn’t replace the scent patch, instead crumpling it and shoving it into his pocket. You blink through your haze. You would question him if your tongue wasn’t already rubber. He lays a soft kiss on your temple.
“You don’t need it. You smell like me now.”
It’s true. You do. Even you can tell. You let Jeonghan pile your plate with food and lead you back to the living room, pulling you into his lap so both of you can eat off the same plate. It’s intimate, and normally you would be more conscious around your friends, but his scent has left you strangely buzzing and docile, and you let him gently feed you, zoning in and out of conversation as you bask in your alpha’s presence. For the first time in seemingly forever, your omega is silent, revealing in this strange but welcome feeling.
Your friends hide their smiles under bites of food. Jeonghan squeezes you tightly. You let yourself drift off.
…………………………..
There’s not really room to take things slow in a relationship when you’re a prime omega. Especially not when your omega latches on to the fact that you have an alpha now, who is more than willing to take care of you come your next heat. For a while, your cycle has been fucked up and getting worse. So it seems like as soon as you’re used to Jeonghan’s intimate presence, your omega decides it needs more and pushes your body into a heat.
Jeonghan realises it is happening before you do, nose twitching as he registers the slight damp quality in your scent. Something in him shifts with unease, a strange feeling of anticipation. You’re none the wiser, eyes glued to the movie playing on the screen. It’s date night, and Jeonghan had brought the food while you set up the movie. Said food was now devoured, empty plates on the coffee table before you. There’s still a good chunk of the movie left, and you’re fully engrossed in it. Jeonghan was too, until he noticed how warm you are where your side is pressed against him. You’re usually on the warmer side, but this time it’s enough to make him notice. He eyes the side of your face discreetly, immediately seeing the very faint line of sweat building on your temples and the back of your neck. He watches you huff and pull your hair up, shaking it a bit because of the sweat. You're irritated.
He reaches an arm around you and brushes his thumb gently over your scent gland. You’re very used to this by now, and he feels you relax into him immediately. His scent calms you down, a fact that he’s very proud of, and loves teasingly exploiting from time to time.
It doesn’t last though. You fidget after a few minutes, eyebrows pulling together in a furrow. The muscles in your thighs are stiffening, and there’s a certain discomfort in your stomach. You wonder if it was the food, but quickly dismiss the thought when you feel that familiar twinge in your lower stomach, one that you can recognise instantly because of how often you are plagued by it.
Oh my god.
You sit up, feeling apprehension claw at you as you realise what is happening. The movie is all but forgotten, and you’re hyperaware of the fact that Jeonghan is right there. In fact, that’s making you feel even worse. Where it would normally take hours for your discomfort to swell and morph into a full heat, Jeonghan’s scent in the air seems to egg it on. You do some mental calculations quickly, dread filling you when you realise it has been a mere three weeks since your last one. And you remember how rough that was. Just the thought of going through another one like that makes you want to weep.
You feel a hand on your lower back, the exact area that’s starting to ache a little. Jeonghan applies pressure, and it brings temporary ease with it.
“I can help. But only if you want me to.”
You turn your head to look at your alpha. His face is open and blank. He isn’t being judgmental at all, but you feel mortification anyway. You hate that you’re like this. You hate that you can’t form a solid, comfortable relationship with Jeonghan without this being such a big factor. You still remember the horrifying ordeal of the last heat where you cried to him over the phone.
“Hey.” Maybe he senses your trepidation, because he leans forward, winding his arm around your waist and laying a chaste kiss on your forehead. His very proximity feels like balm on your irritated skin. He looks you dead in the eyes as he speaks.
“I want to help you, angel. But only if you’re ready. I don’t want you to go into heat to make this decision. Your head is clear right now, so you can tell me what you want. It’s all up to you.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, contemplating. You don’t know what to say, how to voice your fears. Your heats are intense, and absolutely unbearable for you or anyone in the vicinity. Why would Jeonghan want to be anywhere near you at a time like that?
When you voice your concern, he only laughs, but not unkindly.
“I’m pretty sure I can handle it.” He gives you a wink. “I’m different, you know?”
His confidence is a little reassuring, but you still hesitate. Jeonghan sighs and leans forward, bumping his forehead lightly to yours.
“My sweet girl, you have no idea how badly I want you.”
Your breath catches. His scent invades you, the reassuring mix of leather and vanilla in your nose. So you make up your mind and nod. You are choosing to trust him with every part of you, even the part you can’t bear to look at yourself.
Jeonghan carries you to your room even though you insist that you are fine right now. He helps make a nest, lamenting a little that there aren't more of his clothes at your place that he can fit into your nest.
“It’s okay, you can get your fill straight from the source.” He jokes, tilting his head back and tapping his neck. You giggle.
His attempts to lighten the mood work. He sheds his hoodie until he is left with just a thin shirt and pants, climbing into the nest with you. You’ve never had anyone inside, but it feels so right to have Jeonghan here. He wraps you up tightly in his arms by spooning you, laying little kisses on your face and neck, whatever patch of skin he can find, until you feel like he has squeezed the discomfort out of you. He calls Joshua and tells him to fuck off for a few days, to which your roommates only jokingly sighs and agrees. You tell him you feel bad about keeping Joshua away from his own home for a week at a time, and he gives you this sleazy smirk that sends a tingle of something pleasant down your spine.
“Oh darling, it won’t last a week this time. I’ll make sure of it.”
You swallow tightly, pressing your thighs together. He notices, because Jeonghan notices everything, and you feel his large hand splay over your bare thigh, fingertips toying with the hem of your shorts.
“Think it’ll be good for you if I make you cum right now.” His lips brush the shell of your ear from behind. You arch your back into him. You’re getting wet at an alarming rate, like your omega is just raring to give in to the alpha curled around you. His hand travels up, presses into the cotton of your shorts right at the crotch. You twitch at the feeling, eyes closing. You’re breathing heavily, and you know your heat is right around the corner. It seems Jeonghan’s plan is to nip it in the bud before it even hits full force.
His hand slides under the waistband of your shorts, sliding through your slit. You feel him groan into your ear.
“So wet already. Has my little omega been waiting for this?”
You can feel, in real time, your brain turn to mush as Jeonghan’s fingers rub over your cunt and find your clit. He toys with it between two fingers, and you whine, hips jerking. He squeezes, enough to jolt you, making you gasp.
“You’ll answer me when I ask you a question, got it?”
Your omega preens. Your eyes roll up. “Yes, alpha.”
“Good girl.”
You wonder if it’s the apex in him that’s making him rough and territorial like this, influenced by your heat. You could cum just like this. But he gives you more. He swivels his fingers over your throbbing nub, rubbing side to side just the way you like it. You don’t know how he knows, but you’re grateful for it, because it takes only a few minutes for your high to catch up to you. You want to let go, but you’re neck deep in Jeonghan’s pheromones, and the primal part of you tells you to not dare do it without your alpha’s permission. So, like the good girl he claims you are, you ask.
“Alpha,” you gasp against his precise fingers, hips undulating, listening to his wet and filthy it sounds. Jeonghan hums in question, licking over the shell of your ear. His strong arm holds you in place, and you only have so much wiggle room under his grip. You feel you can’t breathe as you plead with him, asking if you can cum. His lips stretch where they are pressed against the skin below your ear. His arm that was holding you comes up, grips your jaw tightly and tilts your head back so he can run his tongue over your lips. Your eyes fill with unshed tears.
“Such a quick learner.” He praises. “You know exactly what your alpha wants. Such a good omega, my perfect omega. Cum for me, darling. Come on.”
So you do. You gush over his hand, giving into the unrelenting pressure as he keeps rubbing harshly over your clit. He reaches his hand down and plunges two fingers inside your spamming cunt, grinding his palm on you to prolong your orgasm. You whine and twitch, digging your nails into his wrist, but he seems undeterred. He fingers you like that, not slowing for a single second even when you sob. Your high never really weans, being pulled longer and longer until you can’t differentiate where your first orgasm ends and your second one starts. All you know is that you’re wailing and twitching again, body convulsing so hard that Jeonghan has to almost roll on top of you to keep you in place, and he is finger fucking you through it as he whispers sweet praises in your ear. You gasp and nearly choke, vision swimming as you slowly come down. Finally, he buries his fingers deep inside you and stills.
For a long moment, you lay like that, half on your front, with Jeonghan draped over you. He pulls out gently and you gasp at how empty it feels. He plants a sweet kiss in your hair and finally separates from you, leaving your nest.
You can vaguely hear him moving around, going to the bathroom, the kitchen, more shuffling before he joins you in the nest again. You’re half dozing at this point, but he manages to coax some water into you before you fully fall asleep. He holds you through it, cuddling into you and taking advantage of your break to nap as well. When you wake up again, you’re feverish and sweaty, and Jeonghan is ready to give you what your omega has wanted all its life. A knot.
He kisses you slowly and tenderly as he undresses you, making sure to not let your omega get restless. His own clothes follow, and you’re surprised by how toned he is. He always hides under bulky clothes, so you didn’t anticipate this. Jeonghan is strong, and very athletic, you know this, but you expected him to be skinny, not deliciously lean like this.
He smirks when he catches you looking, finally tugging off his pants. Your mouth waters at the sight of his cock. He’s huge, throbbing and ready for you, flushed an angry deep pink color that has you clenching around nothing. Your body is more than ready for him, breaths already leaving you in ragged gasps as you try to retain your sanity.
“Ready, baby?” He’s only called you that once before, when you were in the throes of a heat, whispered prettily over the phone. Of his wide roster of petnames for you, you definitely love this one the most, especially the way he says it so sweetly. It takes all your effort to not keen, but it’s not possible to hold back, especially when he hooks one of your legs over his shoulder and slowly presses inside you, his cock carving through your desperate, spongy walls. You moan at the same time he does, revelling in the feeling. He brushes over every delicious spot inside you, making your toes curl. Your omega whines, just the relief of being filled up is so acute and so massive that your back arches and, without a warning, you cum.
Jeonghan curses over you, immediately moving. He wants to prolong your high, because he noticed that your heat broke for a good while after being properly stimulated. He fucks the orgasm right through you, and your body scrambles to process it all. It feels so unbelievably good, deliriously good, that you can’t believe you held out without this for so long. And it’s not just his cock, not just the fact that an alpha is fucking you through your heat, but it’s because this is Jeonghan. Your omega trusts him, yearns for him, and he takes that responsibility seriously, holding your body down and pounding into you just the way his alpha knows you want. You believe with complete certainty that no alpha on the planet can do you the way he does, anticipating your needs before you can even vocalise them, before you can even feel it yourself. It’s only him, and as he leans down to press his forehead against yours, his breaths heavy as his hips snap into yours over and over, you know this is it for you. Jeonghan is your endgame. He always has been, you just didn’t know it.
“Alpha,” you weep. Jeonghan groans.
“My pretty girl.” He rasps. You can see how dilated his pupils are, the flush rising up from his chest, to his neck and ears. He’s sweating, groaning, cursing as his cock indulges your pulsing, greedy pussy.
“I love you.” He breathes. You whine at his words. “Loved you for so long. Always knew you would be mine. My omega. Mine.”
Your leg, pressed between your bodies where it’s thrown over your shoulder, is joined by your other one as he maneuvers you into a mating press. His angle shifts in the position, and you can’t hold it any longer. You cum again, soaking his cock, making the base swell up so that finally, finally, Jeonghan bullies his fat knot into you, cumming so hard his whole body curls forward.
The whole room smells like sweat, sex, and dense alpha pheromones. Jeonghan’s presence is undeniable, so all encompassing that it overtakes even yours. He finally relaxes over you, catching his breath while he runs his tongue over your scent glands. You let him, enjoying the feeling, this indirect way of him laying his claim on you. Lying here, uninhibited and with your omega finally quiet after years and years of silent torture, you imagine what it would be like if Jeonghan were to claim you, in the concrete and sure way that alphas do by biting their omegas. The thought of being linked to another person for life should freak you out, but it doesn’t. Not when the person in question is Jeonghan. He already has your heart. He has taken your body too. There’s nothing you wouldn’t give to him, including the rest of your life.
When Jeonghan teasingly nips at the skin right over your scent glands, it feels like a silent promise that he wants the exact same thing. For the first time in your life, the future doesn’t seem bleak.
wait alpha izuku wait who said that what about alpha izuku wait who keeps talking???
🏁 eighteen plus only ! ⋆ minors don’t interact ⋆ smut ⋆ omegaverse ⋆ heat cycles ⋆ breeding ⋆ knots cum play ⋆ alpha izuku midoriya, omega & fem reader
wait wait because… alpha izuku and his life long dream to protect, to have someone so keen to rely on him they can’t even really help it… except his fated little omega isn’t so helpless and all, entirely too stubborn for what’s considered normal but wants him all the same.
alpha izuku who hovers around his omega, waiting for you to crack or turn to him with big pleading eyes because he would literally jump at the chance to take something off your plate. need something heavy moved? he’s on it, eager to show his strength and rugged muscles as the perfect mate. feeling overwhelmed? he’s good at calming you down, soft in the centre and big everywhere else — desperate to wrap his arm around you and ease the distressed scent you release. what if you’re hungry? don’t worry, he’s got a card with an unlimited spend profile and is more than willing to order anything you want straight to your home. you won’t even have to lift a finger.
alpha izuku who’d give anything to court you, from scenting you when he thinks you’re not paying attention to picking fights with other alphas behind your back — daring them to take a step closer to what’s unknowingly his. he can’t help the way he feels about you, around you, senses sharper and appetite raging. if only you weren’t so proud all of the time, you’d already be his. full of his knot and his seed, perfectly loved and doted on because izuku gets a kick out of the idea of spoiling you. his sweet omega. even if you don’t know it yet.
he likes that you’re stubborn, pretend that you have no interest in being mated to someone like him. proud, powerful and protective. any omega would be lucky to have someone like izuku chasing their tails but you turn your nose at any alpha, you take care of yourself despite where you stand in the world. no matter, a challenge has always excited izuku. just like he taught his students to be outstanding citizens — he could teach you to accept him as your alpha. help you to understand that he’s everything you need and then some. willing to do what it takes to be a good mate to you.
eventually you’ll stop being prude, the way your sweet omega yearns for domination and protection will take over and your natural instincts will do too. when that day comes, izuku will be there to soothe you.
it comes sooner than be expects, a phone call that violently rouses the alpha from heavy sleep in the middle of a wednesday night. it’s like he knows, deep down, something is wrong — the crust caked to the corner of his eyes no longer an issue as izuku clears his bleary vision to grasp his phone, your contact flashing bright across his screen.
he answers without hesitation, groggy because he’s always struggled to sleep, and before he can even get a word out — you’re whining through the speaker like a wounded animal, the lewd schlick sound of some pathetic, fake alpha-knot toy lunging in and out of your hole echoing underneath.
“izu… hurts,” you gasp, and he hears the sick gush of your cunt down the line. he feels hot under the skin and eager to move like you’ve just called upon his alpha to solve all your problems. just this once. “heat. hurts, need your help.”
you’ve called him, not bakugou or kirishima or any of the other alphas that you know — that want you just as bad as he. izuku is the one you’re begging for, crying for to come save you. the idea of you full and leaky and unsatisfied is enough to make his knot twitch beneath dynamight themed basketball shorts, sending deku into a haze as he throws his linens to the side and pulls himself together in a hungry haze. desperate to please you, take care of the omega that whines for him.
“poor baby,” izuku groans sleepily, though his body and soul raves with the idea of being throne to take care of you. “i’ll make all the pain go away.”
not an hour later, you end up with your ankles by your ears, knees pressed deep into your shoulders as izuku positions you perfectly beneath him, a perfect little thing underneath muscle and strength. his cock is thick, swollen and pulsing with seed as it strokes your velvety walls into the shape of him — teaching your soft, silken cunt to recognise your alpha taking you. treating you so well. every breath you take is followed up by a blissful and heavy smack of izuku’s hips into yours, punctuated by his moans and balmy groans against your supple skin.
“look at you, baby,” his airy laughter, barely there yet between every particle of oxygen in your lungs — ripples through you and your thighs tremble either side of his head, numb from their position and the sensation of his drooly cockhead against your g-spot. “breaking so pretty for me. for your alpha,” izuku picks up the pace, thick shaft all wet and covered in all that omega slick that you gush just for him. something in him searches for the heat that broils in your lower belly, oozing into your limbs as they shake and follow the tune of his command. “and to think, you’ve been the one rejecting me all this time.”
every word, every powerful thrust is like a soothing balm to the burns left by your heat. you can’t help the way your pussy locks and unlocks around him, keeping your alpha nestled inside your needy little hole. the hard line of izuku’s body above yours wavers as you squeeze down on him — clawing at his shoulders to ground yourself. “this slick omega cunt needs me, doesn’t she?” he purrs into your neck, thick tongue lathering over the spot where he ought to mark you. “needs to be raw and ruined and knotted with my seed. pumped full with a litter of my pups.”
swiping at your clit between thrusts, pulling his meaty girth from the snugness of your quivering core, izuku clicks his tongue down at you. not mean, but condescending. “i can do that, angel. i can make all that pain go away if you just let me.” green curls bounce when he tilts his head down at you, pouting in a way that mocks the shameless expression of pleasure painted across your face. “let me be the alpha that you need so bad.”
“p-please. please, please, please,” you wail with all the might in your body, pleading izuku, begging for anything that’ll stop how much it hurts. you feel your omega croon into izuku’s will, back arching into his molten hot chest, sticky against your hardened nipples and your breasts as they sway from the force of him rhythmically bucking into you. “wan’ your pups, be a good… good ‘mega for you.”
“for me? why, you’re so sweet, baby.” izuku chuckles, the sound weaving its way between his strained moans — the way your cunt grips him makes his his feverish pace falter as he works you into the mattress “you’ll take my knot? let me be your alpha?”
“show me that pretty neck of yours. let me mark you.” perhaps he’s taking advantage of your judgment, neither of you are quite yourselves… but the emotions are raw and your body is so willing and your mind is so numb. you’ve done a complete one eighty, become the sweet pliant little omega that he’s always dreamed of conquering, it’s only right that he makes you his always. in exchange for the not you’re about to receive. obediently, you tilt your head to the side with a dulcet mewl — ready for what waits you. prepared to give in.
you go slack both physically and mentally as the sharp edge of izuku’s large and daunting canines sink into your sink — leaving a claim, a warning to others that you now belong to him. it’s then that all of the heat in your body drains south — seeping out of you in a blistering hot rush of your essence, basting the man in your sweet honey release. the wound is deep, but it’s the finality of being izuku’s that sends you over the edge, keeps your orgasm going just long enough to please the omega inside.
aftershocks coax izuku along, his forehead lined with sweat and damp forest locks press against the crown of your head — jade eyes swim with pride, lust and love and his lashes flutter the closer he gets to flooding your womb. “good ‘mega, that’s my good little omega. g-gonna cum, angel. g-gonna knot you,” his voice turns so tender, gentle despite how hard he’s grinding into you now — the base of his cock growing, each vein that spirals around it throbbing with seed that’s eager to line your warm walls. “might hurt, promise s’not on purpose.” he adds to prep you, not that the size of him would be a problem to you.
you already love how full your alpha makes you feel.
he licks the light sheen of blood from the canines he ferociously bears, a mass of weakened muscle on top of you as he circles his taut hips into yours — clit smooshed against his pelvis to keep that orgasm going and lead him into your own. while you gush and splutter around him, izuku fucks you deeper, harder. grunting and growling until he finally shatters — white hot and viscous seed pouring into you like molten lava flow. it’s just what you need, his cum thick and creamy sticking to your fertile walls as they ripple around him.
the pain of your heat starts to mellow out as your mouths fall open together in harmonised pants. his knot swells inside of you — keeping you plugged full and easing that ache only he can reach deep within. the omega within you settles, pleased and the alpha within him swirls with pride for being able to do just that.
alpha izuku is a lot of things but now, your mate, is one of them.
end. - reblogs and comments are always appreciated! just liking doesn't do anything. so leave a comment to motivate this writer if you'd like to see more!!
