unsiee

[unsiee]

pistachios. toji + onyankopon.

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

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

visual.

HOW DID YOU END UP HERE? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wanted you. 

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

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

Onyankopon.

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

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

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

Teeth. His teeth were nice.

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

You have big hands. 

Yeah, you were fucked. 

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

This wasn’t cheating, right? 

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

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

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

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

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

Now? You were fucked. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That don’t’ make it any less work.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ the only one complaining.”

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

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

Onyankopon turns towards you. 

“How’ you feelin’ about this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You sound like a damn teenager.” 

“‘Cause I’m arguin’ with one.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And with that, the door closed.

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

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

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

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

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

Onyankopon notices your face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You ain’t hungry, are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You sure?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were losing it.

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

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

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

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

Lord Jesus. 

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

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

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

You felt dizzy.

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes glanced at Onyankopon. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?” he murmured back. 

He noticed the way you tried to look elsewhere. 

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

“Eyes,” he reminded, “Need em’ here.” 

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

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

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

“You sure that’s the only thing?”

You nod, “Mhm.”

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

If only you’d realized that your husband noticed.

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

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

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

“You finished up those emails earlier?”

Shit. 

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

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

“What happened?”

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

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

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

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

Toji huffs a chuckle.

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

“Let me ask you somethin’.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not what I asked.” 

You tried to keep your expression neutral. 

“What are you asking, then?”

“To be honest with me.” 

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

He repeats, “You like him?” 

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

So you try again. 

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

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

“Nah,” he disagreed, “It ain’t.” 

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

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

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

“Make me understand.”

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

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

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

His expression was unreadable. 

“Right?” 

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

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

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

“What question?” 

His next words had the silence in the room deafening. 

“Your fantasy. Talk me through it.” 

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

“What?”

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

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

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

Toji’s jaw ticked. 

“You think I’m mad at you?”

You question, “Are you?” 

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

He then repeats, “Tell me.” 

You swallowed, fiddling with your manicured fingers. 

“Promise you won’t be mad?” 

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

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

Toji waited, watching you fidget. 

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

“You think ‘bout him fuckin’ you?”

“Toji.”

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

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

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

“Is that somethin’ you want?”

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

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

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

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

You felt mortified.

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

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

“You’re so shy, woman.” 

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

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

“I feel insane,” You reply.

“Shit is kinda’ cute, honestly.” 

“Toji,” You smack his bicep, “Stop.”

“Ouch.”

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

“You done with your lil’ tantrum?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pucker your lips out, awaiting a kiss.

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

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

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

“Yeah. Lemme’ call up Onyankopon first—“

You smack his chest again.

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

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

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

But something about today’s routine felt…different. 

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

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

“Good morning?” 

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

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

It was almost—too silent.

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

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

Your clit throbbed. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’re both touching. Again.

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

Your heart palpitated. 

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

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

“Beat this bet, Pussy.” 

“Who’ the pussy?” 

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

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

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

They were trying to kill you.

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

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

To top it off, they were still touching. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okay.

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

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

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

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

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

“Starvin’,” Toji grunted. 

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

The pet name made your thighs want to clench.

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

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

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

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

That sentence weighed in your chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You think on your words.

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ happy to have me around?”

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

“Ion’ make you feel no type of way?” 

You blink. 

“Of course not.”

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

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

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

Onyankopons’ head tilted, “Just sweet?”

You swallowed, nodding. 

“Yeah.” 

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

“Nothin’ else?” 

Your neck prickled at the way his voice dropped. 

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

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

Your hands clenched around the knife. 

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

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

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

And then, he’s sucking.

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

“Ony—“

“‘Gotta be more careful, Mama.” 

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

“You got a taste on you, girl.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Onyankopon raised an eyebrow. 

“Try me, I ain’t gon’ freak out.”

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

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

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

And then, Onyankopon chuckles. 

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

“She ain’t gon’ be able to fit me.” 

You felt your entire body freeze. 

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

Were you going into shock?

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

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

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

“I—“

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

Your mouth dropped open. 

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

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

“Toji,”  you pouted, “I—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

They were so big. 

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

“Show how pretty your shit is, baby.”

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

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

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

“Look how muhfuckin’ pretty you are.”

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

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

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

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

“Which one’ you feelin’, huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Needy ass.” 

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

“Just pretty as hell.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Toji groaned, “Shit.” 

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

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

Onyankopon’s jaw clicked at the sight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a reassurance for him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You moaned in response, “Tastes so good.” 

“Keep takin’ that shit, baby.” 

Toji’s voice was all around you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Always keep them’ eyes on her.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just wanted to taste him, Daddy.” 

Onyankopon darkly chuckled. 

That's when you hear Toji’s, “Yeah?”

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

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

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

You whimper, “Sensitive, baby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whimpered at his words. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please, Ony. Please.” 

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

You whined onto his dick, “‘So bad.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But oh, they had so much more to give. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know you fuckin’ do.”

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

“Keep fuckin’ me like that.”

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

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

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

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

You lean down to find Toji’s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

“You gon’ cum all on me, Mama?” 

Onyankopon’s voice. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s how you ended up here.

[unsiee]

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི ₊˚ 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒂 𝒃𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍. lucifer x fem reader

warnings ꒱ྀི daddy kink. prbly excessive use of princess/little girl/human. size kink. praise. nipple sucking. fingering. possessive luci. unedited as usual. wc ꒱ 6k ﾉ 18+

note . . ᘏ⑅ᘏ ﾉ i dunno if this is even a repost anymore bcuz the original fic was only 2k words :c . . i also thought I wasn’t cwazy abt luci anymore but boy . . wus i wrong. i still luv him dearly. i hope anyone who reads this enjoys. thankuuu ^_^

lucifer could never understand why humans, beings fettered by something as meaningless as mortality, could possess the ties to control and bind demons.

how such frail bodies of small messes, succumbing to sicknesses, phobias, and other little weirds are able to form pacts with such powerful creatures

it’s a polarizing thought that he’s never challenged or sought to change. he understands them for what they are. arguably worse than demons, and he wants nothing to do with them. they are violent, weak, and fickle, and somehow—in the irony of it all—the universe plays a trick on him.

he lowered his defenses and foolishly got ahead of himself. he was unlike his brothers; he didn’t need love or companionship, and yet, of all the powerful beings and creatures, it’s a human that turned him into something unrecognizable.

it was faceless, sneaking up on him, and he was unable to remedy it as he slowly felt it consume him whole.

a bond was webbed between the two of you, and he’s certain, frighteningly so, that nothing could break it.

granted, that level of trust surely didn’t form overnight, as you proved to be quite troublesome. you were used to peeking your nose where it didn’t belong and going into places mortals should never be, making his job more difficult, but still, he trusts you.

with six younger demon brothers and a human to look after, discord became frequent. secrets wrapped tightly were easily unveiled just from your existence in devildom.

he kept a mental checklist of all your wrongdoings, and now your invasion of his heart was another.

his heart.

nothing but proof of his existence, only meant to pump blood and oxygen, has now expanded far too much to fit within his ribcage. it was suffocating.

it made room for a different kind of love, for someone else, and he didn’t think it was possible. he became spoiled by your affections.

he yearned so much for you that he was convinced that his carnage and sadism might have withered. at least, that's what he thought, only to realize it’s been tucked away in a cavity that you simultaneously filled.

he’s unfortunately reminded that it never really went anywhere. he’s respected and feared by all, and yet it wasn’t enough to deter his brothers from causing any mishaps, especially one in particular.

♡ . . ♡

it’s dinner when lucifer decides to strike.

chatter and the smell of only the best food in devildom fill the room. he almost feels bad for souring the joyful atmosphere—almost, but as always, there's an impending conflict that would render him irritable for the rest of the night.

he sits at the head of the table as the eldest brother and strongest demon, earning everyone's stare from the shift in the atmosphere. you and his brothers could sense that he wasn’t going to make a meager announcement. lucifer moves slowly, careful to prevent any of his heedless anger from slipping through.

he looks at everyone in the room, but his gaze lingers on you a bit longer.

“forgive me for interrupting dinner, but it’s come to my attention that someone here has stolen something valuable of mine.” his voice is deep, stern, and accusing. it echoes in the candle-lit hall.

“my credit card.”

maybe it's his sadistic streak, but he knew asking that question was ultimately trivial. he knows which of his brothers is guilty; you all did.

there’s only one demon dumb and desperate enough to steal from lucifer of all people, and while the perpetrator was obvious, it didn’t make anyone any less anxious.

the avatar of pride is infamous for his punishments, and no one wanted to be on the receiving end. when anything goes amiss, they must answer to him, and you were no exception to that rule.

you point your manicured finger at mammon, and his expression morphs into utter terror. he yelps at your tattling, already plotting at least three different ways to make his escape.

“oh my,” asmo laughs.

belphie yawns obnoxiously, unamused by the series of events. it was just another typical night in the house of lamentation; nothing should surprise anyone, and still, lucifer let a troubled sigh escape.

mammon throws a fit of indignation, as if his culpability wasn’t already obvious.

tossing his hands in the air, he whines, “damn it. why’d ya’ have to tell?” he slides down the seat of the chair, trying to avoid lucifer’s angered stare as much as possible.

you don’t think to reply, almost even rolling your eyes at him. everyone knows it’s him, and like the well-behaved girl you are, you figure it makes no sense to drag out the inevitable.

but when everyone’s eyes settle on you in curiosity, you slouch in your chair and blush at the sudden attention. you feel nervous, like you made a blunder of some sort.

they expectantly await your answer, but you don't have one.

“s-sorry, mammon,” you squeak out.

your hands in between your thighs and fidget under their stares.

you couldn’t, at least not confidently, admit that lucifer has you wrapped around his finger. he expects far too much of you, and you couldn’t possibly ruin that because of mammon, but that didn’t lessen the slight guilt from easing in.

“don’t apologize,” lucifer says, bolstering his voice—his attempt at scolding mammon while reassuring you.

“it’s not up to her to entertain your lies. perhaps if you weren’t always up to no good, she wouldn’t have to confess to your wrongdoings,” he lectures.

he sneers at him, and you watch as the younger demon slinks back further. “you’re the second oldest. act like it.”

mammon huffs.

“ahhh, lucifer, you’re no fun.”

admittedly, the brothers would get away with a lot more if it weren’t for your honesty.

make no mistake, they all love you dearly, but the troublemakers couldn’t tolerate your obedience when it comes to lucifer.

when he asked you who ate all the food satan prepared for breakfast the next day, you didn’t hesitate to say it was beel. when he asks you who wrote ‘lucifer sucks :p’ on his wall, you don’t stutter to inform him of satan’s and belphie’s not-so-secretive plan of his tormentation.

anything he wants, anything he asks, you obey. that was just the nature of your relationship.

after mammon realizes pouting won’t get him out of trouble with lucifer, he goes back to eating, and the others follow suit. soon the lively atmosphere returned, but you felt rather self-conscious.

you looked over at lucifer in the hope of finding something that you're weren't sure of yet, only to see that he was already staring at you. you nibble on your spoon, suddenly feeling bare from his lowered gaze.

there is a sense of security that you crave. his look of approval serves as a reminder of why you’re faithful to him. it was rewarding to know that your loyalty didn’t go unnoticed.

you look away quickly to hide your flusteredness by sipping on your tea, but the sweet taste of earl gray isn’t enough to distract you.

dinner begins to slow and wrap up. one by one, everyone bids their goodbyes. mammon is the first to depart, knowing he’d need as much of a head start as possible. when you finish the remainder of your dinner, you get up to leave as well.

you think about how to spend the rest of your evening, and your mind wanders to cramped thighs and ruined pillows.

you grow heated by the memory of previous nights. you touched yourself too many times to count after constantly witnessing lucifer’s disheveled state after his long day of reprimanding.

you stuffed your cunt with your fingers nightly, trying to mimic the feeling of something much larger. it was difficult to commit such acts quietly in a home full of creatures with nearly perfect hearing, and still, you wonder what fantasy will tether you tonight.

maybe the one when he fucks you in diavolo’s office, or your personal favorite, he punishes you.

you fantasize about him pulling up your dainty dress to put you over his lap and spank your plump ass until cum soaks your thighs, but tonight, you don’t have to conjure up anything.

lucifer stops you in the middle of your daydream. grabbing your wrist gently, he catches you by surprise.

you clumsily turn. frazzled eyes meet unwavering carmines. you’re almost certain he could hear the thump beating between your legs.

the prideful demon pulls you close, forcing your bodies to collide and connect like missing pieces. his breath is warm against your ear.

“would you like to come by my chambers later tonight?”

you look up to search his face, wondering if there’s even a sign of doubt. after countless days and nights and all sorts of muddled feelings between sheets, there is a part of you that can’t truly accept that he sought you.

one of the most eligible bachelors in all of devildom, known for his fearsomeness, is holding you like you were glass, asking for your company.

you soak in his expression, and it’s nothing less than firm and impenetrable, and it's then that you realize it was not a question. he was not asking.

struck with a whirlwind of desire from that revelation, you nod weakly, but the demon only shakes his head in response.

“words, my little human.”

your head tilts on its axis only for a moment. your chest had to be wide open, bearing your insides to him. the effect he had on you must have been that obvious. you’re a puddle.

was it normal to feel the static every time he was around, after every word he spoke?

you feel hazy, but also a small sense of relief that you no longer have to question if he still wants you. you’ve exhausted your fingers and toys, and finally, what you have been needlessly craving would be fulfilled in a room only a few doors down. his gaze flickers to your lips, and they shine with promise.

you mustered up all the courage you had left.

“yes, i would love to come by later.”

you’re amazed that it didn’t come out as wobbly as you anticipated. you’ve gotten better at pretending, you suppose.

lucifer gives you a sweet smile. he’s pleased with your answer, and butterflies erupt in your full belly.

his gloved hand then completely engulfs yours to bring it to his lips. not once breaking eye contact, he kisses your knuckle before he departs. a hopeless romantic.

he sets out to find mammon, and that gives you enough time to prepare.

you stalk up the stairs, declining levi’s invitation for a night of competitive gaming pitifully on the way. you’ll make it up to him next time.

by ushering yourself into your room, you act immediately. you don’t spend too long getting ready. a steaming, hot shower would suffice. you wash up with a bar of gentle soap, then follow through with too many to-count spritzes of perfume and faint-smelling lotion.

white with pastel pink trim.

your night clothes are simple and short enough to keep him on his toes. you look over at yourself in the mirror.

when did you become so daring ? you didn’t know. maybe asmo’s tips on charm and seduction were finally rubbing off on you. you wonder what his reaction would be if you told him you were using them on his brother. maybe he already knew.

you turn off your light and open your door. you peek down the hall.

it’s silent and empty, just as you predicted.

quietly, you shut the door, cursing to yourself when you hear the faint cry of the rusty hinges. your trek down to his room was anxiety-inducing, but in a good way. you feel refreshed, your body is more than ready, and you’re excited.

you hoped no one would drop by unexpectedly. beel would most likely wake up in the middle of the night for a snack, but the kitchen was in the opposite direction of lucifer’s room. not that it mattered anyway.

it wasn’t really a secret—not that those lasted with you around—but it would be. . . awkward. you’d much rather not have to deal with anyone overhearing all the naughty things you’ll beg him to do.

you stop your train of thought when you reach the end of the hallway. you’re in front of his door, and you sway from your heels to your tippy toes. the fluttery ache in your chest was making you skittish.

you take a breath to compose yourself, and then you knock with three light taps.

“come in”

it takes a good chunk of your strength to open his heavy door, but you appreciate the time it grants you. it gives you the space to calm yourself down and ease your prickly nerves.

when you enter, you let your eyes wander around the room first. nothing but books, old records, and silhouettes of things you couldn’t make out in the dark. you walk in and find him leaning against his unusually messy desk.

there's soft light from the lamp that hugs his frame and illuminates his coat discarded on the nearby dresser.

he fiddles with the strap of his gloves, giving you a small smile at the sight of your presence.

“you don’t have to knock, my love.”

he allows his gaze to explore, drinking in the outfit you picked out specifically for him. already, his trousers are suffocating and distracting him, but he’s quick to recover.

you bite your lip out of habit under his lustful stare.

“i know, but i wanted to just in case you were busy . . .”

there’s an amused huff.

his long legs carry him over to where you stand swiftly. his thumbs caress the apples of your cheeks, and he presses a kiss against your forehead.

“sweet girl.” and the way it skirts the edge of sensuality could make you melt. “even if i am, feel free to steal me away,” he whispers.

you swallow down a moan at the thought. maybe one day he'll eat those words.

his hand trails from your face to the nape of your neck and pauses.

“you washed your hair,” he observes.

you shake your head.

“it got a little wet in the shower so I’m just letting it air dry for a bit, luci.”

you pull at a wet strand and watch it dutifully bounce back in place. “ i was too lazy to dry it.“

he watches the notion with careful eyes. you wanted to giggle at how serious he looked.

“i wish you would’ve asked me to help you. i don’t want you getting a cold.”

you smile at his sincerity. you realized very early on that lucifer enjoyed tending to you. he likes consistency and being depended on.

‘it’s for your own well-being,’ he says, but you think he likes to have a pretty girl to fuss over

you offer him a small pout. “i did think about it, but i assumed you were still scolding mammon. i didn’t want to bother you.”

“besides.” you turn away, “i don’t think he wants to see me right now”

already, you’re embarrassed by the thought of facing mammon again. flustered, you recall tonight’s dinner and the look on their faces. you are definitely going to avoid them at school tomorrow.

you slouch, "he totally hates me.”

you say it half-heartedly, but lucifer looks at you with seriousness.

he softly grabs you by your chin. “don’t speak like that. he doesn’t hate you—none of us do, and i’m not sure we are capable of harboring such thoughts.”

you smile. “i dunno. i’m pretty sure you guys hated my guts when i first came.” you chuckle, thinking he’d at least join in, but he frowns. his heavy hand strokes the top of your head in an affectionate rhythm.

“we had our differences, and i was far too harsh. that i know.”

there’s a faraway look in his eye, and you know there’s a silent storm forming. you reach out to cup his cheek, and he melts into your touch.

“i never hated you,” he says.

you knew that your actions played a part in straining the early stages of your relationship. you also had to come to terms that not only lucifer, but multiple brothers harbored resentment towards humans,

its not a perfect story, but everything about this was completely unconventional. you’re just a woman who somehow found herself stuck in an attempt at other-worldly diplomacy, now sandwiched between the trying relationships of seven powerful demons.

things are rocky, but it’s the happiest you’ve ever been.

“i was only teasing, luci. i'm not mad or scared anymore.”

the hand you rested on his cheeks gets gripped by his larger ones, and he kisses your palm fondly.

“besides, i think we both know i wasn’t completely innocent.”

he takes a deep inhale.

“still, i think about how things were before.” he recalls the past in disdain; he blames his pride and then himself.

“my brothers and i . . . we are devoted to you, and we have the pacts to prove it.”

it’s a provocation you’re still not entirely used to. you had 7 demons who offered themselves to you, and the proof is imprinted on their skin.

in the human world, you’re everything and nothing at the same time. feelings of loneliness and insecurity that are far too loud and are still not enough to matter. you realized everyone lived selfishly, and your heart wasn’t hardened enough to follow suit.

lucifer's thoughts about humans didn’t change, despite his proximity to you. talks of your life as a young girl only cemented his thinking.

you were far too perfect for humans, too devious for angels, and too innocent for demons.

you were an entity on your own, and scarily he worshiped you. all of you.

he’d never tire of sinking his cock into your wet cunt, filling you with his seed, and hearing those saccharine moans that fall from glossed lips. he was ravenous, but you truly didn’t know the extent of it.

“my brothers care for you deeply, as do i, but you must know.” his eyes seem darker and much more predatory, and you can’t bring yourself to look away. like a bunny trapped in a hunter's cage, your doe eyes double in size and tremors rattle through your frame.

“you’re mine alone. your mind and body belong to only me.”

lucifer is well aware that six other cocks competed for your attention. a crass choice of words, but nothing less than true. they vied for the human girl, with nearly everyone wrapped around her dainty fingers. you are a color in the world shrouded in sisyphean darkness.

his lips part on your skin. “they can touch and taste you because i allow it.”

rough hands pull up your skirt, and he grabs a handful of your ass. “this . . . this is all mine.”

you make sure to turn and give your butt a little wiggle. it's more than a sultry gesture, and lucifer thinks a human so docile posing erotically might be the one thing to kill him.

how do you make soiled underwear look so pretty and enticing? there’s a possessive streak, a soft darkness that opens its curtains upon your presence. it peers over his shoulder, urging him to devour you. to pick at your remains until he’s consumed you.

“you're beautiful,” he groans. he inches close to you, and you think your lips are going to meet halfway, but he kisses your forehead.

then, your eyelids, your nose, and the side of your mouth, you look at him with half-lidded eyes, and he doesn’t budge when you try to squirm.

lucifer steps back and leads you to his chair. he settles into the squeaky leather until his back is comfortably cushioned.

he pats his firm lap.

“come.”

you know he’s holding back. his muscles ripple beneath you, he slouches farther into his chair, his legs spread to give his groin space to freely twitch against the slackness of his pants, and it only invites you

you struggle to decide where to sit. his knee or over his lap, both very promising positions, but he decides for you. he pulls your hip so your cunt is nestled right up against his cock. you sigh breathily, already your brain turning to mush.

“i didn’t even touch you, and you’re already making such a mess, sweet girl.”

the angle you tilt your head hides your expression, but from the flutter of your lashes and the purses of your lips, he knows you’ve grown shy.

"you kissed me,”

your sweet tone and your faint aroma of honeysuckle and jasmine make his cock stir.

“is that why you’re so worked up? just from my kiss?”

not even on the lips—not yet at least, and you’ve already wetted the fabric with your sticky arousal.

“what will happen when daddy touches right here?”

it’s a feathery graze against your protruding bud. his knuckles nudge the seat of the moist cotton, right where the white turned nearly transparent against your swollen cunt.

“it aches, doesn’t it?”

slender fingers slip under the band teasingly. he studies the subtle twitch of your hole, pumping a stream of glossy slick.

“do you want me to make it go away, hm? do you want daddy to make it better?”

you nod, a broken moan falling from your trembling lips.

“ i wantmore daddy.”

you spread your legs wider, hoping he’d be more generous with his caress.

