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sleepypulm · 1 month ago

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pistachios. toji + onyankopon.

𑄽𑄺 warnings 𑄽𑄺 12.9K word count. blackfemoriginal!reader, crossover!fic, best friends!tojixonyankopon, contractors!tojixonyankopon, husband!tojifushiguro, countryboycoded!toji, contractor!toji, grumpy!toji, sweet!toji, dominant!toji, countryboycoded!onyankopon, contractor!onyankopon, grumpy!onyankapon, sweet!onyankapon, dominant!onyankapon, threesome, black woman, vaginal penetration, rough sex, lil bit of sweet talkin’, hair pulling, creaming, choking, squirting, praising, LOTS of dirty talk/aggressive dirty talk, size kink, condomless sex, creaming, slapping ass/face, kissing, just a fine ass black + japanese man, minors aren’t welcome!

━━ 𝒄𝙤𝒐𝙘𝒉𝙞𝒆𝙛𝒂𝙞𝒓𝙮 𝙩𝒉𝙤𝒖𝙜𝒉𝙩𝒔 .ᐟ hi, it’s your favorite pisces’ favorite pisces—teehee. hope you missed me. anyways, just gonna’ say right now this isn’t a nascar fic, i trashed the idea and just came up w/ something more—me, i guess? i think i like this one. i felt a lil’ rusty, so idk what nasty factor it might hit. but both my men in the same universe? oh yeah. oh yeah. anyways, i will also say the link/visuals are unfortunately not black links in specific, but it does a good job of conceptualizing what i envisioned in my mind. and if you’re nasty, you’re fully aware of who owen grey + small hands are ;) LMAO. aight, i kept thinking of deeper by PARTYNEXTDOOR, so you can put that on a loop if you’d like. enjoy. love you.

visual.

HOW DID YOU END UP HERE?

You kept asking yourself that question as your puffy lips poked in a pout, round eyes flickering in between the looming frames above you. Your freckled cheeks flushed as they glared in return of your angelic face—and then, impurely so, you crawled to them.

You couldn’t have been that naive. Not to realize their plan, or how long they’d been onto you. But none of this was your plan at all. It just—happened.

You’d been married to Toji for four years now, falling in love the moment he approached you in the streets of Tokyo, Japan. You were studying abroad in grad school, telling him that you’d been working on your masters degree within Administration, to which he replied that he shared a business with his partner—a contractor, he was.

You would never forget that initial interaction. The onyx of his hair tousled in a flawless way, matching the natural frown of his full eyebrows each time he watched you speak.

He allowed you to ramble off with low hums of ’Mmm’, even with it being the first conversation between the two of you. And to be honest, it made you nervous. From the warm ivory of his complexion that was coated with tattoos, being so many that they traveled beneath the white tee he wore, to his frame that was tall, lean, and built—the cadence of his deep voice, a gruffness to his tone as a cigarette sunk between the side of his full lips—He was like no other.

But you feigned an innocence he couldn’t pull from. The deep ginger curls draping around your freckled cheeks flushed as he spoke to you, round eyes beaming from beneath your lashes—you wore a cherry blossom within your tresses, pale pink mini dress clad around your curvy figure as you held textbooks beneath your arms. Your giggles, your smile, all those things made you like no other even more so.

He wanted you.

You both resided in New Orleans as his business was the most successful there, receiving a multitude of clients after Hurricane Katrina hit the city years before. Behind that scary demeanor was a man with wholehearted compassion—He helped others create their new homes after losing their old ones, becoming known as the most popular contractor along the West Bank. But of course, he had a little help along the way.

He offered you a job as his business’ consultant manager, able to give feedback on their personal brand as contractors, as well as answering emails and phone calls—but here’s where the issue began.

Onyankopon.

The first time meeting him was entirely friendly, even when his looks might’ve had your stomach do a flip. To the heavy New Orleans twang that slipped between a few creole words as he spoke to you, to the strength of his hand when he shook yours. The sepia of his smooth skin complexion shined in cocoa butter, strident jaw clenching as he shook the small frame of your palm.

You’ little as hell, you remember him telling you.

He was an extreme contrast to Toji—open faced grills within his mouth, teeth straight and white each time he smiled or laughed. His lips were a deep pink, full, kissabl—

Teeth. His teeth were nice.

Your eyes ran across the neatly braided cornrows, broad frame covered in tattoos that moved when he flexed his muscles. In that moment, he’d lifted his shirt to wipe the moisture of sweat from his forehead, goatee wafting a shea butter scent from the follicles—but you couldn’t even finish reading his body over, as your eyes fell right at the sculpt of his abs, Bible scriptures thumping across the flesh as he grunted from the heat of outside. And like an idiot, your reply was—

You have big hands.

Yeah, you were fucked.

Well, at first you weren’t. Onyankopon had been the best man in your wedding, constantly coming over to the house, even dozing off on the sofa as you laid a blanket over him. You and him had a good enough rapport with Toji being the common denominator—so the question was, why did you have the inkling to fuck him?

This wasn’t cheating, right?

Regardless of Toji and Onyankopon growing up together, they were extremely different—Toji was more aggressive, outspoken, able to soften his hard corners the minute he was with you. On the other hand, Onyankopon was sweet, observant, quiet, and stoic—he was the action, while Toji was the mouth piece.

So back to the point—this definitely wasn’t cheating, right?

Okay, but you loved your husband. He was there for you throughout all your highs and lows—He was patient, affectionate, hard-working, all the things you wanted within a man. He was the only man you’d ever been with—sexually, romantically—so you couldn’t understand why your brain was thinking about how big Onyankopon’s hands were—

Anyway, this was your husband’s fault. You couldn’t blame him for loving Onyankopon like a brother, but you could blame him for bringing him around more than he should have. He was like a villain to your origin story. Working out with the both of you at the gym, going out with you late at night, hanging around you just as much as your husband did. To make things worse? He was so. Damn. Nice. Opening the door for you, taking your hand as you needed to walk up the stairs, always asking how you felt throughout the day when your husband wasn’t able to do so.

It’s not that you wanted him, per se. It was the mixture of both your husband and him within the same room, deep voices talking shit to one another, laughing, eyeing you as you walked past, made dinner, giggled shyly when they both called for your attention—you weren’t trying to make it obvious that he made you a little fuzzy, but the narrow of your husband's eyes might’ve said otherwise.

Now? You were fucked.

Here you were now, sitting along your miniature desk as you did emails during the business’ new project. Both men were working on a house within Uptown, a two story home where the family wanted an all white kitchen. You were in between phone calls and looking over shop drawings to make sure the infrastructure was to the family’s desires, claw clip within your curls as they draped in between your fingers, sighing as the paper work had you a bit tired.

Your eyes wandered over to your husband standing on the opposite side of the room, ear leaning into the screen of his phone as he tugged construction gloves from his large palms—Onyankopon on the opposite side of him, plummeting his hammer into the wall above. You watched both men for a brief moment, as they both wore forest green long sleeves, tugging to the muscular frame of their shoulders and abdomen.

When you heard the click of Toji’s lighter, your eyes rolled.

“Please don’t smoke in someone else’s house, Fushiguro.”

Of course, that natural frown appeared seconds later. Your husband’s eyebrows lowered, wrist knocking down as he shook off the ash collecting at the tip of his cigar.

“‘Bout to go outside” he grunts to you, “The wife said she wants white oak instead of maple for the counter.”

Onyankopon hadn’t turned towards either of you, but he did stop his hammering, a low breath huffing from his lips as he grunted in return, “Why she ain’t say that shit earlier? I’m finna’ get started on the window.”

Toji releases a puff of smoke, “Husband said he’ll pay double.”

“That don’t’ make it any less work.”

Your husband’s grey eyes peered over his slightly irritated friend, a glint within them as he leaned forward, blowing smoke towards Onyankopon.

He now fully turned from where he stood, brown eyes stabbing every inch of Toji’s body—his low voice warns, “Chill out, nigga. You see I’m tryna’ figure out what I need to do.”

Both men always had an interesting dynamic—one could be playful, while the other couldn’t be at all. It was always easy for Toji to rile up Onyankopon.

“You’re mad ‘cause more money ‘bout to go in your pocket?” Toji raises an eyebrow, “Quit whinin’.”

Onyankopop turns to face the wall, hand holding onto the hammer, “Ain’t nobody whinin’. Stop talkin’ to me.”

Toji glances back at you from the other side of the room, a wink being sent in your direction.

You roll your eyes at the both of them, “And where does she think we’re gonna find White Oak at nearly six in the afternoon?”

“She’s tryna’ change everything to white oak,” Toji clarified, “Countertops to white granite, cabinets to off white.”

That’s when Onyankopon tosses the hammer beside his boot. He crosses his arms to lean his back along the wall, face hard from this conversation.

“She might as well do a whole new renovation,” he mutters.

“You’ the only one complaining.”

“Don’t mean I ain’t right,” Onyankopon counters, “Shit don’t’ make sense. We got three more days before the contract is up, and now she on some’ HGTV bullshit.”

“‘Can’t complain if that’s what they want.”

Onyankopon turns towards you.

“How’ you feelin’ about this?”

You blink at the question, not wanting to be in the middle of one of their usual disputes. You tug a ginger curl behind your ear, scrunching your nose to adjust the tip of your glasses.

Your voice is soft, “Onyankopon’s right, baby. I think it’s a little late for changes in renovations when you’re already halfway done with the kitchen.”

You see your husband's jaw tighten at your confirmation, his back straightening as he glances between the two of you. Even if he didn’t agree, he had to understand his partner's point of view.

“I hear both of you,” Toji glances at Onyankopon, “What you wanna’ tell them?”

“Finish the current cabinet set up, make the kitchen white, and she can set another appointment if she wanna add other shit.”

You glance down to the paper beneath you, pen flicking beneath your fingers, “We still need more maple—think you can make it to Home Depot before they close?”

Toji gives a nod of approval, stomping on the butt of the cigar he was trying to finish, “I got it. Gonna’ head that way.”

Onyankopon's eyebrows raise in surprise, “You goin’ by yo’self?”

“Why? You gonna’ kiss and make up with me now?”

Onyankopons’ eyes narrow, “Ain’t nobody kissin’ yo’ overgrown ass, nigga.”

“You sound like a damn teenager.”

“‘Cause I’m arguin’ with one.”

“Can you tell me you love me and stop arguing, please?” you tilt your head, “Come gimme’ some love.”

The smallest smile might’ve found Toji’s mouth.

“You want love?” His footsteps approach your desk, heavy on the wooden floor, “You want some love, huh?”

His large hand runs up the length of your shoulder, fingers finding your neck as he pushes your chin up, “You hearin’ me?”

“Mhm,” you hum, pulling him lower by the bicep of his arm, “Don’t be long,” You rub your nose against his, “You love me?”

Toji brings his other hand to the other side of your neck, thumbs grazing your cheeks with that signature smirk on his lips, “You know I do.”

He pulls your face towards his, gruff as he questions, “You like when I tell you that?”

You’re met with the familiar taste of his mouth, tongue exploring yours as he sighs through his nose, hushing your small giggle through the kiss.

“Aight,” Onyankopon interrupts, “Y’all know Home Depot finna’ close, huh?”

Toji raises his middle finger in the direction of the other man, giving you a couple more pecks—his hand lingers along your neck when he turns back to his friend, “You’re still over there cryin’? Let me kiss my woman.”

He then stands to his full height, “‘Need anything from me before I leave, wifey?” he sarcastically questions Onyankopon.

Onyankopons’ eyes roll up in the direction of the ceiling, hand moving to rub the bridge of his nose. “Just gon’ head, Fushiguro.”

“Have those emails ready for me,” He gives a kiss to your forehead, “Behave.”

He then extends back up once more, “Watch my woman for me, bastard.”

“I always do,” Onyankopon murmurs, “She’ good with me.”

And with that, the door closed.

You didn’t expect your husband to be gone for almost two hours. He wasn’t answering the phone, and the heat seeping into the home had you ready to call it quits. Your fingers were lazily typing across the keyboard, flickering up to Onyankopon every once in a while.

You softly ask, “Did he text you back?”

Onyankopons’ brown eyes glance up from his own set of papers.

“Nah,” he replies, “I called him, ain’t answer.”

You pout your lips at the news, now knowing Toji was really taking his time.

Onyankopon notices your face.

“He ain’t dead, shawty. Nigga prolly’ searchin’ for the best maple wood in all of New Orleans. He’d overwork himself before givin’ a bad service.”

The words make you smile a bit, knowing your husband just as much as he did.

You say, “I’m sorry. I just hate when he goes awol—I probably sound annoying.”

Onyankopon lets out a low chuckle, one that rumbles through the release of his chest. His attention was now on you instead of those papers, leaned forward in his chair. His shoulders seemed to expand in size.

“Youn’ sound annoying, just worried,” He leans forward more, “He ain’t good at checkin’ the time when he be runnin’ errands.“

He looks back down at his work, a moment of silence passing before he glances up again,

“You ain’t hungry, are you?”

