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ilovebigdickdilfs · 5 days ago

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❀ in which you and Nanami exchange emails where he asks for forgiveness slightly suggestive + features guests stars + nothing but fluff

From: [email protected]

Subject: Talk To Me Please

Good morning, dear, Or rather, it would be, if my wife so much as looked in my direction this morning. Instead, I find myself writing to you like some forgotten soul behind enemy lines, using this means of communication as if I am but a mere stranger begging for a moment of your time. It is humiliating. Your refusal to hear your husband out is noted and begrudgingly endured but I forgive you (see? It is not so hard at all). Please just answer your messages. We have a data plan for a reason. Love, always, Your Kento

From: [email protected]

Subject: Seriously?

Hello Kento, I hope you are well. Please refrain from contacting me via my work email. It is inappropriate and annoyingly endearing. Let me be mad in peace. Thank you. Best wishes, Your Wife

From: [email protected]

Subject: Please Forgive Me

Hello to you too, sweetheart, I must admit your response is both upsetting and encouraging. Truthfully, I wasn't expecting you to respond at all. Of course, I wish your email was more welcoming but beggars and whatnot. What must I do, my love? I have apologised. Not once or twice, but countless times. So many times now it feels like ‘I’m so sorry’ were my first words. I rose early to prepare your favourite breakfast — drove clear across the city to find the precise ingredients (you and I both know there is only one acceptable brand of jam in this household). I plated it neatly, included a smiley face, just as you like it, though, I observed, it was met with a frown, thus defeating the spirit of these things. Your work clothes were laid out, ironed with care and to perfection, if I may say so myself. I made sure the heating was on well before you awoke, so the chill wouldn’t bother you so — I’ve seen how cold mornings test your…patience, should we say. Your lunch was packed and ready, with a handwritten note tucked inside, although I’m sure you carelessly tossed it aside in your bid to destroy my will to live on a spiritual level. It was a new recipe, by the way. I hope it suits your taste. Do let me know. Perhaps by softening your glare when you arrive home since apparently smiles are beneath you. Even last night, I relinquished the duvet entirely — though I must admit, it was less an offering and more a tactical surrender after you ripped it from my body without mercy. I woke up frozen, on the brink of pneumonia. Need I remind you, I am at a tender age? And after all of that… You walked past me. Not a word. Not even a glance. You washed the dishes (which is, and I cannot stress this enough, my responsibility), and shoved my work clothes off the bed because — what was it? The sleeve was ‘encroaching’ upon your own and the cotton needed space because ‘husband air is toxic?’ That was particularly hurtful. Entirely uncalled for. My blazer may never recover. Still, I could take it. I could take all of it. Because I admit my fault and I recognise my need to be punished. But to leave without kissing me goodbye? That, my love, was unconscionable. A line crossed. A declaration of war. An admittance of lesser character. I am disappointed in you. Thus, I now join your unrelenting form on the S.S. Marital Displeasure. Let’s see how we fare at sea, together. Yours, unwaveringly, Kento— the husband you once swore never to abandon P.S. Dinner is on me tonight. Please let me know what time you’ll be home. P.P.S. You looked radiant this morning. Even in silence. Even in a mood. You’re still the most beautiful thing in the room

From: [email protected]

Subject: Wow. Just Wow

Kento, You infuriatingly adorable man. All those things you listed about this morning are things you do everyday. I know that was supposed to guilt trip me, but that just annoyed me more cause I get it — you’re totally perfect and handsome and tall and you smell nice. Ugh, you’re the worst. Lunch was yummy, by the way. Ten out of ten. The note, which I didn’t carelessly throw away mind you (that was very rude to assume, how dare you) telling me ‘you are loved even when you’re grumpy’ was not. I am not grumpy, Kento. I am aggrieved. You have aggrieved me. Also, don’t try to guilt trip me about the cover hogging. You run hot and you know we have a spare duvet in the closet. Many times now, I've begged you to take it because I know I have bad sleeping habits BUT you refused. You said, need I remind you, that you insist on sharing one to be as close to me as possible. Your words. The work clothes thing was an accident. I didn’t mean to push it off, and I was trying to stay mad so I made up some lie. Tell your blazer I’m sorry. Tell its owner I will never forgive nor forget. You know what you did. And I don’t want you to join my ship. We can’t both be on it. We’ll sink…damn that’s metaphorical. For your own good, get off now whilst you still can. Lukewarm wishes, Your Wife P.S. I’ll be home later than you, I have some things to finish P.S. There was only one other person in the room and that was you, and even then you were clearly the more beautiful one Mr. Wakes Up With A Five O’Clock Shadow And Silky Golden Locks. That pissed me off so much more. Try to be less perfect, thank you.

From: [email protected]

Subject: I Miss You

My dearest, I’ve read your message precisely three times and still, I’m not entirely sure whether I’ve been forgiven or sentenced. However, I feel a sense of optimism, foolish or not. Let me begin with your opening line: ‘infuriatingly adorable’— it is not quite a compliment but I accept it with caution regardless. I am adorable and I understand that you wish I wasn’t. As soon as possible, I will find a cure. Moreover, in reference to my morning route, you’re right, of course. The tasks I listed are things I do every day. Not as some grand gesture, but because loving you — actively, attentively, without pause — is part of my daily routine. Like ironing my shirts or making my coffee. It’s muscle memory now. If I were to stop, I fear I might just malfunction and catch fire. That said, if you are aggrieved — not grumpy, as I so mistakenly suggested, please forgive me for that too— then I humbly bow to your deliverance, Lady Justice. Though I maintain that the distinction is rather blurry when you’re stomping past me with furrowed brows and lips pressed into a line sharp enough to cut marble, lips I dare say I wish I could kiss into their usual form. Regarding the duvet — yes, I recall saying that. I stand by it. Even if I must freeze to death one night beneath your siege of unconscious theft, I would still rather reach out and find you beside me than not. You will indubitably note that that was unnecessarily dark, I’m sure, and you’ll then make a comment about the phase we shall not talk about that I went through in my youth. Further, the blazer has accepted your apology. It insists you take it off me tonight. Is that too forward? You usually love when I’m forward but I worry this will only enrage you more, likely in a way that will leave me dangerously sore. Perhaps that is what I intend. I cannot tell anymore. I just miss your touch. As for the note, I didn’t assume you threw it away. I merely feared it. I know you well enough to know that even when you’re furious, you’re still gentle with the things I give you. It’s one of those things you do that melt my heart. Your ship — this solitary vessel of marital vengeance — sounds lonely. It is precisely that reason however that I must stay aboard, respectfully. With all my love, Kento – your infuriatingly tall, overly warm, occasionally smug but entirely yours husband P.S. I’ll have dinner ready by the time you’re home. P.P.S. I will attempt to be less perfect, though I make no promises. I’ve spent years mastering my five o’clock shadow, it practically comes in on its own when it senses you’re at your most vulnerable. As for my silk, golden locks, I owe that to you and your hair mask. Thank you.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Tempting

Kento. I’ve read your message. Twice. Once dramatically, on break. Once again, aloud, with emphasis, so the plants in my office could also judge you. And I must say... The audacity. The calm. The poetry. The charm. Ugh. Disgusting. I hate how you win arguments by being emotionally intelligent and devastatingly eloquent. Stop. Also, your blazer is so dramatic. I was always going to take it off you, that was never in question. And yes, I love when you're forward. I loved it just now. Reminds me of that time we snuck off into the janitor's closet and... Moving on. I will admit (reluctantly) that your words were very lovely, they usually are, and the image of you freezing like a noble idiot because you'd rather suffer than part from me for even a life-saving second was both tragic and romantic and exactly the kind of behaviour that makes staying mad at you basically impossible. I hate that for me. But fine. F I N E. You may stay aboard my metaphorical ship, provided you bring snacks and acknowledge that I am the captain and you’re just here for deck-swabbing privileges and forehead kisses. You’ll be handsomely rewarded ;) Love, Your Wife (Still aggrieved. But slightly less so. Like… 69% less.) P.S. If you’re trying to seduce me via dinner, it’s working. You might get that kiss. Or two. Depends how good it is.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Please Stop

Dear YN and Nanami Kento, I hope you are both well. Do forgive me for intruding me but, as Head of HR and as your friend, I feel a need to remind you both that you are liaising using your work emails which are monitored by HR. Resolving marital disputes on company hours and company mail is not recommended nor permitted. Please set this aside for when you get home. I also wish to remind you that your offices are a short distance from each other. There doesn’t seem to be a need to be communicating via emails at all. From my desk, I have been watching you two write your emails with smiles on your faces. I suspect neither of you are mad at each other at all. So, YN, please just forgive him already. He hasn’t done much work all day, whereas your productivity has increased. We should probably hold a meeting to discuss both changes. I am concerned. Lastly, your fight is distracting everyone. One colleague described it as ‘funny,’ another ‘sweet,’ and someone else called it ‘foreplay.’ I’m sure you understand why exactly I intervened. You are both already on two strikes. Please don't make me remind you of what exactly what happened the last two times. The company is still paying for therapy sessions for the affected employees. Do better. Best wishes, Ijichi Kiyotaka P.S. Why were you even mad? Did he forget an anniversary? Comment on your weight?

From: [email protected]

Subject: Kinda Embarrassed. No Longer Mad

Dear Kento, Did not realise the whole office was invested in this. No wonder the intern was giving me a look and Sharon from IT told me that she and her husband also fight like this to ’spice up’ their love life, and that its best when the husband gets mad too. TMI but appreciated. Are you even capable of getting mad at me? Well, anyway, you heard the man. Let’s continue this conversation at home. And Ijichi, I know you’re reading this, you Peeping Tom. I hope you know we’re going to make sweet, dirty love tonight. All night. Bring this up to the Big Boss, I dare you. I know you haven’t forgotten the huge favour you owe me for beating Gojo up when he needlessly sent you on errands around the city. Please stand up for yourself. Do better, as you say. Kento, let’s go home together tonight. I need to apologise to your blazer as soon as possible and to catch up on kisses expeditiously. In fact, expect a knock on your office door. Love, Your wife

From: [email protected]

Subject: Didn't Notice Ijichi's P.S.

Dear Nanami, and Ijichi because you are reading these, He sat on my bunny plushie yesterday. He flattened her. I'm mad again. Hate, YN

From: [email protected]

Subject: Thank You, Ijichi

Dear wife and Peeping Tom colleague, You have no appreciation for the work I put in to get back into my wife's good graces. All your disclaimers about simply doing your job were clearly written in deceit since your gossiping self could not resist prying. Do not think I haven't overheard you collecting bets on why she was mad at me in the break room. Please expect Gojo's presence in your office with some new, overbearing task soon. You're welcome. Worst wishes (to Ijichi), Nanami Kento And nothing but love (to my wife), Ken

From: [email protected]

Subject: Don't Read This One, Ijichi

Ken, You're so hot when you're all assertive. Wanna get strike three? Preferably in your office, on your desk? Gojo can distract everyone for an hour...or two. Lust, Your Wife

From: [email protected]

Subject: Don't Keep Me Waiting

Sweetheart, Door's open.

From: [email protected]

Subject: I Am Not A Peeping Tom

I hate you both and you deserve each other. Regrettably, Ijichi Kiyotaka

From: [email protected]

Subject: Freakyyyy

Dear Nanami, YN, and my favourite Peeping Tom, This is what happens in the office? Wow, maybe I should get a desk job (lol that's probably what Nanami's getting right now, lucky guy) Can't believe I was slaving away, keeping the world safe, and you two were slacking off and getting it on. I'm expecting a baby Nanami soon. Make me the godfather pls pls pls Stay sexy, The Strongest P.S. Can I watch? I’m kidding…unless?

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ilovebigdickdilfs · 5 days ago

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𓂃 synopsis ! :　 jinu giving his sweet, adorable girlfriend a lil' creampie session until she squirts ♡

pairing ᢉ𐭩 - jinu saja x female reader

warnings ᢉ𐭩 - smut, p in v sex, pussy slapping, twt link (must have an account logged into in order to access it ᢉ𐭩), mating press position mentioned, squirting, breeding kink if you squinch (?), no proofread, feeling lazy. credits go to whoever made the dividers below!

jinu had you in a nasty mating press. legs bent damn near behind your ears, thighs red from his hands grasping them like they'll suddenly poof away if he lets go even an inch.

your eyes were glossed over with tears, drool sliding down your mouth to your chin.

"baby—f-fuuck—you're droolin'," jinu teases, pushing your legs back more than they need to be and licking the drool, catching it between his lips.

you were out of it—eyes glossed over, tears piling up in your pretty eyes and falling out, adorable sniffles escaping you. you're begging jinu to speed up, but then slow down, practically babbling incoherently at this point.

"jinuuu!—hmmph!" you cry, toes curling as you feel his cock hit your pudgy g-spot over and over.

he chuckles, leaning down so your noses are touches. "whaaat? look at you, baby—you're a mess."

jinu's cock drags inside you so well, it makes you lightheaded. "j-jinu—p-please, y-you're too deep! i can't!" you cry, nails digging into his muscular forearm harshly, causing him to hiss at the sudden sting of pain.

"n-noo, baby, you can, c'mon, i know you can." he pants, giving you a sweet kiss on your lips.

jinu doesn't let up whatsoever—instead he speeds up, railing into you like it's his last day on earth being a demon and cherishing the moment. he lets your legs get a little rest, letting your thighs go, causing them to rush to either side of his waist and dangle with each deep, rough thrust he gives your needy cunt.

"you did it before, yeah? was bein' a slut f'me and letting me put you into a nasty mating press like right now—oooh, fuuck." he pulls out suddenly, giving your pussy a nice slap. you yelp at the sudden touch, the sting lingering with your throbbing pussy.

you let out a slutty moan—your thighs jerking at the slap.

"fuuck, baby—look at her, she's begging me to put my cock back inside, huh?" he grunts, grabbing your waist and pushing his cock back inside your throbbing hole.

"mmh—jinuu, o-oh my god!" your hands fly to his shoulders, pulling him close, basically hugging him. you shove your face in his neck, feeling your pussy squeeze his cock, a sign your body is giving that you're so close to exploding.

"p-princess," jinu rasps, "cunt's squeezin' me like she doesn't wanna let go—haahh, fuuck, baby." he groans. the noise of skin slapping against each other grows louder, filling the room and echoing. you two are so gonna get a neighbor coming to your door at 11 pm and complaining how loud you guys are.

"ooh-hoo, what's this?" he grabs your tit, fondling the heavy, perky flesh between his fingers. "close, huh? you can cum for me, yeaaah? you did it all the other times i fucked this cock-deprived pussy, right?"

the way his voice has that deep rasp in it with a hint of desire has you choking on your own air. "y-yes, yes, i-i can—mm—do it, i can—i caaann!" your legs wrap around his waist, the heel of your feet pressing into jinu's lower back.

"yeaah—i know you can, haah—shit—c'mon, cum for me, make a pretty mess, milk my cock—gon' give you a baby if you milk me just enough, princess." jinu groans, grabbing your legs and pushing them back towards your head.

he grabs your chin, causing you to look at him. and damn, he can't help but damn near whimper at the sight below him.

his adorable girlfriend moaning like she hasn't had sex in ages, fat globs of tears spilling out her eyes, drool escaping her mouth all the way down to her chin and just rolling right down below.

your eyes flutter shut and roll back, a loud moan tearing from your throat as your body pauses for just a second before letting your squirt escape your body, splashing onto jinu's abs and cock.

your back arches, nails digging a nice scar into his back. jinu moans, loud and broken, spilling his hot cum into you, filling you up all nice.

cream smothers your pussy and his cock as you cum, your cream secretly spilling out as you orgasm.

"fuuuckk, yeaah, princess, good girl—my good fuckin' girl."

your body wildly responds before calming down. jinu lets go of your legs, letting them weakly lower onto the now squirt soaked bed.

"think you can go another round? i did say I'll give you a baby if you milk me good enough.. you did good here, but i think my baby needs a little more, yeah? just for extra measures."

and he slaps his cock against your pussy before entering you once again, fucking you into oblivion, promising you with stuffing you up.