“soon, my love.”

his hands trail from your pants to your stomach to your shoulders.

his hands rub your stomach and under your breast, settling right on your hip. you know he is hyper-aware of the thin fabric separating his cock from your heat.

even in his lap, he’s taller than you, but only by a few inches. his eyes are low and hazy.

“i wish to take my time with you.”

his thumb trails over your nipple.

“you have no idea how much i missed you.”

his other fingers pull at the other nipple.

you’ve felt those same digits on your neck, in your mouth, curled around your wrist and threaded between your fingers, and now between your thighs

he begins to grope at your exposed flesh. he admires how supple they appear, and he has to restrain himself from sinking his teeth into them.

your body never falters, and it responds so well to his hot and addicting touch. lucifer tries not to tease you; after all, he is rewarding you, but the little sounds and pants that leave your lips almost make him rethink.

your skirt is wrinkled, and he flips it at your hip, and your entire bottom half is almost fully exposed. your bare legs are on display, and so is your clothed mound. he mumbles sweet praises into the side of your breast while tracing the outline of your pussy through your pants with his finger.

you pull him away from your chest to kiss him, and lucifer has to remember that you’re human. that your small and pouty mouth, which struggles to swallow, is as fragile as the rest of you. palms splayed about on your back remind him he can mold you.

his hands are in a constant of motion, tugging and squeezing at your flesh. it feels like he’s in awe of every part of your body no matter how it differs from his. his touches are messy and yet controlled. they search you in subtle restraint, fearful that they’ll hurt you.

you’ve never been touched this way. to have someone want you so desperately— to possess you almost. his hands are burning you and you feel on top of the world.

you moan at his caress and feel heat rush through your body. if it weren’t for the lack of air in his lungs, he’d never pull away but eventually he does. lucifer experimentally probes your clit and looks up at your face to admire your expression.

“do you like that?” he whispers. you bite your lip, and your voice raises in pitch, “mhm.”

lucifer smirks to himself and kisses your nipple. “what did i say about words, little one?”

he stops his ministrations on your cunt and licks at your areola teasingly. he settles the tip of his tongue on your heated bud, flicking it, sending a shiver down your spine.

“is my good girl acting up?.”

“n-no, daddy, never.”

between each breath, he plants open-mouthed kisses across your chest.

“i hope so. i would hate to have to punish you.”

he sucks diligently and roughly. his tongue aggressively strokes your nipple, addicted to how it feels in his mouth. he closes his eyes and continues his assault on your chest.

your soft cries filled his room, and the feeling of your teat on the surface of his wet muscles pleased him. the aforementioned headache was long gone because the plushness of your body took over his mind and soul.

you may feel an indescribable urge to obey him, but he's just as much under your spell as you’re under his. he’s the embodiment of pride, but he’s not against admitting that you invade every inch of him. you don’t know it yet, but anything you ask of him, he will deliver. he wonders if you could hear his heart thrumming against his chest.

you’re naked, but he feels equally as exposed.

he continues sucking on one breast, his other hand busied itself, rubbing the neglected one. you arch into his touch, your tit spilling out of his hand. the weight of it feels secure in his large palm.

the stimulation has you unruly within his embrace. one minute, your hips are still from his flicks at your pussy, and then it jerks up, wanting more from his skilled and wandering hands.

lucifer likes this side of you, desperate and unashamed of how you wanted him to use your body.

you’re so sensitive that any subtle movement sends pressure to your clit. every time you whimper, especially loudly, he's quick to praise you.

“such lovely noises. i bet you’d do anything to please me, hm?” he hums.

you remember his earlier warning eager to be on your best behavior. “yes, daddy.”

it was hard to verbalize but you were at his mercy. anything for his approval, anything for his praise, you’d do it, especially if it meant you’d get rewarded like this.

he then pulls up your soaked panties, and you gasp at the sudden gesture. they stretch across the surface of your wet pussy, and they snap from his brute strength. the break in the fabric spanking your cunt.

“what a pretty thing.”

he tosses your ripped panties to the floor, ruining your perfect set. but he’d buy you another.

“i just want to be your good girl,” you say, rubbing your legs together in anticipation.

“you’re always my good girl. isn’t that right?”

you nod and feel happiness bloom.

“the best girl for daddy,” lucifer sensually encourages.

at this rate, you’re dizzy and drunk on his intoxicating words and erotic touch. you’re babbling, and lucifer finds it endearing.

you whine when he finally takes his gloved finger and rubs slow and tight circles on your slippery bud. “dada—.” you cry especially loud.

“i know, i know,” he shushes.

you felt relief consume you at the friction of his gloves on your trembling cunny. he continues to rub and fiddle with it until you’re forced to bury your mewls into the crook of his neck.

he takes another finger and presses down on your twitchy button, and you flinch at the sudden burst of pleasure.

he knows your body like the back of his hand, and he knows how to make you fall apart. his finger continues to work on your sensitive nub, and you gradually begin to soak his lap with your arousal.

he drags his fingers over your labia and grazes over your desperate hole.

within a few strokes, he plunges two fingers into your heat. he watches you push your tits into his face from the pleasure that forces the arch in your back. and he takes a deep inhale. your pussy greedily latches onto his fingers, and you’re practically fucking his hand.

“you look so delicious in my lap. such a beautiful sight, and it's reserved for only me.”

the depth of his voice sends shudders through your body

he loved how his fingers slid right in. it felt like your pussy was made to take what he gave you. his big fingers fervently stroke your insides, and your legs shake.

just watching your tiny hole stretch to the width of his fingers threatened his self-control. he wanted to fill you with something much bigger, and he’d know you would take it because you're his precious girl.

he wants to see your cunt wrapped around his heavy cock, but he’d settle for now.

just seeing you so pliant in his arms from his tongue lapping at your breast and his large fingers was enough for him.

you drip all over his wrist, and it darkens his gloves.

lucifer’s fingers rub every soft ridge, and your cunt is more than happy for it. the wetness, the squelch, the tightness—it’s overwhelming for you. you feel as if you’re finally unraveling.

"i'm going to cum, daddy. please." you don’t know what you're begging for, but whatever he was willing to do, you needed it now.

lucifer knows you’re close—very close. you’ve nearly gone stiff, and you’re shaking against him. your toes are curled, and your first is clutched.

“oh, is this princess’ pussy going to make a mess?” he coaxes. you open your mouth, moaning, and lucifer leans down. your foreheads are touching, and you unabashedly mewl, your minty breath fanning his face. “is she going to cream for me?”

you feel your orgasm sneaking up on you. lucifer only increases the pace of his fingers thrusting in and out of your cunny. he becomes more brutal, only wanting you to be within his arms as his only goal.

he’s so close to you that your lashes touch his skin. sweat simmers on your chest, and he sucks on your now bruised bottom lip from all your biting.

with two fingers still buried inside you, stroking your walls, he presses his thumb to your clit once more.

“that’s it, it’s pretty girl.”

you felt it coming; you had ample time, and you tried to keep yourself contained, but the force was still too unbearable. you had no idea how much he was holding back.

“i’m so much bigger than you. so much stronger, and you’re so little, princess.” he chuckles in a state of disbelief.

“and you’re not even scared.”

“you’re too trusting, but i suppose that’s why i love you so much. daddy’s brave little girl.”

like a lick of lightning, lucifer feels his desire threaten to snap. his human—his sweet mess full of little weirds, kind eyes, and a soft mouth was going to make him lose himself. he's growling like a beast with every chant of his name.

“daddydaddydaddy —hiccup— love you lots, b-but. i-i can’t think anymore. can’t take it.”

drool collects on the side of your mouth.

“i know it’s a lot for you right now, but you’re doing so well, princess.”

he re-adjusts your body on his lap. “just think about daddy and his fingers.”

the appendages stretching your cunt pull out briefly.

“look at that precious pussy.”

he spreads your labia watching the uneasy throb of your hole that begged to be stuffed.

lucifer wants to mount you, but he remembers what he is when he can smell the blood pumping through veins and the feeling of your heartbeat under the tips of his fingers.

he needs to treat you like a prized dolly to dress up, to kiss, and to fuck.

you don’t need to think; he knows what’s best, and he wants to keep you on a shelf for his own use.

you made him a beast, luring him into darkness, but he was never good at hiding. he felt like he was defiling you. you were truly an entity different from anything he’s ever known. sweet as brown sugar, and he’s tainting you.

still, the thrust of his arms grows stronger. nothing but the milky, wet sounds of your drenched cunt

“your little pussy is crying. you can let go for me.”

your hearts swell with another wave of heat. the sweet babbles of you wanting to reciprocate his love die on your tongue when your body stills. you toss your head back with a pretty wail nearing your crescendo. noisily, his fingers pump your pussy with trickles of wetness spurting out.

your hips jolt forward and erratically hump the heel of his palm, hoping to reach your end much sooner.

“m right there, —!”

he's going to make you cum hard. everything from the sound of his voice to his rough fingers to the shape of his cock could make you cream. his skill never fails you, always leaving you nearly boneless. you’re always going to come crawling back for more, without a doubt.

lucifer feels your walls pulsate around him, warning him of your impending orgasm, and it strokes his ego.

“daddyyyy,” you pant deliriously. his thumb drags at your clit repeatedly and with the sensation of your insides being drained, you sob. you’re too loud, but you can't remain silent any longer.

lucifer kisses your forehead to soothe you, and with a slight pinch of your throbbing cunt, you erupt in the middle of his embrace. the dam finally breaks, and your pussy convulses angrily like it's trying to push his fingers out.

“thaaaaat’s it, baby. daddy is so proud of you.”

he increases his pace, draining you of all the cum your cunny could pump out. until your knees buckle around his wrists.

your chest expands, desperate for more air. your head is fogging up, and you’re exhausted. your limbs are strewn across the demon, lacking complete strength.

lucifer lets you cool off from your high, and he slips his fingers out of you. without hesitation, he buries them into his mouth. the taste of you fills his taste buds to utter satisfaction. you're delicious, sweet and sour, and addicting. he would inject the very essence of you into his veins if he could. but maybe he's already hooked on you; that would explain his racing mind filled with thoughts of only you.

this demon that he’s become terrifies him, but he doesn't want to change. his family and his precious human are all he needs.

he wraps you up in his arms and hugs you. your back is now pressed into his chest, eyes closed blissfully. lucifer tucks your head under his chin, and you rest safely in his hold.

he silently admires the number he did on your body and feels the familiar feeling of pride bursts within him. he looks at your beautiful face, your puffy nipples, and used pussy and he feels gratified fulfillment engulf him.

“perfect human,” he mumbles.

he graces you with another kiss on your heated skin.

“my obedient little girl.”

[unsiee]

Babysitter reader x milf Yuki scissoring together while the kids are sleeping and her thick thighs are straddling your hips while she eagerly rubs her soaked cunt against yours, slick pussy lips sliding together and kissing each other and the sounds are sooo nasty. Your lips are latched onto one of her breasts, sucking it while you grope and squeeze her ass. Eventually, she squirts all over your pussy, but you keep smearing it together till the cushions beneath you are all soaked and wet :3

[unsiee]

i-

🜼 ⋆ as if the car ride wasn’t filthy enough, freak choso’s now got his fingers buried deep in you with the whole friend group just feet away.

you can feel the fire on your face, warm and flickering, but all the heat’s behind you.

not from the campfire—the one everyone’s gathered around, cross-legged on woven mats and camp chairs, passing around cheap wine in tin mugs, laughing too loud at inside jokes that barely land. the heat you’re feeling is the kind that pulses at your core, spreads up your spine, and makes your thighs twitch just to keep still.

because choso’s behind you, thighs spread wide, legs caging you in like a trap—and he’s got his hand buried under the hem of your sweatshorts. fingers inside your panties. slow. deep. moving like he’s got all night and no shame.

you’re sitting in his lap like it’s innocent. like you’re cold and he’s being generous. but your face is too flushed for that, and your breath’s too shallow, and choso’s mouth is right at your ear when he speaks.

“breathe through it,” he whispers, and his voice is thick, almost drunk-sounding. not on alcohol—on you. “don’t let your legs close, sweetheart. let me feel all of it.”

you suck in a shaky breath, pretending to sip from your cup as you nod along to something someone said. you can barely hear them now. it’s all distant, muffled by the thump of your heartbeat in your ears. because choso’s fingers are slow and deep—hooking up every time he pushes back inside, hitting that sweet spot with the kind of precision that says this isn’t his first time making you struggle to stay silent.

he’s not trying to make you come. not yet. this is about control. about power. about watching you twitch in his lap while he presses his middle and ring fingers deep and curls them just so, dragging against your walls, slick sounds muted only by the crackle of the fire and the chatter around you.

you try to shift, but his free hand wraps around your thigh, holding you down—thumb pressing into your inner thigh, skin-to-skin, reminding you exactly who’s in charge.

“don’t squirm,” he says, soft but firm. “you’ll make a mess on the seat.”

his raspy voice makes your pussy clench, hard.

he feels it. laughs under his breath. his lips drag over your ear, breath hot, voice dipping lower.

“god, you’re soaking for me,” he murmurs, almost reverent. “this little pussy loves the risk, huh? you wanna get caught?”

you shake your head, chest rising too fast—but your cunt tells a different story. you’re dripping, panties plastered to your folds, his fingers pumping into you slow but firm, just enough pressure to make your stomach tense, your thighs start to shake.

and he knows. he fucking knows.

you try to breathe evenly, try to pretend like the stretch of his fingers doesn’t make your walls flutter, like you’re not aching for more, like you’re not already clenching every time he says good girl under his breath.

“if i spread these fingers, wanna see how messy you get?” he whispers. “gonna have you leaking all over my hand, and no one will even notice.”

you want to cry. you want to moan. you want to grind back against his palm until it makes a mess so obscene someone has to notice. you want the humiliation. the thrill. the heat.

instead, you nod again. obedient. mouth closed. eyes wide and glassy and full of need.

choso grins. it’s lazy, cocky, filthy. his hand shifts. his palm presses against your clit, fingers still deep inside you, rubbing slow circles like he wants to break you with just two fingers and a mean whisper.

“you take it so well,” he mutters, jaw against your temple. “pussy’s fuckin’ squeezing me. like you’re trying to suck me in.”

your legs jerk and he tightens his hold—his arm now looping around your waist, pulling you closer until you’re damn near molded to his chest. he’s rock hard behind you. you can feel it—thick and heavy and pressed against your ass—but he doesn’t even try to grind. doesn’t need to. this is about you. about watching you squirm and shake and drip while you pretend you’re not five seconds from soaking his entire fucking hand.

you’re right on the edge now—vision hazy, cunt tight, hips twitching in tiny, shameful little thrusts you can’t stop. your stomach’s tensed, thighs trembling, eyes glossy. you need it. and he hears that need in your breath. feels it in the way you arch, the way your walls grip, the way your whole body silently begs him.

his hand rises. not the one inside you—the other. it ghosts over your throat. gentle. careful. until his thumb and fingers rest along your jaw, tilting your face toward the fire again like he’s redirecting your focus.

“smile, baby,” he murmurs. “they’re lookin’.”

you blink. your lashes flutter. and when your eyes finally land on your friend across the fire, they wave at you—like nothing’s wrong. like you’re not sitting on choso’s cock with his fingers deep in your soaked little pussy.

you force a smile. small. tight. trembling.

he licks your neck.

and then he hooks his fingers deep, presses down on your clit, and says: “good girl. now come.”

and you do. silently. violently. your cunt clamps down, soaking his fingers, whole body twitching as you shiver in his lap—legs locked, jaw clenched, eyes wet with the effort of not screaming. your orgasm hits like a wave, crashing into you so hard it punches the breath out of your chest. you convulse once, twice—and choso’s got you. whispering praise. licking his lips. rocking his hand just enough to fuck you through it without letting up.

you slump forward, dizzy, thighs slick, brain gone.

and he just wipes his hand on your inner thigh, leans in again, and hums:

“y’did so well.”

[unsiee]

𓊆ྀི󠀠󠀠󠀠󠀠󠀠󠀠󠀠 ୨୧ ˖ ࣪ . . . 6.3k. black fem!reader ◞ librarian!armin ◞ lowercase intended ◞ rainstorm / trapped in , protection use ◞ size difference ◞ praise ◞ oral ꒰ f + m. ꒱ ◞ humping the air ◞ prone bone ◞ hair pulling ◞ spanks & choking ◞ armin’s cocky in this ngl ◞ brief throat fucking ◞ fingering ◞ pet names ꒰ cutie , baby , bunny ꒱ . minors aren’t welcomed! reblogs & comments are appreciated <3 𓊇ྀི

꒰ 𝑚𝑜𝑐ℎ𝑎’𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒 ꒱ . . . still questioning whether i like the way i wrote this + armin in general. but, this is my first fic coming back from hiatus so im def a lil rusty lolz. this was written purely off a trip to the library and spotting a blonde boy ‘n a kitty. <3 smut linkies > > ( ❤︎. ❤︎. )

 

rain falls in heavy sheets for hours. trees rock with brutal winds as clouds descend into darkness. a gust of cold wind blows at the heavy doors to the library, aggressively slamming shut behind you along with the chime of a vintage shopkeeper bell. the old man, mister arlert, who usually runs the shop is nowhere to be found. it shouldn't be of surprise given the sudden change of weather; rushing here to return a few books that passed their deadline before your departure back home. 

you had a flight to catch early in the afternoon to spend time with your family for fall break. located in the blistering heat of the countryside. having already packed the night before given your dire need of hefty attire, cosmetics, and toiletries — there hadn’t been much to do these past two days. you’ve been cooped up into your apartment off campus after finals ended, cleaning your home, tending to self care, and binging long awaited tv shows. 

today the weather was brutal. rain literally beating down on your windows for hours now. there’s been crackles of thunder, but nothing much to worry of. although, your phone did buzz a few good times in reminder of flash flooding and possible tornadoes. it never was anything to be too concerned over given you lived in the east coast. at most, there’d be small floods, nothing exceeding two inches. since it’s currently fall, the weathers migrating to windy and chilly temperatures. tis the season for sweaters and leg warmers. 

since you had nothing better to do, you remembered you had to run a quick errand to return a few books you’d borrowed from the local library. there’s a sweet old man who owned the shop; mister arlert. each time he saw you he’d always give the warmest greetings. usually helping you with finding exactly what you needed or even giving suggestions of novels he’s enjoyed during his younger days. most of which he read to his wife. 

stepping deeper into the library, it’s completely silent. your clothes are slightly dampened, having to run towards the door to not get entirely soaked. with the books clutched close to your chest, you quietly make yourself known in the presence of whomever was here. you’d made the worst decision of wearing shorts, your thighs wet from the rain, droplets sliding down to your bethan doc martens. luckily, your wore an oversized toffee sweater that reached the backs of your thighs. 

“hello?! mister arlert?” 

silence. 

so, you continue your exploration. maybe mister arlert was in the back dusting off classics. suddenly, you hear a meow coming from the library’s famous cat; fluffles. the chunky orange persian feline with streaks of white on its fluffy coat — hence the name. you smile, clicking your tongue to get his attention as you coed and stumbled closer. 

“hii pretty baby. how are you today? i know, the weather’s scary, huh?” cutely, you gasp when his tiny head knocks into your palm delicately for comfort, purring softly. 

he’s feeding into your attention to him for two minutes before he’s made the decision to walk away. you follow him blindly, trying to see if anyone will pop up around the large, brown shelves of collections. to your luck, you do find someone. 

there’s a man you’ve never seen before, especially here at least. he has his back to you and doesn't seem to notice you, lost in his own world. you watch him for a moment, appreciating his focus and attention to detail as he carefully arranges the books. 

first, your eyes fall straight onto his hair, gawking with bloomed irises of pure enchantment. it’s blonde and bright, like the sun almost. ringlets of curls and really fluffy. it surrounded his features like a paper stick of cotton candy. really airy to touch, you’re sure of it. he’s tall, even though he’s standing on a latter organizing novels. he’s got earphones plugged in, blasting incredibly loud because even you could hear the muffled tunes of jazz he hummed along with. 

“excuse me?” you manage to announce yourself, lifting your hand to wave in his direction so he’d spot you. 

the man blinks slowly, eyes on yours in the prettiest shade of icy blue. it was too dreamy, he looked like a daydream. you could even smell him, too. his cologne like clean linen. laundry on a soft sunday. his lips are full and pink. his body is adorned in chocolate brown cargo pants and a white t-shirt, a plain black button-up draped over, halfway rolled up his forearms. 

“oh, sorry. didn’t hear you come in. i’m about to close, actually.”

you didn’t expect him to sound the way he did. his voice has a certain dialect to it, kind of valley-like. the baritone of it is quiet, yet has undertones of raspiness. it’s gentle, he looks the same. 

“h-hi, um — is mister arlert here? i know i came pretty late, but i promised him i'd have these books back by today."

“nah, he's not here today. won't be back for a while," he replies calmly. “i’m his grandson. names armin.”

“sorry, i’m ꒰ ❤︎ ꒱. um, is he okay?"

armin takes note of your worry, expression softening slightly. "yeah, well — he's gettin' up there and wasn't feelin' too good. i'm coming from uni for fall break, so i've just been looking over the shop for him."

the news upsets you. "oh, no. i'm sorry to hear that."

armin shrugs nonchalantly. "it's alright. he's a tough old boy, he'll be back soon." 

knocking his head fully up, he glances out the window at the pouring rain and lets out a heavy sigh. you’re eyeing the silver chain around his neck and wrist. "man, it's bad out there. did you bike or somethin'? how’d you even make it here?"

"i didn't expect it to get this bad, honestly. i was really adamant on returning this since i'll be home for fall break. but, i drove."

an eyebrow arches. "in this weather? that's reckless."

pursing your lips, you shrug. “kinda. if you say so. weather like this doesn’t scare me.” 

“hm.” 

you notice the way he . .  looks at you. it’s like he’s trying to find what to say to you while also keeping his composure. eyes running up and down your curvy figure. you’ve got this cute crocheted set on that looks handmade. shorts that sit on your hips perfectly and a thin strapped top that barely covers your torso, a teddy bear stitched into the bosom. your knit sweater keeping you warm along with leg warmers.  your hair is to your shoulders, half of it pulled back into a pony with a black bow. you’re pretty. 

breaking the awkward silence, there’s a crackle of thunder that startles the both of you, booming so loud it causes car alarms to go off. soon after, the lights began to flicker inside the shop, panic settling into you as you run to go check on your car, only to find there had been an inconvenient accident. a tree stump was cracked in half causing it to crash onto a few cars ahead of yours while also blocking the main road to head home, meaning you’d have no way of leaving here tonight until the storm passed.