Your eyes find themselves back to his face, realizing how long you’d glance over his muscular frame.

“Hm?” You process the question, “Um—no, I’m fine. I don’t like to bother you guys about food while you’re working and I’m just sitting, y’know?”

You adjust your glasses once more, “I’m fine, really.”

Onyankopop squinted his eyes in the direction of you, eyebrows cocking up when he asked, “You ain’t eat nothin’ today?”

His voice was like honey. Sweet, with a deep rumble, and it didn’t help the fact that he was giving you his full attention.

“You know you ain’t no bother to me. I can go grab you sum’.”

The thing was, you were hungry. Toji was sweet enough to have pack you a lunch earlier, one that you’d already scarfed down and hadn’t thought about until this moment. You weren’t sure why you couldn’t just say all that, but maybe it had to do with the way he looked at you.

Something him and your husband had in common—it was that damn glare they kept upon their faces, whether they were happy, upset, or just fixated on something. You hated to say that the sight had you shifting within your chair.

Your face flushes a bit, “I’m okay, Ony. Thank you.”

You might’ve been crazy. You swear you saw the corner of his mouth lifting at the nickname, but it happened too fast— it had to be a trick of the sunlight.

“You sure?”

The concern he displayed was always so pure, it made you wanna kill him.

You nod, “Promise. I’m just gonna finish my emails,” you nearly fumbled your words, “I have a couple more to do.”

“Youn’ gotta overwork yo’self, Mama. You can stop if you’ exhausted,” he gently adds, “Toji gon’ be out for a minute.”

There was that look again, the one that felt deep within your body, like you were entirely naked in front of him.

There was also the fact that your heart was pounding. It was either a heart attack, or you were going to spontaneously combust—

“You’ warm?” He questions, “You sweatin’.”

You quickly glance down your body, noticing the sheen of your skin. The soft yellow halter dress you wore hugged along your wide hips with the mixture of sweat—but nothing was worse when you realized your nipples seeping through the fabric up top. You weren’t even cold.

You run your fingers through your hair, pulling your curls farther away from the back of your neck. You awkwardly giggle, “‘S just really hot in here.”

The corner of his mouth definitely twitched up that time, like he had an idea of what was happening to you right now. He probably didn’t. You hoped he didn’t.

You could see the muscles of his arms flex when he shifted in his chair, fingers of his left hand scratching along his facial hair.

“It is,” he agrees, “Imma’ finish up this window.“

When he stands from his seat, you then hear, “You need me?”

You blink, eyes flickering over him as your mouth goes dry, “Huh?”

“I said, you lemme’ know if you need anything, aight?”

You were losing it.

“Okay,” you force the most normal smile, “Got it.”

This had to be your personal hell. It might’ve been enjoyable for anyone else, but this was the worst thing you could’ve witnessed. You were trying to finish your work, but you found yourself…glancing above your computer.

Onyankopons’ hands were rough, strong with large palms as he held up the thick glass window, the muscles within his arms flexing from the power of it. A few beads of sweat fell within the crevasses of his chest, dripping down and soaking into his shirt, tight from how it stretched across his body. His dark brows were focused, tongue running across his lips as his jaw was set, feet were slightly spread apart, like a soldier, stance strong—God, he was so strong.

His hair was braided back, sweat beading and traveling down his temples, face focused on the work in front of him. He gave a loud huff as he nailed in the window frame, face scowling as his biceps flexed.

Lord Jesus.

But oh, you must’ve been in the seventh ring of hell when he tugged that shirt off of his body. He’d begun playing music to keep himself distracted, but if only he knew.

The tattoos that lined his arms and chest were now on full display, shiny with the sweat. His chest and abs flexed from the work of lifting heavy objects, the thick length of his tatted neck and shoulders flexing from the movements.

And then, so attractively, he rolled his neck back, grunting as he lifted the weight of the glass once more.

You felt dizzy.

Your cheeks flushed as you watched him, eyes staring almost dreamily. There was nothing more attractive than a man working hard, sweat pouring down his body as he pushed his strength to the limits. It made you—imagine things. Your body throbbed at your thoughts, a small frown coming between your lips at the sight.

But that frown quickly erased, as your heart nearly dropped into your ass the moment you heard the door unlock. You hiked your body up to the perfect sitting position, scattering your fingers for your pen as you scribbled random words along the bottom of your papers.

You couldn’t even look in Toji’s direction.

Your husband could’ve called out your name, but you still wouldn’t have looked over. So when Toji appeared beside your desk, his strong arm draping over your shoulders, the weight nearly startled you.

“Babydoll,” he rasped, “What’s goin’ on? You need some water?”

Your eyes glanced at Onyankopon.

Kissing Toji’s jaw, your face flushed as you deflected, “The Louisiana heat is dire—what took you so long, baby?”

Toji’s eyebrows quirked up at your sudden affection, catching the tense in your body. However, being your easily distracted husband, he loved when you wanted to be on him. His hands rubbed over your arms, attempting to soothe you a bit.

“The closest Home Depot didn’t have the wood in stock,” he murmured, “Damn near traveled the entire state.”

Your hips had always been your sensitive spot, lower body shivering a bit as he began to rub there. You found yourself wanting to hold his face, tugging his body to be closer as you told him, “‘Missed you, Toji.”

His grip was light, a thumb brushing along the curve of one of your eyebrows.

“Yeah?” he murmured back.

He noticed the way you tried to look elsewhere.

His fingers came to grip beneath your chin, gently forcing your attention back to him.

“Eyes,” he reminded, “Need em’ here.”

Your husband was a lot of things, but oblivious wasn’t one of them.

“I’m just a little tired,” you found something to say, your hands rubbing at the smoothness of his jaw, rubbing his neck, rubbing everywhere to distract him.

Toji leaned into your touch, but not much. It made your heart beat more.

“You sure that’s the only thing?”

You nod, “Mhm.”

His frown flickers your face once more, but the warmth of your palms was all too soothing. His mouth grunted along your throat, “Missed you too,” kissing pecks along the warm flesh. Your fingers sunk into his hair as you giggled a bit, leaning your head back for him to keep his affection going. But in that moment, your eyes might’ve glanced at Onyankopon once more.

If only you’d realized that your husband noticed.

Finishing off the night was another hour later, as you’d both said your goodbyes to Onyankopon, quickly making it home to wash off the heat of the day. You sat in the vanity your husband had built for you, angles carved within the gold trim of the mirror, lights attached to the surface below to do your skincare or makeup.

As your husband was within the shower, your mind wandered. You’d hoped today’s little hiccup was a spur of the moment, and that you’d become a bit delirious from the heat. However, you still thought about the way Onyankopon looked at you, and something in that still had your thighs squeezing together.

“Pretty girl,” you hear your husband call, the bathroom door opening to reveal him within a towel—it hangs low on his muscular hips, abs sweltering in water, upper body flexing as he dries the damp of his hair.

“You finished up those emails earlier?”

Shit.

The tips of your fingers swiped along your cheek with oil, your eyes briefly finding his as you replied, “Um—No, I didn’t.”

Toji raised an eyebrow in your direction, not used to hearing your denial of finished work.

“What happened?”

Your body shivered under the intensity of his gaze, the heat of the shower steam slowly crawling into the room.

“Got distracted with a couple of phone calls,” was your lie, “Want me to finish them before bed?”

“You seem distracted now,” he points out, “‘Can barely make eye contact with me.”

“You’re the most handsome man in the world,” you hum, “What can I say?”

Toji huffs a chuckle.

His gaze still hardened on you, studying you with those all-seeing eyes of his. You kept your head turned, face flushing again, fingers moving along your facial products as you pretended not to feel it. That’s when you hear him again.

“Let me ask you somethin’.”

Your heart immediately started beating, turning towards him with raised eyebrows.

You tug a curl behind your ear, “Yeah?”

Toji leaned his hip along the edge of the sink, towering over you even with feet away.

“How you feelin’ ‘bout Onyankopon?” he flatly questions, “You like him?”

Your eyes blink at the question. You tilt your head, “You’ve been friends for years. Why wouldn’t I?”

Toji lets a low hum escape his chest while his thumbs hooked at the hips of his towel. His biceps flexed from the position.

“That’s not what I asked.”

You tried to keep your expression neutral.

“What are you asking, then?”

“To be honest with me.”

Onyankopon wasn’t a topic he treaded lightly on, especially when it concerned you. He wasn’t a possessive man by any means, but any question he asked, he wanted the truth.

He repeats, “You like him?”

“I don’t—“ you went to argue, but his eyes stopped you.

So you try again.

“That’s a bit of a weird question to ask, Fushiguro.”

The corner of Toji’s mouth twitched with a frown at you dodging the question. His eyes, however, kept you in a hold.

“Nah,” he disagreed, “It ain’t.”

You sat there quietly, thinking about lying like you’d been doing all day. But the guilt of lying to him felt heavy in your chest.

So, with the slightest of hesitance, you softly admitted, “I do.”

You then follow up with, “But it’s not…like that.”

“Make me understand.”

You shifted in your chair, legs crossing as you attempted to keep your gaze from drifting.

You replied, “I don’t like him in a romantic way. I just—“

Your teeth scrape at your lip a bit, “It’s just a little fantasy, you know? That’s all. I would never act on any of my emotions, Toji. You know that.”

His expression was unreadable.

“Right?”

You wanted that confirmation, swallowing hard. Toji studied you, jaw shifting in the silence that fell.

You then added, “You’re the one I married.”

He replied, “That don’t’ answer my next question.”

“What question?”

His next words had the silence in the room deafening.

“Your fantasy. Talk me through it.”

Your mouth parts to speak, but no words escape you.

“What?”

“Tell me about your fantasy,” Toji repeated, “Don’t act like you don’t understand what I’m askin’ you.”

You felt heat creep back up your body, your cheeks practically on fire.

“There’s nothing to tell, baby. It’s—silly.”

Toji’s jaw ticked.

“You think I’m mad at you?”

You question, “Are you?”

“I’m not. Shit ain’t silly if you’re flustered like this.”

He then repeats, “Tell me.”

You swallowed, fiddling with your manicured fingers.

“Promise you won’t be mad?”

He huffs, “I just told you I wasn’t, babydoll. C’mon.”

Your legs moved together awkwardly, fingers still fiddling, “When I see the two of you being together, working, just—doing stuff, I imagine…”

Toji waited, watching you fidget.

“Sexual stuff, Y’know? My mind just gets a little dirty.”

“You think ‘bout him fuckin’ you?”

“Toji.”

“You think ‘bout him fuckin’ you while I watch?”

“Fushiguro!” you squeaked, “Jesus, no. I think about the both of you,” you clarify, “That’s all!”

You stand from the chair, going over to lightly wrap your arms around his neck—you’re breathless as you whimper, “Please stop asking me this. It’s a stupid thing, okay? I love you. I’d never do anything with anyone else.”

“Is that somethin’ you want?”

“What?” you frown, “What do you mean?”

“You want me and him? You wanna take that?”

You knock your head into his chest, throwing your hands over your face as you squeak again, “Baby!”

The corner of Toji’s mouth lifted with amusement, “I’m just askin’ a question.”

You felt mortified.

You were stubborn in keeping your face covered, muttering out, “No, Fushiguro. Please. Stop.”

You could feel his chuckle against your head, deep within his chest as his arms wrapped around your waist.

“You’re so shy, woman.”

“You’re insane,” you murmur, heart thumping in your chest, “Why aren’t you mad? How aren’t you mad?”

“Don’t really have anythin’ to be mad ‘bout,” Toji murmured, squeezing at your waist, “You like the idea of it; ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.”

“I feel insane,” You reply.

“Shit is kinda’ cute, honestly.”

“Toji,” You smack his bicep, “Stop.”

“Ouch.”

His hands gripped at the full flesh of your ass, forcing you to hold around his neck as you sat on the sink countertop.

“You done with your lil’ tantrum?”

You roll your eyes, “My husband is tryna’ admit to me wanting to fuck his best friend. I think my reaction is pretty valid.”

His lips brushed up your neck, voice deep, gruff with his reply, “Ain’t nobody said nothin’ ‘bout all that, huh?” Your legs hooking at either side of his hips, holding him between the warmth of your thighs.

“Can we stop talking about this?” you question, “Why can’t you just say I’m pretty and that you love me? Why do you have to make my life harder?”

He smirked at your complaint. He then responded with, “I think you’re the prettiest thing in the South; you know that.”

His strong hands were already tugging the fabric of your night gown, palming at the soft flesh up your thigh. You grip at his hair, fingers twisting within it.

“You know I love you so damn much,” he grunts, nose running along the curve of your neck, “You’re mine.”

You pucker your lips out, awaiting a kiss.

Toji gives you what you want, of course. He groaned from the sensation of you tugging down on his bottom lip, sucking on it with a pop as he pulled away.

You run your tongue along your lips as you giggle, “Mkay.”

You then sigh, “Wanna go to bed? Get a little—freaky?” you playfully wiggle your brows.