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ilovebigdickdilfs · 6 days ago

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HEADCANONS OF OLDER BF TOJI WITH HIS SHY YOUNGER GF <3

cw - domestic fluff then NASTY smut. age gap(20s, 43), daddy kink, Weird disgusting shit as usual, yk me. Toji is an ASS man, slight piss kink, anal play, stuff w spit, light face slapping etc. this man’s mouth is filthy. this shit is so long for no reason. Banner is from Ikyouto Kouryuukai.

a/n - still on my break but I just wanted to post this bc it’s gonna be my last post for a while since my classes have started again so I’ve been busy. Also thank you everyone for your sweet and kind messages, I’ve seen all of them, they’ve made me so happy, and I’m genuinely very very grateful for everyone. Thank you and take care🤍

⋆˖ ࣪ ‎𐙚 FLUFF

You once told him you love listening to the rain and how peaceful it sounds—so now whenever it rains, he’ll open the window just a crack, light your favorite scented candle, and tug you into bed to cuddle with him under the covers to listen together—even if he’s supposed to be busy.

Toji always keeps a soft, freshly folded blanket in his truck just for you. Whenever you’d ride along with him, he’s always tossing it over your lap—doesn’t matter if it’s hot outside, he’d turn the air conditioner up, he just likes knowing you’re cozy and comfortable.

He buys groceries like a dad—meat, rice, basic stuff but every single trip he sneaks in little things that’s clearly just for you: the strawberry milk you love, a box of cute cookies, a silly little snack. When you try to thank him, he shrugs like it’s no big deal, but the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s fighting a smile.

On lazy mornings, he pretends to still be asleep so you’ll think it’s safe to touch him. You’ll gingerly run your fingers through his raven hair or trace little shapes on his broad chest, only for him to suddenly rumble, “That tickles, sweetheart,” in his sleep-rough voice. You always squeak in embarrassment, but he just laughs and pulls you closer into the warmth of his body.

He hates taking selfies, but you’re too shy to take pictures of yourself. So he started a quiet habit—he’ll pull you into his chest, lift his phone, and snap a picture of you two together when you’re sleeping or not expecting it. Later, you’ll find your face saved in his gallery a hundred different ways, all with him grinning and you looking shy but happy.

He loves when you fall asleep against him. You’re shy about dozing off in front of others, but Toji thinks it’s adorable that you trust him enough to lean your whole weight against the his chest. He’ll stroke your hair until you’re fully out, then whisper things he’d never admit while you’re awake—little confessions about how much you mean to him.

Toji carries you around the house without asking—from the couch to the bed, from the kitchen to the living room like it’s his favorite job in the world. He’ll grumble playfully when you tell him you can walk yourself, “What’s the point of being this strong if I can’t use it on my girl?” and set you down with a soft kiss to your forehead.

Whenever you’re cooking, Toji comes up behind you and wraps his weathered arms around your middle while he rests his chin on your shoulder, muttering about how delicious the food smells. He always sneaks a taste straight from the spoon you’re holding, which makes you giggle, and then he’ll pinch your cheek just to hear you laugh harder.

On slow mornings, Toji makes you sit on the kitchen counter while he makes breakfast. He’ll bump your knees apart to stand between them, kissing your cheek every minute while flipping pancakes like it’s just another part of his morning routine.

You write little notes for him sometimes—reminders, “good luck today,” or just cute silly doodles. You’re too shy to hand them directly, so you’ll tuck them into his lunch bag or jacket pocket. Toji never says much about them, but one day you found a whole stack of them tucked into his nightstand, neatly kept.

He has a sixth sense for when you’re craving something. You’ll never say it out loud, but if you pause a second too long in front of a bakery or linger on a display in a store, Toji makes a mental note. Somehow, a day later it shows up on the counter with a casual, “Picked this up for you”.

He loves when you hold onto his arm while walking. Sometimes you’ll just hug it close with both hands and press your cheek against his sleeve where his muscles are bugling through the fabric. He pretends to tease you, saying, “What, scared I’ll run off without you?” but his chest feels like it might burst every time.

He takes you fishing sometimes, but not because he cares about catching anything. He just likes seeing you all bundled up in his oversized hoodie by the water, asking curious questions in your quiet voice, dangling your legs off the dock while he casts the line.

Toji teaches you how to whistle with your fingers because you admitted you couldn’t and he was determined to teach you. He spends an entire afternoon showing you, laughing whenever you get shy and blow air with no sound. When you finally get it, he claps way too dramatically and ruffles your hair till it’s all messy, like you just won an award.

Toji always takes your side of the booth at diners. He hates sitting across from you, so he’ll squeeze his massive body in the small space next to you, arm stretched along the backrest, making you shy while he orders like nothing’s unusual.

Toji is huge on physical affection, especially casual touches. He’ll rest his big palm on your lower back when guiding you through a crowd, tug you into his lap when you’re shy about sitting next to him, or casually hook two fingers into your belt loop just to keep you from going anywhere too far from him.

He loves feeding you from his chopsticks or fork, even if you’re eating your own meal. “C’mon, darling. Open up,” he says, holding it there until you lean in shyly.

Sometimes late at night, he pulls you outside barefoot just to look at the sparkling stars in the night sky. He’ll point at constellations all wrong, making you laugh as you correct him. You lean into his side while he rests a heavy arm around you, his thumb brushing circles into your shoulder. At some point he murmurs, almost too softly, “Pretty up there. But you’re way prettier”. You hide your face against him, and he chuckles low in his chest.

Whenever he gets paid, Toji has a rule: you get the first “treat”. Sometimes it’s a new hoodie, sometimes a necklace, sometimes just fancy expensive desserts. He never tells you beforehand, just drags you along and says, “Pick something, baby. I’m not leaving till you do”.

After dinner, you always offer to wash dishes but Toji shoos you away. “Nah. You cooked, I’ll clean”. He’ll roll his sleeves up to his thick forearms, stand at the sink, and whistle while rinsing everything down. Sometimes you sneak up and hug him from behind, pressing your cheek flat to his massive back. He always pauses for a second, hand dripping with soap suds, before chuckling and leaning back into your embrace.

When Toji rakes leaves in the yard, he always makes one big pile just for you. He acts like it’s a chore, but when you run and flop into it, he laughs until his chest aches. Sometimes he even tackles you into the pile, both of you sinking into crunchy leaves while he kisses your cheek with dirt-smudged hands.

****************************************************

⋆˖ ࣪ ‎𐙚 SMUT

Toji is obsessed with how smaller your body is compared to his, especially your pussy. Every time he forces his cock through that tight clingy ring of muscle, he can’t help but moan at the way your walls flutter and clamp down instinctively, squeezing him like you’re trying to keep him locked in. “Fuck, baby…you’re fucking strangling me. You love when daddy splits you open like this, don’t you?” And when you moan and cry out too loud, he fucking loves it—because it’s proof you can’t hide how good it feels to be stuffed full of him, stretched until you’re shaking and leaking all over his cock till it’s coated in your juices.

When you’re on your knees giving him head, he’ll push your adorable glasses up just enough to see your watery eyes staring up at him. He fucks your throat and spit on your tongue until drool strings down your chin, then wipes it across your cheek with his rough thumb, grinning like a bastard. “Look at you… glasses all fogged up, face a mess of spit, and still begging for more cock. Cute”.

He jerks off over you when you’re too tired to move, fist working his thick cock while you lay there flushed and whimpering. He always aims for your bare tits, your face, your fogged-up glasses—anywhere he knows will make you flustered. And when he’s finished, he presses his messy fingers to your lips, making you lick him clean like a good girl.

He’s a freak for your panties. Sometimes he’ll just tug them to the side to fuck you because he loves seeing them ruined and stretched around your ass. Other times, he’ll stroke his cock into a pair when you’re not looking, deliberately leaving them sticky and tainted with his seed so later you’ll pull them on and feel the mess soaking against your skin. And when he catches sight of you wearing them, his eyes go dark—he can’t stop smirking as he palms his cock and hums, “Knew you’d end up walking around with my load stuck to your pussy. Bet you like it. Shit, you’re so nasty, baby”.

If you’re too shy to touch yourself, he makes you anyway. He leans back against the headboard with his mean cock out, stroking it lazily while you fumble with your throbbing clit under his heavy stare. “That’s it? That’s how my baby tries to get off? No wonder you need daddy to fuck you dumb”. His voice laced with mocking amusement, watching you squirm and whine, your hand shaky and awkward against your needy pussy. And when you can’t finish, he takes over without mercy—pinning you down on the mattress, rubbing and fucking you until you’re overstimulated and crying while clinging to his shoulders for dear life, whimpering out every broken little sound he wanted to hear.

He records you on his phone without shame. Sometimes it’s your face when you’re choking and gaging on his veiny cock, sometimes it’s your little pussy squirting all over his lap. Later he’ll play the clips back while you’re blushing and hiding your face, muttering, “Don’t hide, baby. Ohh look this one’s my favorite”. While showing a video of him unplugging his cock from your cum stuffed cunt, and watching as his milky seed floods out in thick streaks.

He makes you beg out loud for the dirtiest things. “Say it, baby. Tell daddy which hole you want stuffed. Say it nasty”. If you try to whisper, he’ll slap your ass until you’re crying it out and begging him.

When he’s really mean, he’ll stuff his lengthy fingers down your throat while he’s buried in your warm cunt, forcing you to choke on his thick digits while you clenched down instinctively around him from how much you love it. He pulls them out while they’re dripping, and smears your spit across your tits.

He’ll carry you into the bathroom after he filled you and make you squat over the bath tub while his cum slowly leaks out of your ruined hole. He strokes his cock watching like a pervert, “shiiit, Look at my mess dripping outta you. Should shove it right back in”.

Toji loves when you accidentally twitch your asshole while he’s spreading you open. He’ll laugh and pinch your cheek, cooing, “Aww, look at it winking at daddy. Cute little hole wants some attention too, huh?” before spitting on it and rubbing his thumb in until you’re squealing.

Toji gets obsessed with your little gape. He’ll quickly yank his dick out while holding your asscheeks apart, and he tilts his head like he’s admiring a drawing. “Ohhh look at that cute open hole, Daddy stretched his baby wide like a little donut”. Then he spits in it just to see it flutter back in place before stuffing himself back in.

On the subway, he cages you against the door, holding the bar above your head while his clothed erection presses against your ass through his sweats to the point where it’s digging into you. He sways with the train so it looks casual, but his bulge is grinding up and down your cheeks, heavy and hot. He smirks when you blush, muttering, “Crowded in here, huh? Good thing my cock fits right between your ass”.

Toji lovesss starting oral by spitting straight onto your pretty pussy, thick gobs dripping into your folds. He doesn’t even wait—just smears it in with his tongue until your sensitive clit and hole are bubbling with spit. It foams white when he slurps, and he pulls back with his chin dripping, grinning, “Messy little cunt’s frothing like a beer f’me”.

In public while you’re out with friends, he’ll slide his big hand under the table and make you rub your socked foot against his crotch while he talks casually to whoever’s there.

He loves pressing his cockhead right against your leaking hole while you piss. His fat tip gets sprayed and splattered, slippery with warm streams, and he moans, “Ohhh fuck... look at that pretty pussy showering my cock. Keep going, baby”.

He’ll drag you onto his lap, grind your clothed pussy on his bulge, and angle you so his cockhead rubs right against your asshole through your panties. He controls your movements and forces your hips in circles, groaning, “That’t it. Rub your ass on daddy’s dick, make it messy f’me”. By the time he’s done, your panties are ruined, and your hole is twitching from nothing but pathetic friction.

Toji loves folding you up tight in mating press—your knees shoved by your ears, belly squished, pussy spread wide open for his assaulting cock. But when he notices your little feet dangling right by his face, he smirks darkly before licking a long stride from your heel to your ankle before ending it with an affectionate kiss.

He shakes his head side to side while he’s nose deep in your sloppy cunt, stubble scraping your delicate skin, drool mixing with your sticky slick, smearing all over your thighs. He pulls back to grin at you, his chin and lips shining, then dives back in with a grunt.

He loves blowing spit bubbles on your sensitive clit, then sucking them up with a nasty slurp. The sound alone makes you whimper, and he laughs against you. he’ll force your cunt to spit back at him. He shoves two thick fingers inside, curls them against your sweet spot until you gush all over his fingers, then smears his slobber into the mess until your pussy’s bubbling. He licks it up loudly, making eye contact the whole time.

He’s obsessed with how your asshole reacts. Every time his tongue pushes in, your rim clenches tight like it’s trying to fight him off, then flutters open again. He’ll pull back just to watch it twitch from his gaze, chuckling, “this little hole can’t even decide if it wants to run or kiss daddy’s tongue”. Then he dives back in, slobbering until spit foams at the corners of his mouth.

Toji cannot keep his hands off your ass. Doesn’t matter if you’re cooking, folding laundry, or just walking past him — he’s always grabbing, squeezing, spreading, or smacking it.

He’s obsessed with watching it jiggle. Half the reason he pounds you so hard while giving you backshots is so he can watch your ass bounce off his hips from the mean impact of his thrusts. He’ll smack it over and over, grinning darkly at the view. “Godddddamn. Look at it wobble. Old man could fuck this view forever”.

Toji loves reverse cowgirl, because it’s his perfect view: your round ass bouncing on his pathetically hard cock, cheeks rippling with every desperate drop. He grips handfuls of you, spreading your cheeks wide just to see his veiny cock disappearing snugly inside you just to appear back again with a fresh coat of your cream. He slaps your ass till it’s all red and marked up with his large handprints, snarling, “Look at this fucking view. ‘M fucking buried in heaven”.

When he’s really filthy he’d spit into your asshole over and over until it’s bubbling frothy white, then lap it all up again like he’s drinking from you. He smears his thumb across your wet rim, presses it in until your hole stretches around the tip of his finger, then shoves his tongue beside it. The pressure makes you cry out, and he just moans into you.

Toji wakes up for work groaning, rubbing his eyes, already scowling at the alarm. He’s halfway out of bed, muttering curses under his breath about being late, when he notices you curled up on your side — panties crooked, glistening pussy peeking just a little under the blanket. He sighs through his nose and drags his hand down his face. “Fucking brat. You think I’m walking outta here with that pussy looking at me like that? No chance”. Next thing you know, he’s got your legs shoved open, his fat cock pushing in without prep. He mutters into your hair, “This hole’s a problem. ‘M never making it to work on time”.

His dirty talk is like a half lecture. He’s got his throbbing cock buried to the hilt where his curly pubes are grazing your clit, hips snapping into your sloppy pussy over and over, muttering, “Every damn morning. My alarm goes off, and instead of leaving I’m balls-deep in my brat. Pussy’s got me by the fucking throat”. He grope your soft ass roughly, grinning when your hole spasms around his shaft.

Sometimes he fucks you right at the door—you’re bent over the entryway table with his boots half on. He’s grunting, balls harshly smacking your neglected clit, while his keys jingle in his pocket. “Pussy’s making me late, kid. Gonna lose my job ‘cause I can’t stop breeding you”. When he finally spills inside, he stuffs your panties back up against your messy cunt and whispers, “Now go back to bed, and keep it warm f’me”. While you nod and clench around his load.

In doggy, he’ll yank you back by your throat, arching you against his chest while he pounds into you from behind. You’re choking, crying, drooling, and he snarls into your ear, “Nothing but my toy. That’s all you are”.

Toji loves watching your mouth hang open while he cuts off your air. He’ll spit right on your tongue while he’s got you pinned and make you swallow it.

He’ll tongue your drooling pussy so hard your juices spill down to your ass. Instead of wiping it away, he sniffs the trail, following it back up with his tongue, slurping until you’re soppy cunt is bubbling with spit and slick.

He loves humping his nose against you. He rubs it back and forth over your clit until you’re crying, then drags it down to smear against your asshole. Sometimes you’ll be bent over reaching for something, and suddenly his big hands are on your hips, nose shoved right between your ass cheeks, and nudging between your folds as he inhales deeply.

He corrupts you into loving the filth. The first time you squirt on his face, you cry in embarrassment but Toji just moans while his eyes roll back, licking it up sloppy like it’s the best drink he ever had. “Taste fucking amazing, baby. Don’t be shy— soak daddy again”. Now you gush for him on command.

He loves catching you acting innocent in public—polite voice, shy smiles because he knows later he’ll have you bent over, drooling on his cock like a mindless slut while you cling to him, sobbing while he snarls, “Where’s my sweet little girl now, huh? All I see is daddy’s whore”.

If you hide your face during sex, he’ll slap your cheek gently to make you look at him. “Did I say you can look away? Look at me while I stretch your pussy”. That sting just makes your tears spill faster. He gets off on how your body reacts. One slap and your mouth hangs open, drool on your glossy lips, your pussy gushing harder all over him. He laughs, “Shit, This slutty little pussy gets wetter everytime I slap your face. You’re so fucked up, baby”.

