torusangel

[torusangel]

Coping with the fact the animation is taking so long. Yup, I’m still working on it, trust me😔🙏

Also, I was sort of just realizing that this is very similar to that one drawing I did with Suguru at that dinning table looking down at Satoru on the plate. Erm but that’s because it’s quite literally the same scene (in terms of the context behind it) wow isn’t that crazy💀 This whole thing got me in the trenches I swearrrr.

[torusangel]

He’s something of a male feminist himself

[torusangel]

the curious case of satoru gojo

pairing — scientist satoru x housewife reader

synopsis : satoru gojo is a nobel-nominated genius with three phds, a devoted wife, and one tiny problem: he's accidentally turned himself into his nineteen-year-old self. now locked out of his own house and mistaken for a very persistent stalker by the love of his life (that’s you), he has one mission—fix the time machine, reclaim his face, and survive your increasingly violent attempts to defend your marriage from... him.

tags — oneshot, porn with plot, established relationship, domestic fluff, crack treated seriously, age regression/de-aging, identity shenanigans, miscommunication but it’s technically quantum, time travel(?) shenanigans, idiots in love, emotional whiplash, romantic comedy, jealous of himself, satoru gojo is so down bad, penis in vagina sex, kitchen sex, breeding kink, mating press, praise kink, overstimulation, sexual overstimulation, multiple orgasms, multiple sex positions, satoru gojo worships you like a religion, slight size kink, he’s been deprived okay, smut happens after he fixes everything

wc — 20.1k | gen. masterlist | read on ao3?

a/n: yes i wrote this in one day. yes i wrote this instead of focusing on finishing the part two of my apothecary diaries au fic. please don’t get your pitchforks out (⁠•⁠ ⁠▽⁠ ⁠•⁠;⁠) if u see i typo, no u don’t.

two weeks.

fourteen days of existing as a walking contradiction—a twenty-nine-year-old genius trapped in the lanky, smooth-faced prison of his nineteen-year-old body. satoru adjusts his reading glasses (the same prescription, thankfully, because his eyesight had been terrible since childhood) and stares at your front door like it’s the gates of heaven guarded by the world’s most beautiful, most stubborn angel.

his hair catches the afternoon light, those fine strands the color of fresh snow that had turned this ethereal shade when he was four and his first chemistry set had gone spectacularly wrong. it had originally been a soft, milk-tea brown, the color of dusty books and early autumn. he’d tried to invent a hair-growth serum for his dad. instead, the mixture combusted, coated his scalp, and bleached every strand into something unnaturally pale. his parents had panicked, thinking he’d poisoned himself. little satoru, meanwhile, had stared into the mirror and grinned with gap-toothed delight.

now, at nineteen-again, it falls across his forehead in soft waves, glowing almost silver in the sunlight. he looks like a walking, talking academic heartthrob from a university romance novel—which would be flattering if his own wife didn’t look at him like he was an unsightly bug on her kitchen floor.

the irony tastes bitter on his tongue, metallic like blood and regret. he’d spent six years perfecting a device to slow down time—not for scientific glory or recognition, but because twenty-four hours with you had never felt like enough. he’d wanted to stretch lazy sunday mornings into eternities, to make your sleepy smiles and the way you hummed while making coffee last forever.

instead, he’d accidentally turned himself into a time paradox of the most pathetic variety. a cautionary tale about hubris wrapped in the body of a college freshman.

his phone buzzes somewhere in the basement lab, probably sending another automated message to your device: still working on the temporal displacement project. eating the sandwiches you left. miss you. love you. —satoru

the ai assistant he’d programmed to keep you from worrying had become his greatest enemy. every perfectly crafted message, every detail programmed to sound exactly like him, was another nail in the coffin of his credibility. he’d been too thorough, too careful, too much of a perfectionist even in his contingency planning.

because here he stands, looking like a college freshman who’d wandered into the wrong neighborhood, while you believe your husband is safely tucked away in his lab, probably elbow-deep in equations and caffeine addiction.

the thing is—and this is where his pride starts gnawing at his intestines like a particularly vindictive parasite—he doesn’t want to sneak into his own house. he’s the dr. satoru gojo, for crying out loud. he has three phds, a nobel prize nomination, and enough patents to wallpaper the entire first floor. he shouldn’t have to skulk through basement windows like some sort of lovesick cat burglar just to access his own laboratory.

he’s a dignified man of science. he has principles. standards. a reputation to maintain, even if that reputation is currently being dragged through the mud by his own temporal incompetence.

no, he’s going to do this the right way. he’s going to convince you, properly and thoroughly, that he is exactly who he claims to be. he’s going to walk through the front door like a civilized human being, kiss his wife hello, and pretend the last two weeks never happened.

this is a matter of scientific integrity. of personal dignity. of—

he rings the doorbell.

the sound of your footsteps approaching makes his heart perform some sort of olympic gymnastics routine, complete with triple axels and a dismount that leaves his stomach somewhere in the vicinity of his ankles. even through the door, he can picture the way you move—that particular grace you’ve always had, like you’re dancing to music only you can hear. you’re probably wearing one of those sundresses he loves, the ones that make you look like you’ve stepped out of a 1950s magazine about perfect wives, except you’re real and warm and you smell like vanilla and clean laundry and home.

the door opens, and satoru’s brain promptly short-circuits.

you’re wearing the yellow dress. the one with tiny white flowers that he’d bought you for your second anniversary because you’d mentioned once, in passing, while distracted by a butterfly in the park, that it reminded you of the field where you’d had your first picnic. he’d remembered that throwaway comment for six months before finding the perfect dress, had it tailored to fit you exactly, had even added those hidden pockets because you always lost your keys.

your hair is pinned back with the butterfly clips he’d made for you—tiny mechanical marvels that flutter their wings when you laugh, solar-powered and calibrated to respond to the specific frequency of your joy. he’d spent three weeks perfecting the mechanism after you’d mentioned liking butterflies. three weeks of delicate gear work and programming, all for the chance to see you smile when the wings moved.

you look at him, and your expression shifts from hopeful to confused to absolutely murderous in the span of three seconds.

“oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

his heart skips a beat. maybe five. this is the part where he says something clever. this is the part where he charms you back into loving him. this is the part where his superior intellect saves the day and—

before he can open his mouth to explain, to plead, to grovel at your perfect feet, you’ve already produced what looks like a small silver device from somewhere in your dress. the hidden pocket in the seam, specifically—the one he’d reinforced with extra stitching because you had a tendency to overstuff it with lip balm and emergency snacks.

the device hums ominously, a sound that sends ice water through his veins because he recognizes it immediately. it’s the personal protection gadget he’d built for you last christmas, after you’d mentioned feeling nervous walking home from your book club in the dark. he’d spent a month perfecting it—a sleek little thing that could stun, disorient, or mildly embarrass an attacker depending on the setting.

and right now, you’re turning the dial past ‘warning shot’ and heading straight for ‘regret your life choices.’

“listen here, you little creep,” you say, and your voice is deadly sweet, like honey laced with cyanide. the juxtaposition of your floral sundress and the murder in your eyes is somehow the most attractive thing he’s ever seen, which probably says something deeply concerning about his psychology. “i don’t know who you think you are, but i’m a married woman. deeply, completely, utterly in love with my husband.”

the way you say ‘my husband’ makes something in his chest crack open like a fault line. there’s so much pride in your voice, so much fierce devotion, and he wants to bask in it except you’re not talking about him. you’re talking about him, but not him-him. you’re talking about the version of him you actually want to see walking through this door.

“so whatever pathetic attempt at impersonation this is,” you continue, and the weapon in your hand starts glowing a rather alarming shade of blue, “you can take it and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.”

“wait, wait!” he holds up his hands, noting with growing horror how young they look, how smooth and unmarked by years of lab work. these hands haven’t built the music box that plays your wedding song. these fingers haven’t spent countless hours crafting the little inventions that make you smile. “i can explain! i know this looks bad, but i’m really—”

“satoru,” you finish, your eyes narrowing dangerously. “yes, i heard your little introduction yesterday. and the week before that. you know what? the name satoru only fits one person in this world, and he’s about a hundred times more attractive, intelligent, and charming than whatever discount walmart version you’re trying to pull off.”

the words hit him like a freight train loaded with emotional devastation and existential dread. discount walmart version. you—his wife, the love of his life, the woman who’s seen him drool on his pillow and still kisses him good morning—think he’s a cheap knockoff of himself.

“my husband,” you continue, and there’s that tone again, soft and dreamy and absolutely besotted, “is brilliant beyond measure. he’s kind and funny and makes me laugh every single day. he has these eyes that light up when he’s excited about something, and he gets this little crease between his eyebrows when he’s concentrating. he’s tall and gorgeous and perfect, and you...” you look him up and down with obvious disdain, “are none of those things.”

satoru feels something die inside his chest. possibly his will to live. definitely his ego.

because the thing is, you’re right. he doesn’t look like the man you married anymore. he looks like a college student, all gangly limbs and baby fat and skin that hasn’t been weathered by years of late nights in the lab. he looks like someone who might ask you for help with his homework, not someone who’s built you a smart house that anticipates your every need.

“but i know things!” he says desperately, his voice cracking in a way that makes him want to crawl into a hole and die. “i know about your scar from when you fell off your bike when you were seven! it’s shaped like a crescent moon and you hate it but i think it’s beautiful! i know you cry during dog food commercials but only the ones with golden retrievers! i know you keep our wedding photo in your recipe book, tucked between the pages for chocolate chip cookies and banana bread!”

your expression grows more dangerous with each word, and the weapon in your hand charges up another notch.

“you sick little stalker,” you hiss, and the venom in your voice could probably strip paint. “how dare you dig into our private life and try to use our precious memories against me! what kind of pathetic creep researches someone’s marriage just to play dress-up?”

“i’m not playing dress-up!” he protests, and he knows he sounds pathetic, knows he looks like exactly what you think he is—some obsessed fan who’s done way too much homework. “i know about the time you got food poisoning from that seafood place and i held your hair while you threw up! i know you have a freckle shaped like a heart on your left shoulder! i know you sing off-key in the shower but you think you sound like an angel!”

“stop it!” you snap, and your finger hovers over the trigger. “stop trying to soil our beautiful relationship with your creepy research!”

“i know about our first fight!” he rushes on, desperate now, sweat beading on his forehead. “it was about the thermostat because you like the house warm and i run hot! i know you forgave me by leaving little notes in my lab equipment! i know you doodle my name in the margins of your books when you’re daydreaming!”

each piece of intimate knowledge he reveals only seems to make you angrier, and satoru realizes with growing horror that he’s trapped in some sort of emotional paradox. the more he proves he knows you, the more you’re convinced he’s a stranger.

“and i know,” he adds, his voice dropping to something desperate and broken, “that you’re wearing the perfume i bought you for your birthday. the one that smells like vanilla and jasmine and makes me want to bury my face in your neck and never leave.”

you go very, very still.

“that’s enough,” you say quietly, and somehow that’s more terrifying than when you were shouting. “i don’t care how much you’ve stalked us, how many private details you’ve dug up, how perfectly you’ve copied his appearance. you are not my husband.”

“but—”

“my husband,” you continue, and your voice goes soft and dreamy again, like you’re talking about something holy, “is perfect. he’s brilliant and beautiful and kind, and he loves me exactly as much as i love him. he’s probably in his lab right now, working on something that’s going to change the world, missing me but dedicated to his research because that’s who he is. that’s the man i married.”

the weapon powers up another notch, and satoru is pretty sure it’s no longer set to ‘stun.’

“and you,” you say, looking him up and down with obvious disgust, “are just some sad little boy with a crush and too much time on your hands. so here’s what’s going to happen. you’re going to leave. now. and if i see you anywhere near our house again, i’m going to do something that will require a very good explanation to the police.”

satoru stares at you—really looks at you—and sees the fierce protectiveness in your eyes, the way you’re guarding not just your home but your marriage, your happiness, your love for a man you think is safely tucked away in his basement lab.

you’re magnificent. terrifying and beautiful and absolutely magnificent.

and you’re about to potentially murder him while defending his honor.

“i know about the night after our second anniversary,” he tries one more time, his voice breaking completely now. “when you wore that blue nightgown with the little ribbons, and we danced in the kitchen to that song you love, and then we—”

“that’s it.”

the blast catches him square in the chest, and suddenly satoru is airborne, flying backward off your porch and landing in the rose bushes he’d planted for your last birthday. the thorns are sharp, but not nearly as sharp as the look you’d given him right before pulling the trigger.

he lies there for a moment, stunned and possibly concussed, staring up at the sky and trying to process what just happened.

through the ringing in his ears, he hears you call out: “my husband is a genius with 845 patents and the most brilliant mind of our generation! you’re just some sad little boy who probably googled him! stay away from our house, or next time i’m setting this thing to something more permanent!”

the door slams with enough force to rattle the windows.

satoru continues lying in the roses, rose petals in his hair and thorns in his dignity, and tries to comprehend the fact that his own wife just threatened to potentially murder him while defending his honor with the very weapon he’d built to protect her.

somewhere in the distance, a bird chirps. a car drives by. the world continues spinning as if nothing momentous has just occurred.

he’s never been more in love in his entire life. which is probably a sign that he needs therapy. or a lobotomy. possibly both.

he lies there for a moment. processing. his ribs hurt. his pride hurts more. his entire soul aches in a way that is both deeply romantic and profoundly stupid.

“also!” you shout from the upstairs window, your voice carrying that indignant tone you get when you’re really worked up, “my husband has better hair! and better posture! and he’s taller! and he knows how to dress himself like an adult instead of a lost college freshman!”

each addition feels like salt in the wound. you’re systematically dismantling every aspect of his nineteen-year-old appearance while praising the twenty-nine-year-old version with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for describing paradise.

“and he smells better!” you continue, apparently not done with your character assassination. “like expensive cologne and coffee and home, not like... like drugstore body spray and desperation!”

satoru sniffs himself reflexively. he doesn’t smell like desperation. does he? the drugstore body spray comment is just mean, especially since he’d specifically chosen the brand you’d complimented on a stranger once.

“and his voice!” you’re really getting into it now, leaning out the window with the fervor of someone delivering a sermon. “his voice is deeper, and smoother, and when he says my name it sounds like music instead of like a squeaky toy!”

he touches his throat self-consciously. his voice had been deeper before the accident, richer, more confident. now he sounds like he’s going through puberty again, all cracks and uncertain intonation.

“and he would never be stupid enough to break into someone’s house like some kind of delinquent!” you conclude with devastating finality. “my husband is a gentleman and a scholar and the most wonderful man who ever lived, and you’re just some discount imposter who isn’t fit to shine his shoes!”

the window slams shut.

satoru groans. loud and dramatic and entirely justified.

he really should’ve just built a cloning machine. or left a video message in case of accidental de-aging. or tattooed a note to his own arm. but no, he had to get ambitious. he had to try and invent time-space atmospheric slowdown like a dumbass in love.

he drags himself up from the rosebush, brushing petals and leaves from his shirt. there’s one stuck in his hair, refusing to leave like it has a vendetta. his reflection in the front window shows a pathetic figure: clothes wrinkled, hair disheveled, a small cut on his cheek from the thorns, and an expression of profound defeat.

this is what rock bottom looks like, apparently. getting ejected from his own home by his own wife while she sings the praises of his other self.

the irony is suffocating. you love him so much that you’d attack anyone who even pretended to be him. your loyalty is absolute, your devotion unwavering, your protective instincts sharp enough to cut glass. it’s everything he’d ever wanted in a partner, everything he’d fallen in love with, turned against him in the cruelest possible way.

he presses his hand to his chest, where the stun device got him. it still tingles, a reminder of your precision, your preparedness, the way you’d defended your marriage without a moment’s hesitation. you’d been magnificent, absolutely magnificent, and he’d been the target.

satoru limps toward the sidewalk, his teenage body protesting every movement. his legs feel too long, his center of gravity all wrong. everything about this borrowed youth feels like wearing an ill-fitting costume to the most important performance of his life.

he looks back at the house—your house, his house, the home you’d built together—and feels the weight of his isolation settle around him like a heavy coat. inside, you’re probably making dinner, humming that song you always hum when you’re slightly stressed, maybe wondering why the strange boy keeps bothering you when your husband is working so hard in his lab.

the thought of you worrying, of you feeling unsafe in your own home because of his appearance, makes his chest tight with guilt. he’d never wanted to frighten you, never wanted to make you feel threatened or uncomfortable. he’d just wanted to come home.

but this isn’t working. two weeks of doorbell rejections, verbal demolitions, and physical removal have made it clear that the direct approach is a spectacular failure. you’re not going to believe him, not when he looks like this, not when every instinct you have is screaming that he’s an imposter.

he understands that you love your husband—him—so much that you’ll fight off anyone who threatens that love, even if it means breaking your own tender heart to do it. he understands that the depth of your devotion is exactly what makes this situation so impossible.

he also understands that his dignity, his principles, his stubborn refusal to sneak around his own house like a common criminal, has just officially been abandoned in your rose bushes along with his pride.

because two weeks without you is already too long, and the thought of spending even one more night in a hotel room that smells like industrial disinfectant instead of your vanilla perfume makes him want to invent a time machine just so he can go back and slap his past self for being such an arrogant idiot.

science is about adaptation. evolution. knowing when to abandon a failed hypothesis and try a new approach.

tonight, dr. satoru gojo, nobel prize winner and distinguished gentleman of science, is going to break into his own house like a lovesick teenager.

his dignity is already dead anyway. might as well bury it properly.

night falls like a heavy curtain draped by a particularly melodramatic theater director, and satoru crouches in the shadows of his own garden like some sort of discount romeo—if romeo had been a twenty-nine-year-old genius trapped in a nineteen-year-old’s body and juliet had been his own wife who’d recently threatened him with what appeared to be a weaponized jewelry box.

the irony tastes like burnt coffee and shattered dreams. he’s spent six years turning this place into fort knox’s prettier, more technologically advanced cousin, all in the name of protecting you from theoretical dangers that pale in comparison to the very real threat of his own stupidity. motion sensors that could detect a butterfly’s landing, cameras with night vision that would make the military weep with envy, locks that respond to seventeen different biometric markers—and here he is, plotting to break into his own fortress like the world’s most pathetic cat burglar.

the security system hums softly in the darkness, a technological lullaby he’d programmed himself. every blinking light, every nearly invisible laser grid, every pressure-sensitive tile in the walkway—his own paranoid genius, now turned against him like some sort of karmic boomerang wrapped in irony and spite.

he adjusts his reading glasses and studies the house like a general surveying a battlefield. except generals probably don’t usually have to factor in the devastating effects of seeing their beloved wearing pajamas into their strategic planning.

the kitchen window. salvation arrives in the form of his own procrastination—there’s a loose latch on the kitchen window that he’s been meaning to fix for approximately four months and seventeen days. not that he’s counting. you’d mentioned it in passing on a tuesday morning while making pancakes, your hair still mussed from sleep, wearing that ridiculous apron with the anthropomorphic strawberries that should have looked childish but instead made you look like some sort of domestic goddess descended from mount olympus to bless his unworthy kitchen with your presence.

he’d nodded and made appropriate husband noises about adding it to his mental to-do list, then promptly forgotten because you’d started humming that song—the one you always hum when you’re happy, the one that sounds like sunshine would if sunshine had a voice—and his brain had short-circuited somewhere between “fix window latch” and “marry this woman again immediately.”

procrastination, it turns out, has never felt so much like divine intervention.

satoru approaches the window with the careful precision of someone who knows exactly how much pressure the old frame can take before it creaks loud enough to wake the neighbors’ dog, which would start a chain reaction of barking that would inevitably lead to you investigating the commotion. his nineteen-year-old fingers work the latch with muscle memory that spans a decade—apparently some things transcend the space-time continuum, including his intimate knowledge of his own home’s structural weaknesses.

the window slides open with barely a whisper, and satoru feels a brief moment of triumph that’s immediately crushed under the weight of what he’s actually doing. breaking and entering. into his own house. to convince his own wife that he’s actually himself. 

if there’s a support group for men who’ve been defeated by their own scientific brilliance, he’s definitely going to need the membership information.

he slips through the window with the fluid grace of his temporarily teenage body, and the contrast is jarring—he’d forgotten how easy movement used to be, before years of hunching over microscopes and circuit boards had given him the posture of a question mark and the flexibility of a particularly rigid breadstick. his nineteen-year-old joints don’t protest the maneuver, don’t crack ominously or require the careful choreography he’s grown accustomed to.

it’s like being a ghost haunting his own life, except ghosts probably don’t have to worry about whether their wives will recognize them.

the house settles around him in the darkness, familiar as his own heartbeat. every creak of the floorboards, every sigh of the old ventilation system, every subtle shift of air that speaks of home and safety and belonging. the scent of dinner lingers in the air—something with garlic and herbs that makes his stomach growl traitorously, reminding him that nineteen-year-old metabolisms apparently require more fuel than whatever laboratory subsistence he’s been surviving on.

guilt tastes like copper pennies and regret as he imagines you eating alone, probably glancing at the basement door every few minutes, wondering if your husband remembered to eat anything more substantial than the sandwiches you’d left for him. the automated messages from his ai assistant feel like lead weights in his chest—every perfectly crafted lie, every synthetic expression of love and longing, every digital deception that kept you from worrying while the real satoru stumbled around in a teenage body like some sort of scientific cautionary tale.

his feet hit the kitchen floor with barely a whisper of sound, and for a moment, he allows himself to breathe. step one: infiltration successful. step two: somehow make it to the basement without triggering any of the—

the lights explode to life like the sun deciding to have a particularly vindictive tantrum.

“gotcha, you little creep.”

and there you are.

standing in the doorway like an avenging angel who’d decided that white cotton nightgowns were the appropriate battle attire for dealing with home invaders. the nightdress—the one with the lace trim that he’d bought you for your birthday because you’d mentioned once that you felt pretty in white—catches the harsh kitchen light and transforms you into something ethereal and terrifying in equal measure.

your hair spills over your shoulders in loose waves, the same waves he’s buried his fingers in countless times, that he’s watched catch morning sunlight during lazy weekend mornings when the world consisted of nothing but you and him and the space between heartbeats. but there’s steel in your posture now, a predatory grace that speaks of skills he’d never suspected, secrets kept with the casual competence of someone who’s been protecting others while letting them think they were doing the protecting.

satoru opens his mouth to explain, to plead, to throw himself at your mercy and grovel with the desperation of a man who’s spent two weeks learning exactly how much his life means nothing without you in it—

your hand moves faster than his genius brain can process, faster than the calculations that usually come as naturally as breathing, faster than any of the combat scenarios he’s ever run through his head during his more paranoid moments.

the karate chop catches him right at the base of his neck with surgical precision, and satoru’s world doesn’t just explode into stars—it becomes a supernova of sensation and realization and the most inappropriate surge of attraction he’s ever experienced.

because even as his vision goes blurry around the edges, even as his knees buckle and his carefully planned explanations scatter like startled birds, even as consciousness starts its tactical retreat from the battlefield of his skull—you’re beautiful.

devastatingly, impossibly, catastrophically beautiful.

he’d known you were deadly, in the abstract way that husbands know their wives are capable of anything. but seeing it, experiencing the controlled violence of someone who’s spent years learning how to end threats efficiently and effectively, watching the way you move with the fluid confidence of someone who’s never doubted their ability to protect what matters—

it’s like falling in love all over again, except this time it’s happening while his nervous system stages a coup and his equilibrium files for immediate resignation.

the woman he’d married, the one who makes him sandwiches with the crusts cut off because you knows he eats more when food is convenient, the one who leaves little notes in his lab reminding him to drink water and take breaks, the one who hums while doing laundry and always smells like vanilla and clean cotton and home—you just incapacitated him with the casual efficiency of someone who’s been trained to handle much worse threats than lovesick scientists with poor life choices.

and he’s never been more attracted to another human being in his entire existence.

his vision swims, the edges of the world growing soft and fuzzy like someone’s smeared vaseline on the lens of reality. but even through the haze of imminent unconsciousness, he can see you clearly—the slight flush in your cheeks from adrenaline, the way your breathing has quickened just fractionally, the protective fire in your eyes that speaks of love fierce enough to level cities.

“you,” his mouth tries to form words, but his tongue feels like it’s been replaced with cotton batting soaked in novocaine. “you’re...”

“insane?” you supply helpfully, though your voice carries that particular note of concern that always appears when you think he might be hurt. “scary? criminally strong?”

“perfect,” he manages, and even slurred beyond recognition, the word carries every ounce of wonder and adoration and bone-deep reverence he feels.

you blink, clearly not expecting that response from your supposed stalker, and in that moment of confusion, satoru sees something shift in your expression. a flicker of uncertainty, a crack in the armor of your righteous fury that lets just a hint of the woman he knows peek through.

then the world tilts sideways, his legs forget how to function, and consciousness waves goodbye with all the dignity of a deflating balloon.

satoru surfaces from the depths of unconsciousness like a man drowning in reverse, fighting his way back to a reality that feels suspiciously soft and comfortable for someone who’d just been neutralized by his own wife.

the mother of all headaches pounds against his skull with the rhythm of a particularly enthusiastic drummer, and somewhere in the distance, birds are chirping with the sort of aggressive cheerfulness that makes him want to invent a device for negotiating with wildlife.

satoru opens his eyes to find himself on the porch—his porch, their porch, the one with the swing he’d installed because you’d mentioned once that you’d always wanted one—with a pillow tucked carefully under his head and a glass of water sitting nearby like a peace offering from the goddess of justified violence.

even while knocking him unconscious for breaking into his own home, you’d made sure he was comfortable.

the pillow smells like you—vanilla and that lavender fabric softener you use and something indefinably warm that he’s never been able to identify but would recognize anywhere. it’s the same scent that clings to his shirts when you do laundry, the same one that fills their bedroom in the mornings, the same one that he associates with safety and belonging and the radical concept that someone might actually love him enough to put up with his particular brand of brilliant stupidity.

he sits up slowly, his head spinning like a carnival ride operated by someone with a grudge against inner ears, and catches sight of a note tucked under the water glass. the handwriting is yours—neat, precise, with the same careful attention to detail you bring to everything from grocery lists to the birthday cards you make by hand because you say store-bought ones don’t carry enough love.

for the headache. next time, try using the front door like a normal stalker. —the wife of the REAL satoru gojo

despite everything—the splitting headache, the existential crisis, the fact that he’s been reduced to breaking into his own home like some sort of romantic criminal—he smiles. even your passive-aggressive notes are perfect. even when you’re threatening him with bodily harm, you’re taking care of him. even when you think he’s some delusional teenager with stalker tendencies, you’re making sure he’s hydrated and comfortable.

he’s never been more in love, which would be romantic if it weren’t so completely pathetic.

the front door opens with the sort of casual grace that suggests you’ve been watching him from inside, probably trying to determine whether he’s going to keel over again or attempt another round of breaking and entering. you step out wearing a blue sundress that makes his chest ache with longing so profound it feels like a physical injury—the one with tiny white flowers that he’d bought you for your second anniversary because you’d mentioned once that it reminded you of the field where you’d had your first picnic.

you’re carrying a plate of what looks like his favorite cookies, the ones you only make when you’re worried or upset, the ones that involve three different types of chocolate and a recipe you guard more jealously than state secrets. the fact that you’ve made them now, for what you think is a complete stranger, speaks to a kindness so fundamental that it makes his throat close up with emotion.

“you’re awake,” you observe, settling into the porch chair you’d insisted on buying last spring, the one he’d grumbled about because it didn’t match the aesthetic he’d carefully planned, the one that’s now his favorite spot in the world because it’s where you sit in the mornings with your coffee and your terrible romance novels and your complete contentment with the life you’ve built together. “good. i was starting to think i’d hit you too hard.”

there’s genuine concern in your voice, the same tone you use when he’s working too late and you’re worried he’s going to collapse from exhaustion, and satoru feels his dignity—what little remains of it—crumble into dust. his wife is worried about the wellbeing of someone she thinks is essentially a teenage stalker, because that’s the kind of person you are. that’s the kind of heart you have.

he struggles to his feet, swaying slightly as his nineteen-year-old equilibrium files a formal complaint about the abuse it’s recently endured. “you... you know karate?”

the question comes out slightly accusatory, tinged with the bewilderment of a man discovering that his beloved is capable of violence on a level he’d never imagined. six years of marriage, six years of thinking he knew everything about you, six years of believing he was the protector in this relationship—

“among other things.” you bite into a cookie with the satisfied air of someone who’s just discovered an interesting new fact about the world, watching him with the expression of someone observing a particularly fascinating specimen under laboratory conditions. “my husband doesn’t know. i like letting him think he needs to protect me. he makes the most adorable gadgets when he’s worried about my safety.”

the casual way you mention keeping an entire martial arts background secret from him makes satoru’s head spin worse than the concussion. not because you’ve hidden something from him—everyone deserves their secrets, their private spaces, their own mysteries to unfold in their own time—but because you’ve hidden it for the most fundamentally sweet reason imaginable.

you’ve been letting him play protector while being perfectly capable of protecting yourself, because you think his overprotectiveness is cute.

he falls in love with you all over again, which seems physically impossible given that he’s been operating at maximum love capacity for the better part of a decade, but apparently the human heart has hidden reserves for discovering new depths of adoration even when you think you’ve already catalogued every possible reason to worship someone.

“why didn’t you tell him?” he asks, genuinely curious despite the circumstances and the growing certainty that he’s about to learn something that will fundamentally reshape his understanding of the woman he married.

your expression softens in the way that always makes his chest tight with emotion, that particular look of fond exasperation mixed with infinite patience that you reserve for discussions of your husband’s more endearing quirks.

“because my satoru gojo is the smartest man alive,” you say, and the pride in your voice makes something warm and golden spread through his chest like sunrise, “but he’s also a complete idiot when it comes to the people he loves. he’d spend all his time trying to make sure i never had to use those skills instead of appreciating that i can take care of myself. this way, he gets to feel protective, i get beautiful functional jewelry and self-defense gadgets, and everyone’s happy.”

the way you say his name—their name, his name, the name you chose to take and make your own—carries so much love it’s like being hit by lightning made of pure affection. there’s pride and exasperation and devotion all wrapped up together, the voice of someone who sees all his flaws and brilliant strengths and loves him not despite them but because of the ridiculous, wonderful, impossible whole they create.

“he’s lucky,” satoru says quietly, his voice rough with emotions he can’t begin to untangle, “to have someone who understands him so well.”

“he is,” you agree, and your smile could power entire cities, could fuel space programs, could probably solve half the world’s energy crisis if properly harnessed. “he’s brilliant and kind and funny, and he makes me laugh every single day. he’s also terrible at remembering to eat when he’s working and has a tendency to forget that normal people need more than three hours of sleep, but he’s perfect. he’s mine.”

satoru has never experienced jealousy of himself before, but it turns out to be a unique form of psychological torture—listening to the woman he loves describe him with such complete adoration while being unable to claim that love for himself. it’s like being handed a gift and told you can look but never touch, like being shown paradise through bulletproof glass.

the domesticity of it, the casual way you catalogue his flaws alongside his strengths, the matter-of-fact possessiveness in that final declaration—it’s everything he’s ever wanted and everything he currently can’t have, all wrapped up in a blue sundress and served with homemade cookies.