“Yeah. Lemme’ call up Onyankopon first—“

You smack his chest again.

The next couple of days were better than you imagined. It was a resting period, both you and Toji spending most of your time sleeping, cuddling, watching shows, and overall rejuvenating one another in preparation for work the next week.

Your time off had gotten infinitely better when your husband received a phone call from a client within the Garden District—who he thought wasn’t interested in his services—but when he offered triple Toji and Onyankopon’s pay rate, it seemed otherwise. You whisper screamed as you jumped on the bed above him, your feet thumping on either side of his legs as he talked business, watching as he tried to hold off his chuckle.

Here’s when things got weird. Later that morning, Onyankopon planned to come over for a football game, as you’d also agreed to cook in celebration of your big contract coming up. It was a usual routine��football, gym, coming back home to cook.

But something about today’s routine felt…different.

Toji and Onyankopon. The combination of the two was something you could usually handle, but when you came downstairs that morning for coffee, you felt an energy coming off of them. You were usually comfortable in their company. Toji was his rough, crass self, but nonetheless a loving husband. And then there was Onyankapon, who was usually the sweetheart.

But now, you felt as if their attitudes had shifted. They’d been quiet and watchful since you’d entered the kitchen, eyes following your every single move. That’s when you realize—they were watching you like you were their prey.

“Good morning?”

Your voice was sweet, nervous. You waved as if they weren’t ten feet away.

Both men replied with their own version of a greeting, their eyes locked on your form as you moved to grab a cup of coffee. You could feel the heat of their stares.

It was almost—too silent.

If that wasn’t weird, this definitely was. The energy picked up around the afternoon, both men gulping down a beer together as their low tones barked at the television, watching the game at its peak. You’d finished up with those emails you were supposed to finalize, snuggling yourself into your husband as you leaned your upper body into his, Onyankopon beside you while continuously watching the game. Your eyes were a bit droopy as you weren’t as interested, sinking your face deeper into Toji’s abdomen. And that’s when it happened—you felt Onyankopon graze his fingers along your hip as he spoke to your husband about the game. Your eyes went wide.

Onyankopon’s voice was gruff from football games and beers, but his fingers were steady as ever against your skin. Both men were locked onto the screen as if your reaction was nothing important—All the while, you felt your heart thumping under your rib cage.

Your clit throbbed.

Then, it was your husband's turn. Toji’s hand was a stark contrast to Onyankopon’s; rough, large, calloused, and much thicker. His fingers cladded onto your ass, pulling your body back so you were nestled further between the two.

“You think LSU’s gonna’ make an upset today?”

“Ain’t no way them’ niggas beatin’ Georgia,” Onyankopon shook his head, “I’m reppin’ my state, but they’ be drawlin’.”

“You always goin’ too hard for the opposition,” Toji countered, “Gotta’ be more confident in the home team.”

“You ain’t even from Louisiana,” Onyankopon sucked his teeth, “Why you defendin’ niggas like they’ payin’ you to say allat’?”

“I ‘been here for sixteen years now. Chill.”

They’re both touching. Again.

Your heart felt as if it was being squeezed between two giant fingers. You’d tried so hard to keep your focus on the game, but Onyankopon shifted forward in his seat, leaning more of his body closer to your ass. Toji shifted his legs apart, forcing you to lean a bit more onto Onyankopon.

Your heart palpitated.

“You wanna’ go against this bet or not?”

Onyankopon was still rubbing at your hip. He grunted at Toji’s response, “Don’t get yo’ ass beat.”

“Beat this bet, Pussy.”

“Who’ the pussy?”

“I’d say the man who’s ‘bouta lose fifty dollars.”

Your ass was right on top of Onyankopon’s thigh at this point.

You inhaled a shaky breath, feeling a bit dizzy at the scent of them. Toji smelled like nature; earthy, woodsy. Onyankopon, however, smelled like musk and some type of cologne. You weren’t sure which one you liked more, their argument now completely muffled to your ears.

They were trying to kill you.

Maybe it didn’t actually happen that way. Your mind fed on those delusions as you stood within the gym later that day, zoning out each time you waited to do your rep behind both men. You’d always worked out with them, learning different techniques that left your body sore afterwards—but once again, today was different.

They were both rough with their work outs, grunting whenever they’d throw down a set of weights. Chests’ heaving, sweat collecting, they were hot. But today, the attention was on you.

To top it off, they were still touching.

The way Onyankopons’ fingers would graze over your waist as he helped you with your sets, how Toji’s hand smacked your ass as you walked past them—You couldn’t handle them.

It all led into the night—once everyone was refreshed and showered, you were within the kitchen cooking one of their favorite meals—steak, loaded potatoes and broccoli. You were comforted by the candles lit along the house, a glass of wine easing your nerves from the entire day. Your ginger curls draped around your face and past your hips, pale yellow halter top and matching capris hugging the fat of your ass, frilly sock beneath your golden heels to match the jewelry on your caramel skin. You were currently seasoning your steak, eyes briefly flickering to the patio door halfway open as both men smoked a blunt together. You watched them.

Toji was dressed in those loose, dark cargos that hung off of his hips for dear life, a white muscle shirt stretched to its limit across his biceps and over the chest. Onyankopons’ pants were black, and his shirt was navy blue. They're both huge.

A slight breeze drifted through the cracked patio door, blowing into the house and mixing with the scents of Toji’s—and now their—smoke.

Their shoulders flexed as they passed the blunt back and forth, laughter and low conversation heard through the glass. They were both so handsome, so attractive, so rough compared to you.

Your eyes briefly met theirs from the doorway, Toji’s eyes that dark grey, Onyankopons’ a lighter brown.

They were looking at you. No other way to describe it. They were looking at you.

The sight made you a bit wobbly. Nonetheless, you waved through the window at the two, dimple poking with the soft smile you gave them.

Your husbands’ fingers rubbed at his jaw while Onyankopon cracked a smirk, waving back at you in return.

Okay.

When they made it back inside, you were in the middle of cutting your potatoes up—you hummed, “Everything okay?”

Toji’s gaze was focused on your hands as you chopped the vegetables, but it eventually flickered to your face as he replied, "Good, just missed you out there.”

Onyankopons’ head tilted your direction too, eyes scanning you from head to toe, “You look good,” He complimented, voice raspy.

You blushed at his compliment. Accepting the kiss Toji gave along your cheek, you’re distracted as he tugs his finger through your curls—you giggle a bit, “Just wanted to look pretty for tonight—you guys look nice too,” you turn your face to kiss at your husbands lips, “You guys hungry?”

Toji leaned in for another kiss, sucking your lower lip between his teeth as he multiplied his pecks. You rubbed your fingers along his shoulder, turning your face up for his mouth to find your jaw. You weren’t used to your husband giving this kind of affection in front of his friend.

“Starvin’,” Toji grunted.

Onyankopons’ eyes stayed on you, tongue running along those large lips of his, “You always lookin’ pretty, Mama. You know that?”

The pet name made your thighs want to clench.

“Um—“ you giggled once more, holding Toji’s jaw to keep him in place, “Thank you, Ony. I should be done with dinner soon, okay?”

“Don’t take too long,” Toji murmured along your neck, “Can’t keep my mouth off’ you.”

His hand smacked the fuller portion of your ass, sending it jiggling beneath your capris.

Onyankopons’ tongue ran along his lips, “Aight. I’m waitin’ on you, girl.”

That sentence weighed in your chest.

Toji went upstairs to find another lighter, leaving the two of you downstairs—alone. You hummed the low instrumentals of your music, beginning to slice the stems of your broccoli. You gave Onyankopon a small smile as his eyes found yours every so often, tugging your hair out of your face as a way to distract how anxious you felt.

You softly ask, “How’d you spend your days off?”

Onyankopons’ eyes followed the movement of your fingers through your hair, watching the way your neck exposed when you threw it back. His arms folded over his chest, the veins within his forearms prominent from the action.

“Shit was aight,” he replied evenly, “‘Nigga just caught up on some sleep. You?”

You hummed, attempting to look for another cutting board, “We caught up on a couple of shows, cuddled, mushy shit that married couples do,” you shake your head.

You then ask, “How ‘you feel about the contract in the Garden District?”

The corner of Onyankopons’ mouth twitched with a small smile, eyes lingering on the way your hips shifted.

“Feels good to have contracts comin’ left and right,” he replied, “Blessed, essentially. Y’all’ been on my ass since the last project, so I’m ready to start sum’ new.”

You turn your head towards him, hair draping over your shoulder. You roll your eyes, musing, “Y’know it’s not like that, Onyankopon. Toji is just—despite the things clients ask for, he wants to go above and beyond that. Not saying you don’t, he’s just—particular, you know?”

Onyankopons’ eyes were practically glued to you as he replied, “Yeah, nah, I ain’t mean it like that. I know how Toji gets, that’s just part of the process,” His head cocked, “He just get’ too caught up sometimes.”

Onyankopons’ eyebrows lifted, “How you’ be puttin’ up wit’ him?”

“The same way you do,” you softly giggle, “We both love him. It’s a thing we seem to have in common.”

He chuckled in return, your attention moving back to finish cutting your broccoli. After a few moments of silence, your eyes flick back up to him—you call, “Ony?”

You think on your words.

“I just wanted to say—thank you, for being such a good friend to him. He doesn’t have anyone in his life outside of me, and having such amazing emotional support, he’s happier when you’re around. It means the world.”

Onyankopons’ expression changed with the way your voice softened, something warm, comfortable, almost intimate coming from the way you talked about his friend, his best friend for that matter.

His voice was softer in reply, “Of course, Mama. Toji’s family to me. Couldn’t ask a nigga for a better person to have in my corner.”

After a moment, he then questions, “What ‘bout you?”

You blink at the question, “What about me?”

“You’ happy to have me around?”

The question makes your heart thump. You sigh, “I’m always happy to have you around, Ony. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Ion’ make you feel no type of way?”

You blink.

“Of course not.”

There was something about his tone that made your nerves tighten. The way he looked at you was different from the way Toji did, but it had your heart thumping the same.

“No,” You reply, “You’ve been nothing but sweet to me since day one.”

He spread his legs a bit, abdomen flexing as he did so.

Onyankopons’ head tilted, “Just sweet?”

You swallowed, nodding.

“Yeah.”

His fingers flexed as they rested in his lap. You turned your back to him, beginning to cut the remaining broccoli.

“Nothin’ else?”

Your neck prickled at the way his voice dropped.

You shook your head, keeping your eyes locked below. But that’s when you hear—

“I see how you be lookin’ at me, girl.”

Your hands clenched around the knife.

When your eyes find his, that’s when your body tensed—your hands quickly dropping the knife as you feel a slice along your index finger. You held your hand towards your body, scrunching your face at the discomfort.

Onyankopons’ chair made an obnoxious noise as he shot up from his seat—It seemed he was across the room in a second, towering over your body as he took hold of your injured hand. His hands were large, long fingers circling all the way to your wrist as he assessed the wound.

“I—I wasn’t paying attention,” You murmured, “I got distracted. You—“

And then, he’s sucking.

Your eyes widened as Onyankopons’ lips engulfed the wound on your index finger, tongue licking the area with zero hesitance. It was the last thing you expected him to do.

“Ony—“

“‘Gotta be more careful, Mama.”

His tongue runs across his mouth as he pulls back, as if savoring the taste of you. Your lips parted, your chest heaving as his lips hovered along yours.

“You got a taste on you, girl.”

You could’ve died right there. That’s when you hear the heavy thumps of your husband coming downstairs, your face hot as he eyes the two of you in closer vicinity.

He questions, “You good, baby? What happened?”

You felt dizzy under both of their heavy gazes. You swallowed again, nodding.

“She cut her finger,” Onyankopons’ replied evenly, “She wasn’t payin’ attention.”

And as both men conversed normally after that, that’s when you realized—they were in fact trying to get you.

Your mind was elsewhere during dinner. The wine had your brain fuzzy, keeping yourself quiet as you watched both men talk shit between one another, per usual. Everything up in this moment began to click—the day you watched Onyankopon, the conversation with Toji, the weird interactions between the two all day—at this point, you were just waiting for something to happen.

“Yo’, you remember when we went into that adult store up on Bourbon street? Niggas was weird,” Onyankopon chuckle, “Never went back after that.”

Toji huffed, nodding in agreement, “Dude was tellin’ us ‘bout wantin’ to be a dog. I’m not judgin’, but I didn’t wanna hear all that.”

Both men laughed. Your fingers tapped against your glass nervously.

Toji then turns, “We went to one a couple years ago, huh, babydoll?”

You blink at Toji’s words, snapping out of your thoughts when your husband addresses you.

“Yeah,” you laugh a bit, “Yeah, we did.”

Toji chuckled once more, “We were in there for hours.”

Your eyes widened, “We were not in there for that long!”

Onyankopons’ head tilted, “What were y’all doin’ in there, applyin’ for the job?”