In oral, he’ll use it as a rhythm—you’re choking on his cock, warm tears down your cheeks, and he’ll slap your face lightly a few times when you slow down to catch your breath, “C’mon, baby. Take it all. My cock looks so good down your throat”.

After he slaps you, he often cups your face gently, thumb rubbing the sting, then spits in your mouth.

Whenever you’re too teary and trembling from overstimulation, he’ll be surprisingly gentle. He presses your face to his neck, pats your thigh, and whispers, “Shhh. You’re okay. Daddy didn’t mean to push so hard. You did perfect”. Then he’ll rock you a little until you calm down.

When it’s all over and your body’s shaking, Toji never pulls away at first—he just lays heavy on top of you, kissing your damp cheek and letting you catch your breath. Eventually, he eases out slowly, cooing, “Easy, baby… I got you,” and tucks you against his chest before you can even whine about the emptiness. He’s gruff about it, but so careful—one huge hand rubbing slow gentle circles on your back, the other stroking your thigh as he sits up to grab a towel.

He wipes you down with surprising gentleness, kissing your knee after, before tossing the rag aside and tugging you into his lap. You get water pressed to your lips while his calloused hand steadies the glass, and when you’re too tired to swallow, he smirks and coos, “C’mon, baby. Couple more sips f’me”. He’ll even grumble his way into the kitchen if he thinks you’re hungry, returning with something small just to make you eat while he pets your hair. After that, you’re tucked under his chin, his heartbeat steady against your ear, while his big palm strokes your hip fondly. He kisses your forehead, scratches lightly at your scalp, and murmurs in that low, rough voice, “My good girl. Im proud of you… you did so fucking well”. Even when he finally drifts off, his arm stays locked around you like he’s never letting go.

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ilovebigdickdilfs · 9 days ago

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My delusional unckuna nephyuji au

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ilovebigdickdilfs · 9 days ago

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‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️

Oh world 🌏

I hope to find someone who will listen to us and see us now 🤍

Famine, genocide, and destruction are now covered in the media. 🩸🔇

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ilovebigdickdilfs · 14 days ago

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sukuna definitely loves to try some insane positions. and you, the pleaser, practically let him toss you around like a porn star.

currently, he’s standing up, you’re upside down, legs slung over his shoulders and locked around his head, arms clinging to his rock-hard torso like it’s your lifeline.

and sukuna? well of course he’s loving every second of it.

blood is rushing to your skull, while his cock—fuck—thick, veined, with a wicked curve that bullies the back of your throat. it’s hot, pulsing, stretching your lips to their limit, the musky taste flooding your senses as spit drips down your chin, mixing with tears and his pre-cum.

your pussy’s exposed, dripping, and he’s feasting on it like a starved animal, tongue plunging deep into your slick heat with wet, filthy slurps. the room’s a haze of lewd sounds—your gags, his groans, the obscene squelch of his mouth devouring your cunt. every nerve in your body’s screaming, but the way his tongue flicks your clit keeps you tethered to the edge of sanity.

“fuck, you’re such a nasty girl, baby,” sukuna says, his voice rough and dripping with sadistic glee.

his teeth graze your swollen folds, sharp enough to sting, making you jerk in his iron grip. “choking on my cock while i eat this dripping pussy—bet you’re fucking loving this, aren’t you?”

he dives back in, sucking your clit hard, tongue curling inside you, scooping up your slick like it’s his last meal. your thighs tremble, your body’s a live wire, and the overstimulation’s got you teetering on the edge.

“don’t you dare stop sucking,” he growls, thrusting his hips, shoving his dick deeper until you gag, the tip hitting your throat with a wet thud. “take it all, juuust like that. good girl.”

you moan around him, the vibrations making his cock twitch, your jaw aches, but you swirl your tongue around the leaking tip, tasting the salty bead of pre-cum. your fingers dig into his back, nails scraping his skin as you pull yourself closer, desperate to please.

“shit, baby, that’s it,” he grunts, his breath hot against your soaked cunt. “swallow it, be a good girl for kuna.”

he’s relentless—tongue plunging and twisting—pushing you toward a brutal climax. your pussy clenches, slick gushing out. you squirt hard, soaking his face. he groans, lapping it up, not missing a drop, his lips glistening as he sucks you dry.

“fuuuck yes,” he laughs darkly, nipping your inner thigh, the sting making you choke out a whimper around his dick. “that’s what i wanted.”

his hips snap, fucking your face now, each thrust making you gag harder, tears streaming as his cock stretches your throat.

“now, i’m gonna fill that pretty mouth,” he hisses, voice strained. “and you’re gonna swallow every drop, yeah?”

he’s close, his dick throbbing. you suck harder, cheeks hollowing, tongue pressing against the thick veins. with a guttural moan, he cums, hot, thick ropes flooding your throat, spilling past your lips as you struggle to swallow. it’s messy, dripping down your face, mixing with your spit and tears.

he flips you upright, catching you as your legs buckle.

“look at you, all fucked out and dripping,” he taunts, wiping his slick-soaked chin, then smearing it across your lips. “but i’m not done yet.”

“ready to go to pound town, baby?” his voice a low growl, promising more as he licks his fingers clean, eyes glinting with cruel intent.

:3 please check out my other works! here’s the master list! <3

a/n: ive been kinda mia, just been busy with life. BUT i wrote this on the plane yesterday but i have something im working on for sukuna :3 so in the meantime, smut! go on, fetch!

throws all you feral dogs a bone

taglist: @ha1lstorm @1stqueenofhell @bistrocatxx @lisafrankgojo @desirehorizon

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ilovebigdickdilfs · 18 days ago

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The Saja Boys X Heavy Sleeper Reader! When I say heavy sleeper, I mean you can have rock music and people screaming in the background and reader will still sleep through it blissfully unaware. You have to splash water on them to wake them up and even then, they’re not a morning person so they take a century to fully wake up and are grumpy if rudely awoken.

you’re a heavy sleeper

tags: gn!reader, established relationship, (is this fluff ??)

🫧 Masterlist

🎐 MYSTERY

Mystery crouched at your bedside, studying you like you were some strange, unmovable puzzle.

“Hey, we have somewhere to be,” he said softly.

No response. Not even a twitch.

He sighed, shaking his head as you slept through the sound of his bandmates yelling in the living room. He rolled up his sleeves, a smirk slowly making its way through his face.

“Alright, heavy sleeper. Time for the forbidden technique.”

He dug his fingers into your sides, mercilessly tickling you. You shot upright with a shriek, batting at his hands. “MYST! Stop!”

He chuckled, pinning you with one arm and keeping at it. “No. This is punishment.”

When you finally flopped back against the bed, panting and glaring, Mystery kissed your forehead. “You’re cute when you’re cranky, but you’re cuter when you’re awake.”

🌀 BABY

Baby blasted music first. Then he shouted your name. Then he shook you. Nothing worked.

“Are you serious right now?” he muttered, staring at you like you were an impossible boss level. “Okay. Plan B, then.”

He filled a spray bottle — yes, a spray bottle — and began misting your face like you were a stubborn plant.

You groaned awake, swatting blindly. “WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?”

“My problem is you,” Baby said, exasperated. “You sleep like a rock. Do you even hear yourself snore?”

You glared, bleary-eyed. “You’re lucky I like you.”

He smirked, leaning down until his face was inches from yours. “No, you’re lucky I like you. Otherwise I’d let you sleep through your entire life.”

You muttered something unflattering, but Baby only laughed and pulled you upright by the hand.

🌷 ROMANCE

Romance refused to splash you. It felt cruel. Instead, he’d sit beside you, brushing your hair back softly, whispering your name until your eyes finally fluttered open.

This morning, however, you were impossible. Even after a solid ten minutes of gentle coaxing, you barely stirred.

He sighed, leaning down to kiss your temple. “You’re going to make me late, sweetheart.”

You mumbled into the pillow, “Tell the world I died.”

Romance chuckled, sliding his arms under you to lift you bridal-style out of bed. You weakly swatted at him, eyes still closed.

“I’ll carry you to breakfast, then. If you won’t wake up for me, maybe you’ll wake up for food.”

You cracked one bleary eye open. “Pancakes?”

He smiled. “Pancakes.”

🍿 ABBY

Abby had no patience. He shook the bed so hard it nearly tipped. “Get up get up! GET UP!”

You mumbled incoherently, still dead asleep.

Abby groaned. “Unbelievable. You’re still alive, but you sleep heavier than the dead.”

He stomped into the bathroom, filled a cup, and marched back out. Without hesitation, he splashed it right on your face.

You sat up sputtering, glaring murderously at him. “WHAT. WAS. THAT?”

Abby smirked, completely unfazed. “My survival instincts. You’d sleep through the apocalypse.”

You flopped back down, grumbling, “And maybe I should.”

He laughed, scooping you up anyway, bridal-style. “Fine, stay mad. You’re still coming with me.”

🎶 JINU

Jinu leaned over you, his hair falling forward as he poked your cheek for the twentieth time.

“Babe, come on. Schedules. We’re already late.”

You snored softly in reply.

He sighed. He’d already tried opening the curtains, clapping his hands, even blasting one of his own rehearsal tracks. Nothing. Finally, he grabbed a cold water bottle from the kitchen and pressed it against your cheek.

You jolted, groaning, swatting at him like he was an enemy. “Five more minutes.”

“Five minutes was thirty minutes ago,” Jinu said with a laugh, catching your wrist before you could bury yourself again. He tugged you into his arms, squeezing until you groaned in protest. “Fine. If I can’t wake you, I’ll just carry you.”

And so he did, grinning as you grumpily pouted on his shoulder.

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ilovebigdickdilfs · 18 days ago

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THE DOG'S DEFIANCE

EMPRESS F!READER X TOJI FUSHIGURO (AND MENTIONS OF NANAMI, GETO, SUKUNA, SHIU, MEGUMI)

CW MISANDRY, HUMILIATION, BETRAYAL, MANIPULATION, RELIGIOUS/RITUALISTIC THEMES, CUNNILINGUS WORSHIP, POWER IMBALANCE, DEGRADATION, MURDER, EMOTIONAL MANIPULATION, CORRUPTION, TWISTED DYNAMICS, ANGST

SUMMARY your palace is ruled by women, your cunt a holy altar guarded by wives who worship you with lips and prayer. but jealousy rots in the men who circle your throne.

DISCLAIMER this is a dark work of fanfiction. themes include heavy misandry, manipulation, and sexual degradation. all characters are adults (megumi is 26). nothing here reflects real-life consent or relationships. read responsibly. do not steal, copy, or repost.

©️onlypinkslut

the palace is made for worship. ivory columns carved with lilies, silk curtains that ripple like waves when the wind sneaks in from the balcony, a throne raised on seven steps so no man can look at you without tilting his head back. you are their goddess, their empress, their virgin ruler, and your body is the temple that keeps the kingdom alive.

your throne is not cold stone it is flesh, devotion. one girl kneels at your feet, her cheek resting on your thigh as if it were a pillow. another hovers at your side, feeding you peeled grapes one by one, her lips brushing the fruit before it reaches yours. your women are your wives in every way that matters: they bathe you, they oil your skin until it gleams like gold, they slip their mouths between your thighs when the night grows long and the loneliness sharp. they whisper love into your skin, and you let them.

you have never been touched by a man. and yet, they gather beneath your throne like starving dogs.

toji stands with his arms crossed, scarred and broad, eyes devouring you the way soldiers devour an enemy city. nanami kneels properly, golden hair neat, but his fists are tight on his knees as if restraint is a rope cutting into him. geto leans too comfortably against a pillar, the priest turned predator, smiling faintly as he studies the girls at your feet. sukuna does not kneel at all he lounges against your staircase with a grin carved deep in his face, tattoos moving when his chest rises with laughter. shiu smokes despite the incense, lazy eyes never leaving your mouth. and megumi, youngest among them, toji’s son, stands half in shadow, quiet and unassuming, but close enough to be inside your circle.

your women know what this is. a war. their fingers tighten on you as if staking claim. one of them dares, in front of all the men, to part your robe and press a soft kiss above your knee. her lips linger. the room breathes with tension.

toji’s jaw ticks, his body leaning forward as if he might drag her away by her hair. nanami’s gaze sharpens like a blade; sukuna laughs, low and vulgar.

“your majesty,” geto says smoothly, “do you let them worship you while we rot here like beggars?”

you smile, soft, cruel, and tilt your head. “i let those who are worthy.”

the girl at your knee lifts her face, glowing with pride at being chosen. her lips are wet with the sheen of your skin.

nanami clears his throat, speaking carefully, “with respect, empress, men can protect your throne. women cannot.”

you do not look at him. you stroke your servant’s hair, slow and indulgent, as she buries her cheek against your thigh again. “and yet it is women who keep me fed, bathed, adored. tell me, nanami, what use is your sword when it cannot ease my hunger?”

a ripple of laughter rises from your wives, soft but sharp, meant to wound the men. sukuna bares his teeth, delighted at the sting. toji’s nostrils flare; he is not a man who tolerates being mocked.

your eyes sweep the room, deliberate. each man brims with hunger, each girl glows with loyalty. the air is thick, ripe with the promise of a war not fought with steel, but with lips and cock and cunt.

and you, the virgin goddess, sit untouched, untouchable yet every heartbeat, every gaze, presses against your skin like a plea.

the hall grows quiet except for the soft sounds of mouths on your skin. your robe slips from one shoulder, and your servant takes the chance her lips wrap around your nipple, tongue circling lazily, as if she is tasting fruit. another woman joins her at your other breast, sucking gently until your body leans into the throne. they look like priestesses drinking sacred wine, lost in ritual.

beneath your gown, hidden by the fall of silk, two more are wedged between your thighs. their tongues spread you open, worshipping slow, mouths wet and reverent as they eat you out. you feel their devotion in every flick of tongue, every muffled whimper pressed into your cunt.

the men watch. forced to. they are bound not by chains but by your command, and that is heavier than iron.

you breathe deep, eyes half-lidded as the lips on your tits tug, the mouths under your dress lick harder, desperate to please. one hand strokes through your servant’s hair. the other lifts lazily, gesturing downward.

“toji,” your voice is honey but sharp, “the trees outside my window are too tall. cut them before sundown.”

he stiffens, jaw clenching, chest swelling with rage. he is a man built for war, reduced to a lumberjack under your word. your servants suck harder on your tits, as if mocking him, their cheeks hollowing while his fists flex.

“nanami,” you murmur next, fingers stroking the wet mouth at your breast, “see to the accounts. every coin in this palace is mine, and i will not have it miscounted.”

he bows his head stiffly, blond hair falling forward, but his gaze flickers to your nipple shining in another woman’s mouth. his hands twitch as if aching to touch, but he will not.

“geto,” you hum, a soft sigh spilling from your lips as the girls under your dress lap greedily at your cunt, “pray for rain in the northern fields. if your gods still listen to you.”

he smirks, tilting his head, dark eyes glinting. “they listen better than yours, empress.” but his smirk falters as one of your women moans against your clit, making you arch just slightly.

“sukuna,” you say without opening your eyes, “clear the stables. your strength may be better suited to shoveling dung.”

his laugh rattles the pillars, deep and obscene. he licks his teeth, watching the silk shift as your thighs tremble under it, but he bows mockingly, “as my goddess commands.”

“shiu,” you exhale, rolling your head back as one girl bites your nipple softly, “see to the walls. i want every crack repaired before winter.”

the smoke between his fingers curls lazily, but his eyes are knives. “and if i refuse?”

you tilt your head down just enough to meet his gaze, a smile curving your lips as the two under your dress lick you into another shiver. “then i refuse you.”

last, your gaze falls to megumi. he stands too close, too trusted, to be ordered like the rest. “megumi, stay. the others will serve. you will watch over me.”

toji’s rage is near feral. his son is allowed near you while he sweats over trees. your servants moan against your pussy as if to underline your cruelty.

you shift slightly, silk sliding higher, enough for the men to glimpse the movement of heads beneath your gown, the twitch of your thighs. the sound of sucking and swallowing fills the chamber.

“do you see now,” you murmur, voice husky with pleasure, “why i keep my women near and my men beneath?”

the throne shakes with laughter from sukuna, the scrape of teeth from toji, the silence of nanami biting his tongue. but your women do not falter. they drink you, they suckle you, they worship you as if every lick keeps the world turning.

and you sit, cunt spread on eager mouths, tits sucked wet, issuing commands like blessings untouched, untouchable, yet ruling every man in the room with nothing more than the softness between your thighs.

you lean back into the throne as if it were a lover, body relaxed while the mouths on your tits suckle greedily and the two beneath your gown lick you like they could drink eternity from your cunt. your moans are not hidden; they are declarations. every sound you make is a reminder that your pleasure belongs to women, not to men.

your gaze drops lazily to the men below. “look at you,” you murmur, stroking one servant’s hair as she tongues your nipple, “lined up like soldiers waiting for scraps. yet not one of you has ever touched me. not one of you will, unless i decree it. and i do not.”

toji growls low, teeth grinding, veins bulging in his forearms. you smile at his rage, savoring it.