˖ ࣪૮₍ 𝓟.𝐔𝐍𝐊 𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐃𝐉𝐎 𓂃 ⭒ is your ex boyfriend who can't stop wanting to fuck you even after you broke his heart.
⤿ ꒰ you left satoru in highschool. but after the glowup, he discovered something: revenge was fucking sweet. and he wants to get back at you for everything you've put him through. show you how much he's changed ꒱
♡ ₊˚‧ cw. college au :: smut :: m.masturbation :: f.oral :: m.oral :: fantasies :: alcohol consumption :: smoking :: shotgunning :: punk culture :: mean!toru :: so much sexual tension ꒱
˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ didn't know where it all went wrong. one moment you were his pretty, preppy girlfriend. the girl who all the guys would die for and all the chicks wanted to be— and still, you chose him. some bumbling, stumbling, awkward and anxious nerd. the next? you were bitching at him for the smallest inconvenience. it was something stupid. he doesn't even remember. he thought you were just stressed with finals. thought it would all be better then next day. but then you ignored his texts. blocked his number. dropped his sweaters off to his room. three years of highschool sweethearts— gone.
˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ cried like a baby when you left him. glasses fogged and skewed. hands trembling around a bouquet as he stood at your window, hoping you'd let him. all tears and snot and quivering lips as his croaky voice called—
“baby I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I don't know what I did, please take me back.”
you never did. never gave him the time of day. barely even batted an eye at him when you glanced out your window only to shut the curtains.
he sat on the sidewalk. crumpled bouquet in his hands and glasses shoved in hair rustled from all the gripping. shoulders shaking and sobs hiccupping. the girl of his dreams. his sweet girlfriend. gone. and he doesn't even know what he did wrong.
˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ had to talk to someone about it. the rumours were flying all around. gossip and giggles about how the nerd finally screwed up and fumbled the prettiest girl in school. it made the already awful schooling experience worse for satoru. but what really hurt him most of all was when he'd pass you in the hallway while you chatted with your group of friends. you'd lock eyes when your friends nudged you, giggled, but you'd just frown and look away. you never laughed with them. but the silence was like a blunt pencil shoved straight through his heart.
he approached suguru. his best friend who attended another highschool. crying into his arms and shoulders and slobbering up his leather jackets with all the tears. he babbled about how much he missed you. how he didn't know how to fix it.
and that's when suguru gripped his shoulders. told him, “hey man, she's not gonna take you back, y'know that right?”
satoru's throat bobbed. he cracked a sob. “then what the fuck am I gonna do?”
“try something new.”
“huh?”
“try something new. something risqué. shake up your norm a bit so you don't have to think of her.”
he contemplated suguru's words. something new didn't sound too bad. every time he looked at his textbooks he'd think of all the awkward chemistry pick up lines he'd give you. and whenever he wore his hoodies he remembered how much you loved stealing them.
yeah. suguru's right. he needed something completely new. needed to turn his whole life around. but how?
˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ got his first piercing. grief did things to him and he was desperate to distract himself. so he definitely jumped the gun a bit but hey— a tongue piercing should distract him enough, right?
he wouldn't admit that it was because this specific piercing was something you and him spoke about. when you were cradled in his arms and talking about the most random of things. he'd told you that suguru had gotten one and joked about getting one himself. he remembered the way you flinched. how you giggled and told him that you couldn't imagine your sweet boy with such a delinquent style.
he thought about your smile when the piercer pushed the needle through his tongue and tears bubbled on the corners of his eyes. when his hands shook and suguru held them tightly from the side.
this pain. it's nothing he's ever experienced. he choked a sob, his face blotched and thick, pretty white lashes damp and fluttering as he tried to hold still— but fuck. if it didn't make the dull ache in his heart better. maybe. . . he could get used to this.
˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ let suguru guide him through his journey. it started with the fashion. he barely let the piercing on his tongue heal fully before he jumped for a set of stacked lobes. then a helix once those were healed. he seemed to quite like silver now. silver piercings, chains, rings. they looked good on him.
speaking about what looked good on him— the sweater and cardigans were fine and all, but he's quite liking leather now. the rougher look suits him— that's what suguru said.
within the next year he snatched himself some dimple piercings too. and some snakebites. tried some eyeliner— that brand worked well. it was from a small business. he preferred the messier kind.
the more he hung around suguru the more he realised a few things. realised what a shitshow the world around him was. usually he'd idly listen to suguru's tirades, tell him to be careful when he pushed back against authority. now. . . he was beginning to see things for what they were once his head wasn't nose-deep in a book. shit had to be done and he was already changing so hey, why not?
he started getting more confident. more bold. trying new things out, engaging with this change that had become a lifestyle. hell, a culture. he met new people that really opened his eyes.
nerds, preps, jocks and populars— they were all just the start of a box. a box that you obediently fit into so that the people up top could get you under their boot.
and that's when he got less stiff. started using knowledge more as a weapon rather than validation, rather than it being just something he was good at. he got louder, productive. mister goody-two-shoes had become quite the rulebreaker.
˖ ࣪꒰ PUNK NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ was more sure of himself. he had fun now. let loose. stopped caring about what other people thought or him. he went to parties at night and protests in the day. loud, proud and honestly? not thinking about you. not much, at least. he had more things to worry about. like keeping his new daith piercing clean and keeping up with his new pins made from bottle caps.
maybe he got a little carried away with the alcohol and smoking when it came down to it. but whatever. no one's perfect, that's the whole point of what he is now.
and maybe at those parties he distracted himself with other girls cause he kept seeing your eyes in his solo cup. maybe a part of him still wasn't over you— no matter how much he loved his new life.
but whatever. other girls kissed him like you did. buried their hands into his hair and tugged on it just like you did. they wrestled his tongue in the way you hadn't— grabbed his waist and buried their nails in the same way you were afraid to.
˖ ࣪꒰ PUNK NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ kept it a secret, but he held onto your photos for as long as possible. longer than he would have liked to admit. he couldn't help it, okay? you were suddenly off the map and he couldn't find you anywhere. but when suguru caught him scrolling through his secret little folder tucked away in some special place on his phone— he called him out. told him that it was holding him back.
so, satoru finally bit the bullet. selected the folder, pressed delete. and watched all the memories pour down the drain.
he denied the small tremble in his fingers. the ache in his heart. instead he forced himself to scoff: "sayonara, bitch.”
he was starting college in a month. he didn't need this.
˖ ࣪꒰ PUNK NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ was late for his first day of college classes. couldn't help it. he did a run around the block with suguru putting some posters up. a new stir in the political sphere called for action— and satoru was all about action.
so when he walked into that lecture hall a whole twenty minutes late? with his bag strung over his shoulder and his glasses half-fogged? he didn't care. just stepped up the stairs and found a seat at the back row. one of the only empty seats.
he plopped down, ran his tongue over one of his snakebites out of habit and picked at his peeling black nail polish as he fished out a notebook.
and that's when he saw it. manicured nails. soft hands. his heart stuttered.
no fucking way.
his gaze cut to the side to find a familiar pair staring back. wide. was that shock? or horror?
his blue eyes hardened. oh. fucking. fantastic.
you.
"sweetheart," he hummed before he could stop himself. head crooked to the side as his cold stare raked over you. you hadn't changed much in fashion. your skirts were a bit more modest. hair neater. but you were quiet.
he grinned. eyes cutting back up to you.
and then. he finally let his tongue lash.
“nice to see you again. bit of a complex course for just a pretty face like you though," he glanced at the door label: quantum physics 101. then locked his smug stare back to you.
“wouldn't you say?”
˖ ࣪꒰ PUNK NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ went back to his dorm that day and tried to forget about it. that look in your eye. the way you hadn't even spoken to him after his little jab. what, were you still too good for him? couldn't even spare him a greeting?
he brushed it off. told himself it was pointless. he had way too many things to focus on than his ex girlfriend from highschool who broke his weak little heart back then.
he told himself he'd ignore you. but fate had other plans. the next day he was leaned up against one of the walls outside campus. just before class. cigarette between his lips and hands cupping his lighter.
that's when he felt it again. that stare.
he glanced up through his wispy bangs and caught you in the act. gawking at him as you were on your way to class. didn't you know staring was rude? then again, he shouldn't expect anything better from you.
his brows narrowed. teeth bit harder on the cig.
satoru took a deep drag. let the smoke fill his lungs in an attempt to ease the pinch in his gut. then slotted the cigarette between his fingers and drew it back. billowed a string of smoke and called out. crystal clear. rough. as he snatched his phone from his jacket pocket.
“take a fucking picture. it'll last longer.” without even looking up. you didn't deserve his eyes.
˖ ࣪꒰ PUNK NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ ranted to suguru about you later that day. returning to his old habit of gripping and tugging at his hair out of frustration. fuck, you always brought the worse out of him. out of all the colleges you attended why'd it have to be this one? and why the hell did you keep staring at him like that?
“you know she's probably regretting it, right?” suguru piped up, looking up from his little project.
satoru stopped his pacing. glanced over his shoulder. “regretting it?”
“breaking up with you. I mean look at you now. quite the catch, y'know?”
“so what, she regrets breaking my heart and dragging my name through the mud all through highschool?”
“yup. she probably wants you bad.”
and that's when satoru decided that he had an opportunity here. to get back at you for all the shit you put him through. you were the catalyst of his very change, after all. now the object and accumulation of everything he loathed. so that's when he decided:
if you wanted him so bad now? he was gonna show you just how much he changed.
˖ ࣪꒰ PUNK NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ started in class. what were you even doing here, in his field anyway? you weren't ever a bright stem light so why start now?
he wasn't kind. he used his intelligence like a weapon now, and unfortunately you were his new target. he'd belittle you whenever he had the chance. throw little comments that no one knew were about you— but you knew. and he adored your falters.
he pointed jabs, brutal truths. it didn't help that you were his seat partner for most of the semester.
you never snapped back anyway. just spared him a silent glance then went back to work. it irked him. you really never shook off that arrogance of yours, did you? whatever. it only made him worse.
“this is a little out of your league, right sweetheart?” he'd muse during a group project. a nickname that used to be so endearing, now just another lash of the whip that was his tongue.
“let the others handle it. you can just sit there and look pretty. maybe use your little highlighters to spiff things up, hmm?”
so what if the people in the group laughed at you? he didn't care. you sure didn't when it was him in your shoes.
˖ ࣪꒰ PUNK NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ found out that you both signed up for the same organisation. what were you doing in the simple living org? that's not what you were about. you were all bright, and pretty and flashy— you weren't about making something out of nothing. maybe that's why he was even more frustrated when you decided to run for president. no way in hell was he gonna let someone like you be in a leadership for an organisation that held his values. so of course he signed up to run against you. yeah, he was mean. he was being a fucking dick during every meeting. but he didn't care. not when it came to you.
no matter how many times he'd catch your eyes whenever he made a statement. or when you'd huff at him. it just gave him a reason to lick his teeth and bite back.
˖ ࣪꒰ PUNK NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ was unfortunate enough to end up behind you in the food court line. there you were, probably trying to figure out if you should have two pumps of hazelnut syrup or three. he couldn't help but roll his eyes. what was taking so long? still indecisive as ever.
he called from behind you. ordered for you since you were taking your own sweet time. he remembered your favourite drink. never could quite forget it. you probably didn't see it on the menu. silly girl.
and when you looked back with that same startled expression only to press your glossed lips together? he just huffed.
“still can't figure out what you want?” as he reached around to snatch the served drink and shove it into your hand. hopeless. you were hopeless.
˖ ࣪꒰ PUNK NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ spotted you one day after class. talking to the professor. he hasn't caught much of the conversation. only that you were discussing something about extra credit.
maybe he jumped the gun a bit. assumed the worst because the image he'd built of you in his head told him that you were low enough to consider something like that. I mean— it made sense with recent events. how a culture change that came with aesthetics and confidence was all he needed to have your stare now when his last year of highschool was spent crying over the disgust in your gaze.
so of course, when people flooded the class and he walked his way up to the fated seat beside you, he shot you a look over his glasses. that same disgust in his eyes and a sneered smile on his pierced lips.
a hand full of rings gripped the back of your chair on the way to his. he muttered just above your ear.
“maybe show a lil more leg next time. sure it'll get people like you places.” as he patted between your shoulders and ignored your flustered surprise.
˖ ࣪꒰ PUNK NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ noticed that you did that a lot. got flustered at almost every thing he did. whether it was invading your private space, or shooting a heated comment. you looked away. bunched your hands on your skirt and took a breath. he wasn't sure if it amused or frustrated him. seriously? was all it took a little confidence and a few changes for you to finally see him as something more than the awkward little boy who followed you around like a puppy?
whatever. it was fun to play with regardless. you were fun to play with.
˖ ࣪꒰ PUNK NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ wasn't too impressed when the same professor seemed to enjoy playing with fate. satoru had been assigned to tutor you for the class he still wasn't sure how you got in to. he reluctantly went to your dorm with his textbooks and notes. huffed at your decor and threw a bunch of pointed comments before you both settled down to actually study.
but would you look at that— you couldn't look at him. cute little thing, weren't you?
you couldn't look him in the eye. stammered over your words when he shot you a look over the rim of his glasses and asked you if you understood. and don't think that he missed the way your thighs pressed together under the table when he clicked his tongue and called you silly for a little mishap.
he went to get a glass of water. spoke to you from the kitchen.
“y'know this would go a lot smoother if you could just pay attention.”
he couldn't help but sneak a glance at you. watched as you bristled and tried to distract yourself with highlighting your notes.
he approached as you struggled with an equation. clicked his tongue when you inevitably got the wrong answer.
“sorry, I just. . .”
“just what?”
he felt your shudder against his chest as he flushed against your back. leaning his hand over yours so that his cold rings pressed on your shaky fingers. guiding your hand holding the pen with his far larger one.
“just. . . can't focus when I'm around?” he urged your hand to write. restarting the equation. showing you just how wrong you were.
he felt your breath stuttered. heard how you cleared your throat.
oh, still such a cute thing, weren't you?
he chewed on his grin and leaned in. snakebites brushing on your burning lobe as he whispered. low, dangerous.
“do I make you nervous, sweetheart?”
he told himself to stop. but how could he with the way you shuddered when his free hand dropped and traced up your side. felt your skin beneath the tight, white button ups you always insisted on wearing.
his chuckle rumbled in a low rasp. “looks like someone changed from highschool. where's your flair, sweet thing?”
he nipped on your lobe. grinned wider as you bit back a whimper.
“wanna see how much my tongue's changed too?”
˖ ࣪꒰ PUNK NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ didn't go any further with you. no. he wouldn't let you back in so easy. you were gonna have to work for it. he wasn't your sweet boy anymore and you weren't his sweetheart. not really.
didn't mean that he didn't go back to his dorm throbbing in his ripped pants. didn't mean that he wasn't groaning— rough and wrecked as he dropped his pants and fisted his angry, hard cock. jerking his hand all messy as a nasty shlick shlick shlick filled the room. he pictured how your whimpers would compliment it.
he couldn't even get to his bed. he just slumped against the wall with his head tossed back and his white hair tousled. glasses shoved up in it. fucking his hand and imagining your mouth.
oh, he wanted to fuck your mouth. grip your hair and rub his prince albert piercing on your tongue. how would you react to that, huh? would you whine for him? try to hump his boot?
it was embarrassing how hard he came to the thought of it. squirting thick, creamy ropes all over his jacket but still jerking his hand like a madman. eyes rolled back and jaw tight to the thought of you. to how he'd make you hold that little skirt up while you ground your panties on his mouth. were they still pink, he wondered?
fuck. the way you'd moan. how you'd grip his hair with both hands and buck so weakly once you realised how much better he'd gotten with tongue. how would your clit feel under his tongue piercing? would you think that it suited him now?
and there he was. cumming for a second time. violent and messy as he ragged a harsh breath and choked your name back down his throat. eyes fluttering and knees shaky as she squeezed filthily on his tip.
fuck. he was gonna have so much fun with you.
˖ ࣪꒰ PUNK NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ couldn't shake the image. even as he leaned against the chain linked fence on one of the faculty rooftops. smoking away his third cigarette and thinking about you. he came here to study, and yet there you were. filling up his head as usual.
he didn't expect you to find your way up there too. with a book tucked under your arm and freezing at the stairwell when you saw him.
he spared you a small glance. huffed and looked elsewhere as you came closer.
“don't you have some classes you should be failing?”
silence.
for a second he thought you left. good. he didn't need you becoming a permanent resident in his mind after he'd spent years trying to heartlessly evict you.
until he felt your presence right beside him. your sweet perfume wrapped around him and those doe eyes that made him bite his cigarette just a bit harder.
and then. you decided to make him laugh.
“you shouldn't be smoking on campus.”
quiet. but was that an edge? was that the bitch that he knew— finally dropping the act?
a flicker in his eyes. a stir in his gut. he snapped those cold blues over to you. “oh yeah?”
long fingers gripped your jaw. dragging you forward as he took a long drag. letting the nicotine hit his lungs and he stared the real addiction dead in her eyes. your eyes.
he withdrew the cigarette.
“who's gonna stop me?”
leaned close. too close. squishing your face and yanking you closer. lips ghosting yours. smoke pouring into your mouth as he held you still.
with a dark grin and a darker glare.
“you, sweetheart?”
as he blew the smoke into your smushed lips. hand slipping down to grip your waist with the cigarette resting between his fingers. flicking some of the ash onto your doll pumps.
you didn't push him away. no. you whined. hands clawing on his jacket. so he squeezed your face harder, glared deeper.
and despite everything screaming at him to just drop it—
his lips smashed to yours. teeth and tongue meshing. because in the end? he preferred the nicotine that was your plush mouth.
preferred the little obsession you kick-started in him all over again.
you should've known a private meeting with the hot priest you have your eyes on would only end with your panties pulled down!
synopsis: you might need to say a few prayers for forgiveness when the only guy occupying your thoughts is a servant of the lord. but isn't it better to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission? especially when the priest you've been obsessed with seems to share your favorite sin - lust?
pairing: priest!gojo x horny!reader
content: mdni, SMUT SMUT SMUT!!, porn with a sprinkle of plot, blasphemy ig, they are both horndogs, fingering WITH the gloves on, mean!! gojo (but he turns sweeter once he's pussy drunk), desperation, mutual pining, teasing and flirting, degradation, corruption, kissing, use of pet names (angel, pretty), unprotected piv sex, fucking against the wall, multiple orgasms, creampie
wc: 4.0k
a/n: commission for my sweet angel @chewiebee <3 art is also by @1amglow (with permission given to use for this :3)
How to seduce a man who'd sworn himself to someone else? Particularly, um, the Lord?
Pouting and pleading for penance was the first step in your grand plan of getting the hottest priest you'd ever seen into your panties.
“Do you forgive me, father?” You purred, saccharinely sweet as you sat across from him, deliberately letting your thighs spread just enough to offer him a peek of the pure white thong underneath your sinfully short mini-skirt.
Satoru Gojo could pretend he was too righteous to look.
But you caught the subtle shift of his sharp blue eyes, how they snuck down for a fraction of a second before he cleared his throat, his defined Adam’s apple bobbing before his solemn gaze returned to your face.