You roll your eyes, “Funny, but no. I just wanted to find something—sorry, you don’t wanna hear all that,” you shook your head, “It’s a little TMI.”

Onyankopon raised an eyebrow.

“Try me, I ain’t gon’ freak out.”

You inhaled a deep breath, giving in. You sat up in your seat, clearing your throat as you fiddled with the stem of your glass.

“I was just—browsing,” you giggle, “I was looking for a dildo, but the ones they had were a little too big for me. Like, seven or eight inches.”

Toji and Onyankopons’ heads tilted, expressions staying the same, but you could see it within their eyes that there was a change. Toji’s eyes darkened, lips pressed together. Onyankopons’ jaw flexed a bit.

And then, Onyankopon chuckles.

It sends a chill through your spine, one where you didn’t understand what was exactly funny. Your eyes run across him the same way you did a couple days ago—cornrows, strident face, full goatee. You almost missed his next set of words as he looked at Toji.

“She ain’t gon’ be able to fit me.”

You felt your entire body freeze.

Toji’s jaw clicked in return, “Nah, she will. She be takin’ my shit real good now.”

Were you going into shock?

You could’ve melted into the chair. Toji murmured, “My pretty ass woman. Always so shy.”

“She’ more than shy,” Onyankopon murmured in return, his tone low, “Ain’t that right, pretty girl?”

Your body felt like it was about to light on fire from the inside out.

“I—“

“What’s wrong, Mama?” Onyankopon questions, “Youn’ want me no’ more?”

Your mouth dropped open.

Toji grunted, “Words, baby. We need to hear you.”

And there it was. The arousal in your body ignited like a flame in that very second, becoming wet. You looked between the both of them, and suddenly, you were trying desperately not to break.

“Toji,” you pouted, “I—“

“Nuh-uh,” Toji clicked his teeth, “We don’t pout. You gotta’ speak up, don’t you?”

His gaze was intense, his lips slightly upturning as he watched you flounder around yourself. You had never felt so vulnerable in your life as both men’s eyes kept you locked on the chair—no escape.

Onyankopon gave a low groan in return, “Use your words, Mama. I love hearin’ that voice.”

Your chest rose and fell faster, feeling like you wanted to rip your skin off.

Moral to the story? You were absolutely, positively fucked.

Your round eyes stared from above, fluttering between two looming frames that glared back down at you—the difference now? They were naked, and so were you. Your palms covered the swell of your nipples, ginger curls draping over your curvy body in a way that almost made you look otherworldly. You chewed at your baby pink lips, horny, curious.

They were so big.

Even within the bedroom, both men shared many differences—Onyankopons’ dick was massive, thick and veined at the top, long from the base. The complexion of his skin was beautiful and even, all the way down to his deep pink tip. Toji’s, however, was a bit more manageable—he wasn’t as wide, but was about a bit longer, his tip a softer pink as his chest rose and fell in a harsh manner, watching you.

“Show how pretty your shit is, baby.”

Toji’s voice. It echoes in your mind, low, gruff, and rumbling.

But that didn’t keep you from listening—even if you were a bit shy, you turn yourself to face the opposite of them—your back perfectly arches lower onto the bed, cheek pressed into the sheets as you spread your pussy open—your folds were in fact pretty, rougè, glistening beneath the dim lights of the room.

“There we go,” Onyankopons murmured, fingers moving to grip at the full bottom of one of your ass cheeks. When he spanked there, your body trembled in return, folds clenching around nothing,

“Look how muhfuckin’ pretty you are.”

You whimpered into the sheets. Toji gave a low grunt of his own, hand coming up to grip at your other cheek harshly, spreading you open more for them to see, “Fuckin’ hell, baby.”

Your back arched a bit more at the feel of your husband, stomach pressed into the mattress as your body quivered.

That’s when you felt a thick, heat prodding at your entrance. He’s slapping his tip on your folds.

You clenched once more—your nerves were on fire from just the sensation alone, feeling of his thick, slick head smacking down.

“Which one’ you feelin’, huh?”

“Toji,” you whimpered quickly, “Feel you, baby.”

“Just me,” Toji rasped, “Always mine. Ain’t she?”

Onyankopons’ voice was behind you, “Yours entirely.”

You felt your back stiffen to keep in the mewl you were about to let out—your eyes continuously fluttered, cheek still smashed against the sheets.

“Now you listenin’,” Toji murmured, “All good girls do that, huh?”

Onyankopon chuckled behind you; the bed shifted as he spread you even further.

“C’mere. Show me some love,” your husband husked.

That's why it was your favorite term—it was something you both used, as you either wanted the sweetest affection possible—or he was planning to rut his dick at the back of your throat. Your body was still shivering as you turned, your teeth grazing over your bottom lip as his hand found your chin.

Your round eyes glaze up, “Lemme’ have a kiss, baby.”

“Needy ass.”

His thumb swiped over your mouth, pulling your bottom lip with him as he watched your lips pucker, waiting for him to meet you.

“Just pretty as hell.”

His lips touched yours for a second, his tongue sliding inside your mouth to taste you. You returned the kiss, sliding your tongue around his mouth messily, panting when you pulled back—it made you throb everywhere, your mouth then lowering itself to latch onto the edge of his tip. The scent of him, the flex of his pelvic bone, you moan against him, sliding your fingers across his muscular abdomen.

“I know you’re excited baby—watch them’ teeth,” He growled, his head tilting back as the grip in your hair yanked your head further down his length, “Careful.”

You moaned around Toji’s dick once more, taking him just a little bit deeper into the confines of your mouth as he huffed. You could barely get halfway, your hands moving from his abdomen to rest on his muscular thighs, nails biting into his skin as his fingers kept you moving, the schluck of your mouth already creating a sound within the room. Your eyes cast to Onyankopon who watches, keeping his palm steady around his own dick, vision narrowing at the sight.

A string of saliva follows your full lips, your mouth pulling halfway off as your fingers wrap at the base of him, rotating your palm. Your voice, it’s higher in this scenario—your curls drape your body as you mewled, “Didn’t mean to hurt you, Daddy.”

Toji’s chest rumbled with a low chuckle, his hands gripping at your hair as you ran your tongue across his slit, spreading pre-cum across his tip before your mouth sucks, “You’re fine, baby. ‘Know you ain’t mean it.”

Toji then grunts, his face twisted back in pure pleasure, “Wanna’ see that pretty face a lil’ more.”

His other hand came down to grip along the side of your cheek, running his thumb along your jaw, “Tongue out at me. Show me how good my girl is.”

You didn’t hesitate to do as you were told, your mouth sliding backwards off of his length, tongue poking out to press just below his head.

Toji groaned, “Shit.”

You moaned in return, the sound muffling around him as your eyes locked on his. Your husband wasn’t always the most vocal man, letting you do most of the talking in bed—but to see how elated you were to have an audience, Toji let out a deep moan once you began to take him again, sliding him all the way to the back of your throat.

His hips pushed forward, slapping up against your chin as your mouth worked him—You looked up from beneath your eyelashes, eyes growing watery with the back of his tip hitting your throat. Your eyes found Onyankopon’s again, giving him a show.

Onyankopon’s jaw clicked at the sight.

Toji’s hands grip onto you, his face almost viscous in the look he gave. His voice came out in a hiss, “She ain’t stoppin’ no time soon.”

Onyankopon grunts at Toji’s words, the veins in his hands becoming more visible, “You’ doin’ a good job, girl—shit.”

“She’s doin’ a good job, huh?” Toji repeated, his free hand raking into your hair again, “You see that? My baby givin’ her all right now.”

All you could do under his grip was moan, nodding your head through its back and forth.

“I’m watchin’,” Onyankopons replied, his neck flexing from how he held himself. His fingers wrapped tightly around the base of his length, “I see you real good. Pretty ass bitch.”

Your face was a mess at this point. The makeup you had on earlier was smeared all across your mouth, your eyes still holding Onyankopons’ while Toji continued to move your head with his strong, large hands.

He grunted through his teeth, “She gettin’ better?”

“Yeah. Her mouth’ good as hell—I’m tryna’ feel that shit.”

Onyankopon wags his dick beneath his palm, “You gon’ let me?”

That’s when you slow your movements—your eyes peer back to the heft of his length, nearly the size of a monster you weren’t sure you could manage. At the same time, there was a slight hesitance in your eyes—simply because of who he was to you, and the last thing you wanted was to make your husband jealous.

Your lips swelled as you ran your tongue against them, eyes flickering up to Toji—your voice is soft, “Can I?”

Toji’s face flickered with something, but it quickly smoothed once he met Onyankopon’s dark eyes. A moment passed between them—a beat, or maybe two—your husband inhaled then exhaled, his features smirking slightly as he gave a single nod, “Go ‘head.”

“I love you,” you moan, sliding your tongue across Toji’s tip once more, “So much.”

It was a reassurance for him.

“I know you do,” Toji replied gruffly, his grip in your hair slackening once you move towards Onyankopons’ now exerted dick—it nearly slaps you in the face. You tugged at your lip once more, eyes eagerly facing up to him.

You weren’t sure what you expected, but it wasn’t this. Your fingers didn’t even wrap around him all the way.

Your hands come up to grip at the flesh of his quads, fingers digging into his skin as you flattened your tongue over the sides of Onyankopons’ dick, “Gon’ make me feel good, Mama? This what you been wantin’?”

You nod eagerly, feeling the way it twitched against your face. It jumped, too.

Your eyes widened. Your mouth was almost too small, or he was too thick. You moaned around his tip, sucking through the immediate fullness of your cheeks. Somehow, this felt rewarding.

You bobbed your head once, twice—He groans, his hands twitching against his thighs as he lets you try and take him, “There you go—that fuckin’ mouth.”

Onyankopon gritted his teeth; your tongue continued to slide up and down his length, sucking and swirling at his tip, wanting all of him in your mouth. Toji watched you, and he noticed something—the way your eyes rolled, as if this was in fact all you wanted. You were nastier, sloppier with the man opposite of him.

You moaned around his head, loudly, and Toji’s jaw clicked. You were careless—filthier with Onyankopon.

“Keep talkin’ to her,” Toji grunts, “That’s the shit she likes.”

Onyankopons’ hands finally settled on both sides of your throat, a rough grip on your chin with his thumbs—he moaned heavily, eyes flickering down towards you, “Pretty ass face, Mama. You suckin’ me up like a fuckin’ pro.”

You moaned in response, “Tastes so good.”

“Keep takin’ that shit, baby.”

Toji’s voice was all around you.

Onyankopon pushed his hips forward, a small shlupp was heard as you gagged. His fingers pressed against your cheek, feeling the curve of your stuffed mouth when he ran his thumb over the flesh, “Yeah? How it’ look?”

Without a second to waste, you let his tip pop out of your mouth, tongue poking out as you moaned, “‘Look so good. So handsome, Papa.”

You could hear him growl at the pet name, your face becoming more of a mess from how spit dripped over your chin. You were in a daze.

“Look in her eyes,” Toji instructs, “Look into them when you speak, too.”

Onyankopons’ eyes flicker down to meet your own once more, “Like that?”

You nod eagerly, lips swollen and puffy as you nod, “Mhm.”

“Always keep them’ eyes on her.”

Onyankopons’ mouth twitched into a smirk. They were brown; dark, a color you could get lost in if you looked long enough. They were bright despite the dimness of the room, holding nothing else but you.

His grip on your face got tighter as you slid your mouth back onto his length. You moaned again, feeling so full, “So big, Ony.”

You were becoming confident, a point you hit when you were so horny that it made you delirious—here it was. The sight of you was blinding—your mouth was engorged with the space of his dick, cheeks bulging as your eyes rolled shut blissfully. That's when you tugged Onyankopon from your mouth, tongue lolling out as you mewled, “Spit on it.”

And he did—he lowered his mouth, dropping saliva between your lips—he found himself kissing you seconds later, feigning to taste you. It was good, so good. Your body rose up to press against his as your fingers found his shoulders, nails digging into the skin as you moved forward on your knees to get closer to him, your head tilting further back so he could slide his tongue into your mouth. You sucked each other’s mouths.

That’s when it happens—when you lower back down to find the fat of Onyankopon’s dick, you slap it on your tongue so loudly that it echoes—Toji grunts in an irritation, “Don’t be fuckin’ cute.”

You giggled, running your tongue over Onyankopon’s length, sucking his balls into your mouth.

“Just wanted to taste him, Daddy.”

Onyankopon darkly chuckled.

That's when you hear Toji’s, “Yeah?”

He grunts, “Quit playing. Lay on your back, miss your pussy in my mouth.”

Onyankopons’ voice cut through the room, “Lay that ass down.”

At both of their commands, you listen. Your heart thumped within your chest as your back made contact with the bed—you hear Toji’s, “Come hold her legs—she be runnin’ from my mouth,” he grunts.

You whimper, “Sensitive, baby.”

Regardless, Onyankopon was behind your head—he hovered over to pull your legs back, holding you by your ankles as he spread you apart.