“what if,” he tries carefully, his voice pitched to sound like idle curiosity rather than the desperate plea it actually is, “hypothetically, something happened to him? what if he was... changed somehow?”

your expression shifts faster than a summer storm, going from warm affection to arctic fury in the space between heartbeats. the cookie in your hand crumbles slightly from the sudden tension in your grip, chocolate chips scattering like the remains of his dignity.

“nothing’s going to happen to my husband,” you say, and your voice carries the kind of quiet menace that speaks of consequences beyond imagination. “and if someone tried to hurt him, they’d have to go through me first.”

the protective fire in your eyes makes something primal and deeply satisfied purr in his chest, even as his rational mind catalogs this as yet another example of how thoroughly he’s miscalculated this entire situation. you’d go to war for him. you’d fight gods and demons and the fundamental forces of the universe itself if it meant keeping him safe.

and here he is, the very person you’re trying to protect, being threatened by that same fierce love.

“but hypothetically—”

“no hypotheticals.” you stand up with sharp, efficient movements, smoothing your dress with the same precision you bring to everything, from folding fitted sheets to organizing his lab equipment when he’s too scattered to think straight. “my husband is in his lab, working on something that’s going to change the world, because that’s what he does. and you’re going to stop harassing us, because that’s what you’re going to do if you want to keep all your limbs attached.”

the dismissal is absolute, final, delivered with the authority of someone who’s never doubted their ability to follow through on threats. you disappear back into the house like an avenging angel returning to heaven, leaving satoru alone with his thoughts and the growing certainty that dignity is a luxury he can no longer afford.

he sits on the porch steps—his own porch steps, in front of his own house, locked out by his own security system and his own wife—and contemplates the spectacular wreckage of his scientific career. somewhere in that basement, his life’s work hums quietly, the temporal displacement device that was supposed to give him more time with you having instead stolen the time he already had.

the irony would be poetic if it weren’t so completely devastating.

satoru gojo, holder of 845 patents, winner of seventeen international scientific awards, the man who’d revolutionized three separate fields before his thirtieth birthday—reduced to breaking into his own home like a common criminal, only to be defeated by his wife’s previously unknown martial arts skills and her absolutely justified protective instincts.

he’s given up his dignity, his professional reputation, and apparently his door privileges, all because he’d been too excited about surprising you with a scientific breakthrough to properly test the safety protocols.

note to self: next time he wants to revolutionize temporal mechanics, maybe start with laboratory mice instead of jumping straight to human trials. 

assuming there is a next time. assuming he can figure out how to convince you that the teenager on your porch is actually your husband without sounding like the world’s most delusional stalker.

the basement feels very far away suddenly, farther than when he’d been planning his infiltration, farther than the actual physical distance between the porch and the lab where his salvation waits. because now he understands the true scope of his problem: it’s not just about fixing the temporal displacement device.

it’s about rebuilding trust with someone who thinks he’s been safely contained in his laboratory while a dangerous stranger makes increasingly desperate attempts to insert himself into their life.

satoru sighs deeply like a man who has discovered that rock bottom has a basement, and that basement has a sub-basement, and he’s currently spelunking through the geological layers of his own humiliation. the pillow you’d left under his head when you dragged his unconscious body out here mocks him with its floral pattern—little daisies that seem to whisper pathetic in tiny flower voices.

his dignity lies somewhere in your rose bushes, probably fertilizing the begonias.

he stares hopelessly at his own house—the house he designed, built, and has been systematically locked out of by his own security measures. the irony tastes like pennies and poor life choices. somewhere in that house, you’re probably stress-baking again, creating cookies that could end world hunger while muttering about stalkers and the general incompetence of teenage boys who think they can impersonate geniuses.

the truly tragic part is that you’re not wrong. he is a teenage boy trying to impersonate a genius. the fact that he actually is that genius feels like a technicality that the universe is refusing to acknowledge.

satoru stands up, brushing pillow lint off his jeans (when had he started wearing jeans? his twenty-nine-year-old self exclusively wore slacks, but apparently his teenage body had different sartorial opinions). if he’s going to reclaim his life, his wife, and his chronological age, he needs to get into that lab.

the front door is obviously out of the question. you’ve made it abundantly clear that any further doorbell-related activities will result in weaponized consequences that his nineteen-year-old body might not survive. the back door is visible from the kitchen window, where you’re probably standing guard like a beautiful, homicidal sentinel.

which leaves him with the architectural equivalent of a hail mary: the basement windows.

he circles the house like a cat burglar who’s read too many heist novels and not enough actual breaking-and-entering manuals. the basement windows are small, the kind of windows that had seemed like a good idea when he was designing a lab and wanted natural light but not easy access. past-satoru had been worried about corporate espionage, not future-satoru trying to infiltrate his own laboratory while trapped in a temporal paradox of the most embarrassing variety.

the window on the east side looks promising. it’s partially hidden by the hydrangea bushes you’d planted last spring, the ones that bloom in impossible shades of blue because you’d somehow convinced them that regular hydrangea colors were beneath their potential. the glass is dirty enough to provide cover, and the latch looks old enough to have the structural integrity of a wet paper bag.

satoru crouches in the dirt, feeling like the world’s most pathetic ninja. his knees protest against the unfamiliar position—nineteen-year-old joints might be more flexible, but they’re also apparently more dramatic about being asked to crouch in garden soil. 

the window latch gives way with the kind of rusty shriek that could wake the dead, the neighbors, and possibly several small woodland creatures. satoru freezes, waiting for the sound of your footsteps, the opening of doors, the general commotion that would signal his discovery and subsequent re-unconsciousness.

nothing.

either you didn’t hear it, or you’re currently sharpening something in the kitchen while humming ominously.

he slides the window open with the careful precision of someone who knows exactly how much the old frame can take before it decides to give up on life entirely. the basement yawns below him like the mouth of some scientific purgatory, all shadows and the faint hum of machines he’d built to make the world a better place.

getting through the window requires a level of physical coordination that his nineteen-year-old body possesses but his twenty-nine-year-old dignity abhors. he ends up sliding through headfirst, performing what could generously be called a controlled fall and more accurately described as a graceless tumble that would make circus performers weep.

his feet hit the concrete floor with all the stealth of a bag of hammers being dropped from a significant height.

the basement lab stretches before him like a technological cathedral, all gleaming surfaces and blinking lights that pulse in rhythm with machines whose purposes range from “revolutionary” to “probably shouldn’t exist but here we are anyway.” this is his domain, his kingdom, his sanctuary of scientific achievement and questionable decision-making.

it also feels like coming home and visiting a crime scene simultaneously.

everything is exactly as he’d left it two weeks ago, frozen in the moment when he’d stepped into the temporal field with the confidence of someone who hadn’t yet learned that the universe has a twisted sense of humor. the half-finished temporal displacement device sits on the main workbench like an accusation, all smooth curves and innocent blinking lights that belie its capacity for chronological chaos.

coffee cups are scattered around like caffeinated archaeological artifacts, each one marking a different stage of his research. there’s the mug you’d given him for his birthday with “world’s okayest scientist” written in comic sans font—your little joke about his ego that he treasures more than his nobel prize nomination. there’s the plain white cup he uses when he’s really focused, the one with the chip on the handle from when he’d gotten excited about a breakthrough and gestured too enthusiastically. there’s even the fancy porcelain teacup his mother had given him, which he only uses when he’s feeling particularly pretentious about his discoveries.

each cup tells the story of late nights, early mornings, and the kind of obsessive focus that leads to temporal displacement incidents.

his phone sits on the desk, buzzing intermittently with notifications he can’t answer. the screen lights up every few minutes with incoming messages, calls from colleagues, reminders about appointments he’s apparently missing while trapped in his own temporal feedback loop. but it’s the outgoing messages that make his stomach twist into knots that could anchor ships.

the ai assistant is working with the efficiency of a swiss watch and the emotional intelligence of someone who actually knows him. every few hours, it crafts another perfect message to your phone, each one a masterpiece of his writing style mixed with the kind of scientific romanticism that had won your heart six years ago.

making progress on the quantum stabilization matrix. the equations are beautiful—almost as beautiful as you in that yellow dress this morning. did you eat lunch? —satoru

breakthrough with the temporal field generators! i think i can increase efficiency by 34%. also, i dreamed about that weekend in kyoto again. we should go back soon. —your devoted husband

minor setback with the power coupling, but nothing i can’t fix. missing your voice. send a voice message please? maybe hum that song you like while i work? it always helps me think. —satoru

each message is a perfect imitation of his writing style, his habits, his love for you wrapped in scientific progress reports. they capture the way he thinks, the way he speaks, the way he can’t seem to separate his work from his adoration of you because everything he creates is somehow inspired by your existence.

no wonder you believe he’s down here, buried in his work, missing you but dedicated to his research. the ai had done its job too well, creating a digital phantom that was more convincing than his actual de-aged presence.

reading them makes him want to punch his past self for being so thorough, so careful, so goddamn good at programming an assistant that could replicate his personality down to the way he signs his messages with scientific terminology and pet names in equal measure.

satoru rolls up his sleeves and approaches his workstation like a penitent approaching an altar.

the lab’s security system chirps softly as he moves through the space, sensors tracking his movement with the bored efficiency of technology that recognizes him but doesn’t particularly care about his current chronological displacement. red lights blink in sequence along the walls, a heartbeat of recognition that would normally make him feel secure and accomplished.

instead, it feels like the lab is mocking him. oh look, the blinking seems to say, it’s the genius who outsmarted himself into adolescence.

the temporal displacement device looks innocent enough sitting there on the main workbench—a sleek silver contraption about the size of a microwave, all smooth curves and the kind of blinking lights that movie audiences associate with either miracle cures or impending explosions. he’d been so proud of it when he’d finished the initial design, so excited to show you what he’d been working on for months.

the irony burns like acid in his chest: he’d built a machine to give himself more time with you, and instead, it had stolen the time he already had.

but now, looking at it with the clarity that comes from two weeks of enforced separation and multiple instances of being rendered unconscious by his own wife, he can see exactly what went wrong. the power coupling on the left side shows signs of overheating, the quantum stabilization matrix is operating at 73% efficiency instead of the required 89%, and the temporal field generators are displaying the kind of fluctuation patterns that suggest they’re one strong breeze away from turning him into quantum soup.

his nineteen-year-old hands remember the work even if they look different doing it—smoother, unlined, with calluses in different places that speak of a life not yet lived. muscle memory is a beautiful thing, and soon he’s lost in the familiar rhythm of calibration and adjustment, replacing the burnt-out components that had caused the initial malfunction.

the security system continues its soft surveillance, cameras tracking his movement as he works. somewhere in the house above, you’re probably going about your evening routine, maybe reading in the living room chair he’d bought specifically because it makes you look like a goddess of domestic tranquility, maybe taking a bath in the tub he’d designed with jets positioned exactly where you like them.

you think your husband is down here, safely contained in his laboratory, working on equations that could revolutionize temporal mechanics. you have no idea that your husband is actually down here, working on equations that could return him to the age where you might not instinctively try to karate chop him on sight.

hours pass in the peculiar way that time moves when you’re focused on something that requires every neuron in your brain to fire in perfect synchronization. his back aches from hunching over the workbench—some things never change, regardless of what decade your spine thinks it’s living in. his eyes water behind his reading glasses, the same prescription he’s had since childhood because apparently temporal displacement doesn’t fix astigmatism.

the basement air grows stale and recycled, nothing like the fresh scent of your perfume or the way the house smells when you’re baking. down here, everything smells like ozone and possibility, metal and dreams, the peculiar combination of scents that comes from trying to bend the universe to your will through applied science and stubborn determination.

component by component, equation by equation, he rebuilds what his hubris had broken. the quantum stabilization matrix purrs back to life, its efficiency climbing toward the magic number that means the difference between “successful temporal correction” and “decorating the lab walls with physicist.” the power coupling stops smoking, which he takes as a positive sign, though the bar for success has been dramatically lowered by recent events.

finally, blessedly, after what feels like several geological ages, the device hums to life with the soft blue glow that means everything is working properly. the sound it makes is almost musical, a harmony of frequencies that speaks to the part of his brain that understands how beautiful math can be when it’s applied to impossible problems.

satoru stares at it for a long moment, this machine that had caused so much chaos, so much pain, so much embarrassment. it looks the same as it had two weeks ago, before he’d stepped into it with the confidence of someone who hadn’t yet learned that the universe has a deeply personal vendetta against his happiness.

but now it’s fixed. now it can undo what it had done, return him to the chronological age where his wife doesn’t look at him like he’s a particularly offensive piece of gum stuck to her shoe.

he takes a deep breath, tasting the metallic tang of possibility and ozone, and steps into the temporal field.

the world bends.

reality stretches like taffy in the hands of a cosmic confectioner who’s had too much caffeine and not enough sleep. colors bleed into each other, the visible spectrum having what appears to be a nervous breakdown while time folds backward on itself with the sensation of falling upward through a kaleidoscope made of mathematics and regret.

his bones feel like they’re growing, stretching, settling back into familiar patterns that his muscles remember even if his consciousness is currently experiencing what could best be described as temporal vertigo. his face reshapes itself like clay in the hands of chronology, features aging forward to match the man you’d fallen in love with, married, and spent six years learning to live with.

the sensation is indescribable and entirely uncomfortable, like being turned inside out by time itself while someone plays a symphony written in mathematical equations. his cells remember being twenty-nine, and they rush toward that memory with the enthusiasm of teenagers remembering they have a curfew.

when the light fades and the world stops doing its impression of a funhouse mirror designed by someone with a degree in theoretical physics, satoru catches sight of himself in the polished surface of another machine.

he looks like himself again. twenty-nine years old, tall and lean, with the same pale hair that had turned white when he was four and stayed that way out of what he suspects is pure stubbornness. the same eyes behind the same reading glasses, the same hands that you’ve memorized, the same face that you’ve kissed goodnight for six years.

the face you’d married, the body you’d mapped with your hands on lazy sunday mornings, the version of himself that you actually wanted to see walking through the door instead of some temporal impostor with the emotional maturity of a teenager and the physical appearance to match.

he runs his hands over his face, feeling the familiar planes and angles, the slight roughness of stubble that his nineteen-year-old self had been too optimistic to grow properly. these are the hands that have held you, touched you, built you impossibly complex gifts that serve no purpose other than making you smile.

satoru straightens his sweater and climbs the basement stairs like a man ascending to heaven, or at least to the ground floor where his wife is probably stress-baking cookies and muttering about the general incompetence of teenagers who think they can impersonate geniuses.

time to go home.

time to reclaim his life, his wife, and his dignity—though he suspects the dignity might be a lost cause at this point.

the basement door opens onto the kitchen, and the smell of home washes over him like a blessing from the domestic gods: vanilla and cinnamon, the lavender detergent you use on the dish towels, the faint scent of the coffee you’d made this morning before you knew your day would include multiple instances of assault and battery against your own husband.

he’s home. finally, truly, chronologically home.

you’re in the kitchen when he emerges, standing at the stove in that pink dress with the tiny pearl buttons he’s memorized but hasn’t seen in two weeks. your hair is twisted into a messy bun secured with one of his prototype hairpins—the ones that glow soft blue when you’re stressed. they’re glowing now, just barely, a testament to how worried you’ve been about his prolonged absence from the world above ground.

the wooden spoon moves in lazy circles through whatever you’re cooking, and the scent hits him like a physical force—garlic and herbs and that particular blend of spices you use when you’re making his favorite pasta. his stomach clenches with actual hunger for the first time in two weeks, nineteen-year-old metabolism finally giving way to twenty-nine-year-old appreciation for real food.

but it’s the humming that undoes him completely. that soft, unconscious melody you make when you think no one’s listening, the same tune he’d programmed into his ai messages because he’d been missing it so desperately. hearing it live, unfiltered, coming from your actual throat instead of his memory—

satoru doesn’t think. doesn’t hesitate. doesn’t announce himself like a civilized human being.

he launches himself across the kitchen like a man possessed, arms wrapping around your waist from behind, his chest pressing flush against your back as he buries his face in the curve of your neck. you smell like vanilla body lotion and that expensive shampoo he pretends not to notice the cost of, and underneath it all, just you. warm skin and the faint sweetness that clings to your hair, the scent that’s been haunting him for fourteen endless days.

“satoru!” you yelp, startled enough that the wooden spoon goes flying, clattering across the counter and leaving a trail of red sauce in its wake. “you absolute menace, you scared me half to death!”

he makes a sound that’s half laugh, half sob, tightening his arms around you like you might evaporate if he loosens his grip even slightly. his reading glasses bump against your shoulder as he nuzzles deeper into your neck, and he can feel the butterfly clips in your hair tickling against his temple.

“missed you,” he mumbles against your skin, the words muffled and desperate. “missed you so much.”

“missed me?” your voice pitches higher, indignant and fond in equal measure. “satoru, you’ve been ten feet underground for two weeks! i’ve been cooking for you every single day, leaving plates outside your lab door, and what do i find when i check? cold food. stone cold. untouched.”

your hands come up to cover his where they’re locked around your middle, and even through your scolding, your fingers are gentle as they trace over his knuckles. “what have you even been eating? because i know it wasn’t my cooking, and if you tell me you’ve been surviving on coffee and those horrible protein bars, i’m going to—”

“also,” you continue without pausing for breath, your voice shifting into that particular tone you get when you’re gearing up for a proper lecture, ”you will not believe the past two weeks i’ve had. there’s someone who’s been lurking around our house and he who looks like some bizarre teenage version of you?”

satoru’s stomach drops. his grip on you tightens involuntarily, and he feels you notice the tension, your body shifting slightly in his arms.

“he’s been so persistent. yesterday he actually had the audacity to break into our house through the kitchen window—our kitchen window, satoru, the one with the broken latch you keep forgetting to fix.” your free hand gestures wildly, even though he can’t see it from his position behind you. “thankfully, all those self-defense gadgets you made me actually work. that little stun gun you built into my bracelet? absolutely perfect. sent him flying right off our porch.”

the embarrassment hits him like a physical weight. his face burns against your neck, and he has to resist the urge to groan out loud. you’re giving full credit to his inventions, protecting his ego even while describing how you’d defended yourself against him, and the sweetness of it makes his chest ache.

“and the motion sensors you installed last month caught him skulking around the garden at three in the morning,” you continue, oblivious to his mortification. ”honestly, the dedication is almost impressive. stalking behavior aside, you have to admire his commitment to the whole ‘young gojo’ aesthetic. though i have no idea why anyone would want to look like you did in college. you were such a baby-faced disaster back then.”

“i know you know karate,” he blurts out, the words tumbling from his mouth before he can stop them.

you go very still in his arms. the humming stops abruptly.

“what?” your voice is carefully neutral, but he can feel the way your shoulders tense, the slight shift in your breathing that means you’re calculating your next move.

“i know you know karate,” he repeats, his face burning hotter against your neck. ”you’ve been taking classes since you were twelve. you never told me because you like it when i worry about you enough to make you protection gadgets.”

the silence stretches long enough that he starts to panic. then you let out a long, shaky breath.

“how could you possibly know that?” your voice is small now, embarrassed in a way that makes him want to wrap you up and apologize for everything. “i never... i was so careful not to...”

your hands try to pull away from his, but he holds on, threading your fingers together. “because i’m the boy,” he says quietly. “the one who’s been trying to talk to you for two weeks. the one you stunned off the porch and knocked unconscious in our kitchen.”

he feels the exact moment understanding hits you. your entire body goes rigid, and then you’re spinning in his arms so fast he has to step back to avoid a collision with your elbow.

your eyes are wide, your mouth falling open in a perfect ’o’ of shock. the blush that spreads across your cheeks is magnificent and mortifying, and he watches you process the implications with the expression of someone who’s just realized they’ve been caught in the world’s most embarrassing misunderstanding.

“oh my god,” you whisper, your hands flying up to cover your face. “oh my god, satoru, i am so sorry. i thought—when he knew things about us, about our private moments, i assumed he was some kind of corporate spy, or maybe a rival scientist who’d done research on us, or—”

”a stalker,” he supplies gently, reaching up to pull your hands away from your face. “which was a completely reasonable assumption, given the circumstances.”

“i called you a discount version of yourself!” your voice cracks with horror. “i told you that you weren’t as attractive as my husband! to your face! while you were actually my husband!”

despite everything, satoru can’t help but smile at the outrage in your voice. “technically, you were defending my honor. it was actually incredibly sweet.”

“sweet?” you squeak, aghast, your palms flattening against his chest like you’re considering shoving him away. but you don’t. you stay pressed against him, trembling, overwhelmed.

“i knocked you unconscious with a karate chop!”

“you have excellent form,” he says solemnly, unable to suppress the tilt of his lips. the memory of you, so fierce, so protective, haunts him in the sweetest way—a blurred flash of your nightgown fluttering as you moved with such lethal grace. he remembers the precision, the practiced certainty in your strikes, remembers thinking you’d never looked more beautiful than in that moment where you saw him as a threat and chose violence to protect his memory.

it makes his pulse thrum in his throat. it makes him want to sink to his knees and kiss the hand that struck him.

and yet, here you are, groaning, humiliated, burying your face against his chest to escape him—as if he’s not already completely ensnared. his hands settle on your waist, loose but present, fingertips teasing over the soft fabric of your dress, as though reacquainting himself with the privilege of touching you.

he tilts his head, blue eyes gleaming behind his glasses, drinking you in with a reverence that borders on obsession. he catalogues the way you fidget, the way your lashes kiss your cheeks as you refuse to meet his gaze, the heat blooming under your skin.

there’s a little crease between your eyebrows now—he’s put it there, just as you’ve placed a permanent one on his.

his thumb brushes the edge of your jaw, coaxing you to look at him. “you kept it from me,” he murmurs, savoring the tremor that passes through you, ”because you wanted me to keep making you gadgets.”

it’s not a question. he already knows. you told him, so sweetly, so earnestly, when you believed he was a stranger, and he will hold that secret like a pressed flower tucked into the pages of his heart.

“you think my overprotectiveness is cute?” his voice softens into something breathless, incredulous, dripping with adoration. “you think it’s cute that i lose sleep making things to keep you safe? that i forget to eat because i’m too busy worrying about you?”

your blush deepens, scorching, and you tug at his shirt like you want to disappear into him. “you make me the most amazing things when you’re worried about me. and you get this little crease between your eyebrows when you’re focused, and you forget to eat or sleep, but you always remember exactly how i like my coffee, and—” he watches you falter, your words disintegrating into a strangled sound of mortification. “this is not making me sound less ridiculous. is it?”

“it’s making you sound perfect.” his forehead drops to yours, and he cradles your face like you’re breakable, like you’re the finest piece of machinery he’s ever built.“ it’s making you sound like the woman i fell in love with—the woman who’s been taking care of me, worrying about me, defending my honor against discount versions of myself.”

his grin sharpens, unable to resist, “and you defended me so well, baby. ‘not my husband.’ ‘my husband is a genius.’ ‘my husband smells better.’ ‘my husband has better posture.’”

he leans in, nipping at your bottom lip, playful, intoxicating. “my sweet wife. i’ve never felt so protected.”

your laugh bursts out of you, watery and full-bodied, your hands rising to cup his cheeks, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones in trembling circles. “i can’t believe i spent two weeks beating up my own husband.”

“i can’t believe i spent two weeks watching my wife talk about how amazing her husband is while she was actively rejecting me.” his lashes flutter as he leans into your touch, like a cat, like something basking in warmth it had been starved of. “do you have any idea how confusing that was? i was jealous of myself. i was genuinely, pathetically jealous of the man you married while being the man you married.”

it’s a confession scraped raw from his chest, but you’re laughing properly now, bright and breathless, like you’ve been untethered from something heavy. you pepper kisses over his face in rapid, dizzying succession, your lips skating over his brow, his temples, the tip of his nose.

“you’re such a dork,” you murmur, still cupping his face, like you can’t bear to let go of him.

“i’m your dork.”

his voice is rough with want, his pulse tripping over itself as he lets the weight of everything crash into him all at once. his mouth brushes over yours again, lingering, reverent. “and i missed you so much. missed being able to touch you. missed you looking at me like you’re looking at me right now instead of like i’m some creepy teenager with questionable motives.”

“you are a creepy teenager with questionable motives,” you shoot back, but your words crumble under the softness that creeps into your voice. ”you invented a time machine just so you could spend more time with me.”

“and then immediately wasted two weeks because i’m apparently the only genius in history stupid enough to de-age himself by accident.”

his thumb slides over your bottom lip, unable to resist, unable to stop touching you now that he’s allowed to. his whole body hums with the need to consume you, to drag you inside his bones, to make up for every second he’d lost.

“not wasted,” you whisper, fierce and tender all at once. “never wasted. not if it brought you back to me.”

those words detonate inside him, and suddenly the kitchen feels too small, the air too thin. he’s been existing on stolen glances and careful distance for two weeks, watching you from afar, aching with the need to touch you, to kiss you, to prove to himself that you’re real and his and finally within reach again.

“we’ve been trying for a baby,” he says hoarsely, the words spilling out before he can stop them. “for months, and i just—i wasted two weeks, and i can’t—i need—”

you silence him with a kiss, soft and desperate and tasting like the tears you’ve both been crying. your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he responds by lifting you, setting you on the counter so you’re at eye level, his hands spanning your waist, thumbs tracing circles over the soft fabric of your dress.

“i love you,” you breathe against his mouth. “i love you so much, and i’m so sorry i hurt you, and i missed you, and—”

he kisses you again, deeper this time, pouring two weeks of longing and frustration and desperate love into the contact. you taste like home, like forgiveness, like everything he’s been craving. your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and he can feel the exact moment you stop thinking and start just feeling, your body melting against his.

his glasses fog up. he doesn’t care.

your hair comes loose from its bun, the mechanical clips clattering to the counter, and he tangles his fingers in the silky strands, angling your head to deepen the kiss. you make a soft sound that goes straight through him, and he’s just starting to contemplate the structural integrity of the kitchen counter when—

ding.

the oven timer cuts through the moment like a bucket of cold water.

you break apart, both breathing hard, your lips swollen and his hair thoroughly mussed. the pink dress is wrinkled where his hands have been gripping your waist, and there’s a dazed look in your eyes that makes him want to forget dinner entirely.

“the pasta,” you say faintly.

“forget the pasta,” he growls, leaning down to press kisses along your neck, finding that spot just below your ear that makes you shiver.

ding. ding. ding.

“it’ll burn,” you protest, but your head tilts to give him better access, and your hands are still fisted in his shirt.

he doesn’t let you go. not when you say his name, not when you push at his shoulders, not when the oven timer chimes over and over like some petty background character begging for attention in a scene it no longer belongs to.

”don’t mind it,” he breathes against your throat, and it sounds less like a request, more like an instinct, as though there is nothing in this world more irrelevant than a meal when you’re in his arms again.

his lips move along the curve of your neck with reverence, brushing over your pulse, slow at first—a sweet drag of his mouth, the soft, wet pull of his tongue where your skin is most sensitive. he feels the flutter of your pulse beneath his lips, feels the way your body leans into his as though your bones have decided they’d rather trust him to hold you upright.

his breathing is uneven, shaky, like he’s on the edge of something he’s been chasing since the day he woke up in that younger body and couldn’t touch you the way he needed to. the memory claws at him now, vivid and bitter, that helpless ache of looking like himself and yet being nothing you would want to take in your arms.

you murmur something about the oven again, the protest barely formed, already dissolving into a sigh as he scrapes his teeth lightly along your skin. your hands remain curled in his shirt, not pushing anymore, just clutching—desperate, familiar, your fingers twisting into the fabric like you’re scared he might slip away again. his shirt bunches beneath your grip, your nails pressing half-moon shapes into his chest, but he craves the sting of it, the grounding pain of knowing you’re clinging to him, needing him just as much.

”it won’t burn,” he murmurs against your skin, his tongue following the line of your collarbone, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. ”it’s a timed self-shut. i programmed it myself. knew this might happen. knew i wouldn’t be able to let you go.”

he pushes his glasses up with a quick, practiced nudge of his wrist, never pulling his mouth too far from your skin. he needs to see you. needs to see every part of you. his hands are too busy, too greedy, sliding up the sides of your dress, pushing the soft fabric higher and higher until his fingertips brush the bare skin of your thighs. the dress pools around his wrists as though the fabric is surrendering to him, letting him through.

he feels you shudder when his thumbs trace slow, possessive circles just beneath the hem. he slides his hands further, the cotton dragging over your skin as if the dress itself is a barrier he’s grown to despise. ”been thinking about this for two weeks. touching you. feeling you. not some memory—you. this body.”

the tremble in your breath is sharp, palpable, sinking into his bones. your voice hitches when he catches your earlobe between his teeth, when he sucks lightly, as if tasting something he already knows belongs to him. his hands splay wide over your thighs, his touch more sure, more demanding now as though every second he isn’t inside you is unbearable. his fingertips trail along the curve of your legs, memorizing the heat and texture of your skin with the same focus he gives his research—meticulous, thorough, consumed by the need to understand everything.

he pushes his glasses up again, quick and automatic, the weight of them a familiar anchor as his vision sharpens, as though seeing you this clearly makes the need inside him all the more unbearable. he tilts his head just enough to see your lashes flutter, to watch your lips part around his name, and the sight burns into him with perfect clarity.

when his hands find your waist again, he isn’t gentle. his grip is firm, grounding, as though if he doesn’t hold you tight enough, you might vanish all over again. he tugs you back against him, hips flush to yours, and he can’t suppress the groan that punches out of him when he feels how warm you are, even through his jeans.

the heat of you burns into him, through the thin fabric, the kind of contact that makes his head spin. his cock twitches against the rough denim, aching, pulsing, a frustration that’s been building since the second he lost the chance to touch you properly.

“you’re not gonna let me feed you first?” you manage, but the breathless curl in your voice betrays you.

”you’re feeding me now,” he says, dragging his hands to your hips and grinding against you, slow and deliberate, a filthy drag of friction that has you gasping into his shoulder. he’s gone two weeks without this—without your heat, without your weight against him, without the sweetness of your mouth pressed to his.

his mouth captures yours again, the kiss messy and open-mouthed, his tongue chasing yours as though he might starve if he stops. he can’t get enough of you, can’t bear the distance, can’t stand the thought of pulling away, not even to breathe.

“but dinner—”

“it’s fine,” he murmurs, almost a laugh. “it’ll shut off on its own. you can’t burn anything while i’m loving you. made sure of it.”

his mouth moves lower, down the line of your throat, tasting the salt on your skin, the way you shiver when he noses along the curve of your shoulder. he kisses the delicate dip where your neck meets your shoulder, over and over, as though he could mark you with nothing but his mouth.

his hand slides beneath your dress again, impatient now, pushing your panties aside without ceremony. his fingertips graze your folds, and he sucks in a breath through his teeth—wet, already, and his chest tightens with something ugly and possessive because you’ve missed him just as much. the feel of you, the heat, the slick glide of his fingers dragging through your arousal—it short-circuits something in him. his jaw clenches, his breath stutters, and he presses his forehead to your shoulder to anchor himself.

“fuck, baby,” he whispers, his voice breaking apart, “look at you. missed me that much? couldn’t wait?”

his touch lingers there, gentle for a moment, tracing, teasing, his middle finger dipping to circle where you’re already aching for him. his other arm curls around your waist, holding you firm against him when your knees nearly give out. he rubs slow circles until you’re grinding into his hand, chasing the friction like you can’t stand the distance anymore. you’re warm and soft and trembling under his touch, your hips rolling helplessly, your breath hitching every time he circles just a little harder.