“fuck,” you slam your hand to your mouth in agony. “ugh, no!" 

armin’s not far from behind you as he checks to see the collision. his face scrunches up in irritation, knowing he’d also have no way of leaving here tonight. the floods are picking up, the rain is beating down heavier, and it wouldn’t be safe for either of you to depart right now. thankfully, his car was parked in the back. 

“that’s just fuckin’ great,” armin sucks his teeth, placing his palm on the window and dropping his head. “well, that’s not good. looks like we’re both stuck here for the night.” 

your distress is fairly evident, forehead in your palm as you groan and ponder, trying your best not to crash out. “i literally can’t. i have a flight in the morning. this is really bad.” 

armin’s got a look of sympathy for you. “it's really coming down out there. and that tree looks like it could have damaged the road below it. there's really no way you're getting out of here anytime soon."

that didn’t make you feel any better. though, he tries his best to offer comfort.

“hey, it’s g’na be alright. i understand your worries about your flight, but safety is more important right now. it’s not worth risking your life trying to bypass this issue.” 

with a deep sigh to collect your emotions, you nod. you could agree on that. you’re sure your family would prefer if you visited with your body intact. “you’re right. i have to contact my parents. i don’t know, maybe the flights will be delayed?” 

“most likely. i doubt they’ll risk it. i’m hoping it’ll clear up in a few hours,” armin shakes his wrist to eye the watch on his wrist. “it’s a little after ten now. guys might come ‘round five.” 

“god, what a mess. i'm not usually stranded in a library with a stranger." you meet his gaze, feeling a bit self-conscious. “no offense."

armin chuckles and shakes his head. "yeah, i get it. this isn't exactly a normal situation. but, i’m not too bad company, right?"

"you're eerily calm about this. it kinda frustrates me.

armin smirks, "panic won't change the situation. it's best not to overthink it. plus, the old boy has plenty of natural disaster knick knacks in the back."

"hm.”

armin can see that you're still concerned. he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "sorry if i seem so cavalier about this. i’m just trying not stress you out even more.” 

maybe you were being a bit standoffish. it seems like he’s trying his best to make you comfortable. taking a deep breath, you sigh. “it’s okay, i’m sorry. i have a bad habit of being cold when i’m overstimulated.” 

when he smiles again, you notice a faint dimple sinking into the crevice of his top cheekbone. he’s super fucking cute. that’s another factor to your stress. you’re trying not to freak out over the fact that you’re stranded here with a man you’ve found yourself newly attracted to. anything could happen in this scenario. it’s straight out of a porno. question is, would you let it get that far? 

“it’s cool, i get it,” armin strokes the pad of his thumb across his lower lip, watching you. “c’mon, lemme show you the attic.” 

“okay.” 

following behind him, you can’t stop your eyes from wandering over his backside. he’s very slim but well built in the right areas, specifically his back, arms, and thighs. you study his walk as he digs one hand in his pocket and safely guides you up a spiral staircase leading to a secret room behind an almost ancient wooden door. 

it’s a cute little nook above the library that nearly resembled a loft apartment. there’s rustic brick walls, polished wooden floors, a kitchen, and futon in a living area. boxes upon boxes stocked in different sections filled with precious material.

"wow, this is pretty neat." 

armin grins. "yeah, it's a pretty cool little hideaway. the old man's had this place for so long that he's got pretty much everything he needs. even when the power goes out, this place stays cozy."

and for some reason, a few moments after he uttered those words, the power went out. the room is plunged into darkness as the power fails, leaving you and armin in the dim light that filters in through the windows due to the lightning. armin looks a bit surprised, but quickly composes himself.

“well, i guess that was perfect timing," he jokes. "looks like we're gonna test out that old man's preparedness."

hugging yourself tight, you swallow as you hear him pull out a drawer, revealing a few candles.

"help me light these, huh?"

you nod and rush over to help, and as the warm, flickering light from the candles illuminates the room, you can't help but feel a bit more at ease. the cozy atmosphere created by the candlelight gives the space a certain charm. as you finish setting up the candles, placing them in areas of the space that needed it, you notice that armin is already rummaging through the cabinets, looking for something specific. a radio he finds gets cut on to listen in on the news. 

"there's a few roads blocked, it seems. hopefully it won't get too bad to where'd people have to evacuate." 

solemnly, you nod. "yeah, i hope it doesn't come to that. it’s bad enough that we're stuck here already."

"hey, it's not . . too bad. don't get discouraged. we can make the time past. i've got some blankets and a futon for you. i can give you your space if you're feeling uncomfortable or anything."

"no, i uh . . actually wouldn't mind your company. it'd take my mind off the situation."

armin’s a bit relieved. "alright, that works for me. uh, you can sleep on the futon and i can just crash on the armchair over there." 

he walks over to a closet and pulls out a stack of blankets, handing them to you. "here, take these. it can get pretty cold up here, especially at night."

"thank you. i really appreciate it.”

“of course. anything else you need? ima go lock up the shop, feed the cat, then i’ll be back up.” 

“you got some food? if i knew this'd happen i wouldn't have left spaghetti on the stove,” you roll your lips inward after giggling. 

he finds you incredibly cute. chuckles and nods. "lucky for you, he’s got a stockpile of food in here. let me do some grocery shopping for lunch breaks. i can make some ramen. you like that?" he suggests.

your stomach growls at the thought, both of you hearing it and sharing a wholehearted laugh. "yeah, that'd be awesome actually."

"cool. i’ll be right back.” 

you get accustomed to the area you’re in, taking a seat on the sofa and wrapping yourself up into the blankets for warmth. you checked your phone to see if you had any service and possibly contact your parents, but there was no luck. even though the texts sent through green, it was better to send it just in case you’d gain connection once the power cut back on. it didn’t take long for armin to come back up, giving you a sweet smile while he heads towards the fridge to grab some ingredients. thankfully, he had a gas stove to work with.

"talk to me, cutie. i don't want you to be nervous around me."

you pause, a bit taken aback by the pet name. ignoring the way your face just heated up. “okay. what do you w’na talk about?"

"you said you have a flight tomorrow. where to?"

"uh, my parents live across country,” picking at the blanket with your nails, you study his movements. how quickly his wrist moves when cutting vegetables. god. “we're supposed to meet up for a family get together. horse riding, fishing, cook outs . . the usual."

armin listens intently, interested in getting to know you. "you can ride a horse?"

"yeah, i mean . . i don't do it as often anymore, but i'm decent at it. i'm actually more excited about the fishing. i haven't done that in a while."

"what's the biggest thing you've caught?"

"hmm, that's a tough one. there was this pretty big bass i caught when i was sixteen. i remember it took like thirty minutes to reel it in. me and my uncle cooked it up real good with some grits,” you reply, recalling the memory with a smile. "what about you? fan of fishing?"

"not really my hobby. i'll probably sound like a old man myself, but i'm into chess and shit. pottery is a thing of mine as well."

"ooo, pottery. i've always wanted to do something new like that. i’ll push it up in my list of hobbies."

"i could teach you. it's not hard. not really," he smirks, "i'm always looking for another person to play with. tease a lil', make 'em think they're doing good." 

this is flirting. has to be. so of course, you play along. "hm, masochist. am i your next victim?" 

armin chuckles and cocks an eyebrow at your question. "are you implying something?" he teases, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk.

"not implying, just prying."

“next topic,” he winks causing you to roll your eyes. 

trying to figure out what else to say, you twiddle your manicured fingers in thought. "it's sweet of you to look over the library while mister arlert's gone. most people would let it rot and go about their lives."

“honestly, he’s done a lot for me so it was never g’na be a hesitation when i found out the news. i’ve always kept to myself, even as a kid. i find comfort in books and silence, and i guess that’s why i enjoy spending time here. i get to shut off my brain.” 

“you sound pretty reserved. i admire that. it's cute." 

the sound of the storm outside provides a soothing background noise along with the warmth from the candles. armin’s finished cooking the ramen. using store bought packs of shin and adding miso paste, kewpie mayo, eggs, scallions, and even some rotisserie chicken. the ramen tastes delicious and makes you feel warm. the conversations you have flows effortlessly and makes time pass as the two of you trade stories and laugh at each other's jokes.

by now, the attraction is mutual. unexpected deep topics were spoken of and the two of you found each other sitting body to body, sharing warmth. armin’s got his arm thrown behind the back of the futon where you sit, thighs spread apart while you sit cutely beside him bundled under the blankets. legs crossed, eyes and scent encompassing his. 

as the conversation begins to lull, armin glances towards the window and notices that the storm seems to be dying down. "hey, looks like the rain’s starting to let up," he observes. 

you glance over your shoulder, seeing that it’s lighter outside, meaning it’s dawn now and you’ve been chatting for hours. “oh . . yeah, i think i hear the recovery workers.” 

the thought of leaving armin in possibility that you won’t see each other for a while feels like a knife to your gut. you’re drawn to him in a way that surprises you. the night is coming to an end, so you find yourself reluctant to say goodbye. you want something more, something passionate.

without realizing it, your gaze drifts to armin’s lips. they look soft and inviting, and the desire to feel them against yours is almost overwhelming. the air between you two suddenly feels charged with eroticism. it’s as if you're both feeling the same pull, the same desperate need to touch more than you were. 

"you can't kiss me." 

his words.

it seems to break the spell that had enveloped the room. your eyes widen in surprise, expression shifting from desire to confusion.

"what?" you weren’t sure if you heard him correctly.

"it's just . . if you kiss me, it'll turn into something else."

your expression softens, and a small smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. "is that a bad thing?"  

he makes you anxious, his fingertips tracing the exposed skin of your hips, your body shivering. the room suddenly feels unbearably hot, and your heart is pounding in your chest. armin’s found himself torn between wanting to pull away and wanting to press you against him. 

“no, but i'll get addicted and want you more,” he murmurs, tone low and sensual. “don’t think this is the right setting right now. you deserve more.” 

“and what's so wrong with wanting more?" you’re moving even closer to him, chest pressing up on his side. 

his fingers continue to trace small circles against your skin, armin’s eyes going gray at your words. the proximity makes it difficult for him to think straight, and his desire for you is growing stronger by the second. but, he’s also aware of the danger of giving in to this passion. he could feel his resolve weakening, but he tries to steady himself. 

the more you think about it, maybe this wasn’t the appropriate setting nor time. you’ve just met this man and only known him for a couple of hours. a few good conversations were had, he cooked you some top quality ramen even under the circumstances, he’s beautiful . . but, you didn’t want to regret it if something did happen now. so it’d be best to wait. 

"you know what, maybe . . this isn't a good idea. you’re right," you manage to stammer out. but your protest is weakening as armin closes what little distance is left between you, breath warm on your neck where his lips go to kiss. 

“nah, i’m wrong. fuck it,” he rasps by your ear, opening his mouth fully to latch onto the sensitive area of your neck. his tongue follows in a sloppy kiss, hand coming up to grab you by the neck. 

a gasp falters when you feel how hot his hand was on your skin, clutching your neck entirely in his grasp, squeezing your thighs tight and scrunching your face up from pleasure. his kisses are audible, making it known how bad he wants you. your sweater begins to slip off your shoulders as he maneuvers his way down to your chest, groping and inching both of his hands inside of your top to smooth them down towards your sides and reaching your hips briefly. hotly gripping at your flesh. 

“armin,” a weak whimper. “we shouldn’t.” 

armin catches your wrist the moment you go to stand abruptly, yanking you back towards his chest and towering over you in the process, his gaze darkening as he glares down at you. 

"i want your taste on my lips. c’mon, bunny.” 

his soft plea sends a jolt through you, fingers entwining with your own before he’s guiding that arm behind your back and resting it on your ass he uses as leverage to press you up against the bulge in his jeans, body bending backwards slightly to give yourself some air to breathe. and when he does this thing, like wind his waist to rub his clothed dick against you with a snarky ‘mhm’ blown out with frustrated air — it sends you into a state of blurriness. his scent envelops your senses, growing weaker in his hold as you stare up at him with need.  

“i —” you can’t understand why you're protesting. you knew you wanted him, and it’s clearly mutual. he just scares you, in a really good way. you fear that if you have sex with this man, it wouldn’t be the end of it. and possibly could progress to more. 

“say yes so i know you want it, then sit back down.” 

it’s clear you both didn’t care about the situation you were in anymore. you just needed it, bad. done playing cat and mouse. swallowing from his switch of demeanor, you slowly nod. 

“yes.”

so, you sit. lowering your body while training your eyes to stay on his. you’ve removed your sweater completely, tits exposed to the cool air of the attic as the straps cling to your arms. he thinks you look fucking yummy. he damn near could salivate. 

taking his seat back beside you, armin’s stretching his hands to pull your top down to your stomach, grazing your skin passionately but with notions of aggression. he wants to be sweet to you, he’ll try. he’s got his back to the couch again, spreading his thighs to give relief of the blood rushing to his dick. brushing a hand through his hair, you watch in fascination as the follicles bounce back in front of his eyes, his hand coming to unbutton his jeans as he rubs your thighs and catches your soft lips back onto his. 

it’s more aggressive this time, swallowing your lips and grazing tongues, noses smushed. you suck on his tongue, grinding in your spot and trailing your hands towards his jeans, helping him tug them down to sit at his thighs. unlatching your mouths, armin grips your chin, thick fingers indenting into your cheeks before giving you another rough kiss, his pupils blown. 

“come spit on it,” he rasps.

moaning from the way he spoke, he’s guiding your face down with the hold on your jaw, brows furrowed and pink, plush lips going agape as your dainty hands pulls his cock out of his briefs. when you see it, it makes all the more sense why he acts and talks the way he does. 

“mmph,” you moan in awe almost, fitting both of your hands around it as it throbs in your possession. “s’so pretty, ‘min.”

“yeah? . . is it too much for you?” 

that makes you grin. “mm-mm,” you deny. “i like it.” 

whatever overcomes you the moment he shifts his hips in silent plead and grips at your ponytail tight could only be adored from his view. with both of your palms wrapped around his dick; fat, curved towards his stomach with a tinted pink tip. one hefty muscle protruding the underside that you know will feel so good when he slips it in. and cutely, a beauty mark or two. his pubes are neatly trimmed, as blonde as his pretty hair. you’re drooling at this point. and you use that to salivate over his dick, armin practically dragging your head towards his dick and moaning when you do as you were told and coat it with spit. 

“yeahh — unh, good girl,” armin hisses, groaning and adjusting himself in his seat as you stroke your hand at the base, leading your way up and over the flushed head. 

he doesn’t expect you to do it, you really didn’t have to, but he’s not hellbent on stopping you either. the minute you hike yourself up so you’re arching over him, armin’s smoothing his hand over your ass now raised up and whimpering when your mouth engulfs half of his dick with a greedy moan. 

“ooh, that’s good baby. yes,” it twitches on your tongue that’s planted at the base as you suckle and drag your lips over either side. 

swaying your hips, armin sucks on his bottom lip before landing a hit to your ass, taking a handful of the fat of it after. your throats sinking further, tasting all of him while he’s raising his hips to gently fuck into your mouth. his head gets thrown back, lips parting and releasing gasps when you go to clutch his throat, pushing his head further back so it touches the wall behind, and slurping at his dick sloppily. 

“oh my god, gimme that,” armin can’t help the way his eyes roll back into his skull, unable to properly breathe. every time he tries to silence a moan, it’d come out higher pitched than the other, alternating between rough groans and whimpers. 

the gags coming from your throat along with the paced bobs of your head makes him clutch your neck to pull you up, smashing his lips on yours and roaming his hands down your thighs. he couldn’t wait any longer. if you feel that good through your mouth, he could only dream of how your pussy felt. 

catching your breath, he’s swiping a thumb over your lips to clean you up, your body mindlessly gravitating towards him, bug-eyed and nibbling at your lips.

“take these off ,” he whispers, biting his lip as he tugs on your shorts. “gotta taste you. i know it’s fuckin’ wet.” 

the quicker you tugged them off, the faster your heart pounded. armin situates himself by laying back on the sofa, politely taking your hand and carefully leading you up to sit on his face. his dick is heavy on his stomach, your thighs hovered over his head and crouching your pussy just enough for him to inhale your essence. it’s glistening in shiny slick, precious bud hiding underneath puffy pillows from his direct view. 

“every part of you is gorgeous as fuck,” armin groans, lifting one of his legs to plant on the sofa while he levels his head at just the right spot to catch your clit before you could even utter a word.

he’s kneading the flesh of your ass in his veiny hands, pushing and rocking you on his fat tongue as you listen to the incredulous sound of him slurping. you can’t speak, mewling while locking your lips beneath your teeth, threading your fingers through his fluffy hair to yank on. he’s sucking you up, all of your flavors, puffy lips enclosing around your achy clit, tasting heavenly on his palate. 

"she's such a loud girl.” thwack! it’s a hard hit he lands on your ass while grunting, your stomach rolling inward from the heat that illuminates your entire body. legs vibrating and moans breathless. “let me slip my fingers in, huh? make me fit.” 

“uh huh, yesplease.” 

gyrating your pussy into his mouth, you’re leaning further down till his nose is mushed to your clit, armin giving an audible, nasty open mouthed kiss before rubbing two fingers against his tongue, parting your folds and slowly sinking them in, armin landing a smack on your ass again to feel you pulsate and clench. in the moment, he’s unable to keep his waist from grinding upwards, dick twitching, practically humping the air as he drowns his face in your cunt.

“fuck, your fingers make me feel s’full,” you cry out, scooting so he could dip them deeper. the tingles are rushing to the pit of your stomach, lifting and dropping your ass back onto his fingers. “can i fuck them?” 

shit, you really got him spent. “yes, baby. ‘fuckin course you can. such a good baby for asking.” 

the way he speaks to you is crucial for your arousal. your moans flow out almost thankfully for that. it’s like he knows exactly what to say to you. you wish you could see his face squished under you, you know in your soul he looked messy, and you fear seeing him like that would make you squirt on the spot. a proper, sweet talking, respectful man completely losing himself in your pussy. it’s hot.

“good girl, biiig stretch.” they’re moving in coordination; the speed of his fingers and the pressure of his mouth sucking and swallowing at you. he’s loud when he does it, too. like, whimpering along with you, loud. 

“f-fuck, my tummy,” whining, you never stop your hips from swaying. voice breaking and trying your best to keep your mouth from drooling. everything felt so, so good. “anh, armin! ‘m g’na cum.” 

“all in my mouth, alright?” 

the grip of your pussy around his fingers is maddening. shoving them in and out at a steady pace and purposely thrumming against that spongy spot. you’re grinding on his face while maintaining your clasp on his scalp and the couch. when you cum, armin makes sure he keeps at his rhythm while thrashing his tongue heavily on your bud, holding his breath with you and letting you groan intensely while he follows pursuit. gasp’s ensuing.

“fuckk, good bunny. c’mere,” chin doused with your juices, he slams a palm on your ass and trails his hands to lay you flat on your tummy. 

too out of it to think of what he was doing next, you clutch onto the sofa with your cheek flat to the furniture, catching your breath and trying to fix the blur of your sight. you listen to him shuffling to find something in the room, smiling into your arm when you feel his touch on you again, smoothing his big and surprisingly baby soft palms up the back of your thighs leading to your ass. 

armin hovers over you, patting the shape of your butt with his dick a few times before you hear him rip a condom with his teeth. he’s bending to kiss at your back, shuddering from the new sensation when it gets sloppier. tongue lolling out to drag up your spine following suite with passionate kisses. his hair is disheveled, tickling at your forehead when he goes to kiss your temple, then your nose, then your lips.

rolling the condom onto his dick, he slaps it at your pussy, biting his lip as he listens to the lewd sound of wetness. then, while taking his time does he begin to slide in, the tip alone making you squeak and grip at the sofa. mouth agape, you unabashedly rock your ass back, impatience settling in. 

“m-mmgh,” the rumble in your throat is stammered, his weight on you making it impossible to escape. trapped in, no running, free use for him. 

“keep your thighs pressed together,” armin whispers. 

the feeling of his skin on yours sets you ablaze. he’s removed all of his garments because he couldn’t bare not having your skin against his. the hairs on his muscular thighs and legs scraping on yours as he works his way deeper in your pussy made your eyes shift to white. the path of his toned abdomen on your backside, the plush of his lips on your temple, and then the hot hand he clutches your throat in as his elbow rests on the sofa makes you fucking dizzy. 

breath mingling with yours, sharing moans when his dick is fully in, armin hisses in your ear, sunshine hair drifting upon your sight, nudging just where you begged for him to be. the possession of your throat in his lock gets tighter, carefully subduing your airway while making sure you could still breathe enough. this kind of intimacy wasn’t what you expected from him. not at all. 

it starts off slow. handling you with respect for a sum of minutes until he’s stuffing you full, forcing you to take it all. gummy walls suffocating his cock. tendrils stick to your face, hair falling from its perfect bow causing your hair to swarm around your features flawlessly in layers. as if you couldn’t get prettier. 

“hu—uh,” armin’s brokenly moaning, sharp hips slamming down onto your plump ass, recoiling from every hit. it starts steady, but every pound transcends rougher, harder. 

“oooo, s-shit,” you stammer out, face screwing up before you release a quiet scream. “k-keep your dick right there, baby. you’re on my spot.” 

“fuuck, yess. that's where i want it,” he’s grunting in your face, brows furrowed as he gets buried in the pleasure of you, cunt sloppy and squelching from each draw back and dip of his dick. 

skin clapping, breaths inordinate, he’s fucking you. it’s almost embarrassing how loud you were, moaning in syllables after every pound and wanting to scramble away from the unutterable pleasure of him, his tone, and body heat. he smells like the cleanest linen with hints of jasmine. a fucking trip.

armin can say the same for you. everything about you overtakes his mind. he loves the way you talk, mannered and sweet. loves the way you smell, like wild strawberries. the fullness of your lips when his are immersed. the twinkle in your feline eyes when you admire him. you’re smart, beautiful, and taste real good. that’s an issue. 

“prettiest fuckin' bunny ever,” now he’s licking at the shell of your ear, tracing from there to the underside of your jaw. it’s got you so heated. 

there’s that pet name again. it came from a joke he had made during your conversations earlier. how you bounce in your spot when contemplating what to say or just anxious. but now you’re really moving like one. whining and pawing at the furniture while weighing your ass back each time he grinds forward. 

