#my hips are like. barely keeping me upright today 💀

[allalrightagain]

Okay I know this is literally why I’m in PT but— people with normal joints, how long does it take y’all to recover from a workout and stop being sore?

There’s no way everyone is actually walking around with 3-4 day recovery times and working out every day, right?? Please tell me this is a me issue and everyone else isn’t a masochist

[voxofthevoid]

Aaaand this is now officially my longest WIP Wednesday series, with Demon/Hunter Horror Wednesday #14. I think this will reach and cross #20 actually. I'm currently writing Chapter 18, and the fic is 130k.

There are 10 chapters left to write 💀

The chapter count climbed from 23 to 28 between my initial full estimate and the current one. Since the whole thing is now plotted out, it shouldn't increase further, but the chapters are often hefty, ranging from 8 to 12k. This is definitely following me into 2025. Plus, in around 6k, this will also become my longest JJK story.

The WIP Wednesday snippets from this point will likely be sex scenes that can be...enjoyed for their own sake. Any of the plottier bits or conversations won't make any sense without context.

This week, ass is on the menu! The scene is goyuu, but there's referenced sukuita.

“It’s my birthday today.”

“Oh! Happy birthday!” It’s bubbly and bright, with an expression to match the voice—and then Yuuji frowns, though it’s more like a pout this time. “Man, you should’ve said that earlier. I’d have got you something. Or maybe—”

“No need,” Satoru cuts in, pushing off the door to close the distance between them. “I have my gift right here.”

Yuuji blinks in confusion one single time. Then realization cascades down his face in shades of porous pink.

“Satoru,” he whines, not quite protest.

Satoru slots himself between Yuuji’s spread legs, grinning down at him. Yuuji’s staring up with an expression that seems like it’s trying for exasperation, except it’s too soft and fond to pull it off.

“May I?” Satoru murmurs.

“Huh?”

“Unwrap my gift,” he clarifies, placing his hands delicately on Yuuji’s shoulders before skimming them down his arms, then sliding sideways to the chest. It swells under his palms, deflating in rush. There’s no warmth seeping through the thick hoodie, but Satoru can feel the unyielding thickness of the muscles underneath. “Can I touch you, Yuuji?”

Yuuji shudders all over with a violence that thrums in Satoru’s own veins.

“Yes,” he gasps out.

Satoru tugs Yuuji to his feet, dropping to his knees almost the second Yuuji’s upright, and there’s a low moan in response, choked back down in a way that only makes it dirtier. There’s still something uniquely flattering about pulling a noise like that out of a boy like this, all while barely even touching him, and no soul in the world would argue that Satoru’s ego needs further stroking, but he swallows it greedily all the same.

Then he works Yuuji’s jeans off to give himself something else he can swallow greedily.

Yuuji’s mostly soft when Satoru gets his mouth on him, but that changes fast, heavy heat weighing down his tongue and plugging his throat, and Yuuji pants and heaves but stays so very still, like he’s letting Satoru help himself to his gift at his own pace.

Such a sweet boy, this Yuuji.

Satoru pulls off sooner than he’d strictly prefer; his throat isn’t even sore, though his mouth is already flooded with Yuuji’s taste. And Yuuji makes a tight little noise when Satoru abandons his cock and rises to his feet, but the disappointment doesn’t resolve into any real protest, and he lets Satoru strip off the rest of his clothes, pliant from his arms to his hips.

The torso that’s revealed is a motley mess.

It takes every ounce of control Satoru’s ever possessed to keep his expression from changing. None of these marks are new. Not a single one. Satoru could perfectly recount which ones were left on which day. He even knows the ones littering the rest of Yuuji, from the handprints on his hips to the claw marks at his back. The former were somehow easy to ignore when he was on his knees with Yuuji’s desire a concrete heat on his tongue, but now he finds himself acutely aware of every single blemish.

“Satoru…?” Yuuji asks, his voice soft and uncertain.

It’d be easier if the writhing mass in Satoru’s chest was only guilt. Not kinder. But certainly simpler.

He wonders what expression he’s wearing for Yuuji to look so wary.

“Ran into an animal?” Satoru places his hand on one of the marks on Yuuji’s hips, slotting his fingers along the distinct shapes there; they don’t match, of course.

Yuuji’s stonelike under the touch. “Something like that.”

“That’s dangerous, you know.”

The noise Yuuji makes is a little to the left of laughter. “I know. Satoru, are you—”

He cuts off with a gasp as Satoru shoves him down onto the bed, with enough force that Yuuji lands smack in the middle of it. It’s a pretty big bed. Even with Yuuji lying breadthwise like this, no part of him dangles off the edges. Satoru wouldn’t have that luxury, but he’s got a better mattress in mind this moment.