“satoru,” you whimper, half a plea, half a warning, but you’re already folding into him, already falling apart.

“’m here now,” he murmurs, guiding you to turn around, pressing your hands to the countertop, his body crowding you from behind. “i’m right here. gonna take care of you. gonna fuck you just like you need.”

he kisses your shoulder, slow and lingering, as though tasting your skin could imprint you deeper into him. the curve of your spine rises beneath his mouth, the faint tremble under his lips pulling something raw and animal out of him. he presses into you, his chest solid to your back, his hands smoothing over the fabric of your dress as if his touch alone could brand you as his, as if holding you like this might anchor him to this moment forever.

his jeans rasp against the softness of your thighs, each rock of his hips a little rougher, a little more desperate as he grinds against you. the friction is maddening. it makes him hiss through his teeth, makes his fingers dig into your waist like he needs to memorize the shape of you beneath his palms. when he reaches for his belt, it’s with the shaky impatience of a man on the edge of breaking. the buckle fights him, the leather dragging through the loops in a way that feels insufferably slow, and his breathing stutters, uneven, desperate.

“hurry,” you pant, your voice wrecked and pleading, your hips grinding back against him in small, frantic circles. “please, satoru, please… i need you now.”

he lets out a low curse when he finally frees himself, the tip of his cock dragging through your slick folds with a helpless groan as though even that brief touch is too much, too good, too long overdue. “fuck, baby, you’re soaked,” he breathes, half-crazed, his chest pressed tight to your back. “missed me this much, huh?”

“missed everything,” you gasp, your hands fisting around the edge of the counter, nails digging into the wood. “missed you. your voice, your hands… your cock. please, please don’t tease.”

he doesn’t wait. he can’t. he pushes into you in one, long, slow thrust, inch by aching inch, feeling you stretch and give around him, until he’s seated as deep as you can take him. the tight, wet squeeze of you makes his breath falter, a shudder wracking his frame, his body folding over you as his hands scramble for your waist, clutching like you’re the only tether left holding him to the earth.

“fuck… so full,” you whimper, your voice breaking on a gasp. “god, satoru… so good… i needed this… i needed you.”

he adjusts his glasses with a quick, shaky push, his vision sharpening just in time to burn the sight of you into memory—the delicate arch of your spine, the way your fingers clench around the countertop, the way your hips fit perfectly in his hands like you were carved just for him. the view sears itself into him, and the weight of it nearly drives him to the edge.

“shit… you feel like home,” he rasps, his voice fraying at the edges, his hands tightening until his knuckles ache. he pulls out slow, savoring the sweet, unbearable friction that drags along every nerve in his cock, only to slam back in with a force that steals his breath. again. and again. a steady, greedy pace that grows frantic under the pressure of his need.

the wet slap of skin against skin fills the kitchen, tangled with his ragged breathing and the soft, gasping sounds you make beneath him, each one sinking into him, winding tighter and tighter inside his ribs.

“oh, fuck, satoru…” you cry out, each thrust knocking the air from your lungs, your body meeting his with a desperate rhythm. “don’t stop… please, don’t stop… you feel so good, so deep… i can’t think… i can’t think when you’re fucking me like this.”

he leans over you, his chest pressed to your back, his breath hot and ragged against your ear as he drives into you with desperate force. his lips brush over the shell of your ear, trailing kisses down your neck as though his mouth can’t bear to leave your skin for more than a second. he mutters your name between each kiss, like a mantra, like it might steady him.

“you’re mine,” he pants, his words shivering with the strain of holding himself together. he kisses along your shoulder, his pace only faltering when his hips grind deep, seeking more, always more. “i’m not wasting another second, baby. i’m gonna… fuck, i’m gonna… i’m gonna make you feel me for days.”

“i already do,” you sob, your head tipping back against his shoulder, tears blurring your vision as you clutch his hand where it grips your waist. “you’re everywhere… you’re all i can feel… all i want… please, satoru, please don’t stop…”

his hand snakes between your thighs, his fingers circling your clit with practiced pressure, coaxing you to squeeze around him, to shatter for him. “come on, baby… let me feel you… let me feel you fall apart for me.”

“satoru… satoru, please, i’m so close… fuck… fuck… don’t stop, i need… i need…”

he groans low in his throat when your walls pulse around him, his body bucking forward like the sensation has stolen the air from his lungs. his other hand glides over your stomach, over the dip of your waist, greedy for the heat of your skin beneath the thin barrier of your dress. he wants to memorize every inch of you, wants to claim you in ways his body can’t quite articulate.

he buries his face in the curve of your neck, his lips brushing against the frantic pulse at your throat, his nose pressed against your skin as he breathes you in like oxygen. “talk to me,” he breathes, desperate, hoarse, the words scraping out like they cost him. “tell me you missed me. tell me i’m the only one who gets to touch you like this. tell me you’re mine.”

“yours,” you cry out, wrecked and breathless. “i’ve always been yours… satoru, fuck… you’re the only one… i missed you… i missed you so much… i can’t… i can’t do this without you… please, don’t let me go.”

“fuck, you’re so good for me,” he groans, the sound ragged and raw, and he ruts into you harder, the snap of his hips relentless as he chases you both toward the inevitable edge. “you’re perfect… fuck, baby, you’re perfect.”

“i’m… i’m coming… satoru, please… i’m—”

he doesn’t stop. he can’t. not until he feels you clench around him, feels you fall apart, your body trembling as you come, your voice cracking on his name like it’s a prayer you’ve been holding in for days. the sensation of you pulsing around him, pulling him deeper, drags a broken groan from his chest, and only then does he finally let go.

he thrusts deep, emptying himself inside you with a raw, gasping sound, his entire body shivering with the force of it. his release comes in thick waves, like his body refuses to let you go, like it’s been waiting for this, for you, to finally come home to him.

“don’t… don’t pull out,” you whimper, your voice small and trembling, your hands covering his where he grips your hips. “please, i want… i want to feel you… please, satoru… please stay…”

he doesn’t pull out. not yet. he stays there, his chest heaving against your back, his hips pressing tight to yours, as though his body could fuse to yours if he just holds on long enough. his hand slides over your stomach, his thumb brushing the fabric of your dress, his heart thundering against your spine. he wants to stay connected, to keep his body wrapped around you until the heat subsides, until the trembling quiets.

he kisses you there, the soft curve of your shoulder, his lips dragging lazy, reverent paths over your skin, savoring the tremble still coursing through you. “gonna keep you like this,” he murmurs, his voice low, thick with something that sounds almost reverent. “gonna keep you full, baby. not wasting anything.”

his hands rub slow, soothing circles into your hips, but his cock still twitches inside you, the heat of you pulling him under all over again. he presses his mouth to your spine, trailing soft, possessive kisses up to the back of your neck, his body vibrating with the hum of restless energy that refuses to ebb. it’s not enough. it’ll never be enough. he wants to keep going until the lines between you blur completely, until you forget where he ends and you begin.

he leans in, his voice breathless but steady now, a vow he lays against your skin. “this…” he pants, rolling his hips slowly, deliberately, still buried deep inside you, “this is just the start. not letting you go. not for the rest of the night.”

“don’t let go,” you whisper, arching back into him, your fingers sliding over his as though you might trap him there. ”don’t stop… please, satoru… don’t stop…”

his grip tightens, grounding you to him like he’s afraid you might dissolve between his fingers. “baby, you don’t even know how much i’ve missed you yet.”

he rolls his hips again, savoring the drag, savoring the stretch, savoring the way you arch back into him like you’re already craving more. it’s a promise—a warning—that he isn’t stopping any time soon. his hands smooth over your sides, up to your ribs, coaxing more sounds from you, coaxing more of you to open for him. his lips hover just behind your ear, his breath brushing warm against your skin as he begins to move again, slowly building the next wave, chasing the next collapse.

he hums against you, pleased, almost smug, as you tremble beneath him. ”let me make up for lost time, baby. i’m not done. not even close.”

“please…” it’s the only thing you can form now—broken, breathless. your hands tremble as you try to hold onto him, your fingers sliding helplessly against his shirt like you might fall apart without the anchor of his touch.

he tilts his head just enough to kiss the hinge of your jaw, his pace unhurried but determined. “i’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice soft even as his body hums with something feral. “all night, baby. all night to love you, to fill you, to put our baby right where it belongs.”

he pulls out with a sharp, deliberate drag, leaving you clenching around nothing, and without giving you a moment to protest, he hauls you up, one arm locking under your thighs, the other cradling your back. you cling to him instinctively, barely able to breathe as he carries you to the bedroom, his grip rough, his breathing uneven, his jaw clenched tight with restraint he’s barely holding onto.

he drops you onto the bed, his hands instantly on you, yanking your dress up over your head in one swift, tearing motion, discarding it somewhere behind him. his glasses slip lower on his nose, his blue eyes molten and sharp behind the lenses, devouring the sight of you—messy, flushed, gasping. you reach for him, your lips parted, your throat working around the desperate sound that tumbles out—a soft, helpless “please…”

his hands slam your wrists to the mattress, his body caging you in, his cock thick and heavy as he grinds against your soaked entrance. “shh, baby,” he whispers, his voice trembling as he tries to gentle himself. “i’ve got you. you’re not going anywhere. i’m gonna take care of you.”

he refuses to take off his glasses. he wants to see everything—every tear that slips from your lashes, every tremble in your lips, every mindless sound that breaks from your throat. his gaze stays locked on you, even as his cock pushes inside you in one deep, devastating thrust.

“you’re mine,” he breathes, voice ragged, the words shivering apart as he bottoms out inside you. he can feel your walls flutter around him, clenching as though your body is desperate to hold him in, to keep him there. your body jolts beneath him, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, dragging him deeper. your moan punches out, breathless, pleading, the only thing you seem capable of now. your hands cling to him, fingers clawing at his shirt like you’re trying to root yourself to him, as if the only thing anchoring you to the world is the brutal drag of his cock inside you.

his glasses slip slightly down his nose, fogging at the edges, but he refuses to push them up. he needs to see you, needs to burn every detail into his memory—the way your eyes glaze over, the tremble in your lips, the tear that slips from the corner of your eye. he wants to remember this: the raw, unguarded way you fall apart for him, the mindless way you beg him, the frantic rise and fall of your chest as you gasp for breath.

he drives into you again, harder, faster, each brutal thrust forcing the breath from your lungs, forcing more of those broken, needy noises out of you. the sound of skin slapping against skin echoes in the room, tangled with the ragged rhythm of his breathing and the choked cries that tumble from your lips. your hands scramble at his arms, your nails clawing into his sleeves, but you can’t find the words anymore. all that’s left is “please…” and the sobs that fall apart between the sharp snaps of his hips.

“i know, baby,” he pants, his breath hot and frantic against your skin, his voice frayed with restraint that’s slipping fast. ”i know what you need. you need me to fuck my baby into you, right? need me to keep you so full you can’t think of anything else? need me to fill you until it’s all you can feel?”

“please…” it spills from your throat again, almost a cry, your body tightening around him as though your own muscles are begging him to stay.

“i’ll give it to you,” he promises, soft, reverent, though the brutal rhythm of his hips betrays him. “i’ll make you a mama, baby. gonna make sure you can’t hold anything but me. gonna make sure you’re mine forever.”

he shifts, pulling your knees up to your chest, folding you underneath him, locking you into a perfect mating press. the angle punches another sob from you, your back arching, your legs trembling around his ribs. he presses his chest to yours, his mouth dragging over your ear, your jaw, his voice trembling with sweetness that contrasts the feral rhythm of his body.

“you’re doing so good, baby,” he breathes, kissing your temple, tasting the salt of your tears. “taking me so well. you want it, don’t you? want me to fill you? wanna be round with my baby? wanna feel me every time you move?”

your answer is a mindless moan, another tear slipping from the corner of your eye, your lips barely able to shape the one word that’s left in you: “toru...”

he hums against your skin, his cock grinding impossibly deeper. “that’s it, sweet girl. i’ll fill you up… keep you so full you won’t even remember what it feels like to be empty. i’ll make sure you’re carrying me by the time i’m done. i’ll fuck you so deep that my baby won’t have anywhere else to go.”

his hips slam into you harder, faster, sharp and bruising. you sob beneath him, clutching him, helpless against the rhythm that’s shaking you apart. his voice stays painfully soft, cradling you through it. “not wasting a single drop. i’m gonna fuck you until you’re mine. until you’re pregnant. until there’s nothing left but me inside you.”

“want it…”

his mouth crashes over yours, swallowing your cries, his kiss frantic, messy, desperate. you’re shaking under him, the overstimulation shredding your mind, your body trembling violently, your sobs trapped against his tongue as you beg him wordlessly to keep going, to never stop.

“that’s it,” he whispers, his voice breaking as he chases his release. “that’s it, baby. take it. take it all. take everything i give you.”

he folds you even tighter, pressing so deep you can feel him in places you didn’t know could ache. your orgasm crashes over you again, sharp and blinding, your body convulsing around him, your voice lost to the desperate gasp that splits from your lips. and he breaks with you, thrusting deep as he spills inside you, his cock pulsing hard with every grind, his breath faltering, his voice catching as he pants, “gonna make you mine… gonna make you a mama… gonna keep you full… keep you right here… where you belong.”

but he doesn’t stop.

he keeps grinding, his cock still thick, twitching inside you, his hands trembling where they hold your legs open, determined to keep every drop right where it belongs.

“not done,” he breathes, kissing your cheek, your temple, his voice sweet and low, shaking with the weight of how much he still wants you. “not done with you yet, baby. not until i know. not until i’m sure. not until you’re really mine.”

he rolls his hips again, deliberately, drawing out the stretch, dragging out the feeling, coaxing more choked gasps from you. your body arches weakly into him, clinging, helpless to do anything but take him.

“shh, sweet girl, i’ve got you. i’ll give you everything. i’ll fill you over and over until you can’t hold anything but me. i’ll give you so much you’ll feel me dripping down your thighs when i finally let you go.”

he drags his cock out slowly, savoring the sensation, just to slam back in, forcing another sharp cry from you, your legs trembling where they bracket his ribs.

“you feel so good like this,” he murmurs, his words melting against your skin. “so good and warm and perfect. i’m gonna keep going, baby. you can take it, right? you’ll let me, won’t you? you’ll let me make you mine, over and over, until there’s no space left for anything else?”

a needy whine is all you can give him now, but it’s all he needs.

he smiles against your cheek, soft and breathless, his glasses slipping lower as he kisses you again, his lips trembling against yours. “i know, baby. i know. i’ll take care of everything. i’ll make sure our baby takes. i’ll make sure you’re mine… i’ll make sure you’re full. i’ll keep going until you can’t think about anything but me…”

his pace builds again, steady, deep, his hands stroking your sides, his voice staying low, unbearably tender as he destroys you beneath him.

“i’ll give you all of me, sweet girl,” he promises, his voice cracking even as he drives for more. “all of me. again and again. until you’re carrying me… until you’re round with our baby. until you can’t breathe without thinking about me inside you.”

he shifts his weight, dragging his cock out just enough to thrust deep again, coaxing more desperate cries from you, his breathing rough as his chest brushes yours, his glasses fogged and slipping. his hands tremble where they hold you open, where they keep you pinned beneath him, where they swear to never let you go, as if letting go would unravel him entirely.

“i’ll fill you until you can’t take anymore,” he whispers, his voice raw, his lips dragging along your jaw, his breath hot and uneven. “i’ll give you so much you’ll feel me for days, baby. you’ll feel me dripping out of you every time you stand, every time you move. you’ll feel me inside you every second, every breath, every heartbeat. there won’t be a moment you’re not full of me.”

he slows down just enough to let you breathe, just enough to kiss you, just enough to hear the soft, breathy whimpers that melt into his skin. his glasses are crooked, fogged, his hair clinging to his forehead in damp strands. his lips brush yours, tasting of desperation, tasting of love, tasting of the ache he’s carried through endless nights, his body pressed flush against yours as if he could sink into you, as if he could live inside you if he tried hard enough.

“baby,” he pants, voice trembling, his hand brushing your cheek, lingering there, “roll over for me, yeah? wanna see you all pretty on your hands and knees, wanna see your ass all messy for me, wanna watch you fall apart just for me.”

his words make you shudder beneath him, make your thighs twitch, but you listen, your limbs shaky as you roll over, his hands never leaving you, his palms gliding down your waist, over your hips, steady, grounding, helping you position yourself just right. he murmurs soft praises as he lines you up, kisses pressed to the nape of your neck, to the soft curve of your shoulder, to the swell of your back as you settle on all fours, your face buried in the pillows, your breath already ragged.

“that’s it, pretty girl,” he croons, his voice thick with awe, his eyes roving over your trembling form like he can’t believe you’re his. “look at you, taking me so well. made for me, baby, yeah? your body was made for me, just to take me, just to fall apart on my cock.”

his hand slips between your thighs, his long fingers gathering your slick, coating them generously before pressing two inside you alongside his cock, working you open, stretching you around him until the burn makes you sob into the sheets, makes your hips jerk helplessly, makes you whine from the fullness, from how stuffed you are, the overwhelming stretch making tears prick at your lashes.

your knuckles turn white where you grip the sheets, trembling under the weight of him, under the delicious ache of him, your breath hitching with every slow curl of his fingers inside you. your thighs twitch, thighs spread obediently despite the tremble overtaking them, your skin fever-hot where his palms ground you in place.

his other hand steadies your hips, thumb tracing slow, grounding circles against your skin, his palm firm, his grip sinking into the plush of your waist like he’s afraid you’ll float away if he loosens it even for a second. his hair clings to his forehead in damp, clumpy strands, his cheeks flushed a lovely pink, his glasses slipping lower on his nose, fogged to uselessness but still perched stubbornly there, framing the feverish glint in his eyes.

his lips brush kisses to the curve of your spine, down to the small of your back, each press soft and lingering, like he’s tethering you to him with every touch, like he needs to brand himself into you, to make you feel him everywhere, in every breath, in every heartbeat.

“shh, you’re doing so good,” he breathes, his voice trembling with restraint, placing a tender kiss to the dip of your waist. “so good for me, baby. you’re perfect, y’know that? so perfect when you’re stuffed full of me. i love watching you stretch around me, love feeling you clench when i’m this deep inside you. it’s like your body was made to hold me. you were made to be mine.”

he slides his fingers out slowly, savoring the slick sound, savoring the way your walls flutter around him like you’re begging him to fill you again. your thighs tremble, your hips rocking back in search of him, your breath shuddering as you whine, pitiful and overwhelmed, lips parted, drooling onto the pillow.

the needy arch of your spine makes his chest squeeze, makes his cock throb painfully, makes him press flush against you as he grinds back in, deep and unhurried, pushing as far as he can go, his pace slow but devastating, each thrust a deliberate drag against every sensitive spot that makes you gasp, makes you sob into the pillows.

“that’s it, baby,” he groans, his head falling forward, his damp fringe sticking to his temple, his glasses slipping to the very tip of his nose before he finally pushes them off and tosses them blindly aside. “every time i fuck you like this, you just take me so good, like you’re meant to. you were made to take me, weren’t you? made to fall apart on my cock, yeah?”

his kisses grow more feverish, his lips dragging across your shoulders, the plane of your back, his tongue flicking along the salt of your skin as he grinds deeper, sinking lower with each thrust, each snap of his hips making you whine, making your hands claw weakly at the sheets. he listens to every gasp, every cry, every broken plea you bury into the pillows, savoring the tremble of your thighs, the collapse of your arms, the desperate way you push back into him, chasing the delicious pressure.

then he leans over, his chest pressing against your back until his lips find yours, capturing you in a desperate, clumsy kiss. it’s messy, wet, more panting and whining than kissing, but he drinks every sound from your lips like he’s starving, like he can’t bear to be separated from any part of you. his tongue traces yours, coaxing you into the kiss even as his hips grind into you harder, even as your knees threaten to buckle beneath him, your soft whimpers muffled against his mouth.

“don’t hide from me, pretty girl,” he murmurs between kisses, his breath hot against your lips, his voice honey-sweet and reverent even as he rocks into you deeper. “wanna hear you, wanna feel you, wanna kiss you while you fall apart on me. every sound you make is mine. every little sob, every little plea, mine.”

he chases your orgasm with grinding thrusts, with soft praises that melt into your skin, with kisses that sear into you, that drag along the curve of your spine, that brand you as his. his hands roam across your waist, your sides, your belly, squeezing and caressing as if memorizing the softness of you. and when you come, when your body clamps down around him like a vice, when you tremble and sob against his mouth, he doesn’t stop. he swallows every desperate sound, his pace never faltering, his grip on your hips tightening as he drives through the aftershocks, pulling even more cries from your swollen lips.

“you can take it,” he pants, fucking you through the tremors, his voice shaking with the force of his own unraveling. “you’re doing so good, baby, you’re perfect, you’re perfect, fuck, you’re made for me. made to take me, yeah? you can give me another, can’t you? just one more, pretty girl. just one more.”

his hips snap forward harder, more erratic, his sleeper build fully activated as his fingers dig bruises into your waist, as he holds you steady even as your arms give out, even as you collapse onto the bed, your cheek mashed against the pillow, your body trembling with every rough, desperate thrust. your breath hiccups, your body limp, overstimulated, but he keeps going, keeps coaxing more from you with each deep grind, dragging out your high until your thighs shake uncontrollably.

but he doesn’t stop. his grip doesn’t falter. his praises don’t cease.

he kisses the sweat-slick skin of your back, he whispers against your shoulder, he keeps telling you how good you are, how you were made for him, how he’ll fill you until you’re overflowing, until you’re leaking with him, until you can’t hold it all, until you feel him dripping down your thighs, until it’s all you can feel.

“so good, baby, you’re so good,” he breathes, his voice cracking on the edges, as if your name is the only thing keeping him tethered to this moment. “my sweet girl, my pretty baby, taking me so well. fuck, you’re made for me, you’re perfect.”

he chases his own end with frantic, desperate thrusts, with the wet, obscene slap of skin against skin, with the ragged breath of a man who has no intention of stopping until he’s poured every last drop of himself into you. his fingers flex against your waist, his lips never leaving you, his rhythm a frantic, beautiful mess, his voice breaking with every curse, every sweet nothing he pours into your skin.

and when he finally shatters, when his body tenses and he spills inside you, he groans your name like a prayer, like a curse, like a plea, his hands trembling where they clutch you, his kisses never stopping, his words still tumbling in a broken, reverent stream.

“so good, baby, you’re so good, you’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine. gonna keep you like this, gonna keep you full, just like this, just like you’re meant to be. wanna see it drip down those pretty thighs.”

his body finally stills, but his hands never leave you, his lips never stop pressing soft, lingering kisses to your back, to your shoulders, to your waist, holding you close as if you might slip away if he lets go.

he stays inside you, buried to the hilt, his breathing shaky, his heart hammering wildly against your spine, his hair clinging to his damp forehead, his cheeks flushed and glowing, his arms curling around your middle to hold you tight, to anchor himself to you, to prolong this feeling of being so deeply connected.

he whispers to you softly now, praises spilling between kisses, his touch gentle but insistent, a man desperate to stay connected, to stay tethered to you in every way he can. his fingertips trace slow, lazy circles against your belly, memorizing the feel of your skin, of your warmth, the little trembles that still ripple through you.

“i’ll fill you up again,” he promises, his voice hoarse and full of love. “i’ll give you more, baby. you can take it. you always take me so well. i’ll keep you like this all night if you let me. just wanna keep you close, keep you mine.”

slowly, he shifts, carefully pulling out, his breath catching at the sight of his spend slipping out of you, leaving a glistening trail along your thighs. he groans softly, pressing a kiss to your lower back, savoring the tremble that runs through you. his thumb brushes over the mark he left there, tracing lazy circles as if to soothe the ache, as if to seal his touch into your skin.

he gently turns you over, cradling your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing, his strong arms wrapping around you as if you’re something precious. he sits himself at the edge of the bed with you settled in his lap, your shaky thighs straddling him, your chest pressed to his, your breath still hitching as you try to find your footing in the aftermath, your arms barely strong enough to wrap around his shoulders.

his cock, still heavy, still hard, nudges against your entrance, and he shudders at the heat, at the way your body clings to him instinctively, like you never want to let him go. his hands slide over your hips, steadying you, his thumbs brushing slow circles into your skin, his touch reverent, patient, as if savoring the weight of you in his lap.

“come on, pretty girl,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your lips, his voice thick with sweetness and filth, his cerulean eyes glazed with adoration and hunger. “sit on me, yeah? just like this. let me keep you full a little longer. let me feel you, just a little more.”

he guides you down onto him, slow and patient, his large hands warm and steady on your waist as he lowers you inch by inch, savoring the sweet stretch, savoring the tremble that overtakes you as he fills you again, deeper this time, more deliberate, until his hips meet yours with a satisfying press.

your breath hitches, a sharp whimper escaping you, your head falling heavily to his shoulder as you struggle to accommodate him, your body straining around the overwhelming stretch, your fingers digging desperately into the firm muscles of his shoulders, clinging to him like you’ll drown without him.

his breath stutters at the heat of you, at how impossibly tight you are despite how many times he’s already filled you tonight. his pale hair clings damp to his temple, the ends curling from sweat, his cheeks flushed a tender pink, his lips parted and trembling as he exhales shaky, desperate breaths against your ear. his lashes flutter, his throat bobs with every ragged swallow, his entire frame taut, his biceps trembling where they hold you steady, straining to keep his composure, to keep his pace slow, to savor every second inside you.

his hands never leave you, one sliding to cradle your waist, the other splaying wide across your trembling back, as if to press you closer, to anchor you to him, to mold you to his body, to ensure that not even a breath of space separates you. he peppers kisses along your temple, the shell of your ear, your hairline, your jaw, his lips soft but insistent, his voice a low, reverent murmur that vibrates against your skin, as though he’s reciting a prayer only you can hear.

“look at you, baby,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to cradle your cheek in his palm, his thumb brushing away the stray tear that slips down your flushed skin. his ocean eyes are hazy, glassy with tenderness, with something so raw it tightens his throat and makes his breath stutter. “fuck, you’re so pretty when you’re falling apart for me. gonna let me keep you here all night, right? yeah? just like this, full of me. can’t let you go. don’t want to.”

his other hand curls into the nape of your neck, fingers threading through the damp strands of your hair, guiding your forehead to his, breath mingling, lips brushing as he steals soft, lingering kisses between his words, as if he can’t stop, as if he’s starving for you, as if kissing you is the only way he can breathe.

you can only whimper in response, the weight of him, the stretch of him, too much and not enough, your body trembling with the need to give him more, to feel him deeper, to be good for him, to make him proud, to belong to him.

his hands slide back to your waist, his grip steady but gentle as he begins to guide you, controlling your pace, moving you over him in slow, agonizing rolls. his thumbs draw slow, grounding circles into your heated skin, coaxing you to move, to ride him, to fall apart for him again. each time you rock your hips, you shudder, your breath catching on a sob, but he holds you steady, keeps you grounded, murmuring sweet words against your skin.

“shh, i’ve got you, baby. you’re doing so good,” he praises, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath shaky, his lips brushing yours between soft, trembling kisses. his silver lashes flutter with every slight tremble of his hips beneath you, his whole body trembling with restraint, with devotion, with the overwhelming need to stay inside you, to keep you close, to never let you go.

“you can do it, pretty girl,” he whispers, his voice low and rough, savoring every inch, every trembling grind of your hips. “just like that. take your time. i’ve got you. you’re mine. my sweet girl. let me take care of you. let me feel you just a little more.”

your thighs quiver, your movements sluggish and shaky, your whole body threatening to collapse from how sensitive you are, but he holds you, supports you, his hands never faltering as he coaxes you through it, guiding you with soft murmurs, with kisses pressed between your brows, against your fluttering eyelids, against the damp corner of your mouth. his hands roam your back, your ribs, your hips, memorizing the tremble of your skin, the heat of your body, the way you melt so completely into his lap, pliant and sweet.

he watches you, breathless, overwhelmed by how perfect you are, by how much he wants to keep you like this, forever tethered to him, wrapped around him, so utterly his. he savors the little gasps you give him, the soft hiccups in your breath, the desperate way you cling to him even when your body begs for rest, even when you sob softly into his shoulder, overwhelmed but unable to stop, unwilling to pull away.

when you finally falter, too sensitive, too overwhelmed to keep going, your movements slowing to weak, trembling shifts of your hips, he wraps his arms tightly around your waist and takes over, holding you close, keeping you flush against his chest as he grinds up into you in slow, deliberate rolls of his hips, savoring the sweet friction, savoring the little broken sounds you spill against his skin.

his pace is gentle but insistent, dragging sweet friction between your bodies, pulling broken moans from your lips, savoring the way you clutch at him, your fingers knotting in his damp hair, your head buried in his neck like he’s the only thing keeping you whole, the only place you feel safe, the only place you want to be. he feels your nails dig into his skin, your body trembling in his hold, but you don’t pull away. you press closer.

“that’s it, baby, i’ve got you,” he breathes, his voice cracking, trembling with the force of his own need, his own love. “just let me take care of you. just hold on to me. we’ll come together, okay? just like this. i’ve got you. i’ve always got you.”

his forehead presses to yours again, his lips parting to steal soft, desperate kisses, his hands trembling where they clutch you, his chest heaving as he rolls his hips deeper, slower, grinding against every sensitive spot inside you, savoring the desperate whines you spill against his mouth, savoring how you melt completely in his arms.

his voice is little more than a whisper now, ragged and broken, his praises melting into your skin as he rocks into you, chasing the edge with you pressed so sweetly against him, his breathing erratic, his kisses clumsy and endless.

“come with me, baby,” he pleads, his voice thick with love, with need, with desperation, his lips brushing yours as his hands tighten around your waist. “please. just like this. i need to feel you. i need you. just like this. don’t let go.”

you fall apart in his arms, your sobs trembling against his lips, your fingers tangling desperately in his hair as you cling to him, as you come so sweetly, so completely, your body shuddering in his hold, your thighs twitching, your hips stuttering as you grind against him, desperate to draw out the bliss.

he follows soon after, groaning your name like it’s a prayer, like it’s the only word he knows, his hips stuttering as he pours into you, as he holds you impossibly closer, as if he could fuse you to him, as if he could keep you here forever.

when you finally go limp in his arms, when your soft, exhausted breath fans against his neck, he holds you there, cradling you against his chest, his fingers stroking soothing lines along your spine. his hands slide to your thighs, rubbing slow circles, grounding you, savoring the weight of you in his lap, the softness of you, the way you fit so perfectly in his hold, the way you feel like home.

he presses soft kisses to your temple, to your hairline, to your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, his lips tender and slow, as if he could never kiss you enough, as if he could never hold you long enough.

“so good, baby,” he whispers, his voice thick with tenderness. “my pretty girl. my sweet girl. we can stay like this, yeah? just like this. just you and me. i don’t need anything else.”

he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing finally beginning to steady, his arms curling tighter around you, his whole body relaxing, melting into you as though he could sink into your skin and stay there forever.

you nod weakly, nuzzling into his neck, your lashes damp, your body pliant and warm against him. your arms loop lazily around his shoulders, fingers brushing the nape of his neck, and he presses one last kiss to your temple, one last kiss to your hairline, and he smiles against your skin, utterly content, utterly in love.

neither of you move. neither of you speak. you’re both too tired, too soft, too wrapped in each other to care about anything else, not even the cold dinner waiting in the kitchen.