Your fingers were already sinking in your husband's hair below, clenching the tresses between your fingers—his tongue spread across your folds, sliding saliva all across the flesh.

Toji groaned as he felt your legs already trembling, your eyes rolling as Onyankopon kept your legs open. You tug at your lower lip, voice high pitched, “F—fuck, baby. Missed your mouth so much.”

He grunts, his mouth still pressed against your clit. Your legs squirmed, toes clenching as his tongue slid across your entrance, “Taste so good.”

You moaned in response, writhing—you were more sensitive the more his tongue slipped against your clit, swirling around it in slow motions. Your chest rose and fell, feeling the heat of both men’s touch. You whimpered again, hips wriggling under the pressure of Toji’s hands over your pelvis, “Toji,” you moaned, “It—ooh.”

He warned against your folds, “Stop movin’.”

Onyankopons’ grip on your ankles was borderline bruising, his dark eyes flickering down to watch how Toji’s mouth lapped at you. Each time you moved, he spread your ankles even farther.

“Look at the way he just in yo’ pussy,” Onyankopon grunts in your ear, “Bouta’ have a nigga drownin’ in yo’ shit.”

Your thighs trembled like crazy at the sounds your pussy made, almost as if Toji were blowing bubbles across the flesh. You pouted beneath yourself, “Fuck,” you mewl, “That feels so good.”

Toji’s took one long, slow, lick over your clit. He grumbled in return, “Pussy messy as fuck, baby.”

Your back arches. You lift above to take a look—Onyankopons’ eyes were staring down, watching. You could see the veins in his arms throbbing as he gripped your ankles.

“God damn,” Onyankopon murmured, “Yo’ pussy finna’ get sucked up by my mouth. That shit lookin’ edible.”

The combination of Toji’s mouth and Onyankopon’s words, your pout deepened on your face.

Toji didn’t hesitate to bury his face all into your folds. Your legs were trembling dangerously at this point, watching as he ate you like a starved man. To make matters worse, Onyankopons’ breath was hot in your ear as he continued to hold your ankles, eyes still locked on your husband between your legs—your chest rose and fell, the sensation of Toji’s mouth against you becoming almost too much to handle. You groaned, “Oooh,” legs trying to snap closed, head falling back against Onyankopon’s shoulder, just moaning within his ear.

“You smell so sweet,” Onyankopon murmured, “He eatin’ that pussy,” Onyankopons growled in your ear, “Shit look’ good as hell with his face in it.”

You whimpered at his words.

Onyankopons leaned forward just a bit, mouth almost pressed against your ear, “I’m missin’ yo’ mouth, babydoll.”

He tugs your hair from around your cheeks, looming above you as his dick slapped across your entire face—his tip is sliding between your mouth, making you whimper even deeper as Toji continued eating at you from below.

Onyankopons’ dick was bigger upside down. You moaned around it, making it hit the back of your throat with every quick thrust he made—he grunted, “You doin’ so good, pretty mama. Finna’ have a nigga put his shit in you.”

Your hands reached back, digging into his hips so you could pull him all the way in, “Fuck, girl, Yo’ throat bulgin’.”

Toji continued eating you from below; the mixture of him and Onyankopons had your eyes watery, legs shaking as if you’d been tased. Every other word out of your mouth was a moan that went directly onto Onyankopon’s dick.

That’s when you pull him from your mouth, sliding your tongue on the sides of his length—you whimper below him, “Want it in me, Ony.”

He pulled you down to where your nose was pressed to his pelvis—he groaned within your mouth, “That ain’t how you beg,” he grunts.

“Please, Ony. Please.”

He growled from the sound of your begging, “You want it that bad?”

You whined onto his dick, “‘So bad.”

A smirk appeared across Onyankopons’ face. You could hear Toji’s slurrpp between your legs, still tongue deep along your pussy. But the moment he heard you begging from below, his mouth pulled away, leaving you cold. It had you whimpering at the loss.

But then, Onyankopon’s mouth was on you. And it was nowhere near the same.

He wasn’t as soft as Toji. His long tongue swirled around your clit—you moaned again, feeling it slide against the flesh harshly.

You gripped at his cornrows, legs shaking in his grip again, “Oh, Ony.”

He lapped at your clit, “Can’t hear you,” he muffled.

Toji was behind you now, holding your legs in place of Onyankopon. He moaned in your ear, “You look so good, baby, spread all open like that.”

“I can’t,” you whined, “Put it in me.”

Onyankopon’s head dipped lower, lips wrapping around your clit and sucking. You were practically vibrating. You lean your head on your husband's shoulder, accepting the kiss he gives you, whimpers muffling into his mouth.

“I love you,” you kept whimpering, “Love you so much, Fushiguro.”

“I love you,” he murmured back onto your lips, “I know.”

Your body tensed the moment you felt Onyankopon’s tip sliding across your folds—you’d wanted it so bad, but actually feeling him weigh against your lower body, you shivered. His upper body loomed above your own as Toji stayed behind, Onyankopon’s lips coming to slide his tongue into your mouth, both men close to your face now.

His dick is sliding between your folds again, again, making them spread apart every few seconds. His forehead presses to yours in such a domineering way—the silence that falls between the two of you feels heavy as his tip begins nudging into your opening—it swallows itself inside, your mouth immediately frowning at the discomfort you feel. Onyankopon sucks the softest kiss on your mouth, grunting as he sinks even deeper. Your eyes rolled, body trembling as you pressed your forehead farther into his. Your fingers found his upper back, nails digging into the flesh as your body responds in all different ways—but it was so good, the tiniest whimper parts from your lips as you lightly squirt on his tip. You’d never done that before, as you creamed more than anything.

“Pussy tryna’ push me out,” Onyankopon grunts on your lips, moaning into another kiss, “That’s how you cummin’?”

“Baby,” Toji moaned, “That was so fuckin’ good. Ain’t even started yet,” he tugs your hair from your face, sucking his mouth against your throat. Your body shakes, gasping as tears seeped from your eyes. You whimpered to Onyankopon, “Oh my god.”

You could hear yourself—you were whiny, sensitive and too full. You mewled again, feeling your stomach clenching as your eyes rolled back. Onyankopons’ face was dark, “You tight as hell,” pressing his forehead more into yours, “You gon’ open up for me?”

A weak, “Uh huh,” comes from your lips.

You could feel him trying to be steady, not wanting to hurt you, but at the same time, his eyes were hooded, lust within them—“Tryin’,” he murmured. His hips stilled for a moment as he slowly, gently slid more of his length deeper into you. You moaned, loud enough to echo off of the wall, “Ugh, fuck.”

Your mind was going blank. His head fell back, “You takin’ me so good,” Your back kept arching, legs quaking. Toji was right there, caressing your scalp to soothe you. You were releasing sounds you’d never made before, moaning deeper each time Onyankopon pulled out to slide himself in more—the slap of his hips against the back of your thighs has your eyes rolling, your face screwed up in pleasure, nodding against his forehead as all you could do was cry for him.

Your legs were shaking too much, to the point Toji gave Onyankopon a glare, “Slow down.”

Onyankopon gritted his teeth as if to focus, trying to not give in to all of the sounds you were making.

“Can’t,” he grunted—Your body kept squirming, legs spreading themselves more open for him, “F—fuck,” he cursed. He was grunting and moaning just as much as you were now.

“Talk to me, Mama. I’m hurtin’ you?” Onyankopon gruffs at you. You find your hand at the nape of his neck, lips closer together—you mewl to him, “Feels sooo good,” your voice was soft, “‘M okay,” you promised to both of them.

Toji was trying to spread some comfort for you, “Look at me, breathe,” his voice was low, his hand reaching forward to touch your cheek. He gave you what you wanted; he leaned his face against your own, “Look at me, pretty baby. Breathe.”

Your entire body listened to your husband’s commands. You took in a deep breath in response, your body calming a bit as he murmured sweetly against your face, “That’s it, good girl.”

A little easier to process with your husbands’ fingers caressing your cheek, you whimpered, “Please,” you whispered on his lips, “Don’t stop him.”

You spread your legs wider—your eyes rolled at the sensation, reaching your hand up to Onyankopon’s face to pull him into a kiss, moaning into his mouth.

Onyankopon growled, holding onto your chin so he could suck on your bottom lip. Toji’s thumb was wiping at your cheek, swiping away tears that you didn’t even realize you were shedding.

He pressed his forehead back to your own, mouth still connected in a sloppy kiss, “Don’t move,” Onyankopon murmured against your face. You felt both mouths kissing somewhere along your body, and that pleasure could’ve engulfed you into an explosion.

But oh, they had so much more to give.

Maybe you did too. Your shaken legs had found themselves crawling along the bed, doe eyes becoming a sultry slender as you crawled towards your husband— your curls evaded your entire body as you slid your hands across his chest, grinding yourself along his lap to gain his attention—you tell him, “I missed you, baby.”

“Missed you too,” Toji murmured in return, unable to keep his eyes off of you. His large palm slid across your hips, another palm reaching around to smack his tip between your folds from behind. You giggled, hair swinging to one side of your body as you circled your hips atop of him, “You wanna put it in me?”

Your hands slide across your nipples, making sure to keep Onyankopon’s attention as your hand finds the tip of his dick beside your body—you whimper to your husband, “Want you so much, Toji. Talk to me.”

Onyankopons’ hands found their way to your arms and shoulders, squeezing the flesh there—One of your hands reached up onto Onyankopons’ face, running your fingers against his facial hair, moving to slide your index finger onto his lips.

“You been’ havin’ fun,” Toji grunted to you, “Come fuck me.”

“Always thinkin’ ‘bout you,” you moaned, your hands leaving behind Onyankopons’ face to slide back onto Toji’s shoulders. Onyankopon grunted, “She need’ you—Drippin’ all over the sheets and shit.”

You’re guiding yourself down, sinking onto his dick in a way that has your husband leaning his head back onto the bed, clutching your hips within his palms. Toji’s groaning through full lips, eyes narrowing up to you as you’re already bouncing your ass down onto his abdomen. You giggle through a moan, leaning towards Onyankopon with angelic eyes, sticking your tongue out to await for his mouth.

Toji growled from below, “Look at you,” while Onyankopons’ hand pushed a few of your curls aside with a low chuckle, “Cute as hell.”

Onyankopon’s tongue slithered within the confines of your mouth, hand sliding behind your neck to keep your face close to his—your attention went onto your husband, your hips rotating, circling above him—you take one of his palms, sliding it up your body as you suck his index finger into your mouth, moaning around it.

“Jesus,” Toji growled, “‘Gonna’ have me bust early, baby,” He grunted out, “Keep it up.”

You shake your head, “Don’t wanna cum without you,” you whimper—so you lean back to your side, finding Onyankopon’s dick between your lips—you’re sucking, keeping your hips moving for Toji, but your attention elsewhere.

Onyankopons’ hand was resting atop of your forehead, his fingers buried into your hair. You moaned around him again, one hand wrapped around his length and the other caressing Toji’s chest. Your husband was becoming more aggressive below you, his hands finding themselves beneath your thighs to guide you.

He takes one hand to find your throat, snatching your face in his direction. He grunts to you, “I know you’re hearin’ me. Come fuck me, girl. Bounce on my dick like you missed me.”

You have your attention fully on him now—you whimper, “Sorry,” all while you press your feet flat along the bed, tossing your hair along one side of your body as your palms pressed against his chest—your ass trembles each time it claps along his abdomen, a wetness drenching his flesh, the sight of you like hell wrapped up in beauty.

“I love your dick sooo much,” you promised to him, ass clapping at this point, “Love you, Fushiguro,” you whimper, spreading your cheeks from behind, wanting him deeper each time you dropped down.

“I know you fuckin’ do.”

His palm spanks against your asscheek. It jiggles beneath the impact, Toji’s hands finding your hips again to hold you in place.

“Keep fuckin’ me like that.”

Your legs were shaking as Toji’s hips moved to meet your own, bouncing you up and down himself.

Onyankopon was behind you, finding his palms along your hips as he helped you—your eyes rolled, mewling as you allowed him to guide your body down.

Your fingers found your clit below, shoulder shivering as Onyankopon licked up the back of your neck, “O—Ooh,” you moaned, “Please.”

You mewled at both men, your body quaking as your hands slid up behind you, fingers grazing over Onyankonion’s hair. You sloppily slow your tongue in and out his mouth, tugging his head back as you whimper to him, “Put it back in.”

You lean down to find Toji’s

mouth within a deep kiss, hearing his murmur of, “‘Go head, wanna watch you cum.”

Your curls draped across his chest as you tugged his dick from your folds, back arching as you grind your lower body for Onyankopon to take you from behind—you whimper to him, “Want it. ‘Want it, Ony.”

“Been patient,” Onyankopons’ husked, “Come drop that shit on me.”

His hands found both of your asscheeks again, spreading them open. You moaned over your shoulder, the taste of your own skin delicious as he slid himself between your folds, deeper than he’d been before. The giggle you give is elated, eyes rolling as you’re messily bouncing your ass back onto his dick, you’re groaning, “Fuckkk.”