“men swing swords and boast about strength,” you continue, voice husky as the girls beneath your gown suck harder, “yet when i hunger, when i ache, when i demand devotion who gives it? not you. my little wives do. my soft, loyal girls. they hold me when the night is long. they drink from me when i wish. their mouths feed me worship you could never understand.”

nanami stiffens, his jaw taut, but he says nothing. geto smirks faintly, though his eyes are sharp, dangerous. sukuna laughs loud, vulgar, as if he enjoys the insult. shiu exhales smoke, but his hand trembles just slightly.

you reach for megumi. your fingers curl around his wrist, tugging him gently closer until he stands at your side, high on the steps, his face inches from yours. “and then there is my favorite.”

the hall seems to crack with tension. toji’s body jerks forward, barely restrained, as his son takes the place he cannot.

“megumi,” you whisper, tilting your head, “hold my hand.”

he obeys. his large palm covers yours, strong but trembling. your women moan louder against your cunt, tongues moving faster as if jealous of him, as if spurred by your favoritism.

“you see,” you murmur to the men, your voice a slow lash, “this is why i allow him near. he does not growl like an animal. he does not demand. he waits. he listens. he belongs to me, not to his father, not to the name of man, but to me.”

toji snarls, his voice a thunderclap. “he is my son!”

your laugh cuts through the chamber like silk tearing. “he is mine now. mine to sit beside me, mine to serve me, mine to watch me be worshipped while you shovel wood like a beast.”

your servants bite softly at your nipples, suckling them until your body arches, your robe slipping lower, exposing the full curve of your breasts. beneath the gown, two mouths moan into your cunt, their tongues wet and desperate, your thighs twitching from the pleasure.

you keep your eyes on the men, voice dripping contempt. “you are all the same. desperate, violent, certain the world was built to open its legs for you. but i was built to close them.” your smile sharpens. “and to open them only for those i choose.”

your fingers squeeze megumi’s hand. “like him.”

the chamber fills with muffled moans from under your gown, wet sounds of sucking, the soft worship of women who adore you. the men can only stand there, fists clenched, cocks straining, hearts burning with rage.

and you, untouched by any man, let your girls drink from you in plain sight every lick, every suck, every kiss a blade of misandry, cutting deep.

the night splits. inside your chamber, heat and perfume cling to the air, your cunt pressed wet against another’s, thighs trembling as your servant moans into your mouth, her body shaking under yours. your hair is still being massaged, slick with oils, while two more women chant softly, stroking your arms, kissing your fingers, their devotion spilling over you like wine.

the ritual grows heavier. your women cry out your name between words of praise, their hands sliding along your stomach, their lips sealing over your tits. their bodies are your altar, and you grind yourself against them, moaning as you crown yourself in pleasure.

but beyond the walls, the men stalk.

torches die as they pass. footsteps are muffled, rage carried silent. toji leads, blade in hand, the scarred monster reduced to a father eaten alive by envy. megumi’s shadow waits in the courtyard, as if he still guards your chamber, his jaw tight but his posture calm, faithful to you even when his father burns with hatred.

they descend on him.

it happens fast. nanami’s fist to his ribs, geto’s curse binding his arms, sukuna’s laughter ringing as toji drives the blade home. megumi gasps, his eyes wide, the name of his goddess on his tongue, not his father’s. his body jerks once, twice, then falls.

toji snarls as he drags his son’s weight, spitting words through his teeth. “you will never touch what i can’t.”

the others watch, silent or smirking, as the body is hauled to the edge of the black lake that feeds the palace gardens. the water gleams under moonlight, still and endless. with one final shove, toji sends his son into it, the splash echoing like a curse. the ripples eat him whole, dragging him into darkness.

the men stand at the shore, faces lit faintly by the moon. no prayers are spoken, no remorse shared. they turn back toward the palace, their hunger sharper than before.

inside, you climax again. your thighs are wet, your hair perfumed, your lips swollen from women’s kisses. you know nothing of the lake, nothing of the body sinking beneath it.

your women hold you, praise you, worship you with trembling mouths and aching thighs, certain they are keeping you safe, untouched, divine.

but the night is already bleeding, and outside your walls, the men’s footsteps return heavier, dripping with betrayal.

you wake to wet faces pressed against your skin. your bed is not empty; it is a nest of limbs, your wives clinging to you as if your body could shield them from grief. one is weeping into your shoulder, another clutching your wrist, her tears dripping onto your palm. you blink, the weight of sleep dragging, until their voices break into sobs.

“he is gone,” one whispers, shaking, “your chosen one… he did not return.”

you sit up slowly, the silk sheets sliding from your bare skin, and you see the devastation carved into their faces. they cling to you harder, crying as if the world itself has collapsed.

the words hit you like stone megumi. the one you let close. the one who never reached for you with hunger, never treated you like a conquest, but as softness. his eyes had never burned with greed like the others. his hand had only ever held yours.

your face collapses. rage and sorrow rip through you at once, twisting until your body shakes. your mouth opens but no sound comes at first, only the heaving sob of a goddess undone. your women cling tighter, crying into your skin, their small hands stroking you as if they could mend your breaking heart.

you rise. no robe, no crown. your princess gown is thrown onto your shoulders by trembling hands, silks falling around your body like storm clouds. your eyes burn red as you descend the steps of your chamber, barefoot, your wives trailing behind you like wailing priestesses.

the men are gathered below, pretending calm, their faces stiff. the courtyard fills with silence as you appear unannounced, hair unbound, tears streaking down your face, fury vibrating through your body.

you stop at the top of the staircase and your voice tears out of you, sharp enough to cut the night.

“men.”

the word is venom. it drips from your lips like a curse.

“driven by nothing but ego, by hunger, by the pathetic need to conquer what will never belong to you.” your voice cracks, rage and grief bleeding together. “how dare you? how dare you take the only one who did not see me as a prize to be claimed, but as softness to be cherished?”

your wives cry louder, wailing as they cling to you, their voices echoing your grief. you do not silence them. you raise your voice over theirs, sharp as thunder.

“you could not be patient. you could not wait for my word, my choice. you could not bear to see me loved by one who carried no hunger in his hands. you killed him, because his purity burned your filth away. and now his body rots in the lake while you stand here with your cocks and your shame.”

the men look down, their pride cracked. nanami’s jaw tightens, guilt twisting his mouth. geto avoids your eyes, the charm stripped from him. shiu exhales smoke too fast, unable to meet your gaze. even sukuna’s grin falters at the weight of your fury.

and toji he stands still, stone and shadow, his eyes fixed on the ground. the rage that fueled him has turned inward, a blade cutting his own chest. he killed his son. his blood. his reflection. and for what? for a softness he could never have.

you spit the last words like fire. “you are beasts. cursed by your own greed. you killed the only man among you who was worth anything.”

your tears stream openly now, your wives holding you up as your voice cracks again, sharp enough to shatter the night.

“from this day, my body belongs to no man. you will serve me as servants, as dogs, or you will leave this palace in shame. you will look at my face and remember the softness you murdered.”

the courtyard is silent. only your wives’ cries, only your sobs, only the tremble of men who know they have destroyed themselves by destroying him.

and in the shadows of the lake, ripples still move, as if the water itself mourns the boy who had been allowed to touch your hand.

the night is long, your bed heavy with the weight of grief. your women have finally cried themselves into restless sleep, tangled against you like vines, lips pressed to your shoulders as if to shield you from dreams. but the chamber door shifts.

a shadow slips inside. broad, heavy, the shape of a man who does not belong here.

toji.

he is not dressed in his battle leathers, not even in the silks he once flaunted. he wears the rough cloth of your lower servants an old man’s tunic cinched with rope at the waist, sleeves rolled up, the fabric straining over the swell of his chest and arms. even humbled, his body is obscene: muscles carved thick and brutal, veins roping down his forearms, thighs bulging as if he could crush the floor beneath him. yet here he is, kneeling, crawling, his scarred knees pressing into your carpet, dirt clinging to his hands as he lowers himself before your bed.

in his grip, crushed flowers. gathered poorly, stalks broken, petals bruised. an offering so pitiful it would be laughable, if not for the desperation etched into his face.

he crawls until his head touches the edge of your sheets. his voice cracks, low and guttural, no trace of the man who once commanded fear.

“forgive me,” he whispers, forehead pressed to the fabric, shoulders trembling with the weight of his shame. “forgive me, goddess.”

your wives stir faintly in their sleep, but you do not wake them. you shift, sitting upright, eyes burning holes into the broken man at your feet.

toji’s hands clutch the flowers tighter, stems snapping in his fists. “i killed him. i killed my own son because i—” his voice shatters, chest heaving. “because i could not stand to see him have what i could never touch. i tore him from you. i tore your softness from you.”

he lifts his head just enough to press his lips against the sheets where your thighs rest. his mouth moves as if kissing through the fabric, as if apologizing to the cunt he will never deserve.

“i beg your womb,” he mutters hoarsely, voice shaking, “forgive me for starving it of the son who cherished you. i beg your breasts, forgive me for robbing them of his gaze. i beg your heart, forgive me for crushing it beneath my sin.”

his body shudders, sweat dripping down the thick curve of his back, cloth clinging to his massive frame. the tunic strains at his chest as he bows lower, arms corded with muscle even as they tremble under his own weight.

“curse me if you must. damn me. spit on me. but let me beg.” his voice is ragged, eyes wet, lips pressed against the silk again as if he could sink into you through the fabric. “i will crawl until my knees break, i will shovel dung until my hands bleed, i will dress as a dog, a slave, an old man with no name. only do not cast me from you.”

the flowers fall from his grip, scattered petals at your feet, broken stems stained by his sweat.

toji fushiguro, scarred beast, father turned murderer, dilf turned dog, kneels in a servant’s tunic with his forehead pressed to your sheets, begging your pussy, your womb, your breasts, your heart for forgiveness.

and in the silence of the chamber, his body heaves with guilt, the muscles that once killed now trembling like a sinner’s.

you don’t speak at first. you only watch him. this huge man, a mountain of muscle and scars, once the loudest growl in your court, now reduced to a heap at your feet. the servant’s tunic clings damp to his chest, sweat soaking the rough cloth, his thighs bulging through worn seams. his hair falls into his face, shadowing eyes that dare not rise to meet yours.

the flowers lie broken on the floor. petals scattered like pieces of his pride.

you move, slowly, carefully, shifting from your bed until your bare legs dangle over the edge. the sheets pool around your waist, and your women stir, but do not wake. your hand reaches down, curling into his messy hair, gripping it tight until his head jerks up. his breath hitches when his eyes find your thighs so close, bare and gleaming, the scent of your cunt heavy in the air.

“dog,” you whisper, your voice soft but sharper than a blade, “you killed my son of softness. you drowned him in the lake. for that, you will never be a man to me again.”

toji’s chest heaves, his throat working, shame and hunger choking him at once.

“but you may crawl.” your fingers tighten in his hair, dragging his face against your thigh, pressing his mouth to your skin. “you may beg with your tongue. you may worship like the animal you are.”

a sound leaves him half groan, half sob as he lowers himself, pressing kisses to your bare thighs. his lips are rough, scarred, trembling as they travel down. he mutters into your skin, broken prayers.

“forgive me… forgive me, goddess… let me taste what i destroyed… let me beg your womb, your heart, your holy cunt.”

you spread your legs slowly, silk falling aside, the wet heat of your pussy revealed in the candlelight. his eyes widen, jaw clenching, nostrils flaring as if the scent alone could crush him.

you shove his head down. his mouth crashes against your folds, lips sealing over your cunt as if he were drinking from a chalice. he moans into you, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating against your clit.

your thighs close around his head like a trap, forcing him deeper. you hold him there, fingers fisted in his hair, as he licks and sucks, messy and desperate, nothing like your women’s soft worship but animal, starving.

“good dog,” you whisper, tears still streaking your cheeks, rage still burning in your chest. “lick until your tongue splits. beg until your throat bleeds. this is all you are now.”

his massive body trembles beneath the servant’s cloth, muscles flexing, sweat dripping onto the floor as he groans into your cunt. his arms, thick enough to crush stone, are wrapped around your thighs like chains, holding himself there as if he would drown in you willingly.

you tilt your head back, sighing as his tongue works, as his broken prayers spill into your wetness.

behind you, one of your wives stirs, eyes opening, lips parting in shock at the sight. but you only smile, cruel and tired, stroking his hair as he eats you like a dog.

“look,” you murmur softly to her, “see what a man becomes when his ego is crushed. see how they crawl when stripped of pride.”

toji groans louder at your words, sucking harder, as if shame itself were fuel for his worship.

and for the first time, you let him. not as a man. not as a father. not even as a warrior.

but as your dog.

night after night, he returns. not as a warrior, not as a father, not as a man. he slips through your chamber door in silence, wearing that rough servant’s tunic that clings damp to his chest, his broad body hulking and obscene, veins swelling under his skin as if straining against humiliation.

and every night you let him crawl.

you sit on your throne, silk pooled around your hips, legs parted with the ease of a queen who knows she will never be denied. one of your wives peels grapes and feeds them to you slowly, lips brushing your cheek before pressing the fruit to your mouth. another oils your calves, stroking you with reverent hands. the others sit at your feet, watching with wet eyes, their faces lit by the glow of your divinity.

and at the center of it all on his knees, hunched low, scarred face buried between your thighs is toji.

his mouth worships you like scripture. his tongue drags through your folds in heavy strokes, his lips seal over your clit until the sounds are wet, sloppy, obscene. his beard scratches your inner thighs, his nose rubs against you, and every moan he makes is muffled into your cunt. he sucks like he is dying of thirst, groans like a beast breaking, and every shudder of his body shakes the floor beneath him.

your hand rests lazily in his hair, stroking as if he were a dog curled at your feet. sometimes you tug, forcing him deeper, making him choke on your wetness until tears run down his scarred cheeks.

he begs as he licks.

“forgive me, goddess… forgive this cursed man… forgive my hands, my heart, my sins… let me serve your womb… let me praise your pussy until the sun dies.”

you sigh, lounging back, letting a grape burst between your teeth. “good dog,” you murmur, voice heavy with cruelty and indulgence. “you beg well. you eat better than you ever fought.”

your wives laugh softly at your words, their giggles sharp as knives. one leans down to whisper in your ear, “he looks pathetic like this, my empress. worse than the dung-shovelers.”

you smile, stroking his damp hair as he groans into your clit, devouring you harder at the insult.

“hush,” you tell her sweetly. “he is useful now. his tongue belongs to me, his strength wasted, his pride broken. let him stay where he belongs.”

you look down at him, this monstrous body of muscle, this killer of sons, this old dog, kneeling in a servant’s tunic with his mouth full of your cunt.

“praise me louder,” you command, plucking another grape from the vine.

his voice cracks against your folds, muffled and desperate. “you are divinity… you are womb and heart and heaven… you are softness i destroyed, yet softness i still serve… you are everything, goddess, everything…”

and you hum, satisfied, parting your legs wider, letting him drown himself in your pussy while your women feed you fruit and massage your hair.

your wives no longer whisper. they laugh openly now, their voices sharp as blades, cutting into him while he groans against your cunt.