“we’ll eat later,” he hums, his lips curling against your skin, his voice warm, tender, content. “just wanna stay here a little longer. just wanna keep you close. that’s all i need.”

his arms tighten around you as he buries his face in your shoulder, breathing you in, his body melting into yours, savoring the weight, the warmth, the softness of having you so completely, so entirely his.

[torusangel]

꣑ৎ 𝐉𝐉𝐊 𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒

note: make sure your twitter is up and running smoothly and there's no one beside you ofc. if the links stop working i won't be updating

satoru gojo: how he sounds

☆ favourite type of foreplay

☆ when you cook him his favourite food

☆ he couldn't wait 'till you got home

nanami kento: how he sounds

☆ loves being welcomed home like this

☆ looked like it needed the attention

☆ how he spends his off days

suguru geto: how he sounds

☆ loves to spend his morning fingering you

☆ he couldn't resist. they just look so pretty

☆ he wants to go at it for hours

toji fushiguro: how he sounds

☆ he loves to see you spread out like that for him

☆ favourite dessert after dinner

☆ your pyjamas just looked so adorable

sukuna ryomen: how he sounds

☆ punishing you just because he can

☆ he's feelin' nice today

☆ be a good girl and scream his name

choso kamo: how he sounds

☆ he comes home after such a long and tiring day

☆ the movie's long forgotten

☆ promised he was only gonna hold your hand

[torusangel]

Hand Shadow Lesson

[torusangel]

⋆˚ ✿ ˖ ࣪ thinking about satoru teaching you how to jerk him off with his larger hand guiding yours as he gently pumps your fist over his thick, aching cock with his pre cum. he’s groaning out under his breath, praising you with a flushed face and furrowed brows, “just like that, fuck..”

“i’m doing it right?”, you whisper, looking over at him with big eyes as you bite the bottom of your lip, still fucking his cock with your fist and satoru’s moaning out at the cute expression on your face. he nods with a deep hum and a cheeky smirk on his lips, “yeah baby, you’re making me feel reaaal good.”

[torusangel]

18+ dirty talking with gojo

gojo loves dirty talking. holding both sides of your waist while you bounce on his cock, fucking you like a mad man. he gets off on calling you the dirtiest names. hes so mean :((. "yeah? you like how i fuck this cunt? say it. tell me you love it. tell me you love this dick." he has such a big ego, but is he wrong? you lovee getting fucked by gojo. the way his cock hits all the right places. the way he raises his hand up to your cunt and rubs circles around your clit, you feel like you're melting from the overstimulation. "satoru.. mmf fuck.. c-can't take anymoreee" he laughs everytime you try to tap out. you're finished already? well he's just getting started. "be a good girl and take it for me, yeah? look at you, squirting all over my dick. i'm going to make you feel so good baby. you're such a fucking slut." the overstimulation with his cock hitting all your spots, his fingers rubbing you in the right places, and his nasty dirty talk makes you cum on his cock so hard. he feels you clench and cums right after you. "fuckkkk you're such a good fucking girl. milk my cock baby fuckk.. mmfff... mommy.." i guess satoru gojo has more than just a dirty talk kink.

[torusangel]

18+

when your best friend shows up with a silicon mould of his dick, you think it’s one of his stupid jokes. it should be—except he’s dead serious. “for practice,” satoru says, as if that explains anything. practice for what? apparently, for the day you finally stop being a virgin and decide to date some poor bastard. because, in his words, it’s his duty as your best friend to set the bar high enough so you don’t go settling for less.

tragic, he calls it, if you ended up with someone who couldn’t measure up—when you’ve got him. well, not him, exactly. a replica of him. thick and heavy in your hands, veins carved into silicon with obscene detail. the kind of thing you’d scroll past online, laugh at for looking unrealistic, dangerous even.

and yet here you are, knees braced on the carpet, the suction base planted against the floor like some depraved monument. satoru is manspreading on the edge of your bed, sunglasses slipping down his nose so he can watch every twitch of your face. even with the copious amount of lube, it stretches you open cruelly, the blunt head popping past resistance and leaving your stomach cramping. you let out a shaky little sound before sinking even lower, the wet squelch filling the room. “holy shit,” he laughs, disbelieving and breathless, “you’re really taking it.” he crosses one leg over his lap.

you roll your hips once, tentative, and the drag of silicon veins inside you has your head tipping back, lips parting around a moan. by the time you bottom out, you’re trembling—walls fluttering around the silicone like it doesn’t know whether to take it or or force it back out. drool slicks your lip as you try not to think about the fact that it’s his cock you’re training on.

another whine bubbles up your throat as you rock your hips, proving something—you don’t know what, or to who—but the thought still sears through: i’ve lost my virginity, indirectly, to a copy of my best friend’s dick.

later, you’ll realise maybe this was his plan all along. how every guy you dated after could never measure up—literally.

[torusangel]

you’ve been riling satoru up all night, so now he’s fucking you until “sorry” is the only thing you can say

you’ve been teasing him all evening — touching his thigh under the table, leaning in a little too close when you whisper in his ear, brushing your lips over his jaw when nobody’s looking. and the worst of all? when you pretended to “accidentally” drop your lipgloss, then bent over and gave him a good look up your short skirt.

no panties.

satoru isn’t really angry — can’t ever be angry with you — not when you look at him with those eyes, and a cute pout to top it all off. but this is all a fun little game you play together, so he lets his darker fantasies take over and indulges in the whimpers and whines that fall from your lips as he fucks you face down into the couch like this.

your legs are spread wide and apart, ass hoisted up as he thrusts into you with a steady, hard rhythm. he isn’t angry — if anything, it’s cute how you struggle to keep your position, even as your legs tremble and your cunt clenches around him, impossibly tight and wet. you mewl a little every time he jolts you forward with a harsh thrust, your hands dripping the cushions for purchase as you fight to keep yourself up.

“s-suh—” you’re mumbling something into the cushion, voice a wet, ruined sound.

“what was that baby?”

“s-sorry, sorry—” you sob, lifting your head so he can hear you clearer. “sorry, s-satoru—”

he laughs, low and wicked, leaning forward until his chest presses against your back. “sorry?” he coos. “you don’t sound very sorry, baby,” another perfect thrust has you biting back a loud moan that confirms exactly what he was saying. “you sound like you’re loving this.”

“n-no, i am, i am—” you choke out, arms giving out as his thrusts grow even harder, deeper, dragging along your sensitive walls, until all you can do is brokenly sob his name into the fabric. “satoru, f-fuck—”

“good girl,” he purrs, one big hand splayed across your lower back, pinning you in place as if you could ever run. as if you ever wanted to run. “take it for me. be sweet and say it again.”

“s-sorry, satoru,” you rasp, voice cracking. “s-sorry—”

“mhm,” he hums, smug and satisfied, hips slamming into yours with a pace that leaves you trembling. “that’s it, baby. you’ll be real sorry when i’m done with you.”

[torusangel]

HIS BABYSITTER FANTASY COME TRUE!

𝖘𝖚𝖒.ㅤ★ Dilf!Gojo fantasizing about taking his babysitter's virginity 'till it becomes a reality and oops... now he's fucking you off the bed 'n taking this to the floor like a wrestler!

𝖜𝖈ㅤ★ 6.7k (beefy like his di-)

𝖈𝖜ㅤ★ strictly NO under 18s, smut, virginity loss, plot, fucking the babysitter trope, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms/creampies, cunnilingus, aftercare 🫶, age gap (Gojo in his 30s, reader in her 20s), solo masturbation, pet names (good girl, slut, etc.), breast play, subtle breeding kink, daddy kink, big d!ck Gojo, he um... fucks a pillow while you give him an innocent massage

"I've always liked older men. Boys my age just don't get me, you know? Neither do they know how to fuck me."

That was one of the first things you said to Gojo Satoru.

And he nearly had a heart attack. Choked on his drink so hard that he had to spit half of it back into the glass.

How could you say something like that with such an angelic voice? It didn't match up, your words were nasty but your face was innocent.

Wiping his mouth, Satoru tried to recompose himself.

"Is that so...?" is all that he could manage to reply with.

He tugged at his baby blue shirt's collar, unbuttoned one button 'cause he couldn't breathe. His blood was pumping. His heart was thumping.

"How old did you say you were again?" you asked softly.

"Thirty-two." he replied. "And way too old for you."

"Perfect." you smiled.

"Huh?"

Mmm... now what did his best friend say about you? "Oh Satoru, I know a babysitter that you and the kids will just adore. She's a real sweetheart."

A sweetheart... uh, yeah, well Suguru didn't warn him about the fact you had a thing for dads. Didn't warn him that you might be crazy. Touch-starved. A way too horny and provocative twenty-something year old virgin.

Maybe Suguru didn't even see this side of you... maybe it was just Satoru that you were throwing yourself at. Surely Suguru would have told him all about a heated affair that he had with a babysitter... right? Or was he the only daddy that you fantasized about fucking your pretty brains out?

Just the thought of that being true made his ego swell and his blood rush down to his heavy cock. He loved thinking about the obvious fact that you laid in bed touching your pussy to the thought of him.

He endured your flirting. Held his hands behind his back. Bit his tongue. Told himself that he can't make out with his hot babysitter on a random Sunday afternoon, as much as he wanted to, because that was diabolical.

You were sitting on the couch alone some nights, ensuring his kids were entertained and fed and happy, while he was at work. You watched their favorite cartoons until they felt drowsy and then you had to tuck 'em into bed and read three separate bed time stories for each of them because Yuji, Megumi, and Nobara all liked different stories.

It was exhausting, but such a joy to babysit such sweethearts.

After they fell asleep, you'd wander a lonely path back downstairs and look at the time — 8:45 PM — then yawn big and snuggle up on the couch and... wait. And wait. Anddd... wait.

Satoru would always come home late from work.

You'd hear the click of the front door and have an almost Pavlovian reaction. Oh, daddy's home.

You'd strain your ears to hear his footsteps as he walked down the hall, hear the satin hiss of his loosening tie, the sound sparking your over-active imagination. And, pushing a stressed-out sigh past his lips, Satoru would walk into the living room to see you looking drowsy and messy after a long day of taking care of his three kids.

And it's that messy sight of you which made something click in Satoru's mind. That's what really sold him on you. Sure, you were a crazy hot mess... but you had this undeniable motherly quality about you that just made him wonder.

What if he gave you his babies?

Shit. Sorry. Random Friday night thoughts. Forgive him. He's been working at a desk all day and now he's feelin' a bit woozy.

He looked at you, mumbled a sweet but gruff "Hey." and then took a seat right next to you on the TV-lit couch. He sat a respectable distance away from you at first... but then, uh, the next second you had already scooched over to his side until you two were almost pressing thigh against thigh.

Exhausted. Apprehensive at how close his flirty babysitter liked to sit next to him, while at the same time getting half-hard at the thought of tearing off your tiny clothes and showing you just how frustrated a tease like you makes him. Satoru sat and endured.

Underneath all that teenage-like sexual tension, he was feeling welcomed home by you. He almost forgot how nice it felt to have someone waiting up for him.

"So, how was work?" you asked.

He grumbled. He sighed. He was half-hard and full-frustrated. No one had asked him that question in a long time in such a caring voice that it actually tugged at his heartstrings a bit. Just a bit.

"It was... um, yeah... like any other day. Long and hard."

"Long and hard..." you nodded, trailing off and letting the innuendo fill the air.

He gave you a look.

"Exactly how long and hard?" you asked.

He couldn't believe that your stupid jokes like that made him chuckle. And what a sight his smile was; his dimples, the way his eyes crinkled up at the corners, making the slightest age lines appear on his pale face.

"Ah, finally I got a smile out of you."

"And that's the only one you're getting." he shook his head.

Satoru brought his big hand to massage his shoulder, letting out a tense groan from his thought.

Oh, the pitiful look that you gave him made him wanna crawl onto your lap and weep. He'd worked so hard all week with scarce breaks, and all he wanted was a sweet, soft woman to lay upon, to be loved by, to fuck stupid, to use like a good stress-relieving fleshlight — ya know? Just a nice way to wrap up a hard week.

"You..." you began, pressing one long decorated nail into his firm pecs, "... look like you're in desperate need of a massage."

"Ahah... no, no..."

He stuttered, smiled a big toothy smile that made you wanna bite him. God, he really looked like that old photo of himself right then — that one you stole, remember? His graduation photo. He just looked too hot and you had to have a memento of him for your memory box.

Shit. You were crazy.

Satoru had no fucking idea whether you were making a dirty suggestion or just genuinely offering him a massage.

Either way, the thought of your hands on him got the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

Though the rational side of his brain was telling him to refuse your offer, the ghost of the crazed fuckboy that he used to be forced him to accept — like, fuck, what kind of idiot would you be if you refused a pretty girl to work her hands on you, Satoru? Don't put your past self to shame, he thought, you're only gonna get older one day and then that thing ain't even gonna sit up like a good boy without some treats... yeah... that's right... you're gonna be real fucking old one day, Satoru... think about it...

"You know what, actually...? Yeah, I'd love one... but you better be good." he said in a low rasp.

"Oh, don't worry — I'm the best." you grinned like a sweet little devil.

I'll fucking bet you are, cheeky slut, he thought.

He looked like he was holding back all his raw lust. Like if you said just one more thing like that then he would tear your clothes right off your slutty little body and fuck you until every thought flew out of your head except for thoughts of him.

****

Yeah, that martial artist discipline of his really came in handy once you started massaging his shoulders and back. If he hadn't been so strict on himself, he would have...

"Gosh, you're sooo tense, Mr. Gojo... relax."

... I need to fuck her brains out. That's the first thought that he had to push out of his head.

"... let me take the weight of your shoulders..." you nearly whispered, working your hands into his meaty muscle.

Ooh he slipped, he totally gave in.

"Mmm..." he let out a purring moan, feeling the pressure of your fingertips sink into his sore muscles. "That feels good... keep going."

You were trying to keep it cool and professional... er, as professional as you could with your hands exploring Gojo Satoru's muscular back.

Having the lights down low didn't help much. Everything was turning you on. Your clit was already buzzing and begging for attention from behind your thin panties.

This was babymaking atmosphere.

You were going insane, soaking your panties and twitching 'cause you've got a hot dad groaning under your touch.

"Y' can go a little harder..." he muttered in a rough voice.

"M'kay..."

"Mmm..." he let out that purring moan again, this time stretching it out.

Something was so erotic about giving him a massage, even though it wasn't supposed to be — uh, it really wasn't supposed to be, right? Right? It's not like you planned this out all night, not like you were scheming while watching cartoons and waiting for Gojo Satoru to come home.

Ah c'mon... he's an overworked man in need of a massage. Just listen to him, he's moaning like he's — oh, he's closing his eyes, too? He must be really feeling it. His breath is becoming choppy, too.

"Just a bit more..."

"Like this?"

"Yeahhh... just like that."

His mouth hung open in bliss. He squirmed a little. Shit... he could feel himself throbbing. Even slightest friction of his pants shifting along his painfully hard cock was already intense enough to make him clench his jaw.

You smirked, catching a delicious glimpse of the prominent outline of his bulging cock right before he instinctively covered it up with a pillow.

Damn, how does he keep such a monster hidden under such thin dress pants?

Sticking your tongue out in focus as you deliberately massage a spot on his back that makes him moan out the most, Satoru rolls his eyes back and dies a little orgasmic death.

"Yeah... th-that's it... right there... right there... you can go harder."

"Like this?"

"Yeahhh... good g- uhhh, th-that's good." he purred, holding back his tongue just in time because oops, he almost called you a good girl without even thinking.

Oh, that pillow coverage sure helped to keep his boner out of sight but then he had a new problem... the pleasurable friction of the pillow and the fact his stubborn hips liked to move on their own.

Without trying to make it obvious, he was getting off with the pillow, shifting it as inconspicuously as he could but he just couldn't get enough friction — shit, when was the last time that he was so horny he could even enjoy fucking a pillow? It was insane how hard he was, how much his cock oozed sticky precum, how every inch stood at attention asking politely to stretch out some good babysitter pussy.

He shut his pretty blue eyes when started feeling reaaally good. Like, god, he needed this more than he needed air. It was such a shit day at work, but now all the stress that he had built up throughout the day just melted away with each subtle thrust of his bulge into the pillow, and your soft hands digging into his muscular back.

I wanna fuck her so bad.

"Uhhh, fuckkkkkkk...!" he let out a broken moan.

You stopped massaging his back, eyes blown wide open, trying to hold back your shock and snickering. He had worked up a subtle sweat. His muscles were twitching. He was gasping. It was so obvious to you what had just happened.

"Mister?"

"Huh?" he blinked the stars out of his eyes, coming-to as if his orgasm knocked him out for a second.

"Are you okay...?"

He opened his eyes and... oh, there was a wet patch on his dress pants where he just came. Oops. A little massaging and pillow-fucking and he came all over his thigh? Well, that had never happened before. Guess his cock was just super sensitive after not having sex for so long — but you didn't hear that from me...

Satoru gulped. He abruptly stood up, acting as nervous as a bird, "Um, uh... it's late, isn't it? I've gotta drive you home..."

"Aw, okay." you frowned at him, wiggling your hips like you were expecting more.

And he looked at your wiggling hips, your slightly spread apart legs, and then he let a nasty thought pass his mind, and nearly caved and asked you if you wanted to...

****

God, you had your legs apart and he could smell your ovulation. No no, don't call him crazy. He could smell it.

And as he went upstairs to wipe the cum off his inner thighs and change into new pants, he couldn't stop thinking about the fact that you must have been soaked. You must have had the prettiest pussy ever.

Oh, he threw his head back and groaned when he met you back downstairs because while he tried acting professional, now you were all worked up and in an outrageously flirty mood.

You were about to say something outrageous again but he stopped you dead on your tracks.

"Shut up, I don't want to hear it. Let's go." he said, grabbing his keys.

You saluted him playfully, "Yes, daddy."

He did a double take. "What?"

"Nothing." you smiled innocently.

His eyes caught yours, then he rubbed his cheek like he was stressed out.

It was really obvious why he liked you, but Satoru was aching to ask why on earth you like him so much.

Didn't you think he was an egotistical asshole? That's how his ex-wife described him, anyways.

*****

"So you're a Sagittarius, huh?" you ask, little voice dripping in sultriness and setting off alarm bells in the fuckboy side of his mind. "That's hot."

"Uh-huh."

He's driving you home. 60 mph. Switching lanes. Bright blue eyes blind-spotting to the left. Next they're side-eyeing you. Catching on your pretty baby angel face. Trying to keep it together, but his cock is starting to make a bulge in his pants again. Something you've discovered is that the poor man doesn't even change out of his suit most days; when he comes home he just faceplants into bed and falls asleep.

"A december baby?"

"Yup. December seventh." he replies curtly.

Relax, Satoru. It's just conversation. Just innocent, professional conversation with the babysitter who just witnessed you fucking a pillow and cumming in your pants.

After a steadying inhale, he politely returns the question, "What about you? When's your birthday?"

Satoru pays you a brief glance before bringing his gaze back to the speedometer. 50 mph.

Just that one question turns into a deep exploration of your psyche.

"... I just don't like guys my age... like, god, they don't even turn me on anymore."

You give a dramatic pause before looking at him with a nympho fire in your eyes.

"Hey, you're an old man — got any sage advice for me?"

"Hey, who you callin' an old man?"

"Sorryyy, I'm just being cheeky."

"I can tell."

"Sooo... what's your advice?"

Satoru furrows his brows. "For what?"

"For getting older guys to pay one small glance to a sweet girl like me?"

He tenses up and doesn't reply.

You're insane. Worse, you're even more insane than he was when he was your age.

His cock is throbbing against his inner thigh. Again. Precum. Everywhere. How dare you? He's in-between throttling you and stopping off on the side of the highway to bend you over his car's hood to show you he ain't no old man. What a cheek...

"This is your turnoff, isn't it?"

"... yeah."

You watch him flick on the turn signal. You catch his eyes just before he blind-spots again.

As he's pulling off the highway, you pull a dumb joke out of your brain, eager to get a response from him.

"It's my turnoff. But ya wanna know my turn-on?"

"..." he doesn't reply, just gives you a look, then tears his eyes off you and rubs his fingers over his mouth.

"C'mon." you encourage, "You're so uptight; let me humor you a little."

"I'm pretty sure I can guess your turn-on."

You tilt your head at him expectantly. He purses his lips. Drives down your street. Pulls into your driveway. Parks. Unbuckles his seatbelt with a tantalizing slowness that sparks your imagination — d'you wonder if he unbuckles his belt that slowly, too?

Satoru offers one lazy guess. "Older men?"

"Bingo!"

He stifles a smile, shakes his head, thinks you're crazy, and then opens his car door and steps out, leaving you to giggle and unbuckle your seatbelt alone.

He swerves 'round the hood of the car over to your side, and reappears at your window to open your door for you.

"Wow. Handsome and chivalrous? Why'd your wife let a gem like you go?"

"... that's not really any of your business."

"Aw, c'mon... I'm just dripping with curiosity."

He doesn't reply again, just walks you silently to your front door. His heart is beating faster as he eyes out the curve of your ass. That tight sundress shows just the faintest hint of a thong underneath.

Just a thin sundress? A tiny thong underneath? God you're so fuckable, he thinks. So, so fuckable. And the worst part is that you're one of the girls who knows you're hot. That's why you bounce around in front of men like him like you're a reckless bunny.

He's trying so hard to block out wild fantasies of ripping the fabric off your tight body and fucking you into a dumb, slutty mess.

Block it out, Satoru, block it out.

Finally, he replies to the question you posed earlier.

"I'm full of myself, apparently." he says bitterly.

"You're full of yourself?" you tilt your head, a light confusion glossing over your features.

He's so patient and fatherly to his kids; a jovial and wholesome man. I mean, he takes his kids to every place they wanna go, makes gingerbread houses with them in the festive season, plays pretend with them, sets up outdoor adventures in his backyard, gets dressed up in a ridiculous costume for Halloween and takes them out trick-or-treating every year without fail. For god's sake, he bought a hot pink set of baking cookware just because Nobara fancied herself a chef.

He gives his all to his kids, how could anyone think he's full of himself?

"... seems like your wife was wrong about you." you reply.

"Ex-wife. And nah, you'll probably agree with her if ya stick around me long enough — " he speaks self-deprecatingly of himself, but then you interrupt him.

"— mmm, if I stick around ya for to long... y'think I'll end up being full of you, too?"

He stutters. Blood rushes to his cock.

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing."

Satoru blinks at you in total disbelief. Again, an innocent face like you saying such outrageous shit is just insane to him.

"You've got a nasty conscience, you know that?"

"N'aw, don't mind me. I'm just having fun, being a little silly." you giggle, eyes all over him and his pretty, rideable face.

"Well, I wouldn't call flirting with older men being 'silly'..."

"And I wouldn't call pillow-fucking being 'professional'..."

Oh god. Oh my fucking god. He's breaking in two like a kitkat.

Satoru is rendered fucking silent. He's stunned. He's red.

"Goodnight." is all he replies with. And then he leaves. What the hell else is he supposed to say to that? You're crazy.

Now you got him all worked up and he doesn't know what to do. If younger Satoru knew that one day in his thirties he'd meet a slutty babysitter... oh, god. Younger Satoru would be pumping his fist in the air.

But he's gotta keep playing it cool, 'cause there's no way he can fuck his babysitter... there's NO way...

... so there he is that very night tucked in his black satin sheets, leaky cock in his fist and jaw slacked, face sweaty, fucking himself to supposedly real "I fucked my babysitter" erotica stories. No, he's not one for porn videos. He just wants to lay back and picture your pretty face with no disturbances. He just wants to lay wayyy back on his king-sized bed, fisting his cock with soft fwupfwupfwups while picturing his babysitter's pussy sitting pretty on him.

He groans at his dirty little fantasies as he slides his hand up and down his shaft, getting so lost in the idea of taking your virginity that he forgets all about the erotica story he's reading and jus' closes his eyes, head thunking back against the headboard in bliss and cock dripping like a leaky faucet, practically drooling all over his lower abdomen.

"Good girl; take it all, just like that..." he mutters.

He slides his thumb over his leaky tip and holds it over the hole, smearing precum everywhere as it oozes out, getting his cock wetter before going back to stroking it at a steady speed. His breath gets ragged as he lures his orgasm out.

He's never met a virgin as slutty as you before, that's for sure.

Shit, he really shouldn't be thinking about fucking his babysitter. He really shouldn't tease his cock to thoughts of taking your virginity. It shouldn't bring on his orgasm to picture you trapped underneath his heavy muscles, cumming all over his mature cock.

"... ugh!" he moans out, shifting down the headboard and curling his toes. "Fuck! Fuck... oh, shit, baby..."

Just like that, his jaw slacks in pleasure 'n his cock shoots out thick ribbons of cum and he's creaming all inside you — oh, sorry. That was just in his fantasies.

In reality, he's just cum all over his abs and chest. It shot up so high that it almost reached his neck.

He pants and looks down at the wasted seed that he coulda pumped inside you.

Groaning as he comes down from his high, Satoru lays with his long legs spread out on his bed for a while and curses himself for thinking of fucking his babysitter.

And then he starts weighing the pros and cons of actually doing it.

Yeah, he stares up at the ceiling after jerking off for like thirty minutes, cum splattered on his abs, thinking about how bad of an idea it would be to actually fuck his slutty babysitter.

No, Satoru. You can't. Absolutely no — no fucking the babysitter. Satoru? Bad boy. Don't do it. I know she's fuckable but you cannot fuck your —

****

— so like a week later, he's spreading your legs and crawling inbetween them.

He's placing rough kisses against your lips like he's almost angry about being this horny.

"Nn!" you whine, feeling his fingertips press against your clothed pussy, pushing against your entrance.

"Aw, you're soakin' your panties just from a little bit of kissing? Aren't you cute." he murmurs on your skin.

"Sh-shut up and fuck me... I can't take this teasing." you spit back, pulling him back into a rough kiss.

He chuckles into your mouth, tongue slithering over yours and tangling up with it for a few seconds before he pipes up;

"I'm just getting back at you for all the teasing I endured from your slutty ass."

Biting your lip. Pulling away. Letting out a purely erotic noise. Sliding his big hands down your sides and gripping you like you're his woman.

Oh now your breath gets caught in your throat.

"Let's get you nice and ready for me, hm?" he husks, lips dangerously close to your clothed pussy.

Oh now your heart rate spikes to an alarming rate. Fuck. You're actually doing it. You're actually gonna fuck an older guy.

He plants a rough kiss on top of your pussy, chin pressing against your buzzy clit.

"Mm...!" you press your lips together, trying to keep some sort of composure but you can't 'cause you've got Gojo Satoru between your legs — who the hell would be able to stay composed in your position?

Damn, it drives him crazy when your inner thighs graze the sides of his cheeks. You're ruffling up his hair. He's going down on you.

A moment later, he's pushing your panties aside and lapping at your pussy. Another moment later, he's curling his tongue up inside you.

"Oh my god th-that feels good..." you gasp, feeling his slippery tongue writhe inside.

"Mmm, I know it does."

He feels smug hearing this, pressing an open-mouthed smile against your pussy lips as he sticks his tongue as deep into you as he can possibly go, eyeing your blissed-out expressions. Sliding his tongue out, spitting on your pussy, rubbing sloppy frantic circles on your clit, Satoru's acting like a total show off.

It makes you hide your face between your palms.

"Ah-ah-ah... I want you to watch." he growls, "Don't you dare take your eyes off me, m'kay? That's a good girl."

Tip of his nose nudging your clit as he tongue-fucks you into hazy bliss, you're moaning like you never knew you could.

And he's just in heaven, 'cause he's got your juices dribbling down his chin and glossing his lips better than his favorite lip gloss — uh-huh.

"Mister! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck — nnn! G-gojooo!" you start mewling his name and he goes faster, trying to chase your orgasm out with full intent to leave you hanging.

Your breath is staggering, pussy pulsing with that edge of pleasure and oh, suddenly he's retracting his tongue from your weeping, spasming hole before you can cum all over his face.

Yep. He leaves you hanging.

"Wait — ! Nn, I was gonna c—"

"— y'know, princess" he interrupts, wiping your slick off his cheek with his fingers and licking it off right before your wide eyes, "I really think we're past the formalities; call me Satoru."

Half-dazed and ditzy on the pleasure of a missed orgasm, you watch as Satoru pulls away from you, his knees digging into the mattress and weighing it down.

Veiny hands find his belt and smoothly undo it, whipping off with a loud crack.

"O-oh?" you breathe excitedly.

He smirks, seeing how your eyes are glued to his bulge, "Aw, ya gonna perv on me while I strip for ya?" he teases, then clicks his tongue in regret when you reply with a lamb-like look, "Hahaha, don't get shy on me now. I'm just teasing."

Absolutely drooling over his physique as he strips his clothes off tantalizingly slowly, Satoru's been so composed up until now; as he unbuttons and unzips his long zipper, you notice how ragged his breathing actually is. Like he needs it bad. Like his cock is getting strangled by his clothes.

After hastily taking his pants off, Satoru quickly frees his eager cock from his boxer briefs.

And your eyes go wiiide.

"Oh."

Pale. Pink. Stiff. Leaky. Bit of an upper curve. Thick veins. What's that, like maybe a nine? No, no, there's no way. Actually, on second look, maybe?

"C'mere, let me have you." he rasps, one hand gripping his dummy big cock.

"That is not gonna fit inside me."

His ego swells. Ah, how many girls have said that to him in his life? And it never gets old.

"Nah, it'll fit."

You twitch excitedly, breath catching in your throat as Satoru comes closer to you and snuggles his slim waist between your legs which you just keep spreading wider and wider, so ready to take him even though you're nervous as hell.

"Ready to get ya cherry popped, cutie?" he asks.

He taps his cock against your entrance, coats it in your slippery juices, teases that hot tip in 'n out.

"Yeaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhfuck! Holy shit! Um! Uh!"

"What is it?" he throws a smug smile your way.

He watches intently as your pouty lips move, "'Big, 's really fucking big...! Ooh, god! Nn! Nnn!"

"You're so cute." he arches over you, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

His head starts to spin as he slides inside you.

Fuck. He's actually doing it. Sure, he fucked that flight attendant once. Yeah, he had a couple flings. He was a nasty, sex-crazed fuckboy in his youth. And yet... nothing felt as nasty as this.

This is everything he ever fucking needed. This is the sweet and nasty girl that he's craved for all his life. The rest were too nasty, some too sweet, but you? A perfect slut.

Satoru's curving up into you and teasing your sweet spots with his tip like he's letting 'em know that soon they're gonna get bullied with his hard-hitting strokes.

And your pussy's happily getting stretched out, walls clinging to every inch he pushes in like she's so thankful that you finally gave her something besides your fingers or toys to clench around.

"Ah, fuck, that's tight."

"I'm sorry!"

"No, no, it's a good thing... just relax a little more, 'm gonna push it deeper, is that okay?"

"Yes, please... oh please, fuck, yes give me everything!"

He grins, "No need to ask twice." he murmurs, right before he's sinking another few of his inches into your struggling pussy.

Satoru just comes undone at the feeling of being inside you.

His big hands come to squeeze your breasts, jiggling them around with a playful tongue poking out his mouth like he's just tempted to put his mouth on them.

So he does, y'know he's already lost enough self-restraint to the point where he's fucking his babysitter, so of course he's gonna give into his urge to suck on your breasts.