“Good fuckin’ girl,” Toji groaned from below, watching you take it from behind, “Greedy as fuck.”

Onyankopon collected your hair beneath his fist, tugging you back gently while allowing you to fuck yourself onto him—he glares down, “You’ loud.”

“You feel so good,” you couldn’t stop repeating, your hands pressed into Toji’s shoulders to lean back more, arching as you continued to take Onyankopon as deep as you could, “Feelssogood.”

“Givin’ you what you been wantin’,” Onyankopon growled behind you, "Look how good you look takin’ this dick, pretty mama.”

You tried to keep your eyes open, but each time you moved with him, pleasure was rising from somewhere deep within you that had your vision becoming blurry. You were drunk at this point.

“You feel so good in me,” you repeated one more time—it’s the softest you’ve ever spoken, squealing in a way that your body showed exhaustion. You were just taking him now, Onyankopon’s dick becoming drenched in your cream. You pouted, sobbing lowly through your sniffles.

Neither of them had ever seen a reaction out of you like this—you were so sensitive, too sensitive, too open. Onyankopon pounded into your messy, soaking wet pussy from behind, “You gone. Takin’ my dick without even askin’ for it.”

His palm slides along your neck, gently tugging your face back to look into his eyes—you could hear Toji’s grunt of, “So proud of you, baby.”

You sob softly in return again, keeping your eyes against Onyankopon’s as he tugs you back and forth—you’re so full of him, you can barely feel it anymore. Your voice was deeper, an inhale shaky in your throat, exhaled as you cried real tears.

You were so far gone. Toji’s one hand fisted the tip of his dick, other fingers running through your hair, giving you a gentle pull to keep your face from hiding.

“How you feelin’, baby?” he keeps his voice low, gentle.

You could barely speak—you were so busy crying from pleasure, your hands found his face as you whimpered through tears, “I’m gonna cum,” you trembled, “Gonnacum.”

You were so beautiful like this. Crying and whimpering for them in such an exhausted state, so full that they were ready to cum with you.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You gon’ cum all on me, Mama?”

Onyankopon’s voice.

You nod again, breathless, “Mmm-hmm,” through tears. Toji presses his forehead against your own, allowing you to respond any way you needed to.

Toji pressed a small kiss onto your face, “Good girl. Keep goin’. Almost,” he encouraged you in the most gentle tone possible.

Onyankopons’ breathing was a lot rougher now, the sound of his pelvis smacking against your ass filling the room. He was holding onto your hip with one hand, while the other held the back of your neck, watching his dick being coated by your cream.

You moaned between your tears, voice hiccupping with every pound he delivered. He kept mumbling words from above you that couldn’t decipher, but Toji was still there to calm you.

The room was a chorus of skin against skin, your mewls getting even higher in pitch with how full you felt at Toji’s hands on your face—the warmth of his own cum spurted on your stomach— you were babbling, your body wilder, your toes curling. You squirt again, gasping into a rough kiss with your husband. Onyankopon’s tongue is sliding across your lower back, moaning as you feel a warmth in your pussy—he cums with you.

Your body feels sore, as if you’d just ran a marathon. You quiver when Onyankopon pulls himself out, feeling the cum dripping from your pussy—and somehow, through everything you’d just done, that makes you bury your face within Toji’s shoulder, cheeks flushed as you masked your face.

When your brain sobered over the events of the past couple of days, you still couldn’t believe it—Would it happen again? Was this a one time thing? Only the future could tell.

As your round eyes glanced between both men, the only answer you received was a deep, low, chuckle.

And that’s how you ended up here.

#toji fushiguro x reader #onyankopon x reader #THEBESTSHITIEVERREADEDINMYLIFE

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sleepypulm · 2 months ago

Text

GLOAMING — NANAMI KENTO

↳ Summary: Post-Shibuya, Nanami Kento needs to be reminded that he's still beautiful and you still love him.

↳ CW: smut, vaginal sex, mirror sex, hurt/comfort, optimistic ending, body worship, burn scars, established relationship

↳ WC: 7.5k

↳ AN: My contribution to Nanami Week's day 6 prompt: Scars / Body Worship!

“Kento, I’m home! And I’ve got goodies…!”

The day had been long, but not nearly as long as it ought to have been. By some twist of cosmic pity or karmic reimbursement — the universe tossing you a bone for services rendered — you’d been spat out of work two hours early, blinking and disbelieving in the late afternoon sun. A rare mercy, considering your two-man team had become a one-man operation, and your off hours were more theoretical than real.

You didn’t ask questions. You just ran.

Your keys clattered into the wicker bowl on the foyer table. Coat off, boots toed loose, you shelved a crinkly paper bag on one hip, grinning like a bandit. Inside: the spoils of a quick but completely necessary pit-stop to the local patisserie for the modest luxuries of a still-warm baguette, a wedge of gruyere, folded slices of ham sweating through its wax paper and a dark, sticky fig jam you used to love. All things you hoped would make for a nice early dinner to polish off the bottle of wine gathering dust in the rack.

All it needed now was him.

You hadn’t seen much of each other that morning. You’d woken up to the back of Kento’s head, blonde hair flattened and smushed to one side across the pillow. He’d hardly roused at all when you squirmed up against his back to press a soft kiss the pale pink, glass-smooth, no longer freckled skin behind his ear.

Just a grunt, and the sluggish lift of his shoulder, edging you out of his warmth with a half-hearted shrug. Once, he might’ve rolled to face you and hauled you against his chest, trapping you in an affectionate chokehold until his sloppy sleep-misaligned kisses across your face made you laugh him awake.

But you didn’t mind. He hadn't slept well… had accidentally kicked you more often than usual. He was probably exhausted.

You rounded the corner into the living room, your mood still lifted, buoyed by the scent of warm bread and the delight of sharing your foraging finds. Once, you would’ve heard the wordless groan from deep in his chest when you flopped onto the sofa beside him, and felt the way his arm would lift loose and heavy and waiting for you to worm your way underneath. Your knees would’ve puzzle-locked over and under his to tangle in those soft, lived-in heather sweatpants. He’d have smiled, pressed a kiss to your brow, then your cheek, then your mouth — Act Two of the ones he didn’t quite manage in the morning.

‘Welcome home’ and ‘I missed you’ rumbled between pecks to your lips, with nothing to do but bask in each others company and let your hands wander wherever they may after a glass of Shiraz, there was always a surplus of stolen time to make up for, and you were always keen to play the part of the debt collector—

But your husband wasn’t there.

A glass of water sweats a dark ring into the cork coaster on the coffee table, and the TV crackles dully on the wall and Kento’s latest read lay flat out on the cushion like he intended to return for it, but nothing of the man himself.

“Kento…?” You called again, a little less certain this time.

Maybe he’d gone out with the same hankering as you, heart set on a fresh and indulgent dinner of things not kept readily in the pantry. He did do that more often these days — the disappearing. Aimless but equally determined, suddenly running odd errands at odder hours only because he could. Freedom, once tasted, was hard to give up.

He could’ve texted you, or left a note, or waited for you.

You sucked your lip between your teeth and swallowed your disappointment — you’d survive being left alone. It wasn’t the end of the world, but you hadn’t expected to spend your unexpected afternoon of freedom alone.

Ssssskkkkkkkkkk-splsh.

The sound startled you. Porcelain on wet skin, squeaky movement further down the hall.

You didn’t mean to rise to the balls of your feet, or to avoid the floorboards you knew by heart — three and seven always creaked.

Your hand curled around the frame of the ajar door, and you eased it wider with the softest nudge of your fingers, sheepish as you leaned your head into the narrow gap.

He hadn’t heard you come in.

The door hadn’t creaked, and your footsteps stayed soft.

Months later you still weren’t sure where you were allowed to stand.

Kento lay reclined in the tub, his long legs bent at an angle to fit, arms resting along the smooth edges. His head was tipped back on a rolled towel, jaw slack, the slow rise and fall of his chest syncing with the rhythmic plink… plink… plink of the dripping iron faucet. It rippled the water which lapped at his ribs, his collarbone, it kissed the pale maps of old healing, and one hand — scarred but whole with all five fingers — twitched with a sleepy spasm.

He was peaceful. More peaceful than he ever looked when awake or even in your bed.

And on the sink, closer to you than to him, was his eyepatch.

You stared into the hollow where his eye used to be and even after all this time, you were distantly befuddled that it didn’t stare back. It fascinated you — the pitted, rough skin of his left side. His lashes were gone. His brow, gone. What remained of his hairline stopped in a sharp crescent across his scalp, knotted and textured like old oak bark. You wanted to touch him, to reacquaint yourself what it felt like under your fingertips.

You’d seen it all before in the earlier days following Shibuya, back when you weren’t even sure Kento would ever come home again, and when sleep was a fickle thing that only came in collapsed increments in uncomfortable chairs.

‘He shouldn’t make it’, Shoko told you outside the infirmary. Her voice was blunt as ever, but her hands shook as she lit a cigarette. ‘But then, he’s Nanami, so… he shouldn’t do a lot of things. Bet he’ll live.’

And when he finally squeezed your hand, hours or days later you didn’t know nor did you care, you’d cried so violently Shoko thought you were seizing. You’d vomited in the biohazard bin. You still hadn’t cared, because Kento was alive and nothing could ever matter more than that.

He tried to smile with nothing but teeth and gauze. He said he couldn’t leave you.

Those early days, despite the way Kento’s body would shudder and twitch with the burning pain of dying nerves, and your own chest would seize when his rose too shallowly for comfort, there was hope. He had lived and he was free, because nobody in their right mind would ever ask Nanami Kento to return to Jujutsu after what he’d suffered; and if they’d tried, you’d have risen and raged and crusaded to prevent it from being so.

So you shouldered his work load and marched like a mule to prove they didn’t need him more than you did, and they would not steal him from you.

He was lighter, even bound in heavy bandages. There was peace in

freedom, if only he could heal and get there.

But healing, you both learned quickly and Kento struggled to reckon with, was not the same thing as coming back whole.

Recovery was excruciating, for him and for you. He followed orders grim and obedient as a pit dog. He set alarms for pills on a new watch bought specifically for that purpose. He charted ointments and attended every physical therapy session even when his hands shook from exhaustion and agony. He was as meticulous in his pain as he was furiously dignified in his destruction.

But his fingers didn’t curl the way they used to. Sometimes his grip failed him entirely. He dropped dishes and mugs, ceramic shattered across the kitchen tile like little glass bombs. He spit and snarled and cursed, raging against his new shortcomings while you stood silently with the dustpan.

His depth perception was a bastard thing — you learned to keep the cabinets half-empty and the corners always padded. You drove him to every appointment and took notes. You asked the questions when after a year he didn’t have the energy left to care.

And as soon as he was able, barely able, he pushed you away.

He started locking the bathroom door to bathe and change his dressings alone. He took the train into the city for his appointments without ever telling you he had one. He began cooking again — and you felt that spark of hope ignite deep in your heart again. It would be good for him to return to old passions, you thought. But he refused anything you made from that point on. He would make it himself, or not eat at all.

It was grief, you thought, denying and justifying the decay of your living man. Then it was guilt. Or pride. Or maybe all of them wound tight and festering under his skin that healed over a wound you couldn’t get close enough to fix. You understood as best you could, and you waited.

But it was getting harder. The space between you no longer felt temporary, but structural, with foundations and beams and skeletons in the closet.

You loved him. And you knew he loved you in the good times. He still opened doors, carried your bags, and held you so long as you faced away.

His body was still perfect to you too. Slightly tanned and pink with the water's heat, freckles on his right shoulder with soft hair dusting his arm and leg. The burn only cut him into halves… the merciless split cleaved between your husband and the man he treated himself as now.

You hadn’t meant to enter the bathroom, but you only wanted a closer look. Old habits die hard, and you’d come far too close to losing him once that the deathly stillness that cradled him in slumber rattled your nerves too close for comfort. You felt sick with it. You would just listen to him breathe for a moment, you compromised with yourself. Then you’d go, he’d never even know you were there—

You sank to your knees beside the tub.

Ribs cut hard lines under his skin, and his chest rose, fell, rose again like reliable forge bellows. Beneath the water, a pale ghost of his old body haunted the new one, all lean muscle and purple memory. You thought, somewhat stupidly, about how he used to fold you in half and still have breath left over, and how your bath bombs used to amuse him with their soothing-lavender-scented-pseudoscience, but the bubbles that thinned near the waters center were distinctly purple hued now, and the balmy bathroom air smelled like flowers.

There were still parts of him your eyes remembered better than your hands. The seam along his neck where new skin met old, and the small twitch in his shoulder that never went away, not even when he slept. He was leaner in a way that didn’t quite make sense — his wrist was too narrow, like something essential had been siphoned out and never replaced. And there were hollows you didn’t remember being there, faded pink and stark whites of injury shimmering beneath the bathwater like some prehistoric reef, rough and raw and no less beautiful for its distress.