“When you requested a private meeting with me, I assumed that this would be about something serious,” he spoke firmly, as if he was more than just a man. One that kept stealing short peeks down to your soft thighs. “Not something so…trivial.”
“It might be trivial to you,” you huffed, pushing out a glossy bottom lip as you leaned forward, shirt clinging to your cleavage. “But don’t I need to like, atone, or something?”
A little more desperate-sounding than you’d like, but given how much you had to suck up to the church secretary to even get this appointment, you refused to miss your chance.
God, you only started coming to this church when your friend sent you a screenshot of their fucking Facebook page where he was pictured passing out bread on someone’s tongue.
Eagerly sitting in the fucking pews a week later waiting for your chance to glance up at him doe-eyed with your tongue out in the hopes you’d feel his fingers in your mouth too.
Falling for his tousled white hair and the burning blue stare, his broad and strong frame only highlighted by the ornate white robes he wore, pretty pink lips parting while he preached and your brain brimmed with ideas of what other sounds you could pull from his throat. Starving more for him with every single morning you spent watching him thoughtfully address his audience, sometimes pausing with that look of dignified distraction, his tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek while your head conjured up thoughts of what his lips would feel like pressed against yours.
Soft? Chapped?
Would he taste like mint? Cherries?
Although, usually, your mind always wound up landing on the same question: How big was his cock?
“Everyone has impure thoughts,” he said across from you, filled with that warmth and acceptance that attracted so many people, made them flock to be a member of his congregation. But his face was still stoic, icy brows kitted together as he looked down at you under thick lashes.
“Even you?” You tilted your head to the side, filled with faux innocence.
He chuckled, dark and dangerous, one corner of his lips curling up a little higher than the other as he slowly nodded. His voice dropped lower as he answered your question without faltering, “Even me.”
Your mouth abruptly clamped shut, your thighs tensing and instinctively ready to press together while you tried to work out something equally seductive to whisper and rope him in.
But he beat you to it.
Pushing off his chair to stand, his stiff posture reminding you precisely how tall he was when he sauntered over with slow, deliberate steps, only pausing when he was right in front of you. His cologne was intoxicating, the scent of something sweet and subtle wrapping around you, not bothering to disguise his stare at all this time when he dragged it down your body.
Up-close, he had a sort of subtle magnetism, something that made you subconsciously scoot almost to the edge of your own chair to get closer to him, just to breathe in his air, his presence practically exuding an ethereal glow.
Like his existence alone was enough to make someone a believer.
“If they trouble you so much,” he murmured slowly, teasing you without trying. “You can confess your thoughts to me.”
As if he already knew what they were.
“I think about your hands,” you blurted out in one rushed breath, lips stuck open as you stared at them. “How long your fingers are, what they'd feel like-”
Your words fractured into a surprised gasp when he bent forward to gently touch your face, taking a hold of your chin with two strong digits.
“Feel like where?”
“Inside of me,” you whispered, small, but not unsure.
You knew what you wanted.
And there really wasn't anything better than a beautiful man on his knees. Especially one as holy as him.
No matter what he had to say about it.
“Do you even hear any of my sermons?” He scolded, white robes fluttering around him as his hands drifted up your soft thighs, spreading them apart further without hesitation. “Pay attention to anything I preach?”
“I mostly j-just pray for you,” you admitted, a little embarrassed at how your voice cracked, at how the excitement was racing through your veins at the idea your craving might finally be satisfied.
He shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe he was taking part in anything so corrupt, only to peel back your soaked panties to get a view of your pretty pussy glistening and ready for him.
Satoru left the gloves on.
As if using his bare skin was below him.
It was hard to be hurt by it when he shoved your underwear aside enough to slip two of his thick fingers inside anyway, the friction of the gloves pushing past the initial ring of resistance already enough to have you shifting in the seat.
The pressure of the stretch searing its way into your brain as he slowly swirled his way in, testing how much you had to give.
You were tempted to touch him too.
To feel how silky those pretty white locks of hair were and thread them through your own fingers. To drag your thumb over his sharp cheekbones or trace the outline of his mouth.
But it felt almost wrong.
Sacriligious.
So you gripped the arms of the chair instead, whining his name as he huffed and started to slot a third finger inside.
“S’not gonna-” You gaped at him, chest starting to heave and strain as your heart thrummed harder inside your ribcage.
“It will fit,” he insisted, still serious, treating fingering you like it was another one of his duties.
Deliberately taking his time to drag his digits in-and-out, unable to stop yourself from squeezing him, thighs attempting to close and clamp down on his hand as your slick coated his fine gloves.
“I'm disappointed,” he dryly mocked, cruelly curling those thick fingers of his while the tension holding you together pulled even tighter. Biting back your next filthy moan as he pointedly pressed against a sweet spot he found with another sharp click of his tongue. “So depraved.”
It wasn't anything you didn't know, but hearing it from his holy lips somehow made it so much hotter. Hips arching up as you squirmed in your seat, unable to move when he was knuckle-deep, long fingers exploring you with clinical precision.
“Desperate.”
You normally would’ve scoffed at any man who would’ve said that to you.
But Satoru Gojo wasn’t any man, was he?
No, he was above the rest of them, hardly even seemed mortal when that brilliant glint in his eyes burned straight through to your soul. Saw you for the greedy slut you guessed you were.
“Only attending my services because you wanted me to service you,” he haughtily accused, completely correct once again in his assessment. Only able to weakly whimper when he pressed against your womb, like he could automatically sense you hadn't saved yourself for marriage.
Brows knitting together in his righteous judgement as if you hung an ‘OPEN’ sign over it.
Or maybe the skimpy outfit and barely-there thong had sorta done the same thing.
“I-I’m sorry,” you lied, breathless and airy as you grinded down on his hand, desperate for him despite his cold front. Clinging to the ice in his voice while he degraded you, only turned on more by the idea that you might be corrupting him.
“You're not,” he dryly said, seeing straight through you again. “You just want to cum.”
You would give just about anything to be able to play the moment on repeat, the word coming out practically perverted from him.
“I want you to make me,” you huffed, wiggling your hips down, the nasty squelch of it so much louder in the small room, all the religious portraits on the wall most definitely passing judgment as you gasped and groaned at the next crook of his fingers.
“Why should I?”
His question made you freeze.
Abruptly pausing at the idea that he really might just edge you, might withhold your climax and hold it over your head like it was absolution.
“Please.”
Panic seared through you as his fingers stalled too, leaving you stuffed and throbbing uselessly around him, your nails scraping against the wood of the arm rests as your eyes went wide and glassy. Did he want you to beg? To plead?
To get down on your knees yourself and confess every wet dream you had of him where his head was buried between your thighs and his tongue lapped at your puffy clit?
You’d suck his dick every day for a month if he let you see the light of your climax, the relief you could almost taste in the thick air. The neglected bundle of nerves above your cunt already aching, itching for some attention after he intentionally ignored it.
“What lesson would that teach you?” He feigned a pout, his pious act not making your own spirit break as you batted your lashes harder.
“Do you not want my devotion?” You avoided his question with one of your own, both of you well aware that it wouldn’t teach you any lesson. Willing to offer any piece of yourself he wanted only to receive a lopsided, wry smile in return. Eyes narrowing to thin slits as he started to pull his fingers back out.
For a fraction of a second, you thought he really wasn’t going to let you finish.
Whining in protest while you watched him cock his head to the side, ready to slip off the chair and tug at the thick fabric of his robes. You were dying to know if he had a hard-on underneath it all.
But then he just moved your panties further out of the way, readjusting so he could position his thumb over your swollen clit, rubbing circles over it, the funny feeling of the fabric over the skin making the warmth pooling in your stomach crawling up past your chest to your face.
His other fingers returned to dip and dive deeper until you were falling forward, unable to hold yourself up as he let you lean against his broad chest, supporting you while he splintered your sanity into snack-sized bits for him to devour with just the force of his sharp thrusts.
“Devotion,” he echoed your sentiment, almost laughing at the notion, like he wasn’t aware of just how close you were to breaking apart. “Do you know what that means?”
“I’d learn for you,” you promised in a fever, sounding more feral the closer you got to cumming.
Promises waiting to roll off your tongue, ready to swear loyalty and undying love just for those delicious patterns he was painting on your clit to continue.
“Do you think you deserve my divine rod?” He hummed, his other hand abruptly reaching up to stroke your hair, a stark contrast between his softness and the fingers deep enough to prod at your cervix.
Another you would’ve laughed at him.
Called him egotistical for ever coming up with such an absurd name for his cock.
But the current you was babbling something incoherent and nodding as his thumb rubbed just right and you completely unravelled, the awful sound of your nails scraping the wood, all the air evacuating your lungs in a strangled gasp. “God, fuck-”
He tch-ed, nose held high in the air as you trembled, entire body tense as his beautiful mouth parted to mutter something simply treacherous. “Does that make me your God?”
Yes.
You didn't say it out loud though, too flustered and full to form a real response even after he removed his thumb from your clit, curling his fingers one last time before he pulled out all the way, standing back up and leaving you to scramble to pull yourself together.
Robbed for words, rationality removed as you blinked and glanced down at the mess you made on his chair, your thighs damp and sticky while he wasn't even mused. Satoru stared down at his glove, sighing to himself as he delicately pinched the edge of it and peeled it away from his pale hand, veins standing out and knuckles white underneath the perfect skin.
You could barely stand, legs wobbling as you bent over to pick up your purse, face flushed as you wiped at the definitely smeared makeup underneath your eyes.
Completely off-kilter, not sure how to feel or think despite receiving precisely what you came here for.
Could you even show your face in front of him again?
Show up to his next sermon and sit a few pews back without thinking about how his fingers felt stretching you out? You'd probably just end up sneaking out the back to the bathroom to rub one out to the memory of it.
Or maybe this was a wake-up call, a sign from the universe to clean up your act if you had stooped to seducing priests just to feel filthy. Okay, you doubted that you’d follow through on that tiny tidbit of clarity, but you had the sentiment for at least a few seconds.
Taking a few tentative steps towards the door, unable to glance over your shoulder and see what sort of expression he was wearing in case he’d be looking at you with that definitive disapproval.
You didn’t even make it halfway.
A firm hand against your back – and before you could blink, your stomach was forced flat and touching the dark wallpaper, hair being brushed to the side so his lips could run along the sensitive skin of your throat.
It wasn’t a kiss.
It felt like being claimed.
Teeth scraping along your tendons, wet, hungry sucks trailing higher until he paused just below your jaw.
“I’m hurt,” he complained behind you, a low whine escaping as he prevented you from wiggling in his hold. His strong hands pinned you against the cool surface, shoving up your skirt until it was bunched around your hips, plucking the band of your panties back before letting it snap against your skin. “Do you not want to hear what I think about?”
His lips returned to your throat, tongue licking a long clean stripe up before he hummed and nipped at the shell of your ear instead, daring you to ask him the question he wanted to answer.
“W-what?” You gasped, cheek getting squished as one of his strong arms hoisted you up higher by your waist, supporting your weight as you were held in place just for his other hand to rip your thin thong off, faintly stinging the skin.
“What your lip gloss tastes like,” he murmured, his voice nearly dropping down half an octave.
And for a moment, you were stunned, too surprised to do or say anything at all with the realization that you might’ve missed the fact that he had noticed you nearly as much as you noticed him. That the whole time you were preoccupied staring at him preaching, you somehow failed to pick up on the stolen glances he perhaps directed towards you.
“Taste it,” you dared him, craning your neck back only for his mouth to crash into yours. His soft lips trying to take control, his tongue dancing across your lip like he was asking for entry.
As if he didn’t know you practically left every hole open for him already.
His tongue slipping over your teeth, his fingers dimpling your skin as he freely moaned in your mouth too, the surprising taste of strawberry candy lingering.
Satoru might be revered.
But he really was just a man.
And by the time he was breaking away to suck in a broken breath, you could feel that divine rod of his digging into the small of your back.
Which, um, was a lot bigger than it was even in your dirtiest dreams.
Thick and throbbing, acutely aware of the length of it before you even heard him readjusting his robes, moving to pull it free as he tried to distract you with another hungry kiss.
You should probably feel bad about fucking a priest. Breaking his vows, or whatever it was about him being married to God or the Church.
But when his swollen tip edged to your entrance, his knee spreading your thighs further apart and keeping you open enough to let him slip the first few inches through, you only felt pure bliss.
“This is heaven,” he hissed behind you, every inch digging into your walls, molding you to his shape as you uselessly nodded and moaned in agreement. A funny flattering feeling blooming in your chest, heart lodged in your throat as he made a throaty hum of approval.
You didn’t know how badly you even wanted that approval until you were clenching harder around his cock at the small sound. Sinfully sucking him in, squirming as his thick cock pushed through until it was nestled tight against your cervix.
“D-did you really dream about me?” You heard yourself ask out loud, the question too tight, too high-pitched, barely holding on as your palms pressed against the wall to try and stabilize yourself. Pining for something you couldn’t quite name, lips pursed as you bit back a groan of pleasure at his next drawn-out thrust.
His forearm digging into your waist squeezed, more air forced from your already squished lungs as you whined and wiggled down, his cock and his hold pretty much the only things keeping you up, his thrusts starting to pick up, like he was emboldened by how needy you’d become for him. Splitting you open with each rough jolt of his cock, stretched out as you took him raw, your heart ready to rip open and profess things you didn’t actually mean.
You whimpered though, loud enough that his free hand had to reach up and cover up your mouth before he risked attracting an unwanted visitor in the form of another priest or some other straggler.
“I fantasize about you every night,” he murmured, so sweet and soft you almost couldn't fathom how harsh his hips were smacking into your ass, your moans muffled into his bare hand as he buried himself back in all the way.
The mental image of his pretty face covered in sweat, hair damp and splayed across his pillow while he fucked his fist to the thought of you was enough to have you curling your toes, tears collecting at your lashes while he fulfilled his own fantasies. Shaping you to him, thick cock sliding in-and-out faster, rougher, the sounds of your heavy breathing and skin-on-skin building in the typically tranquil room.
The smell of sex already heavy, no air conditioning to kick on to disguise it, his cologne mixing with your perfume, your thighs soaked and sticky as he kept thrusting. He didn’t fuck you like some never-been-touched altar boy or shy virgin. There was experience in the snap of his hips and the way his teeth bit down on your exposed collarbone, your clothes wrinkled from his greedy hands.
“Look how good you’re taking me, pretty,” he purred, his warm exhale sending a shudder down your spine. “Maybe next time you can stick your tongue out for my cock.”
“Mmph, mhm,” you agreed, contemplating biting his hand so he had to hear you moaning for him, but he just let out a surprisingly light laugh.
“I should start, fuck, rewarding my gorgeous girl after sermons, see if that helps that short attention span of yours, huh?” He gritted his teeth, groaning again at how hard your cunt was clamping down on him, cock twitching balls-deep inside of you while you whined in agreement.
You’d probably bring a fucking book and start scribbling notes or studying scripture if it meant another one-on-one meeting like this.
Unless you weren’t the only one he was giving this special treatment to.
You tried to reach up, to pull his hand away from your mouth, but then he was just holding your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours like it was romantic.
“D-do you do this with anyone else in your congregation?” You barely managed to sound coherent, but your jealousy wasn’t the least bit hidden. Hating the idea of some other girl waltzing in here in a little dress and getting bent over his desk even if he just fingered you in the chair, was literally still fucking you against the wall.
“Aw,” he snickered before letting out a low purr that reverberated inside your chest. “Is my angel worried another woman will steal me away?”
You hated how much you automatically liked being called his angel.
How his attention really did feel like something divine being bestowed upon you.
“M’not,” you protested, preemptively knowing he wouldn’t believe you when your pussy was practically speaking for you, throbbing and squeezing at the sound of his voice.
“I only want you,” Satoru promised anyway, and it was almost enough to make you cum again.
He could tell too.
Unlacing his hand from yours, dragging it back over your chest, down past his other hand and back to your oversensitive clit, still tense from the first time as he found a faster rhythm this time, rubbing it harder, adding more pressure just to see how quickly he could shove you over the edge.
His strokes were getting sloppier at the same time, every ridge of his cock rubbing against you, veins pulsing as he filled you up, up, up.
“Come on, angel,” he hummed again, knowing what sort of effect it had on you, his smirk pressed against your skin as you felt the hefty weight of him bottoming inside you. “Cum for me again. I know you can.”
A man being right was a rare occasion, but you loathed to accept that he was. Chalking it up to how little he even felt like a mortal, his cock pushing you past the brim – and his nimble fingers tossing you over the precipice.
Your second orgasm hit you harder, just a wall of white-hot pleasure that seemed to stretch and simmer in every limb, lost in all of it while you were vaguely aware of something warm seeping inside of you, dripping down your thighs as he groaned your name one more time.
Something about the sound of it made you think it wasn’t the first time he cried it out.
Both of you panting, your body still sandwiched between him and the wall while you came down from your own form of fucked-up heaven. You could barely feel your legs, your hips and thighs aching and sore as he slowly set you back down on your feet, tucking his leaking cock back under his robes before smoothing them down, your eyes hazily focused on him as you peeked over your shoulder.
He dusted himself off, bending over to pick up the torn scraps of fabrics that had formerly been your panties from the floor and discreetly slipping them in his pocket before helping fix your clothes, pulling down your skirt and tugging at your shirt until it was in the proper place.
Plastering that stoic expression back on, wearing the face of a man who was equally blessed and burdened as he reassessed you.
“So, um, are my sins, uh, forgiven?” You asked, biting your bottom lip and already missing his mouth. Squirming as you felt his cum slowly leaking out, no underwear to catch it.
You didn’t think he even heard you, his stare stuck on your cleavage as he made some noncommittal sound and cleared his throat.
“Come to me the next time you need spiritual guidance.”
reblogs + comments are always greatly appreciated <3
❛ dismiss me as a kid tell me i'm barely legal, but barely legal, is legal ❜
synopsis. new apartment, new start? y/n just wants to unpack her life one box at a time—but moving day gets a lot more distracting when her younger, rugged cowboy neighbor, yuji, decides to “help.” sparks fly, boundaries blur, and with the age gap and his dangerous charm, unpacking isn’t the only thing heating up in the apartment…
an. hii this is my first fic, i hope you like it, i'd loveee feedback
Boxes were stacked along the edges of the apartment like cardboard monuments to a life half-lived, neat in their arrangement but chaotic in their implications–a quiet testament to the life Y/N was trying to rebuild from scratch, piece by fragile piece. She wiped her hands on her jeans, the denim soft and worn at the thighs, faded from too many washes and too many days spent on her knees scrubbing floors or packing up memories she didn't want to carry anymore. The sunlight slanted through the windows in thick, golden beams, making the dust in the air sparkle like something precious, like tiny flecks of gold suspended in amber, and for a moment, she let herself breathe in the stillness, the quiet promise of a fresh start.
Then the sound of a door sliding open made her look up, her breath catching slightly in her throat.
He was leaning in the doorway, one hand lazily tucked into the pocket of his jeans–dark denim that clung to his thighs in a way that was almost indecent–the other holding a coffee cup as if he belonged there, as if he'd been invited, as if the space between them wasn't charged with the kind of tension that made her skin prickle with awareness. But his grin–the slow, cocky grin that spread across his face like honey dripping from a spoon–said otherwise. His eyes glinted with amusement, flecks of gold catching the morning light and making them look almost feral, almost predatory, and Y/N felt a heat she didn't expect creeping across her skin, settling low in her stomach like a slow-burning ember.