His hot, wet mouth envelopes your sensitive nipple, tongue flicking against it 'till he draws out cute whimpers from you.

He's pulling his mouth off, kissing the curve of your cleavage, groping a handful of your breasts, looking down at you like he knows damn well no boys your age are gonna fuck you as good as him — shit, scratch that, ain't fuckin' nobody in your whole life gonna fuck you as good as he will.

When your walls permit him to go deeper, Satoru stutters out like he's the virgin here, "F-f-fuck, there you go, baby, jus' take my cock like you're meant to, yeah?"

He moves his hips, relishing that sloppy sound of your pussy gushing around him — oh god you're bucking your hips to meet his hips 'n you're driving him crazy makin' him think for a split second about remarrying.

Like, he's going insane, he's actually going insane.

Hardly ten minutes later and he's fucking you into your first orgasm, loving how you can't even control how hard you cum on his cock. He's ruthlessly rubbing your clit throughout your orgasm, eager to make your eyes roll back completely. And it's making you freak the fuck out, 'cuz no one else has done this to you. No one has brought you to a real orgasm before.

And he can tell.

It makes him twitch and dive deeper into your sopping hole, eager to lure out as much juice as he can 'cause there's nothing he loves more than a creamy mess on his cock.

He's bending and pushing you into the positions he loves, thrusting at a steady pace that you can keep up with at first but sometimes he'll go harder, harder, harder until you're sobbing and wailing out so loudly that he needs to clamp a hand over your mouth.

He chuckles, "Quiet down, princess. You're gonna wake up my kids at this rate."

" 'm shorry!" you mumble into the palm of his hand, feeling his cock drill into your sweet spots and pressure your walls like crazy.

"No, no. Don't be sorry. It's cute. You're taking me so well," he praises, "Doing so so well for me, princess."

Those soft coos don't match his nasty strokes. He's railing you like he's trying to fuck every last bit of virginity out of your pussy, 'till it remembers the shape of his cock, 'till it clings to him, 'till it knows who's ya daddy.

Especially while prone-boning you. Damn, who forgot to give this guy the handbook on How to Fuck a Virgin? He's pounding into you and grunting like he's gone psycho... ohhhhehasn'thaddpussyinlikeayear. Okay. Makes sense.

"Ah, fuck — fuckin' look at me while I fuck you," he commands, sweaty cheek pressing against yours. Satoru grabs your jaw and makes you look at him, loving your lewd expressions. "Haha, such a fucked-out face... cute."

He thrusts faster into you, not even letting much of his cock in 'cause he knows form experience that virgin pussy just can't handle all of that. So he's easing out each time he accidentally dives in too deep.

And when he pounds up into you like that, it makes sense why the phrase "fucking your brains out" came about. His cock has got you in a crazy back arch, got you seeing stars. No thoughts. Just pussy spasms.

"Harder!! 'want it harder! Please! Fuck me harderrr!!" you plead, totally cockdrunk on Gojo Satoru.

"Are you sure 'bout that, sweetheart? 'Cause I don't think you can handle it..."

"Please!!" you beg.

"Aw... 'can't say no to that fuckable face, can i?" he throws your leg over his shoulder, repositioning himself, grinning, "Take a deep breath. You tell me if it's too much, m'kay? Y'can tap out at any time."

"Yeah, yeah! I know!!" you respond so eagerly it makes him giggle.

As instructed, you take a deep breath. But honestly, did it really prepare you for getting fucked this hard? Um, no.

"Fuck, fuck!! Nnn... god, fuck me! Yesyesyes, just like that please!!"

"Ah, shit, baby..."

"God, you're gonna — you're gonna break the bed, 'Toruuu!"

"I'm gonna break you first." he moans, pounding every last inch of his cock into your happy little pussy, gives your g-spot a beating that has your whole body on the brink of insanity.

"Ughhh... fuck!" you choke up, you hiccup, you sob and wail — and he has to kiss you quiet.

My god did you need this. You needed to indulge in this nastiness, 'cuz who the hell else is ever gonna give you the fucking of a lifetime? Uh, yeah, that's right...

"Yeah, keep enjoying my fucking cock. You know nobody else is gonna fuck you as good as this, little slut." he whispers into your ear, cheek sticky with sweat 'n pressing against yours.

What kind of man did his ex-wife think he was? Full of himself? Nah... he wasn't that full of himself. C'mon now...

"... fuck you look so good cumming on my cock like that. Aw, you shaking? Can't handle it? Am I just too good at fucking you, huh? Wanna cum again? Come on, use your words, you're a big girl. You wanna cum again, don't you? I know you want it. I know you love my cock, 'course you do... 'm fucking perfect, baby. 'N you're gonna take every perfect fucking inch of me."

Oh. Okay. Maybe he is full of himself.

Well, he's full of himself and now you're full of him, too.

Satoru isn't shy about pumping a thick, gooey cumload inside you. He isn't shy about frothing up his creampie during round two, either. And he isn't shy about flipping you into missionary and pushing your trembling legs back and sliding his cock in again.

"Can ya do one more for me, baby?"

"Y-yeah!"

"Aw, but you look exhausted..." he grins. "I wouldn't wanna break my favorite babysitter on accident."

"I'm okay, I swear! I can take it!" you start babbling.

Sweat is dripping off your bodies and soaking the bed. The room smells like sex. His muscles are pressing into you. He's diving into you like a swimmer and grunting and making a dent in the wall 'cause that headboard is banging into the wall just as hard as he's banging into you. Neither of you even notice the dent in the wall. You're just stuck together, connected in that one place, fucking like bunnies.

You palm at his abs, pressing flat against them and melting at the feeling of his mmmaturemusclestwitchingohgodbless, you're so gone after feeling his sweat gather on your hand and catching a glimpse of the bulge his cock makes inside you.

Satoru blanks when your small hand feels up his muscles. Now his thrusts got your lower tummy shuddering and you just wonder what he's thinking when his brows furrow together in such serious focus at your fertile pussy.

"Ohmygodohmygodyou'regonnafuckingbreakme!!" you squeal, fisting the pillow and nearly crying into it.

He giggles, slowing his thrusts to a pace your poor, abused pussy can handle better, "Sorry, doll, you jus' got me too excited when you touched me like that."

"Nn!!" you fist the sheets in your hand, realizing just how far he fucked you to the edge of the bed — the two of you were nearly falling off the bed until uh, oops, you were on the floor?

"Ahh-ahhh! Ah! AH! Wh-what kinda... wrestling move is this, Satoru! Fuck, go easy on me!! 'M gonna cum again!!"

He's too into it to bother getting the two of you back on the bed. Now he's just pinning you down on the plush carpeted floor, railing your tight cunt from behind like he owns it. He may as well, honestly.

"Oh yeah?" he grunts, "Cum again on my cock. Lemme see you work it out on my cock. C'mon, isn't this the cock you wanted so badly? Put on a show for me, baby."

"Ahh!!" you sluttily cry out, bouncing your hips up and down and working your pussy on just six of his nine inches.

"Fuuuck... look at that back arch... haha, you already runnin' outta stamina? Yeah, tell me about it. It's hard work fuckin' a big cock, isn't it? Okay, okay, spoiled princess..." he mutters, hearing your exhausted pleas, "Perk that ass up, lemme show you how it's done."

"But this position is so — AH!" you kick your legs as he slides deeper with each quick stroke.

His tip's prodding at a spot you don't even recognize; a sweet gummy spot that's like your off button. You can't keep your mouth shut and now you're getting so loud that he's gotta clamp a hand on your mouth again, pushing you into the carpeted floor and not stopping his hard-hitting thrusts for a looong few seconds, driving it deep.

He picks up his pace, balls slapping into your clit so loudly that he can't even complain about the loudness of your moans. That skin-slapping 'n squelching could wake up the neighborhood.

"Fuck," he grunts, "Ah, ah... stay right there, 'gonna make you a mama..."

You thrash your legs around, "Nn! Please!" you squeal, feeling his warm seed pour into you again without warning. Just that feeling makes you cum. Hard. Satoru's cock freaks out at the feeling of your pussy's milking contractions along his length, making his tender tip spurt out a little bit more cum against your cervix.

It's so bad. You really shouldn't love getting creampied by an older man this much, let alone your... uh, boss?

Worse. He shouldn't have such a big fucking smile on his sweaty face. He shouldn't be rolling his eyes back in satisfaction like that, like he finds it so funny that he actually did it.

"God, you sure loved milking me, huh?" he smiles wide, bangs soaked and sticking to his sweaty forehead.

"Nnn..." you nod, totally exhausted.

He watches you trying to catch your breath, gulping and gasping. He slides his softening cock out of your over-creampied pussy, earning a small whimper from you. Oh, you feel so empty now, it's crazy. Just how did he pack all of that cock inside you? He can't figure it out, either.

"You okay, sugarplum?" he asks sensitively, stroking your cheek with the back of his hand.

"Yahhh..." you weakly whimper back, wiggling your foot cutely, "Need t' cleanup... need help w-walking..."

All his creampies bubble out your pussy.

He stifles a laugh, feeling a bit guilty. Satoru presses a kiss to your back, peeling you off the floor and practically carrying you to the bathroom — floor and walls black tiles, every corner spelling 'rich boy' in bold letters.

Carefully and slowly, Satoru helps to clean you up, massaging your sore parts with his big hands, peppering your neck in the sweetest little kisses as if he didn't just rearrange your guts and ruin your pussy for other men.

"So... how's it feel, not being a virgin anymore?" he asks with a dirty big bad fuckboy smile.

You simply blush and smile shyly in response. It makes him laugh.

"Aw, are you all shy now, pookums? Shit, I think I fucked tha nasty outta you..."

You nuzzle him, looking about ready to sleep, and it just melts his heart.

"Mm, y'know... Suguru was right about you; you're a real sweetheart. I think I might just have 'ta keep you around for a long time."

ㅤ🍒 x 🐇 x 💗@𝖆𝖗𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖎

ㅤ𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

@screampied (I KNOW IT'S BEEN LIKE A YEAR SINCE I LAST MENTIONED THIS FIC SORRY LOL) 💗 @pickledballer 💗 @wakashudou 💗@miseryyouth-99 💗 @ilovelokism 💗 @yuji-baby 💗 @natsuw181 💗 @madamechrissy 💗@magical-girl-bunny 💗@arminswifee 💗 @msheds0519 💗@nariminsstuff 💗@strychnynegirl 💗@satorupi 💗 @lvstru 💗@buniibloom 💗@tojijibaby 💗@peach-olic 💗 @mandistromboli 💗 @bwunniibell 💗 @nezukochaaann 💗 @valentine4738 💗 @katthekat1234 💗 @aryanaaa 💗 @astxrismstar 💗 @delusionalandabnormal 💗 @shadykittyperfection 💗 @pettypinkprincessblog 💗 @chososgf04 💗 @eliengoddes 💗 @peachmangoe 💗 @dollyschii 💗 @palegardenrebel

[torusangel]

TELLING JJK MEN "IT'S TOO MUCH"

a/n: as if they're going to slow down anyway (。-`ω-)ｰ

KENTO hears it in that soft, desperate little voice you get when you’re right at the edge — eyes glazed, body boneless, mouth trembling.

"It’s too much…"

He slows. For one heartbeat. One.

Then he leans in, presses a kiss to your temple, and keeps going, steady and deep, his cock dragging against your sweetest spots with every precise, punishing thrust.

"No, sweetheart," he murmurs, brushing your hair out of your face as he fills you again and again, "it’s exactly what you need."

You claw at his back, moan his name, body twitching from overstimulation — and he whispers low, reverent filth in your ear:

"You’re taking it so well. So fucking good for me. Let it be too much."

And when you cum again — crying, trembling, barely breathing — he moans into your neck and finishes deep inside you, holding you tight like he’ll never let go.

SATORU laughs.

"Too much?" he echoes, and his hips snap forward, pounding into you harder, deeper, rougher.

"No such thing, baby."

Your body jerks. You gasp. He’s already got you face-down, ass up, drooling into the pillows as his cock slams into you with maddening force.

"You feel this cock in your womb yet? Hm? That what too much feels like?"

You’re moaning incoherently now. Fisting the sheets. Every thrust knocks the air from your lungs. His hand grips your hair, yanking your head back to hear your sweet, broken sounds.

"Gonna give you everything, baby. You don’t get to tap out now."

He finishes deep, thick ropes of cum flooding your sore pussy, and he doesn’t pull out. He just keeps fucking it in, laughing low when your legs give out completely.

SUGURU groans — long, low, dangerous.

You say it through tears. Legs trembling. Back arched. His cock is buried to the hilt, and you whimper:

"It’s too much, Suguru—please, I—"

He presses a kiss to your forehead, whispers gently,

"I know, love. I know."

Then he grabs your hips and fucks you deeper.

"That’s why I’m not stopping."

His rhythm is slow but devastating, every roll of his hips making your cunt flutter, your body tremble. He watches your face twist with every overwhelming inch, addicted to your pleasure-drunk expression.

"Look how beautifully you take too much. Look at how your body begs for it, even when your mouth says no."

And when you cum again — shaking, clenching, gushing around him — he just moans and fills you full, cock pulsing with every wave of release.

"Let me break you a little more. You’ll thank me after."

CHOSO panics for one second.

"Too much?" he gasps, already panting, already balls-deep, your pussy soaked and stretched around his thick cock.

He leans back, wide-eyed, concerned.

"Did I hurt you? Should I stop? I—"

But then you moan. Loud. Desperate. You say it again, voice cracking:

"It’s too much… but I don’t wanna stop—"

And he loses it.

He thrusts deep, all the way, and your body jerks beneath him. His hand shakes as he cups your face, overwhelmed.

"I love you—fuck—you feel so good—I can’t stop—I don’t want to—"

He fucks you harder, his pace messy and passionate, nearly crying as he cums so deep you feel the heat bloom in your core.

And then he says it again, barely coherent:

"You can take more… you always take more…"

TOJI hears it and grins like the devil.

You’re already limp. Ruined. Folded in half beneath him. And you sob:

"It’s too much… please… I can’t…"

He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t even pretend to.

"Oh, now it’s too much? Wasn’t too much when you were begging for this cock, was it?"

He slams in harder, rougher, his cock so deep you see white. You try to crawl away — he grabs your hips and drags you back, fucking you so hard the whole bed frame slams into the wall.

"Where you going, baby? We’re not done."

You’re sobbing now. Moaning. Cum-drunk and cock-drunk and ruined. And he just chuckles.

"You’ll take all of it. Til I say you’re done."

And when he fills you up, hot and heavy, he watches it spill out of you with dark, gleaming satisfaction — then pushes it back in with two fingers.

SUKUNA pauses.

Just for a second.

Then he growls.

"Too much? Damn right it is."

His hips drive into you like he’s trying to fuck you into the floor — punishing, raw, relentless. You’re screaming now, legs locked around his waist, hands scrabbling uselessly at his shoulders.

"You think I’d go easy on you? You begged for this cock. Now take it."

You sob again — “It’s too much—” — and his laugh is cruel, dripping with heat.

"Then break for me. Cry for me. Let me see you fall the fuck apart."

And you do. Your orgasm hits like a train, ripping through you, your cunt clenching so tight it nearly chokes him. Sukuna groans, then buries himself to the root and cums so hard his whole body shudders.

Then he grabs your cheeks and spits into your open mouth, growling:

"You're mine now. Every fucking inch of you."

[torusangel]

ROCK YOUR BODY!

Synopsis. First time he learns about a matíng press = first time he loses his mind.

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Gojo x Reader, Ino x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, matíng presses, PÚSSYDRÚNK men, manhandIing, stopping you from running, p talking, spítting, chokíng, new positions, true form Sukuna, DP, tummy buIges, making it fit, cervíx kíssing, they’re FÉRAL, marathons, ínappropriate use of jujutsu, GOJO’S POWERS, creampíes, cúmplay, mentions of kids, pet names, swéaring.

A/N. C’mon c’mon rock that body-

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - DlLF Tactics

“T-Toji—” 

You’re sobbing out brokenly- and what does your boyfriend do? He’s merely leaning his beefy body over to lick up the salty wetness of your tears, groaning. “I know.” Tone guttural. “I know, mama.” Gone.

You were no match for him - and he was no match for this damn new position Shiu had just-so-happened to mention today. He’d laughed at the man then, something about a mating…oh.

Toji wasn’t laughing now. 

One of his calloused hands claw down your front, “You’re-” And all it takes is one push for your poor core to pour out wads of his seed, gushing ivory syrup straight down to Toji’s hilt. “-reeeeeal full, aren’tcha, doll?” 

And your thighs stick uselessly to his shoulders, where he’d thrown them over hours ago and kept them there. Where you thought he’d get over this little obsession after one round. Maybe two. Maybe three- 

Toji grins, “But you’re gonna take it for me one more time, mhm?”

Before you can even think to shrill out an answer, Toji’s squeezing his thick, reddened tip allllll the way near the back of your slick-covered walls. Just so big that you can feel the globed end of his shaft probe into your cervix, “Fuh-fuck! Again, Toji?”

“Blame the- the…” He’s strangling out a dark chuckle, scarred lips curling. And oh- to have the Toji Fushiguro stuttering? 

You had him ruined. 

“The mating press?” You’re mewling in answer. 

Only to have his entire sculptured body wrack with a visceral shiver- Toji’s hunching his weight on top of yours until you’re being crushed, until your hamstrings scream, until he’s biting his canines down on the side of your neck just to stop himself from whimpering. “Fucking love it when you s-say that, mama.”

One of his roaming hands nestles on the top of your sweaty scalp, and he grumbles, “Yeah a mating press.” Caging you in. Making you feel every tense n’ twitch of his glissading abs. “A fucking mating press. It makes me wanna fill this hah- pretty pussy with my cum up just ooooonce more.” The other still glues to your tummy, feeling for the bumpy outline of his thrusting cock. “Makes me wanna make ‘er leak.”

“B-but I’m already so full.” You’re whining out through wobbly lips, and you swear that his bulbous mushroom tip only grows fatter at the state of your voice. 

“Mmm—” You knew that lil’ hint of greed in his tone didn’t bode well. You knew that it would have his right hand pushin’ down on your stomach until he’s making his knotted white cum leak out of your pussy like a fountain. Sheening the inner parts of your cute thighs and soaking his happy trail - you just feel so filthy. “H-heh, not anymore…”

“Ngh, oh- oh my god.”

And his strokes are vulgar, like he’s knocking that weepy orifice of his against every sweet spot of yours just to fill you back up again. You were so sensitive after all these hours that only a few whack-whack-whacks of Toji’s long, vein-covered cock makes you drool.

A slimy line of pre glues right near your g-spot and makes him giggle at the mess. “C’moooon, mama, stop makin’ such a oh- mess.” Ruthless, Toji’s thumb snakes down from your temple to push between your swollen lips. “M’just trying to make sure that this…mating press really works, heh.”

Just saying those words makes his ravenous cock throb even harder - what have you done to him?

“B-but I think it already works, Toji—” Case in point; each heavy, sensual pump of his inches only makes your walls splosh ‘round with both cum and slick. Utterly full. Utterly ruined. 

“That’s cute.” He simply states, hazy green eyes on the verge of rolling. Toji plants a ruthless smack on the side of your left thigh, “Now hold up those legs f’me, doll.”

As if you could be bent even further- but Toji Fushiguro finds a way. He always finds a way. Even if his rough, knobbly fingertips are trembling as he’s gripping each underside of your legs. 

Overstimulated, Toji’s veiny biceps flex once he’s folding you straight in half with the curves of your knees hitting your tits. Your face pushing into the crook of his neck, his cock stirrin’ up your insides.

Chanting out like mantra—“Up, up, up, aaaand up-”

Jostling you around like some glorified doll, you’re sure that the globes of your ass don’t even touch the bedsheets at this point. He’s just so big that you can barely even clench - the bubblegummy texture of your walls was damn near rubbed raw on each of his prominent veins. Drilling inside over and over and over-

“Cute—soooo fuckin’ cute how she talks back.” As if to prove his point even further, Toji thumbs down your slivery slit and lets off a noisy slurp. Huffing with primal desire, “Gonna be e-even cuter when I fuck her stupid, though. When I feel- my-” Punctuating each word with a bashing strike into your depths, the flared ridge of his cockhead kisses your g-spot and you bawl. “-doll’s cervix get hit alllll the way from the back.”

Your head throws back with a pitched trill, “T-Tooooji–! Don’t talk like that…”

“Why? Feeling shy, mama?” He’s snickering, “How can you even think of feeling- fuck! shy when I have you like this? In this…this…” 

Mating press…fuck, he couldn’t even say those two words anymore. Trailing off. Eyes glazed. 

He’s jackhammerin’ the prolonged inches of his girth into you like it was the only thing he knew how to do at this point, and Toji’s tough fingerpads wield down on your pussy with a solid spank. “D’you even know what you’re doing to me?” Then he’s spanking your treacly cunt three more repeated times like it’s her fault.

“I- ngh, oh-” All that you can babble by now, your pupils are swirling in comical circles inside the whites of your eyes. 

Each one follows the crazed patterns of his crashing cocktip, bashing in the sponged layer of your cervix. Toji’s deltoids bulge as he bullies your body down just a bit further, and lets his rovering cock smooch the door to your womb—thud!

Fuck. 

Instantly throwing his hazy head back, murmuring something intelligible underneath his breath-

“Wh-what was that–?” You’re panting, eyelids fluttering as you try to steady your vision. Toji was just so pussydrunk that he could barely string together his slurring syllables, he could barely even stop the sloppy slamming of his hips to speak-

“I-I said–” Toji drawls out, and he’s bent so low in this mating press - his all-knew favorite position - that he can kiss your forehead sweetly. Whispering in your ear, “-that Shiu’s gonna be the fucking godfather after this.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - Shibuya “Incident”

“Legs here and…your pretty pussy- hah- here-” Rattling off, it was almost sexily methodical the way that he was moving your shaky limbs ‘round with no strain at all. “And I’m…”

A mating press.

Nanami Kento had you pressed into a mating press- and the only thing you can do is arch your back upwards into his dewy touch- he’s just so messy like this. Glasses crushed against your body, blond hair falling over his forehead. Your husband hunches his hulking body into you so that he could suckle on your tits like his favorite candy. “Wh-why the sudden mating- ngh, press, Ken?”

“Because, please-” He doesn’t even know what he’s begging into the skin of your chest, clammy mouth gluing to the nubs of your nipples. “Please- we hafta make sure, my love.”

You’re whimpering, “F-fuck! Make sure of what–?”

And his response is muffled, pearly whites snagged on your areolas, “Have to make sure it takes.”

“Oh.”

Truthfully, Nanami had been restless. Ever since he’d come back from Shibuya all bruised n’ battered, he’d simply bent you into your marital bed and folded your legs in half like he hadn’t even realized what he was doing just yet. 

Like he couldn’t think of anything to say but a low, growling—“C-can’t even control it, sweetheart.” His handsome cheekbones blush all crimson, “Somehow I just want to get you…” Hesitating. Rugged. “-pregnant.”

Oh, he’d been struck with some sort of babyfever.

Still in the half-opened uniform of his suit, he was taken over by some sort of madness that made you trill at the top of your lungs every single time Nanami’s rovering cockhead bludgeoned against the back of your pussy. He might have been gentle, but his aching, red length surely wasn’t.

“Oh- fuck-” You’re sobbing out, legs twitching on top of his shoulders with each passing second. “Th-that explains the hck! mating press-”

“Mating press, huh?” Long, golden lashes blink up blearily at you, he was still tuggin’ on your cute nipples until the skin of your chest was all sensitive. A slight brush of his textured taste buds make you buck- and he’s only pressing a forearm to your throat. “S-so that’s what s’called.”

Naturally, Nanami was leaning his entire carnal weight on top of you until you were manhandled like some lawnchair. 

Until your feet were dangling in the air and he was pushing you into a mating press so sloppy that you’re hearing your dripping cunt squelch from below. Slurp after slurp. The reddened, globular crown of his tip nudged against your cervix and made you sob. “Like this-” Extra tight, his vein-decorated hands lace on top of your scalp. “Like this like this. Fuck! A mating press…s’like this?”

“Y-yes, ngh- oh my god-” You didn’t have enough brain capacity right now to tell him that this was more than just your average mating press. 

This pliable position had his hips spanking down on yours until the skin of Nanami’s pelvis turned red. 

He’s snapping his head down with a slight gasp at the slamming impact, molten eyes widening and widening. “O-oh.” Hard, the lines of his v-line thrash down once more. Probin’ his sultry wet tip so deep between your pussylips that you swear you can feel him enter your very lungs. “Oh, m’in love with this position. In love with how deep it makes you take me- how f-fucking tight you squeeze each time.”

Then it’s like he was insatiable - getting such a gooood look at the way your puffy folds expanded with each inch you swallowed, the way your pussy glistened with each spurt of slick, the way you quivered like you wanted more, more, more-

“Y-you’re in so deep- hck!” You can’t help but wrap your fingers into the silken fabric of your husband’s tie and tug-

And that makes him gasp, it makes him pant. Nanami’s slimy tip wallops the roof of your cunt and twitches—“Yes—!” He keens, guttural and raw. “Like that- roughen me up like that, darlin’.”

You’re gaping- because you’ve never heard your beloved husband speak to you like this before. 

He was at the mercy of your pussy.

It’s as if this all-new, lecherous position had loosened his stern mouth, and now it was slick with slobber that gushed every single time your cervix was being bruised by his impressive circumference. A thin line slips from the side of his lips that he smears between the valley of your chest.

“S’gonna take-” He hiccups, pumping you oh-so-full that your ears pop. “Gonna take gonna take gonna take- fuck! Gonna be a-all round and glowing.” Blond brows furrowing, teeth grit. “And m’gonna take suuuuch good care of you, my love. Can be the hah- pretty lil’ mother of my kids, while I take care of eeeeverything for ya.”

His crowned shaft scrapes all the way near the entrance to your womb and you find yourself seeing stars. “Sh-shit, oh, Kento-” Clawing onto his tie, the attire tightens enough to squeeze his airway and make your husband gasp-

“Mmm, spit in my mouth.”

You gape, “Wh-what-”

Oh, you couldn’t hear him? No problem - because all those years of Nanami’s battle-training goes directly into reflexively bending down, down, down until your body n’ cunt scream at the stretch.

His perspired forehead rests on yours, tonality dripping with need. “Spit in my mouth.”

And how could you not?

Not when he was asking you like that. Not when his glassy peripherals were staring into your own like he could just eat you alive. 

Nanami’s parched throat hums at the splatter of your webbed wad of saliva, wetting his taste buds properly. And once you do as he says, his roaming cock twitches- “F-feels like m’gonna cum inside.” Immediately burrowing those cracked moans of his back into your tits.

You’re whimpering, mouth lolling at the feeling of his canines gnawing your nipples raw. “Mmm, oh my god- what’s gotten into you with that today, Ken?”

“Well…” He gruffly admits, the fringes of his teeth trapping your left nipple and tuggin’, “-m’practising for when these tits have actual milk soon, my love.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - FLEXXX

“You- bend- so- well-” Your fuzzy brain barely even has the time to register Geto’s words before he’s drilling each of them in with a rough thrust of his swollen, ruby-red cock. 

Just so fat n’ aching to claim every secret ridge inside of your pussy, he’s not sunken even halfway in before he’s rutting. Furiously. Like he didn’t even care for the way his girthy length was struggling against your tight ring of muscle, Geto pushes down on the undersides of your thighs further and makes you shrill.

He’s marvelling, amethyst eyes flickering at the way this mating press had your pussy all smeared open. All ready. It didn’t matter how much your body stretched and stretched, Geto was just so strong that he had you pliably thrown around like some ragdoll. “You bend so, so well.” 

“Fuck, ngh, Suguru-”

And it was your fault - yours. You were the one to challenge him into folding you into a mating press, and he was more than happy to deliver.

In fact, Geto’s just so impatient that he’s feeling your snug hole clench ‘round his shaft and bucks- knees anchoring down on the springy mattress to get his slick length tunneling deeper. “It’s like you’re- fuck- like-”

Gaze slightly glassy. Expression slightly crazed. 

Geto has to force himself to pull out his entire sloppy cock before he can even manage to speak.

Hot breath heating up your awed features- “S’like this pretty pussy’s been wantin’ to be folded into a mating press for aaaaages, gorgeous.”

And then he’s slamming his rugged, rock-hard girth until the patterns of his veins brand on your cervix. Letting it fill you up till he’s bottomed out, Geto’s dark happy trail rubs the poor folds of your cunt raw, dragging his vulgar strokes out until you’re keening—

“Oh- oh my god-” You’re babbling, tears crinkling from the edges of your eyelids. You’re scrambling to hold onto your trembling thighs, “This position makes me feel so- so…”

“S’okay- s’okay, your Suguru has you.” He snickers from above, the contents of his sentence were gentle but the way he was saying them was utterly mean. 

Just like the way Geto was stickin’ his bulbous tip into you, pouring out drops of pre into each crevice. The squirting sensation makes your poor cunt quiver, wads of syrup oozing out of your entrance and making your pussy weep. You don’t even think twice before roaming your unsteady dominant hand down to toy with your neglected clit-

SPANK!

Only to have it swatted rudely away by Geto’s own.

“S-Suguru- what are you-” Before you know it, one of his knees comes crashing down to pin your hand to the creaking mattress. 

Leaning his weight down even more into the mating press until all the blood in your lower half was rushing to your head, “What did I hngh- tell you, gorgeous?” He purrs, lips twitching into a grin. And every massed inch of his body was collapsing into you, to further bend you cutely. Twisting his thumb ‘round to graze your perked nub, “I said I’ve got you. Look at thaaaat—I can even toy with your p-pretty clit like this, gorgeous.” 

And fuck- did he like seeing that cockdrunk expression on your face.

Did he like having your mouth drop agape with each thump-thump-thump speared way into the back of your cunt. Geto was both long and girthy, and it was maddening to have his curvaceous length molding your walls to his exact measurements - especially in this mating press, that had him filling up nooks and crannies that you didn’t even know you had. 

Your gummy walls clench like you were trying to keep him there- “A-and you’ve got me too now, huh? Locked all in this…fucking mating press- fuck!” Crazed. 

Chuckling.

You’re trying hard to whimper out a response - botched and half-nonsense at this point - when it suddenly hits you that Geto wasn’t even talking to you. 

“That’s right-” He coos, leaning even closer to hear the soft wafting squelches let out from your dripping wet pussy. “That’s right that’s right, you’ve got me- and m’- haaah- sorry for not putting you into a cute lil’ mating press earlier like you deserve.”

And you’re almost shocked because Geto rarely apologizes even to you - rather, focusing on actions and comfort than words. But right now he was pleading to your smeared-open cunt like he’d no sooner be on his damn knees.

“Because you really, really like it- don’tcha?” The sleazy smile slashed across his lips was twitchy, “Like being fucked by me with your legs up? Ngh- this lil’ position to have this cute cunt bred?”

Thrust after thrust, he’s poking your dewy insides with the length of his cock. Letting the bloated ridge of his slit scrape against your g-spot, it makes the man titter to watch you gasp. It makes him groan. It makes his own husky voice crack- “Please- please, Suguru.”

“Don’t you worry now, pretty lady.” The fatness of his thumb bullies between your folds, and before long he’s pressin’ doooown on your clit like some pretty, wet button. The motion lets out such sappy background music- “It’s all that you deserve, isn’t it? All that you- you-”

Splat—! 