“take me, take me — fuck,” you’re full on crying now, skin sticking to each others, sockets full of tears and losing your mobility. 

armin’s face is flushed, tinted red nearly. he takes your right arm and throws it over his neck, armin’s mouth finding the peaks of your nipples to eat at greedily, other hand pressing down on your arch for better balance before he’s inching halfway out and striking forcefully. he studies the fall of your jaw, tossing your head back and shuddering out your noises. he’s moaning in your chest, fucking you harder. the way you choke yourself and stare at him makes him lose his mind. 

“m’c-cumminggg,” dragging out whines, you raise your knee up higher which his body is planted on, squealing as his balls collide with your clit now that there’s room. 

armin doesn’t intentionally do it out of irritation or anything, but he’s quick to toss your arm off of him and take hold of your hips, deepening your arch, forearms popped out with veins bulging and fucking into you with crudeness. forgetting he cared about you momentarily just to cum. still staying where he needed to please you. 

“me too, fuck. me too . . fuckk.” 

the warmth of him embracing you with strong arms burying your head and cumming first. it’s not long after when you’re frantically squeezing your thighs together and humming gravely, armin humping slow to ease your quivering. neither of you wanted to move. glued in the same position sharing intimate, slow, sloppy kisses. tracing each others skin delicately with the pads of your fingers, smiling like idiots and cracking small jokes. 

you’d fallen asleep before him, waking up to a brightly lit attic and the smell of cigarettes, tucked under comfy blankets and rubbing your eyes to find armin sitting at the loveseat manspreading and smoking a quick cigarette — watching you. it was cute, until you began coughing and he immediately apologized. the roads were long cleaned up, debris in mass areas of the city. it was finally time to head home. 

you got his number, rescheduled your flight for early next morning, and he promised he’d call you when you’ve safely arrived, excited to hear your voice say his name again. 

© 𝒮𝒯𝟦𝑅𝐵𝒲𝑅𝑅𝒴! all rights reserved. please do not copy, steal, or modify my work simply because it is mine. stealing isn't cute. i'll ruin your life ♡

[unsiee]

[unsiee]

i’m… gagged…

thugga. onyankopon.

𑄽𑄺 warnings 𑄽𑄺 2.3K word count. blackfem!reader, drabble, boyfriend! onyankapon, grumpy!onyankapon, sweet!onyankapon, dominant!onyankapon, exhibitionism, couch sex , black woman, vaginal penetration, rough, lil bit of sweet talkin’, hair pulling, creaming, choking, praising, LOTS of dirty talk/aggressive dirty talk, condomless sex, creaming, slapping ass/face, kissing, just a fine ass black man, minors aren’t welcome!

━━ 𝒄𝙤𝒐𝙘𝒉𝙞𝒆𝙛𝒂𝙞𝒓𝙮 𝙩𝒉𝙤𝒖𝙜𝒉𝙩𝒔 .ᐟ day 484848489 of liyah’s faithful celibacy pact meaning she’s having the most nasty, egregious thoughts. come back to enjoy my black man fantasies. the links inspired this fic ofc, just wanted to put something out while working on an upcoming full fic. aight, bye.

link. link.

YOUR BOYFRIEND WAS A DEMON. And the worst part about it? He didn’t even have to try. 

Those eyes—he gave them to you at the worst times, and this was truly bad timing. Your elbow leans against the pink of your desktop, slender eyes drooping against the screen of your alabaster IMAC. You’d been on a work call for the past hour, and you were already feeling irritable, tired—over it. The only upside was being allowed to have your camera off. 

Your fingers rake through the dark ocean of your curls, a huff blowing through your nose as you unmute your mic to respond to your boss. But before you could—Onyankopon entered the kitchen.

You knew him, loved him, seen him enough times to know what he looked like with your eyes closed. You just couldn’t understand why he looked so good right now. He’d currently been in and out of the living room as he was attempting to fix the sink, on the phone with one of his friends to pass the time. But he made something so simple look so—sexy. His deep voice carries within the ceiling as he sends a voice memo, his big tatted frame turning a deep caramel beneath the lights, grey sweats showing off the print of his bulge. Your eyes watch his full lips move, the shadow of his grill melting in gold, mouth surrounded by the facial hair on his sharp jaw as forest  green gloves cover his palms. 

You were supposed to be focused on the main speaker of the call, watching the mouse move along the shared PowerPoint for new renovations within your company—but your eyes can’t help but peer over your desktop, watching him work. 

He’d move to the left, his toned body contorted in a way that made your tongue dry, your thighs involuntarily squeezing into each other. His back flexed taut as he reached under the cabinets, heavy hands twisting the pipes below, continuously talking within his phone atop of the counter. 

It’s when he begins pacing throughout the kitchen, tool box now in his hand and his phone pressed against the shell of his ear, that he catches a glance of you—his eyes locking onto yours. Despite his neutral expression, it’s clear that he’s caught you, and your slender eyes glazing over his body tells him everything going on in your head. He knew you.

You almost forgot your boss had asked you something.

Your voice is soft as you mindlessly reply to the computer, “Uh—no questions, at this moment. Sorry.” 

Your boyfriend's gaze is now on your figure, taking in the soft slope of your waist, up to the thick swell of your thighs and hips beneath your loose shorts. He admired you just as much as you did him, if not more. 

“Come here.” 

That’s all you hear. 

You quickly mute the microphone, your voice soft as you reply, “Ony—not now, baby.”

An eyebrow raises at your words. Head now tilted to the side, his dark eyes roam your figure as you sit at the desk, taking in his jersey you wear, leering at the way he knows your body becomes tense underneath.

“You tellin’ me no?” 

There’a a pause, and your silence speaks for itself. There it is—his eyes narrow, his jaw clenches, and that glare comes upon his expression. 

You tried. You really did. But listening might’ve been better than telling him no. The sound of the computer chair creaks beneath you, the tips of your toes just barely reaching the floor as your fingers clamp along the ink branded onto his bicep—your face screws into a pout, your whimpers gaining strength with each bounce on his dick. He’s watching, keeping you at one angle from the way he clamps his palm against the back of your neck, helping you come down.

Your boyfriend was strong, weighted in the right places. Every movement is calculated and precise—a machine. He knew your body better than you did yourself, knew what you wanted even if you didn’t say it—just by the way he’s got you pinned down, legs spread around his lap, one heavy palm against the side of your throat—he’s got ownership of you in moments just like this, when you’re at his hands—his mercy. 

Your brain registers the voices along the zoom call, but your sense is gone in the moment. His hand squeezes at the nape of your hair, your palms finding a resting space on his shoulders as you drop your hips down, a huffing whine passing your lips as your thighs ache in discomfort.

His eyes are glued to your face, your lips parted, your cheeks flushed, the way your eyes roll and thighs tremble around him like a vice— he’s proud about it. Onyankopon’s free hand comes under your thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he holds you. Plop, plop, plop—you’re light to him, almost effortless, and he moves you with ease, always. 

You’re his toy for the time being.

The sound your skin makes, clapping against his in a wet applause from the cream that mixes along his tip, has you burying your face within his neck as you quietly mewl, “U—Ughn…” 

It’s embarrassing with the way he can have you whining. There’s a low chuckle from him, the grip on your hip tightening as you can feel his breath against your ear. Your boyfriend's eyes are all over you, taking in the way you cling to him—the way he’s got you shaking in his lap. 

“You’ gettin’ tight, Mama.”

He murmurs to you, “Gon’ head and put your mouth by my ear.”

And you do—your lips drag along the brown of his skin, finding his lobe as one of your hands rubs along his facial hair. Your eyes roll back again as you whimper, “Oohshit,” your gasp sucking between your lips as you keep your body moving.

His hand comes down, a resounding smacking sound as it connects with the flesh of your ass— it’s loud enough that in that moment, you worry that they can hear it through your microphone.

“Don’t get loud,” he grunts, “You bein’ too good for allat.” 

His words were always worse than the pleasure he gave you. It ignited something within you, something filthy, something horny. Something that could have you forgetting you were on a work call. 

They make you bring your head up, pressing your hands along each side of his face, rubbing continuously at his ears—your skin resounds a loud secretion against his abdomen as you bounce yourself with more effort, eyes rolling as you rotate your hips, “Ohmyg-Ony.”

His face contorts into a snarl, and you can see the gold chains around his neck shift in a way that leaves you mesmerized.

He’s gripping your flesh like a vice, fingers sinking into the fat of your ass, pulling you down as he takes your own mouth, biting, biting, sucking on your bottom lip while he thrashes you onto his tip—your folds kiss at his balls every millisecond, your clit throbbing in return. 

“Youn’ even care, you’ goin’ crazy on this dick—my good lil’ bitch.”  

He’s holding you by your throat now, squeezing as he knows you’re unable to stop moaning. Your own palm comes over your mouth, trying to muffle the whimpers and cries that spill through as you can still hear the voices from the other side of that computer, though faintly. 

“Yeah,” he spanks you in reward, “That’s a good look on you, pretty girl. You listenin’.” 

“I love this dick, baby.”

You gasp into his ear, “I love it sooomuch…”

His grip on your neck tightens, and his eyes are on you now—completely. 

“That’s what I wanna hear. You love this big ass dick.”

You’re so horny. Your hands reach for the back of the chair to hold onto, placing your feet onto the sides of Onyankopon as you rock yourself down, eyes peering behind your shoulder to watch the way your ass claps on the way down. You groan, the sight making you go harder by the second.

Your boyfriend's eyes are focused on the way he splits you open, his gaze hungry, like a predator looking at his prey. His palm comes up, hand connecting to your face as he grunts, “Keep bouncin’ on my shit,” the sound loud and firm enough that the voices stop completely from the computer.

“Everything okay over there?” 

It takes everything in you to keep quiet, your hand clamping over your mouth as Onyankopon responds, “Everything’s cool. She ran to the bathroom.” 

“Alright…we’ll get back to it then.”

The other voices faded back into conversation, and the attention was now back to you, your boyfriend's gaze locked on your form.

“Keep fuckin’ me like that.”

The words are hushed, inaudible compared to the conversation taking place in your headset. He’s not being gentle with you, he never was, and he didn’t plan to start now. He’s just lifting and dropping you on his lap.

“Feels good, huh?” You can see the look on his face, “Soun’ like you wantin’ it.”

“Feelsgood,” you can only cry back in a whisper, you brain firing off babbles as you drag out, “Mmph-shit-ah—,” clamping your mouth shut as you watch yourself—you won’t stop, your legs shake each time the back of your thighs meet with the front of his.

His own thighs are tense to the touch, Onyankopon’s face flushed the same tone as your cheeks, his jaw clenched. 

“Oh—goddamn, look at you,” he’s watching you, too, the way your body slides against him, and the way his grip has your skin painted red. 

He’s groaning, and you can feel the way he thrusts up into you, his hand reaching up to your face, his thumb sliding across the side of your lips. 

“You bein’ good as fuck right now. Just takin’ this muhfuckin’ dick—I’ll kill a nigga behind this pussy.” 

He’s whispering the words into the shell of your ear now, each breath tickling the hairs along your skin. His face is close, so close to yours that you can feel the heat radiating off of him— you could taste it. 

You whimper so softly to him, “Keep sayin’ that,” bouncing, bouncing away.

He grunts, “You hearin’ me, huh? I’ll kill a nigga bout’ this shit.”

He’s saying it to you like a secret, his hand coming up to your chin, tilting your face towards him.

You frown, tears welling in your eyes as you warm, “Baby—I’m…” you moan to him, pressing your face back into his throat as your entire body vibrates. 

“You finna’ cum, I know. Stay here.” 

Onyankopon’s words are simple, but the command in them is clear. His arms wrap around you, nose pressed into your hair as he huffs, “Stay. Don’t be movin’.” 

It’s easy for him in this position, the way that his hips grind up into you, leaving you unable to move at all. Both hands are wrapped around your throat, keeping you in place as he fucks you through your orgasm.

Your body shudders, throat vibrating a moan. Onyankopon’s grip is as strong as it’s always been, his fingers tight enough on you that it’s beginning to make your skin tingle. 

“You close.” 

He’s not asking a question, but telling you so. He can see that you’re on the edge, the way the tears are welling in your eyes, how your thighs are trembling against his. 

You softly sob, voice whiny as tears shudder your vision, “Gimme’ a kiss, Ony.”

“C’mere then. Like you ’suppose to.” 

He pulls you closer, his lips connecting with yours in a slow, deep kiss. It’s enough to bring another shudder through your body, your own hands grasping at his shoulders in an effort to ground yourself. 

“You got it baby— I know this pussy all for me—Lemme’ feel that shit.”

He’s continuously murmuring against your skin, his hand running down the back of your neck, “Come on now, Mama. You’ right there, I know you’ is.” 

His lips brush over your ear, “Let it out. I’ll listen.”

You gasp, one so deep within your chest you nearly lose your breath. Your toes curl as your body vibrates in violent waves, knocking your face within his as you moan out your sobs, the sound dragging with each syllable of it. Your arms cradle his upper body, shaking so bad that holding onto him keeps you from becoming faint. 

Everything is hazy for a few moments. He holds you against him, arms wrapped tight around you as his lips brush over the side of your face. You’re drenching his tip, thighs soaked from the arousal that slicks along his dick, so wet that you can barely feel him anymore. 

His hands keep you from trembling as he whispers against your skin, “You makin’ a mess all over me, Mama. Pretty ass mess.” 

He’s watching you, taking in the way your face contorts, how your body spasms against him—the way all your words are reduced to nothing but soft sobs and whimpers.

You exhale as you feel your body coming down, keeping yourself held onto him regardless. Your breathing is softer, and your face flushes, a small—embarrassed groan pushing from your lips as you immediately bury your face within his throat.

He can’t help the low chuckle that escapes him, a heavy hand running over the back of your hair, fingers brushing through the tresses of it. 

“You gon’ be all shy now?” 

“Ony,”  you pressed your face under his jaw, grunting as you could feel the vibration of his chuckle, “What if they heard me?”

“Then they heard you. Not my fault you’ loud.”

“Onyankopon.”

“You was’ on some typa’ time, girl.”

“Oh my god. I’m logging off.”

You quickly turn towards your computer, clicking on the exit button of the meeting. You slip off of his lap, “Consider yourself a stranger. I don’t know you! Goodbye!” 

You’re already walking towards the bathroom, ignoring his voice as he smirks, “Ooh, girl—Look at allat’ ass—I’m still feelin’ X—Rated! Come back!” 

“No!” 

Onyankopon chuckles, “Aight. Love you too, then.”

[unsiee]

“ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇᴀʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʀɪᴅᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴡʙᴏʏ “𝒻𝓉: 𝘾𝙤𝙬𝙗𝙤𝙮! 𝙩𝙤𝙟𝙞

𝜗𝜚—Manhandling, Mutual orgasm, Sweaty, desperate, cowboy sex

The rough rasp of Toji’s voice curls down your spine like a lasso around your waist, pulling a whimper out of you as you bounce in his lap. His calloused hands grip your hips, thumbs digging into the soft skin as he guides your pace slower, harder—like he’s savoring the way you split yourself open on him.

You’re barely holding yourself up anymore, thighs trembling, palms planted weakly against the broad plane of his chest. His bare, tan chest slick with sweat, the faintest dusting of dark hair leading down to where your bodies meet with filthy, wet sounds. His jeans are shoved just enough down his thighs for you to get what you needed, but his boots are still on the ground, spurs clinking softly every time his muscles flex under you.

And his hat—God, his stupid cowboy hat, the one he never lets anyone touch—

He fucking grabs it, plucks it off his head mid-thrust, and plants it right onto yours, tilting it down low over your eyes.

“You wanna act like a lil’ buckle bunny,” he murmurs against your mouth, “then you better wear the uniform.”

Your head tips back, the wide brim slipping lower, and it’s humiliating how much wetter it makes you.

You whine, rolling your hips desperately, chasing the thick stretch of him inside you. Every time you sink down, you can feel the way he hits so deep, scratching at that sweet, devastating spot that leaves your eyes rolling back.

“That’s it, sweet thing,” he coos low, voice syrupy and mean at once. “Ride it like you want it.”

You want it more than anything, grinding your hips against his pelvis, your pretty skirt bunched up around your waist, bouncing fast and desperate now, chasing your high like a little whore. His hands are everywhere—pushing up your top to mouth at your tits, grabbing a fistful of your ass, sliding around to rub slow, messy circles over your clit with the pads of his fingers.

“Fuck, Toji—” you sob, shoving the hat up just enough to look at him.

And he’s smiling at you..like you’re just another little bunny caught in his trap.

“You better cum for me, sugar,” he drawls, tightening his grip on your hips so you can’t squirm away, “Right fuckin’ now.”

You shatter on top of him, clenching so hard around his cock it punches a groan from his chest. He lets you ride it out, lets you make a pretty mess all over him, until he’s the one losing control, bucking up into you with a brutal snap of his hips and filling you up, muttering broken, dirty curses into the sweaty curve of your neck.

When you finally slump against him, panting and wrecked, he tips his hat back up your forehead with a lazy thumb.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, smug, voice thick and low. “Made yourself my lil’ trophy, didn’t you?”

[unsiee]

◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ he fucks you hard when he’s quiet.

not angry—not tonight. not the rough, angry ichigo who grits his teeth and slams into you like he's working something out. no, this is the slow burn. the kind that makes your knees ache from being pressed to your chest for too long. the kind that fills the room with skin and sweat and low, broken groans.

he’s breathing hard above you, his cock so deep it feels like it’s been carved into your guts. every thrust is a grind, a roll, slow enough to hurt—not from pain, but from the need it feeds without ever really satisfying.

and he’s so close.

you can feel it in the way his hips twitch just a little more desperately. the way his hand tightens around your waist. the little stutter in his breath when your cunt clenches around him like it’s trying to pull him deeper.

and he’s been so good.

so good about pulling out.

you bite your lip. fluttery inside. nervous and needy.

you whisper, soft and sweet, voice barely above the sound of his hips meeting yours.

“y-you’re gonna pull out, right?”

ichigo looks down at you.

doesn’t speak.

just watches your face as he grinds in deeper, balls flush against you now. you twitch.

“r-right?” you repeat, softer this time, wide eyes searching.

he groans.

and doesn’t stop.

just keeps fucking you—deep, slow thrusts that get a little sharper now, a little messier, his cock dragging along every soaked inch of your walls like he’s claiming them. like he owns them.

you panic.

just a little.

“wait—ichigo—wait, you’re gonna—!”

your voice breaks off into a moan as he leans down, mouth right next to your ear, one hand sliding under your ass to tilt your hips just right.

“too late,” he mutters, voice cracked and low, almost guilty. “feels too fucking good.”

your heart slams in your chest.

you flutter under him—hips jerking, fingers clinging to his shoulders, trying to move, trying to brace for it.

“b-but—!”

he slams in hard.

and cums.

thick. deep. twitching.

you whimper as you feel the warmth spread inside you, his cock pulsing over and over, his breath caught in his throat as he buries himself to the hilt and holds there, shaking.

“fuck—fuck—fuck,” he groans, every syllable wrecked.

you’re fluttering, panicked and soaked, your pussy spasming around his cock as your own orgasm slams into you—unexpected, sharp, white-hot.

you sob. “i-ichi—go—”

he kisses you. soft. gentle.

“sorry,” he murmurs against your lips. “i couldn’t stop.”

[unsiee]

━ ❝𝑷𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝑷𝒊𝒕 𝑮𝒐𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒍.❞

౨ৎ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 : 9.7k words, no use of y/n, smut with plot, internalized homophobia, butch!ellie, shy, inexperienced, and virgin!reader, religious themes, drug use, oral sex + fingering, face sitting r!receiving, violence, not proofread!

𝗠𝗔𝗜𝗡 𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗘𝗘𝗧, 𝗠𝗜𝗗𝗗𝗔𝗬 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗧 – 𝟭𝟵𝟳𝟬

The sun hung heavy, making everything shimmer like it was dipped in syrup. It smelled like gasoline and sun-warmed peaches. Main Street buzzed with lazy summer motion—men in rolled-up sleeves and suspenders leaning against shopfronts, kids weaving between cars on banana-seat bikes, the Baptist church’s marquee announcing a bake sale in fading letters. A payphone rang, and no one picked up. The storefront windows reflected all of it in warped glass, a dog asleep under a Chevy, teenage girls in bell-bottoms chewing gum and eyeing boys through thick lashes. 

You stepped out of the general store with a paper bag hugged to your chest, the hem of your gingham dress fluttering just below your knees. Mama had stitched the dress herself—blue and white, with rick rack trim and puffed sleeves that always made you feel a little like a doll. Waves from the overnight braid clung to the nape of your neck, a few rebellious strands escaping the casual hold of the blue bow that partially swept your hair back. You blinked up at the sky, squinting at the streaks of orange clouds stretching above the telephone lines—the kind of day where even the air felt too slow to move.

You were supposed to be picking up twine. Just twine. Mama said don’t dawdle. And you meant to listen, you really did.

But the sun had kissed your cheekbones just right when you stepped outside, and your best dress fluttered around your knees like it had a mind of its own. You’d swiped a little color on your lips, dabbed something sweet at your wrists, and suddenly it felt like a shame to waste all that softness on errands and string.

The town shimmered with slow magic, and you thought—maybe just a minute. Long enough to let your shadow drift down the long road. 

“Well, butter my biscuit,” she rasped, her voice winding out like an old record spinning up to speed. But even then, you didn’t look up. “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes.” The words skimmed over you once again, swallowed by the hum of the street.

Her sunglasses sat low on her nose, just enough to peek over them. And you felt it, eventually—her gaze pressing against your back like sunlight through glass.

When you did notice her, you nearly dropped your bags. You froze mid-step, the soft rustle of your skirt the only sound you could focus on, too caught up in the wandering place inside your head to realize you’d drawn eyes—her eyes.

“Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?”

“I just—I didn’t think—” You glanced around nervously, as if someone might catch you, might judge you for that brief, fleeting interaction. “—you were talkin’ to me.”

An easy, crooked smile spread across her freckled, kissed features, completely unbothered by your attention, as if it were expected.