"You moving in alone?" His voice was slow, southern, easy–the kind of drawl that made every word sound like a caress, like a promise whispered in the dark. "That's… brave. Stubborn, even. Dangerous combo."
She straightened, lifting a box with deliberate strength, her arms flexing slightly under the weight, her jaw set in a way that she hoped looked confident rather than defensive. "I can manage," she said, her voice steady even as her pulse quickened. "I don't need anyone hovering."
He stepped further inside, not waiting for an invitation, letting the door click shut behind him with a soft finality that made the room feel suddenly smaller, more intimate. The sound echoed faintly in the empty space, and she was acutely aware of how alone they were, how the sunlight streaming through the windows cast long shadows across the hardwood floor, how the air smelled faintly of cardboard and dust and something else–something warm and masculine that she couldn't quite place but that made her stomach tighten with anticipation.
"Strangers, huh?" he said, his lips curving into that signature smirk, dimples appearing at the corners of his mouth like punctuation marks to his amusement. "I like strangers who talk back. Makes things interesting."
She glanced at him, brow raised, trying to ignore the way her heart was hammering against her ribs like it was trying to escape. "I bet you say that to all the new neighbors."
"Only the ones worth noticing," he said, his voice smooth as silk, his eyes scanning her like he was memorizing every line of her body, every inch of her face, every curve and angle and imperfection. His gaze lingered on the way her shirt clung to her waist, the way her jeans hugged her hips, the way a strand of hair had escaped from her ponytail and was curling against her neck. "And you, Y/N… you've got a spark. I'd notice it anywhere."
A faint laugh escaped her, breathless and uncertain, and she set the box down on the counter with more force than necessary, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "A spark, huh? And how would a spark like mine even catch your attention?"
He tilted his head, his hair–soft and pink-toned in the morning light, falling in messy waves that framed his face–catching the sunlight just enough to make him look almost angelic, though the mischievous tilt of his grin was anything but. "Maybe the way you handle those boxes like a general commanding troops. Maybe the way you didn't run the second I walked in." He paused, his eyes darkening slightly, his voice dropping to something lower, rougher. "Maybe the way you're looking at me right now, like you're trying to decide if I'm dangerous or just… tempting."
Her pulse quickened, her hands gripping the edge of the counter tighter, her knuckles going white with the effort of keeping herself grounded. "I handle things just fine," she said, but her voice came out softer than she intended, almost breathless.
"I can tell," he murmured, stepping closer, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body, close enough that she could smell the coffee on his breath and the faint scent of cologne–something woodsy and warm, like cedar and smoke–that clung to his skin. The air between them seemed to thicken, to pulse with something electric, something alive. "But even strong people… like a little distraction now and then."
She froze, her breath catching in her throat as she caught the glint in his eye, that predator's smile that promised mischief and danger and something she wasn't sure she was ready for but couldn't seem to resist. "Distraction?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "That's… tempting."
"Tempting?" He leaned a fraction closer, his voice lowering to a rough whisper that sent shivers down her spine, his southern drawl thick and deliberate, wrapping around each word like velvet. "Exactly the word I'd use. And if you think you're going to ignore me… well, you're gonna have a problem."
Her chest rose with a shaky laugh, her hands trembling slightly as she tried to keep her voice steady, tried to maintain some semblance of control even as she felt herself slipping, falling into the gravity of his presence. "Maybe I should. Maybe I should just… focus on the boxes."
"Focus is overrated," he said, shifting just slightly, his shoulder brushing against hers as he reached past her to lift the next box, the contact fleeting but deliberate, sending a jolt of electricity through her body that made her stomach flutter and her thighs clench involuntarily. Her breath hitched, and she knew he heard it, knew he felt the way her body responded to his touch, because his smirk widened, his eyes darkening with satisfaction.
"You don't give up, do you?" she said softly, her voice trembling despite her best efforts.
"Not on things worth having," he said, his lips curling into that signature smirk, his eyes never leaving hers, holding her gaze with an intensity that made her feel like she was the only thing in the world that mattered. "And I have a feeling… you're worth it."
The room was suddenly smaller, the air charged with something unspoken, something dangerous and thrilling and impossible to ignore. His gaze lingered longer than it should, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement, and Y/N felt herself leaning into him despite every warning her brain offered, despite every instinct that told her to step back, to put distance between them, to protect herself from whatever this was.
"Alright," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper as she let herself set the box down, her hands shaking slightly as she released it. "Maybe you can help with this one. But don't get any ideas."
"Just one box?" His drawl made the words linger like a promise, like a threat, like something she should be afraid of but couldn't help wanting. "Baby, I don't do things halfway."
"Halfway's fine with me," she replied softly, acutely aware of her own blush, of the heat spreading across her cheeks and down her neck, of how fast her pulse was racing, of how her body was betraying her with every breath, every movement. "Just… don't be overwhelming."
"Overwhelming?" His grin widened, dimples teasing, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made him look boyish and dangerous all at once. "That's my specialty."
And just like that, he carried the next box without waiting, moving with an easy grace that made it look effortless, close enough that she felt every movement, every shift of his body, every brush of his fingers against hers as he set the box down. It was deliberate, teasing, a chase made of touches and glances, smiles and words too charged to be innocent, and she found herself unable to look away, unable to resist the pull of him.
"You're stubborn," he murmured, leaning just slightly closer, his breath warm against her ear, his voice dropping to something intimate and rough. "Makes me wanna chase you even more."
"And you'd better not get used to it," she replied, her voice low, trying to sound stern even as she found herself noticing the way his eyes tracked every movement, how easily he filled the space with his presence, how the room seemed to shrink around him until there was nothing but him and her and the tension crackling between them like lightning.
"Used to it?" he whispered, a glint of mischief in his eye, his lips curving into a smile that was equal parts charming and wicked. "I don't do used to, Y/N. I do want. And I'm very good at getting it."
And that was when she realized it–she didn't want to resist. Not really. Her heartbeat quickened in a way that was thrilling, frightening, and impossible to ignore, and she knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, that the chase had begun.
The scent of pine and old paper filled the air, mingling with the faint smell of cardboard and the lingering aroma of coffee from the cup he'd set down on the counter, forgotten now in the wake of something more pressing, more immediate. Yuji hoisted a box labeled "Kitchen – Fragile" with an ease that made it look like it weighed nothing, his biceps flexing under the thin fabric of his t-shirt–a soft gray cotton that clung to his chest and shoulders in a way that left little to the imagination. The muscles in his arms rippled with the movement, a casual demonstration of strength that made her mouth go dry, and he didn't even breathe hard, didn't even break a sweat, just set the box down with a soft thud and turned to look at her with that same lazy, confident smile.
"You know," he drawled, his voice a low hum that seemed to vibrate in the air between them, "this ain't exactly my idea of a first date."
"Who said it was a date?" she shot back, though a smile played on her lips despite her best efforts to remain aloof, to keep her distance. She moved past him, pushing a heavy box of books with her hip, the effort bringing a flush to her cheeks and making her breath come a little faster. The box scraped against the floor with a dull sound, and she felt the strain in her thighs, the burn in her muscles, but she refused to ask for help, refused to give him the satisfaction.
"Didn't have to," he replied, a knowing glint in his eyes as he watched her struggle, his gaze tracking the movement of her body with an intensity that made her skin prickle with awareness. He set the box down with a soft thud, then turned, blocking her path, his shadow falling over her like a blanket, warm and encompassing, making her feel small and protected and trapped all at once. "The way you're trying to pretend you don't notice me… that's a dead giveaway."
She met his gaze, a tremor running through her body that had nothing to do with the physical exertion and everything to do with the way he was looking at her, like she was something precious, something he wanted to unwrap slowly and savor. "I'm noticing you," she said, her voice steady even as her heart raced. "I'm noticing you're in my way."
A low chuckle vibrated in his chest, the sound rich and warm and impossibly attractive, and she felt it resonate in her own body, felt it settle low in her stomach like a physical touch. "Am I, now?" he murmured, leaning closer, his eyes dropping to her mouth, lingering there with an intensity that made her lips part involuntarily, made her tongue dart out to wet them without thinking. "Or am I exactly where you want me to be?"
The air thickened, charged with unspoken possibility, with the weight of everything they weren't saying, everything they were both thinking but refusing to acknowledge. His hand, warm and calloused from work she could only imagine, brushed her arm as he moved to pick up another box, a lingering touch that sent shivers down her spine, that made her breath catch and her skin flush with heat.
Her breath hitched, her voice coming out softer than she intended, almost breathless. "You really are full of yourself, aren't you?"
"Only when I'm right." His fingers trailed down her arm, a feather-light touch that left goosebumps in its wake, and she felt her body respond despite herself, felt her nipples tighten under her shirt, felt the heat pooling between her thighs. "And I'm usually right about things like this."
They worked in a rhythm after that, a silent dance of boxes and glances, of movements that brought them closer together and then pulled them apart again, a push and pull that felt choreographed, inevitable. Each time he passed, his arm would graze hers, his shoulder would brush her back, his fingers would find some excuse to touch her–a hand on her waist to steady her, a palm pressed to the small of her back to guide her, a brush of his knuckles against her hip as he reached past her for another box. The accidental touches felt anything but accidental, igniting a slow burn beneath her skin that spread through her body like wildfire, making her hyperaware of every point of contact, every breath, every heartbeat.
The afternoon light softened as they worked, the sun sinking lower in the sky and painting the dust motes in the air with hues of orange and rose, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor and making the apartment feel warm and intimate, like a cocoon separate from the rest of the world. The windows glowed with the fading light, and the air grew thick with the scent of their bodies–sweat and cologne and something indefinably human, something primal and raw.
"Alright," she said finally, her voice a little breathy as she dropped onto a stack of folded blankets piled in the corner, her legs giving out beneath her with exhaustion and something else, something that had nothing to do with physical tiredness and everything to do with the tension coiled tight in her body, the anticipation that had been building all afternoon. "That's enough for today."
He straightened, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, the movement drawing her eyes to the way his shirt clung to his chest, damp in places from exertion, accentuating the lean muscle beneath, the hard planes of his abdomen, the V of his hips disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. He looked at her, his gaze intense, unblinking, his eyes dark with something she couldn't quite name but that made her stomach clench with want.
"You're tired," he observed, his voice losing some of its playful edge, softening into something more tender, more genuine, and she felt something in her chest tighten at the concern in his tone. "You push yourself too hard."
"I'm fine," she insisted, but her shoulders slumped, betraying her, her body sagging with exhaustion she could no longer hide. "Just… a long day."
He walked over, not stopping until he stood directly in front of her, his legs bracketing hers, his body blocking out the fading light from the windows and casting her in shadow. He reached out, his fingers gently pushing a stray strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear with a tenderness that made her breath catch, made her eyes sting with unexpected emotion. The touch was feather-light, yet it seared, burning through her defenses like they were made of paper.
"Let me guess," he murmured, his thumb brushing her cheekbone in a slow, hypnotic movement that made her eyes flutter closed, made her lean into his touch without thinking. "You've been doing this all week, haven't you? Trying to prove you don't need anybody."
Her eyes searched his when she opened them again, a silent admission in their depths, a vulnerability she hadn't meant to show but couldn't seem to hide. "Something like that," she whispered.
"It's okay to need a hand, Y/N." His voice was a low rumble, laced with genuine concern, with a warmth that made her chest ache. "Especially when that hand wants to help you."
He sat beside her on the blankets, close enough that she felt the warmth radiating from his body, close enough that their thighs pressed together, the contact sending sparks of electricity through her nervous system. The scent of him–coffee and sweat and something uniquely masculine, something that made her want to bury her face in his neck and breathe him in–filled her senses, overwhelming her, making it impossible to think clearly. She could feel the steady beat of his heart, a faint rhythm against her side, and she found herself matching her breathing to his, found herself relaxing into his presence despite every instinct that told her to be careful, to protect herself.
"You're really… something else," she confessed, a soft laugh escaping her, breathless and uncertain.
"Is that a good something or a bad something?" His eyes crinkled at the corners, his smile genuine and warm, and she felt something in her chest loosen, felt the walls she'd built around herself start to crumble.
"I haven't decided yet," she said, tilting her head back against the wall, eyes closed, letting herself just feel for a moment–the warmth of his body, the softness of the blankets beneath her, the fading light painting patterns on her eyelids. "I usually don't let people… this close."
"Good." He shifted, his hand finding hers, his fingers lacing with hers in a gesture that felt both intimate and possessive, his grip firm and reassuring. "Means I'm special."
She opened her eyes, meeting his, and the light had faded to a soft twilight, the apartment bathed in shades of blue and purple, but his gaze still held that golden-flecked intensity, still burned with a heat that made her stomach clench with want. "Maybe," she whispered, her voice barely audible, the word catching in her throat. The air thrummed with a new kind of tension, a quiet anticipation that made her skin prickle with awareness, made her body hum with need.
His thumb stroked the back of her hand, a slow, hypnotic movement that sent shivers up her arm, that made her breath come faster, shallower. "You're thinking too much," he murmured.
"I think a lot," she admitted, her voice trembling slightly. "It's how I survive."
"Survival's one thing," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, rough and intimate, his breath warm against her ear as he leaned in closer. "Living… that's another. And you, Y/N, you deserve to live a little."
His lips brushed her temple, a soft, exploratory touch that sent a jolt through her body, that made her gasp softly, her eyes fluttering closed. The kiss was gentle, almost reverent, and she felt something in her chest crack open, felt the last of her defenses crumble under the tenderness of it. She didn't pull away. Instead, she found herself leaning into him, drawn by an undeniable current, by a need she'd been denying for too long. His hand moved from hers, cupping her jaw with a gentleness that belied the strength in his fingers, his thumb tracing the line of her chin in a slow, deliberate caress. His eyes held hers, a silent question burning in their depths, and she found herself nodding, giving him permission without words.
"Yuji," she breathed, the sound a soft plea, a warning, a surrender all at once.
"Just Yuji," he confirmed, his voice rough with desire, thick with want, and then he closed the last inch between them, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that stole the breath from her lungs.
It was a slow, tender kiss at first, tasting of coffee and something wild, something untamed and dangerous. His mouth moved with practiced ease, gentle but insistent, coaxing a response from her that she gave willingly, eagerly. Her lips parted on a gasp, and his tongue met hers in a soft, electric dance that made her toes curl, made her fingers dig into his shoulders as she pulled him closer, needing more, needing everything. She felt herself melt, the careful walls she'd built crumbling under the weight of his touch, under the intoxicating rush of his presence, under the sheer overwhelming rightness of being in his arms.
His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer until no space remained between them, until she was practically in his lap, her breasts pressed against his chest, her thighs straddling his, and she could feel the hard length of him pressing against her core through the layers of denim separating them. Her hands found his shoulders, clutching the fabric of his shirt as the world outside the apartment faded, leaving only the warmth of his skin, the intoxicating rhythm of their breaths, and the sweet, insistent pressure of his kiss.
The kiss deepened, shifting from tentative exploration to urgent necessity, from gentle to demanding, from sweet to filthy. Yuji's hand left her jaw, trailing down her neck with deliberate slowness, his fingers tracing the line of her throat, the hollow at the base of her neck, the ridge of her collarbone, sending a shiver of pure electricity across her skin that made her arch into his touch. A low, guttural hum escaped his throat as she responded, her fingers tangling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, demanding more, needing to feel every inch of him against her.
The world had narrowed to the space between them, a charged bubble of heat and breath and desperate need. She felt the steady, powerful thud of his heart against her ribs, a counterpoint to the sudden, frantic rhythm of her own, and the sound of their breathing filled the quiet apartment, ragged and uneven. The blankets beneath them offered a soft friction as he shifted, his weight pressing her gently back, guiding her down until she was lying beneath him, his body covering hers, solid and warm and impossibly right.
"You taste like everything I've been waiting for," he murmured against her mouth, the Southern drawl roughened with desire, thick with want, and she felt the words settle in her chest like a brand.
"Don't talk," she whispered, the words catching on a breathy moan as his lips left hers to trail down her jaw, to find the sensitive curve beneath her ear, to suck gently at the skin there in a way that made her hips buck involuntarily, made her thighs clench around his waist.
His hands were knowing, confident, tracing paths beneath the hem of her shirt with a deliberate slowness that made her want to scream, finding the soft skin of her stomach, the curve of her ribs, the underside of her breasts, eliciting a sharp intake of air from her that made him smile against her neck. The last vestiges of her hesitation dissolved into a sweet, heady surrender, into a need so overwhelming it felt like drowning, like falling, like flying. She arched into his touch, an instinctive movement driven by a hunger she hadn't realized she was starving for, by a desire that had been building since the moment he'd walked through her door.
With an economy of movement that spoke of experience, of confidence, he pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, his own dark and brilliant with a focused intensity that made her breath catch, that made her feel like she was the only thing in the world that mattered. There was no cockiness now, no teasing smirk, only profound desire and a question she answered with a desperate urgency, her hands pulling at his shirt, tugging it up and over his head to reveal the lean muscle beneath, the smooth expanse of his chest, the hard planes of his abdomen.
Fabric surrendered to necessity, to impatient hands and desperate need. Her shirt joined his on the floor, followed by her bra, and the cool air of the apartment met heated skin, a startling contrast that heightened the senses, that made her nipples tighten into hard peaks that ached for his touch. He buried his face against her neck, inhaling deeply, his breath hot against her skin, his hands mapping the curves and valleys of her body with reverence and hunger, with a thoroughness that made her feel worshipped and devoured all at once.
A soft, breathless gasp escaped Y/N as his lips found the sensitive spot beneath her collarbone, as his tongue traced the line of her sternum, as his teeth grazed the swell of her breast. The feeling was intoxicating–this complete, focused attention, the way his touch demanded her presence, her passion, the way he made her feel like she was the center of his universe. She felt the hard line of his muscle against her softness, the delicious friction of skin on skin, the heat of his body seeping into hers. Every nerve ending seemed alight, humming with anticipation, with a need so intense it bordered on pain.
"You are exquisite," he breathed, the words heavy and real, not a charming platitude but a statement of fact, and she felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes at the sincerity in his voice.
She reached for him, her hands exploring the contours of his back, the sheer strength coiled beneath the smooth skin, the way his muscles flexed and shifted under her touch. A fierce, possessive joy surged through her, a primal satisfaction that he was here, that he was real, that he wanted her with a consuming, beautiful intensity that matched her own.
The pace was slow, deliberate, each touch an exploration, each kiss a confirmation of something unspoken but understood. He moved with a confident patience that drove her wild, that made her want to beg, to plead, to demand more even as he gave her everything. His mouth traveled down her body, leaving a trail of fire in its wake, pausing to worship each breast, to suck her nipples into hard, aching points that made her cry out, to kiss the soft skin of her stomach, to trace the line of her hip bone with his tongue. He drew out the pleasure until the tension in her body coiled tighter and tighter, pulling her toward a fever pitch, toward a breaking point she both craved and feared. Her soft sighs turned into breathless little cries as he continued his masterful exploration, as his fingers found the button of her jeans and worked it open, as he slid the zipper down with agonizing slowness, eliciting an answering low, gravelly groan from him when he discovered she was already wet, already soaked through her panties with need.
The feeling was overwhelming, a tidal wave of sensation that swept away the boxes, the move, the past, leaving only the present–the scent of him, the heat of their bodies entwined, the glorious, shared anticipation of what was to come. Her jeans joined the pile of discarded clothing, followed by her panties, and then his jeans and boxers, until there was nothing between them but air and want and the electric charge of skin on skin.