You’re looking up through the long, inky strands of Geto’s hair just to find that- oh, he was tearing up now. 

The cadence of his cock was burrowing between your folds at a blurring speed, and each slight thrust with you in this position ran him ragged. Harder. Sloppier. So far gone on your softened cunt, the eager embrace of your walls was enough to make him throw his head backwards and bite down on yet another sob. 

“I-I’m always gonna put you into a mating press from now on, gorgeous.” He fucks you into the exhausted bedsprings until one breaks. Meaning it. “Always.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - Fever

“Woah…I can see her so clearly like this, baby.” Choso’s mere words make him blush, a lewd scorching rouge that accompanies each flick of his gaze up n’ down your cunt. “It makes me feel…shy.”

And you can barely even breathe around the fatness of his mushroomy tip, teasingly entered between your folds. Your boyfriend lets out a low, grumbling whine just as soon as he pulls back and looks at you in all your entirety - legs on his shoulders, knees hitting your tits, pussy stuffed. 

“Oh- oh!” Choso seems to snap out of his little reverie just as soon as your hips start squirming, and he’s using his superhuman strength to clasp onto your waist and draaaag you backwards into his body. “B-but don’t worry, that doesn’t mean m’gonna- hah- stop.” He looks almost sheepish as he admits, “In fact…I don’t think I even can ngh- stop.”

And he meant it.

“Fuck- fuck, baby—” Oh, you could feel it with each punishing strike of his rock-hard length. 

Choso wasn’t even bottomed out, but you could still feel the throbbing crown of his shaft swat your inner walls. Deeper. Harder. 

With you all laid out, he could see exactly what he was doing to you - and that pretty pussy of yours. With your puffy core stretched oh-so-widely ‘round his girth, “Shit—” Your entrance glistens each time his length was mazing between your clingy walls. “Sh-shiiit, I really don’t think I can ngh- stop, baby.”

Hit after hit, the globe of your ass cheeks now felt permanently plastered to Choso’s v-line. “H-hah, guess I should mention more ‘human sex things’ more- hngh- often, huh?”

He pleads, bottom lip jutting out adorably, “My baby, if you do that I might just die.”

And Choso’s cock was looong- a pretty pink, with a few curly veins down the sides that were burrowing into your gooey walls. The weepy divot of his orifice bludgeons your cervix like his very personal target, and it makes him tug your legs further ‘round his shoulders with a groan.

“Wait, ngh, oh my-” You’re gasping for air- and you swear his strawberry tip was tuggin’ down the sides of your channel. Was growing even bigger—“Cho…” You’re tasting the familiar metallic tang of cursed energy in the air, “-your hck! Powers–!”

“O-oh, sorry, baby–” He tries to reel his hips back, watching all the while. “Let me just-”

Only to rut all the way back in again.

It’s as if he couldn’t last a single nanosecond without your dewy cunt, steadily getting addicted to the glissading texture of your walls. Choso can feel his skin spark, he can feel the way his blood manipulation technique was going out of control to hone in on the blushin’ crown of his shaft and prolong his inches.

You’re shrilling, feeling his bloated cock swell up even further inside of you. Scouring your snug folds until you nearly couldn’t even take it any more- “It’s just- just this position.”

“The…mating press?”

“Fuck! D-don’t even say the words, please.”

Harder.

Bigger - his aching hot cock was probing your deepest innards like never before. Grunting, “I can s-see you and that preeeetty pussy and- and-” Mashing the thick crown of his cockhead, he can’t control his speed. His thoughts. Not even the way he’s speaking by now. “-and I think m’addicted to mating presses now.”

In the end, the only thing you can do is open your mouth to formulate a quiet coo at your pussydrunk boyfriend- only to have him slam one clammy, open palm down on your neck to stop you from talking.

Choking you. 

“S-sorry, baby, it’s just that your pretty hck! voice makes me…” He’s trailing off with an utterly gaped maw, saliva leaking in excess from one side of his mouth. And you can feel him throb ragingly near your cervix, “-get even harder.”

Somehow managing to wheeze out, “But- ngh- I like that, Cho.” Your hamstrings ache once your ankles pull him in by the back of his sweaty neck, crushing him to you. “Like that you’re inside so deeeep.”

“You…you like it?” Another whiff of jujutsu, another few thwacks of his ever-growing cock.

“Mhm—” You jerk your hips crazily, “More-”

The only response you’re getting for the moment is Choso’s lithe, toned body bending over until his forehead plasters against your own. Staring deeply into your dizzy peripherals when he mutters, “Then- then take it. Take it all.”

It’s an orgasm you didn’t even see coming - just one, two, three sloppy thwacks of his curved cockhead against your g-spot. Even harder.

And he can see the precise moment your high takes over; with your eyes rolling to the back of your head, toes curling, mouth agape. “Oh- oh my god, nghhh, m’cumming m’cumming—Cho-!”

Having you cream all ‘round his length with your quivering walls was simply heaven. 

Each peak n’ explosion of white-hot pleasure made Choso rover his lengthy shaft, dragging out your high until your throat was hoarse with moans. And just when you thought you couldn’t be even more cockdrunk- he’s bursting into his own high.

Hard. Fast.

Stark ivory bliss flashing behind his eyelids the very second that your treacly cunt’s being painted in the same color. And it was so hot, too, practically taking over your body from the inside out with his webbed wads gluing your walls together. “O-oh.” He crouches back just a bit - for just a second - before spitting straight down your soppy slit.

It adds onto the ropes upon ropes of scalding syrup spraying between your legs, trickling down onto the bedsheets in a puddle.

“Look at that-” Choso rasps out, still jackhammering away like he would die if he spent a second without pounding you through the mattress. 

Sensually, he sticks the pulsating, reddened crown of his cock way past the line of your womb. And you’re just starting to ponder that you should ask him to fold you into a mating press more often when his voice trembles - octaves higher, cracking at the back of his throat. “Do you think it took, baby? Or…do I need to try again?”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - Jet TWO!

“Heh…?” Sukuna had raised an impish pink brow when you’d started describing your ideal sex position. And the longer you’d gone on, the more parched his second mouth had gotten - flicking his monstrous tongue, salivating. “Humans and their filthy creations.”

Rolling both sets of his crimson eyes, he was then easily picking you up in his arms to sprawl you across the ancient bed. 

“Oh well.” He’s forced to hunch more so than he normally would with his hulking figure, and the King of Curses is just so big that your ankles can barely even lock ‘round the back of his neck.

Two arms keeping them spread, the other two bringing your treacly cunt down to kiss his weepy mushroom tips. He grins, “Guess you’re my filthy human.”

And fuck- Sukuna would never fucking admit it, but it just felt so right to have his thick, probing cocks enter you like this. To have you so whiny and helpless pinned underneath his body, he barely even has to try to slip in a few staggering inches that scrape your walls. 

Puffy pussylips spread allll wide open by his circumferences, there was more resistance than usual and that only made it sweeter. Usually having you ride him with his sheer size meant he didn’t get to see you all squirming and bucking out-of-control like this…

Fuck- just then, Sukuna gasps.

He falters. 

Feeling his throbbing lengths spurt out in thin ribbons of ivory sap, he had barely even put it in before cumming. “Goddammit-” Grumbling, “God-goddammit, s’all because of you- because of this damn position.”

“You’re blaming that?” You’re whining, almost smugly. It feels like a whirlwind to have his dewy webs of cum swirlin’ around your insides - you’d just made the big, bad Ryomen Sukuna cum early. Just from a mating press. 

And then he’s pumping a few of his clingy ounces past your walls with a swat of his girths. Flooding your inner thighs with glistening seed that sticks to your skin, “Oh, Kuna-”

Snickering, one of his cursed fingers flick right where your throbbing cunt was all presented for him like a gift. Your lower half was just so limp that it’s all he has to do to make you gush out in a waterfall of slick - loudly. “Kehhh, like this, huh? So this ‘mating press’ is about heh- mating, isn’t it, brat?” Another one of his four hands smush your cheeks together into such an embarrassing pout, “Then you better take it like a champ, ma.”

You’re all at Sukuna’s mercy, and he was rude about it.

Using the plump, pre-sheened crowns of his cocks like headlights- each mazing pump of his girths have your walls revealing hidden nooks n’ crannies you didn’t even know existed. To fill you up. “F-fuck–!” So sloppy that the wads of his cum mix with your slick to let off slurp-slurp-sluuuurps.

“Oh? So you agree?” For a split-second, you think he’s talking to you- 

And you’re blubbering out something that halfway resembled an answer- “I- it’s-”

“Not you. Her.”

Before the cavern of his second mouth licks its lips and snickers. Sukuna stares down at your wet cunt after a few more lecherous squelches, “See? She agrees?”

Clawing down his bulky deltoids, “Fuh-fuuuuck! Just like that- just like that, Kuna—”

“Hah! The entire castle’s gonna know that they’re getting a fuckin’ heir soon, mama.” Rolling his eyes, he’s gifting your humid pussy with a few more inches. “Well…not that I mind.”

With a few more jabs until the strawberry-shaded globes of his tips were burrowing deeply into the back of your cervix with a splat. It was a stretch so good that you find yourself sobbing, your thighs twitchin’ weakly over his shoulders. You couldn’t even escape if you wanted to- 

Your chin hits the front of your chest and you sniffle, being manhandled all out of shape by his arms meant that you could see your front clearly. Especially the large, thick bulge that was taking shape. “O-oh my god…”

“Huh?” He’s catching sight of it too - that cute lil’ tummy bulge his cocks were fucking into you. Each pap! of skin-on-skin leaving your stomach all bumpy with his sheer size, “Jeez…this- this fucking position. Hell, it’s driving me crazy.”

The slivery slit of your cunt weeps the very second that Sukuna’s cursed tongue slithers out n’ laps at your pussy. Just teasing your bloated folds with the rough texture of his taste buds.

Tittering, “S’drivin’ you crazy too, huh?” Nodding along as if he was just thoroughly in conversation with your pussy, the King swats his rugged fingertips back down on your clit and watches you weep. “Yeahhh—I can tell. So talkative, mama, always so chatty when I hah- fuck you.” From both sets of your pretty lips.

And then he’s turning to you - all wrecked n’ trembling. The lengthy muscle of Sukuna’s second tongue has the audacity to trek up your body and lick at the clogged mess of drool leaving your mouth.

Sensually, lazily, he’s stirrin’ around his pummeling cocks just so. Letting wisps of cum stick against the roof of your cunt, your cervix, every spot in-between. 

Sukuna’s leaning over in the mating press to juuust let his cum-glossed tips poke against your womb, letting out such a noisy squelch from below. “Mmm.” He hums, watching as you struggle to take it all. “Y’know why she’s so chatty right- hah- now, brat?”

“Wh-why?”

“Because she know m’just getting started.”

♡ INO TAKUMA - BIG BOYYY

SMACK–!

You’re unsure who’s whining more at the feeling of Ino’s reddened, scorching hot tip spanking down between your pussylips. 

Letting the treacly syrup of your slick coat his cock till it was all glistening, he’s measuring his fat girth out against your entrance just to make sure you’d be able to take him this way. Because he usually did have you ride, maybe even a sloppy doggy once-in-a-while - but now…

“The- the tiktok said it was like this, pretty. Open those legs up wide f’me.” Your boyfriend’s announcing, throwing your legs over his toned shoulders. 

And you gawk at the way that Ino’s biceps flex as he’s holding onto both your ankles behind his neck. “And then it was like this, and…” Truly, you couldn’t forget that he was so strong- and he barely even realized it. Easily bending you in half like a pretzel, Ino doesn’t even hesitate before making the curves of your knees strike your tits, the ridges of his abs blending against your core. “-I bend you like this. All good, sweetness?”

“Y-yes— fuck!” You don’t know how you’re managing to huff out an answer- but whatever’s left of it is being thrust out of your body the very next second. 

Because Ino can’t stand a single moment seeing you all spread n’ dripping wet for him like this - not a single moment. That is, if he isn’t spreading you with all of his aching hot cock.

And before you can even register it, the probin’ crown of his length finds its way stuffed between your pussylips. Ruby-red tip disappearing past your slick hole, he’s pushing and pushing inside with a strained groan. “F-fuck. I’m not fine- oh, m’not fine, pretty- think m’losing my mind—”

“T-Taku, baby–” Your tongue salivates generously at the ridged lines of his veiny shaft, he was smearing you out so openly without even trying. “-this is called a ‘mating press’, y’know?”

You swear you feel his weepy orifice twitch straight inside you, banging against the sides of your walls filthily. “So…so that’s what it is, sweetness.” Kissing you sweetly, your lips are the perfect way for Ino to muffle his husky whines as he pumps and pumps and pumps. “Whoever created this thing is in fucking hngh- heaven- because I am.”

You’re almost feeling a giggle bubble its way up to your throat, dragging your hand through his tawny locks. “I’m sure.”

“No- no, you don’t get it, pretty.”  He’s pleading with you, almost shellshocked. 

With one hand manhandling your hips to dangle cleanly off of the mattress, the other lacing on top of your scalp to get you to look down where he was burrowing his inches. “Look at me- look at- us.” He’s hissing, hips angling each precise strike to target your sweetest spots. “I can bend you like thiiiis—”

In an instant, the hand at your scalp rovers down to your neck - and he’s draaaagging you up bodily, kissing your mouth. “Or like thiiiis-” Moaning, he’s then instantly changing the pressure on your throat to shove you down deeper into the bedsprings. Curling your spine into the perfect curvature, pinning you down with his bodyweight even further, “E-even like…this.”

He was just so trained with his moves - swift and precise through battle, but right now he was using them to ruin you. Ino was naturally chiselled; all ladder-like abs, firm arms, and a veiny v-line that were all pushing into you right now. 

And with a few more vulgar strokes, you’re yelping as he moves you around- this time, Ino has his meaty thighs coming up to cushion the sides of your hips. 

Blushin’ tip creaming down your cervix, washboard abs glissading down your front. “Oh my god-” You can feel a thrill zing through your body at the blatant show of his strength. He was manhandling you like it was nothing. “Taku- fuck fuck fuck, s’more.”

“More?” His voice cracks, his chocolate irises water at the way your velvety insides keep clinging onto him. “M-more?”

And you could’ve sworn that was a whimper.

Right before his pummeling cock was steeply slamming into you - faster, sloppier. With absolutely no care or rhythm; nothing other than the aim to stir up your insides until each nook n’ cranny was thoroughly stretched. And he was succeeding, too. 

Thrashing the globular crown of his shaft against the very entrance to your womb and hissing out–“More? S’that it? S’this more?” Voice cracked. Tone turning rugged.

“Mmm—” You cup Ino’s blushing cheeks and he whines. Just staring into your eyes leaves the bulbous end of his cockhead weepy, “Harder.”

He echoes, “H-harder?”

“Harder.” 

Grinning, and oh- Ino’s got his hands on you already. It’s like a second, animal instinct the way he’s then clawing down your inner thighs, pushing up your every limb, bending you till your joints were creaking nearly as loud as the bed was right now. 

Thrust after thrust.

He’s gluing the curvature of his mushroom tip against the spongy layer of your g-spot, hard enough that you nearly don’t hear the words that leave his mouth next-

“Next time…” Ino starts off, cute pinkish lips trembling. He stares at you with a dopey grin as his cock stretches you furiously, “-I also saw a hah- tiktok about a thing called a…full nelson, pretty.”

♡ GOJO SATORU - Kitty Whisperer

“I-I’m gonna fucking purple hollow whoever came up with the fuck! mating press, sweetheart.” He’s leaning in close- leaning in until you could make out every flicker of blue lightning within Gojo’s eyes, every gleam in his peary white grin. And he hisses, “I can’t fucking stop.”

And he couldn’t - not if he even wanted to.

Though, fuck- Gojo’s thrashing the fat, bludgeoning crown of his cock against your cervix until he’s seeing stars. Until his pale v-line was rubbed all red with slamming impact - Gojo doesn’t think he’d ever want to stop.

It’s like he was in heaven with the way you’re clenchin’ around his throbbing length. Gojo was just so hard that his glazed, bulging tip was bruising your cervix.

And all you can do is drag red, red nailmarks down the expanse of his muscular back. “Oh my god-”

He hums in faux thought, though you could feel the way that Gojo’s strawberry tip was flinching in excitement near your cervix. “Mmmm, I prefer ‘Satoru’, my girl—”

“S-Satoru–!”

“That’s right-” He’s punctuating each n’ every syllable with a hollowing thud! of his shaft, voice running ragged. Pitches lilting. And there’s something in the way he looks at you with widened blue eyes that makes you think he wants to eat you alive. “-that’s right that’s right- say my fuck–ing- name.”

And the thing about the strongest was that he wasn’t just pounding you into the sagging bedsprings - right now, he was sloppily reeling his cock back allll the way until the shiny globe of his tip pulled out with dewy plops! Instead of his usually smooth thrusts- Gojo kept on pumping his long, solid inches from leaking orifice of his length right till his very base. Every single time.

It was simply driving you mad at the carnal stretch, your toes curl every time his vein-covered hilt was stretching out your entrance. “This mating press’s gonna drive me ma-mad.” He’s muttering, teeth grit against your ear. “Gonna drive me fuck! Crazy.”

And several things are happening at once - he’s thumping the spongy layer of your cervix with a particularly rough strike, and your flickering bedside lamp shatters.

“Fuh-fuck–!”

“Shit, your powers…” You’re keening at the shards of glass that are halted in midair - your husband’s limitless was covering the both of you now. “Toru, you’re going out of ngh- control-”

“And how m’I expected to stay in control, sweetheart–?” The white-haired man drawls out, almost mockingly. Pitch finding itself a few octaves higher, he’s dragging the puffy veins of his cock down your walls until you find them helplessly sensitive. 

Trying oh-so-hard to extract yourself from his merciless hold, you’re clamoring your feet off of his shoulders and bucking up the mattress like you didn’t know whether you wanted to run away or slam your hips down for more, more, more. “Not when I- oh! not when I have you like this- fuck! Not when m’fucking you like thiiiiis. You can’t expect me to stay sane when I have you in a fucking mating press, my girl.”

And if you thought that the Gojo Satoru wouldn’t notice your restless little squirming, then you haven’t been married to him long enough.

Because, before you know it, he has both hands glued to your throat pliably draaaaag your body down to thwack against his. Hard. Heaving, “Don’t you dare fucking run.” He mutters, something tremoring in his tone. “I can’t let you run when I have you like hah- this…” Squeezing his eyes shut, lightning flickering behind like it made his body ache animalistically to have you like this. “I should never have let the elders talk me into this- oh, ‘Gojo heir’ my ass- I should n-never…”

He’s trailing off- cutting himself off with a deep groan.

And you’re whining just as soon as his stirrin’ cock pokes against your womb, opening you up in ways that you never thought possible before. “Shit- b-but I like it, Toru.”

“Mmm—” Gojo’s body flinches like he’d just been shocked by a thousand volts- and it takes him a few seconds to register what you just said. “You’re so right.” Raising his bleary eyes to stare dead-on into yours, he’s musing, “Y-you’re soooo right, sweetheart. How else would you have gotten ngh- fucked like this?”

What did he mean by…?

Your husband snickers, rosy lips curling with slight smugness - and it’s only then that you’re realizing you’d just uttered that last sentence out loud. 

Almost predatory, Gojo nuzzles his nose bridge to the crook of your neck. “You wanna fuuuuck- know what it means to be put in a mating press by me, sweetheart?” Slap after slap of his bludgeoning tip left your ears popped, barely able to make out his words. “Means m’gonna fuck a baby into ya.”

“O-oh.” You gape, but the strongest wasn’t done just yet.

“Means m’gonna hngh- reach into your deepest spots.” Right on time, the fatness of his crowned shaft reaches for your cervix and then digs in deep— like he would go even further if he could. “Means m’gonna p-permanently keep ya like ngh- this. L-like—”

And then he’s drooling, mouth open and his lust-filled thoughts trailing off.

Without any warning, Gojo reaches back for a split-second to spit down to your leaking slit. Looking through his long ivory lashes as you gasp, “Don’t act like you don’t like it, my girl.”

“I do I do–” You nod your head fervently- or maybe it was the sheer driving force of each of his thrusts. If it was even possible, your ankles are locking even further surrounding the perspired back of his head. Bliss seeping into your veins. “I like it s’much, want it even more, Toru.”

That renders him speechless. It renders him gawking down at you.

The only thing that Gojo can do is stroke his throbbing cock down your tight channel with drill after drill, “Oh my god-” He’s whispering to himself, pounding into you so hard that your ass cheeks were being pushed cleanly off the bedsheets by now. “Oh my god oh my hah-” 

He’s darting his eyes down to take but a single glimpse of you - all folded in half into his mating press - then averts his gaze the moment his skin starts to prickle with cursed energy. 

“What the…having you like this—” He couldn’t even look at you. “How m’I supposed to even go on?”

The ball of tightness at the pit of your stomach makes you shiver, “Ngh- oh my god…mm, Toru-”

In sensual synchronization with the glutinous swipes of his cock, he’s setting one hand free from your throat. Thumping it against his temple as if to knock some sense back into him- “I-I think m’going insane.” Breathily, he shakes his head, eyes now finally daring to look back at you. “Think m’getting new powers- think she’s…” 

His mouth falls open at the sudden squelch letting out from your soppy pussylips, his dazed eyes focus so intensely that you can feel cursed energy sweep your body. Taking over. 

Until he’s finally muttering, “Y’know what she’s oh- saying to me, sweetheart?”

“What?” You whine, your primal greed getting to the best of you. And now the only thing you can do is perk your hips up to match his feral cadence.

And Gojo cracks such a dangerous, pussydrunk grin. “She says we’re gonna make a baaaaaby—”

With a final, solid spank of his rovering cock, you’re getting run over by your high. And he knew this would happen - he saw it with the power of his Six Eyes - so Gojo wastes no time ramming you through your peaks.

“Cum—ing…” The spheroid end of his shaft makes your toes curl, caressing your every deepest inch through each white-hot spark of pleasure - so hard that your husband barely even realizes when he, too, crashes into his orgasm.

Something bursts. 

Collapsing onto your body with his hulking one, grunt heaving after each splat! of wadded cum leaking into your womb.

“Fuck- fuck fuck fuck fuck-” He’s damn-near whimpering in your ear, and the angular position of the mating press made it easy for him to pump your cunt full with as many ounces of seed as possible. Enough so that you’re just spilling ivory syrup from your entrance, forming a ring of sap on his base. “Ohhh yeah, oh yeah, sweetheart.”

Gojo feels the warm, knotted mess and twitches- the bedroom lights had shattered but he could still see. In fact, the entirety of Tokyo didn’t have power right about now. 

He gives an experimental thrust and listens for the sluuuurp- “D’you think if I cum in you again our baby’s gonna be twice as strong, my girl?”

“…”

A/N. I thought I was soooo funny for that jet two joke-

Hope you have a lovely week <3

[torusangel]

⋆˚ ✿ ˖ ࣪ satoru sucking on your tits while you jerk him off

your hand gently pumps at satoru’s length with the flick of your wrist as your thumb slides over his glossy pink tip, spreading his leaking pre cum with a deep whine falling from his lips, “don’t stop..”, he mutters, leaning his head against your chest before attaching his lips against your sensitive bud.

you let out a gentle gasp at the playful love bites he leaves and the way he sucks and nips at your bud, continuing to fuck his cock with your fist with your moans entwining together. you can feel he’s close with the way his cock throbs against your palm and how his moans grow needier and whinier, placing a chaste kiss on your skin before leaning his forehead against your shoulder to catch his breath, “m’so close, baby. fuck..”

your hand brushes through his thick hair, coaxing him through his orgasm while tightening your fist against his length which chokes out a moan from his lips with his cock pulsating in your grasp before sporadically littering all over your hand. he lets out a deep groan, still catching his breath as he attaches his lips back onto your chest, marked with his love bites.

before you can reply, with another quiet gasp leaving your lips as satoru gently pushes you back onto the bed with his large figure hovering over yours, he murmurs with his hand sliding up your thigh, “gonna return the favour now.. kay?”

[torusangel]

HIS BABYSITTER FANTASY COME TRUE!

𝖘𝖚𝖒.ㅤ★ Dilf!Gojo fantasizing about taking his babysitter's virginity 'till it becomes a reality and oops... now he's fucking you off the bed 'n taking this to the floor like a wrestler!

𝖜𝖈ㅤ★ 6.7k (beefy like his di-)

𝖈𝖜ㅤ★ strictly NO under 18s, smut, virginity loss, plot, fucking the babysitter trope, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms/creampies, cunnilingus, aftercare 🫶, age gap (Gojo in his 30s, reader in her 20s), solo masturbation, pet names (good girl, slut, etc.), breast play, subtle breeding kink, daddy kink, big d!ck Gojo, he um... fucks a pillow while you give him an innocent massage

"I've always liked older men. Boys my age just don't get me, you know? Neither do they know how to fuck me."

That was one of the first things you said to Gojo Satoru.

And he nearly had a heart attack. Choked on his drink so hard that he had to spit half of it back into the glass.

How could you say something like that with such an angelic voice? It didn't match up, your words were nasty but your face was innocent.

Wiping his mouth, Satoru tried to recompose himself.

"Is that so...?" is all that he could manage to reply with.

He tugged at his baby blue shirt's collar, unbuttoned one button 'cause he couldn't breathe. His blood was pumping. His heart was thumping.

"How old did you say you were again?" you asked softly.

"Thirty-two." he replied. "And way too old for you."

"Perfect." you smiled.

"Huh?"

Mmm... now what did his best friend say about you? "Oh Satoru, I know a babysitter that you and the kids will just adore. She's a real sweetheart."

A sweetheart... uh, yeah, well Suguru didn't warn him about the fact you had a thing for dads. Didn't warn him that you might be crazy. Touch-starved. A way too horny and provocative twenty-something year old virgin.

Maybe Suguru didn't even see this side of you... maybe it was just Satoru that you were throwing yourself at. Surely Suguru would have told him all about a heated affair that he had with a babysitter... right? Or was he the only daddy that you fantasized about fucking your pretty brains out?

Just the thought of that being true made his ego swell and his blood rush down to his heavy cock. He loved thinking about the obvious fact that you laid in bed touching your pussy to the thought of him.

He endured your flirting. Held his hands behind his back. Bit his tongue. Told himself that he can't make out with his hot babysitter on a random Sunday afternoon, as much as he wanted to, because that was diabolical.

You were sitting on the couch alone some nights, ensuring his kids were entertained and fed and happy, while he was at work. You watched their favorite cartoons until they felt drowsy and then you had to tuck 'em into bed and read three separate bed time stories for each of them because Yuji, Megumi, and Nobara all liked different stories.

It was exhausting, but such a joy to babysit such sweethearts.

After they fell asleep, you'd wander a lonely path back downstairs and look at the time — 8:45 PM — then yawn big and snuggle up on the couch and... wait. And wait. Anddd... wait.

Satoru would always come home late from work.

You'd hear the click of the front door and have an almost Pavlovian reaction. Oh, daddy's home.

You'd strain your ears to hear his footsteps as he walked down the hall, hear the satin hiss of his loosening tie, the sound sparking your over-active imagination. And, pushing a stressed-out sigh past his lips, Satoru would walk into the living room to see you looking drowsy and messy after a long day of taking care of his three kids.

And it's that messy sight of you which made something click in Satoru's mind. That's what really sold him on you. Sure, you were a crazy hot mess... but you had this undeniable motherly quality about you that just made him wonder.

What if he gave you his babies?

Shit. Sorry. Random Friday night thoughts. Forgive him. He's been working at a desk all day and now he's feelin' a bit woozy.

He looked at you, mumbled a sweet but gruff "Hey." and then took a seat right next to you on the TV-lit couch. He sat a respectable distance away from you at first... but then, uh, the next second you had already scooched over to his side until you two were almost pressing thigh against thigh.

Exhausted. Apprehensive at how close his flirty babysitter liked to sit next to him, while at the same time getting half-hard at the thought of tearing off your tiny clothes and showing you just how frustrated a tease like you makes him. Satoru sat and endured.

Underneath all that teenage-like sexual tension, he was feeling welcomed home by you. He almost forgot how nice it felt to have someone waiting up for him.

"So, how was work?" you asked.

He grumbled. He sighed. He was half-hard and full-frustrated. No one had asked him that question in a long time in such a caring voice that it actually tugged at his heartstrings a bit. Just a bit.

"It was... um, yeah... like any other day. Long and hard."

"Long and hard..." you nodded, trailing off and letting the innuendo fill the air.

He gave you a look.

"Exactly how long and hard?" you asked.

He couldn't believe that your stupid jokes like that made him chuckle. And what a sight his smile was; his dimples, the way his eyes crinkled up at the corners, making the slightest age lines appear on his pale face.

"Ah, finally I got a smile out of you."

"And that's the only one you're getting." he shook his head.

Satoru brought his big hand to massage his shoulder, letting out a tense groan from his thought.

Oh, the pitiful look that you gave him made him wanna crawl onto your lap and weep. He'd worked so hard all week with scarce breaks, and all he wanted was a sweet, soft woman to lay upon, to be loved by, to fuck stupid, to use like a good stress-relieving fleshlight — ya know? Just a nice way to wrap up a hard week.

"You..." you began, pressing one long decorated nail into his firm pecs, "... look like you're in desperate need of a massage."

"Ahah... no, no..."

He stuttered, smiled a big toothy smile that made you wanna bite him. God, he really looked like that old photo of himself right then — that one you stole, remember? His graduation photo. He just looked too hot and you had to have a memento of him for your memory box.

Shit. You were crazy.

Satoru had no fucking idea whether you were making a dirty suggestion or just genuinely offering him a massage.

Either way, the thought of your hands on him got the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

Though the rational side of his brain was telling him to refuse your offer, the ghost of the crazed fuckboy that he used to be forced him to accept — like, fuck, what kind of idiot would you be if you refused a pretty girl to work her hands on you, Satoru? Don't put your past self to shame, he thought, you're only gonna get older one day and then that thing ain't even gonna sit up like a good boy without some treats... yeah... that's right... you're gonna be real fucking old one day, Satoru... think about it...

"You know what, actually...? Yeah, I'd love one... but you better be good." he said in a low rasp.

"Oh, don't worry — I'm the best." you grinned like a sweet little devil.

I'll fucking bet you are, cheeky slut, he thought.

He looked like he was holding back all his raw lust. Like if you said just one more thing like that then he would tear your clothes right off your slutty little body and fuck you until every thought flew out of your head except for thoughts of him.

****

Yeah, that martial artist discipline of his really came in handy once you started massaging his shoulders and back. If he hadn't been so strict on himself, he would have...

"Gosh, you're sooo tense, Mr. Gojo... relax."

... I need to fuck her brains out. That's the first thought that he had to push out of his head.

"... let me take the weight of your shoulders..." you nearly whispered, working your hands into his meaty muscle.

Ooh he slipped, he totally gave in.

"Mmm..." he let out a purring moan, feeling the pressure of your fingertips sink into his sore muscles. "That feels good... keep going."

You were trying to keep it cool and professional... er, as professional as you could with your hands exploring Gojo Satoru's muscular back.

Having the lights down low didn't help much. Everything was turning you on. Your clit was already buzzing and begging for attention from behind your thin panties.

This was babymaking atmosphere.