“look at him,” one giggles, tugging his messy hair as his tongue strokes deeper, “the beast of the battlefield, reduced to nothing but a wet tongue between our goddess’s thighs.”

another spits onto his bare back, the saliva gleaming as it slides down the curve of his muscle. “all that strength, wasted. he was born for war and now he licks like a mutt for scraps.”

you smile faintly, chewing a grape, stroking his hair like he’s less than human. “he will never be more than my dog.”

the words strike him harder than chains. his body stiffens, his shoulders trembling, his scarred hands digging into your thighs as his tongue falters. but he doesn’t lift his head. he dares not.

inside, though, the beast growls.

he hears their laughter, the wives, the men outside who must already mock him in whispers, the weight of his son’s ghost pressing down. he is on his knees, yes servant’s cloth straining over his chest, sweat dripping, beard soaked with your cunt but something in him claws upward, savage, unstoppable.

his cock throbs, heavy and thick beneath the rough tunic, pressing against the fabric as if trying to break free. his muscles, still vast, still monstrous, ripple as he shudders with each lick.

dog, they call him. useless, broken, weak.

his pride burns. his hunger burns hotter.

as his tongue slams against your clit again, harder, rougher, his thoughts curl dark. i will prove them wrong. i will conquer her. i will make her mine. i will tear the softness from her throne and bury it in my chest. i will own what no man has touched, what every woman guards. i am bigger. i am stronger. i am man enough to break her divinity.

but out loud, he moans like a dog, lips sealed over your cunt, sucking until you gasp, until your wives smirk cruelly down at him.

he swallows your wetness like it is holy wine, his chest heaving, his throat working, muscles bulging beneath the rags of servant’s cloth.

inside, he vows. she will not always sit above me. one night, i will rise. i will drag her down. and then, goddess or not, empress or not, she will belong to me.

you sit above him, legs parted, grapes sweet on your tongue, hair stroked by gentle hands. you stroke his damp head lazily, unaware of the storm that coils beneath his shame.

toji never leaves. night after night, he crawls back, huge body bent under servant’s cloth, scarred knees bruised from the stone floors, face raw from hours buried between your thighs. he eats you like prayer, like punishment, like salvation. he calls himself your dog, and he means it because a dog has a place. a dog has a purpose. and in your palace, in your bed, in your cunt, he has both.

and he guards it viciously.

because the others begin to falter.

nanami tries first. pride stripped, he kneels too stiffly before you one morning, his voice clipped as he offers to take the collar too, to serve on his knees. but his hands tremble, his eyes still dart with male arrogance, and you see it immediately. “you want power,” you murmur, tilting your head, “not devotion.” your wives laugh, and you wave him away like spoiled fruit.

geto follows, too smooth, too eager to twist it into ritual. he whispers that he can be the priest of your pussy, that his tongue is worship, that he too will crawl if it means tasting divinity. but his eyes glitter with schemes, not surrender, and you feel the lie in his lips before they ever touch your skin. “you would poison my cunt with ambition,” you say coldly. your wives spit on his sandals until he leaves humiliated.

sukuna is worse. he grins wide, tattoos crawling as he spreads his arms. “let me be your beast,” he says, “your dog with fangs.” but he cannot bend, cannot crawl, cannot humble himself. he laughs instead of begging, and when he dares to touch his tongue to your ankle without permission, you kick him across the floor. your wives cheer, chanting that no man can fake submission.

shiu mutters, offering in smoke, saying he’ll kneel if it means a taste. but his hands stay in his pockets, his smirk stays on his lips, and you see the cowardice in him. “you think a collar is a game,” you say. “but a dog must bleed for me.” he leaves, coughing on his own shame.

and through it all, toji stays.

silent, hulking, monstrous in muscle but small in posture, his face pressed to your cunt, his lips raw, his beard wet, his tongue swollen from hours of worship. while the others fail, while they show their pride, their hunger, their tricks he proves himself with obedience.

when they laugh at him, he licks harder. when they mock him, he moans into your pussy, hands gripping your thighs like anchors, as if he’d rather die there than ever lift his head.

your wives adore it. they stroke your hair, feed you grapes, and look down at him with cruel delight. “he is the only true dog,” they say. “the only one worthy.”

and you, empress of misandry, stroke his hair and hum in agreement.

because the truth is clear now: every man in your palace burns for your pussy, but only one has proven himself willing to destroy his pride, his legacy, even his blood, just to lap at it like a mutt at a bowl.

and so toji guards his place. not as conqueror. not as man.

but as your dog.

the palace does not sleep. after megumi’s death and your fury, the air itself has soured. the men are restless, humiliated, desperate. every night they watch toji crawl on scarred knees and bury his face in your cunt, every morning they hear your wives laughing at their failure. the shame burns deeper than steel wounds.

so they turn sly.

nanami begins first quiet, calculated. he lingers near one of your youngest wives, the one who braids your hair. he tells her she deserves more than to live in your shadow, that if she ever wished to feel a man’s devotion she could have his. he speaks with gentleness, with false patience, as though trying to turn her heart soft against you.

geto is smoother. he charms the ones who tend your baths, saying that a goddess’s women are queens themselves, and queens deserve worship. he tells them his mouth can honor them as they honor you, tries to plant hunger where only loyalty should live.

sukuna does not whisper. he corners one boldly, one of your fiercest wives, and laughs as he tells her she’ll never taste true power if she spends her life licking another woman’s cunt. he dangles promises of freedom, of destruction, of what a man’s cock could give her if she dared.

shiu lurks at the edges, puffing smoke, murmuring soft poison into ears reminding them how heavy a collar can feel, how chains dressed as silk still cut.

they all reach, claw, scheme. trying to break the circle, to slip inside your guard through the bodies of the women who love you.

but toji… toji sees it.

he stays low, stays silent, his face always pressed to your thighs, his hands rubbing circles into your calves while you eat fruit and laugh with your wives. but his eyes are sharp beneath lowered lids. he sees nanami leaning too close, geto’s charm slithering, sukuna’s vulgar teeth, shiu’s smoke curling around a wavering heart.

and when the night falls, when your wives curl against you in bed, he does not leave. he crawls to their side, bows his head at their feet, and whispers with the same broken voice he uses on your cunt.

“don’t listen. don’t let them take you from her. don’t let them poison your hearts. you belong to her. i belong to her. we are hers.”

your wives giggle, stroke his hair like he’s a beast chained to their ankles, and they mock him “good dog, guarding us too.” but their eyes soften. they trust him, in the way one trusts a hound snarling at the edge of the woods.

and you when you wake in the night and see him there, crouched low between your wives and the door, his massive body blocking the shadows, his head bowed, you realize something bitter.

the others want to conquer you. toji only wants to keep you.

and though his face is still wet from licking your cunt raw, though his chest heaves with humiliation, he is the only barrier left between your women and the men who would tear them apart to reach you.

you wake to silence where there should be whispers. your wives are gone from your bed, the silk still warm where they slept. your heart stirs uneasily, and when you rise, barefoot across the polished floor, you see it one of them, your soft-haired bride, slipping out of a shadowed hall with her face pale and eyes wide.

behind her, toji.

but not crawling. not bent. not on his knees.

he walks. broad and hulking, servant’s cloth clinging to his chest, sweat shining on his neck, his scars alive in the torchlight. in his grip, your wife’s wrist, his huge hand engulfing it as he drags her back into the chamber.

your breath catches. the sight of his body upright, manly and monstrous, after weeks of crawling like a hound it rattles something deep in your chest.

he shoves her forward, and she falls to her knees at the foot of your bed, weeping.

“she was with nanami,” toji says, voice low, rough, the old power simmering beneath every word. “listening to his poison. letting him whisper that you are only flesh, not goddess. that you could be stolen.”

your face decomposes. betrayal strikes deeper than any blade. one of your own your beloved wife letting a man’s lies into her ears. you sit heavily on the edge of your majestic bed, silk pooling around you, hands trembling as your eyes fix on her sobbing face.

“how could you?” your voice cracks, heavy with both grief and fury. “after i gave you my body, after you worshipped me, how could you bend to him?”

she crawls forward, clinging to the hem of your gown, crying apologies, but the hurt already poisons the air.

then toji moves.

he steps close, towering, his shadow covering both of you. and then he sits on your bed, beside you, uninvited, yet filling the space like he owns it. his weight makes the mattress dip, his heat spreads over your skin, his massive body dwarfing you even wrapped in silk.

he pulls you into his lap with ease, your thighs falling over the bulk of his, your back pressed against the thick plane of his chest. his hands, still rough from the sword and the axe, curl around your waist, holding you firm.

his mouth lowers to your ear, his breath hot. “you see now,” he murmurs, voice guttural, “you can’t even trust your own women. they will falter. they will listen. they will betray.”

you shudder, your tears spilling again, your head tipping back against his shoulder.

“only i,” he whispers, lips grazing your hair, “only i will not. i am your dog, your guard, your man. i killed my own blood rather than let him steal you. i crawl, i beg, i bleed, but i never stray.”

his grip tightens on your waist, pulling you flush against his chest, his heartbeat hammering steady and heavy into your back.

“you can only trust me, goddess. your women weep, your men scheme. but me...” his lips brush the shell of your ear, “i stay. i kneel. i guard. i serve. only me.”

the chamber is thick with the sound of your wife’s sobbing on the floor, the silence of betrayal. but toji’s voice drowns it out, low and steady, wrapping around your heart like chains.

and for the first time, sitting on your own bed in the lap of the man you swore would never rise, you feel the sharp twist of doubt.

476 notes · View notes

ilovebigdickdilfs · 18 days ago

Text

𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐒𝐓 - Choso K.

about. you work a dead-end job at a bank until one night a heist goes sideways. instead of knocking you out, one of the robbers—quiet, tall, and way too pretty under the mask—makes you a deal. you keep quiet, you get a cut. simple, right? except now you can’t stop thinking about him… and he clearly can’t stop thinking about you either.

pairings. Robber!Choso x Bank Teller!Reader

words. 11.52k

content. smut (mdni!!), gun involvement + forced entry (it’s a bank heist duh), rough sex, biting, gun kink / gunplay (non-lethal), size kink, face reveal kink, power dynamics, dirty talk, humiliation but funny, criminal activity (obviously), and adult mentions everywhere. basically hot masked stranger holds you down, and you let him.

notes. well... hope you enjoy, i haven't read this FOR MYSELF but hey gon post it anyway because i loooveeee choso.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting that sickly, too-white glow that made the whole bank feel like a fish tank. You sat behind the counter, your chin propped in your palm, eyes flicking between the clock on the wall and the lobby that had been dead for the past twenty minutes.

Five more until closing. Five minutes until you could leave this miserable, low-paying excuse for a job and collapse into bed.

But five minutes was still too long when your manager was watching you like a hawk. “Try to look alive, will you?” Mr. Carver’s voice grated from the far end of the counter. He was the kind of man who smelled faintly of stale coffee and had a way of making every sentence sound like an insult. “If a customer comes in and sees you slouched like that—”

“They’ll what?” you muttered, not looking up from the computer screen you weren’t even using.

“They’ll think we’re unprofessional. Which, frankly, you make too easy.” You bit your tongue. No point in arguing; you knew from experience that if you so much as breathed wrong, he’d write you up. He already hated you— not for anything you’d done, but because you weren’t one of his golden employees who laughed at his dry jokes and stayed late without pay. You just did your job, collected your check, and left. That was apparently a crime.

A low whistle broke the tension, and you didn’t even have to turn to know who it was. “Evening, sweetheart.” The security guard, Brent, leaned against the counter by your station, his posture casual but his eyes doing that slow up-and-down that made your skin crawl. “Place is dead tonight, huh? Guess it’s just you, me, and your pretty face keeping me awake.”

You forced a tight smile. “Almost closing time, Brent.” Which was your polite way of saying leave me alone.

But Brent was immune to hints. “Hey, when’s your shift end again? We could grab a drink, you know. Loosen you up after a long day.”

You swore you could feel Mr. Carver’s smug gaze on your back — he always seemed entertained by Brent’s flirting, like it was harmless fun instead of unwanted attention. Like you were the uptight one for not giggling back. You reached for a stack of deposit slips, shuffling them just to keep your hands busy. “I’m good. Got plans.”

Brent chuckled, low and persistent. “One day, you’re gonna run out of excuses.”

“Mm,” you hummed noncommittally, already tuning him out. Outside, the streetlights flickered on, their glow stretching long shadows across the empty sidewalk. Through the front windows, you could see the dark sky swallowing the city, the kind of quiet that always made you uneasy. Something about being in a nearly empty bank after dark… it felt like waiting for something to happen.

You just didn’t know yet that tonight, it would.

The clock finally hit closing time, and you were on your feet before the second hand finished its sweep. Your back cracked in protest as you stretched, muscles stiff from sitting too long in that same uncomfortable chair. Mr. Carver was already fussing over his briefcase, muttering under his breath about tomorrow’s paperwork, while Brent gave a lazy salute from his post near the door.

“Lock up tight, huh?” Brent said, flashing you a grin.

You didn’t bother answering — just slung your bag over your shoulder and made your way into the narrow staff lounge. The space smelled faintly of burnt coffee and cleaning chemicals, the kind of scent that clung to your clothes and hair no matter how quickly you left.

You headed for the old punch clock mounted on the wall, fumbling for your ID badge. The sooner you clocked out, the sooner you could step outside, breathe real air, and not have to hear your manager’s voice for another blessed twelve hours. You were just sliding the card into the reader when you heard it.

A sharp, muffled thud from somewhere out in the lobby. Followed by a grunt — low, pained — then a cut-off groan.

You froze. Your fingers hovered uselessly over the clock-in machine, heart stumbling in your chest. The sound hadn’t been loud enough to be an accident— not the clumsy clatter of someone dropping something heavy. This was… heavier. Denser. The kind of noise a body makes when it hits the floor.

Your first thought was Brent. Maybe he’d tripped, maybe— No. That was stupid. Brent was obnoxious, sure, but not clumsy. And the sound… it was too quick, too sudden. Like someone had been put down.

You strained to listen, breath caught in your throat. The hum of the fluorescent lights suddenly seemed louder, the walls pressing in.

Nothing.

No voices. No footsteps. Just the eerie kind of silence that makes your skin prickle— the kind you knew meant something. Slowly, you set your bag on the counter beside the clock. You weren’t sure if you were about to step into something dangerous… or if you already had.

Your hand was already on your bag again when the air shifted — that subtle change in pressure you only notice when you’re being watched.

Before you could even turn toward the door, a shape filled the frame.

Tall. Broad. A shadow at first, until the dim lounge light caught on black fabric — a tactical mask covering the lower half of his face. His hair was messy, falling into his eyes, dark strands loose and careless like he hadn’t even tried to tie it back. But his eyes…

They weren’t wild. They weren’t frantic like you’d expect from someone in the middle of a robbery. No, they were half-lidded, dark, almost… sleepy. And locked directly on you. Your gaze dropped, catching the sharp black tattoos curling over the column of his throat and the backs of his hands. The gloves he wore looked heavy, built for grip. This wasn’t some cheap stick-up — whoever he was, he’d done this before.

“A staff is back here,” he called, his voice low and deep, carrying into the lobby. It was casual, like he was letting someone know there was an extra carton of milk in the fridge, not another living person who could scream for help.

It hit you then. You were being robbed.

The realization sank hard in your gut, but it wasn’t the money you worried about — you could barely make rent with what you earned here. It was you. Your body. Your safety. You took an instinctive step back, every nerve in your body screaming to move, to do something.

“Look, I don’t want any trouble,” you started, your voice sharper than you intended. “You can have whatever the hell you want, just—”

“Not here for you,” he interrupted softly. It was almost disarming, the way he said it. Not defensive. Not threatening. Just… factual.

“Good,” you snapped, though your pulse was still hammering. ��Then keep it that way.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t close the distance. Just stood there, his eyes steady on your face like he was memorizing it.

“What?” you barked after a beat. “Never seen someone pissed off before? You gonna stand there staring, or are you gonna do your little—whatever—robbery thing and get the hell out?”

His gaze flickered, just slightly, like you’d surprised him. And for some reason, that pissed you off more.

“Seriously,” you kept going, the fear twisting into adrenaline and spilling out as heat. “If you’re gonna kill me, do it quick, because I’ve had the worst day and I swear to God I don’t have the patience for some masked freak playing games.”

You expected anger. A shove. Something. Instead, his eyes softened. Not much — barely noticeable. But enough for you to catch it. Enough to make your breath hitch, because what the hell kind of robber looks at you like that? Like he’s stunned. Like maybe he forgot why he was here in the first place.

You shifted your weight, heart hammering, and made a break for the door.

Big fucking mistake.

You moved first.

A sharp inhale, then you lunged, shouldering past him with every ounce of momentum you had. But he was faster. A hand closed around your waist, the grip solid, gloved fingers digging just enough to make your ribs protest. You let out a startled shout, half-growl, half-scream, twisting hard in his hold.

“Let me go—!”

“Shh—” His voice was low, urgent, close enough that you felt the warmth of it at your ear. You weren’t listening. Your elbow shot back, connecting with something solid — his chest — and he barely grunted. That only made you thrash harder, nails clawing at the thick fabric of his sleeve, heels digging into the grimy linoleum.

“I said—let—go!” you snarled, your voice cracking under the strain.