He positioned himself above her, his eyes locked on hers, his weight braced on his forearms, his body a solid presence that made her feel safe and desired and utterly consumed. There was a final, silent moment of connection, a heartbeat where the world held its breath, and then he finally moved to join them, to slide into her with a slow, deliberate thrust that made her back arch off the blankets, made her mouth fall open on a silent scream.
A sudden, sharp "Ah!" escaped her lips, the sound quickly muffled by his kiss, a sound of pleasure and shock and overwhelming fullness as the world tilted and spun, as he filled her completely, stretched her in a way that bordered on too much but felt so impossibly right. The connection was deep, consuming, an undeniable answer to the loneliness she hadn't realized she carried, to the emptiness she'd been trying to fill with boxes and new apartments and fresh starts. The rhythm began, urgent and ancient, a dance as old as time, driving them both toward a shared summit, toward a peak they could only reach together.
The apartment was filled with the sound of their ragged breathing, with the soft, rhythmic slap of skin against skin, with the wet sounds of their bodies joining and parting and joining again. Her gasping moans mingled with his low, encouraging words, with the filthy things he whispered in her ear–how good she felt, how tight, how perfect, how he'd been thinking about this since the moment he saw her, how he was going to make her come so hard she forgot her own name. She felt herself clinging to the edge, the intensity building, building, coiling tighter in her core until she thought she might shatter from the pressure, from the overwhelming pleasure that threatened to consume her entirely.
A drawn-out, shuddering scream tore from her throat as the orgasm crashed over her, as her body convulsed around him, as pleasure so intense it bordered on pain ripped through her in waves that seemed to go on forever. It was quickly followed by Yuji's deep, explosive cry, by the feeling of him pulsing inside her, by the warmth of his release filling her as he collapsed against her, heavy and trembling, his body shaking with the force of his own climax. They lay tangled together, slick with sweat, their hearts hammering a frantic, shared beat against the quiet of the twilight room, their breathing slowly returning to normal as the aftershocks faded.
He shifted after a long moment, propping himself up on an elbow, looking down at her with a soft, possessive smile that made her chest ache with something she wasn't ready to name. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, tender and sweet, a stark contrast to the raw intensity of what they'd just shared.
"See?" he whispered, his voice still thick with spent passion, rough and satisfied. "I told you focus was overrated."
your best friend geto looks like he's been accosted. eyes wide, jaw slack, face all but screwed up in surprise at the words that have just come out of your mouth. what was it you said you were reading about? triple penetration? he might pass out.
you can't help but laugh at the look he's giving you. "what? you didn't watch porn when you were still a virgin?"
without warning, he snatches your phone right out of your hand and squints at the screen. "my porn was tasteful," he tsks. "this is... uncouth."
"uncouth?" you try to take back your phone, just for him to roll over in bed and hold it out of reach. you're half on top of him in seconds, clawing at his bulky arm. "give it back!"
"what is dac..." he stifles a laugh at the way you try so desperately for your archive of erotica. "...dacryphilia?"
"you don't know? what, no game? no hoes? bitches?"
"i manage, thank you," he rolls the both of you over and pins you down against the mattress, which has your breath hitching in your throat for some reason. it makes him smirk like a fucking idiot. "what, nervous?"
no... yes? you don't know. suguru has never made you feel nervous... jittery, maybe. you'd use nauseous, in both the good and bad way. sometimes he gives you this look that makes you feel like you have food poisoning. your body seems to react to him at the extreme.
you've always been touchy with each other. your friendship has been physical since day one—if you aren't touching, you're not in the same room. it's just how it's always been, a hand on his arm as you walk together, or his arm around your shoulders when you're seated. it's... normal. familiar.
so this —suguru pinning you down by the wrists, his long black hair falling down to tunnel your vision right onto that pretty face of his—probably shouldn't get you this wet.
or wet at all, really.
"tears," you say, for some fucking reason. "dacryphilia, it's crying, or making someone cry. like being overstimulated, or... humiliated, to the point of tears. or just crying for the sake of it."
geto looks down at you, and you try not to watch the muscles of his arms bulge as he keeps you locked beneath him. "i know."
you frown. "you know?"
"i just wanted to hear you try and explain it," he laughs. "fucking pervert."
"i'm going to kill you slowly," you wriggle beneath him. "get off me, suguru."
"or what? you'll cry? i think you're into that..." he teases, and manages to shift both of your wrists into one hand so that he can reach for your phone again. he thumbs it open and resumes your 'history' tab with a shit-eating grin. "virginity loss... best friends to lovers... size kink... corruption... breeding ? really?"
"shut the fuck up," you hiss. you buck your hips up, not to throw him off—because you can admit he's bigger, heavier and a whole lot stronger than you are—but out of pure frustration. except your movement only presses you tighter against where his thighs cage your hips, and you freeze. you think something pathetic leaves your lips, but you can't quite hear yourself over the mortification bubbling up in your chest.
"oh?" he notices, of course.you want to claw his stupid handsome face off. "don't tell me this is working for you."
"it's not," you snap. "you are so fucking full of yourself, geto."
"suguru," he corrects you. "say it properly. and by the look on your face right now i'd wager that you'd rather be the one full of me."
god you hate him sometimes. "embarrassing me isn't funny."
"it's a little funny."
"fuck you."
"you look like you'd love to," he lowers his hips a little, and for the first time in your life, you feel the weight of a rock-hard cock pressing against you. "tell me to stop and i will. we can go get food or something, forget this happened."
the switch in tone from teasing to gentle makes you smile, which makes keeping up the disgruntled act a lot harder. the thought of verbalising your need right now makes you nauseous, so you opt instead for a shake of your head.
"great," he nods, and slowly releases your wrists. "you can take that back whenever you want, just tell me and i'll back off."
"what are you..." you're cut off when suguru hands you your phone back with a scrunched up nose.
"read it," he says. "out loud. if you stop, i stop."
you're confused only until you check your screen and see that geto has opened up one of your most recently read pieces and scrolled down to a rather graphic scene of the main character being eaten out by her best friend. it's a little ironic, considering the state you're in, but you can't bring yourself to be embarrassed when your own best friend is kissing down your stomach and hooking his fingers under the waistband of your shorts.
he's going to go down on you? but he's hard, and for as much porn as you've read, most of it depicts the guy taking what he wants.
"aren't you going to... you know? fuck me?"
your shorts and panties are pulled down in one swift movement, and suguru buries his face in your thigh to stifle his laugh. his body shakes with the force of it, which makes you frown. your pussy is a few inches from his face, and he's laughing like the prospect of taking your virginity is funny.
"you couldn't take me," he smiles up at you. "now read."
suddenly self-conscious, you try clamp your thighs shut, just to (once again) find yourself pinned down by his strong arms. "this is weird," you whine. "you're my... i mean we... you know? friends. best friends ."
holding eye contact, suguru slowly lowers himself down to press a chaste kiss to your clit. it's not much contact, but it makes you jolt nonetheless. doesn't feel like how you had imagined it when you'd lay in bed late at night with your nose in a book and your hand between your legs. this is... better. feels right.
"still weird?" he asks, to which you nod without really meaning it. "weird like your porn on that phone?"
"suguru i swear to god if you don't—oh my god."
you forgive that man for all of the teasing he'd one as soon as he gets to work on you. flattening out his tongue against your pussy and tasting you for the first time has him already grinding against the mattress, and has you squeezing your eyes shut as you try to process this new realm of pleasure. you're glad he doesn't tease you for being so wet, but that he instead uses it to his advantage and starts making an even bigger mess of you.
his lips latch around your clit for only a few seconds. he hollows out your cheeks and you think you might die with how overwhelming the sensation is, but it's over all too soon. geto pulls back to do two things:
one, tie his hair out of his face, and two, tell you to start reading.
not wanting to miss out on these newfound pleasures of the flesh , you unlock your phone and start on a random spot on the screen, your voice a lot more shaky than you want it to be.
" he, uh... he ducks down and licks a stripe from entrance to clit, collecting... collecting her wetness on his tongue and falling in love with the taste of her enjoyments. "
suguru, suddenly good at following instructions, does as written and leads his tongue upwards. you moan at the contact, but notice suguru starting to pull away at your lack of reading, so you go on.
"she loves the way he feels. he kisses her, uh, sweet center, before continuing to use his tongue to toy with her."
you can feel suguru smiling against you. "sweet center?" he laughs, but continues his ministries nonetheless. you roll your eyes, this has been a lot better of a read when your brain was fogged with unsated need. longing for the man that is now between your legs.
"growing messy, his focus shifts to her clit. his tongue dances with the bud of nerves as he brings two fingers of his left hand, ring and all, and pushes them inside of her. curling upwards until she—"
"is that what you want?" suguru cuts you off.
"yeah, yes. i think. just go slow."
"keep reading."
you clear your throat as suguru starts tracing circles around your clit with the tip of his tongue. he looks a little silly doing that, you note as you glance down to enjoy the view for a moment, but god does it feel good.
"curling upwards until she's an ecstatic mess of fulfilled wants. he completes her, in both soul and now flesh. fills her with his fingers in preparation for his—oh god, suguru, right there."
you hadn't even noticed him pushing into you, you were that eager to feel more of him. his fingers curl up as described in your reading material and suddenly he's brushing over a spot you've never discovered on your own. it blurs your vision, sends your skin hot.
"can't.. can't read anymore," you whine, bucking your hips up in some masochistic need for more. anything bigger than this and you'd keel over, you think, but you'd take anything suguru was willing to give you. "gonna—"
he allows it. encourages it, even. quickens his pace on the fingers plunging in and out of you, and starts making out with your pussy like a drunken virgin would. it's good in a way that shouldn't be: messy and needy and you think perhaps that suguru is just as close to coming as you are.
your orgasm is intense. your back arching off the bed and your body trying hopelessly to get more of sugurus touch. you think you moan his name, though it could be a babbled string of 'i love you's that you'll refuse to acknowledge later on in hopes that giving you head wasn't enough to ruin your friendship.
suguru moans loudly against your pussy as he tastes your release, the vibrations no help for your sensitivity, but his hips are stuttering against the mattress and you can tell even through your haze that you've made the cocky idiot cum in his pants.
serves him right.
and because the two of you are friends before you are... whatever this is, the both of you are falling into a fit of laughter upon your comedowns. suguru's lips glisten and your chest heaves with each breath you take, and he's climbing up the bed to press a kiss to your cheek.
"better than reading about it?" he asks.
"nope," you grin, which earns you a mean look that soon gives way to another laugh from him. "you could do it again some time if you wanted, though."
"please. i want to find out what skills you've picked up reading all of that weird shit." he pulls you into his arms and, despite being a little sweaty, you find yourself melting comfortably into his embrace.
"you couldn't keep up with me," you sing-song.
"yeah? try me."
"ever heard of male sounding? whip it out, sugu."
"ha. shut the fuck up."
this is a repost from my old account. still me tho i did not #steal this
this is a repost from my old account. still me tho i did not #steal this
❝ HIS CINDERELLA CAUSE I MAKE IT FIT ! ❞
⤷ Enjin x Fallen Spherite!Reader
>>>>>> Apparently Enjin has all the 'luck' when it comes to finding Spherites in No Man's Land. This time he's found you—a stuck-up Spherite noble—cast out with the trash. You're prissy, needy and an overall pain in his ass. Definitely not his type—but that slutty pussy sure is. ♡
>>>>>> 𝐦𝐝𝐧𝐢 𝟏𝟖+ for filthy enjin smut. enjin & reader are delulu & down bad. big dick!enjin. size queen!reader. bimbo!reader. sex under the influence. public sex. breeding. bjs. enjin is overall diabolical. but there's also a bit of plot too with some romance/fluff/humor. no spoilers for anime/manga.
>>>>>> 𝐰𝐜: 13.1k
𝐚𝐧: major special shoutouts to @honeybunnnnie my trash daddy partner in crime, who beta'd for me and gave me lots of good lil' gems I incorporated here. we share one horny brain cell when it comes to this man and the amount of headcanons we have made based on this that I didn't even include is INSANE lmfao.
You aren’t Enjin’s type.
That much is certain the moment he stumbles upon you after being called to check out a disturbance in No Man’s Land. Scanning the terrain of garbage, Enjin wonders if he’s hallucinating.
Still high from the night before—or maybe there’s a leak in his full face?
Either way he had to be tripping absolute balls right now because what the hell else could explain the giant kaiju-like plushie with bunny ears, wide beady eyes, and jagged teeth ripping apart trash beasts in the distance like they were wet paper towels?
But blazed or not, Enjin still has a job to do. Umbreaker sweeps him across the trash dunes in a speedy blur, but by the time he arrives he is already too late and the show is over.
All that’s left is you: a young woman passed out in a pile of demolished trash beast remains and other junk. The giant kaiju-like plushie—now inanimate and no bigger than a hand—lay beside you tethered to your person by a keyring.
Happening upon another giver in No Man’s Land wasn’t out of the ordinary, sure, but if Enjin thought he was high from seeing your jinki in action he had to be damn near in the clouds once he recognized your clothes.
Similar to when Enjin discovered Rudo, he could immediately tell by your dress you are a Spherite. But unlike the threadbare attire of the scrappy tribesmen teen, yours practically screams wealth. They are the finest clothes Enjin has ever laid eyes on. Appearing as if they are woven from gold itself, despite the fresh layer of grime that settled on them.
You aren’t just any ol’ Spherite—you’re a Spherite noblewoman.
Keh, interesting.
With a shake of his head Enjin scoops you up, heading back to HQ. They aren’t gonna believe this…
Enjin digs out a backup mask from his satchel—clearly not made for your face, because it slides right off. With an annoyed sigh, he holds it in place himself. Guess that’s his job now… at least until you wake up.
Although Enjin soon discovers a pattern of how unnecessarily difficult Spherites can be upon arriving to the Abyss—as the first thing you do upon waking in Enjin’s arms is to slap the everloving dogshit out of him.
Fuck, you have a mean right hand.
Enjin tongues a tooth to make sure it’s still there.
“Let me go this instant, you filthy kidnapping degenerate! I demand you to take me home!” You cry out.
Tears fog up the mask on your face as you clearly mistook Enjin for some kind of criminal with his ‘full face’ on. Enjin sighs, tightening his grip on you and taking the not-so-painless beating you’re dishing out until you reach the nearest city.
The very second you both are in a habitable area for breathing, Enjin unceremoniously dumps you to the ground. He catches the mask, yet he leaves you to fall straight on your ass. The fall shocks you but Enjin’s sure what’s really got you stunned is the strange bustling city surrounding you.
Removing his fullface, Enjin crouches down to eye-level with you. Overwhelmed and overstimulated by the foreign place, your eyes dart around helplessly. You’re frantic, looking everywhere for some sort of bearing of where you are and avoiding the man in front of you.
Yet Enjin just waits, clicking his tongue and rocking back on his heels, for you to quiet your hysterics enough for him to get a word in.
When your eyes, still wide with panic, finally meet, he has the nerve to raise a brow—like you’re the one being dramatic and not the guy who literally kidnapped you.
“So, as you may have noticed by now…this ain’t the Sphere,” Enjin says, balancing a cigarette between his lips.
You look at him skeptically—he says it like it’s nothing, while your world is actively falling apart. What is he even talking about?!
“I know this ain’t the welcome wagon you posh Spherites are used to but…”
Enjin pauses, exhaling smoke to the sky. Your gaze follows up, widening once you see the oddly shaped dome covering the city, a strange yellow fog in the atmosphere.
“....welcome to the Abyss, Girlie. Name’s Enjin.”
Blankly staring at Enjin, you say nothing. The both of you in a mini stare down. Although you’re the first to give by suddenly bursting into sobs.
Rolling his eyes, a thought briefly flashes in Enjin's head that he should have just left you for the raiders. Hell, he could still leave you now—you’re calling way too much attention to yourself.
However, Enjin also figures that with you all but swimming in luxury on the Sphere, you probably thought of the Pit—your so-called Hell, or its inhabitants as mere fairytale.
Enjin’s inkling is confirmed when you calm down enough to piece together that your now ex-husband had hired a bunch of shady tribesmen to kidnap and dispose of you—all to collect your inheritance.
Yeah, not your fault. Enjin thinks and cuts you a break.
For your own sake, Enjin somehow convinces you to come back to Cleaner HQ with him. He can’t return you to the Sphere himself—but he knows another Spherite who’s trying to make their way back. That small glimmer of hope is enough to lift your spirits, just barely. This time, you follow him willingly—though you still cry the entire way to HQ.
Shame how prone to hysterics you are, otherwise Enjin actually thinks you’re pretty hot. Noting how the expensive silk of your dress clings so damn well to your every curve. He’d sell your clothes while you were near the shopping district—but unlike Rudo, he doubts he could talk you out of them.
At least—not yet.
But that thought is drastically short lived as Enjin spends more time in your presence. Sure, you could have gotten along. You could’ve even been Enjin’s type. Yet there’s one glaring problem:
You’re an annoying, needy-ass brat.
Besides looks, you tick off nearly every one of his dealbreakers. You’re ditzy, dependent and whiny. Basically Enjin’s nightmare.
Plus your snobby little ass never once thanked nor apologized to him over the following weeks.
Not after he saved you.
Not after he brought you back to HQ where you were welcomed with skeptical, yet open arms—as a new, very reluctant (you had no other options really) recruit in-training.
And you certainly never thanked Enjin, even after all his shit luck, when he was assigned to be your teacher and look after your haughty ass. You have the most indignant pout on your face when Corvus announces that since Enjin found you, you're Enjin’s problem.
“You have to be kidding me? I’m stuck with Trashy Poppins here!?”
“Yo, Trashy—what!?” The reference doesn’t land with Enjin but he knows it isn’t good.
Semiu nods curtly in agreement of the pairing, amused that Enjin finally has someone to keep him on his toes as she ushers you off to get settled in.
The fuck?!
Lamenting being stuck is supposed to be Enjin’s line. Enjin had figured the logical move was to pair you with Zanka—the closest thing to nobility among the Cleaners—and let you bond with Rudo, a fellow Spherite, even if he was a tribesman.
But it doesn’t take long to realize neither boy can handle a grown ass woman like you. One flutter of your lashes and they’re useless saps—like the big sister he never had, you could soothe Rudo’s worst moods with a mere head pat.
While Zanka, older and appreciating your more ‘robust’ qualities, trips over his own tongue trying to talk to you.
Both ready to do anything just to earn a few sweet coos—unless someone steps in.
It had to be Enjin. He was the only one who could ‘resist’ your charms.
Still, Enjin’s got his work cut out for him when it comes to you—especially training you for combat and figuring out how the hell you’re supposed to use that so-ugly-it’s-almost-cute vital instrument.
He tries not to judge. Really, he does. Jinki are personal—he knows that better than anyone. But still…the fact that you even have one? That’s wild.
A Spherite? A noble Spherite, no less—the same pompous assholes who treat the Abyss like a dumping ground—actually caring enough about something to pump it full of anima?
Yeah, that’s impressive, he’ll give you that. What wasn’t though was the name you gave the lil thing: Bubu.
Tsk. Wack as hell. Vital instruments deserve names with some bite. Something like—Umbreaker.
Still, credit where it’s due—you’re picking things up faster than expected.
However, that doesn’t spare him from your nonstop bitching, though. The complaints come daily: the strange smells your hair absorbs, the absence of your sacred skincare routines, not being able to take a 30 minute shower, and how everything down here always tastes just a little off.
But the most absurd? The cherry blossoms.
You complain the most about not being able to frolic in your lush, petal-covered garden full of rows of cherry blossoms. Enjin’s never even seen a damn tree like that, let alone the acres of grass and flowers you describe like some bedtime fairytale. You haughtily anoint yourself as a floral herbalist, an expert when it comes to your pretty little flowers.