You were going insane, soaking your panties and twitching 'cause you've got a hot dad groaning under your touch.

"Y' can go a little harder..." he muttered in a rough voice.

"M'kay..."

"Mmm..." he let out that purring moan again, this time stretching it out.

Something was so erotic about giving him a massage, even though it wasn't supposed to be — uh, it really wasn't supposed to be, right? Right? It's not like you planned this out all night, not like you were scheming while watching cartoons and waiting for Gojo Satoru to come home.

Ah c'mon... he's an overworked man in need of a massage. Just listen to him, he's moaning like he's — oh, he's closing his eyes, too? He must be really feeling it. His breath is becoming choppy, too.

"Just a bit more..."

"Like this?"

"Yeahhh... just like that."

His mouth hung open in bliss. He squirmed a little. Shit... he could feel himself throbbing. Even slightest friction of his pants shifting along his painfully hard cock was already intense enough to make him clench his jaw.

You smirked, catching a delicious glimpse of the prominent outline of his bulging cock right before he instinctively covered it up with a pillow.

Damn, how does he keep such a monster hidden under such thin dress pants?

Sticking your tongue out in focus as you deliberately massage a spot on his back that makes him moan out the most, Satoru rolls his eyes back and dies a little orgasmic death.

"Yeah... th-that's it... right there... right there... you can go harder."

"Like this?"

"Yeahhh... good g- uhhh, th-that's good." he purred, holding back his tongue just in time because oops, he almost called you a good girl without even thinking.

Oh, that pillow coverage sure helped to keep his boner out of sight but then he had a new problem... the pleasurable friction of the pillow and the fact his stubborn hips liked to move on their own.

Without trying to make it obvious, he was getting off with the pillow, shifting it as inconspicuously as he could but he just couldn't get enough friction — shit, when was the last time that he was so horny he could even enjoy fucking a pillow? It was insane how hard he was, how much his cock oozed sticky precum, how every inch stood at attention asking politely to stretch out some good babysitter pussy.

He shut his pretty blue eyes when started feeling reaaally good. Like, god, he needed this more than he needed air. It was such a shit day at work, but now all the stress that he had built up throughout the day just melted away with each subtle thrust of his bulge into the pillow, and your soft hands digging into his muscular back.

I wanna fuck her so bad.

"Uhhh, fuckkkkkkk...!" he let out a broken moan.

You stopped massaging his back, eyes blown wide open, trying to hold back your shock and snickering. He had worked up a subtle sweat. His muscles were twitching. He was gasping. It was so obvious to you what had just happened.

"Mister?"

"Huh?" he blinked the stars out of his eyes, coming-to as if his orgasm knocked him out for a second.

"Are you okay...?"

He opened his eyes and... oh, there was a wet patch on his dress pants where he just came. Oops. A little massaging and pillow-fucking and he came all over his thigh? Well, that had never happened before. Guess his cock was just super sensitive after not having sex for so long — but you didn't hear that from me...

Satoru gulped. He abruptly stood up, acting as nervous as a bird, "Um, uh... it's late, isn't it? I've gotta drive you home..."

"Aw, okay." you frowned at him, wiggling your hips like you were expecting more.

And he looked at your wiggling hips, your slightly spread apart legs, and then he let a nasty thought pass his mind, and nearly caved and asked you if you wanted to...

****

God, you had your legs apart and he could smell your ovulation. No no, don't call him crazy. He could smell it.

And as he went upstairs to wipe the cum off his inner thighs and change into new pants, he couldn't stop thinking about the fact that you must have been soaked. You must have had the prettiest pussy ever.

Oh, he threw his head back and groaned when he met you back downstairs because while he tried acting professional, now you were all worked up and in an outrageously flirty mood.

You were about to say something outrageous again but he stopped you dead on your tracks.

"Shut up, I don't want to hear it. Let's go." he said, grabbing his keys.

You saluted him playfully, "Yes, daddy."

He did a double take. "What?"

"Nothing." you smiled innocently.

His eyes caught yours, then he rubbed his cheek like he was stressed out.

It was really obvious why he liked you, but Satoru was aching to ask why on earth you like him so much.

Didn't you think he was an egotistical asshole? That's how his ex-wife described him, anyways.

*****

"So you're a Sagittarius, huh?" you ask, little voice dripping in sultriness and setting off alarm bells in the fuckboy side of his mind. "That's hot."

"Uh-huh."

He's driving you home. 60 mph. Switching lanes. Bright blue eyes blind-spotting to the left. Next they're side-eyeing you. Catching on your pretty baby angel face. Trying to keep it together, but his cock is starting to make a bulge in his pants again. Something you've discovered is that the poor man doesn't even change out of his suit most days; when he comes home he just faceplants into bed and falls asleep.

"A december baby?"

"Yup. December seventh." he replies curtly.

Relax, Satoru. It's just conversation. Just innocent, professional conversation with the babysitter who just witnessed you fucking a pillow and cumming in your pants.

After a steadying inhale, he politely returns the question, "What about you? When's your birthday?"

Satoru pays you a brief glance before bringing his gaze back to the speedometer. 50 mph.

Just that one question turns into a deep exploration of your psyche.

"... I just don't like guys my age... like, god, they don't even turn me on anymore."

You give a dramatic pause before looking at him with a nympho fire in your eyes.

"Hey, you're an old man — got any sage advice for me?"

"Hey, who you callin' an old man?"

"Sorryyy, I'm just being cheeky."

"I can tell."

"Sooo... what's your advice?"

Satoru furrows his brows. "For what?"

"For getting older guys to pay one small glance to a sweet girl like me?"

He tenses up and doesn't reply.

You're insane. Worse, you're even more insane than he was when he was your age.

His cock is throbbing against his inner thigh. Again. Precum. Everywhere. How dare you? He's in-between throttling you and stopping off on the side of the highway to bend you over his car's hood to show you he ain't no old man. What a cheek...

"This is your turnoff, isn't it?"

"... yeah."

You watch him flick on the turn signal. You catch his eyes just before he blind-spots again.

As he's pulling off the highway, you pull a dumb joke out of your brain, eager to get a response from him.

"It's my turnoff. But ya wanna know my turn-on?"

"..." he doesn't reply, just gives you a look, then tears his eyes off you and rubs his fingers over his mouth.

"C'mon." you encourage, "You're so uptight; let me humor you a little."

"I'm pretty sure I can guess your turn-on."

You tilt your head at him expectantly. He purses his lips. Drives down your street. Pulls into your driveway. Parks. Unbuckles his seatbelt with a tantalizing slowness that sparks your imagination — d'you wonder if he unbuckles his belt that slowly, too?

Satoru offers one lazy guess. "Older men?"

"Bingo!"

He stifles a smile, shakes his head, thinks you're crazy, and then opens his car door and steps out, leaving you to giggle and unbuckle your seatbelt alone.

He swerves 'round the hood of the car over to your side, and reappears at your window to open your door for you.

"Wow. Handsome and chivalrous? Why'd your wife let a gem like you go?"

"... that's not really any of your business."

"Aw, c'mon... I'm just dripping with curiosity."

He doesn't reply again, just walks you silently to your front door. His heart is beating faster as he eyes out the curve of your ass. That tight sundress shows just the faintest hint of a thong underneath.

Just a thin sundress? A tiny thong underneath? God you're so fuckable, he thinks. So, so fuckable. And the worst part is that you're one of the girls who knows you're hot. That's why you bounce around in front of men like him like you're a reckless bunny.

He's trying so hard to block out wild fantasies of ripping the fabric off your tight body and fucking you into a dumb, slutty mess.

Block it out, Satoru, block it out.

Finally, he replies to the question you posed earlier.

"I'm full of myself, apparently." he says bitterly.

"You're full of yourself?" you tilt your head, a light confusion glossing over your features.

He's so patient and fatherly to his kids; a jovial and wholesome man. I mean, he takes his kids to every place they wanna go, makes gingerbread houses with them in the festive season, plays pretend with them, sets up outdoor adventures in his backyard, gets dressed up in a ridiculous costume for Halloween and takes them out trick-or-treating every year without fail. For god's sake, he bought a hot pink set of baking cookware just because Nobara fancied herself a chef.

He gives his all to his kids, how could anyone think he's full of himself?

"... seems like your wife was wrong about you." you reply.

"Ex-wife. And nah, you'll probably agree with her if ya stick around me long enough — " he speaks self-deprecatingly of himself, but then you interrupt him.

"— mmm, if I stick around ya for to long... y'think I'll end up being full of you, too?"

He stutters. Blood rushes to his cock.

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing."

Satoru blinks at you in total disbelief. Again, an innocent face like you saying such outrageous shit is just insane to him.

"You've got a nasty conscience, you know that?"

"N'aw, don't mind me. I'm just having fun, being a little silly." you giggle, eyes all over him and his pretty, rideable face.

"Well, I wouldn't call flirting with older men being 'silly'..."

"And I wouldn't call pillow-fucking being 'professional'..."

Oh god. Oh my fucking god. He's breaking in two like a kitkat.

Satoru is rendered fucking silent. He's stunned. He's red.

"Goodnight." is all he replies with. And then he leaves. What the hell else is he supposed to say to that? You're crazy.

Now you got him all worked up and he doesn't know what to do. If younger Satoru knew that one day in his thirties he'd meet a slutty babysitter... oh, god. Younger Satoru would be pumping his fist in the air.

But he's gotta keep playing it cool, 'cause there's no way he can fuck his babysitter... there's NO way...

... so there he is that very night tucked in his black satin sheets, leaky cock in his fist and jaw slacked, face sweaty, fucking himself to supposedly real "I fucked my babysitter" erotica stories. No, he's not one for porn videos. He just wants to lay back and picture your pretty face with no disturbances. He just wants to lay wayyy back on his king-sized bed, fisting his cock with soft fwupfwupfwups while picturing his babysitter's pussy sitting pretty on him.

He groans at his dirty little fantasies as he slides his hand up and down his shaft, getting so lost in the idea of taking your virginity that he forgets all about the erotica story he's reading and jus' closes his eyes, head thunking back against the headboard in bliss and cock dripping like a leaky faucet, practically drooling all over his lower abdomen.

"Good girl; take it all, just like that..." he mutters.

He slides his thumb over his leaky tip and holds it over the hole, smearing precum everywhere as it oozes out, getting his cock wetter before going back to stroking it at a steady speed. His breath gets ragged as he lures his orgasm out.

He's never met a virgin as slutty as you before, that's for sure.

Shit, he really shouldn't be thinking about fucking his babysitter. He really shouldn't tease his cock to thoughts of taking your virginity. It shouldn't bring on his orgasm to picture you trapped underneath his heavy muscles, cumming all over his mature cock.

"... ugh!" he moans out, shifting down the headboard and curling his toes. "Fuck! Fuck... oh, shit, baby..."

Just like that, his jaw slacks in pleasure 'n his cock shoots out thick ribbons of cum and he's creaming all inside you — oh, sorry. That was just in his fantasies.

In reality, he's just cum all over his abs and chest. It shot up so high that it almost reached his neck.

He pants and looks down at the wasted seed that he coulda pumped inside you.

Groaning as he comes down from his high, Satoru lays with his long legs spread out on his bed for a while and curses himself for thinking of fucking his babysitter.

And then he starts weighing the pros and cons of actually doing it.

Yeah, he stares up at the ceiling after jerking off for like thirty minutes, cum splattered on his abs, thinking about how bad of an idea it would be to actually fuck his slutty babysitter.

No, Satoru. You can't. Absolutely no — no fucking the babysitter. Satoru? Bad boy. Don't do it. I know she's fuckable but you cannot fuck your —

****

— so like a week later, he's spreading your legs and crawling inbetween them.

He's placing rough kisses against your lips like he's almost angry about being this horny.

"Nn!" you whine, feeling his fingertips press against your clothed pussy, pushing against your entrance.

"Aw, you're soakin' your panties just from a little bit of kissing? Aren't you cute." he murmurs on your skin.

"Sh-shut up and fuck me... I can't take this teasing." you spit back, pulling him back into a rough kiss.

He chuckles into your mouth, tongue slithering over yours and tangling up with it for a few seconds before he pipes up;

"I'm just getting back at you for all the teasing I endured from your slutty ass."

Biting your lip. Pulling away. Letting out a purely erotic noise. Sliding his big hands down your sides and gripping you like you're his woman.

Oh now your breath gets caught in your throat.

"Let's get you nice and ready for me, hm?" he husks, lips dangerously close to your clothed pussy.

Oh now your heart rate spikes to an alarming rate. Fuck. You're actually doing it. You're actually gonna fuck an older guy.

He plants a rough kiss on top of your pussy, chin pressing against your buzzy clit.

"Mm...!" you press your lips together, trying to keep some sort of composure but you can't 'cause you've got Gojo Satoru between your legs — who the hell would be able to stay composed in your position?

Damn, it drives him crazy when your inner thighs graze the sides of his cheeks. You're ruffling up his hair. He's going down on you.

A moment later, he's pushing your panties aside and lapping at your pussy. Another moment later, he's curling his tongue up inside you.

"Oh my god th-that feels good..." you gasp, feeling his slippery tongue writhe inside.

"Mmm, I know it does."

He feels smug hearing this, pressing an open-mouthed smile against your pussy lips as he sticks his tongue as deep into you as he can possibly go, eyeing your blissed-out expressions. Sliding his tongue out, spitting on your pussy, rubbing sloppy frantic circles on your clit, Satoru's acting like a total show off.

It makes you hide your face between your palms.

"Ah-ah-ah... I want you to watch." he growls, "Don't you dare take your eyes off me, m'kay? That's a good girl."

Tip of his nose nudging your clit as he tongue-fucks you into hazy bliss, you're moaning like you never knew you could.

And he's just in heaven, 'cause he's got your juices dribbling down his chin and glossing his lips better than his favorite lip gloss — uh-huh.

"Mister! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck — nnn! G-gojooo!" you start mewling his name and he goes faster, trying to chase your orgasm out with full intent to leave you hanging.

Your breath is staggering, pussy pulsing with that edge of pleasure and oh, suddenly he's retracting his tongue from your weeping, spasming hole before you can cum all over his face.

Yep. He leaves you hanging.

"Wait — ! Nn, I was gonna c—"

"— y'know, princess" he interrupts, wiping your slick off his cheek with his fingers and licking it off right before your wide eyes, "I really think we're past the formalities; call me Satoru."

Half-dazed and ditzy on the pleasure of a missed orgasm, you watch as Satoru pulls away from you, his knees digging into the mattress and weighing it down.

Veiny hands find his belt and smoothly undo it, whipping off with a loud crack.

"O-oh?" you breathe excitedly.

He smirks, seeing how your eyes are glued to his bulge, "Aw, ya gonna perv on me while I strip for ya?" he teases, then clicks his tongue in regret when you reply with a lamb-like look, "Hahaha, don't get shy on me now. I'm just teasing."

Absolutely drooling over his physique as he strips his clothes off tantalizingly slowly, Satoru's been so composed up until now; as he unbuttons and unzips his long zipper, you notice how ragged his breathing actually is. Like he needs it bad. Like his cock is getting strangled by his clothes.

After hastily taking his pants off, Satoru quickly frees his eager cock from his boxer briefs.

And your eyes go wiiide.

"Oh."

Pale. Pink. Stiff. Leaky. Bit of an upper curve. Thick veins. What's that, like maybe a nine? No, no, there's no way. Actually, on second look, maybe?

"C'mere, let me have you." he rasps, one hand gripping his dummy big cock.

"That is not gonna fit inside me."

His ego swells. Ah, how many girls have said that to him in his life? And it never gets old.

"Nah, it'll fit."

You twitch excitedly, breath catching in your throat as Satoru comes closer to you and snuggles his slim waist between your legs which you just keep spreading wider and wider, so ready to take him even though you're nervous as hell.

"Ready to get ya cherry popped, cutie?" he asks.

He taps his cock against your entrance, coats it in your slippery juices, teases that hot tip in 'n out.

"Yeaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhfuck! Holy shit! Um! Uh!"

"What is it?" he throws a smug smile your way.

He watches intently as your pouty lips move, "'Big, 's really fucking big...! Ooh, god! Nn! Nnn!"

"You're so cute." he arches over you, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

His head starts to spin as he slides inside you.

Fuck. He's actually doing it. Sure, he fucked that flight attendant once. Yeah, he had a couple flings. He was a nasty, sex-crazed fuckboy in his youth. And yet... nothing felt as nasty as this.

This is everything he ever fucking needed. This is the sweet and nasty girl that he's craved for all his life. The rest were too nasty, some too sweet, but you? A perfect slut.

Satoru's curving up into you and teasing your sweet spots with his tip like he's letting 'em know that soon they're gonna get bullied with his hard-hitting strokes.

And your pussy's happily getting stretched out, walls clinging to every inch he pushes in like she's so thankful that you finally gave her something besides your fingers or toys to clench around.

"Ah, fuck, that's tight."

"I'm sorry!"

"No, no, it's a good thing... just relax a little more, 'm gonna push it deeper, is that okay?"

"Yes, please... oh please, fuck, yes give me everything!"

He grins, "No need to ask twice." he murmurs, right before he's sinking another few of his inches into your struggling pussy.

Satoru just comes undone at the feeling of being inside you.

His big hands come to squeeze your breasts, jiggling them around with a playful tongue poking out his mouth like he's just tempted to put his mouth on them.

So he does, y'know he's already lost enough self-restraint to the point where he's fucking his babysitter, so of course he's gonna give into his urge to suck on your breasts.

His hot, wet mouth envelopes your sensitive nipple, tongue flicking against it 'till he draws out cute whimpers from you.

He's pulling his mouth off, kissing the curve of your cleavage, groping a handful of your breasts, looking down at you like he knows damn well no boys your age are gonna fuck you as good as him — shit, scratch that, ain't fuckin' nobody in your whole life gonna fuck you as good as he will.

When your walls permit him to go deeper, Satoru stutters out like he's the virgin here, "F-f-fuck, there you go, baby, jus' take my cock like you're meant to, yeah?"

He moves his hips, relishing that sloppy sound of your pussy gushing around him — oh god you're bucking your hips to meet his hips 'n you're driving him crazy makin' him think for a split second about remarrying.

Like, he's going insane, he's actually going insane.

Hardly ten minutes later and he's fucking you into your first orgasm, loving how you can't even control how hard you cum on his cock. He's ruthlessly rubbing your clit throughout your orgasm, eager to make your eyes roll back completely. And it's making you freak the fuck out, 'cuz no one else has done this to you. No one has brought you to a real orgasm before.

And he can tell.

It makes him twitch and dive deeper into your sopping hole, eager to lure out as much juice as he can 'cause there's nothing he loves more than a creamy mess on his cock.

He's bending and pushing you into the positions he loves, thrusting at a steady pace that you can keep up with at first but sometimes he'll go harder, harder, harder until you're sobbing and wailing out so loudly that he needs to clamp a hand over your mouth.

He chuckles, "Quiet down, princess. You're gonna wake up my kids at this rate."

" 'm shorry!" you mumble into the palm of his hand, feeling his cock drill into your sweet spots and pressure your walls like crazy.

"No, no. Don't be sorry. It's cute. You're taking me so well," he praises, "Doing so so well for me, princess."

Those soft coos don't match his nasty strokes. He's railing you like he's trying to fuck every last bit of virginity out of your pussy, 'till it remembers the shape of his cock, 'till it clings to him, 'till it knows who's ya daddy.

Especially while prone-boning you. Damn, who forgot to give this guy the handbook on How to Fuck a Virgin? He's pounding into you and grunting like he's gone psycho... ohhhhehasn'thaddpussyinlikeayear. Okay. Makes sense.

"Ah, fuck — fuckin' look at me while I fuck you," he commands, sweaty cheek pressing against yours. Satoru grabs your jaw and makes you look at him, loving your lewd expressions. "Haha, such a fucked-out face... cute."

He thrusts faster into you, not even letting much of his cock in 'cause he knows form experience that virgin pussy just can't handle all of that. So he's easing out each time he accidentally dives in too deep.

And when he pounds up into you like that, it makes sense why the phrase "fucking your brains out" came about. His cock has got you in a crazy back arch, got you seeing stars. No thoughts. Just pussy spasms.

"Harder!! 'want it harder! Please! Fuck me harderrr!!" you plead, totally cockdrunk on Gojo Satoru.

"Are you sure 'bout that, sweetheart? 'Cause I don't think you can handle it..."

"Please!!" you beg.

"Aw... 'can't say no to that fuckable face, can i?" he throws your leg over his shoulder, repositioning himself, grinning, "Take a deep breath. You tell me if it's too much, m'kay? Y'can tap out at any time."

"Yeah, yeah! I know!!" you respond so eagerly it makes him giggle.

As instructed, you take a deep breath. But honestly, did it really prepare you for getting fucked this hard? Um, no.

"Fuck, fuck!! Nnn... god, fuck me! Yesyesyes, just like that please!!"

"Ah, shit, baby..."

"God, you're gonna — you're gonna break the bed, 'Toruuu!"

"I'm gonna break you first." he moans, pounding every last inch of his cock into your happy little pussy, gives your g-spot a beating that has your whole body on the brink of insanity.

"Ughhh... fuck!" you choke up, you hiccup, you sob and wail — and he has to kiss you quiet.

My god did you need this. You needed to indulge in this nastiness, 'cuz who the hell else is ever gonna give you the fucking of a lifetime? Uh, yeah, that's right...

"Yeah, keep enjoying my fucking cock. You know nobody else is gonna fuck you as good as this, little slut." he whispers into your ear, cheek sticky with sweat 'n pressing against yours.

What kind of man did his ex-wife think he was? Full of himself? Nah... he wasn't that full of himself. C'mon now...

"... fuck you look so good cumming on my cock like that. Aw, you shaking? Can't handle it? Am I just too good at fucking you, huh? Wanna cum again? Come on, use your words, you're a big girl. You wanna cum again, don't you? I know you want it. I know you love my cock, 'course you do... 'm fucking perfect, baby. 'N you're gonna take every perfect fucking inch of me."

Oh. Okay. Maybe he is full of himself.

Well, he's full of himself and now you're full of him, too.

Satoru isn't shy about pumping a thick, gooey cumload inside you. He isn't shy about frothing up his creampie during round two, either. And he isn't shy about flipping you into missionary and pushing your trembling legs back and sliding his cock in again.

"Can ya do one more for me, baby?"

"Y-yeah!"

"Aw, but you look exhausted..." he grins. "I wouldn't wanna break my favorite babysitter on accident."

"I'm okay, I swear! I can take it!" you start babbling.

Sweat is dripping off your bodies and soaking the bed. The room smells like sex. His muscles are pressing into you. He's diving into you like a swimmer and grunting and making a dent in the wall 'cause that headboard is banging into the wall just as hard as he's banging into you. Neither of you even notice the dent in the wall. You're just stuck together, connected in that one place, fucking like bunnies.

You palm at his abs, pressing flat against them and melting at the feeling of his mmmaturemusclestwitchingohgodbless, you're so gone after feeling his sweat gather on your hand and catching a glimpse of the bulge his cock makes inside you.

Satoru blanks when your small hand feels up his muscles. Now his thrusts got your lower tummy shuddering and you just wonder what he's thinking when his brows furrow together in such serious focus at your fertile pussy.

"Ohmygodohmygodyou'regonnafuckingbreakme!!" you squeal, fisting the pillow and nearly crying into it.

He giggles, slowing his thrusts to a pace your poor, abused pussy can handle better, "Sorry, doll, you jus' got me too excited when you touched me like that."

"Nn!!" you fist the sheets in your hand, realizing just how far he fucked you to the edge of the bed — the two of you were nearly falling off the bed until uh, oops, you were on the floor?

"Ahh-ahhh! Ah! AH! Wh-what kinda... wrestling move is this, Satoru! Fuck, go easy on me!! 'M gonna cum again!!"

He's too into it to bother getting the two of you back on the bed. Now he's just pinning you down on the plush carpeted floor, railing your tight cunt from behind like he owns it. He may as well, honestly.

"Oh yeah?" he grunts, "Cum again on my cock. Lemme see you work it out on my cock. C'mon, isn't this the cock you wanted so badly? Put on a show for me, baby."

"Ahh!!" you sluttily cry out, bouncing your hips up and down and working your pussy on just six of his nine inches.

"Fuuuck... look at that back arch... haha, you already runnin' outta stamina? Yeah, tell me about it. It's hard work fuckin' a big cock, isn't it? Okay, okay, spoiled princess..." he mutters, hearing your exhausted pleas, "Perk that ass up, lemme show you how it's done."

"But this position is so — AH!" you kick your legs as he slides deeper with each quick stroke.

His tip's prodding at a spot you don't even recognize; a sweet gummy spot that's like your off button. You can't keep your mouth shut and now you're getting so loud that he's gotta clamp a hand on your mouth again, pushing you into the carpeted floor and not stopping his hard-hitting thrusts for a looong few seconds, driving it deep.

He picks up his pace, balls slapping into your clit so loudly that he can't even complain about the loudness of your moans. That skin-slapping 'n squelching could wake up the neighborhood.

"Fuck," he grunts, "Ah, ah... stay right there, 'gonna make you a mama..."

You thrash your legs around, "Nn! Please!" you squeal, feeling his warm seed pour into you again without warning. Just that feeling makes you cum. Hard. Satoru's cock freaks out at the feeling of your pussy's milking contractions along his length, making his tender tip spurt out a little bit more cum against your cervix.

It's so bad. You really shouldn't love getting creampied by an older man this much, let alone your... uh, boss?

Worse. He shouldn't have such a big fucking smile on his sweaty face. He shouldn't be rolling his eyes back in satisfaction like that, like he finds it so funny that he actually did it.

"God, you sure loved milking me, huh?" he smiles wide, bangs soaked and sticking to his sweaty forehead.

"Nnn..." you nod, totally exhausted.

He watches you trying to catch your breath, gulping and gasping. He slides his softening cock out of your over-creampied pussy, earning a small whimper from you. Oh, you feel so empty now, it's crazy. Just how did he pack all of that cock inside you? He can't figure it out, either.

"You okay, sugarplum?" he asks sensitively, stroking your cheek with the back of his hand.

"Yahhh..." you weakly whimper back, wiggling your foot cutely, "Need t' cleanup... need help w-walking..."

All his creampies bubble out your pussy.

He stifles a laugh, feeling a bit guilty. Satoru presses a kiss to your back, peeling you off the floor and practically carrying you to the bathroom — floor and walls black tiles, every corner spelling 'rich boy' in bold letters.

Carefully and slowly, Satoru helps to clean you up, massaging your sore parts with his big hands, peppering your neck in the sweetest little kisses as if he didn't just rearrange your guts and ruin your pussy for other men.

"So... how's it feel, not being a virgin anymore?" he asks with a dirty big bad fuckboy smile.

You simply blush and smile shyly in response. It makes him laugh.

"Aw, are you all shy now, pookums? Shit, I think I fucked tha nasty outta you..."

You nuzzle him, looking about ready to sleep, and it just melts his heart.

"Mm, y'know... Suguru was right about you; you're a real sweetheart. I think I might just have 'ta keep you around for a long time."

ㅤ🍒 x 🐇 x 💗@𝖆𝖗𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖎

ㅤ𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

@screampied (I KNOW IT'S BEEN LIKE A YEAR SINCE I LAST MENTIONED THIS FIC SORRY LOL) 💗 @pickledballer 💗 @wakashudou 💗@miseryyouth-99 💗 @ilovelokism 💗 @yuji-baby 💗 @natsuw181 💗 @madamechrissy 💗@magical-girl-bunny 💗@arminswifee 💗 @msheds0519 💗@nariminsstuff 💗@strychnynegirl 💗@satorupi 💗 @lvstru 💗@buniibloom 💗@tojijibaby 💗@peach-olic 💗 @mandistromboli 💗 @bwunniibell 💗 @nezukochaaann 💗 @valentine4738 💗 @katthekat1234 💗 @aryanaaa 💗 @astxrismstar 💗 @delusionalandabnormal 💗 @shadykittyperfection 💗 @pettypinkprincessblog 💗 @chososgf04 💗 @eliengoddes 💗 @peachmangoe 💗 @dollyschii 💗 @palegardenrebel

[torusangel]

18+ your best friend gojo helping you pleasure yourself

nothing turns your best friend gojo on more than helping you pleasure yourself.

the sound of your vibrator working on your tight cunt. your soft moans and pleads of pure pleasure. it was getting hard for him to control himself.

he loved watching the way you squirm around while holding the big vibrator in your small hands, wishing it was his dick instead.

“nghh fuckkk- i c-can’t take this. s-satoru fuckk what is this? is this the m-max? oh my fucking god i’m gonna cum-“

he knows he shouldn’t be doing this. helping his best friend pleasure herself. but he’s lost all self control for himself at this point. he needs to be inside you.

“fuckk. so fucking sexy mama. you gonna be a good girl and let me be inside you? please.. please baby i need it. i need to feel you. fuckkk you’re so hot”

well.. your best friend asked so nicely, how could you say no?

is what you wish you said

yeah, you regretted it. because right now? he’s fucking into you like there’s no tomorrow. grabbing both sides of your waist as he hits all your deep spots, not missing any part of your tight cunt.

he’s so so big and your pussy is so tight. he wants to cum so quickly. but he’s satoru gojo. what reputation would he have if he came after just entering you?

he didn’t want the world record for fastest man to cum on planet earth. but my god, he was damn near about to.

the feeling of your tight folds squeezing around his cock. at this point, he was whining.

“gonna cum s-so fucking hard. you gonna take it? hmm mama? gonna.. fuckkk- let me cum inside you? yeah?”

his thrusts only got faster. with every dirty word he says, he pounds into you deeper. he’s been fucking into you for at least 2 hours and he hasn’t slowed down once.

at this point, you wanted him to cum in you.

“fuckk. im on the pill. just do it already satoru. cum in me”

your best friend is not the same sweet best friend you remember after saying that. the way his eyes darkened, the way his grip became tighter on your waist. you don’t know what you gotten yourself into.

gojo came almost instantly. he’s been waiting for this for years. to feel you, to pleasure you, to cum in you.

you came shortly after, falling straight down on the bed in exhaustion and overstimulation

your “best friend” was the best.

[torusangel]

satoru who swore to suguru you were off-limits.

satoru, who had the audacity to laugh it off, throwing an arm around your brother’s shoulders like it was the easiest promise in the world. “me? with your sister? c’mon, man, i’m not that reckless.”

liar. because now? his hands were wrapped around your wrists, pinning you into the mattress while his cock was buried so deep inside your dripping pussy it felt like he was splitting you in half.

“shit, you feel too good, baby. squeezin’ me like you don’t wanna let go,” he groaned, lips curling into that smug grin that always made your stomach flip. “a-ah—toru—s-slow down—nngh, s’too much—” you gasped, breath hitching as your legs trembled, thighs spread wide around his narrow hips, completely at his mercy as he thrust into you—rough, relentless, making the headboard nudge the wall with quiet, rhythmic taps.

suguru was sleeping next door.

but satoru didn’t care.

“‘toru—ah—p-please, s’too deep—mmnh—c-can’t—!” your voice cracked, breathless and whiny as he bottomed out with a sharp grind of his hips, making your back arch into him. his grip tightened around your wrists. “you can take it, sweet girl. you’re doin’ so good for me.”