He caught your wrist before you could take another swing. “Stop—”

“You stop!” You twisted again, trying to wrench free, but his other arm had already wrapped fully around your middle, dragging you flush to his body. The solid wall of his chest at your back made your breath hitch, though you refused to admit why.

“Calm down,” he murmured, as if that was the simplest thing in the world.

“Calm down?” you barked, still fighting him. “You’re in a mask—there’s a body out there—you expect me to—”

Your words cut off with a sharp gasp when he caught your other wrist mid-swipe. In one smooth motion, he pivoted, pressing you forward until your hips bumped the edge of the staff lounge table. You tried to kick back, but his legs bracketed yours, caging you in without crushing you.

“Quit it,” he said, still maddeningly calm, even as you bucked in his hold. “Get your hands off me!”

“You’re gonna get yourself hurt,” he warned, tightening his grip as you jerked. “I’m not here for you—”

“Then let me go!”

“—but I will hold you here if you don’t shut the hell up,” he finished, his tone dropping to something harder.

The fight in you spiked again, but every time you pulled, he countered, steering your arms behind your back until both wrists were pinned in one of his hands. The position left you bent over the table, your cheek mushed against the cool surface.

And that’s when you felt it.

The heat of him at your back. The unmistakable press of something hard against the curve of your ass — unintentional, maybe, but there all the same. You froze for a split second. He did too.

His breath caught, then he shifted like he was about to step back, but you twisted again, and the movement dragged you against him just enough to pull a low, quiet sound from his throat. Your pulse hammered. “You’re disgusting,” you spat over your shoulder, trying to mask the way your stomach was flipping.

“Wasn’t—” His jaw flexed. “Wasn’t tryin’ to—”

“Sure you weren’t.”

“Hey,” he snapped softly, leaning down until you could feel his breath against your ear, the mask brushing your cheek. “I said I’m not gonna hurt you. You need to believe that.”

“You think I’m just gonna—” You broke off with a startled hiss as his gloved fingers adjusted on your wrists, firm but not painful, holding you steady while your body still tried to wriggle free.

“Just breathe,” he urged, and though his voice was low, there was something almost pleading in it. “I don’t want you hurt. I just… need you quiet.”

“Quiet for what?” His silence was worse than an answer.

You yanked again, but the hold stayed firm, his chest pressed to your back, the solid weight of him keeping you pinned in place. Every shift, every attempt to pull away, only reminded you of the heat radiating from him — the steady heartbeat you could feel through his sternum, the way his breath kept hitching like he was as aware of the proximity as you were.

“You’re insane,” you muttered, but your voice had lost some of its bite.

“Maybe,” he said. And you hated the way his tone dipped, just enough to make it sound like he was smiling under the mask.

Your wrists were still locked behind your back, cheek pressed close to the cold table, Choso’s chest solid against your spine. You could feel every shift of his breathing, every twitch of his muscles when you tried to jerk free.

“Fucking let me go!” you shouted, thrashing again.

“Stop moving—”

“Stop touching me!”

“I’m trying not to—”

A sharp voice from the doorway cut in, “The fuck are you doing?”

Both of you froze.

You craned your neck just enough to see two more figures in black masks, both holding bags that were clearly stuffed to the brim with cash. One had a baseball bat, the other had a duffel slung over his shoulder.

The one with the bat was huge— not just tall, but built like the kind of man who could lift a safe by himself if he felt like it. His black hoodie was stretched tight across broad shoulders, and the sleeves were shoved up to reveal forearms roped with muscle, veins standing out like they had their own pulse. Dark hair stuck up in a messy, spiked disarray, and even under the mask, you could tell he was wearing that lazy, cocky grin that belonged to someone who enjoyed making people nervous.

The other guy— the one hauling the duffel— looked almost too put-together for this kind of work. His mask sat neatly over his face, and long black hair was tied back at the nape of his neck, not a single strand out of place despite the chaos. He carried himself with an easy, deliberate calm, like the weight of the bag didn’t even register, like he was here because he’d planned every second of it and nothing could throw him off.

The one with the bat let out a low whistle. “Choso… what the fuck am I looking at right now?”

“She was screaming,” Choso said quickly, not loosening his grip.

“Yeah, no shit,” Bat Guy scoffed. “Why didn’t you just knock her out like a normal person?”

You barked a bitter laugh. “Normal? Oh, so you do know you’re all fucking psychos—”

“Shut up,” the duffel guy snapped.

“She’s pretty,” Choso muttered, like it explained everything. There was a beat of silence.

“...Jesus fucking Christ,” Bat Guy said flatly. “We’re robbing a bank, not speed dating.”

“Look, I didn’t want to hurt her,” Choso mumbled, sounding almost defensive.

“That’s sweet,” you said, dripping sarcasm. “Now maybe you can sweetly let me the fuck go so I can call the cops—”

“Woman, if you don’t shut the hell up—” Duffel Guy stepped forward, but Choso shifted his weight, subtly keeping himself between you and the others.

“She’s fine,” Choso said firmly. “Fine? She’s loud.” Bat Guy pointed his bat at you. “Do something to shut her up before she wakes the whole goddamn city.”

“I will wake the whole goddamn city,” you shot back. “Hope you like prison food—”

“Oh my fucking god.” Duffel Guy rubbed his forehead. “Manager’s out cold, security’s tied up in the car, we’re basically done here. This is literally the easiest fucking robbery we’ve ever pulled, and you’re back here—” He gestured vaguely between you and Choso. “—playing grab-ass.”

“It’s not—” Choso started.

“It fucking looks like grab-ass,” Bat Guy said. “Let her go or knock her out, man, we don’t have time for your… thing.”

You twisted enough to glare up at Choso. “What thing, huh? You got a weird little hostage fetish? You wanna explain that to your boyfriends over there?”

“Boyfriends—?!” Bat Guy nearly choked. “You are lucky I’m not the one holding you right now.”

“You wouldn’t last thirty seconds,” you shot back.

Choso made a small sound— almost a laugh — before clearing his throat like he didn’t want to be caught enjoying himself. “I’m not gonna hurt her. I said that.

“We don’t need her hurt, we need her quiet,” Duffel Guy stressed.

“Yeah, well,” you snapped, “you should’ve thought of that before you busted into my shitty minimum-wage job and—”

“Oh my god,” Bat Guy groaned, turning to leave. “I’m going to the van. If she’s still yelling when I come back, I’m gagging her with the deposit slips.”

“Romantic,” you muttered. Choso’s grip finally loosened, just enough for you to shift upright, though he still kept your wrists in his hand like he wasn’t ready to let you bolt. His eyes— those dark, half-lidded ones— were still fixed on your face like you were some kind of puzzle he couldn’t stop staring at.

The two other men — Bat Guy and Duffel Guy — exchanged a look that said we’re so done with this shit and turned toward the door.

“We’ll be in the van,” Bat Guy said, jerking his chin at Choso. “Five minutes. If she’s still alive, great. If not… also great.”

“Don’t make me come back in here,” Duffel Guy added, calm but edged.

The door swung shut behind them, leaving you and Choso in a thick, tense silence. He finally spoke, his voice low but careful. “If I let you go… can you be quiet?”

You glared. “Depends. You gonna fuck off?”

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said, and for some reason, it didn’t sound like a line — it sounded like he actually meant it. “I just… need to talk.”

You narrowed your eyes, but his grip on your wrists eased. And the second you felt freedom— You launched at him. It was pure instinct: nails first, catching the side of his neck, then teeth, because apparently you’d gone fully feral. You got a solid bite in, and his grunt was half-pain, half-disbelief.

“The fuck!?” Next thing you knew, you were bent back over the staff table, a hand flat on the back of your neck, his weight pinning you in place. The sharp click of a gun’s safety being flicked off rang right by your ear.

“You bit me?” he demanded, voice low but vibrating with irritation.

“You grabbed me!” you snapped back, still wriggling even with his front pressed against your ass. “We’re even—”

“Even my ass,” he growled. “You think I’m just gonna let you chomp on me like some rabid—”

“Okay, okay! I’m sorry!” you cut in, because the gun barrel was suddenly feeling very real. He stayed there for a beat, chest rising and falling against your back, before finally exhaling hard. “Jesus Christ…” You could hear the scowl in his voice. “I was trying to be nice.”

“You call this nice?” you shot back, cheek still pressed to the table.

“Wasn’t gonna gag you,” he muttered. “That was my version of nice.”

“That’s a low fucking bar, dude.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, finally straightening but keeping one hand firm on your shoulder, “you bit me. So we’re lowering the bar even more now.”

Somewhere outside, Bat Guy’s voice carried faintly through the door. “Yo, Choso! You fall in love back there or what?!” Choso didn’t answer. But you felt the faintest twitch of a laugh through his hand before he shoved you gently — but firmly — back upright.

Choso’s hand was still firm on your shoulder, keeping you angled toward the table. “Alright,” he said finally, voice low but with that lazy drawl that made everything sound slower than it was. “Here’s the deal. You shut the fuck up… I’ll give you a cut.”

You blinked. “A… cut?”

“Money,” he clarified, like you were slow. “Cash. Your share of what we just pulled.” You scoffed, but your voice faltered. “And why the hell would I take dirty money from—”

He leaned in just enough for his voice to skim your ear. “Because I don’t think you like this job. And I don’t think you like these people. And I know for a fact they’re paying you shit.” Your lips parted, ready to deny it, but the truth hit you square in the chest. Barely scraping by. Crappy coworkers. Manager who hated you. Flirty guard you couldn’t stand. You thought of the rent due at the end of the week.

“...How much?” you asked, your voice sharper than you intended.

He chuckled under the mask. “Enough to make this dump the last place you ever have to clock in.” You hesitated — really hesitated — but your mind kept circling back to Mr. Carver’s smug face and Brent’s sleazy grin. Finally, you muttered, “...Fine.”

“Good girl,” he said, and for some reason, it didn’t sound patronizing — it sounded like approval. He finally stepped back, letting go of your wrists. You turned slowly, straightening your clothes, but your gaze snagged on his. Those eyes. Heavy-lidded, dark, like they’d been watching you this whole time and were still seeing way too much.

You tilted your head, crossing your arms. “Let me see your face.”

His brows lifted a fraction. “What for?” “I’m not making a deal with someone whose face I don’t know.” “That’s the point of the mask,” he said flatly.

He didn’t break eye contact as he hooked a gloved finger under the edge of his mask. The motion was slow, deliberate, like he was making you wait for it. Then, with a faint scrape of fabric against skin, he pulled it down.

Your breath stuttered. The first thing you noticed was his mouth— full, with the kind of shape that could turn sharp if he was pissed or lazy and soft if he wasn’t paying attention. The shadow of stubble traced along his jaw, cutting up to cheekbones that were criminal all on their own. His skin caught the dim light in a way that made you wonder what it would look like in daylight— or closer.

Your eyes followed the messy fall of his hair, dark strands curling against his temples, the rest spilling haphazardly down, like he’d shoved a mask on without bothering to fix it. The tattoos on his throat peeked higher now that the mask wasn’t hiding them, black lines curling against warm skin like they’d been meant to be seen.

And those eyes— heavy-lidded, dark brown with an almost amber sheen near the center— stayed locked on yours like there was no one else in the room, like you were the first thing he’d seen in years worth remembering.

You felt it low in your chest first — that uncomfortable, traitorous skip of your heartbeat. Then higher, crawling up your throat, heat settling under your skin. It wasn’t like he smiled at you or softened; it was the opposite. He just looked. Steady. Patient. And that made it worse.

“...Goddamn,” you muttered before you could stop yourself. His mouth tilted up, slow and deliberate. “Yeah?” You blinked, fighting the heat crawling up your neck. “I didn’t say it was a compliment.”

“Sure didn’t sound like an insult, either,” he murmured, and you hated — hated — how right he was.

He took a step closer — close enough that you had to tilt your head back to keep his eyes in view. And god, he was tall. You’d noticed before, but with no table between you now, it was ridiculous how much he could loom without even trying. He lifted one gloved fist, slow and deliberate, and tapped it lightly under your jaw. Not rough — just enough to tip your chin up another inch. A soft tsk clicked from behind his teeth, his mouth tugging into a grin that was all heat and trouble.

“See you soon, pretty girl,” he murmured, his voice low enough that it skimmed warm down your spine. “Learn not to bite anyone.”

You swallowed, your pulse doing double-time, but before you could form a comeback, he was tugging the mask back up over his face. “...You’re welcome, by the way,” he added, adjusting it over his nose.

Your brows knit. “For what? For dry humping me into a table?”

The bastard chuckled — actually chuckled — the sound deep and warm. “No. For knocking the shit out of that cocky security guard who keeps flirting with you.”

Your mouth opened, then shut. “...You—”

“He won’t be bothering you again,” Choso cut in, already stepping back toward the door. And just like that, he was gone, leaving you in the staff lounge with your heart pounding, your wrists still faintly sore… and the most confusing mix of fury and something-you-refused-to-name thrumming under your skin.

You couldn’t stop replaying it in your head.

Not the robbery part — not the adrenaline, not the fear, not the fact that you’d been held against a table with a gun pressed to your neck.

No, your brain had chosen the insanity of realizing that the man robbing the very place you worked at… was hot. Stupidly hot. And instead of calling the cops the second he and his crew ran, you’d—what?—agreed to a deal? Lied for him? And now here you were, still riding the rush and grinning to yourself like an idiot.

You kept replaying it in your head like some fever dream.

Not the gun. Not the robbery.

Not even Choso bending you over the breakroom table to keep you from clawing his eyes out.

No — the real insane part was that you’d looked that man dead in his masked face and, instead of screaming for the cops, agreed to a goddamn deal.

Keep your mouth shut, get a cut of the take.

Which was why you were now sitting in a hard plastic chair at the police station, posture loose, eyes drooping just enough to sell “I got knocked the fuck out.” You kept pressing your fingers into the back of your head like it hurt — even though the only ache you had was a faint bruise on your hip where Choso had pinned you.

Across the room, Brent was slouched like a sulking teenager, ice pack pressed to his jaw. His right cheek was swollen, lip split. You didn’t have to try too hard not to feel bad.

And Mr. Carver — your manager — was pacing, all huffy in his cheap dress shirt like he’d been the one assaulted. “I told corporate she was trouble,” he muttered, loudly enough for the entire room to hear. “Always on her phone, always late—”

You bit your tongue. Hard. If you let one word slip right now, it’d be about him pocketing “extra” tips from the coin counter, and you weren’t trying to start that fire while the cops were still in earshot.

One of the officers slid into the chair opposite you, notepad ready. “Miss, can you tell us what happened tonight?”

You put on your best dazed blink. “Uh… I don’t… remember much. I was in the lounge, then I heard shouting. Next thing I know, someone’s grabbing me, and then—” You made a vague wave near your head. “Everything went dark.”

“So you were unconscious during the robbery?” You nodded, lowering your voice like it was hard to speak. “Yeah. Woke up after it was over. Brent was on the floor, and Mr. Carver was yelling.”

“That’s not what happened,” Brent piped up from across the room, voice muffled against the ice. “She was up the whole time. I saw her.”

You turned your head slow, letting your eyes narrow like you might bite him. “Oh, really, Brent? You saw me? You mean when your face was getting introduced to the tile floor? Or maybe when you were crying about your jaw?”

“I wasn’t crying—” “Looked like crying.” The officer cleared his throat, fighting a smile. “Miss, did the suspect say anything to you before you blacked out?”

“Uh…” Your mind flickered back to the heat of Choso’s breath in your ear, his hand locked around your wrists, the grin in his voice when he’d called you pretty girl. You swallowed. “No. Nothing I remember.”

Mr. Carver finally stopped pacing. “This is ridiculous. She’s lying. I know she saw their faces. She probably helped them.”

You let out a sharp laugh, leaning forward so your elbows hit the table. “Helped them? Carver, I make eight-fifty an hour and I can’t even get a lunch break without you breathing down my neck. If I wanted to help anyone, it’d be OSHA.”

The officer scribbled more notes, clearly amused, but kept the questions coming until you’d repeated the “I was unconscious” line enough times it sounded pathetic. Perfect. By the time they let you go, you knew the investigation would drag on. Carver would bitch about police check-ins, Brent would limp around like a war hero, and you’d smile through all of it. Because you weren’t fired. Yet. And even if you were, you had a payday coming that none of them could touch.

Bag. Secured.

The van smelled like sweat, leather, and that faint trace of gasoline that always clung to Toji’s jacket. Bills were spread across the bench seat like a green ocean, Suguru’s hands moving smooth and methodical as he counted, Toji leaning back with a cigarette hanging from his lips.