She sat like she owned the street. Cream suit rumpled just right, sleeves cuffed, legs spread unapologetically wide on the sun-bleached bench outside the barbershop. Her boots were scuffed, one toe resting on the edge of a planter gone wild with ivy and weeds. A matchbook balanced on her thigh. Smoke coiled lazy from the cigarette in her hand.

She looked like something forbidden, a name you weren’t supposed to utter out loud.

The way she lounged, all broad shoulders and slack hips, like no one had ever told her to be smaller, taking up space in a way you’d been taught not to.

And God, she was handsome.

You’d never seen a girl like that.

Not pretty. Not sweet. Not the kind of beauty you could fold into a letter or press in the pages of a Bible. 

It felt wrong, even standing there. The longer you looked, the more your stomach twisted. Her eyes were impossibly clear beneath those sunglasses, the color of a green sea you might fall into and never surface from.

“Oh, I’m definitely talkin’ to you.” She chuckled like you were a song she liked on the radio. She flicked ash onto the sidewalk, smirking. “Didn’t mean to scare ya. You just came ‘round that corner like some kinda angel. Had to say somethin’ before I passed out.” She hooked two fingers into the loose toothpick tie hanging open at her collar, gave it a lazy tug. Then came the sleeves, pushed up slowly, the fabric slid back to reveal ink curling up her forearm in dark, intricate spirals, too complex to catch in just a glance.

She moved like none of it mattered. Like buttons and neatness were someone else’s concern.

The chatter blurred, soft and faraway, and the street seemed to still with your heartbeat. Whether it had stuttered or was just trying to catch up, you couldn’t quite tell. 

You clutched your bags tighter. Light as a whisper, a breeze stirred the air, lifting the loose strands of your hair until they caught the sun as they swayed. “I’m just pickin’ up groceries.”  

The red-brunette stood, dusted off her slacks with one palm, and swaggered up to you with the kind of confidence you’d only ever seen in the movies. She walked like she was born in slow motion. People kept staring—especially the older men, brows furrowed, jaws tight in disgust. But the girl barely seemed to notice.

“Mind if I carry that for you?” She nodded toward the paper bags clutched to your chest.

You held the bags a little tighter as a woman passed—hair wound tight in curlers beneath a net, polyester skirt rustling sharp with starch. She didn’t slow, didn’t speak, just cast a glance like she could smell the sin from a mile off.

It landed hard within you, and suddenly, all you could picture was the sharp sting of your mother’s disappointment, or the hushed whispers of the ladies from church if they ever found out you’d dared even glance at a woman like her.

You shifted on your heels, the weight of it all making your shoes feel too small.

“It’s not heavy,” you blunted out too quickly, voice a little too light.

“I know. I just like the excuse.” She grinned around the cigarette. “To walk you a while.”

A wave of warmth climbed your nape, and your tongue felt like it had grown too large for your mouth, adhering to the palate. “I don’t—um… I don’t usually walk with people.”

She laughed, “Didn’t think you did.” There was a beat. She looked down, eyes flicking to your hands, bare and tense around the crinkling paper.

The smoke feathered from her lips as she voiced her observation. “No ring... which implies no husband?”

You shook your head, lips pressing in a bloodless line. “No, ma’am.”

“Good,” she stated, “Would’ve made this a little awkward.”

You struggled to find the right words—an excuse, something to make her leave—but she was already bridging the distance, her voice softening to a velvety whisper. “Truth is…” A crooked smile played on her lips even before the words were out, “I don’t usually flirt with pretty girls in broad daylight either.” A pause hung in the air, “But here we are.” 

Your breath caught in your throat.

The woman’s smile turned smug at your reaction. She stepped back a pace, flicked the cigarette to the ground, and crushed it under her boot without looking. Then held out her hand to you, palm up like she was offering to dance right there in the middle of the sidewalk. “C’mon. I’ll be a gentleman.”

You hesitated, eyes flicking around. A man sweeping the barbershop steps muttered something under his breath. 

You knew how people looked at girls like her. 

Girls who wore pants too well, who swaggered instead of simpered. 

Girls who smiled at other girls like it meant something.

But then she winked at you. Like you were safe with her. Like she was daring you to stop caring who might be watching.

Your fingers trembled as you placed your bags in her hands.

“There we go,” she brought her hand close enough for her knuckles to intentionally graze yours. “You got a name, sweet thing?” 

“Mhm.”

She cocked her head, accompanied by the upward flick of her scarred eyebrow. “Well?” 

You swallowed hard and whispered it, barely a breath. It wasn’t meant to be heard, but somehow, she caught it anyway. Rolled it around her tongue like she wanted to taste it. And maybe she was already imagining tasting you. 

“Well, ain’t that sweet,” she drawled, “You got a name like a lullaby.”

Your knees went soft. It felt like being kissed without ever being touched.

Her words read like a script no boy had ever dared recite, and her eyes held a lingering focus that didn’t glance past you but through you. Not like the fleeting glances you’d grown accustomed to from boys.

You tried to reel yourself back in, grasping for something safe. You thought about boys—their easy smiles, their clumsy hands, the way they used to say your name.

But it didn’t help. The warmth in your chest refused to settle because a compliment from a woman sings in your blood in a way a thousand boyish smiles never did.

You didn’t know what to make of the erratic flutter behind your ribs, or the way your eyes kept drifting to her mouth like they had a mind of their own.

“Wh-what’s your name?”

She smiled, like the question pleased her. “Ellie.”

“Ellie,” her name escaped your lips as soft as a prayer like it had been waiting on your tongue all your life, half-whispered, half-sighed.

She stepped in a little closer, just enough for you to catch the scent of cologne and cigarettes clinging to her collar. “I like the way you say my name,” she crooned. “Real pretty.”

Your heart was galloping in your chest. You didn’t know what to say, what to do. You weren’t used to feeling like this—all fluttery and breathless in the best possible way.

You walked beside her, barely breathing, trying not to smile too wide. Ellie filled the air around her, filled you. She talked so easy, teasing and bold, like she didn’t care who heard her.

“You always wear blue?” she asked, eyes dipping down to your dress.

“I—well, yeah. I like it.”

“Looks real nice with your eyes.” 

“You talk awful funny.”

“Funny?” she grinned. “You mean smooth.”

You looked at her. “I mean like you wanna get in trouble.”

That made her laugh, loud and full. “Maybe I do.”

Your mouth opened and closed. You had no idea what to say to that either.

“You’re blushin’, darlin’.”

“Am not.” You couldn’t quite meet her eyes, the warmth of your skin betrayed you.

“Mm.” Her gaze lingered. “Looks good on you. Like a peach just startin’ to ripen.”

You could feel the flush crawl up your neck, like shame and sugar melting together, and you swore you were about to sink straight into the concrete.

“Where’s your car, sugar?” The paper grocery bags crinkled in her arms as their weight shifted, bottles of wine clinking softly against each other beneath rustling folds.

You pointed, wordless, and started walking with her toward it, your white shoes crunching over gravel. Her boots were louder. Heavier. You wondered if she always sounded like that when she walked, like she didn’t care who heard her coming.

Ellie handed your bags back with a mock-bow and a tip of her invisible hat. When you reached your car, she opened the door for you and stepped back, hands slipping into her pockets, giving you room without being overbearing.

“You gonna be at the market this Sunday?”

You nodded before you even thought about it. You weren’t planning on it, but now you were. “Maybe.”

Ellie grinned, all teeth and trouble. 

“Good. I’ll bring somethin’ sweet for you. Maybe we can… share.” She stepped back slowly, still watching you like you were something rare and shiny. “Don’t be a stranger, peaches.”

You stood there, rooted to the spot, your head spinning and heart stumbling over itself, your eyes following her every step as she walked away, one hand casually tucked into her pocket.

You didn’t even know girls could look at you that way.

That you could like it so much.

𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗞𝗘𝗧 – 𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗗𝗔𝗬, 𝗟𝗔𝗧𝗘 𝗠𝗢𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚

It was louder than usual that morning—the kind of noise that filled the air with life. Dust danced in gold clouds, kicked up by horses’ hooves pounding down the dirt road, their heads held high. The smell of hay and livestock mingled with the sharp scent of fresh tomatoes and dirt. Farmers’ kids ran barefoot between the rows of vegetables, their laughter mingling with the rustling of leaves, feet quick against the earth like they were part of it, chasing after stray chickens. 

Radio music crackled from an open truck bed, some sweet-voiced woman singing about heartache and heaven. The sun was already high, soaking into the back of your little dress, the edges of your shoes digging uncomfortably into the dirt. 

You scanned the crowd, eyes catching on the burst of color—the floral prints of women’s dresses fluttering in the heat, the worn denim of men leaning over their carts, the earthy scent of dirt and sweat clinging to everyone. The smell of fresh bread and sizzling sausages through the air, mingling with the heavier scent of gasoline from the nearby pumps.

Her form bloomed in your sight, a forbidden fruit you couldn’t resist gazing upon, as if your very pupils were designed to drink in her image like a secret indulgence.

Leaning casually against the front of her truck, her stance exuded an unhurried calm, one boot pressed against the bumper. Her shoulders hung loose in a slouch. She was dressed down today—but only by a sliver of intention. No jacket, but her slacks clung like they were made for her, and suspenders lay across her chest, catching the light with their worn edges. A white tee, simple, sleeves rolled, giving just a peek of muscle and sun-kissed skin. A cherry lollipop hung between her lips, bright against the earth-toned world. Her hair was shorter than usual, messy in a way that looked intentional—like it’d been tousled by wind or a fight with a bedhead.

She looked like every sin you’d ever been warned about—the kind your mama had whispered about in hushed tones, the one she swore would steal your innocence and taint your soul with a single touch, drag you to hell without a single hesitation, and leave you there, lost and aching—with no salvation in sight.

When Ellie’s eyes found yours from across the market, narrowing slightly before the corner of her mouth twitched upward, in that instant, you realized.

You were already damned.

When she saw you, she stood up slowly, her hand drifting to the lollipop she’d left abandoned on the dirt. It fell without a sound, like it never mattered, the world fading as soon as your eyes met.

You were divine. Too pure, too innocent looking—like something she had no right to even glimpse, let alone touch.

An angel wrapped in cute little bows and soft cotton, and she couldn’t help but feel the sharp sting of her own worthlessness. You were a walk through spring, a memory of sunshine, your white dress dotted with yellow flowers that seemed to dance with every movement, white lacey socks pulled up your ankles, the kind that didn’t belong on the dusty ground of a market. In one hand, you clutched a basket, tucked with care under the same white bow that held your front pieces back.

She wondered how you even spoke to her the first time. You looked at her with that wide-eyed innocence, something she could never touch without breaking.

And yet, there you were. Standing in front of her, like you had no idea how much you haunted her every waking thought.

“Hey there, peaches.”

Heat bloomed across your cheeks. “Hi, Ellie.”

“You came.”

“I said I would.”

“Thought maybe you’d get spooked.”

Eyes fixed on the ground, a small, involuntary shrug flickered through your shoulder, “Was thinkin’ about it.”

She laughed. “Still came anyway?”

You peeked up at her through your lashes. “...you asked me to.”

Your reaction stole her words, if only for a moment. The playful light in her eyes receded, replaced by something else you couldn’t quite put into words. “C’mon,” she said after a beat. “I brought you somethin’.”

Leading you to her truck’s side, she opened the door with a casual gesture and a small grin. Inside, she produced a small cloth bag, its contents utterly defying your expectations. 

Not the imagined sweetness of fruit, nor the comforting aroma of baked goods. Instead, nestled within was a pack of rolling papers, a small, metallic tin filled with something green and intensely pungent, a scent that made your nose wrinkle in unfamiliarity.

“Ever smoked?” 

You blinked, confusion plain on your face, “Cigarettes?”

A laugh bubbled up in her throat at your naivete, as if you’d emerged from some long-forgotten corner of the world. “Not exactly.”

You stared at the pouch.

“Oh,” you said, “That’s… bad, isn’t it?”

Ellie raised a brow. “You think I look like I care about bad?”

You worried your lip, caught between curiosity and apprehension. 

She leaned in closer. “Don’t gotta, if you don’t wanna. I just thought… might be nice to loosen you up a little. You get all red every time I talk.”

“i do not.” You blurted, heat blooming across your cheeks, too quick, too revealing, proving her point. After a moment’s hesitation, a soft, “...Just one,” escaped your lips.

𝗟𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗥 – 𝗘𝗟𝗟𝗜𝗘’𝗦 𝗣𝗟𝗔𝗖𝗘

You didn’t even mean to say yes when she asked you to come by after the market. But your head nodded like your body already knew the answer, even if your mouth didn’t. 

Now you were sitting on the creaky little couch in Ellie’s place, your knees pressed tight together, still in the same sundress you’d worn all morning, straps slipping off your shoulders from the way you kept shifting, you didn’t even bother fixing them.

Her place was smaller than you’d imagined. 

One-room sort of thing, tucked above a mechanic’s shop with peeling wallpaper that had once been floral but now just looked tired, with a slanted ceiling and windows left cracked open to let in the breeze. 

The couch was old and scratchy, covered in a wool blanket that smelled faintly of cigarettes and cedar. A single lamp glowed in the corner, casting long shadows on the bare wood floor. 

On the wall above the couch were thumbtacked sketches—charcoal, pencil, some ink. Mostly portraits. A few unfinished, just the ghost of a face and a jawline sketched in bold strokes. You thought you recognized your own bow in one of them, half-drawn. An easel sat in the far corner, facing the window, a canvas perched on it like a masterpiece she hadn’t decided whether or not to share. Smudged with blue and amber, half-born. A stool nearby was stained with paint and cigarette burns, and an old coffee cup full of brushes balancing on the windowsill.

The kitchen was barely more than a sink and stove, cluttered with mismatched mugs and half-empty bottles of something strong. A few records leaned against the wall, sleeves worn soft at the edges, like she’d played the same ones over and over but never quite got around to putting them away. Her guitar leaned against the wall beside the record player, strings a little dusty but tuned. You wondered if she played for people, or just for herself. 

There were boots by the door, grease on the floor, and a jacket tossed over the back of a chair like she’d rushed out of it hours ago.

The breeze curled through the open window, stirring the lace curtain just enough to make the whole room feel like a half-remembered dream.

Ellie lit a joint with a match struck against her boot, the flame flickered in her palm before it caught. She took a slow drag, then leaned in, holding it between her fingers as she brought it to your lips. “Just a little,” she encouraged you, voice thick with smoke, “Promise you’ll like it.”

You did, even if it made you cough the first time. That made her laugh, a sound curling around your spine. But then it started to sink in, blooming warm behind your ribs, softening your edges until everything felt farther away. Everything except her. She was too close. One leg tucked beneath her, the other braced on the floor. Shoulder draped over the back of the couch. Her fingers brushed yours every so often—careless, like she wasn’t even thinking about it. But you knew she was. 

Everything Ellie did was on purpose.

You couldn’t stop giggling. You didn’t even know why—some dumb story, maybe. Something about the way she said it. The way she looked at you between drags, like she already knew what you were gonna say before you said it. You sat cross-legged, hands folded in your lap, trying not to fidget. And Ellie sat wide-legged beside you, elbow on the armrest, watching you like she was trying to memorize the curve of your mouth when you laughed.

You kept staring at Ellie’s mouth when she talked—slow and syrupy, every word dragging like molasses down the nape of your neck. 

Her voice was a sin in itself, making you feel all the things it shouldn’t. She was too close. Sat next to you with her legs open, one knee brushing yours every time she shifted. Your dress rode up a little higher each time. 

“So?” she grinned, catching the way your dazed eyes trailed after her lips. “How’s it feel?”

You blinked at her, sluggish and loose. “I feel like…” You glanced down at your fingers. “Like they’re not mine.”

Her head fell back as she laughed, “Good. That’s what it’s s’posed to feel like.”

You nodded, dizzy. Then, a softer “I like it,” slipped out.

Her eyes dropped to your mouth.

You didn’t notice.

You were still fixated on her lashes, long and thick, speckles of green catching the amber light spilling in from the window.

“You’re not like anyone back home,” you murmured.

That got her leaning in, just a little. Close enough to feel her breath. “No?” she pressed, “And what’s that mean, baby?”

“I don’t know,” you whispered. “You talk different. You look at me like I’m not just some dumb girl.”

The freckled woman scoffed, “You’re not some dumb girl,” she remarked, and something sultrier curled in her tone. “You’re the kind that don’t even know how fuckin’ sweet she is. All soft and wet and waitin’ to be tasted.”

Your breath caught.

She leaned in further, elbow pressing into the back of the couch, her thigh now fully against yours.

“You’re pretty as an angel,” She whispered, so close her nose almost brushed yours, worshipful eyes of yours stayed glued to her lips like scripture, as if missing a single word might tear a page from the only book that ever truly had you. “And when you look at me like that—like you want me to touch you but you’re too good to ask for it—I wanna ruin you.”

“I wanna mess up that pretty little bow you wear like it’s gonna save you.”

You could only manage a breathless, “What?” your lungs pulled too tight to drag anything else out of your throat.

Her hand settled on your thigh with confident claim, slender fingers teasing the hem of your dress. “I said,” she repeated, “I wanna taste you.”

You swallowed hard.

She kissed you.

And may God forgive you for the way you let her. 

For how your lips parted without thought, without prayer, like sin was sewn into your flesh and begging to be fed. 

It felt too good to be wrong. 

Too soft to be unholy. But then her pink muscle brushed yours, slowly, coaxing, and you whimpered. 

Her hand slid up your thigh, fingers sinking into the tender flesh like she had every right, like God had created you for her palms alone. 

Her teeth grazed you, and you swore the heavens cracked open.

You didn’t push her away.

You leaned in.

You burned.

And if this was blasphemy, then hell had never felt so holy.

This wasn’t the hurried fumble of the boy in the field, all clumsy want and impatient demand. This was a languid devotion, her mouth a slow burn against yours, tasting like nothing but salvation. 

A wordless prayer of surrender escaped your lips as your hips stirred on the couch, a movement born of a pleasure that felt both sacrilegious and utterly true. Shame clawed at your throat, the taste of transgression bitter on your tongue, yet despite it all, every part of you screamed to surrender. To let her take from you, because it felt more like coming home than any prayer ever had.

She retreated just enough to speak, her breath brushing against your mouth, sweet and trembling, “That good, baby?” 

You nodded again, dazed. “Mmm… never felt nothin’ like that.”

Her hand slipped higher up your thigh, fingers curling possessively. “That boy you were talkin’ ‘bout… he kiss you like this?”

You shook your head, a breathy laugh escaping you. “Didn’t kiss me much at all.”

A low hum of satisfaction vibrated in Ellie’s chest. 

Ah, it seemed to say, you’re as caught as I am.

“What a fool,” she replied instead, nudging your chin back so she could look at you. “Should’ve known better than to leave a sweet thing like you wanting.”

You were a flower turning towards the warmth of her touch, an unstoppable bloom of a smile on your face that mirrored your body’s involuntary drift towards her. 

You didn’t know what it was—the weed, the kiss or her—but you didn’t care.

The world outside became a muted backdrop. The curtains’ languid dance, the cicadas’ desperate cries. 

Everything had collapsed into the soft slide of Ellie’s fingers on your thigh, the blissful hum in your head, and the way your whole body pulsed between your legs like you were born just to ache.

“You’re really lettin’ me touch you, huh?”

A slow, heated nod was your only response, lashes drifting down like weighted petals, mind struggling to keep pace with the ascent of her hand. It slid higher beneath your skirt, a place no other touch had ever been granted access.

“No one’s ever—?”

You shook your head—barely—and Ellie grinned like the devil just stepped into church. “God. Look at you.” The name felt obscene in her mouth, like it didn’t belong there. 

You prayed he wasn’t watching. Hoped he’d close his eyes and pretend he didn’t see you like this—willingly trembling under another woman’s touch, soaked through, begging.

Soft lips brushed the delicate angle of your jawline, lingered on the warmth of your cheek, and a heated sigh whispered against your throat.

“You’re just sittin’ there,” she mapped soft circles onto your bare thigh, “high and horny, lettin’ a girl put her hands up your skirt. And you ain’t got a clue what to do with yourself, do you?”

An involuntary clench tightened your thighs, a reflexive action born of both embarrassment and a burgeoning heat that had your cunt tingling, every nerve singing under her attentive stare. Her grin stretched wider, “Oh, baby. You want me that bad already?”

The words tangled in your throat, strangled by the molten ache pooling low in your belly. Still, you shook your head, trembling, chest heaving as if the air had sunk its teeth into the narrowing passage. 

You didn’t even know what to beg for—only that her touch was the only thing tethering you to heaven. That if she didn’t give it to you, you might start sobbing.

“No,” you breathed, eyes wet and shining, lashes trembling like butterfly wings. “I need you.”

The sound of your voice widened Ellie’s grin, a flash of pearly white against her kiss-bruised mouth, hawking at you like she was about to devour you whole.

“Yeah?” Her fingers traced your jawline, gently tilting your face toward hers once again, “You need me to touch you, huh?”

You nodded—helpless, desperate, thighs pressed tight together like it could ease the throbbing between them. Your mouth opened to answer, but all you could manage was a shaky exhale, like you couldn’t quite let yourself ask for it. Didn’t know how.

Her fingers ghosted right where your thighs met, and it knocked the air right out of you. Your hips twitched forward on instinct. You weren’t trying to be subtle anymore. “Mm-mm,” Ellie hummed, cruel fingers hovering but not touching. “You gotta use your words, peaches. Can’t give you what you want if you don’t ask for it.”

You whimpered, legs falling open just a little wider like your body was trying to beg for you, the damp spot on your panties obvious now, sticky and embarrassing. You couldn’t even bring yourself to look at her, eyes glued to her hand, too ashamed to exist.

“Please,” you panted, “Ellie… I don’t—I don’t know how. I need—” You dragged in a breath, fingers curling around her tattooed forearm. “I need you to touch me.”

Relief and humiliation crashed over you at once.

Ellie’s grin vanished, emerald mists deepening to a shadowed woods as she finally slipped her hand under the sticky lace, rough pads brushing against your dripping heat. You gasped, your back arching like a puppet cut loose, mouth falling open as if you’d just been shown a heaven they never mentioned in church. 

It was like nothing you’d ever felt before—no fumbling manly touch had ever made you feel like this.

Her damp, swollen lips returned to the column of your neck, her hand moving skillfully like she knew exactly what you needed even when you didn’t. It was more than you’d ever had, but enough to make you feel like a step further away from grace. 