Some of the tension and caution both drain out of Yuuji when Satoru strips quickly and climbs on him, and the arms that come up to grab him don’t hesitate for more than a fraction of a second before settling warmly on his thighs, the palms spreading open to cover as much skin as they can.

Satoru straddles Yuuji’s stomach, his ass just low enough that Yuuji’s dick is poking it. And he’s only taken it once, but his body remembers it faithfully, parts deep inside clenching like they’re already expecting the violation.

He leans forward, splaying his hands along Yuuji’s ribs. Firm flesh presses up against his hands each time Yuuji breathes in, and when Satoru bears down harder in response, he can feel the individual bones of Yuuji’s ribcage.

And the bruises only feel like skin, as smooth and only as warm as the rest of Yuuji’s skin, but Satoru still feels them like stains.

“Should I still be gentle, Yuuji,” he asks softly, “or would you like some redecoration?”

Yuuji makes a noise like Satoru struck him.

Satoru settles back, shifting his weight from Yuuji’s chest to his own knees, and it’s still not only guilt that lashes inside him, but there’s enough of it that Satoru smothers everything else, shaping his mouth into something softer and laughing it off, and Yuuji—

The hands on Satoru’s thighs snap to his hips, gripping tight and yanking.

Satoru’s dragged along the bed, up Yuuji’s body, with a force and a fury that turns him weightless, and Satoru doesn’t stop it, but he’s also not really allowing it, briefly a mere passenger in his flesh.

Yuuji shoves his face into Satoru’s ass.

“Ah,” Satoru rasps, a gunshot noise. “That’s how it is then.”

Yuuji answers by spreading Satoru’s cheeks wide to make more room for his face, and there’s nothing tentative or testing about the tongue that strikes his hole, licking over it all slick and sloppy once, then twice, before pushing right in.

Satoru tightens helplessly around that prying intrusion, and Yuuji grunts and shoves up with his face, his tongue, until Satoru feels slightly skewered, his flesh aching like it’s been split around something thicker and sharper than one hungry tongue. It flexes inside him like Yuuji’s planning to pry him apart by force, and hot puffs of breath land on Satoru’s hole like they’re softening him up for the slaughter.

Satoru doesn’t feel softened so much as tenderized, and this is only the appetizer.

Or he’s the appetizer, with the way Yuuji’s acting.

The angle is so different from the first and last time Yuuji did this, but his mouth isn’t any less clever for it. It’s more tongue than anything, broad strokes melting into stabbing thrusts easing into gentle circles along the rim, and then he’s straining up with his whole face in a way Satoru can feel all through his body, and it doesn’t get him any deeper, it can’t, but god, does he try, that greedy tongue plunging into Satoru over and over and over around a hot, open maw, the air there grown blistering, and when the tongue pulls out, the lips press in—parted but puckered, sealing themselves to Satoru’s hole.

A kiss, sweet and dirty both.

Yuuji sucks.

Satoru yells, almost toppling forward, and Yuuji’s hands clench on his ass like he intends to keep it attached to his face even if he has to pry it off Satoru, and Satoru stays, of course he stays, but not before grasping at empty air, tempted beyond belief to turn it into a handhold. It’s a horrible idea considering Yuuji’s unbalanced mix of awareness and unawareness about the darker realities of this world, but what really stops Satoru is a blend of pride and the sense he’d be cheating.

So he kneels there and trembles, one fist shoved against his mouth to keep himself from wailing like a whore. A part of him wants to, but he wants even more to hear the noises spilling from where Yuuji’s mouth is married to his flesh. Wet, hungry things—thin little noises that burst open against Satoru’s hole and slicker sounds that shudder out with every moment of sloppy suction. Every exquisite second of it sinks into Satoru, heating the rim and clawing in deep and then deeper, carving a path into places Yuuji can’t touch even with his cock but manage to peel open and fill up anyway.

When the lips let up, it’s just for the tongue to return, sliding easily into the loosened hole and digging hungrily into muscles that clench and burn, aching to pull Yuuji in deeper even as what he’s getting makes Satoru’s eyes and mind grow hazy at the edges.

But in between, whenever the fury of his flesh subsides enough to allow flashes of painful clarity, Satoru thinks of the look on Yuuji’s face in that single, spearing moment before he hauled Satoru onto his mouth—that delicate blend of pain and yearning.

Desire will never be sacred again, not for this boy.