It’s shit like that on top of everything else that irks Enjin when it comes to you.
And yet?
Enjin thinks the most irritating thing about you is the fact that he can’t seem to stay away from you.
Sure, you’re annoying as fuck—but in spite of his own objections, Enjin keeps finding ways to keep your time occupied. He makes up excuses to train you longer and drags you along on missions that are solely meant for him.
Moreover, since you can never keep that pretty little mouth shut, anyone you meet clocks you as a Spherite within seconds—which means you need Enjin’s constant protection, whether you like it or not.
Enjin ends up spending less time drinking or chasing women, finding a far more amusing pastime instead—the way your face twists in indignation every time the Ground doesn’t live up to your so-called “noble standards.”
He gets a kick out of it, really. Agitating you on purpose, just to watch you squirm.
“Goddamnit, Enjin! Watch it!”
You’d shriek every time your short skirt went flying from a sudden gust of wind he’d whip up with Umbreaker. Enjin saves that lil trick for No Man’s Land when the others’ backs are turned.
“That’s Enjin-sensei to you, Princess.”
“Choke—slowly, Trashy Poppins.”
You’d lunge for his mask like you actually meant to rip it off, but at 6 '3, Enjin’s tall enough that you never have a chance at reaching it. It’s all worth it too—Enjin’s already got every pastel scrap of lace you own burned into memory, each one tucked away like a reward for getting under your skin.
It’s a little sadistic, sure—the way he taunts you nonstop, delighting in soiling that polished image of yours to grind you into the dirt of the ground right along with him.
There’s a fire in your eyes every time Enjin dubs you as “Your Royal Trash Princess”—or just “TP” if he’s feeling lazy. You never fail to rise to his bait, eager to prove yourself—and prove him wrong.
Enjin feels he’s owed a bit of amusement for all his troubles.
Doesn’t mean anything.
Yet the more Enjin pushes, the harder it is to ignore that your bratty spark isn’t just an attitude problem. It’s energy. Real, raw passion. The kind that could actually cultivate anima. He sees it best when you’re snapping at him, flushed and defiant, too stubborn to back down.
It’s trouble to be sure, but fuck if Enjin doesn’t love coaxing it out of you.
All it took this time to get you going was him doubting your so-called knowledge of plants and remedies— “what kinda ‘floral herbalist’ hasn’t toked one?”
So now here you are, in the HQ lounge, about to smoke your first joint as a ‘pre-game’ to the happy hour Corvus organized for all the Cleaners.
You and Enjin sit shoulder to shoulder on a worn, black quilted-leather sofa that’s seen better days. The cushions creak as you nervously smooth your skirt and settle in, unhooking your jinki—Bubu—from your belt to set her gently on the table.
Enjin rolls a few joints with unhurried precision—like he’s got all the time in the world, and watching you squirm is part of the ritual.
“Bet ya didn’t have anything like this in your lil’ garden, eh TP?” Enjin quips, breaking the silence.
Nose already upturned, your face scrunches as Enjin tosses an extra bud from his stash into your open palms. You hated the nickname ‘TP’ most of all, too easily mistaken for ‘toilet paper’ and Enjin knows that.
You shoot Enjin a dirty look before letting your focus drift back to the brittle sprig in your hands—the first real plant you’ve touched since becoming a Ground-dweller.
You think you actually recognize it.
Back on the Sphere, your family was among the wealthiest, and your garden was massive. You took pride in your green thumb—like Delmon, whose garden you’ve been meaning to ask about. You want to help, if only to see what kind of plants can survive in conditions this toxic. But Enjin never gives you the space—always hovering, always cutting in before you can finish a full conversation.
You brush off those thoughts but your frown stays as your fingers trace the bud’s dry veins. Even for a dehydrated sample, it feels wrong—brittle in a way that hints of sickness.
“Hmm. We had something like this—I think. But it’s just another weed.” You say shrugging.
“Heh,” Enjin smirks at your cluelessness, “Would you believe me if I told you ‘weed’ is exactly what we call it, Princess?”
You roll your eyes at the inordinately simple name. It probably has a proper scientific designation—but expecting Enjin to know it? Please.
“We always uprooted them—weeds are unsightly in gardens, you know. A weed, let alone one sick as this, would definitely be pruned right away so as to not syphon nutrients from the other plant life.”
“HAH?!”
Mid-seal on his joint, Enjin stops cold, staring at you like you just dared to commit some sort of sacrilege before exhaling a theatrical sigh, shaking his head in pure betrayal.
He can’t believe Spherities are probably pissing away the dankest shit ever cultivated. The thought was maddening.
When Enjin’s eyes do meet yours again, there's no amusement as he takes a rather chastising tone with you.
“Princess, for your own good, never repeat that in front of anyone down here…I mean it.”
You huff, but Enjin doesn’t blink—just starts sealing the joint again, eyes never leaving you as his tongue drags slowly across the edge of the paper.
You squirm, and that’s all the reward he needs.
“See somethin’ you like?” Enjin drawls, holding the finished joint out toward you like it’s a gift—and not a trap with your name written all over it.
Turning on teacher mode, Enjin decides to school you.
“I know we mostly have ‘reggie’ down here, but still, it’s worth its weight in gold for its purposes. Not just for fun ya know—chronic pain, nausea, anxiety—gives a bit of relief from the ailments of Abyss-living you Spherites have so graciously bestowed on us.”
From his pocket, Enjin produces a lighter, shoulders curling as he bows into the flame to set it alight.
Your eyes flick over the sinewy stretch of Enjin arms, the way his jacket strains across his shoulders—reminding you just how solid Enjin really is beneath all that shapeless fabric. Built like a weapon, hiding in plain sight.
You watch as his ringed fingers lift the joint to his lips. Drawing in a slow, steady breath, Enjin sinks back into the sofa like gravity’s got a tighter hold on him than usual. Smoke pools in his chest before slipping out in a long, deliberate exhale.
His gaze follows it, distant—like he’s chewing on thoughts far heavier than anything you said… but somehow still set off by it.
“That’s the problem with you Spherites….you don’t see things the way they are—you see things the way you are.”
Enjin chuffs at his own words, closing his eyes to let his high settle. Not even completely stoned yet and he’s already spouting off pseudo philosophical one-liners.
“Everything else is collateral, amirite?”
Ouch.
Toeing at the floor, you sulk in silence. Wounded from the verbal licks Enjin just dealt you. Mulling over his words in silence though, you know it isn’t that simple. Horticulture can be complicated even in the most ideal conditions. Just because a plant is viable doesn’t mean it belongs in every garden—some plants are just incompatible.
However…
You sit silently, your teeth worrying your bottom lip as you study the brittle bud in your palm.
…that doesn’t make it worthless.
Instead of exploring any potential use, you tossed the so-called "weed" out—just like everything else the Sphere deemed useless. Not even considering how valuable it could be. You can see why Enjin wouldn't want you repeating that mistake. Enough people already looked at you with disdain as it is.
Sure there’s a lot of things you miss about it, mostly superficial things that had to do with vanity, but overall life up there was super sterile and dull. You’d never say it out loud but you are glad you fell, it was hard on the ground but it was liberating.
Sighing, you quietly concede. You hate anytime Enjin actually has a point though. It’s the worst thing imaginable—for your pride and for his already unbearable ego.
Cracking an eye open, Enjin curses under his breath. Switching tactics, he decides to replace the long look on his Trash Princess’s face. Annoyance would do just fine. Besides, there was no need for you to pout over it, you actually had a shot at redemption here… heh, the kind that might just work out in his favor, too.
“Y’knowwwww, we’re always learnin’ better ways to grow things down here, faster too...”
Enjin moves so quietly, you don’t realize how close he is until you turn—and he’s right in your face, barely a breath away. Swiping his ringed thumb across your cheek, Enjin’s touch is surprisingly tender. However his expression is entirely obnoxious, full of amusement from how fast your pouty little face flusters.
“...could be a nice little hobby that would do alotta good…and if anyone could figure out how to grow this shit properly down here—”
Enjin plucks at the heat of your warm cheeks, pinching just enough to tease and drag the moment into something more lighthearted.
“—I do believe it could be you—Trash Princess.”
Your eyes catch something deeper than just teasing in his golden gaze—but before you can dwell on it, instinct kicks in. You jerk back, swatting his hand away, shoving whatever that was out of your mind.
Enjin just laughs, unbothered, as you glare at him.
“And why can’t you get Delmon to do it?” you counter, arms folding across your chest. By now, you’ve learned Enjin usually has an angle for everything.
Right on the mark, for a beat, Enjin actually pauses. He hadn’t expected you to bring up the obvious—Delmon, the gentle giant practically martyred to the idea of saving what’s left of the Abyss. But Enjin’s roguish grin slips back into place, spreading wider as he leans in, unapologetically invading your space.
“Why? Well...’cause I asked you, Princess. The ol’lug has enough on his plate as it is. You can handle it alone, can’t ya?”
Truthfully, even knowing your interest in Delmon never strays beyond roots and soil, it still irks every time Enjin catches sight of you with him. You look every bit the noble—graceful, composed, eyes soft and curious as you gaze up at Delmon, eager to learn. It grates on Enjin more than he’d admit, knowing he’s never once gotten that look, despite monopolizing most of your time.
“Ya know—unless, your skillset just ain’t up t’par?” Enjin finishes with a shrug.
Wholly unconvinced, you see this for the bait it is from a mile away. Nevertheless, you can’t deny that you are eager to get even the tiniest bit of normalcy back in your life from your old hobbies. Planting something, anything, would be nice—even if it ends up being contraband for Enjin. Although you still aren’t quite sure why you can’t consult Delmon.
“Ugh! Fine!”
You fall back onto the sofa and Enjin follows, his arm settling behind you, practically draped around your shoulders. You don’t even flinch. He takes another slow hit, smoke curling toward the ceiling, but this time there’s a wicked glint in his eye as he watches you. Deciding he’s babysat the joint long enough, he leans in with a lazy smirk and holds it out to you.
“Enjin—your eyes!” You blurt out, disregarding his invitation. “Is that just from smoking!? I can’t go to happy hour looking like some kinda zombie!”
Enjin sputters mid-laugh, coughing as wisps of smoke leak from the corners of his smart ass grin.
“Eh, well duh. Why else would they get so red when I smoke?”
Enjin coughs out a few more chuckles. You roll your eyes.
“I don’t know, Trashy Poppins…I didn't make the connection since the air quality down here is 80% pollution! You could have anything.”
While Enjin is amused by your sass, the joint continues to burn down. Each second unsmoked is wasting precious bud. Leaning in, his voice drops to a low purr—the kind that makes your stomach flip.
Heh, time to pull out the big guns.
“Aht-aht-aht, c’mon now, Princess, you know the golden rule…”
You sigh, thinking you need that happy hour drink more than ever right now.
“You’re not serious.”
But you know he is, and of course you remember the silly motto Enjin makes an unspoken rule for his team. Although he mostly just uses it to get you to do something you’ll usually regret later. You sigh, knowing you’ll never make it to happy hour until you appease the big man-child in front of you.
Enjin’s golden eyes shine with even more mischief than before and together like some damn mantra, you both repeat:
“...it’s not peer pressure—it’s just your turn.”
Resigned, you click your tongue, swiping at the joint in his hands. But Enjin is much faster as he pulls back with infuriating speed. You glower at him, snark locked and loaded.
“Nah, actually I’ll help you out since it’s your first time, Princess.”
Innuendo coils around his words, heat radiating off him as you tense under his gaze. You don’t want to argue with him though, the sooner you smoked, the sooner you both could be at happy hour.
“Open.”
Enjin’s fingers graze the corner of your mouth as he holds the joint to your peach-glossed lips, eyes darkening when you part them obediently for him.
“Now breathe it in, nice and slow…deeper. Yeah, that’s it—hold it. Don’t let go until I say—good girl.”
You want to scoff at him, but you can’t—not with tears stinging your eyes and smoke burning its way down your lungs. By the time Enjin gives you the nod to exhale, you’re already choking, coughing it all back up in ragged plumes.
Yeah, this was nowhere in hell as easy as Enjin made it look.
The buzz rises in your head almost instantly, an airy haze creeping into your consciousness.
“See? Not a terrible cherry pop, eh?”
The glare you throw at Enjin is more of a squint. Still recovering from the fire tearing down your throat, your coughs earn you a few heavy-handed smacks on the back from Enjin. If it’s out of comfort or mockery, you can't tell.
Everything in the room is spinning and becoming more distant, like a daydream.
“Easy there, breathe—it’ll hit easier when ya figure out how to grow it right, Princess. The dank shit won’t burn this hard.”
You want to bite back that even if you do figure out how to grow the damn ‘weed’ plant, you’d never touch it again. But the sudden heaviness seeping into your limbs drags you down, tilting your head on the axis of equilibrium.
“I think, no—I know, I need to lay down.”
Not waiting for permission, you flop down onto the worn cushions beneath you, curling up awkwardly with your head leaning against the armrest and your legs dangling off the seat at an angle.
Enjin doesn’t miss a beat though—he scoops your legs into his lap, tugging off your boots so you can be comfortable.
Leaning back, perfectly at ease, Enjin holds the joint in one hand while the other rests on your stocking-covered shin, giving it a casual, reassuring pat. The way your arm drapes over your face tells him everything—yeah, you’ve got the spins.
“Keh, you’ll make it, Princess. Just let it all ride out.”
You’d make it alright, but not to happy hour anytime soon. Enjin supposes he might’ve let you take a bigger hit than you were ready for.
Whoops.
Silence stretches in the aftermath but it’s not uncomfortable. Enjin takes a few more lazy tokes, one golden eye cracked open just enough to watch you, taking stock of your state.
It’s in moments like this—rare ones, when you’re quiet—that he remembers just how fucking smoking hot you are.
Especially in that Cleaner uniform. Man, God bless August.
The eccentric tailor took special care in designing it thanks to a sudden burst of inspiration—August even convinced Enjin to allow him to keep some of the trim from your Spherite clothes that he repurposes. The outcome of your uniform is shinier, more fitted and much sluttier than standard issue.
You took to it immediately, without much fuss and actually complimenting August. That was August’s gift though—whipping up pieces to suit even the finickiest of tastes—and Enjin had to admit, the man did his big one.
But the real surprise wasn’t the craftsmanship. It was you—his oh-so-prim little Trash Princess—strutting around in something so damn naughty. Dressed up like a treat that Enjin can’t help but eat up with his eyes.
And whaddya know? Enjin has the munchies bad right now.
Left to his own devices, Enjin takes his time devouring the sight in front of him. His gaze lingers down the length of your legs sprawled across his lap, to the soft, exposed flesh of your thighs—spilling over the edge of your stockings just enough to make his jaw clench.
Fuck, they look so soft. He can't help but wonder how they'd feel locked around his head as his eyes climb to the next indulgence—your crop top. Rucked up to your ribs, the thin white cotton hugs just beneath your tits. Shit, the way your cute little nips poke through the fabric makes his mouth twitch with the urge to say ‘hi’ right back—with his tongue.
Is it hotter in here, or—?
Leering at you for too long is a surefire way for Enjin to pop a boner. Enjin knows he’s not alone in that either. That uniform of yours turns heads in every city you pass through. Consequently, Enjin has split more skulls because of idiots trying to hit on you or cop a feel than he ever has for anyone trying to snatch a Spherite.
Not that he’s jealous or nothing.
Nah. Just doing his job. Watching out for you. Plenty of unscrupulous assholes out there willing to pounce on a clueless little thing like you.
However, right now, Enjin’s just as unscrupulous—‘watching out’ only for a flash of your panties as each restless wiggle sinks you deeper into the lumpy cushions, bunching your skirt higher and teasing him with a glimpse of skimpy lace.
Man, just a little more and he’d know exactly which pair you picked today.
Sobering up a bit more, you sigh at your inability to get comfortable when you could feel the very springs in the sofa. Stretching, you straighten your leg suddenly and—
“Yo! Watch the feets, girl!”
Though there’s amusement in his voice as he jolts upright, tatted hands grabbing your ankle before you’re able to land another blow.
“Ah, sorry—” You mutter sheepishly, reeling back your foot. “I didn’t mean to kick Umbreaker.”
For what it’s worth, the apology comes quickly—you’ve learned better than to mess with a man’s jinki, especially Enjin’s. You've nearly tripped more times than you can count over that bulky extension of himself that he always keeps within reach.
You know it’s serious too when he doesn’t even bother with the stupid nicknames he usually calls you. Nevertheless, you’re left puzzled when Enjin’s laughter comes out loud and sharp.
“...that wasn’t Umbreaker, Princess.”
Huh? What does he mean that isn’t—
You freeze.
Carefully peeking out from under your arm, your reddened eyes squint down the length of your body and onto his. When the realization does set in of what exactly you kicked, it smacks you harder than any hit of ganja ever could.
“O…oh…—OH MY GAWD!”
Immediately springing upright, your vertigo swirls with how fast you’re scrambling to your knees as you gawk.
Time passes for what seems like a solid minute or two and neither of you speak.
You’re staring at the crotch of Enjin’s baggy pants and Enjin is staring at you.
“Heh.”
The devious look on Enjin’s face right now could shame the devil himself. Yet you’re still in utter disbelief.
There’s no way that’s his dick!
Still, your brain won’t stop running the numbers—high girl math with clumsy calculations drawn from the fleeting brush of your toes against the long, thick mass hidden beneath the fabric of his baggy pants. Enjin’s words ring in your mind like a gong—‘that wasn’t Umbreaker…’
“You’re burnin’ a hole through my dick, Princess—”
Enjin’s voice unfurls seductively, like the smoke curling from his lips.
“—keep starin’ like that and I’m gonna think you wanna see it.”
Your eyes meet his dead-on.
“I do.”
“Yeah, I’m sure yo—wait, come again?!”
Enjin’s grip goes slack, the joint slipping from his fingers. He was halfway to some sassy quip, ready to taunt your denial—but your delivery is so honest, with no teasing or angle to play off, he doesn’t know what to do with it.
The embers hiss against his thigh before he even registers he dropped it.
“Tch.” Cursing under his breath, he flicks it aside—it’s all roach anyway—and tries to pull himself back together.
You’re fucking with him. Yeah. That’s it.
Smug again, Enjin leans into the bit you started.
“Ha ha…right. I know my stuck up lil’ Trash Princess isn’t asking to give me a dick inspection…”
Enjin adjusts his pants in a casual sweep that doesn’t fool either of you. He’s not brushing off the remaining flakes of ash—he’s palming his restless cock that jumped at the idea of you actually wanting to see it.
But both you and Enjin would quickly discover, despite your snobby Spherite upbringing, you lose any type of filter and sense of couth while high—blurting out your thoughts unabashedly.
“I said I wanted to see it, Trashy Poppins. Or m’not gonna believe you’re actually that big.”
You fold your arms, huffing stubbornly.
There was no way an unbearably annoying man like Enjin was slanging actual horse cock!
He had to be the one fucking with you here.
Well, wait, no—a cocky, stupidly sexy man having a big dick actually tracks, now that you think about it.
But still—you need to verify. For science, if nothing else.
Yeah. Science.
Enjin blinks, taking stock of you—kneeling close, your tits straining like they’re about to burst free, and your skirt rides so high on your thighs this time, he swears one more millimeter and he’d see your panties for real.
“C’mon now…”
Your sickly sweet coos needle at Enjin’s spine.
“...as if you aren’t always upskirting me just to see my panties.”
Shit. You knew it was intentional?
“At least you can show me your undies for a change. If you’re really that big, then I’ll be able to tell.”