Your palm itched to drag over his sternum and trace the place where he was split in two. You wanted to memorize him as he was now because how else were you supposed to hold him? You sat greedily still, a silent supplicant at the altar of the man you still loved so wholly it killed you.

You stayed there, hands clenched in your lap so they wouldn’t do something stupid like reach for him. You’d walked in on him naked a hundred times before, but this time you didn’t feel entitled to look, a veritable voyeur in your own home, with a man to whom you should’ve had every right and reason to see.

You swallowed hard, valiantly blinking back the sting rising behind your eyes. Time to go. You’d seen enough — stolen enough — and you would carry it like contraband tucked deep beside your heart. He would wake up eventually and offer you something smaller, safer: the distant affection he rationed out in careful portions, a kiss to your cheek that you knew he still

meant with all of his heart but delivered with only the right half of his mouth. It would be enough and you would smile and kiss his right cheek when he offered it.

You shifted to stand, but your foot clipped a trip-wire bottle of lotion by the tub. It skidded across the tile with a damning clack.

Kento stirred and you locked up.

His good eye blinked open — slow and still groggy.

For a moment, before the waking world caught up to him and he shrugged off that liminal space between conscious and not, he smiled.

The smile you used to see in cobalt blue mornings, limbs tangled under the duvet while you whispered conspiracies against the alarm clock into his collarbone, seducing a sleepy Kento back down with kisses and half-threats of ten more minutes; the same as the one he gave you in the hush after he’d throughly made love to you, when his weight pressed you into the mattress just right and he nosed lazy affection into your jaw, murmuring I love you.

He was soft, half-drunk from sleep, his adoration backlit with the bright affection that still burned for you. His body remembered you before his brain did. Like loving you was mere muscle memory.

It was stupid how much of him poured into one look. Stupid, and gut-wrenchingly painful how his whole face melted like sugar and his breath sighed blissfully from his lips, and how that stupid stubborn tremor in his shoulder paused for just one moment.

The water sloshed as he reached for you, sluggish, uncoordinated, unthinking… until his gaze caught on the burn-scored arm breaking the surface. The ruined skin, puckered and red, warped the motion into something monstrous. And your heart cracked with the force of his recoil, because you saw it all. You saw him forget, and then you saw him remember.

The mask snapped back in place like a bear trap. The walls slammed up. That same arm jerked up to shield the left side of his face with his hand too late. He lurched upright, water thrashing around him, breath shallow and eye wide, rigid and rageful as a wounded animal tense with shame.

“Sorry—I didn’t mean to wake you—“ you started, stumbling back a step.

“What are you doing?” He snarled. You flinched.

And just like that, the version of him who smiled at you was gone.

“I got home early,” you hedged. “You didn’t answer so I was just checking on you—“

He sneered, bitter and nasty and turned from you. His dripping hand curled around the marbled skin of his face and he hunched toward the wall of the tub. “I think I’m capable of bathing myself. I’m not a child.”

Your eyes widened and you scurried closer, hands splayed forward now. “I know you can, I wasn’t implying—“

“—get out.”

“No, Kento, come on—“ Your words died with a squeak as Kento abruptly swung his hand away from his face to ward you off, water and suds doused the tile floor, soaked your socks and sprayed your shirt.

“I asked you to get out.”

Your mouth twisted and you ground your teeth, trying your hardest to ward off the prickling tears in your eyes and your burning nose. He glowered at you, fire in his eye and dead black coal in the other socket, but you didn’t turn away. You clenched your hands into fists, your shoulders trembling with indignant fury. “We’re married, Kento! You don’t need to be like this with me.”

Kento laughed — but it was nothing like he used to, full-bodied, warm, that made you feel like you’d earned it. He was as cold as the drops of water that dripped from the flattened tips of his hair and carved their way down the divots of his healed skin.

“Is it too much to ask that I want my wife to see me when I’m…” he scowled, his mouth twitched and stretched before settling, “—decent?”

“Kento,” you said, willing yourself to stay calm. You wanted to touch him, but didn’t. Wanted to sob, but didn’t do that either. “You always look like this.”

He scowled, the warped thin skin of his lip peeled back from his teeth in disgust. “I’m half a fucking corpse, darling.”

“Don’t say that!” You choked, feeling that awful clog in your throat damming your voice, turning your nose red with tears you knew were imminent, fight as you might against them.

But Kento continued as if your heart weren’t mid messy detonation.

“It’s a wonder you’re even here,” he seethed, “you nursed me back to health, you can go off and find somebody better now, free of guilt. You’ve done your charity—“

“Don’t you dare,” you hissed, voice shaking now — not only with tears, but with fury. “Don’t you fucking dare reduce what we have to charity. You know better.”

Kento stilled uncomfortably. He didn’t apologize nor did he flinch, but you could see the tension taut just beneath his shimmering skin, the fight-or-flight of a man who would rather die on the battlefield than be pitied in the field tent. His jaw locked, and his breath burst through his nose like he fought it as much as he was fighting you.

“You think I stay because I have to?” You marched closer and Kento recoiled, but there was nowhere to go in the tub, no doors to put between you and latch the lock. He would hear you.

Your wet socks squelched on the bathmat. “You think this is guilt? That I—what—get off on the martyrdom of it all?”

Kento scoffed. “At least you’d have an incentive.”

You reeled back. You blinked, stunned, your mouth twitching. And then your throat went hot, and your hand came up fast to smash the tears away as quickly as they burned past your lashes.

“Do you honestly think I’m so shallow, Kento?”

The room was silent save for the dripping of the faucet, but you couldn’t even hear that over the roaring in your ears.

The briefest flicker of shame crossed his half-scarred face. He wavered and clenched his jaw like he’d swallowed glass and now it was trying to climb back out.

Your tears always gutted him. He used to scoop them up with his thumbs, gentle as pearls. Used to whisper soft apologies into your skin and kiss away the tracks, warm and pleading, all while plotting to look for the source like it was something he could kill.

And now he was the source. He loathed that he was the type of man to make his wife cry. Something in his chest collapsed inward, tectonic. A man used to fixing things now realizing he was the broken pipe flooding the whole house.

He raked a hand through his hair and turned from you, muttering your name in warning.

But you were incensed, righteously enraged, and Kento jumped as you roughly clambered into the tub, socks and clothes and all. The water soaked through denim and cotton in an instant, clinging to your boiling skin. Kento scooted back and tried to twist away, but you sloshed after him.

“What are you—“ You didn’t let him finish.

You dropped to your knees and charged between his, your clothes heavy and dripping with bathwater, you flung your arms around his neck so hard he grunted. You dragged him down into the wreckage of you.

“God, you arrogant, idiotic man! Do you even realize how much I miss you?” You buried your face into the left side of his neck and choked against the burned skin.

He struggled, tried to pry your arms off of him, wedging his fingers between your ribs and his chest like he could dislodge your love with leverage but you only gripped him tighter, not caring how your nails dug into his shoulders you clung as aggressively as you could. He had to listen to you this time, you couldn’t bear any more of this.

“You need to let go—“

“No!”

“I loved you before, Kento,” you spat, “and now, I love you so much it makes me sick.” Your voice cracked on the last word, and you hated it as much as the taste of the salt on your lips and the sting on your cheeks and the awful distance he kept between you like he was still burning. “And I can never—never—love you enough! There isn’t enough!”

You felt the artery against your cheek jump and squirm when he

swallowed, and the riot beneath his ribs locked against yours, but he still clung to his resolute silence like a shield.

You jerked back, just enough to see his face and for him to see yours. You gripped his head tightly between your palms, and he didn’t blink. “You think this is pity?” you demanded. “You think I’m staying because I feel sorry for you?”

Still, he didn’t answer — a statue carved out of ash and arrogance. But you saw the tic of his jaw and the slow flare of his nostrils when he exhaled. He wasn’t unmoved by your fury, he was enduring. He accepted the flames whipped from your tongue as readily as he had the ones that scorched his body.

“Well, I am sorry,” you said to the brick wall. “I’m sorry that you don’t love yourself, and I’m sorry that things are hard for you, but I’m not sorry that you lived. Maybe I’m selfish—I’d rather you be miserable and alive—but you are alive, and I am not sorry for you.”

You pulled back more and sat on your knees in the lap of the man you married. You wanted to shake him, to rattle out this wretched silence and shake into place anything. Let him yell, or rage, or cry, anything—

And so you said it. You said it without thinking, weaponized and guttural and sharp as a slap:

“Dammit, Nanami—!”

He stared at you blankly.

Then he seemed to realize… oh, right, that’s his name but coming out of your mouth.

He buffered, and you watched his brow finally furrow when he shook his head, appalled.

“…What?”

You blinked back, shoulders shaking.

“Yeah. Nanami. I called you Nanami.”

He stared at you like you’d just smacked him with a sandal.

He was silent again, but his eye was on you.

“You haven’t called me that in years,” he said finally, sounding satisfyingly perplexed.

“Well maybe I should! Maybe I should start again! Would you like that? You like the formality? The distance? Huh, Nanami?”

You punctuated your petulant tirade with a shove to his chest, watery

and weak but defiant all the same.

There was a beat of silence, and then another where you both stared each other down.

Something shuddered in Kento’s cheek.

Then — he laughed. Or close enough to it, more like a disbelieving chuckle-huff, or a tire deflating.

“You sound like my old boss,” he said, half-dazed. “Or like my doctor… Nanami-san.”

You tried to stay angry, you really did. But a helpless, startled laugh sobbed out of you instead.

“Oh, screw you,” you snapped, but a watery half-smile still wobbled onto your face.

He gave a soft, wrecked little sigh, lips curling with bitter melancholy. “There she is.”

The atmosphere shifted, if only by one blessed fraction. You hadn’t escaped the violence of guilt, and grief and unsaid things left to fester — the wound didn’t vanish. But the ache softened, just a bit, and that was enough to make your shoulders slump and your hands to weakly drop from his face to his chest instead.

You were still in his lap, soaked through and shivering, and Kento finally lifted a hand. It hovered at first, and you could’ve wept at the tentative contact of his palm between your shoulder blades, gently guiding you to lay against him.

“I didn’t go anywhere,” you mumbled into his neck.

Kento nodded. He rubbed your back, up and down, your soaked shirt dragging over your skin with each pass. He hummed his acknowledgment — wordless, but he knew. You’d always been there, and he’d been hurting you.

He lifted his burned arm and hesitated again, but that too ended up wound around your waist, crushing you to his body. You heard his wet intake of breath above the crown of your head, and you knew better than to mention it. The bubble was fragile, and you were terrified to pop it, so you just let him hold you again.

His fingers curled into your shirt, and his left arm cinched tighter. He scoffed, that familiar bitterness creeping into his tone when he growled: “I

can’t even feel you.”

You clamped your arms around his neck and tangled your fingers in his hair, holding him to your shoulder. “I know,” you whispered. “That’s okay. I can feel you enough for us both.”

Kento shuddered, goosebumps prickling down his nape and raising the hairs on his arms as your nails circled his scalp. He groaned, but did not object.

“Can I?” You murmured hopefully. Your heart galloped in your chest, adrenaline and feverish hope burning bright in the long darkened corners of your heart. “Can I…can we try?”

Kento didn’t answer you, nor did he stop touching you. His calloused fingertips caught on your shirt, his nails skated over the exposed small of your back like skate blades, light and precise and beautifully spiraled as he indulged in the feel of your flesh with his good hand. You let him, you wouldn’t push, he could say no and you would still be thrilled for having had this.

The water had gone tepid around you both, bath bombs long dissolved into faint lilac ghosts. You were shivering and weighed heavy with your water-logged clothes, but you refused to move if it meant letting go.

When his mouth brushed your temple you froze, and shook under the warm exhale blown against your skin. His arms loosened, then drew tight again, drawing you closer into his lap. His mouth dipped, his lips brushed the corner of your mouth, hesitant and light as a feather, and then again — firmer.

“We’ll catch colds like this,” he murmured.

You nodded. You were already stiff, your toes numb and scrunching against the porcelain floor to coax blood back to your feet. “Then take me to bed,” you said simply.

Kento leaned back slowly to look at you and his eye flicked between both of yours. Sharp. Anticipating and bracing for the disgust he expected to find there so he could be the first to turn away from this fragile bridge.

Sincerity shone in your gaze, firm and convicted and about as loving as the day he’d married you.

He shifted beneath you then. His joints creaked and cracked, old aches

and new ones alike surfacing as he stood, dripping and unsteady, his arms looped around your back — aiding you as well as allowing you to support him.

You toweled each other off in the warm yellow light, you didn’t dare speak — just watched the water run from each other's skin, and the way he avoided the mirror and the left side of his face. You didn’t rush him. You let him flinch, and then let him find his stillness again.

You kissed the hollow beneath his ear, and he followed when you whispered, “Come.”

The bedroom was dim, the dipping afternoon sun barely cresting the slatted blinds sealed stubbornly shut. But you could see enough. If the darkness was of any comfort to Kento, you would afford him that much.