“Jesus,” The redhead mused. “You’re drippin’. And I haven’t even gotten started.”

A soft wave of a pout rippled across your lower lip, “It’s embarrassing—”

“No, baby,” she said, eyes darkening. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect. All nice and wet for me.”

Her fingers didn’t rush. Just parted your folds slowly, the way someone might peel something sacred, something she’d fantasized about in the quietest, filthiest corners of her mind. 

And god, had she fantasized. 

The instant those jade eyes locked onto your angelic form, all flustered and struggling with those bags, the sway of your hair, and the teasing lift of your dress in the breeze, something darker took root. Almost as if you had already been declared by her gaze, and backing down wasn’t in her vocabulary. 

She slid two fingers through your center, dragging the wetness up—pausing just beneath the hood of your pulsating clit, letting you feel the threat of her pads.

Your hips bucked without permission, and Ellie smiled like she’d caught you red handed. Like she knew exactly what kind of girl you were. Knew you’d melt the second she touched you.

Her thumb brushed lazy, feather-light circles over your bud—just enough to make you twitch, but not enough to satisfy. Her breath hitched at the sound you made. That desperate little whimper, the one that made her throb in her boxers.

“Fuck,” she muttered more to herself than to you, eyes glued to where her fingers glistened with your wetness, “Bet you touch this sweet little pussy all the time, don’t you?” 

You hesitated, heat crawling up your throat, shame curling in your belly, your cunt making it impossible to let you lie. “I… I do. A lot.”

“Yeah?” Her voice dipped, “Rub your clit when no one’s watching? Cry into your pillow ‘cause you can’t get deep enough?”

An instinctive clench tightened your thighs, and a helpless nod bobbed your head before your useless brain could catch up. “… it never feels this good.”

She moved closer, her body warm against your side, her ragged breathing in your ear was enough to make you moan and clench around emptiness. Your legs parted further, hips rolling into her touch like you couldn’t help it. It was pathetic, but she loved it.

“Yeah, baby—that’s ‘cause it takes someone who knows how to play with a body like yours. Knows how to make it beg.”

Ellie let pleased moan, and fuck, it did something to you. That sound alone was enough to twist up your stomach and make you see stars. She could feel your pulse, frantic and fluttering beneath her drenched fingertips, your body thrumming like it no longer belonged to you.

And god, she loved how easy it was to make you melt under her filthy touch. “You feel that?” she rasped, eyes locked on your face like she was starving. “Your pussy’s throbbing, peaches.”

The perfect orbit of her fingers around your clit elicited a soft cry, your white-clad toes curling in response. “You sound like an angel when I touch you like this.” 

And then her fingers slipped in.

Just one, but even that felt like too much.

Your breath hitched, eyes wide as your body tensed, your cunt pulsing around her knuckle-deep finger. It resisted the intrusion, unsure whether to draw her in or push her out. 

You weren’t used to this. Barely used to your pillow and your own fingers. The stretch burned. Not unbearably painful, but rather unfamiliar. A pressure that made your belly flutter and your muscles tense.

“Shhh… breathe, baby,” Ellie cooed, feeling the way your muscles spasmed around her knuckle. “I got you. You’re okay. Just a little stretch—not used to bein’ touched like this, are you?”

You whimpered, head pressing back into the cushions, your trembling hands fisting the hem of your dress, pulling it up higher as if that’d somehow help you handle it better. 

She didn’t move. Just kept her finger still, letting you feel the shape of her inside you.

“So tight,” she echoed, awestruck. “I can feel your heartbeat.”

Your lips trembled. You were breathing too fast, high in your chest, and she noticed, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your cheek. “Talk to me,” she coaxed. “Too much?”

You shook your head fast, even as your legs trembled open wider for her. Your hips chased the burn, the friction, the stretch. You couldn’t help it—it hurt just right. 

“I’ve never—” Your voice broke on a gasp when she curled her finger just slightly.

“You never let anyone in, hm?” Her thumb circled your clit again like she was trying to distract you.

You shook your head again. Ellie smiled proudly against your cheek, “You weren’t made for boys, were you? Just this—just my fuckin’ fingers.”

You nodded, whimpering like you’d been waiting your whole life to hear someone talk to you like that.

“Good girl,” Her free hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck “So fucking good for me. Gonna let me split you open? Make you cry on my fingers?” it was only when you nodded that she started to move—just a shallow pump of her finger, careful not to push too hard. You whimpered at the way it dragged against your walls, slicked by how fucking wet you already were.

Your head dropped against her shoulder, eyes rolling behind fluttering lids, mouth falling open in a silent moan as she rubbed your clit harder, finger picking up speed and going deeper into your warm channel. The wet sounds were obscene, and she made sure you heard every one of them.

A second finger eased in beside the first, and your body seized. The stretch was obscene, deeper now, fuller than you’d ever been. It made your toes curl and your back bow painfully, a whimper crawling up your throat before you could choke on it.

“Shhh, shhh,” she cooed, her mouth warm and wet against your temple. “That’s it, just like that.”

You clung to her like she was your last breath—fingers fisted into the fabric of her shirt, damp with your sweat and hers. Whispering profanity into your hair, words you shouldn’t have liked, shouldn’t have needed.

“Just wanna feel you come on my fingers.” Her hand moved with slow cruelty. Two fingers stroking deep, dragging against that tender spot inside you again and again, her palm pressing down just right to grind your clit. It was too much. Not enough. Too fucking perfect.

Your legs trembled uncontrollably, the breaths leaving your throat were nothing but ragged little sobs, lips parted, eyes unfocused.

“Ellie—I’m gonna—” your voice cracked around it, barely coherent.

And she laughed, like she knew you wouldn’t last. Knew from the way your pussy acted like it’s been waiting its whole life for someone like her to ruin it.

You cried out—something between a sob and a moan—and your orgasm tore through you like lightning. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t soft. It broke you. 

Your body locked up, cunt spasming hard around her fingers, slick soaking her wrist as you came with a wail that didn’t sound like it could belong to someone innocent.

She didn’t stop. Just slowed, dragging it out, milking it from you until you collapsed on her chest, boneless and heaving, while her soaked fingers twitched lazily inside you.

“There you go,” she murmured into your hair, breathless, reverent. “Thought you were a good girl, huh? Thought you were shy. Thought you’d make me wait…”

Her fingers slipped out with a wet noise that made you wince, made your whole body clench around the void left behind.

“But look at you,” she smirked, sucking her fingers into her mouth without shame. “you let a girl you’ve known for, what, a week?—split you open on a couch you’ve never even sat on before.” You should’ve felt ashamed, but your cunt fluttered. 

You were still panting against her chest, eyes glassy, body limp. She watched you try to come back to yourself—loved how long it was taking, how fucked-out you looked. 

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Not so innocent after all, huh?”

It wasn’t a question, but a truth laid bare, torn from you like the peel of a summer fruit. She saw past the bright flesh, down to the bruise blooming beneath. The decay you’d dressed in sweetness, perfumed and pretty, but still rotting all the same.

She didn’t flinch at your filth. Didn’t pull away from the part of you they all tried to smother—your mother, with her disappointed eyes and clipped silence, who looked at you like a stain she couldn’t scrub out, or the pastor, whose voice trembled with disgust when he spoke about girls like you.

Instead, she kissed the crown of your head like you were something meant to be worshiped, even as she ruined you.

You’d spent your whole life begging God to fix you. Whispering prayers into the dark with trembling hands, trying to crush that part of yourself into dust.

But it didn’t die.

It waited.

And now, with her inside you, coaxing it out like a secret she already knew, you finally understood—there was never anything to save.

You were never innocent.

You were made for this.

“Gonna see how many I can take from you before you start begging me to stop.”

You were still trying to remember how to think when Ellie leaned in and kissed you, her tongue sliding against yours, and all you could taste was yourself. When she pulled back, her eyes were hooded, mouth glistening with your spit, and there was something feral behind her grin.

Then she pulled you up.

“Panties off. Now.” was the first thing she demanded. You obeyed on instinct, fingers fumbling as you reached under your dress, barely balancing as you stepped out of the soaked lace. You hadn’t even managed to gather yourself before her rough hand closed around your wrist and pulled you forward impatiently.

Your breath caught.

“You’re sitting on my  face.”

No questions. No sweet talk. Just a demand as she threw herself onto the couch, stripping off her shirt with one fluid motion. Her back hit the cushions. Her hands found your hips before your knees could even hit the cushions, guiding you up, already dragging you over her salivating mouth. You straddled her face, thighs trembling on either side of her flushed skin, cunt hovering above her lips

Your brow crumpled a knot of delicious torment that only seemed to deepen like the one in your stomach. “Ellie, I—I don’t know if I can-”

Her eyes lifted, beholding something sacred and profane at the same time. “You can. You will. Sit.” 

Strong arms wrapped around the plushness of your thighs, dragging you down before your brain could even catch up. Your breath hitched as Ellie buried her face between your legs without hesitation, licking a stripe through your folds like she’d been starving for it. The heat of her tongue against your still-sensitive cunt made your head fall back, a soft, broken whimper leaving your lips.

Your hands scrambled to lift the bunched-up fabric of your dress, needing to see her. And there she was, eyes fluttered shut like in prayer, her lashes damp, mouth glistening with you. She moaned like you were the best thing she had ever had in her life.

“Taste like fucking peaches,” she husked against your clitoris, “Could eat you for hours.”

She sucked your clit into her mouth, flicked it until your thighs clamped around her ears on instinct. 

The wetness at the base of your lashes registered a beat late, it wasn’t until you blinked that you consciously recognized the gathering tears. “Ellie—it’s—too much—” you sobbed, the words barely audible through the quiver in your voice.

Her grip on your hips only tightened, fingers digging into soft flesh as she dragged you down harder. She didn’t stop. Her tongue fucked you deep, filthy and focused, button up nose bumping against your rosebud every time she moved. You cried out, overwhelmed, your whole body twitching from the overstimulation, nerves tingling from your earlier orgasm. Your hands flew back for balance, clutching at the couch behind you as your vision swam.

Your thighs started to lift, trying to get away, but the auburn-haired woman dragged you right back down with a bruising grip.

“I said sit.”

Impure mewls caught in your throat. You couldn’t do anything but obey. 

You didn’t even know what you were saying anymore—just garbled, desperate nonsense between sobs and gasps.

She sucked your clit harder this time. You came almost instantly, with a scream, whining her name over and over. You reached for her, pushed weakly at her forehead, but she wouldn’t budge, unwilling to relinquish the newfound sacred ground.

“You come again,” she growled, breath scorching against your sensitive bud, “or I’ll keep you here all night.”

And you did. Again, and again, each time more indecent than the last. 

Until you were slumped forward, dress wrinkled around your waist, mouth open but soundless, legs shaking like you’d run through hell just to end up in her defiled mouth.

You couldn’t see. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything except ride.

Spit and slick dripped down her chin. Your thighs were shaking so hard they knocked against the blade of her shoulders. You sobbed, begged, whispered her name like it was both a prayer and a curse.

She pulled back just enough to say, “One more. Give me one more.” looking up at you like she’d just painted a masterpiece.

And you did.

Everything after that was a blur, your boneless body in her arms, the scent of sex and her gasped name still echoing in the air. You don’t remember falling asleep. Just her breath against your shoulder, the gentle press of her lips on yours.

Morning crept in like it knew what had happened. Soft and gold and sticky-warm, filtering through the lace curtains of Ellie’s little apartment, painting your bare skin in light. Your dress lay discarded somewhere on the floor, tangled in the cigarette-scented sheets. Your pussy still slick. Your legs were sore. 

You were asleep, slack-jawed, cheek pressed to her shoulder, curled in close. Ellie watched you from her side of the bed, shirt half-unbuttoned, collar popped lazily, one arm tucked behind her head, and the other lazily combing through your hair.

She grinned like she couldn’t help it.

“Girl like you,” she murmured, voice scratchy with sleep, “should come with a goddamn warning.”

A sleepy noise slipped from your throat. “Mm—Ellie?”

“I’m here, sweetheart.” She kissed your temple, a slow press of lips against sweat-damp skin, “You passed out,” she whispered, dragging her palm back up your thigh like she couldn’t stop touching you, even in the quiet of morning.

Your hips shifted toward her, face half-hidden in the pillow, body curling naturally into hers like you belonged there.

Ellie stretched, one hand behind her neck, eyes trailing the soft curves of your back with something close to wonder. That cocky glint in her eyes had faded into something that didn’t look like lust anymore. Hushed words wrapped you in a sweetness that felt almost too much to bear. The kind of tenderness that made your cheeks ache from grinning widely.

“You ever think about leavin’?” she suddenly asked.

Your lashes fluttered, and you blinked at her, not fully understanding. “Leavin’ what?”

She shrugged, “This town. Your dead-end barn. The church ladies and their ugly little stares. I dunno. I think about it all the time. Movin’ west, maybe. Somewhere, nobody knows your name.”

The question settled in your chest like a stone, something you’d only ever dreamed about. You didn’t answer right away. Your lip caught between your teeth as you watched the morning light dance on the walls, casting shadows like a dream you couldn’t quite grasp. “I ain’t never been nowhere,” the words almost feeling like a secret you were ashamed to share. “Not really. Just the market and church and... town.”

“Yeah.” Her fingers skimmed your ribs now, light as petals. “There’s more out there,” she added. “I could show you.”

She didn’t know why she said it. It sounded insane out loud—asking a girl she’d only just met to run off into the unknown—but something about you had sunk into her bones, sticky and sweet and impossible to shake. Maybe it was the way you’d looked up at her last night. Or the way you tasted, like something she could get used to. Maybe it was something simpler, though. The way you’d fallen asleep wrapped around her, like you were made to.

“I can’t just leave.”

“Why not?” Her voice grew firmer, just slightly. “Ain’t nothin’ here but a dead field and a name that don’t even fit right.”

You shook your head, but the motion was slow. Weak. “My parents... they wouldn’t let me.”

Ellie smiled, sunlight painting her freckles gold, and the green of her eyes shimmered like moss after rain. She looked too beautiful for this world, a vision untouched by cinema or poetry verses. A beauty that language could only betray, leaving words to falter and fall silent for anyone who dared to try to capture it. “But you’re a big girl now, ain’t you? Ain’t gotta ask nobody’s permission.”

Your skin prickled, but you didn’t look away. “I’ll think about it.”

But deep down, you already knew you were going.

She pampered you like royalty, bringing you coffee strong enough to burn away the last of sleep, a plate of eggs and toast kissed with butter and honey. By the time you stood to go, the sun was already high, painting the room in harsh gold that made you blink, still dazed. Gentle fingers closed the buttons of your dress, wrapping around to linger a moment too long at your chest, like she was doing it on purpose. When you turned to dust off the wrinkles in the fabric, she tucked your panties into her pocket, flashing you a grin.

“Lost somethin’, I think.”

“Ellie…” you fought to hold back an eyeroll, but the smile tugging at the corner of your lips betrayed you.

“What?” She lit a cigarette, shrugged into her jacket—brown corduroy, loose over her button-up shirt, sleeves pushed up. “I’m keepin’ ‘em. S’only fair.”

She walked you home like she was staking her claim. Her hand was on your waist, steadying you like a man would, guiding you through the honey-dipped streets. Though she could have easily sidestepped the stares and the longer route by driving, she needed more time with you. People stared, their gazes sharp and curious, but you kept your eyes down, avoiding the weight of their judgment. Ellie didn’t flinch. She never did. You liked that about her.

You passed the grocer, the diner, Mr. Ray sweeping his front steps with that old, rhythmic motion, the sound of the broom bristles brushing against the concrete. Ellie only nodded at him, daring him to speak, daring anyone to say something.

The farmhouse loomed ahead, weathered and weary like it had lived a thousand lives longer than yours. You could feel the weight of its history in the worn wood and cracked windows. It was your home, yet it no longer felt like it. You could almost hear your childhood calling out from inside, the echo of innocence lost beneath the weight of time.

The door stood ahead, and for a moment, you hesitated. Ellie’s arm stayed firmly around your waist, the sound of her boots crunching on the gravel mixed with the soft jangle of keys in her pocket. 

Her hand slipped from your waist, fingers brushing against your back, a soft, questioning squeeze that made you feel seen. “Everything okay?” 

You nodded quickly, forcing the words past your lips. “Yeah… yeah, just my parents. They’re not real big on strangers, you know?” You forced a light laugh, but it came out more like a nervous breath than anything else. “They’re kinda… conservative. They don’t like anyone in the house who isn’t family.”

Ellie seemed to sense the unease in your tone, her expression softening just a little. She nodded slowly, her thumb running over the small of your back, comfortingly. “I get it,” She raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk playing at her lips, though it didn’t quite meet her eyes. The weight of something unsaid laced her following question: “Will I see you again?” 

Hers was just hope. Hope that you wouldn’t run, that you wouldn’t vanish like smoke the second her hand slipped from your waist. 

But even then, she knew that was a possibility.

She’d been running her whole life—dodging shame, suspicion, the suffocating judgment that came with loving women in a world that wanted her different. There were towns where she had to lie. Streets where she had to flinch. And homes, too many of them, where a girl like her was only ever a secret.

So if you did walk away—if you chose the safety of lying over the risk of being seen—she’d understand. She wouldn’t chase you. Wouldn’t blame you. Because being yourself out loud, in a world like this, took a kind of courage she hadn’t always had either.

On your part, you weren’t sure how to answer her question, because if there was one thing your heart screamed, it was yes. Yes, you wanted to see her again. Taste her again. Let her touch you like you were something divine, not something to be hidden. But her words echoed through your chest like church bells.

You ever think about leavin’?

You had. In the quiet moments between chores and dinner prayers. In the silence after slammed doors and bitten tongues. You had dreamed of it in pieces—dusty highways and gas station coffee, rooms with open windows and no one watching. But never like this. Never with someone. Never with her.

Because it was reckless, impulsive; you’d only met her a week ago. Just seven days, and already she felt like a doorway you’d been too scared to open your whole life. Like running with her might ruin everything, or maybe save it.

Your lips moved before your doubts could catch up. “‘Course you will,” your words steadier than you felt. And when she smiled, it didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like the beginning of something that could work out for real. 

You grinned, a little unsure but determined, “I wouldn’t let you get away that easy.”

The woman’s smirk curved deeper, slow and easy. She leaned in closer, her lips almost brushing your ear. “Don’t go making promises you can’t keep, though.”

Your head tilted to the side, silencing her thoughts with the soft press of your lips—like a secret passed between mouths.

“I’ll see you soon.” 

This time, making the words sound more like a promise you intended to keep.

Ellie didn’t move at first. She just looked at you, breathtaking eyes sweeping over your face like she meant to memorize every inch. Then she let out a breath, all sweet resignation.

“Alright,” she nodded, tilting her head with a half-smile. “But don’t make me wait too long, peaches.”

Her hand slipped from your back, drifting softly down your arm in a touch so tender it left a chill. “I’ll be thinkin’ about you,” she breathed, almost to herself.

And then she turned. The sound of her boots crunching on gravel faded as she walked away, the edge of her jacket catching in the breeze. You stood there, still and quiet, watching her retreat until she was no more than a figure folding into the horizon.

A hollow kind of ache settled low in your ribs. “See you soon,” you whispered after her, knowing full well she couldn’t hear you.

You closed the door behind you with a gentle click, the kind that made the house feel full, lived in. Familiar. The silence inside pressed in close, like it had been waiting for you. You stood still for a moment, letting it settle around your shoulders like a shawl. Your back leaned against the wood. You breathed in deep, and Ellie was still there—on your skin, in your hair, between your thighs, in your head. The guilt swam low in your belly, but it didn’t matter. Ellie was real. And for once in your life, you felt real, too.

You walked dazed through the front hall, your steps light, your body still humming like it was tuned to her.

“Mama, I’m home!” you called, cheerful, almost giddy, kicking off your shoes with a thud. You padded down the hallway barefoot, grinning like a girl with a crush, soft and sugary, giggling under your breath. “You won’t believe the night I had.”

The kitchen opened around you like a dream. Pale morning light filtered through the curtains. Your mama was seated at the table, like always. Hair brushed, dress neatly pressed. You bounced on your toes, full of sunshine and static. “I’m so happy!” you squealed, and walked over to her, fingers brushing a curl away from her cheek.

You blinked, then laughed a little. “Oh, Mama. You’re always so quiet when I’m excited.”

You sat across from her, cross-legged in the chair, arms wrapped around your waist like you could no longer contain the excitement. “She said I taste like peaches,” you whispered, voice high and sugar-slick. “Can you believe that? Me. Peaches.” You twirled a little in the seat, too dizzy to sit still. 

You leaned forward then, conspiratorial, like a child telling a secret to a parent who might still forgive them.

“I let her touch me, Mama.” Your voice dropped. Soft. Sacred. “And I liked it. I let her touch all the places you said a man was supposed to touch first. I let her do it, and I—” Your voice caught on a giggle. “I loved it.”

Mama didn’t answer. Mama didn’t nod, or frown, or slap the sin from your lips like she might’ve.

Her eyes were wide. Too wide. Rolled back so far, they looked like pearls strung loose from their sockets. Her mouth hung slack, a line of congealed red dripping from the corner like jelly.

You smiled. “She told me she wanted to go away. With me. That maybe she and I could have a little place of our own. No men. No preachers.” You reached over and swatted a fly off your mama’s cheek, then another off her collarbone. They’d made a home there, buzzing and nesting in the soft hollow of her throat.

The buzzing was worse now. You barely noticed it. “You always said a girl like me would end up damned,” you sighed. “But Mama, it felt like heaven.”

You stood slowly, the chair scraping loudly across the blood-streaked tile. The soles of your feet were tacky with it, sticky and dark. You stepped around the dried smears on the floor, past the long drag mark where Daddy’s boots had caught on the linoleum.

He was slumped near the sink, folded wrong, the back of his skull a pulpy mess. The iron skillet lay nearby, its handle bent at a strange angle, slick with blood and something grey. Bone, probably. Bits of tooth were scattered like sugar over the countertop.

“Oops,” you murmured. “That must’ve been when he tried to grab my arm.”

Then you were laughing again. Breathless and bright.

“I wonder if Ellie likes pie,” you chirped, brushing past your father’s ruin of a body. You shoved him off the counter with a grunt, his head making a wet crack when it hit the floor. “She seems like an apple and cinnamon kind of girl, don’t she?” You giggled. “Sweet and spicy. Just like her.”