The spark alight in your eyes is a challenge to Enjin, who loves pushing your limits. Now he needs to know how far you’ll go. Even if he’s completely unprepared for this turn of events, he’s sure as fuck not gonna be the one backing down first.
“S’that right, Princess? Well, I haven’t even seen yours today so—”
Enjin doesn’t even get the chance to finish before you’re lifting your skirt and spreading your knees wider. You stare up at the ceiling, the popcorn squares suddenly appearing super interesting to you. Enjin’s eyes however immediately zero-in on the pink lace stretched tight across your pussy.
Christ.
With a much closer view, Enjin picks up all the little details he usually misses—like how the hem digs into your soft curves or how the material is thin enough to see the split of your chubby lil pussy lips pressed underneath.
Goddamn, are you intentionally buying them a size too small?
Or is your pussy print just that fat?
Enjin gulps, mouth dry.
His attention caught like a hook to your cunt, everything else is unimportant—including the irony of how he was just teasing you for the very same thing—it’s all utterly lost on him. His priorities shifting rapidly the longer he ogles you.
After a minute, giving him quite frankly more of his fill than he deserves, you let your skirt drop back into place. The alluring spell of your fatma breaks when your knees snap shut and Enjin is yanked back to a world that doesn’t exist between the apex of your doughy thighs.
All of his lecherous starring is worth it though—if only to be able to throw his own saying back at him for once.
“Now, how’s it go again? It’s not peer pressu—”
“—Yeah, yeah, I got it, Princess—My turn.”
Enjin relents, cutting you off with a twisted grin as he shakes his head.
“Ya don’t gotta break my arm to see my dick, babe. Just makin’ sure you’re sure. Don’t need you runnin’ off telling Semiu I flashed ya.”
Semiu is already on Enjin’s ass for teasing you as much as he does. Something about him being ‘too grown’ not to ‘nut up’ and ‘come to terms with his reality’, but Enjin was never listening for long, zoning out as soon as a new lecture was underway.
However, if your prissy ass really wants to see his dick that bad, of course he’d oblige. Hell, Enjin would get another kick outta watching your horror when you realize for real just how much he’s packing. It had been a minute since he'd seen that look on a woman.
For being as hot and charming as he is, Enjin didn’t get nearly as much play as he should’ve. He isn’t a virgin by any means, but too many women take one glance at his size and back off expeditiously.
Life on the ground meant hustling to survive for most. Nobody could afford to be laid up for days just because Enjin’s wrecking ball of a cock tore through their walls, rendering them unable to walk—let alone go to work.
Yet with a clink, that all changes as the leather strap of his belt and gear slides free. Enjin lifts his hips enough to shove his pants down past his thighs and there it is—short red boxer briefs with a black waistband, the fabric stretched thin over the obscenely long, thick outline of his dick resting along his thigh.
Simply put, your jaw drops. There’s a static-like silence buzzing in your mind as you process the monstrous mass of phallic muscle before you.
You’ve never seen a dick that huge in your entire life.
Clocking your shock, Enjin’s chest puffs like he’s just been crowned a king in the room.
“Relax, Princess…” he drawls, smugness saturating every word.
“I ain’t even all the way hard yet.”
Bullshit!
Your eyes pingpong between his face and his cock before landing on the obvious conclusion—no overthinking this time.
“What are you waiting for then? Get hard.”
Enjin actually chokes for real this time, still not used to how blunt his demure lil’ Trash Princess gets when she’s high. He manages to laugh regardless once he finds his breath as he sure as hell doesn’t hate this new side of you.
“Hah?! It doesn’t work like that ya know…”
Enjin lies right through his fucking teeth.
Just hearing that vulgar command from your prissy lil’ lips has his blood surging south, his cock swelling at rapid speed. Already on go, his dickprint thickens, straining against the fabric until threads stretch thin to form almost obscenely over him like second skin.
Yet unlike his past hookups you don’t flinch at the sight of him getting even bigger.
There’s more than enough incredulousness on your face for sure, but Enjin half expected you to backpedal for the sake of your pussy’s self-preservation and book it out the door. Instead, the look you’re giving his dick is more akin to awe than fear.
Truly, though—you are in awe.
Men weren’t like this on the Sphere. Well, your husband certainly wasn’t.
Older than you by over a decade, your husband’s stamina was so poor he never lasted long. His size, his endurance, and his dismissive comments about your sexual appetite being perversely unbecoming for a lady of your station had you wondering if something was wrong with you this entire time—if you expected too much from sex.
But when your eyes drift back to Enjin—catching the thick vein running along his length, visible even through the fabric—you know better now.
It was never you.
The realization brings a surge of boldness. Your gaze trails the pulse of his cock down to the wet patch blooming at the tip—so much pre spilling it seeps through the fabric.
Enjin inhales sharply through his nose. He knows he’s proven his size, but your silence and the way you’re eyeing his cock like some kind of museum exhibit is starting to get to him.
Enjin doesn’t want to back down as he impatiently waits for your final verdict of approval. But if you keep staring at him like that, with those big pretty eyes of yours, he’s going to come in his pants, untouched, like some fucking cuck.
“Well, Princess? Big enough for ya?”
You don’t even hear Enjin, too lost in your own thoughts. Your body, buzzed and reckless, has a mind of its own though. Reaching out, your hand leaves your lap to trace the thick ridges of his cock, mapping its shape through his briefs.
“Oh, shiiii—” Enjin hisses.
His lip catches between his teeth as all thoughts vanish the moment your delicate little fingers start stroking him.
“Argh—fuck. Can’t jus’ go grabbing a man’s dick like that ya know.”
Yet Enjin does nothing to stop you as your touch grows bolder. Your palm flattens around his girth—too thick for even your whole hand to wrap around, even through his boxers.
How would someone even get something that monstrous inside them!?
Encircling his leaky cockhead, you giggle as your index finger slowly tap-tap-taps the mess he’s made there, amused at how many of the small, sticky suds you can gather on your finger through the material.
Enjin’s own laugh is strangled. This can’t be real.
You’re unfazed by Enjin’s provocations – too mesmerized by the obscenely large cock in front of you that has you squirming uncomfortably as your own panties turn swampy with heat.
“May I?”
Meeting Enjin’s gaze, your polite innocence is accented by a wide-eyed pout that’s far too sweet for the filthy implications of your request. Like you’re nicely asking permission to play with your favorite toy—except you don’t even wait for him to give it,fingers impatiently snapping the edges of his waistband like some cockhungry slut.
“Uh…” Enjin blanks while his dick is practically screaming at him to respond—even a damned head nod would suffice. Yet his brain blue-screens as it registers that look—the normally innocent, curiosity filled look that he's been craving since he found you in No Man's Land—now twisted into something debased and filthy. And best of all?
Meant just for him.
Enjin’s so fucking hard right now it’s painful—and hell, if you’re planning to do something about that, he’s not about to stop you.
“Keh. Do you, boo.”
Enjin manspreads, giving you full access. You eagerly pull down his shorts just enough to release his cock, and it springs free, thick and heavy.
Good God, he’s a big boy!
Although you knew that, seeing the monster in all of its unleashed glory was an entirely different experience. Enjin’s dick bobs back to curve towards his abs, a shiny pubic piercing shining at his base under its shadow.
Panting, your previously dormant inner size queen activates. You have to swallow down the bucket of saliva collecting on your tongue before you choke—you can’t help but salivate at the thought of what a huge cock like this tastes like… what it feels like.
You’re pretty sure it could break you in two, and surprisingly, the thought excites you.
Lowering yourself on all fours, the first tentative lick you give Enjin’s length has his toes curling as he grips the sofa, ripping a chunk clean off the decaying material.
You moan out a depraved 'ahhh' once you reach the top, a little smile playing on your lips as you tongue down the hole at his tip. Greedily, you lap up all the little dribbles of pre beading at the tip and flowing out.
“W-Woaaah—ugh. FUCK!”
Enjin’s hand flies into your hair as he clears his throat. Sure, your mouthwatering stares made a blowie likely, but diving in this shamelessly? It’s enough to make him feel like he’s losing his damn mind.
You grip his base—an insurance policy to keep him from cumming—while your other hand cups his balls, giving them a gentle squeeze. His thigh jolts beneath you and you simper at how sensitive he is despite his massive size.
“T-There’s no way in hell they taught your prissy ass how to be this much of a slut up there.”
Pouting, you release his balls to cradle his cockhead against your puffed up cheek, uncaring of the amount of pre seeping across your jaw.
“D-Do…do you hate it? My hus—um, ex said it was a turn off. H-he'd say I have 'the depravity of a slums streetwalker.”
Staring up at Enjin, your eyes are clouded with lust, yet edged with worry—like he’d threatened to rip something precious away. But it’s only his cock you’re coddling tighter against your cheek, your lips parting just enough to chase the beads of pre that drip close to your mouth.
If you weren’t gripping Enjin’s base so hard he definitely would have blown a load all over your face. Fuck, if the thought isn’t tempting to him though – he doesn’t think you’d even mind in this state.
Goddamn, you’re so much sluttier than Enjin could have ever imagined.
And he’d imagined it plenty.
Especially on nights Enjin stumbled back to HQ drunk and alone, having closed down the bar with Corvus and Gris. Left to sate his own booze-fueled boner, he’d shamelessly rut into his pillow. Yet, no matter where his perversions strayed, every faceless fantasy in the dark insisted on transmuting into you.
You seriously think he couldn’t match your freak?
Oh, sweetheart, you have no fucking idea.
“Hate it?”
Enjin holds back the growl building at the back of his throat. There’s a torrent of thoughts swirling with his high all at once—all coming to settle right back into his dick.
“Never. Show me who you really are, Princess—n’ I’ll give it right back to ya tenfold—that’s a promise.”
If you weren’t already trembling with arousal—finally free to let your freak flag fly—you might’ve shied away. Enjin’s easy acceptance of you stirs something deeper, something messy that you usually ignore before it can settle. Now, with his scent thick on your face and tongue, you’re not thinking at all—aching with the urge to all but inhale his cock.
You merely nod, flashing Enjin a coy smile before stretching your plush lips to wrap around him. Slowly, you swallow down his girth, mouth hot with suction so deliciously moist Enjin’s hips jerk up. You gag, but his firm grip on your roots keeps your head in place, forcing his length to breach your throat.
“That’s it, baby…open up f-f’er me—g-good fucking girl, Princess…”
Tears prick at your eyes as his cock pounds back of your throat. The stretch is brutal—but some desperate part of you craves more of his filthy praise. What you can’t take with your mouth, your hands make up for—stroking every thick inch your lips can’t swallow.
“Shiiiit, girl! You’re a pro at this.”
If you ask Enjin later, he’d probably call you a throat goat, however most of your “experience” came from the smutty paperbacks high-society wives hid in corsets and swapped under tea tables—not actual practice. You don’t really know what you are doing. You’re just following the book's explicit instructions.
Still, Enjin doesn’t seem to mind being your test dummy.
On the contrary, Enjin is more than happy to let you do your thing and he does just that. Although, the longer your head bobs along his cock, the more your skirt rides up—until it finally flips over your hips, giving him a perfect view of the cheeky lace framing your ass.
Enjin groans, gripping your ass with bruising force before sliding his fingers down to palm your pussy over your panties—fuck, you’re already dripping for him.
“Hah—uppity cunt gets this sloppy just from a lil’ dick sucking, eh?”
Enjin laughs, yet the gravel rattling in his voice betrays him. No one has ever fearlessly tried to deepthroat him and actually fucking enjoyed it.
Unable to respond with your mouth, too busy still trying to do the impossible and fit more inside your throat, your hips respond instead—wiggling desperately against his fingers, begging for more of his touch.
Enjin doesn’t hesitate. Slipping a tatted finger into your panties, he drags it through your folds, marveling at how wet and scorching you are. Pushing into your core, your walls clamp down, fluttering around his digit.
Oh fuck, even his fingers are big!
A second ringed finger follows – the rough, callous fingers of a man who's seen too many fights scrape so good against all your gooey spots. Lewd squelches echo from your pussy as your throat tightens around him in tandem. The sounds, the squeeze, the heat—all of it is driving him crazy.
Shit he’s gonna cum for real this time.
To his credit, Enjin tries to warn you—tries to pull you off before it’s too late.
He doesn’t wanna risk pissing you off and having you refuse to ever do this again. Enjin still wants to fool around more;, he wants to fuck you. It’s that thought—your pretty pussy lips splitting open to swallow him instead—that has him busting his hot seed down your throat in thick, hot pulses.
“HAHH—FUHH!”
Releasing your hair, Enjin half expects you to pull away, furious he hadn’t warned you. Instead, your nails dig into his thigh, steadying yourself. You moan around him, the vibrations rippling through his sensitive cock while you work him for every last drop, his hips jerking beneath you.
Only when you’re certain you’ve drained him do you pull back, swollen lips coming off his cock with a wet pop.
“Allll go-neee S-Sheee? HAhhhhh~♡”
Tits jiggling as you heave for air, you present your tongue to Enjin as proof you’ve swallowed all of him. Every. Filthy. Drop.
You can’t help but agree—your throat’s wrecked and your pussy’s aching to be used just as thoroughly. Enjin’s fingers aren’t inside you any more, although they are still on your pussy, running through your folds absentmindedly.
“Ngh—n-eed m-more,” you slur.
All your decorum was lost to the wind the moment you asked to see his dick—you don’t even care that it’s Enjin of all people that you just gave head to. Suddenly, the obnoxious pain in your ass seems like your only deliverance. Right now, you're more frustrated that you've spent so much time bickering with him when you could have been fucking him.
You much prefer his moans to anything else coming out of his mouth.
You need him to get hard again—immediately!
Enjin, mind mushy with release, takes another joint out to light. As much as he wants to return the favor after that kind of sloppy top, the man needs a minute. His high has his whole body tingling from the post release sensitivity.
But you can’t wait any longer. It’s been god knows how long since you’ve had a proper orgasm and those were only from your own small, fumbling fingers. Throat achy and raw, you quiver at the masochistic thought of how his cock is going to absolutely obliterate your pussy.
You slide your panties down before flinging off your jacket and top. Taking a seat on Enjin's lap, you're now clad in just your bra, your skirt that's bunched up at your hips, and thigh highs. Grabbing his cock, you give his soggy, half-hard girth a few encouraging pumps.
Your pussy is already slobbering, a viscous string of syrupy slick drips down from your slit to land on his cockhead, connecting you to him as you line him up.
Feeling your fingers around his length, Enjin's eyes fly open, balancing the joint between his lips as he quickly shrugs off his own jacket, checking the pockets.
“Woah, woah. Slow your roll there sweetheart—you’re skipping a few steps.”
You aren’t listening though, not giving a fuck what Enjin is talking about as you cry out, grinding your clit against his fat tip, before running it back through your folds.
Enjin grits his teeth, coughing out smoke as he holds the joint in one hand and your hips in the other. You’re being a brat again, not listening to a single word he’s saying.
“Gotta find my rubbers…also gotta stretch you out better, Princess—you’re gonna split in two if I don’t.”
You whimper, petulant and needy. You press his cockhead against your entrance, swiveling your hips like you’re going to recklessly sink down on him at any second.
“Huh? Rubbers?” You shake your head in confusion, pouting. “m’Ennnnjiiiiin…I can’t wait that long—puh-leaseee don’t make me wait s’long, Enjiiiiin. I can take it, promiseee!”
The way you sweetly coo his name is shattering any sense of self-control Enjin has left. The urge to submit you to the ultimate corruption surges hot through his veins, but Enjin knows how big he is and while he did want to break you, he didn’t want to hurt you in the process. You are absolutely nuts to want to ride him with so little prep—now, on top of everything else, you apparently wanted him to fuck you raw.
Wait—did you just ask what rubbers were? Did you not have condoms on the Sphere?
But any lingering concerns dissipate the second you start fighting to get his tip inside you.
“Too s-slow!” You groan.
Fear is the last thing on your mind—evident in the way you impale yourself on him, defiant even against the impossible stretch. Your pussy is tight around the swollen head of his cock, strangling it as your nails dig into his shoulders. You grind in slow, desperate circles. Tears roll down your cheeks as you bite them to keep from crying out, your body fighting against every inch.
Enjin watches with a dark glint in his eyes – you trying so hard for him makes him want to flip you over and fuck you into the cushions. But he’d let you have it at your own pace…for now.
Releasing your hip, Enjin spits into his palm, rubbing his slick fingers over your clit in slow steady circles.
“Such a hard-headed girl—c’mere…”
Enjin takes a long drag from the joint, balancing it between his fingers as he grabs the back of your neck. His lips crash into yours before you can think.
You gasp and Enjin takes the opportunity to exhale the smoke deep into your lungs, taking the harshest of the hit himself. You're left with only the smooth, earthy flavor warming your chest before it melts through your limbs.
But it’s the way he kisses you after that really knocks the ground out from under you. His tongue pushes past your lips, tangling with yours—hungry, messy, like he wants to steal the little air you have left until you’re only breathing him in.
Your arms wrap around his neck, hands buried in his soft buzzed undercut, anchoring yourself. You moan into his mouth and he swallows it greedily, teeth nipping your lower lip before diving right back in. All the while, his thumb keeps grinding into your clit, faster now, like he’s keeping rhythm with the pulse that’s beating under your skin.
Why does it feel this good? How is he doing this to your body? S’not fair!
Not realizing you could feel this good from a kiss, you're unraveling in real time. Your mind goes blank with every pulse, every word, every inch. You’re not even fully seated yet, but you can already feel the blunt head of his cock grinding against your cervix, the pressure building with each centimeter you drop. You never imagined you could feel this full—like he might actually breach your womb.
The thought alone has you trembling, unstable, your aching thighs giving out, causing you to slide down a bit too fast. The thick veins along his length rake across your g-spot and your body snaps. A sharp, helpless spasm rocks you as your breath catches and a small, unexpected orgasm rolls through you.
Enjin pulls back just enough to let you breathe, though your body doesn’t stop shivering, lost in a blur of pleasure and pain.
“Eh... did you just cum, Princess?”
The question is rhetorical, full of smug amusement, as he can feel the increasing wetness leaking down his cock, making it all the easier for you to slide down.
Teasing your earlobe, Enjin’s tongue dips in to flick at the shell of it, making you clench.
“HA! Good fucking girl! A lil’ more and I bet she’ll be a real squirter f’er me.”
Enjin beams, proud of his Trash Princess. No woman had ever taken him this deep—not even close. Enjin hadn’t expected you to be any different. And yet…when Enjin looks down, he releases a groan deep from his gut.
The sight alone almost has Enjin nutting in you -- your drooling cunt spread so wide around his girth, sitting almost at his base. A thought flashes briefly – it's kinda like he’s a virgin again. Parts of his dick had never experienced this kind of molten heat so maybe, in a sense, he is? Enjin didn’t fucking care if he was though, as he ain’t about to be with the way your pretty pussy is giving way like it’s made for him.
“Run that back.”
Enjin takes the final drag, pinching the smoldering end of the joint between his fingers before flicking it aside. He leans in again, slower this time. There’s no rush in how his mouth seals over yours. The second shotgun is less about the smoke and more about the feel of you—your lips parting for him, your breath syncing to his, and the small whimper you make as he sucks slowly on your tongue.
The haze spreads between you both, thick and warm. Simultaneously, his knuckles tease your clit, a soft schlick sound filling the space between you from you getting wetter by the second. By the strength of some unknown force, you finally bottom out, immediately collapsing into his neck.
You both moan. Enjin feels you quivering from the inside out and you feel him everywhere—shifting your guts into your ribs.
“I…I did it.”