“nnnh—m’trying—toru—s’big—” you whimpered, hips squirming beneath him, the sheer size of him making your walls flutter helplessly around his cock. “f-feels s’good—ah—!”

the size of him was overwhelming—his broad chest pressing against your smaller frame, cock filling you with every punishing thrust that had you gasping his name in broken whimpers.

“c’mon, pretty, stay with me.” he dipped down, kissing you messy and slow, tongue curling against yours as his pace stayed brutal. you moaned into his mouth, clinging to him with needy little gasps between kisses. “toru—mmm—’m gonna—g-gonna cum—”

“wanna see that cute little face when you cum on my cock.” your moans grew louder, breath hitching as you felt yourself unravel, completely wrecked beneath him.

satoru’s lips found your ear, voice dropping into a filthy whisper. “think you can be quiet f'me, baby? or should i stuff my cock in that pretty mouth instead?”

© seidoll | don't copy, repost, or translate any of my work

[torusangel]

seven days a week

synopsis: gojo just can't keep his hands off of you, needing you every single day of the week, and going until neither of you can take any more. aka gojo ovulating.

cw (minors please dni): switch!gojo, pure filth, feral gojo, a lil teasing gojo, morning sex, fingering, premature orgasm, a LOT of creampies, use of dildos, mirror sex, shower sex, face-sitting, cunnilingus, brief male masturbation, riding, choking, dacryphilia, slight breeding kink, overstimulation, multiple rounds, bath stuff, a lil pampering but he can't help himself again. (photos don't belong to me; found on pinterest and gojo art by @/3-aem)

word count: 6.4k (with no plot LMFAO)

a/n: please appreciate my terrible puns for each day of the week LMAO dualday was a stretch but like in my head: tue => two => duo

fem!reader x gojo satoru, au up to interpretation, nsfw

Moanday

it was a peaceful morning, the scent of dew floating through the air, the sun's warm beams filtering through the cracks of the blinds, the birds welcoming every awakening soul.

emphasis on “was” a peaceful morning. because now, one of satoru's hands roam over your hips and thighs and the other massages your tits through the t-shirt you borrowed from him. so painfully obvious what he needs, especially with what was poking your ass as he spoons you from behind.

his words are a needy rasp tickling the back of your ear, fingers getting bolder each time they skim the edge of your sleep shorts. “baby,” he whines, grinding against you once, then twice, “please. need you so bad. my dream, fuck, my dream... made me so horny.”

“you have to do all the work,” you murmur sleepily, cheek pressed comfortably against the pillow.

“of course, baby, of course. thank you... jus’ need you. you don't-- fuck...” he curses under his breath, cutting himself off when he tugs your sleep shorts down and his finger easily slips through your folds thanks to your arousal. “you were holdin’ back on me, dirty girl.” and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

a second finger joins the first, both dancing through your honeyed petals, becoming coated in the sweetest arousal. the tips of his fingers tease your hole, dipping in and feeling them swallow him in. he groans, sounding wrecked without even touching his own dick.

his lithe fingers begin to stroke your quivering walls which weep with juices, twisting his wrist and--

“there it is,” he whispers huskily, voice strained with restraint as he feels your pussy waterfall down his fingers once he abuses your sweet spot. “so fucking wet for me, baby. need you so bad.”

“ngh put it in, then,” you huff, fingers twitching against the sheets as you capture them within your grasp, tightening as he steadily works his fingers in and out.

“don't have to tell me twice,” he titters, chest rumbling gently against your back.

he retracts his fingers from you, your body already aching from the empty feeling of nothing inside. but he's quick to tug his sweats down, just enough for access for what he needs. he moans the second his length glides through your folds, grinding back and forth, coating it in your slick. his head is already thrown back, brows drawn together and pretty lips parted as he breathes out shakily.

“hurry up,” you mutter, tone teetering on the edge of a whine but you bite it back.

“yeah, yeah, i will, i will,” he prattles, “you feel like heaven-- o-oh fuck, wait, wait, wait.”

as soon as he plunges his tip past your tight ring and your soft, warm, wet walls hug him, alarms blare in his hazy mind. he has a hand pushing your leg up towards your chest, his grip suddenly bruising.

“‘toruuu...” you attempt to shimmy your hips down on his cock and he pins you down, preventing you from moving.

he pants, chest heaving, jaw clenched. “baby, i love you but i need you stop talking and moving before i cum. ‘m too sensitive, fuck, i knew this pussy was evil. wants me to embarrass myself.”

you pluck his fingers off your body and gyrate your hips down on him, taking what you want and finishing what he started. “just ngh fuck me,” you mutter, biting down on your lip as his girth stretches you so deliciously.

your eyes roll back briefly as your walls massage his twitching cock, pulsing around him once he's buried to the hilt. and shortly, milky strings are painting those walls white and there's a loud moan reverberating right in your ear.

“f-fuuuuuck... nngh it's not fair how good y-you... hah... feel,” he whines, burying his face into the back of his neck as his body shudders against you. you can feel the hot puffs of his pants against your neck as he recoups and calms himself down again.

“i didn't think you were being serious,” you snort.

you expect him to laugh, or even pout. what you didn't expect was for him to suddenly pull out and turn you onto your back. you're met with cerulean blue, darkened by lust, as he towers over your figure. his hands clamp onto your thighs again, throwing your legs over his broad shoulders.

and the sudden switch in his demeanour makes your head feel fuzzy and your stomach all fluttery. your cunt clenches around nothing.

“since you didn't listen to me, you're gonna listen now and take it.”

Dualday

sure, satoru is willing to share you sometimes, only with his best friend. but keyword: sometimes. because most of the time, he wants you to himself. only wants his hands caressing you, only his eyes subject to the most divine sight of you writhing on his bed, only his lips etching kisses into your skin.

so instead of having a third party join, he made good use of your dildo.

that's how you found yourself on all fours, facing your own reflection - tears pricking at your eyes, cheeks stained with a darker hue and some previous tears, and of course, pretty mouth stuffed with your dildo that was suctioned to the mirror. and behind you, satoru snaps his hips into yours, forcing you to thrust forward and deepthroat the dildo.

his hues, lustful and debauched, lock onto your face in the reflection. his fingers tighten on your hip simply at the sight, grounding himself with some level of control.

“fuck, how do you manage to look so sexy? look at you, both holes stuffed, squeezin’ me so tight. you love this, huh? being used, stuffed full-- hngh takin’ me so deep.”

backshots were already satoru's favourite, he always gets absolutely filthy when he has you face down, ass up, settling a firm hand on the curve of your spine to make sure it remains in a perfect arch for him. his other hand squeezes your hip as he gives you deep, nasty strokes at a steady pace.

but with you like this, drooling from both holes and lips stretched around his cock and your toy, he somehow gets filthier.

“yeahhh, fuck, just like that, pretty girl. fuck yourself back on me with that sweet pussy,” he groans, a feral grin painted on his lips as he watches the sway of your hips and the tremble of your legs as you push yourself on and off of his slick length. he can see the swell of your pussy lips stretching around his thickness, dragging up and down, up and down, up and down. “fuck, she's so loud.”

tears begin to stream down your cheeks again as he meets your hips with his own, forcing you to take the silicone further down your throat. he pulls back until only his tip is teasing your winking, crying hole and you follow, allowing you to take a breath once your mouth is eased off.

drool dribbles down the corners of your mouth, to your chin. he swipes his thumb over your saliva and brings it to his mouth, smiling around his own thumb when he sucks it off with a hum rumbling deep in his chest.

“‘toruuuu...” you mewl, fingertips digging into the floor beneath you.

“uh-uh, wasn't hah talking to you, pretty girl. was talking to this pretty girl,” he drawls, dragging a thumb over your bulging lips and down to your neglected bud. his other hand tangles in your hair and guides your mouth back to the dildo, encouraging you to take it back into your warm mouth. at the same time, he delivers a mean thrust to your ass.

you whine and your body shudders just as his thumb brushes over your clit, almost ruining the perfect arch he had you in before he uses his other hand to position you again.

“c’mon, you can do better than that.” whack! his hand falls onto the flesh of your ass. “oh... you liked that, did you? filthy girl.”

you can't even deny the way your cunt pulsed around him the second his hand made impact with your skin, juices dripping onto the floor. your lack of response causes his feral grin to morph into a feral smirk.

you choke on a moan, feeling overwhelmed, dizzy, and so gorged that you were the embodiment of the sin, greed.

satoru's orbs of indulgence and depravity, blue flickering with silver, flit downwards to where his slick length disappears inside you. he angles his hips down, targeting your sweet spot and he hisses a curse under his breath when he feels your snivelling walls tense around him even more as he circulates your clit with his thumb at a similar pace to your hips moving.

his eyes drift back up to the mirror, taking in every inch and twitch of your body as they travel along it. “look at me, baby. let me see those pretty eyes of yours properly.”

when your glassy, dazed eyes meet his, he groans. guttural and shattered. his dick twitches against your walls just at the sight. well, it definitely wasn't a mundane sight. no. for satoru, it was the most heavenly sight that he almost believed he had died and was now amongst the angels.

“f-fuck, baby... you're gonna make me cum,” he moans, his head suddenly tossing back, soft locks of snow sticking to his dampened forehead, and he bites down hard on his lower lip. and you see his eyes roll back in the reflection. “shit, shit, shit... need you to cum for me. wanna feel you fucking milk me.”

the push and pull of his hips become frantic and his thumb on your twitching clit becomes messy and lazy, not as calculated as before. he's being driven insane.

your pussy sings a sinful melody of plap, plap, plap with each thrust of his slutty hips and it only serves to push him further to his peak. his hand flies back to your hip, grasping at it like his lifeline, his muscles flexing tantalisingly with each movement.

he briefly stops teasing your clit to intertwine his fingers with your hair and pull you off the dildo, a whine escaping your mouth as you struggle to keep the perfect arch he has you in.

“wanna hear your pretty voice when you cum f’me.”

“‘t-toru... ah, f-fuck!” you gasp out moans, your eyes rolling back when his thumb goes back to rubbing your clit side to side, up and down, in circles, determined to make you lose it. “g-gonna--”

“there she is,” he smirks, satisfied with your immediate, desperate cries. “that's what i wanted to hear.”

as your body begins to undulate under him, he leans down and lathers open-mouthed kisses down the trail of your spine. you can feel his searing breath against your back and the vibrations of his rasps.

“why don't you make a pretty mess for me, hm?” he murmurs against the sweaty flesh of your back. he's dancing on the frays of his own control; he doesn't want to let go before you do.

as if that was all you needed, you soak his cock on cue, finally letting the arch waver and your body collapses, cheek against the floor as he continues to fuck you, chasing his own orgasm. your body shakes almost violently, crying out his name as fresh tears stain your cheeks.

“o-ooh, fuck wait-- hngh you really are milking me, shit...” his groans tiptoe on the brink of a whimper.

it's not long before he's releasing ropes and ropes of ivory, brimming your cunt with his cum with each tight throb. his teeth sink into your shoulder harshly, bound to leave a mark, brows knitted together as his chest drapes over your back, losing himself in the euphoria. his own body trembles above yours, both of you quivering and panting.

his twitchy fingers smooth over your skin, everywhere and anywhere. his touch is both soothing and appreciative.

“did so good for me. so hot, so beautiful. thank you,” he breathes against the back of your neck.

Wetsday

“just to help you wash your back, of course,” was what your husband always said to you with a grin when you were going into the shower. he'd grab a towel and follow after you, his intentions fully on helping you wash your back.

but even after years of being together, neither of you learn that despite his intentions being innocent, his actions are the opposite once you're naked and wet in front of him.

“satoru...” you say warningly over your shoulder, when his hand somehow slid down from your back to your ass which lingered for far too long before his fingers teased your oblivious folds. “that's not my back.”

his movements pause and he grins again, almost sheepishly, as if he just realised what he was doing. “oops.” you notice his gaze drift downwards, not to you but to himself. and your gaze pursues his curiously until you see what it is - he's hard. “guess i really can't help myself around you.”

yeah, no shit.

within minutes, he has you pushed against the tiled wall, your thighs squished in his large hands as he holds you up with your legs locked around him. his lips are everywhere he can reach, everywhere he wants to etch his mark into your skin, everywhere that he yearns to memorise with his lips.

and the onslaught of his hips has already begun. unhurried but forceful. every ridge of his abs rolling against your stomach with each shallow thrust.

“how could anyone expect me to resist you?” he mumbles in between kisses. “crazy people, that's who expect me not to have you any moment i get.”

he seems to be the only one going crazy right now.

each thrust sends your body sliding up the shower wall. your fingers clutch his back for leverage, nails etching crescents into his skin. he moans when your nails scratch down his back, a pleasantly painful sensation that only spurs him on, knowing that he's hitting it just right.

“here, baby? you like it here? heh, of course i know you do,” he giggles. he'd ace any exam about you or your body, and he has full confidence in that.

he drags his cock in and out, in and out, in and out, his prominent vein throbbing and caressing the plush of your eager walls. the sound of wet skin slapping against wet skin echoes in the shower, amidst the splattering of water pouring down on both of you.

“r-right there, satoru--! fuck, don't stop, please,” you mewl, head tipping back to lean against the wall, eyes screwed shut and mouth hanging open.

he gives you a sharp thrust, cock plunging into your wetness that was more drenched than the shower itself. it's a mean snap of his hips, but slow, his sole goal to drag the crest of his tip against your sweet spot and gradually unravel you.

“i know, silly. weren't you listening to me?” he teases, amusement evident in his tone. he knows he's fucking you mindless, rendering your senses useless. “it just feels sooo good, huh?” he croons.

“yesyesyesyes, mm, fuck.”

if you were coherent, you would've been able to feel the smug upturn of his lips against the side of your neck as his lips brush against it, then his teeth scrape against the skin.

he notices your legs slide down around him, becoming weak despite his hands gripping your thighs. he fastens his hold on them, keeping you where he needs you and maintaining the perfect angle to drive you up, up, and up to cloud nine. his thrusts turn into gyrations of his hips, stirring up your insides, his pelvis grazing against your clit teasingly. it's not enough to make you cum, but sufficient to make you just a bit more incoherent.

you twitch intensely from that single motion, provoking him to continue. he manages to bump into spots that you didn't even know existed but force such lewd noises from your mouth and sloshes from your cunt. his own puffs of breath become heavier, shakier, morphing into groans that slip past the droplets of water raining down.

the constant pulsing and tightening of your pillowy, saccharine walls hint at the orgasm creeping up on you. his stomach constricts with each indulgent clench of your inner muscles and he breathes out your name shakily, like a prayer for only you to hear. his goddess.

“hmm, you're so hah close, aren't you?” he whispers, tugging at your earlobe. “your sweet little pussy is clingin’ to me like she doesn't wanna let me go.”

you can barely formulate a response, nodding your head vigorously and moaning so drunkenly, intoxicated solely by his cock. “mhmhmm...”

“wanna cum for me?”

“p-pleaseeee,” you somewhat manage to babble out.

he chuckles deeply, pulling back to let his eyes travel over your face contorted in such blissful pleasure. “such a good girl.”

the grinding of his pelvic muscles against your clit becomes more purposeful and he circles his hips with each calculated thrust. your nails dig deeper into his back and he hisses lowly, enjoying the sensation.

once the dam breaks and your orgasm floods over you disastrously, his movements stutter slightly and a broken groan is wrenched out from his throat as you contract around him, sucking him in like a vice.

he curses under his breath, eyes heavy-lidded as he continues to watch your face before drifting his gaze down your quaking body. you almost scream his name, the combination of his veiny length pushing and withdrawing, and the delicious friction on your clit overwhelming you past your limits.

he doesn't stop, and you're twitching like a body possessed, jabbering out ramblings of overstimulation.

“shh... you can take a little more, can't you? gotta cum for my beautiful wife.” his voice is like velvet; thick, gentle, desirous.

“... uh-huh... want your cum inside,” you drawl, mind hazy and thoughts barely legible. your entire body feels like it's on fire, overstimulated but trying to hold up for him. it makes him smile, almost proudly, watching the way you try your best for him. just to help him find his own release.

“that's my girl.”

showering with satoru never saves time or water. and it's never innocent, either. a lesson never learnt.

Thrustday

the bed creaks under you, rhythmic. in time with his slow, deep thrusts rolling into you. it's gentle, tender, no rush, just pure intimacy. his long, heaving breaths caress your neck, mirroring his deep strokes.

he has you splayed for him with your back against the silken sheets and your legs wrapped around his waist, his own body draped over yours like a blanket. a sweat-slicked, heavy blanket. his hands wrinkle the sheets on either side of your head, his face buried in the crook between your neck and shoulder, moaning your name into the space almost poetically.

he's taking his time, basking in your wet heat enveloping him wholly and dribbling down his balls, your syrupy whimpers dripping off your lips, your fingers clutching at his toned biceps.

he hasn't parted from you for a while, surrounding every single one of your senses. he smells like musk and sex. sounds like ecstasy and ruin. feels like sweat and electricity. and looks absolutely ethereal with his sweat-dampened hair mussed sensually from his constant movement and your hands that previously ran through it. his lips are swollen from deep, lingering kisses, so full of passion he practically drowned you in it. his snowy eyelashes shadow over his cheeks, fluttering ever so slightly with every crease of his eyebrows when your walls flap around him so sweetly.

as he continues to rock his body into yours, as if swaying slowly to a romantic melody orchestrated of your shared moans and shaky breaths, he pulls his head back to soak in your features. his eyes are overflowing with love and lust, devotion and desire. he looks at you as if he yearns despite having every inch of your skin melded with his, glued with sweat and slick

he wants more, more, more. to be intertwined with your soul. to have his heart cradle your own.

“don't wanna stop,” he mumbles, sounding intoxicated. drunk on your pussy, the rock of his hips being constant. he kisses you softly, a gentle mingle of lips against lips. “can't stop.” kiss. “your pussy is like a fuckin’ siren, keeps drawing me back in.” kiss. “can't part from it.” kiss. “sooo unreal, fuck...”

“‘s so good,” you babble, eyes slanted as you stare up at him.

he brushes your hair back from your face, so eager, the most rushed his movements have been. eager to see your pleasure-riddled face better. “i know. ‘s fucking amazing. can't believe this pussy is real hngh...”

you giggle, like he just told the funniest joke but the cause of your delirium is his lengthy cock digging up your insides like you have a treasure hidden in there. and he lets out a groan, sounding defeated as if he's given up on trying to keep his composure. his body collapses onto yours completely.

“can't believe you're real,” he says, peppering kisses against the curve of your cheek. “how do you manage to be so damn adorable and hot at the same time?” disbelief is laced in his tone.

the constant, steady pace of his hips draws out more moans from between your lips, a song he's addicted to, could never get tired of, nor get sick of playing those beautiful notes out of you with the purposeful swivel of his hips.

“wanna live right here between your legs forever. squeezin’ me so good. everything feels so... good,” he huffs out a laugh at himself, breathless. “i can't even think of any other words, that's how perfect you are. my perfect girl.”

Cryday

“aw, you cryin’?” he taunts. there's a grin mischeviously spread across his lips, amused and feral. he has you folded like a lawn chair, your legs pushed up to your chest as he drills into you.

a sloppy mess of noises is resonant with each charge of his hips, your creamy arousal mixed with his previous orgasm trickles down your ass and stains the sheets. a beautiful sight that he relishes in, loving how messy he makes you. a frothy ring forms around his cock and your puffy, abused lips are smeared with his cum.

it's already after midnight but there doesn't seem to be an end in sight. his adrenaline seemingly limitless, pumping and pumping through his veins. thrusting and thrusting into you.

it's the nth round, nth position, nth orgasm.

at least he even made it to the bed and didn't pound you into the floor like an animal.

he dips his head to lean in closer and drag his tongue up your cheek, licking off the salty moisture caused by sheer pleasure and overstimulation.

“mm... feels that good, huh?” he teases.

“‘s t-too much!” you babble out, tone laced with ruin, whiney and winded.

“you can take more. you're suchhh a good girl for me, i know you can,” he soothes, voice calming.

though, it's barely five minutes later when his own eyes well up with tears and they spill over the same time he fills you up with his seed yet another time.

“o-oh fuck, m-marry me, please, please, please...” he rambles, tears staining his own cheeks. from the hedonistic euphoria.

“ah! we're a-already ngh married, idiot.”

“oh, we are. we are. hngh fuck 'm so lucky. so, so, soooo lucky. this pussy is allll mine,” he giggles. were those tears of happiness now? “i should breed this sweet, sweet pussy. really make her all mine, huh?”

the strikes of his hips pick up pace, more frantic, needier. there's a new mission he needs to accomplish.

“you've already-- ngh shit-- stuffed me full of your cum,” you retort, catching your bottom lip harshly between your teeth, feeling the stinging prick of tears again. similar to the stinging on your ass from the way he rams into you. “all fuckin’ week.”

and he grunts, lips plump from biting them and parted as he huffs out heavy breaths. there's a sheen of sweat painting his toned chest and abs, his arms briefly buckling as he still cinches your thighs to your chest.

“o-oh, wait, fuck... i shouldn't have thought about you being pregnant with my baby. fuck, fuck, fuck... ‘s sooo hot. so hot. oh g-god...” he stammers. the contrast between his whimpers and harsh snaps of his hips is almost mind-boggling. the way he can ruin you and himself at the same time. “gonna fuck you ‘til you're round and glowing.”

he leans down again, kissing your tears away so kindly that you almost forget about the cruel force of his relentless hips.

Sat-on-ur-faceday

“i told you to sit on my face, not hover,” he pouts, as if offended that you don't want to suffocate him between your thighs. he thinks that the only correct and most perfect way to go out would be between your thighs.

“but--” you're about to protest, just a few inches shy away from your dripping lips meeting his eager ones.

“but nothing. fuckin’ smother me,” he mumbles against the plush flesh of your inner thigh as he litters it with kisses and gentle bites. marks that only he will ever see. it makes him feel giddy at the thought. he ends up branding his name into your inner thigh with his teeth.

his hands slide up to your waist, pulling you down onto his awaiting face. and he moans as soon as your sugary scent fills his nostrils and he flicks his tongue out to taste you.

“oh. fuck... so sweet. mmm... ‘m never gonna eat outside again. not when i have a five-star michelin meal right here.” he already sounds hysterical. from a single lick.

with the flat of his tongue, he sweeps it from your clit down to your twitching, weeping hole. and he moans again, like he's never tasted you before and can't bear to be parted from your cunt. he could never get enough, no matter how overworked his tongue is, or how deprived he is of oxygen. it's you that has to stop him from driving both himself and yourself to your limits.

he tilts his head up, nose buried in your folds, trying to go further, to drown himself in your decadent syrup. his tongue firmly prods at your entrance, slipping past and swirling around.

usually, he takes his time with his desserts, savouring every lick and bite. but with you? his sweetest and favourite dessert. oh, he doesn't hold back with you. smearing your juices all over his lower face, inhaling as if you gushing out onto his tastebuds isn't enough, and the sloppy, lewd noises of his lips smacking against yours.

he sucks on your folds, devouring every drop of your juices and teasing every inch of your pussy, before fucking his tongue back into you. he curls it against every sweet spot he's memorised and mapped out with his tongue, fingers, and cock, knowing exactly how to get those whines out of you.

“s-sato-- ah! slow doooown hnnngh!” your words turn into an elongated moan when his tongue slithers out of you and instead, flicks your clit violently. the complete opposite of slow. it's not his fault he can't resist such a cloy pussy and can't resist drawing all those equally cloy songs from your mouth.

you can feel his smirk against you when your thighs tremble on either side of his head and your body buckles forward, your hands rushing to find leverage on his abs.

it's only then that you realise he has a hand wrapped around his throbbing cock, solely hard from eating you out. he bucks up into his fist, a dribble of precum trickling down and making the glide easier. he's whining and moaning into your cunt, but he doesn't let down, continuing to eat you out like a man starved and his free hand keeps you tethered to his face.

“mmm hah... ride my face, baby. fuckin’ ride it, ‘s all yours. use my face to make yourself feel good,” he urges you, practically babbling against your sodden lips, choking on his own moans and your sap flowing down his throat. “yeaaahh, that's it.”

your hips involuntarily jerk against his face, your clit sliding down to rub against his chin before drawing back to his lips. but you obey to the unconscious sway of your body and do the same movement, purposely this time. riding his face just as he asked you to, and your entire body shakes like a leaf in the wind each time you grind against the bump of his chin.

it's the perfect friction paired with his wet muscle plunging in and out of you, dragging along your walls and poking in every crevice of your cunt. you gyrate your hips, mewling loudly. at the same time, another thick glob of precum descends down to his balls and he grips his base tightly like he's using every force in him not to cum.

“cum on my face, please, pleaseplease. can't take it anymore ngh--”

his tongue works overtime to get you to cum and with the way your constricting canal pulses around it, he knows it won't take long before you're making a mess on his face.

the undulation of your body becomes shaky, asynchronous, faltering. your head falls back while your body arches forward. and he thinks it's such a heavenly sight when you're surrendering to the gratification, ecstasy written all over your face.

he laps at your quivering hole, slurping up every drop he can, groaning like he's scraping the plate clean after already devouring every bit of a dessert.

when he finally pulls back, lifting you off his face and switching your position so that you're straddling his waist now, he grins up at you goofily with rosy cheeks, glistening with the aftermath of your orgasm. but the desperation is so prominent in his sky-blue hues.

“sit on my dick now, please. finish me off, wanna cum inside this pretty little pussy.” his hands grasp at your waist again, grinding you along the length of his cock, encouraging you.

you shudder as your clit glissades up and down, and his tip catches onto your entrance a couple of times. purposefully? perhaps. who knew what satoru was thinking?

needing no more enticement and wanting to feel the stretch of his girth and his throbbing vein, you take ahold of him and hover just enough for you to be able to slowly sink down on him.

he grits his teeth, eyes shut like a vice and head thrown further back into the pillow, fingers becoming bruising on your hips. “how is it possible for ngh something to feel this... divine?” he mutters, singing the alphabet in his head to stop himself from cumming already. he wants to enjoy it, savour it. “how are you still so damn tight?” he gasps once you begin the rise and fall of your hips.

it's a steady pace for only a moment, before you suddenly speed up and something of a gasp-whimper hybrid is forced out of his mouth. you bounce on his cock like your life depends on it, becoming addicted to the stretch and eager for his cum. rising your hips up until the head of his cock is peeking out of your entrance before slamming back down, a wet slap of skin against skin complementing each recoil.

his eyes meet the back of his head, rolled all the way back and he swears he can see your name written in the stars.

“you ride me like you're trying to get me pregnant,” he groans, sounding strained but you can hear the amusement laced in it.

you laugh, short of breath, before getting cut off by your own moan. “m-maybe i am... you're the one acting like you're in heat-- fuck...”

and he's rutting up into you. it's messy and uncoordinated, thrusting lazily but deep. invading and attacking your sweet spot like it's something he can do so effortlessly with the shaky thrusts of his hips. it throws off your own rhythm.

you reach down, fingers lightly curling around his neck and squeezing gently. his hips stutter and his legs suddenly feel weak, a loud whine ripping out of his throat.

“choke me harder," he grits out. and when you do, he immediately regrets it. “n-nooo, wait, baby, wait, s-stoop-- fuck, imgonnacum, imgonnacum hahhh...”

your walls mould to his cock so deliciously, clinging onto him as if he'd even want to go anywhere. he'd live and die being inside you if he could.

after two more rocks of your body, he's tightening his grip on your hips and holding you down on him, preventing you from moving as his slender back arches off the bed and he cums inside you with the force of a tsunami. his jaw drops open, moans struggling to make themselves be heard and known, but instead being lodged in his heaving chest.

your greedy cunt soaks up every drop of his release, some of it beginning to seep out and stain your lips and dribble down his taught balls.

he's panting like he just ran a marathon once he comes down from cloud nine, the haziness so evident in his eyes once they ease open to stare up at you. it's only a second before he's rutting up into you again.

“don't stop, please. ride me until i'm shooting blanks... want you to take all that i have. ‘m all yours, all yours.” his words are slurred together.

Sudsday

sundays are always yours and satoru's lazy days. no chores, no going out, no work. just the two of you, relaxing, doing whatever you wanted.

and satoru believed you deserved a day of extra pampering and spoiling after the strenuous week he put you through due to his animalistic nature. like a rabid dog. a puppy in heat. leaving you marked in more ways than one.

that's why he's running you a comforting bath, infused with lavender oil, setting up scented candles in the bathroom which mingle with the lavender.

“hey, sweetheart,” he calls out gently from the bathroom, poking his head out from behind the door to see where you are. “the bath is ready.”

and the sunniest of smiles immediately springs onto his lips when you come into view. he stretches his arm out for you to take his hand, holding yours almost gingerly as he tugs you towards the bath.

“are you gonna join?” you ask, glancing at him curiously as you untie the soft robe from around you. and his eyes never wander astray, staying faithful to your face before he moves to stand behind you.

he carefully gathers your hair in his hands, using a claw hairclip to keep it up higher on your head.

“if you want me to. it's for you, after all.”

“join me,” you insist, turning around to face him and his eyes crinkle in the corners as he admires your features so tenderly. as if you can feel the caress of his eyes over your face, burning each and every detail into his mind, until he'd be able to see the image of you engraved into his eyelids when he closes his eyes.

he keenly complies with your request, stripping off his sweats without a second thought. he submerges in the warm bath first, sitting with his back against the end, before reaching out to you again. he helps you step in, mindful to not let you slip.

once you're sitting under the water, he tugs you back against his chest, spreading his legs as far as he can to make sure you're comfortable in between them.

he twines his arms around your waist, kissing feathers along the side of your neck. at the same time, he gently massages the soothing touch of his fingers into the bruises he left on you over the past week. the etchings lingering from his teeth all over your neck, shoulders, tits, and thighs; purplish red traces of his fingers on your hips.

“you were so good for me,” he murmurs softly against your neck, nosing the back of it as he closes his eyes and lightly inhales your sweet scent.

he focuses on the warmth of your body against his, the suppleness of your skin beneath his fingertips, your soft, steady breathing complementing the rise and fall of your chest, . he's never been so immersed in anything before, other than the previous times he gets caught up in you, only ever you.

and in his tender travels of soothing your body, his hand eases between the crease of your thighs, his index and middle fingers slowly circling your nub, sensitive from the six days prior.

“‘toru,” you whine weakly, head dropping back onto his shoulder with half-lidded eyes. it's a half-hearted protest. you can't exactly complain when the simple brush of his touch can drive you crazy so easily, so quickly.

“shhh, just let me make you feel good. relax. let ‘toru take care of you,” he whispers in your ear.

his touch is both soothing and exciting. making you melt against his chest while your heart gallops behind the confines of your own ribs. your eyes close, submitting to the pleasure he's gracing you with while relaxing. your mouth parts slightly with quiet whimpers of his name.

his hushed sweet nothings tickle the flesh of your shoulder as he continues his pilgrimage of kisses. he never speeds up the pace of the circles, nor increases the pressure. just the right amount to drive you towards the peak without heightening your sensitivity.

you're overcome with a subdued orgasm, leaving you twitching in his arms against his chest. he rubs his hands along your thighs soothingly, before holding you against him protectively. your soft moans bounce off the cool bathroom walls.

“there we go,” he coos softly once you've ridden out your orgasm. like a lullaby in your ear. you go completely lax against him and he tightens his arms around you. “so beautiful when you're feeling good.”

you really wouldn't be surprised if one of you made it out of the week pregnant.