Choso was still leaning against the door, mask shoved up onto his head, neck throbbing where her teeth had sunk in. He hadn’t decided yet if he was pissed or impressed.

Toji flicked an ash into an empty fast food cup. “So,” he drawled, “you gonna explain why we didn’t have to knock out that girl in the staff room?”

Choso shrugged, keeping his eyes on the floor. “Made a deal with her.”

Suguru’s hands didn’t pause on the bills, but his eyebrow arched. “A deal.”

“Yeah. She keeps quiet, she gets a cut.”

There was a beat of silence, then Toji barked out a laugh that filled the van. “Jesus Christ, we’re getting swatted for sure. You realize if the cops bust in here ‘cause your little pretty girl got cold feet, I’m cuttin’ your dick off, right?”

Choso scowled. “She’s not—”

“She bit you, didn’t she?” Suguru said, smirking without looking up.

Toji slapped the dash, grinning wide. “Oh, she bit him. Look at him, sitting there like a kicked puppy. Our Choso, all whipped after one shift with Miss Bank Teller.”

Choso muttered, “She’s not a teller.”

“Doesn’t matter what she is,” Suguru said, voice silky. “What matters is you didn’t do what we usually do with witnesses, and now you’re making us partners with one.”

“She’s not gonna talk,” Choso said flatly.

Toji gave him a long, slow once-over and smirked. “Oh, I believe she won’t talk. Probably too busy thinking about how you bent her over the table.”

Choso’s jaw tightened. Suguru finally finished his stack and tossed it into the duffel. “You know what kills me? Out of all the banks in the city, you had to pick the one with the worst security. That guard—what’s his name? Brent?” He snorted. “One punch and the guy folded like a folding chair.”

Toji added, “Yeah, and the manager? Carver? I’ve seen Girl Scouts put up more of a fight. Only thing that man’s protecting is his stapler.”

They both laughed, Suguru leaning back with that lazy smile. “She’s too pretty for you, man. Way too pretty. If she had any sense, she’d be calling the cops right now instead of daydreaming about your sad, emo ass.” Choso just rolled his eyes, but his mind betrayed him — replaying the way she’d tilted her head at him, the spark in her eyes when she’d said, Let me see your face.

Suguru noticed the look and smirked. “Ohhh yeah. He’s done for.”

Toji grinned like a wolf. “Better hope she likes her cut, Choso. Otherwise, we’re all fucked.” Choso didn’t answer. He just pulled his mask back on and started loading mags, ignoring the heat crawling up his neck.

The slam of Carver’s office door still rang in your ears by the time you hit the sidewalk.

Fired. Not “let go,” not “downsized.” Flat-out, smug-as-fuck fired.

You could still see his smug little rat face, lips curling like he’d just done you a favor. “We can’t have employees who compromise security.” Compromise security, my ass. You were the one who got manhandled by a masked lunatic while Brent the Walking Boner took a nap on the tile, but sure — blame you.

You’d lasted exactly three seconds after he said it before you’d gone off. Every petty thing you’d been holding in for months came spilling out — about how he stole tip jar money, how he timed your bathroom breaks, how he smelled like burnt coffee and sad desperation. You called him a dickless control freak. Loud enough for the entire front lobby to hear.

Best three seconds of your week.

Now here you were, stomping down cracked pavement with your bag slung over one shoulder, muttering curses under your breath like a goddamn crazy person. The air was heavy — sticky with the end-of-summer heat and exhaust from passing cars — but it wasn’t the weather making your shoulders tight.

It was that feeling. The one where the back of your neck prickles like a live wire. The one that says something is just out of your peripheral vision.

You told yourself it was paranoia. That you were just still wired from unloading on Carver. That maybe you’d watched too many late-night crime docs where women get stalked in dark alleys.

But every step you took, you swore you heard another. Just a fraction behind yours. Soft. Unhurried. Your grip tightened on your bag strap, pulse climbing. You risked a glance over your shoulder — quick, casual, like you were just checking traffic.

And then your stomach dropped. Because there he was. Tall as hell. Broad enough to take up the whole damn sidewalk if he wanted. Hoodie up, shadowing his face — but not enough. Not enough to hide the sharp lines of his jaw or the messy fall of his hair spilling out over his forehead.

No mask this time.

And Jesus fucking Christ, he was still hot. Stupid hot. Like, can’t-even-be-mad-properly hot, which only made you more mad. Those same dark, half-lidded eyes locked on you like they had back in the bank — not frantic, not rushed. Just watching. Your chest tightened, but your brain? Your brain short-circuited straight to what the fuck. Because if the robbery had been a fever dream, this was the part where the fever came back twice as bad.

You stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Just stood there like six feet of unbothered trouble, hands in his hoodie pocket, that lazy slouch in his shoulders like he had all night to stare you down.

You turned fully toward him, chin high. “Well, well, well. Look who’s too pretty for prison.”

The corner of his mouth twitched — barely. “You kept your end of the deal.”

“Damn right I did,” you shot back. “I didn’t even tell the cops you breathe too loud, let alone that you bent me over a breakroom table.”

That almost-smile deepened, but he didn’t bite at the jab. “Which means I’m here to give you yours.”

You blinked. “My what?”

“Your cut.”

You actually laughed — loud enough that a couple walking by gave you side-eye. “You’re telling me you’re about to hand me a thick-ass load of dirty cash right here on the street, while I just got fired for ‘compromising security’? Yeah, that’s not suspicious at all.”

He just shrugged, eyes still pinned on you. “I said I’d pay you. I’m paying you.”

“Uh-huh.” You took a step closer, voice dripping smug. “C’mon. My apartment’s a block away. Unless you wanna risk handing me a fat stack where Karen-with-a-stroller can watch and call the cops.”

“You’re awful cocky for someone who was screaming in my ear a week ago,” he said, voice low enough to slide under your skin.

“Yeah, well,” you smirked, “you’re awful smug for someone who got bit like a chew toy.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, but there was heat in them — the same slow-burn heat that made your stomach twist back in the lounge. “You gonna keep running your mouth the whole walk?”

“Probably,” you said sweetly. “If you don’t like it, you can fuck off back to wherever you keep your robbery fan club.”

That earned you the tiniest huff of a laugh. He tipped his head, finally breaking eye contact just long enough to glance down the street, then back to you. “Lead the way, pretty girl.”

The words hit like they had no business hitting, but you just rolled your eyes and started walking. You didn’t have to look back to know he was following — you could feel him there, a solid, shadow-heavy presence eating up the space between you, every step making your pulse spike for reasons you’d rather chew glass than say out loud.

The lock clicked behind you, and you tossed your bag onto the couch like you hadn’t just let a wanted man into your shoebox apartment.

Choso stood in the doorway for a beat too long, eyes sweeping over the space — not in that judgmental “wow, you’re broke” way, but like he was memorizing it.

“You really just let me in,” he said finally, his voice rougher in the quiet.

You kicked off your shoes, shrugging like it was no big deal. “Yeah. Shocking, right?”

He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why trust me?”

That one hit sharper than you expected. You paused halfway to the kitchen, then turned to face him, expression flat. “Truth? I hated that job. Carver was two inches from making me commit a felony anyway. Losing it was the best thing that’s happened to me all month.”

One of his brows arched, slow. “That’s it?”

You tilted your head, lips twitching into a smirk. “You really think I’m gonna stand here and tell you you’re hot, so you can strut around with your ego bigger than your dick?”

Something dark flickered in his eyes — and you couldn’t tell if it was amusement or something more dangerous. “So you’re lying.”

“Obviously.” You stepped closer. One step, then another, until you were close enough to smell the faint smoke and something warmer clinging to his hoodie. “So, tell me…” Your voice dipped. “Why didn’t you knock me out that day? Would’ve been easier. Cleaner. I was screaming in your ear, remember?”

He didn’t look away. Didn’t even blink. “Thought about it.” His tone was low, almost conversational — but every word landed heavy. “But then you looked at me. Not the gun, not the mask. Me. Like you wanted to figure me out.”

Your breath caught, but he kept going, his gaze locked like he was pinning you in place.

“I’ve had people look at me scared, angry, ready to fight — never like that. You didn’t see what I was doing. You saw me. And for a second…” His jaw flexed. “For a second, I didn’t give a fuck about the money. Couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t stop thinking about how you looked with your mouth open, ready to curse me out. How your voice sounded saying my name— and you didn’t even know it yet.”

You swallowed, pulse hammering in your throat.

His voice dropped further, just for you. “So no, I didn’t knock you out. I couldn’t. You were the only thing in that room I didn’t want to take by force.” The air felt thick enough to choke on.

Your chest rose and fell, each breath tighter than the last. The space between you felt like it was shrinking on its own, pulled taut like a wire ready to snap.

He hadn’t moved, but somehow he was everywhere— the smell of him, the weight of his stare, the memory of his hands locked around your wrists.

You didn’t think about it. You just stepped forward, closed the last few inches, and grabbed the front of his hoodie.

The first press of your mouth to his was nothing like you expected. It wasn’t desperate or messy — not at first. It was slow, firm, a deliberate claiming. He inhaled sharply against you, and you felt it, the way his chest expanded under your hands.

Then his own hands were on you. One came up to cradle the side of your jaw, the other sliding low to the small of your back, pulling you closer until your body molded against his. The kiss deepened, his lips parting just enough to drag his teeth over your bottom lip before he caught it between his, sucking once, slow enough to make your knees weaken.

You made a sound — low, involuntary — and it seemed to light him up. His fingers tightened at your waist, the heat in his body bleeding into yours.

“Fuck,” he murmured against your mouth, the word half a groan. “Knew you’d taste good.”

You shivered, tilting your head to chase his mouth as he kissed you again, harder this time. His tongue brushed yours, coaxing, teasing, until your nails were digging into the cotton of his hoodie.

When he broke for air, it was barely a breath before he leaned back in, kissing you like he’d been starving for it. You could feel him smiling against your lips, and it made you grab a fistful of his hair, yanking just enough to draw a sharp hiss from him.

“Shit,” he exhaled, his voice gravel. “Do that again.”

You did — twisting your fingers in those messy black strands, tugging him down to you. His hands slid lower, cupping your hips, his thumbs digging in through the fabric of your jeans as he guided you back toward the couch.

The backs of your knees hit the cushions and you fell into them, pulling him down with you. His weight covered yours, pressing you deep into the seat, his mouth never leaving yours except to trail heat along your jaw, down the side of your throat.

He bit once, gentle but enough to make your breath catch, then soothed the spot with his tongue. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he muttered, voice low and ragged against your skin.

Your hands roamed without thinking — over his back, down to the solid muscle under his hoodie, back up to his hair. He groaned into your neck when your nails grazed the base of his skull.

“Choso,” you breathed, and he shuddered like the sound of his name out of your mouth had physically hit him.

“Say it again,” he rasped, lips moving against your collarbone, his fingers already sliding under the hem of your shirt, skin to skin. “Say it like you mean it.”

You grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at you. His pupils were blown wide, his lips slick from kissing you raw. “I do mean it,” you said, your voice low and sure, before pulling him back down to kiss him until you forgot where you ended and he began.

You didn’t even remember moving. One second, you were kissing him like you meant to drink him down, the next, you were climbing into his lap.

Choso leaned back into the couch, wide legs spreading automatically to make room for you. His hands locked onto your hips, steadying you as you straddled him, your knees braced against the cushions on either side of his thighs.

The shift made your chest brush his, and his gaze flicked down immediately — not even pretending not to stare.

“Fuck…” His voice was low, almost reverent. “Been thinking about these since you yelled at me.”

That pulled a short laugh from you. “My tits?”

“Mhm.” His hands slid up your sides, slow but sure, until his thumbs skimmed the underside of your breasts through your shirt. “You were bent over that table, screaming in my face, and all I could think about was getting my hands on you like this.”

Your pulse kicked hard. “You’re insane.”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning up at you. “And you like it.”

Before you could bite back, he cupped you fully, big hands molding around you like he’d been waiting for this exact fit. His thumbs circled over your nipples through the fabric, teasing them into peaks until you bit your lip and arched just slightly into his touch.

“There she is,” he murmured, watching your face. “Knew you’d be soft. Knew you’d fill my hands perfect.”

You leaned down, kissing him again, slow and wet, while his palms kneaded at you like he couldn’t get enough. When he broke the kiss to mouth at your throat, you rolled your hips over his lap, dragging yourself over the solid line of him beneath his sweats.

He groaned into your skin, one hand slipping under your shirt without hesitation. The heat of his palm against your bare breast made you gasp, the contrast of his rough fingers against your softer skin shooting straight down your spine.

“Fuck, you’re warm,” he said, his thumb brushing over your nipple in a lazy circle before rolling it between his fingers. “You’re gonna kill me, you know that?”

You smirked, rocking your hips again, slower this time, making sure he felt every inch of you against him. “Maybe that’s the plan.”

“Not before I get my mouth on you,” he shot back, tugging your shirt up just enough to bare you to the cool air. His gaze locked on your chest like it was the only thing in the room worth looking at. “Jesus, look at you…”

His head dipped, and when his mouth closed around your nipple, you let out a sharp, startled moan. He sucked hard, tongue flicking, while one hand kept working the other breast, pinching and rolling until you were squirming in his lap.

“You like that?” he asked against your skin, voice vibrating over your breast. You grabbed a fistful of his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. “Shut up and keep going.”

He did — switching to the other side, biting just enough to make you gasp before soothing the sting with his tongue. His hands slid down to your ass, squeezing, pulling you tighter against the thick heat pressing up into you.

“God, you were so fucking wild that night,” he said, kissing up your chest to your collarbone. “Thrashing, swearing at me, and all I could think was how good you’d feel if you were moving on me like this instead.”

Your hips ground down harder at his words, and his grip on you tightened like he was holding himself back. “Careful,” he warned, voice low. “Keep that up and I’m not stopping.”

Your hips set the rhythm first.

Slow at the start, just enough for your clothed core to drag over the thick length straining against his sweats. The friction was dizzying — denim on cotton, heat building with every pass.

Choso’s head fell back against the couch, his eyes half-lidded but locked on your body as you rolled over him. “F-fuck… ngh—” His breath stuttered when you rocked down a little harder, and his fingers dug into your hips like he was trying to fuse you there.

You leaned forward, letting your breasts press into his chest, your mouth brushing his ear. “That sound you just made? Keep doing that.”

He groaned, low and rough, but it cracked halfway through. “Ah— fuck, you’re— ngh—” His head tipped back further, exposing his throat to you, and that’s when you saw it.

A faint purple bloom on the side of his neck. Right where your teeth had sunk in earlier.

You grinned. “Is that my bite mark?”

His gaze flicked to you, dark and half-guilty. “…Maybe.”

You slowed your grind to a lazy, deliberate roll, your hand coming up to cup his jaw. “You like walking around with that? Letting people know I put it there?”

His lips parted, his breath shivering out. “Yeah… I— ah— ngh— fuck, yeah.”

That little confession made something hot coil in your belly. You picked up the pace, grinding harder, dragging your clit over him through the layers of fabric. He met you halfway, hips lifting in short, sharp thrusts that made you gasp.

The room was filled with it now — the rough drag of clothes, the wet little sounds building between your thighs, the way Choso’s moans broke every time you found just the right angle.

“Shit— ngh— keep— keep going,” he rasped, one hand slipping up under your shirt to palm your breast while the other stayed locked on your ass, pulling you down into every thrust. His thumb brushed over your nipple and you jolted, the movement grinding you right over the thickest part of him.

His head tipped forward for a moment, mouth dragging over the top of your chest, sucking marks into your skin like he couldn’t help himself. “You’re— ah— fuck— you’re killing me.”

“You’re the one whining,” you teased, rolling your hips in a figure-eight that made his breath hitch.

“’Cause— ngh— you feel so fuckin’ good,” he admitted, voice wrecked. His thighs tensed under you as he snapped his hips up, his cock pressing hard against you through his sweats. “Keep— ah— just like that, please—”

The “please” was what got you.

You tangled your fingers in his hair and yanked, making him groan deep in his chest. “God, you’re a loser,” you breathed, and you felt him shudder under you. “Letting me use you like this.”

“Y-yeah,” he panted, hips stuttering. “Only you— ah— mm— only wanna be your loser.”

Your mouths crash again, messy and hot, teeth clacking until he groans into you. His tongue slips past your lips and it’s all spit and desperation, his big hands roaming—squeezing your tits, palming your ass, tugging at your shirt like he can’t get enough of touching you everywhere at once.