You opened the pantry. The sugar was still there. The cinnamon, too. A knife gleamed beside the butter dish.

“I’m gonna make her one. A good one. From scratch.” Your voice dropped into something soft and solemn, like a vow. “Then I’m gonna go to her. I’m gonna leave this house. This town. I have to.”

You paused, just long enough to glance back over your shoulder at the ruin of your family. The kitchen reeked of meat.

You smiled, so sweet it nearly cracked your face in half.

“It’s not wrong to want more, Daddy,” you added quietly, almost to yourself. “I was never gonna stay in a life that I didn’t deserve.”

And with a hum, you got to work—baking a pie from scratch, just like your mother had taught you—for the girl who said you tasted like peaches.

[unsiee]

𝒮𝒯𝑅𝒜𝒲𝐵 𝑀𝐼𝐿𝒦 𝒫𝐼𝒞𝒯𝒰𝑅𝐸𝒮 presents a frank castle ﾉ fem reader production . . . ᝰ .ᐟ

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──── 6 . 4kay wrdz , black fem reader , reader has a tattoo + wears lash extensions , daddy kink , toxic . . ? relationship ꒰ more just . . miscommunication ꒱ , brat taming , oral sex ꒰ f ꒱ , pet name usage ꒰ little girl , mama , sweetheart ꒱ , creampie , throatpie ﾉ facial , dirty talk , frank has a litl bit of a foot fetish ꒰ toe sucking ꒱ .

𝜗ϱ 𝓁𝓊𝓋 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒 𝒻𝓇𝓂 𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓀 . . . :333 i luv him whole lot uhmmmm . . dis vid iz jus 4 m followers dat hv never watched the punisher / don’t rllie know much abt frank . . i dunno ! here’z jus a glimpse of his personality + his voice -> 🥛 . fic title inspo by m angel faye as alwyz . Minors & Ageless Blogs Do Not Touch ! ! ! !

you were quiet . . . he’ll give you that.

heel - toe, heel - toe, fingers positioned on the barrel of the gun instead of the trigger, arms properly extended, eyes focused . . . “god damn, sweetheart.” frank’s standing there front and center within your foyer come the sound of a revolver’s hammer being pulled back, his fist all but slams into the rocker switch of a light panel bolted next to the front door to illuminate a bulb sluggishly lolling from right to left above his head from the ceiling.

it’s a small light, casts a warm and bright enough wreath of a glow whose edges skirt the nubs of your pedicured toes. almost all of them are decorated in rings of gold — he’s always found that sexy. the rest of you though, still stands enshrouded within the twilight painted gloom of your home, but he smells you — fresh and floral. you took a shower not too long ago probably, baby magic . . you love that fucking body cream, keep almost three bottles of it on you at all times of the day. above all, your apartment’s dark but not dark enough. there’s a window a few feet behind you, courtesy of the moon and her cool glare, it shines right in past your white, lace curtains ( the same ones that remind frank of what a beer bellied farmer’s wife would obsess over ) and outline the soft curves of your body.

those are what always give you away. you could be completely silent, body drenched in the most pungent fertilizer . . he can spot you from a mile away.

there’s a breath emitted from you — comes out through your nose. he knows so because he hears a peek of your sweet, little voice beneath it as you drop your arms and take a few steps back and away to flick on the kitchen light.

it’s bigger, brighter than the one in the foyer.

therefore, frank can finally get a good look at you.

you wear a satin robe, the color of it a delicate lilac. it’s short and loosely tied and for this reason, the right flap of it seems to be fighting to hang free and subtly, more or less, captivatingly, droops down your shoulder. beneath the robe is a white bustier, cups trimmed with thin, frilly eyelet that squeezes against the pudgy mounds of your breasts . . . yeah, you just got off of work. frank knows so because you still have on your jewelry — your rings, both sets belonging to your toes and fingers still reside on your body, a few gold bangles on each wrist ( admittedly, frank doesn’t think he’s ever seen you without those on ), anklets, large heart shaped, pink diamond studs in both ears, and you wear about three or four necklaces, all of them around the same length and density yet each suspending a different emblem or charm. there’s a small ‘ F ‘ on one of them, frank just can’t tell which one because they’re knotted and entangled around one another . . . you were laying down, resting before his intrusion.

round and plump, glossed, your lips curl into a deep frown as your eyes squint with irritation. a cynic you are, almost constantly. “. . it’s four am frank, what the fuck are you doing here?”

his brows fold in as he takes a step closer your way. with a sniff and quick glance over his shoulder, he shrugs before seemingly casually gruffing out, “ion know, mama . . i guess i live here or somethin’.”

“no,” your reply is instantaneous. “no, you don’t. get the fuck out.”

you rotate one eighty on those soft, supple heels of yours, those same ones that require just about as much upkeep as the hair growing from your fucking scalp to start your trek across the living room towards the hall. the soles of your feet create small slaps against the buffed, cherrywood flooring, producing a rhythm of tap, tap, tap, taps and the thick clomp, clomp, clomps of frank’s muddied, black timberlands completely vanquish the sound of each one. “yeah, i don’t wanna hear that shit,” he utters after a quiet suck to his teeth.

“i’m serious.”

you enter your bedroom with him only a step behind you. “jus’ lay down, alright?” back and forth he flicks his hand — motioning for you to almost buzz off while his other slams your door shut.

“do you think i’m playing with you, frank?”

there are two, large plastic bags deposed upon the custom, tufted rug made to resemble a cat’s underpaw outstretched on the floor at the foot of your bed frame; both of them are swollen tight with bills of pale green. your money counter, bedazzled and powered off, sits right beside the two — definitely went to work tonight. “considerin’ i’m the motherfucker who put you up in this uppity shit and comes outta’ pocket for rent and bills,” again, he shrugs, gives a quick scope of your bedroom meant more for show rather than genuinely appreciating and fixes a tired though stern, umber colored gaze back on yours. “yeah, i think you’re playin’.”

you don’t say anything, you can’t say anything to that — only fold your arms, pointedly look away, and get to work on suckling the inside of your cheek between your back molars to chaw and scrape up the same way you always do when finding yourself upset.

ad rem, a thorough silence overwhelms the room.

if he were to keep it a buck, frank doesn’t want to fight with you. he never does. “c’mon,” his voice drags quietly as he closes some distance between the two of you. “. . you know i ain’t mean for that shit to happen, baby—“

akin to a bullet being shot from a gun, your hand is quick to fly out and smack his away the second a finger gently strokes the soft arch of your cheek. “don’t touch me.” ivories bared, nails sharpened . . you remind frank of a kitten, a fucking feisty one. you push past him to place your exclusive, pink, heritage mfg revolver within its opened box casing that sits on your bed then the entire thing in your nightstand. “i’m giving you three seconds to get the fuck out of my room frank. i mean it.”

he’s nodding as his tongue presses gently against the warmth of his cheek, “yeah . .” he says quietly, staring out past your opened balcony doors towards the skyline, then more louder, “yeah, i’m an asshole, i know—“

“—an asshole?”

you take the bait when he tosses it out into your bogusly calm, wading sea. it’s a move he pulls out often — a little self deprecation to get the ball rolling; works every fucking time. “frank, you’re an inconsiderate, tactless, uncaring son of a bitch.”

still nodding, frank situates himself into a wide legged stance, arms folded across his chest. your mouth is moving, rapidly even. nonetheless, it’s as though the more you talk, the more you only angry yourself. “yeah, i had to take off,” with the intermingling of frank’s voice against yours, the sound of them seems to ( what frank thinks ) kickstart a chemical in your brain that makes the volume of your voice rise. “i fucked up! you don’t think i know that i fucked up, ma? there was some important shit i had to handle—“

“—fuck you, frank!” the pads of your fingers are shoving against the side of his head in efforts to force a sidewards bend to his neck. “some important shit — e-everybody else is important but me, huh?—“ you’re shoulder checking him at the same while, or rather, plainly pushing past him as hard as you possibly can shove all of your weight against a man basically made of steel. frank’s unable to keep his eyebrows from shooting up the span of his forehead. they almost touch his hairline as one, gloved finger points at your pacing figure now a few feet away from him.

“—what i tell you about that, huh? your hands? . . keep ‘em to y’fuckin’ self, alright?”

“—unlike these other fuckin’ people out here, i’m not . . i’m not scared of you,” the pitch of your tone ascends high in your throat as your head jerks back to almost touch the wall behind you. “you gonna hit me frank? is that, huh — is that what you wanna do?” you don’t make a move to step towards his way as you bitingly chaff. you’re getting beside yourself. frank rolls his lips inside of his mouth to tangibly keep himself from saying another word.

as an ex marine corps lieutenant, he’s been verbatim trained on shit like this. given all your cursing and insults, frank can understand to not take them to heart. you’re upset — you should be. he got a call from brooks, snuck out of your bed and took off into the dead of night. he’s been gone for thirty two days now with no signs sent home to you to alert you of his life or death status. you’re angry, he gets it. but the cursing, the yelling? all that shit gets old to him after a while. he’ll usually allow you three minutes, a total of one hundred and eighty seconds, completely uninterrupted to go in on him, flat out. predominantly by then, he has an idea on what to do with you. either walk out and leave you to stew on your own for a bit or,

“i’ve never dealt with someone like you. you’re jus — fuckin’ . . ugh! it’s impossible, frank. you are impossible . . . — what the hell are you doing?”

sardonically, frank keeps nodding as he walks on over to your bed to snatch hold of one amongst the damn near thousand decorative pillows that sheaths the surface of it. it’s fairly large, shaped like a heart . . . it’ll do. “yeah, nah. keep talkin’, lil’ girl,” he mumbles, letting it fall to the floor between his feet. “just get them knees down on that pillow right there for a minute.”

you’re rendered silent, now standing only a foot away from him, feet pressed together and fingers curled into fists of frustration. irresolution reads outstandingly clear upon the pretty features of your face — mouth parts open about an inch to plausibly gripe out a smart - assed comment before you’re snapping it back closed. those same lips split again a minute later after a beat of hesitation, “i hate you,” your voice’s volume is quieting down as your knees sink within the cushion of the pillow, one by one. all the while, your eyes are refusing to pull away from his. “. . ‘m serious, frank. i’m not gonna keep dealing with—“ you’re a trip. you were angry, frank could gauge that . . but it reads blazingly evident in your body language. as you paced, you made no move to snatch your robe back closed come each time it fought to droop open with each step you took. during the entire fit you gave, you barely made eye contact with frank neither.

“—yeah, yeah,” he’s murmuring beneath the sound of his belt’s metal prong hitting the buckle with a clank as he loosens it from around his hips. snatching the zipper of his roomy cargos down, frank doesn’t waste another second after towing his fat, heavy cock over the hem of his briefs, balls excluded, to press it against your mouth. “shut that shit up.” the palm of his hand finds the back of your head, right upon the soft silk of your bonnet as he feeds his fat, plum capped tip past your balm covered lips.

“you’re more upset that you had to go a month takin’ care of that lil princess pussy on your own, huh?” he’s asking after about a minute of him shallowly thrusting his first three inches or so back and forth out of your warm mouth. silence. “admit it,” he headily rasps while lifting his shirt halfway up the carved muscles of his torso. “just a fuckin’ handful.”

you’re glaring up at him as the volumized wispies of your lash extensions flutter with each new inch of dick he attempts to shove deep inside the vent of your mouth. “take that shit.” frank’s teeth are gritted as he softly breathes out a curse through them. “eat it up — t-there y’fuckin’ go.” high maintenance . . . everything about you is. your hair installs and appointments range between two to seven hundred dollars a month, add on the manicures, pedicures, lashes, bi weekly shopping sprees, and an occasional new house appliance, in the eyes of frank, you’re nothing but a fucking money shredder. beyond them though, all the clothes, shoes, appointments, and make up, it’s the meat between your thighs that demands most of his pampering.

quite literally in fact. you like her waxed; completely barren from a single, growing hair follicle. sugar scrubs to exfoliate and bath water doused in honey and soothing salts ever so often to keep up your ph. . . your pussy’s a god damn diva. frank’s never dealt with a lady like you. he’s never met one before — a woman so calmly cocksure in everything she does and says.

a people person, he’s never been. met you two years ago at the loft — a splashy, wannabe pretentious strip joint. had it been any other day, he wouldn’t have given it a second glance. it’s a bit of a hole in the wall, posted right there in astoria . . a mile or two out from the bridge however, in all honesty, the place makes a damn good old fashioned. and yeah, he also may have been there to watch a pretty lady’s five minute set, sue him. he’d gone twice before you caught his eye — had been working the floor that night . . dolled up in a hot pink, leopard printed, caged halter that was quite patently purchased a sized smaller than what would be your usual and matching thong bottoms whose hip straps were elongated to sit on your shoulders like a sling. not a single curl out of place, skin glistening like the smoothest, dark whisky. you looked like a barbie pulled straight out of her packaging as you glided your way from man to man, letting them tuck bills within the strap of your top with a pretty smile.

other woman’s set be damned. frank finished the rest of his old fashioned and had been halfway through a beer before he decided to motion you on over. you were perched all pretty on the arm of a lounge sofa where a fifty-something year old man sat on, allowing him to trace distinct shapes into the smooth skin of your shin over your fishnets. initially, you appeared jolted — a shadow of confusion gracing your features as you tried to weigh on what his quick chin lift could possibly mean. frank was ignored at first, didn’t surprise him. nevertheless, even while trying to have a conversation with the man . . leaning down to hear him better, letting him get a more fruitful look at your tits, your head couldn’t help swiveling on your shoulder sometimes to let your eyes linger on the unmoving set of frank’s.

eventually you said something to the guy . . whatever it was, it seemed to be enough for him to let you slip away with a new bill slotted within the crease of your cleavage. “i can’t talk to guys at the bar,” was the first thing you said to him. your voice trilled on the last word, as if you were teasingly singing it.

frank wore a smirk, letting his arm lay outstretched along the edge of the tabletop. his fingertips were only about a few centimeters from grazing along the tightly coiled springs of your hair. “that ain’t no problem.”

up, he stood, then four steps forward.

“c’mere,” he leered as he took a seat at a small, lone table. caught the way your eyes fluttered down to his thighs as he spread them wide to get comfortable on the stool, too. “not at the bar no more, am i?”

“mm,” brought your glossy bottom lip underneath the row of your teeth for a slight nibble. charming, the compliment comes often when he applies himself to the role. “you’re not, but—“

before you could say it, frank’s rubbing a hand across the back of his head through the dark mop of hair he’d been growing in tandem with a thick, bolshie beard to coarsely quip, “—pretty thing like you has clients, i know. you got shit to do, money to make. i ain’t gon’ stop you from that.” a hundred dollar bill . . he drifted it from his wallet and held it between his index and middle finger. “how much this get me?”

you took a step closer his way and gave a savvy, little head tilt, “a ten minute convo or dance. your pick. not both.”

“mmm.”

lazily, frank nodded. neither would be enough. not for a man like him — one perpetually tired with police, federal agents, hitmen, and the whole riffraff alike breathing down his neck and desiring his head on a stick. two identical bills were added to the one between his fingers . . and daintily, naturally you grabbed all three, tucked them away, then took his hand.

you gave him a private dance that night . . . let him slip his hands up the cage of your ribs to envelop the meat of your tits in the cradle of his gauze veiled palms while the seam of your ass split with the aim of working his clothed and stout dick between the cheeks of them. you slowly rocked your hips back and forth to a tune composed of a lot of bass and smooth melodies, talked to him all nice and sweet the whole time, too.

’you married?’

‘got kids?’

’you like that?’

’military man, huh? could tell.’

’feels big. you sure you can handle me though?’

just a fucking minx. had him about ready to blow by the time those fifteen minutes were up.

for a while, that was the routine. he’d drink, catch you for a little conversation laden with his sly flirting and your similar witty intrigue, then a dance. with you bent over, legs straightened, hands on your shins, and fat, oil soaked cheeks clapping inches away from his face, he’d toy with you a bit more with his audacious compliments and ask a few questions . . . nothing ever personal, but just enough to get your deal, put more substance behind the face come each time he heard your name. he’s done enough introspection to label himself as a sleaze, not a creep.

‘you like doin’ this? . . mm, yeah. i can tell.’

’this’s a nice lil number on you . . . you look real good.’

’could never get tired of this shit.’

’nah. no other girls, don’t care to dip around with the rest of ‘em here. you’re a fuckin’ gem.’

family, friends, loved ones — frank doesn’t have any. not anymore. but you carved your way somehow into something that, truthfully even now, unnerves him to think about. the early morning diner dates after your shifts, middays at your apartment watching shitty television together, both of you getting ready for different nights of commotion — it all culminated into you becoming . . his. he’s not sure of when or really even how. all he is aware of now, at this moment, while his hand is pushing at the back of your scalp, making you swallow his dick into the tight warmth of your throat, is that he’d kill for you. he’s done it before, he’ll do it again.

“get that hand up here.”

a lot of what attracts frank toward you is the pleasures of your strenuous upkeeping. that mean, furrowed crinkle between your laminated brows grows deeper as you wrap your fingers around the fat root of his cock, granting him a nice view of your nails. the contrast is stark. curved and multicolor, embellished with glimmering charms against a thick, tan rod streaked with pulsing veins. you were something peeled straight from the posters of his teenage bedroom — of those gaudy, early two thousand music video vixens and x rated magazine models. beads of pre drip down onto your tongue as you pull your head back to pant and work your fist up and down his dick in smooth, counter clockwise stirs.

frank’s pulling his hands away from you to interlock them at the base of his back. broad and strong, his hips tilt an inch closer your way as he smirks, letting you crank at him. “missed this shit?” he mumbles, watching you roll your eyes. “huh? . . you missed me, sweetheart?”

silky — the sounds are loud as your hand pumps. “jus’ shut up.”

comical, it all is. your steady - going ruse to get him angry. it won’t work . . it has before, but frank didn’t know you and your tricks well enough as he does now.

your bracelets jingle, all of you does when you adjust yourself to plop more of your butt on the cushion than kneel. you’re making yourself comfortable in efforts to suction his leaking tip between your lips, swirling your tongue along his underside as you swallow another inch and another. what you can do is truly remarkable . . beautiful, even. frank doesn’t have it in him to pretend that your mouth isn’t the best he’s felt in all his thirty something years living here on shitty, fucking earth. “sssss . .” his head slowly falls back onto his shoulder and eyes roll into his skull as you pull his briefs down to allow his swollen, cum filled balls to fall within your soft fingers. they fondle as your head bobs and mouth spills webs of spit off of your protruded bottom lip.

it all begins to gather after a minute — foaming and carbonated. bubbles of saliva inflate and pop at the foundation of his cock as you glug and choke him down.

opposed to popular thought, you know when frank really feels good when he gets quiet for a while . . just complete silence.

your eyes are blurred with tears as both your hands fall to the rug beneath you to press your palms on for stability as you begin to rock yourself back and then forwards — entirely swallowing him into what damn near feels like inside your chest and pulling back almost at his tip. you’re watching him — he feels it.

his eyes are closed, facial muscles utterly lax.

until that bout of silence breaks with a long, hoarse, pussy dampening groan. he grabs the sides of your head between his hands when his hips begin to move, pushing his cock in and out of your gooey, tight throat. “ohhhh shit.”

you feel rivulets of spit trickling down your chin, brooking down towards your neck and chest. “yeah, give me all you got,” he barks, stepping closer when you attempt to pull up. “all you got, girl.”

you’re released when he deems you ready to breathe. you’re coughing when air is given back to you with your lashes spiked, cheeks damp, and nose dripping with mucus. “yeeaahh.” chuckling and nodding his head as his fist starts to stroke his own cock, frank tilts it to really take in the picture you make. “bring that mouth back on over here. who said i was done?”

you’re whining now but still pushing in when he grabs the back of your head, “my jaw hurts—“

“—i don’t care. open the fuck up.”

with your lips enclosed around the girth of his cock, frank makes your mouth follow the path down it and back up with his gloved fist — to keep it real plain, his hand jerks off as you accompany it with sucks and swallows. “want you to swallow every drop,” he murmurs with a nudge to your forehead, impelling you to tilt your head back.

“i don’t want cum in my mouth.” lie.

“either you swallow it all on your own or i push it down your throat.”

you’re left to sit completely still, head back, and mouth opened wide. frank delights in your jumpiness and forged agitation as he pounds into his own hand. you love this shit, it’s palpable. the anticipation only makes your clit harder, pussy more soppy. he makes sure to aim more for your face than mouth, sole reason being to mark you up, unsurprised to get a harsh smack on the thigh in retaliation after you swallow the small bit that does make it to your tongue. he ignores it completely — much too occupied with bending down to scoop an arm behind just one of your knees and the other around your back. you’re hanging from him like a ragdoll as he walks over to your bed to toss you onto the mattress and pull your robe open.

“give anybody my pussy while i was gone?”

your eyes roll once more before you shrug and loll your head on your shoulder to instead focus on wiping his cum from off of your cheeks and nose with graceful fingers — collecting all the wayward wisps of white on two of them to then lay on your tongue. “maybe,” you mutter around the digits, two irises of dark mahogany shimmering like jewels beneath the bright moonlight that encases your entire bedroom. “maybe not.”

frank’s lips purse as he snatches the pathetic excuse of underwear you wear to the side and hook it underneath your ass cheek to keep it in place, “is that right?”