The mirror still stood against the far wall, full-length and framed in soft walnut. He’d ignored it for months now, it existed draped under a spare blanket more often than not. But tonight you crossed the room with purpose and yanked the quilt away and let the reflection breathe again.

Kento loitered in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest and with his hip cocked against the wood trim. He glowered at you, looking every bit as skeptical as he did mouth-watering.

“Come sit,” you insisted, dragging him by the hand to the bed and pressing a hand to his sternum until he sat on the edge, just how you imagined. The mirror caught his shape in crystal clarity, and you saw the tension that rolled through his shoulders the first time he caught his own gaze around your waist.

Before he could retreat back into himself you took his face in your hands. “Just look at me,” you said. “Please. I just want to show you what I see when I look at you, if that’s okay.”

You stood between his knees, still damp and rosy, your towel soft but loosening and drinking the racing droplets of water that plinked from your hair and got lost in the swell of your cleavage. Kento’s lips parted and his mouth went dry, yearning to chase that water and quench his suddenly parched tongue.

You reached for his hand and placed it flat against your waist. “You remember how to touch me,” you teased.

His fingers curled instinctively into your towel, pulling you closer until your knees brushed his groin. He inhaled, and his palm slid up, over your ribs, thumbing the indent just beneath your breast.

You smiled, and untucked your towel and let it fall to your feet. Kento froze.

His eye ravaged your form like he was memorizing it, starved for every soft slope of skin he hadn’t let himself reach for in months. He hadn’t estranged himself from your body in that time, he had never let you go without or become frustrated — he made do with his hands and his mouth on the evenings where you needed him — but he never let himself indulge. It was never for him.

You reached for the knot on his towel and undid it slowly. You gave every opportunity for him to still your hand — and with how it flexed against his thigh, you almost thought he would.

But Kento didn’t stop you. His thighs parted to make room as the fabric dropped, baring him fully to you and to himself. His cock was half-hard already and flexed against his thigh.

Hearing your swallow and seeing the obvious wanting ignite in your eyes made Kento burn with pride he hadn’t felt in ages. He could almost forget — almost. He felt you quiver between his legs as you slowed yourself, you kept your movements controlled and predictable when your hands framed his face.

He knew from before what a ravenous little thing you could be, how such slowness was how he had to approach you when all you wanted was to eat him alive. This was taking effort, and you were doing it for him.

He could still see it in you, and could feel the trembling of your fingertips as your thumb swept just beneath his eye… maybe both of them, if only he could feel it. One enormous hand moved to the small of your back, pulling you in so that your knees were forced to the mattress on either side of his hips. He tilted his head back and smiled.

Seeing the change in him was enough encouragement for you. You leaned in, nosing along his throat and dragging kisses along the smooth skin of his right side. “Can you feel this?” you asked as you kissed the hinge of his jaw, just beneath his ear.

You grinned when Kento groaned, shifting beneath you with an involuntary flex of his hips. He exhaled shakily, and you gripped his shoulders tighter.

“Yes.”

You drifted back down to his right shoulder, your tongue flicking and tracing the sun-spotted freckles still scattered like constellations on his skin. You sucked his skin, desperate to taste him after so long, and shuddered in delight when his fingers curled into your spine, banding you to his broad chest with an arm that still boasted such brutal strength.

“Here?” you whispered.

“Yes.” He groaned, his left arm which had hung limp and curled in the bedsheet beneath him suddenly wrapping around your hips, crushing you against the length of his body and sandwiching his now fully-hard cock between your bellies, and you could’ve burst with pride at how his thighs flexed and lifted to grind up against you, panting and shivering against your hair.

You shuddered, angling your hips to sweep your pussy up the length of his cock and choked at the sensation — homecoming. Your hand slid to the left and you pressed your palm flat against the ruined skin, high on his chest, just under the hollow of his collarbone. The scar tissue there was glossy, raised and stretched tight over his chest. He stilled beneath your hand.

“What about here?” you asked quietly.

He stared over your head and into the mirror. His face, half recognizable and flushed pink, his arms wound tight around your body which folded neatly around him, and yet, it was like seeing a different man entirely in the mirror; the hands of a different man touching and holding his wife so intimately.

“No,” he grunted.

You nodded, teeth nipping at his tilted throat as you sucked your way back up towards his ear. “That’s okay,” you murmured, your fingers pressing more firmly over the same spot, feeling the staccato hammering of his heart beneath your palm. “I’ll feel it for you. I still feel you. You’re still here.”

Kento’s frustrated growl fizzled into a surprised groan when your hand snuck down between you, a thief, and your deft fingers curled around the thick, scalding base of him. You choked the uncertainty from his brain which fled like static in his ears, his eyelid fluttered with bliss as you stroked him once, twice, feeling the oozing perfection of him in its entirety as you positioned his cockhead at your entrance.

You kissed your way back to his mouth, hands cupping his cheeks to tip his chin back and allow you inside. “I love you,” you whispered fiercely. “I love you,” you kissed him again. “I love you, I—aah!”

Kento rumbled an all-encompassing sound as he rolled his hips up, just once, and just about choked on his own tongue as he pressed inside you. You folds parted for him as if no time had passed at all, welcoming him home into the deep embrace of your body. You broke off with a whimper and circled your hips, sliding further down Kento’s length.

Every nerve in your body was alight. You glowed as you sank down one inch at a time, the muscles in your back tense and quivering handholds for Kento to grab and grip with his nails. He watched you in the mirror until your ass squished against his thighs; you gave all of you and took all of him.

His left hand raked up your back, tangling in your hair and held you to his neck. You panted and gasped, your body galvanized by the jump-wire only Kento possessed, and he stared at your connection in the mirror. He spread his knees and you wider, his other hand groping from your hip to your waist, down to your ass to knead and spread your cheek, and rocked you against him, watching the way you stretched around the thick base of his cock and your arousal oozed down his balls.

Like nothing had changed for you. You were still driven as mad for him as you’d always been, always hungry and wanting for him, his body.

“So good,” he prayed and praised. “Always—always so good…I’ve missed you, such a good girl…nice and slow, slow—mmph—wait—“

You held him tighter, tears twinkling in your eyes as Kento’s throat turned red and humid with your gasping breaths and greedy teeth. You felt Kento tense beneath you and inside you, his whole body gone rigid as he railed against the orgasm so quickly knocking through his body — he resisted, held you still until he settled, and you shivered in his lap until he squeezed your hip again.

You slid against him, massaging him with your cunt as you rocked up and down, and finally you did sob at the enormity of your relief of being so utterly and completely filled.

Feeling your overwhelm Kento soothed you, combing his fingers through your hair and mumbling into your temple. His hips flexed up to meet each

slow descent of your own, his hand guided you to keep sliding your pussy up his throbbing cock and then ground up hard against you until you gasped against his neck.

Feeling the way his cock kicked inside of you, the helpless twitch of his skin gripped tightly in your hands as he watched the play of muscle and sinew in your back in the mirror, had you moving just a little faster. Kento growled, rumbling approvingly against your flushed skin, and his hand — burned and numb — reached up to cup your breast in his large palm.

He couldn’t feel it, but he could’ve burst then and there when he heard you gasp.

“Yours,” you promised. “Every part of me.”

He’d only needed to hear it.

He locked his arms around you and fucked up into your cunt with sudden, ruinous purpose. The air was driven clean from your lungs. Not greedy — grateful. Hungry like a starved man knelt before a banquet laid out solely for him, and only ever for him. He had gone without this. He had let you go without this, the greatest injustice of all. He was sorry, and broken, and wanted to get better, and so very grateful.

You gasped like you were drowning in him; his cock so deep it tilted everything inside you, your stomach cramping with the pressure of it, your pussy clenching like it couldn’t possibly take more and wanted to draw him deeper anyway.

Kento gathered you in with trembling arms and rutted up into you again, this time faster and harder, chasing something far beyond orgasm. His hips snapped up again, again, again, splitting you apart on the thick base of his cock.

Your cunt squelched with each stroke, every drag of his cockhead bullying your walls apart, and the obscene slick sounds of your arousal echoed in tandem with the rumbling, wrecked groans slipping through his clenched teeth.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he hissed, pressing his head hard into the hollow of your neck, sweat dripping from his brow into the curve of your collarbone. “You feel—ahh—fucking exquisite—“

You sobbed against his temple, doe-eyes wide and watery and lips moist and wordless with the overwhelming swell of sensation as Kento fucked you in earnest, every inch of him hot and hard and home as he punched up like he needed to re-brand his shape into the softest parts of you.

He buried himself to the hilt and held, his shaft flexing into the spongy spot along your frontal wall in a way that had your thighs spasming around his waist and your voice broken into sporadic little mewls. You felt full to bursting, your cunt spasming as you tried to meet his thrusts with your own broken, shaky rhythm. He shushed you, gentling you with his hands and mumbling sweet reassurances into your hair.

“Oh—God—it’s been so long…Kento, I can’t—“

“You can.” He whispered at you fiercely. “You’re taking me so well, baby—look at you…fucking look at you—“

You turned over your shoulder, eyes watery and flicked to the mirror and you nearly came on the spot.

Your body bouncing in his lap, your breasts flushed and heaving, his arms caging you in like steel but with such certainty they were the safest place in the world to be, his burned hand fisting in your hair while the good one dragged down your back to grip your ass and slam you down on him again. He looked enormous like this. Like he could destroy you, and you would absolutely let him.

He angled his hips and found your g-spot again. And again. Old muscle memory returned so easily, and now he sought to unravel you like he’d neglected to until now. Again and again and again.

His brow furrowed with focus, so thoroughly consumed by his devoted possession of you, that old competitiveness of his reared its head. Kento grunted, locked your hips down on his cock with his brutal hands and ground deep into your dripping core.

“Come for me,” he murmured. “Let me feel it.”

You shattered in his arms. A year of wanting, of yearning, of desperate grinding into his fingers and wishing with violent desperation that he would give you the rest of him, all unraveled with a jolted cry. Your back arched and your breasts crammed against Kento’s chest. Your pussy spasmed and milked him in wet, clutching waves as your orgasm consumed you. Your hands scrabbled at his shoulders, holding on for dear life when he started to

move again, dragging you fractious and feral through the first of the many orgasms he owed you.

Hearing your gorgeous gasps and moans spurred him on. His hands gripped your waist, his pounding erratic now, furious and feral and so overwhelmed he couldn’t speak. You felt his chest heave and then catch, his breath held and his hips rammed up once more with the frantic throb of him thick and ready inside you—

“Kento—inside, please…!” you begged.

Kento came with a deep, barked “Fuck!”

He pressed his forehead to yours, his orgasm contracting his balls in heavy, hot spurts, his cock pulsing thick inside your still-quivering and tender cunt. You felt the first dreg coat your insides, the second flood them, the third overflow.

He kept rutting through it, slow, helpless, desperate thrusts that dragged his cum deeper inside you, like he couldn’t bear to leave your body empty again. He would imprint himself there, he would stay, nothing would ever drag him from you again.

You kissed him. Sloppy, gasping and open-mouthed, cum-spilled and half-delirious with pleasure and joy. Your body shook with the echo of it, your pussy still fluttering around the fullness inside you with his spilled seed now dripping all over your folds.

Neither of you moved for some time.

The room swam in the scent of sex, skin, and lavender, and the slanting afternoon light in the blinds changed places and burned gold stripes across your bed. Kento’s breath slowed and his shoulders rose and fell with a serenity you weren’t used to seeing anymore. His arms looped loosely around your waist now — protective, not possessive, but trembling with the cold, ice-bucket fear of knowing this would only last if he let it, if he allowed himself to have you again.

Nanami didn’t say anything when he finally pulled out. Just held you fast as his cum began to drip free, sticky and white between your thighs. He chuckled at the way you whined your displeasure into his ear.

He kissed your temple and made you sit, reluctantly, while he gathered your discarded towel from the floor to clean you.

You both fumbled in the murky dusk-dark with tired hands. Neither of

you quite brave enough to break the silence yet, and both of you content to simply let it sit and have its space. This silence was not the same as before when the mirror was draped and your bed was quiet and his warmth was rationed out like wartime sugar.

Eventually you curled into the pillows, and Kento pulled you into his chest, face buried in your hair, one arm curved instinctively around your hips like a gate that he would never open again.

His eyepatch still lay on the sink. And the mirror, still uncovered, reflected back two who sat quietly in the golden spill of bedroom light. Naked and imperfect, both slightly ruined in a way that didn’t feel quite as tragic anymore.

There were still cracks. Of course there were.

But tonight, they let the light in.

Kento drew one of your hands up to caress his face, turning to exhale a kiss into your palm. Your fingers folded around it, only for him to move your fist down his sternum — left side, smooth and finally available to you — where the living rhythm inside beat softly in your grasp.

Smiling, you kissed the skin beside your knuckles, and Kento let his eye close, sweetened by you. You feel the rumble in his chest before he speaks.

“Feel you.”

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