You slide a hand down his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his rapid breathing. The sweat-damp fabric of his hoodie clings to him, and when your fingers toy with the waistband of his sweats, his hips jerk up into your palm like instinct.

“Fuck— ngh—” he mutters against your mouth. You smirk, pulling back to look at him properly. His cheeks are flushed, lips kiss-swollen, eyes heavy with lust. He’s so gone.

“You want it that bad, Choso?” you tease, tugging at the drawstring.

He groans, tipping his head back against the couch. “Don’t— ngh— don’t fuckin’ tease me right now.” Then his gaze cuts back down at you, sharp, hungry. His thumb drags across your lower lip, pulling it down. “Get on your knees for me. Wanna see that pretty mouth wrapped around me.”

The way he says it—low, commanding, but almost trembling with need—has you sliding off his lap without a second thought. You sink to the floor between his knees, hands running up the inside of his thighs until you hook your fingers into his waistband.

“Pants off,” you murmur.

He lifts his hips obligingly, helping you drag his sweats and boxers down in one go. The moment his cock springs free, your breath catches.

“Holy shit…”

It’s big. Too big. Thick and heavy, flushed at the tip, veins running all the way up the shaft. It smacks against his stomach as it springs out, precum already smearing his skin. Your mouth goes dry.

Choso watches your expression and lets out this smug, breathless laugh. “Yeah? That big, huh?”

You swallow, eyes glued to it. “You’re— fuck, you’re huge.”

His hand cups the back of your head, guiding you closer. “Pretty little thing, already starin’ like it’s gonna break you.” His voice drops, rough and teasing. “But you’re gonna take it, right? Gonna make me disappear down that throat?”

Your thighs squeeze together at his words. You lick your lips, finally wrapping your hand around the base. He hisses instantly, his hips twitching.

“God— your hand looks tiny on me,” he groans, watching the way your fingers don’t even meet around him. “Fuck, that’s hot.”

You give him a slow stroke, precum smearing under your thumb. He’s thick enough that your jaw aches just imagining it.

“You’re gonna split me in half with this,” you mutter, leaning closer to drag your tongue over the tip. The taste of salt and heat blooms on your tongue.

Choso’s groan rattles out of his chest, his head falling back against the couch. “Ah— fuck— don’t say shit like that, I’ll lose it.”

You swirl your tongue around the head before pulling back just enough to murmur, “Lose it for me.” The sound he makes when you take him into your mouth—messy, broken, needy—is almost better than the weight of his cock stretching your lips. Your lips part wider, tongue flattening against his cock as you inch further down. He’s so thick you can feel your jaw protesting, spit pooling instantly and dribbling down your chin. You’ve barely swallowed half of him and already your throat flutters helplessly around the intrusion.

“Fuck— look at you,” Choso groans, fist curling in your hair as he keeps his eyes pinned on the sight of your lips stretched around his cock. His chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, sweat beading at his temple. “I knew it. First second I saw you in that room—sittin’ there all sweet—fuck, I knew I was gonna end up here. With this mouth chokin’ on me.”

The filth makes your stomach clench. You gag softly when you push down further, throat spasming around him. He hisses through his teeth, thighs tensing under your palms.

“Yeah—just like that. Let me feel you struggle on it.” His voice drops to a ragged whisper, but his hips betray him, jerking upward. Suddenly the thick head is pressing deeper, forcing past your gag reflex. Tears spring at the corners of your eyes.

He groans low, eyes fluttering shut. “Goddamn—your throat’s so fucking tight. Can’t—shit, can’t stop myself.” You claw at his thighs, spit soaking your chin and dripping to your chest. The sound is obscene: messy gulps, wet slurps, the slick slide of his cock down your throat. He’s fucking you raw like he can’t hold back another second.

“You hear that?” he rasps, voice breaking. “That’s your throat takin’ it. All for me. Jesus, I’ve been thinkin’ about this—ever since I saw you smilin’ in that dress. Thought about draggin’ you somewhere dark and just—fuck—ruin this mouth.”

Your eyes roll up to look at him, watery and desperate, and that’s what finally shatters him.

“Don’t—don’t look at me like that,” he groans, pushing your head further down until your nose is flush against his pelvis. You gag, choking around the sheer size, throat convulsing. He throws his head back, a guttural moan ripping from his chest. “Oh, fuck yes. You’re killin’ me, baby. Throat’s squeezin’ me like a damn fist.”

His hips stutter, rutting sharp and fast, using your throat like it’s the only thing that’ll save him. His thighs tremble under your hands, his grip in your hair tightening until your scalp burns.

“I should stop—fuck—I should stop but I can’t,” he pants, voice breaking into a rough, feral groan. “Been wantin’ this—been dreamin’ about this. Pretty little mouth takin’ me like a cockslut. You love this shit, don’t you?”

Your muffled moan vibrates around him, and he damn near sobs, hips bucking deeper.

“Shit—shit—don’t do that—don’t—fuck—” he growls, pulling your head down hard as he ruts into you with reckless abandon, lost to the feeling. Your throat aches, spit dripping messily over your knuckles, but his filthy groans and the way his abs tighten above you make it worth every gag. Your throat flexes helplessly around him, slick and raw, spit bubbling past your lips with every brutal rut of his hips. You’re crying now, tears streaming down your cheeks, but the look in your eyes when you peer up at him makes Choso growl like an animal.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—don’t look at me while I’m doin’ this to you,” he pants, voice breaking as his abs clench. His cock twitches deep in your throat, heavy veins dragging against your raw walls. “You’ll make me—shit—you’ll make me cum faster—”

You gag when he pushes down harder, the swollen head bruising your throat. Your nose is buried against his pubic bone, lips stretched wide and wet. You’re choking on him, but you moan around it—moan like you want him to ruin you. And he just snaps.

“God damn it—” Choso’s voice cracks into a desperate growl, his hips jerking with ragged force. “Been thinkin’ about this mouth since the second I laid eyes on you. Couldn’t get the image outta my head. Knew you’d look so fucking pretty choking on me.”

Your gagging becomes sloppy, loud, spit spilling down your chin, soaking your throat and chest. The sound of it drives him insane. His grip in your hair shakes with how hard he’s holding you.

“Ahhh—fuck, I’m gonna cum—gonna fuckin’ cum down your throat, baby,” he moans, throwing his head back. His eyes screw shut, jaw clenched so hard it aches. “Take it. Take every drop—lemme ruin you like I’ve been wantin’.”

His cock throbs violently, then he’s spilling—hot, thick ropes of cum shooting down your throat. He groans raggedly, whole body trembling as he fucks into you through it, rutting shallowly to milk every drop.

“Yesss—fuck yes—swallow it, don’t waste a single fuckin’ drop,” he grits out, chest heaving as he watches your throat bob around him. “You’re mine now. My perfect slut.”

The mess is obscene. His cum leaks past your lips, dribbles from the corners of your mouth, streaks down your chin to join the slick spit already painting your chest. Choso looks down at you—tear-streaked, throat raw, face a ruined mess—and his cock twitches again, still hard even as he softens. He groans low, almost a whine, pushing your head back just enough to let him slide free with a wet, sloppy pop. Strings of spit and cum cling to your swollen lips.

“Shit,” he breathes, voice hoarse. He cups your face with a trembling hand, thumb smearing the mess across your cheek. His eyes are blown wide, pupils dark with lust. “Look at you. Never seen anything so pretty. You don’t even know what you do to me.”

Then his thumb presses your bottom lip down, smearing more of his cum into your mouth as his cock twitches weakly. “Open up—yeah, just like that. Lemme see that tongue.” He groans when you do, messy and obedient, showing him everything you’ve swallowed. “Holy fuck. You’re perfect. Perfect.”

Your body is still twitching when Choso hauls you up, chest heaving, cock still standing hard and angry against his stomach. He doesn’t even look at it—his eyes are locked on you, pupils blown wide, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.

“Up here,” he rasps, dragging you into his lap before laying himself back on the couch.

You’re breathless, lips swollen. “Choso—what are you—”

He doesn’t answer. His hands hook into the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down in one slow pull until they’re around your ankles. Your panties go with them—thin, soaked, sticking to your pussy as he peels them away.

“Fuck…” he mutters when the fabric clings before snapping off your skin. He lets the ruined underwear fall to the floor, staring at the wet patch like it’s a trophy. “You’ve been dripping for me all night, huh? Knew it.”

“Choso…” you murmur, shy, but your voice breaks when he spreads your thighs, dragging you higher up his chest.

He settles flat against the couch, hair splayed across the cushions, and grips your hips. “Sit,” he orders, dark and raw.

“Wait, you just—” Your protest dies in a sharp gasp because he yanks you down, nose pressing against your clit, tongue swiping a long, wet stripe through your folds.

“Fuck!” you cry out, hands flying to his hair for balance.

Choso groans into your pussy like it’s oxygen, his voice muffled. “Goddamn—so sweet—been wantin’ this since the second I saw you.” His hands flex hard on your thighs, nails digging crescents into your skin as he locks you in place.

You whimper, trying to wriggle back from the intensity. “Cho—it’s too much—”

“Shut up,” he growls against your cunt, spit dripping down his chin as his tongue plunges into you. “Don’t run from me. Stay fuckin’ still and let me eat.”

He’s everywhere—tongue lapping, sucking your clit, shaking his head like he wants to bury himself inside you. You can’t stop the choked cries ripping out of you, hips grinding helplessly against his face.

“Choso—oh god—ahhh—”

He moans like you’re feeding him, hips rutting up against nothing. He’s sloppy, messy, absolutely drunk on you—licking, sucking, groaning, spitting into your folds just to lap it back up.

“Cum for me,” he snarls, breaking only for a second to drag his tongue flat across your whole pussy. “Drown me, baby. I wanna choke on it.”

That’s all it takes—you shatter on his tongue, thighs clamping around his head as he growls and keeps licking through it, drinking down every drop, until you’re sobbing his name into the empty room. When you slump back, trembling and overstimulated, Choso drags his mouth off you with a filthy pop. His lips, chin, even his cheeks are wet with you, glistening under the dim light. He licks slow across his mouth, eyes blown out, cock still twitching hard against his stomach.

“You taste like fuckin’ heaven,” he rasps, voice ruined. Then he smirks, tugging you back down by the thighs. “And I’m not done.”

Your body is still twitching when Choso finally pulls back from between your thighs, lips and chin shiny with you. His chest heaves, hair damp with sweat, and yet his cock is still raging hard—angrier now, flushed to the tip, leaking against his stomach like it’s been aching for years.

You try to catch your breath, but he’s already dragging you down into the cushions of the couch. His big hands press into your thighs, urging you to lie back.

“C’mere,” he mutters, voice hoarse and needy.

You blink up at him, flushed and still trembling, but let him guide you down until your back sinks into the couch. He cages you in, bracing a forearm by your head, his other hand sliding beneath the hem of your shirt.

“Wait—” you start, voice shaky.

He doesn’t take it off—he just pushes it up, slow, baring your chest until your breasts spill free. The look on his face when they do is almost reverent.

“Fuckin’ knew they’d be perfect,” he whispers, eyes locked on the soft curves, pupils so wide you can barely see the brown. He leans down, kissing over the swell of one, then catching a nipple between his lips, sucking until you arch up with a gasp.

“Choso…” your voice breaks.

He smirks against your skin, kisses messy and wet across both breasts. “Love these, baby. Could stay here all night.” His teeth graze your nipple just enough to make you whine. But then he shifts—one hand sliding between your thighs, guiding himself down to your soaked entrance. The blunt head of his cock brushes your pussy and you jolt, body clenching around nothing.

“Cho—wait, you’re—” You glance down, eyes widening at the sheer size of him. Thick, flushed, dripping precum, the tip nudging against your folds and making your walls spasm already.

“I—I don’t think—”

“Shhh,” he coos, leaning in to kiss you soft, swallowing your protest. “You can take it, baby. You’re mine, yeah?”

You whimper into his mouth, nodding, but when he pushes the tip inside, your nails dig into his shoulders.

“Choso—ahh—it’s too much, too big—”

He groans deep in his chest, forehead pressing to yours. “Fuck—you’re so tight, so warm—baby, just a little more. I got you. I won’t hurt you.”

You shake your head, thighs trembling as he stretches you inch by inch. “It’s not fitting—”

“Yes it is,” he murmurs, kissing you again, slow and messy. “It’s yours. Just relax. Breathe for me, pretty girl.”

His hand strokes up your side, over your breast, thumb brushing your nipple while he rocks his hips, feeding you more of him.

Your body fights it, walls gripping him so tight he groans and has to still. “Fuuuck—you’re squeezing the life outta me.”

Tears prick your eyes at the stretch, and he catches them with kisses at the corners. “Don’t cry, baby. You’re doing so good. You’re taking me so fuckin’ good.” Your thighs twitch, back arching, and little by little, he pushes deeper until you’re half full of him. He pauses again, chest heaving.

“Halfway there,” he whispers against your lips, like it’s a promise. “You can take the rest. You’re perfect for me.” He kisses your jaw, your throat, your breasts again, every inch of you worshipped as he pushes slow, steady, filling you with another thick stretch. You moan, broken, clutching at him. “Choso—too much—”

He shushes you with another kiss, thumb circling your clit in soft, coaxing circles. “Just a little more, baby. I’ll make it feel so good. Let me all the way in. Wanna be inside you—every inch.”

Your body gives, walls fluttering around him as he sinks in deeper, until you’re gasping against his mouth, stretched so wide you swear you’ll split, but every kiss and every whisper keeps you grounded. Choso’s voice is a husky rasp in your ear, his cock buried nearly to the hilt. “See? Told you. You can take it. My pretty girl, made for me.”

When the last thick inch finally pushes in, your walls clamp down so hard around him Choso curses, head dropping to your neck.

“Fuuuuck—baby… I’m all the way in. You feel that? Took me so good.”

You’re whimpering, legs trembling where they cling around his waist. Your mind is hazy, nothing but stretch and fullness and the overwhelming heat of his body over yours.

Choso doesn’t give you long to adjust. He pulls back, dragging his cock out slow, and then slams forward again. The sound that rips from your throat is broken, helpless.

“Choso—!”

His hips snap into yours again, harder this time, the couch creaking under the force. Sweat drips from his temple onto your chest, and he kisses down your throat between every thrust, messy and desperate.

“God, I love this pussy,” he groans, hips rolling deep. “You’re squeezin’ me so fuckin’ good, baby—made for me, yeah? Fuckin’ perfect for me.”

You can’t answer—your voice catches in half-formed cries every time he pounds into you. He smirks against your skin, licking sweat from your collarbone before sucking a mark just above your breast.

“Can’t even talk, huh? My dumb baby,” he pants, his words warm and sticky in your ear. “Dick got you all fucked out already.”

Your nails claw down his back, dragging over slick skin. He hisses but thrusts harder, faster, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the living room.

Your head lolls against the couch cushion, mouth falling open, drool slipping from the corner of your lips. Choso notices—of course he does—and his cock twitches inside you at the sight.

“Messy little thing,” he coos, kissing the saliva off your chin. “Look so cute when you’re gone like this. My pretty baby—love you like this.”

The sweat on his chest smears against your shirt where it’s bunched under your arms, his abs flexing with every brutal thrust. He pulls back enough to watch himself sink in and out of you, your slick coating his length.

“Fuck, look at that. You hear that?” He thrusts hard, sharp, making the squelch obscene. “That’s you. That’s how wet you are for me.”

You moan so loud it cracks, tears welling again, body arching up to meet him. Your pussy clamps down like it’s trying to pull him deeper, and he groans, nearly undone.

“Baby—shit—you’re gonna kill me. Feels too good.” His forehead presses to yours, his thrusts still rough, but his kisses are soft, clumsy, wet against your lips.

“Love you, baby,” he murmurs between thrusts, words slurring with pleasure. “Love this pussy. Can’t stop, don’t wanna stop.”

His hips slam faster, sharper, driving the air from your lungs, leaving you a babbling mess under him. Every thrust makes you squeal, whine, sob—until you can’t even think, can’t even speak, just claw at his slick back and let him use you.

Choso is dripping sweat now, hair sticking to his forehead, jaw slack with ecstasy. “So good, baby. You’re mine. All mine. Say it—say it’s mine.”

You choke on a moan, nodding frantically, and he rewards you with a punishing thrust that makes you see stars.

“That’s right,” he growls, kissing you sloppy, tongue pushing past your lips. “My pussy. My baby. Fuck, I love you.”

And he doesn’t stop—keeps fucking you like he’s starving, like the only thing keeping him alive is being buried inside you, messy and desperate and sweet all at once.

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