Your smile blooms soft against his inked skin, lips grazing the spot where you can feel his own pulse hammering wildly.
Enjin’s in no state to congratulate you on your impressive feat. Completely sheathed in you raw, coring out your gummy walls into the shape of his dick—something in his brain chemistry fizzles. Like a bit of pussy juice, acting as a catalyst, slipped into his dick and traveled straight to his prefrontal cortex to corrode all of his previous thoughts about you. The result is clear.
Enjin doesn’t give a fuck if you are a snobby, annoying, needy lil’ brat who never let him get away with shit and bitches at him constantly—the furtherest thing from his type.
Because honestly?
Motherfuck a bullshit-ass type. Your slutty ass pussy is fuckin’ perfect.
For the first time, Enjin realizes he might be in love with you.
How could he even look at another woman after this?
One thing if for certain—Enjin is going to make damn sure you never have the desire to even look at another man.
Both his hands trail up your hips, groping and squeezing the plump curves of your ass before settling at your waist. His blunt black nails dig into your skin to pull you back from his neck.
Enjin whistles, admiring the stagnant stream of spittle lingering on your chin. Look at you—cockdrunk just from sitting on him.
Enjin doesn’t think he’s ever seen you look more beautiful.
“Enjiiiiiin,” you whimper, not being able to hold yourself up.
But your cries for him only inflame the predatory smirk on his lips, your honeyed cunt hugging his cock so beautifully.
“Makes sense you fell from heaven, huh Princess?”
Whether you're ready or not, Enjin forcibly winds you on his cock in slow circles. Your clit brushes up against the well placed pubic ring like a reward for being the first to experience it.
“—cause this pussy’s a fuckin’ angel.”
Your eyes are already lodged in your skull so you can’t even roll them at his cheesy line. But if your pussy is an angel, then Enjin's dick is most definitely a demon—his sinful cock tearing through your insides and condemning you straight to hell.
Moaning loudly, your body moves on autopilot—chasing more friction from the rhythm Enjin set. Good thing everyone was at happy hour or you would for sure be attracting some major attention now.
Although, to be honest you probably wouldn’t notice anyway. You don’t even notice when your bra falls away, your tits spilling out just so Enjin could watch them jiggle in his face. You only register its disappearance once his mouth latches onto one of your nipples, his tongue finally saying it’s ‘hello’.
“Shiiiiit!”
Your hips stutter, then stall when Enjin tugs at your sensitive bud with his teeth.
“Hey…I know my Trash Princess ain’t tappin’ out just yet.”
SMACK!
Enjin brings a heavy palm down on your ass and your pussy clenches tighter around him. Enjin relishes the way your plush curves mold to his hands, each smack adding to the wet, messy sounds between you. You’ve already leaked enough on his lap to stain the sofa beneath you.
“Nah, ya just got on the ride, baby. Giddy-up.”
SMACK!
“NNNGH!” You weakly glare daggers at him.
Any softness on Enjin’s face has since been replaced by something far more mischievous. If you thought he was obnoxious before—you’re about to learn he’s a full-blown menace inside of pussy.
Wobbling, you gather together what little resolve you have left to roll your hips forward.
“HAAH! S’too biiiiiig,” you whine but your body can’t stop.
The juices saturated between you grant enough momentum to finally get a good, smooth bounce going.
“Fuck—that’s it, ride it like it’s yours, baby.” Enjin encourages you.
The way you cream harder every time he calls you 'baby' doesn't go unnoticed.
“Oh? You like me talking sweet to the pussy, baby girl?—Or do you just like being my filthy lil’ trash slut, hm Princess?”
Gritting your teeth, you grab on to Enjin’s shirt like reins, pulling him closer to you.
“Y-You’re…gonna—ahshiiiit—hafta f-fuck m’better than thisss…if you want m-me to be your ‘baby girl’—Trash Daddy.”
Unfortunately, your sass falls flat—you can barely keep your head from lulling to the side. But Enjin’s thoroughly entertained nonetheless—he’ll take ‘Trash Daddy’ over ‘Trashy Poppins’ any day.
“Bet.”
Electricity runs through Enjin. He’s all charged up—now it’s his turn to unleash.
Your brow furrows from the noise Enjin makes—you’re not sure if he just laughed or snarled. But it's the only warning you get.
Sliding down the sofa a bit, adjusting himself for stability, Enjin spreads his legs, planting his feet firmly on the floor as he bullies his cock up into you like he's breaking in his own personal fleshlight.
All you can do is go slack, falling forward on his chest. His grip bruising your hips, not allowing you to run from the way his blunt cockhead plows into your womb like a battering ram.
The couch beneath you groans, its frame creaking under the strain. The wood and leather protest like the entire thing might fall apart at any moment.
“Enjinnnnn, m’slowwww dowwwnnn!”
Your cries only fuel his frenzy and Enjin knows from the way you’re gushing on him you can take it.
Fuck—this sweet lil’ pussy is just so good for him. Imagine if he never met you.
If you never—
Enjin cuts the thought off cold.
Moving before you can blink—your world flips. One second he’s pummeling up into you, the next you’re on your back.
Enjin peels away his shirt, muscles flexing as he looms over you. His hands curl around your ankles to keep them pinned overhead. A single bead of sweat catches your bleary eyes as it slides down his bare chest, gliding over firm muscle. The bold ink patterns seem to come alive on his skin. He looks so fucking sexy right now and you can’t help but to shamelessly ogle him.
Yet, there’s something much too serious and somber about Enjin’s current demeanor. You’ve been staring at him far too long to go unnoticed. The highly expressive, sassy powerhouse is rarely this silent. He should be teasing you right now, asking some smartass shit like if you’re ‘enjoying the view’.
“Enjin?”
Your sweet voice hits his ears and instantly you have his attention again. Enjin flashes you a pearly white smile.
“Heh, enjoy the break, Princess? You wont get another.”
Ignoring the question in your eyes, Enjin folds you into a mating press, thrusting to the hilt all in one motion. The sound of flesh lewdly slapping against flesh fills the room, as do your cries.
But there’s still something else burning in his eyes. Enjin knows it’s unfair not to be honest with you, but taking out his unspoken feelings on your pretty pussy is the only way he can express himself at the moment.
Suddenly, there’s a loud creak followed by a decisive snap and two of the sofa’s legs give out. If your sweat and cum weren't like glue on the old leather you’d surely slide off head first. You yell out in alarm, but Enjin doesn’t give a fuck about the damn sofa.
His mood is still soured by the thought that wouldn’t be shaken away until he confronted it—
If you never fell.
But you did. He found you—and now that Enjin has you under him like this, he needs to fuck the point he’s concluded into you:
If Rudo ever finds a way to the Sphere, Enjin will personally travel there and see to your ex-husband himself.
Hell, he might even rail you in front of him a few times—show him what a real man could do. Maybe even a real…husband?
If the sounds of sloshing fluids and skin slapping skin weren't ringing so loudly in your ears that it drowned out everything else, you would have thought Enjin had lost his mind with the way he was cackling above you. He sounds completely deranged, laughing at the idea of him finally wanting to settle down all while continuing to pound you deeper into the broken sofa.
But despite being high off weed and your pussy, Enjin’s mind has never been more clear—he wants to lock you down.
“Hah… P-Princess, can ya feel me in your tummy? Right…” Enjin’s golden eyes lock on the ever-so-slightly distended bulge from the monstrous intrusion in your guts.
“....right, here.”
Throwing your legs over his shoulders, his large hands splay across your sweat sheened belly. You’re squirming under the heat of Enjin sandwiching your guts between his palm and his cock. Its all far too much—you’re too full, unable to really focus on what Enjin’s saying.
“Ahh, E-Enj—m’ c-cum, g-gonna mmm…” you hiccup, swallowing your tears.
Your nails rake down his arm to ground yourself but your body is thrumming too hard, adrift in the rush rolling through every one of your wired nerves. Your tits bounce obscenely every time your velvety walls devour his cock back down to the base. Enjin’s pubic piercing bucking against your clit has you clutching onto his dick like you were about to break it off.
You feel so fucking good. Enjin desperately needs to feel you creaming on his cock, and you would be soon if your kitten nails raking down his arms– adding more red to his already inked skin– were any indication.
“That’s it, Princess, hah—fuck, baby, I got you. Squirt for your Trash Daddy.”
As if on command, the knot inside you coils to its breaking point, prickling every nerve, releasing a warm rush of fluids. Your body tingling in ecstasy, you quickly tumble over your peak, eyes blinded by speckles of brightness as you cum.
Yet Enjin hasn't slowed, his continuous pounding forcing more of your cum and squirt to gush out of you—the melody of his now drenched balls colliding with your wet ass only growing loude
“Fuck, that’s it. Pussy cryin’ like she wants my cum, Princess…”
You’re barely conscious from all the pleasure, eyes rolling back into your head.
“She’s jealous that slutty throat of yours got all my cum, now it’s her turn to swallow, isn’t that right?”
It’s a rather roundabout way for Enjin to ask if he can nut inside you, but then again, he wasn’t really asking. The thought of breeding you makes him feral.
“Ahh—f’nnghhhh!”
Non-verbal and fucked dumb, you’d probably agree to anything right now. You’re an utter mess–pussy stretched beyond anything you thought possible, face sticky with slobber rolling down to pool in the folds of your neck.
“O’course it is…gonna dump all these trash babies into my princess’ sweet lil’ cunt.”
Although you are super turned on by the thought of Enjin breeding you, there's no way you have any idea how serious Enjin is about putting a baby in you. How could you? You don’t even realize the love confession his cock is professing to you.
“FUHHHH—take it!”
Enjin pumps thick ropes of his cum into your tummy as his body thrashes on top of yours. The primal intensity has you vibrating as another orgasm rips through your overstimulated and overworked pussy. Filled the brim, his spunk overflows, sploshing out of your pussy as he rocks his hips, urging his seed deeper to plant right in your womb.
In the afterglow, the two of you lie off-kilter in a tangled heap on the broken sofa. There’s blood rushing to your head— not the worst place for it, you think, all things considered. Enjin’s weight is heavy, his chest heaving into yours, warm and sticky as he wraps you in his arms.
Just as you feel you both might drift off like this, Enjin stirs. Flinching, you whimper as Enjin wills himself up, his cock sliding out of your pussy with a squelchy suctioning noise. Your knees part for him with zero resistance as he inspects his handiwork, peeling apart your battered pussy lips to reveal your dug out slit.
“Whewww,” Enjin whistles at the sight of the thick creampie glistening in your core. “All this cum your cute pussy pulled outta me—you’d think she was my jinki.”
Sober, you likely would have slapped him for referring to your pussy as his vital instrument. But ecstasy clouds your logic, so high off endorphins and other substances, you only giggle. It is kinda funny you suppose.
“Yeah—squirtin’ on command like that. Definitely an attack type.”
Spread open, the thick plug of spunk froths out of you. But Enjin simply tuts, pushing it right back in, not wanting to waste a single drop.
“Yeah, how about that, ’mma duel wielder! Yup, definitely gotta name ‘er now—what you thinkin’ I should call her, princess?”
Enjin sees the way your pretty cunny is twitching, and in his pussy drunk mind, it's an approval. The spasms that still quake through you are like tremors of Morse Code—your slutty pussy agreeing with him, begging for more. Flipping you over on your belly, Enjin is more than happy to fulfill any request of his new vital instrument.
“Got it! Cumbringer! The Umbreaker and The Cumbringer. Nice ring to ‘em, dont’cha think?”
Cumbringer!?
Later, you would definitely regret being so thoroughly fucked out of your mind you didn’t put a stop to this. Enjin is most definitely going to be insufferably proud of himself for the next 3-6 business weeks. He’d lord this over you and tease you with not-so-subtle hints around the rest of the cleaners.
Yet, as Enjin is swabbing his huge cock through your folds, you feel the ache of loss in your core, wanting to be filled again and you can’t seem to find the fucks to care—you just needed more of his dick, like…now.
Pleased with your compliance, Enjin thumbs the dips at the small of your back, perching your ass up so your back arches real nice.
“Trash Daddy’s gonna take real good care of Cumbringer from now on, too. Make ‘er live up to the name.”
When Enjin pushes into you again, the new angle has him bullying against your g-spot with even more intensity than before. Seeing the way you jolt, he holds back from going as deep this time to directly abuse the spot. Slick runs down your legs and despite how slippery the ruined leather cushions are beneath you, Enjin still holds you firm as his cock sloshes through your ruined pussy.
“Say, how much anima you think is in my nut, Princess?”
You don’t respond but Enjin, proving to have the stamina of a beast, feels like he should give you at least two more doses just to be sure.
⛓
Fading in and out of a euphoric stupor, you’re unsure how much time passes. Absolutely cockdrunk, at some point, you’d simply just surrendered. Your pussy clearly has zero complaints about being a jinki for Enjin’s cock and you are too dumb once you get a lil dick to stop him.
Somehow, you’ve ended up folded over the wide coffee table. It’s unstable beneath you, but Enjin doesn’t seem to care what he breaks when he’s fucking you. He only moved from the sofa when the back of it finally broke.
Straining, you think you hear voices but everything feels so far away and fuzzy. The room gets darker and you realize Enjin’s thrown his coat over you. Still sheathed deep inside you, Enjin’s cock plants lazy kisses to your womb as he speaks rather casually to someone.
Hmm, did he get a call? Is that Semiu?
Semiu is likely calling, wondering why you both haven’t shown up to happy hour yet—shit. There’s no way you’re making it in this condition; your limbs are toast. You can’t even move the weight of Enjin's bulky jacket off of you, the heavy material trapping you in the humidity of your own breath and sweat. But in a way, the warmth is comforting. Your cheek resting against the wood, you allow the tent of muggy heat and his cock moving languidly inside you to lull you into complacency— in your delirium, everything feels like a nice dream.
Yet Enjin is fully alert, a shit eating grin on his face as he stares down Semiu and Gris who had just walked in on Enjin shamelessly beating your doonies down. Enjin only spared your modesty by covering you up, but he has no qualms with either Gris or Semiu seeing him in all his glory and doesn’t even bother pulling out of you.
A fact that is painfully clear as he pats the pockets of his jacket draped over you for his cigs—he might as well smoke if he’s giving you a break.
“I win,” Semiu turns to Gris, hand out expectantly.
Semiu’s cool expression never changes but there is amusement in her eyes as Gris fishes into his pockets and places a stack of bills into her hand.
“Tsk, damn…” Gris shakes his head, although he’s not shocked.
The two of you are down so horrendously bad for each other that this should have happened long ago as far as everyone else was concerned. The tension has been at an unbearable level for those around you, the way the two of you picked at each other non-stop like a kid’s first crush.
Alas, you’re an airhead and Enjin is so stubborn he’s delusional. So the older Cleaner members couldn’t help, but place bets on when and where you and Enjin would finally slip between the sheets. Its a shame that you weren't in one of your beds right now--in between actual sheets--instead of the lounge becoming collateral damage.
“You know, after all the game you talked about winning your money back at poker tonight, Bro said you were a no-show because you knew you were gonna lose…” Gris eyes the boneless, quivering lump that is you under Enjin’s jacket.
Enjin really did a number on you. Your nonsensical babbles pouting for Enjin to ‘make sure to tell Semiu to bring you back some fries from the bar’ obviously means you have no idea that they are actually in the room.
“But it looks like you have your ‘ace in the hole' for an entirely different game.”
Enjin chortles. His hips stutter forward a bit too hard and you squeak in protest, he just hushes you.
“Awe, so you came back all this way to check-up on us? How sweet,” Enjin says sarcastically, taking a drag from his cigarette.
“Hardly. Rudo accidentally chugged an entire beer he thought was soda—then proceeded to throw it all up over Zanka,” Semiu says flatly.
Enjin attempts to hold back his laughter as Semiu continues with a sigh. She explains thatGris helped carry Rudo back, promptly putting his little blacked out ass to bed. Zanka locked himself in the bathroom immediately upon returning.
“Although they're sure to be occupied for the rest of the night, since the kids are back in the building you need to wrap this shit up Enjin—she looks like she could use the break anyway.”
Semiu casts a sympathetic look your way. She did warn you about Enjin though, so he was your mess to deal with now.
“Sure thing,” Enjin says, patting your form underneath his coat, “I’ve trained my new jinki well enough for tonight.”
Semiu takes one look at the absolutely diabolical grin on Enjin’s face and decides she's already had enough of his shit for the night.
She sighs again. “Just hurry it up, alright?”
Enjin gives Semiu a cheeky salute. Yet the second her back is turned, Enjin mimes a dramatic chef’s kiss to the air for Gris. Enjin’s eyes roll back like he’s just had the best meal of his life.
Gris snorts, shooting him a wink and a thumbs-up for a ‘job well done’ like a proud teammate before heading out of the room as well.
“One more thing.”
Semiu pauses in the doorway, hands resting on the double doors, surveying the crime scene-like state of the lounge. The sofa is toast, the coffee table’s on life support, and there's a growing puddle under you, spilling over to slowly drip off its edge onto the floor.
“If you’re just going to recklessly rawdog her, at least get her on the pill. Alice can sort that out tomorrow—right after you replace every piece of furniture you’ve both annihilated.”
Enjin simply shrugs, taking another drag of his cigarette.
“I suppose…we can stop by Alice’s too.”
Semiu just rolls her eyes, only to wrinkle her nose as a wave of stale air wafts by.
“And for the love of god—crack a window. Smells like fresh ass in here.”
Once the doors finally click shut, Enjin rips his jacket off of you and smiles. You’re still blissed out in lalaland while your pussy, Cumbringer, is clenching around him like she has one more go left in her.
Grabbing your arm, he pulls you up. Still sheathed inside you, he sits back on his knees, bringing you with him, your back pressed against his chest.
“Mmmm—*yawns* Was that Semiu on the call, Enj?”
Call? Oh, heh.
“Ha, yeah baby girl, just Semiu on the line,” Enjin lies too easily.
It’s for your own benefit though–no need to ruin your bliss with anything silly like embarrassment or shame from being walked-in on. Hell, unless Semiu says something, Enjin might be able to get away with not ever telling you.
“She said they ran outta fries though. I’ll get ya some later, yeah? Jus’ need Cumbringer to clock in one more time, Princess...”
Enjin rocks his hips with yours in a slow wave and your pout melts, no longer caring about the fries. Your head tips back onto his shoulder as he wraps his arms around you.
“Ah, mmmm, b-but—ngnh! She mentioned something about hotdogs and getting pills tomorrow? Is that a mission?”
Enjin hums to keep from laughing as he turns your face towards him. He smirks devilishly against your lips.
Distracting you with sweet chaste kisses, Enjin rubs gentle circles over your womb. You’re gonna be so fucking hot waddling around HQ in your slutty ass uniform, tits leaking and belly full with his brats.
The only pill he’d get from Alice would be a fertility pill.
“Nothing my slutty baby girl or my Cumbringer gotta worry about, Princess. Leave everything t’me.”
𝐚𝐧: ahh tysm for reading, especially if you are new to my writing. enjin brain rot is lethal. i needed to get this outta my system! jjk girlies forgive me for straying from my wip list and kinktober lol. definitely down to write more of him. i have a p2 and another enjin story (an AU) idea. but i have to focus on my jjk kinktober now! ♡
also, in case anyone is wondering—yes, reader's jinki is a labubu and yes, enjin just guilt tripped reader into growing him his own personal stash djhscjhdfj.
banner: mash up of official manga + rororogi mogera 'last mall' doujin panels.
ellievsbear
pixelskylines
origamiaround
annaxmalina
tangentwithtanner
janainaart
kianamaiart
turnnoffyourmind
dededos
prguitarman