“mhm.”

with a hand, he presses down on your abdomen while languidly stroking the chubby crown of his dick up and down your slit’s length. “hear that?” he gruffs, quieting down to let you listen to the thickness of a few stray drops of his cum and your juices squidging together within the pulp of your pussy. “sounds real sticky — real nasty. sounds like you missed me.”

your hole is clenching against the underside of him . . goading him in, crying for him. it’s truly a god damn shame that you as her owner think of yourself as too much of a hotshot to admit your real feelings and satisfy what’s clear she’s craving. he watches how you fight it, how your bottom lip gets captured between your teeth as you look down at the scene. the folds of your cunt hug his width tight, completely sandwiching it between them to form what looks something like a lewd hot dog. he’s always been more on the thicker side — the girthiest you’ve ever taken actually with a length that fits just nice and snug enough to have his tip a brush away from your cervix when he’s inside and at a standstill.

when he’s fucking you however . . .

frank watches how your eyes cycle back into your skull as you breathe out a mewl and collapse onto your back. you’re burning from the inside out yet you won’t perform the necessary deed to quell it out. you’d rather suffer. clicking his tongue, frank shoves down his pants and briefs til the hem of them halt right underneath his ass, “okay,” he muttered. “be like that.”

he pumps his cock — once, twice — then lifts and forcefully drums it against your cunt, right upon the rosy bead of your clit to let you feel how hard it is. flosses of slick play between you both, thin and viscous. you’re dripping — all of it collecting at your hole to gather into droplets that trickle down the crack of your rump and smear against your cheeks due to your incessant clenching. frank widens his legs, leans back an inch, then lets his thumb lead his tip towards your slit.

it pops in.

you’re hot around him — like a furnace. more than so, you’re tight. you’re whimpering now, eyebrows pushed in close. frank licks his lips, “hey,” he gathers your attention, voice quiet but his smirk bold. he’s challenging you. “you know i missed you.”

an inch deeper. you flinch, a delicious pleasurable pain licking at the base of your core. your eyes still hold the flames of defiance when you glare up at him nevertheless, “y-you better have, frank.”

another inch. “why you gotta be like that with me, huh?”

“ ‘cause you—“ another and you squeak and fist the comforters between your fingers as tight as you can. “y-you’re always leaving me. and i dunno who you’re with, what you’re doin’ . . if you’re alive—“

frank feeds you the rest of his cock by pulling the first few out then smoothly sheathing all the way in. your body wounds tight as your legs instinctively curl up towards your chest. you’re holding onto the back of your knees and whining when he leans in, letting his forearms cage your face between them so that he can plant a slow, sweet kiss to your lips. “i’ll always make it back home to you, you ain’t ever gotta worry about that,” his voice is low and his thumbs stroke your temples gently. “you’re my fuckin’ girl. my only girl.” you are. in every sense of the word.

“mhm, yeah.” there’s a crack in your catty, little façade. you’re looking away from him, still uncertain, still mean.

frank’s face doesn’t change much when he slooowly pulls his dick nearly completely out then snaps back in. he watches your pretty nose crinkle up and body tense again. “frank,” you mewl and squeeze around him tighter when he does it once more. “ungh — shit.”

you sound so cute. you feel like fucking nirvana. frank’s staring at you beneath low eyelids when his hips begin to smoothly lift up and down. his cock pounds at you — pummeling in and out of the grooved canal of your cunt, heavy balls slapping up against the crinkle of your asshole. “ohhh,” you’re grabbing at him now. one hand curled tight with the fabric of his compression shirt, the other’s palm at the back of his head. your nails scratch at the burst fade, it makes a cold shiver rake down frank’s spine. “y-yeah, yeah.”

“ain’t ever givin’ this shit up, you hear me?” he’s growling from the depths of his chest, feeling your tits bouncing up against it as he puts more of his weight behind each pound. “not you, hm? especially not this fuckin’ pussy.”

your eyes are squeezed closed. it hurts, it feels amazing. no — wait. yeah. maybe. you’re squeaking, voice being shaken out between each one, “f-fra-an-nk-kie, mmph.”

frank’s huffing through his nose as he props up on his hands. you look good — too fucking good. body ricocheting off of his hips, stomach caved in as you tried your best to just breathe, all of your jewelry clanking and belling with each slug of his dick inside of you. your pussy’s squelching — just gushing slick around it too, almost as if frank’s tip were hitting a button inside that simply kept opening the gates of it all, over and over. “makin’ such a mess,” he breathes. your thighs are beginning to tremble, you close them impulsively but he’s pushing them back open and pinning your knees to the bed beside your torso, forcing you still. “jus’ look at her. cryin’ for me. for her daddy, hm.”

“b-been so sad,” you’re admitting through a gentle whimper, hand reaching out for his abdomen. your head’s spinning. “h-had to take out . . the trash by m’self, had to . . fuck m’self, too.”

“aww, is that right?” frank’s clicking his tongue. “poor baby.”

“uh huh.”

your feet are flopping in time with each thrust. pretty and delicate. frank can’t help grabbing one to drag his tongue up the length of your sole. the prickling feeling always makes you cry out a precious sound of shock. he’s tasting your toes, one by one, groaning as his teeth scrape against the rings of them and maintaining his pace all the while. yeah, he’ll agree. feet like these, hands like these, this body? you shouldn’t be lifting a damn finger.

“yeah, ‘m sorry, mama.” messy and wet, his kisses stamp a line down your ankle to your shin as he ultimately slows down his rhythm to do so. “daddy’s sorry.”

your lip is pouted, eyes big too. oh, frank loves this shit. he enjoys the push and pull you give him sometimes. the pleasure of breaking you feels all the more sweeter. “don’t do that again,” you’re mumbling now after he comes to a complete halt. “you gotta start fillin’ me in on more stuff, frankie.”

eh.

he’ll think about that part. what he does when he’s gone, concealed within the dark of night, you don’t need to know. it’s not as though he hides it well, given the splotches of mauve that sometimes decorate his eyes and nose, gunshot wound or two littered across his body packed with gauze, and consistent broken and or blood stained knuckles. all things considered, he doesn’t like to be explicit with it all. the way he sees it, it’s just no point. it’s simply just shit he has to deal with sometimes.

he can get a little better with disclosing his life or death status though. he’ll meet you halfway with that. “yeah, you ain’t deserve that,” he grumbled when he has you on your front, knees folded to prop your ass up, and chest flushed flat with the mattress. you have a tattoo on your right ass cheek, spans along the side of it and inches down to your outer thigh. it’s a pretty thing — inked with blues, green, pinks, and purple. his leather cased fingers dig into the soft, plush meat of it as he pulls the globe to the side to get a nice look at your pussy fluttering open to welcome in his cock. when you whine at the stretch, hips twitching away when it keeps pushing, frank’s other hand is pressing at the base of your back, making your cunt swallow him to the base.

“ungh!”

“there you fuckin’ go.”

with the side of your face smooshed against the bed, your parted mouth breathes out weak pants of his name when he begins to fuck you. the sounds are vulgar — warm, damp skin clapping up against each other, your pussy gurgling as she works out droplets of cream that only bulk into a paste at his base and drips down his balls and your inner thighs. “c-can’t . .— daddy,” you’re hiccuping and reaching back to push at him when both his hands wrap around the soft cushion of your waist. he’s leaning forward then, and in doing so, you’re made completely immobile . . quite literally stuck beneath his weight. “can’t take it — can’t t-take it—“

“you’re alright,” he drags, voice husky. “jus’ need you to cum on it, sweetheart. need you feelin’ good.”

you sound adorable. squeaking little ‘ah’s, ‘unh’s, and ‘ooh’s. frank’s hypnotized by the ripple of your ass cheeks moving come each smack of his pelvis against it. he’s missed you. he’s missed you too fucking much. “attagirl.” you’re surprising him when you reach your hands back and spread yourself wide, allowing him to regard the messy scene of his cream streaked dick, your identically filthy pussy, and winking hole above. frank’s holding you by your wrists now, forcing you to keep your hands there as he points his chin down, enamored with it all.

“ ‘m . . ‘m c-cumming,” is all the warning you manage to babble out through your spit filled mouth as frank fucks you through it with his hand now clutched at the back of your neck to keep your body from inching up the bed from the force of his thrusts. your entire body quivers as your pussy clenches around him, fighting to milk his nut out too. “s-so deep — daddy, fuck . . fuck—“

but frank’s not stopping, not for a second. that feeling of your cunt squeezing on him was orgasmic in itself. it’s enough to add a few points to his hp. “yeah,” he grunts, watching it all drip out of you. “yeah. good job, baby. takin’ this shit like a champ.”

your eyes are crossing, all sound is obscured and muffled against your eardrums, you think you can barely breathe.

“a-awe shit,” frank’s hissing, eyebrows pushing in. the leather gloves he wears crinkle as he burrows his nails into the softness of your skin, thrusts slowing down to match the pace of his words, “s-shit . . pretty girl . . fuck.” he thought he could go for about ten minutes longer . . . guess he underestimated the power of your pussy because he’s cumming not long after that final curse. a long, low groan is breathed out through his teeth as he keeps himself and you still, feeling his balls jump in time with each pump of his nut inside of you. you’re sighing out a sweet sound of content and bliss, eyes fluttering closed to mewl when he eventually pulls out an inch at a time about a minute later.

“fuckin’ perfect.”

there’s a small kiss deposited at the back of your head before you feel him slipping away to grab a few napkins out of your nightstand drawer. teasingly, you find enough energy to bounce and shake your ass toward him which only earns you a nice, thick smack. “aye, keep still.” frank’s smirking a little as he swipes a few napkins along your inner thighs first. “don’t need this shit drippin’ everywhere.”

“mm,” when you’re cleaned up, cleaned out actually, frank’s finally kicking off his shoes, snatching off his gloves, and stripping down to his briefs and muscle tee. you’re flopped on your side, head on your pillow, eyes bleary as you blink slow and calmly watch him set two pistols down and a knife down on your dresser. “c’mere.” you’re pouting now — molded soft and sweet in only the soft and sweetest way that a nice fucking can give. when you’re clenching and unclenching a fist his way, he’s slipping underneath the duvet and bringing you with him.

there’s a smooch he gives your forehead prior to him mumbling, “you alright?”

your eyes are closed, face tucked into his neck before you’re nodding, “uh huh,” your voice is quieter, too. frank loves you . . a fucking lot honestly, but he especially loves you like this.

“nah, i mean . .” he’s dragging his fingertips up and down the length of your spine. he knows it feels good, he does it on purpose. you’re going to tucker out in less than a minute if he keeps it up but he needs to know, “nobody fuck with you?. . at work?. . here in the building? you been okay?”

he needs to know.

it’s a relief when you shake your head, “no, daddy,” you’re whispering. “been okay . . just been missin’ you.”

“i know,” another kiss, this one closer towards your cheek. “you don’t know how much i missed you too, mama.”

[unsiee]

hiiiii >3<

whaaaaatttttt ifffffff, u wake up in the middle of the night all sweaty and shaking, head pounding and a fever creeping up ur body, and ur dear, hot, amazing roommate toji (which we love berry muchhhh) hears the little whimpers u let out cause ure sooo uncomfortable because of the fever and takes care of you…T-T

Awww I love this sm <333

It’s past midnight when the fever really starts to hit. You’re tangled up in your sheets, practically drenched in warm sweat, your skin burning up but your body trembling like you’re freezing.

Your head is pounding, every beat of your pulse thudding behind your eyes. You don’t even realize you’re whimpering, but you are— tiny little sounds slipping past your lips because everything hurts and you don’t know what to do.

Then you hear it— the quiet creak of the floor outside your room, the low click of your door easing open. “Hey,” comes a rough, sleepy voice. Toji.

He stands in the doorway shirtless, just gray sweats hanging low on his hips, his hair messy and eyes squinting from the bright hallway light and tiredness. “You okay, kid?”

You try to answer but your voice cracks, and you just barely manage a shaky whisper. “Feel bad…”

That’s all it takes. He’s by your side in seconds, hand brushing your forehead to feel you, frowning immediately. “Shit sweetheart. You’re burning up”.

The mattress dips under his weight as he sits down next to you, gentle fingers pushing your hair back so it doesn’t tickle your face, his voice going soft.

“Why didn’t you wake me up, huh?” he murmurs, grabbing the blanket that’s clinging to your sweaty body and pulling it down a bit. “Laying here all quiet like this… poor thing”.

Before you know it, he’s tucking one of his strong arms under your back to sit you up, holding your body against his bare chest, his skin cool and solid against your heat. “C’mon lemme get you some meds and some water”, His lips brush the side of your clammy temple. “Then I’m staying here with you. Can’t leave my poor girl like this”.

[unsiee]

࣪ ִֶָ☾. an ugly, green eyed monster resides in the pits of your guts, and to his utmost confusion— don’t you know he has eyes for you only?

cw. 18+. lowkey sub gojo. a littleee foot action. reverse cowgírl. cunningulūs. sorta ruined orgașm. fem!reader. 3k wc.

you’re upset.

you’re upset with him.

what he’d thought had been the perfect date at the perfect restaurant with the most perfect partner, had positively gone to shit, and he’s not sure who’s to blame. himself or that unnecessarily audacious waitress— who might get blacklisted as soon as he gets home for having the nerve to foul his girlfriend’s mood.

(but not you. you’re never to blame. you can literally do no wrong in his eyes.)

he tries to ease the tension in his sleek car by talking your ear off about god knows what, reminds you how beautiful you look in your suede dress, rubs the pad of his thumb at the smooth skin of your thigh— but to no avail, you remain as quiet as you’d been back in that crappy establishment.

after all, there’s only so many “wow’s”, “insane’s,” and “that’s crazy’s” you can muster. . . right?

wrong.

because when you both make it to your shared condo, he hangs his keys on their respective hanger and immediately kneels on one knee. you don’t seem surprised in the slightest— and he’d be a horrible boyfriend if you had been, you deserve nothing short of the ultimate princess package — arms crossed over your chest expectantly.

and just who is he to disappoint you?

his fingers get to work with quickness— expertly as they undo the straps of your heels. he can’t imagine the pain your gorgeous feet endure just for the sake of his lowly self. so he grants you a short but tender foot rub where your skin reddens. his knuckles ease some tension where it throbs, and the soft hum you release is enough to bring a smile on his lips.

he’s finally doing something right.

you roll your ankle once he’s finished his caress, face as stoic as ever, but before you can even think about resting your foot on the floor, he lowers himself and kisses. he peppers the ankle bone in hot, gentle kisses that come from the depths of his soul, and trails his way up from your calf all the way up to your mid thigh. when he lays down the last of his embrace to your leg, cerulean eyes flutter open and meet yours— eyes narrow just slightly.

he doesn’t falter in the slightest, parroting every movement onto the next leg. he undoes the straps of your heels, massages your foot, and spoils your leg in kisses once more. there isn’t an inch of you that doesn’t smell nothing short of divine.

but the moment fleets as soon as it came, and you make your way to your shared bedroom in the blink of an eye. his knee may ache against the hard floor, but he finds it impossible to keep his eyes off of you— there’s a certain elegance in every step you take towards the bedroom, hips swaying with divine femininity, fingers fumbling as they work to undo the hook at the top of your dress.

it’s only when you arrive at the door, that you take a beat of a pause. he doesn’t take his eyes off of you once. he doesn’t think he could if he wanted to, anyway. there’s a pregnant silence in the air, safe from the ticking of the clock in the living room. it seems you’ve finally managed, as your arms lower to rest at your sides and your dress slips comedically slow from your frame and pools at your ankles.

his dick immediately stirs to life. you’d gone commando this whole time. and it’s only when your hand hovers over the knob of the door, you cast him a look over your shoulder, the ghost of a smirk tugging at your coloured lips. you step out of the dress and waltz into your shared space, and he doesn’t think he’s ever ran this fast in his life, tumbling over scattered items in the house in desperate attempts to get to you.

(he picks up your fallen dress of course.)

oh, you’re so beautiful yet so cruel. he admires the duality you carry with ease— like a deceitful siren luring pathetic fishermen into the sea, he falls for your trap with no regards of his own safety, enamoured by your entire existence.

which was how he found himself bound to your king sized bed, limbs restrained to the headrest and his cock throbbing in his tight slacks. he’s flushed from the neck up— he’s so hard it hurts, watching as you pay him absolutely no mind, carrying on with your nightly routine. the anticipation drives him insane, as you pace from the bathroom, the sound of the shower running, before pacing back to your bedroom, grabbing your essentials before heading back to the bathroom.

all the while adorned in your birthday suit. wet and naked— his favorite combination.

god, you’re cruel.

after an infinity and a half, you come out of the bathroom, now wrapped in your silk robe, hair tied up and face completely bare. christ— just when he thought you couldn’t get any prettier. you sit at your vanity, grabbing at whatever tools you needed for your lash care, and that’s his final straw.

“princess,” he croaks, hoping he sounds as desperate as he feels. you tilt your head back, expression entirely remorseless, though you do cock a brow. he swallows harshly, “c’mon, untie me already. please?”

you blink at him, spoolie in hand, “for what?”

for what? isn’t it obvious? for him to grab at your hips, pull you over his face and tongue fuck you so raw that he erases all traces of negative emotions in your soul that’d come to life within the past few hours and have you forgive him of any wrongdoing.

duh.

gojo’s a smarter man and keeps those thoughts to himself. instead, he heaves out a deep sigh that kins to a whine and shifts his hips, “to properly apologize, baby.”

you turn your focus back onto your own reflection in the mirror, running the brush over your lash extensions. even when you pretend to ignore him, you’re beautiful. he doesn’t miss the way you cast him look through the glass though, “well what’s stopping you?”

he tugs his wrists against his ties restricting him as an answer, an exasperated look coating his face. truthfully, he could’ve easily managed his way out of this predicament but then he’d have to deal with your attitude worsening. he’s already on your bad side and doesn’t wish to stay there longer. so, he’s willing to sit this torture out just to have you forgive him.

but good lord, his balls hurt.

you put the spoolie down and sigh. hope blooms in his chest as you stand up from your vanity and make your way towards the bed. as you begin to crawl into bed, he spreads his legs a little further, creating an opening in case you were to change your mind. you have an unreadable expression on your pretty face, and he can’t lie, it’s kind of worrying him.

and turning him on, but fork spotted in kitchen, right?

you take the bait and make your way in between his legs. though, instead of releasing him from his restriction, you sit criss cross and give him a long look. his chest heaves and he’s starting to feel like those madmen scientists that come close to achieving whatever bullshit project they’d poured years of their lives into.

you don’t falter, however, “you want to properly apologize?”

he nods eagerly, like a puppy trying to please its owner, and frankly, that’s exactly what it is. some may call him desperate— pathetic even, but they’ve never came close to having the god earned blessing of having you as their partner. and they never will, so respectfully, they can shut the fuck up.

“that’s all i want.” he emphasizes, and for extra measure, “let me say sorry the best way i know how.”

he watches the gears turn in your pretty head. and, with a convictive nod, you stretch your arms backwards to support your body weight as you bend your knees and spread your legs. and whether or not you meant to send him to the great court in the sky, you swipe your tongue against your index and middle finger, before crawling them down your stomach and right at your cunt, spreading your lips apart in a filthy fucking sound.

his eyes might as well pop out of their sockets in heart shapes as his jaw falls slack. he thinks he hears his stomach growl in hunger, eyes narrowing at the sight of the meal he craves most. your robe slips past your shoulder and reveals a sexy amount of collarbone and boob, while simultaneously slipping past your hips, revealing the cash prize.

your dripping pussy.

his throat runs dry as all rational thoughts are immediately thrown out the window. if he doesn’t have your cunt in his mouth this instant, he might actually die. she clenches around nothing and trickles a tantalizing trail of slick. you have the world’s prettiest smile on your lips, and despite deriving pleasure from his demise, he’d gladly let you ruin him if it got you this turned on.

“thought you wanted to apologize, toru?” you ask him, with feigned innocence and a tilt of your head. and if the cutesy bat of your lashes wasn’t enough to kill him, then dragging your foot over the print of his bulge definitely did. you rest the arch of your heel over his shaft and experimentally roll it around. he didn’t even consider he was into foot play, but coming from you? another box checked from his kink list.

he groans, hips chasing the pleasure set ablaze in his fiery guts, “god— i do. i really, really do,” lord knows if you keep this up, he’s never going to beat the minute man allegations. and frankly? he doesn’t care.

“but i’m right here,” you coo, lowering your foot to cradle at where resides his heavy balls. you nudge at the sack and the whimper that follows his lips cracks a pity pout on your own, “what’s the hold up?”

this psychological ass torture. at this rate, he figures you know he knows he can free himself out of the ties at any given moment. but doing so would definitely upset you. and the chances of him getting some would be slim to absolutely none.

you beautiful yet painfully cruel woman.

“you know what’s the hold up,” he groans, fighting both inner demons and the urge to paint his boxers white, “at this point, you don’t even need to untie me— just let me eat you out, please.”

and like the angel sent from heaven you are, you comply. had he been released from the binding, he’d gladly be kicking his feet in the air and twirling a strand of snowy locks in his fingers in pure bred excitement. except, in the position he’s in, that outcome is not possible. but never fear— munch man is here!

and with his back pressed against the headboard, you stand on the bed, your feet at each side of his hips, and bend forward— not without a quick look back and a knowing smirk of course. and from this angle, with your spine dipping into a sinful curve, he’s presented with a view that puts the goddess of beauty herself to shame.

the roundness of your ass paired with the fullness of your cunt— a two for once combo. hell fucking yeah.

and he wastes no time. he stretches his neck as far as it allows him to and then some, as he indulges into the five star michelin meal that is your pussy. with your arms stretched out and your hands supporting your body’s weight, you moan gracefully into the quiet of the night, your sounds unfortunately overshadowed by the slurping of his filthy mouth at your sloppy core. if he was a better man, he’d have reduced his own volume at the expense of hearing yours,

but it was just so hard when you tasted so good.

and like the selfish bastard he is, he doesn’t quiet down. doesn’t even think to, instead voicing out his delights in the art of cunningulus. yes, because being blessed with the opportunity to have your pussy in his mouth is nothing short of art itself. he flicks his tongue from that sensitive bundle of nerves and drags it up to your tight hole, and tongue fucks the shit out of you.

“s-shit, baby,” a soft mewl comes from your voice. he feels a hand caress his hair, and when your manicured nails claw at those locks, he feels his cock jump eagerly in his pants, “that’s it— fuck, eat it right.”

he’s a weak, weak man. you grind your hips back on his face and praise him for doing what he was put on this earth to do, all the while riding his tongue. he flattens the muscle and lets you use him like the toy he is— up and about for your pleasure, always. if he died suffocating between your plush thighs, don’t mourn his death, because he went out doing the thing he loved,

you.

it feels like both forever and a second when he’s rewarded with your juices. you wail and cry out his name, and before he knows it, you’re gushing all over him— his nose, his mouth, his chin. to the best of his abilities, he widens his jaw and slurps everything you have to offer him. the taste is so authentically you, a sweet nectar you couldn’t pull out of the ripest of fruits from a tree. his face is moist and damp and the only thought process going through his mushy brain is don’t cum just yet don’t cum just yet don’t cum just yet.

luckily, he doesn’t, but you’re not done just yet. because it doesn’t take anymore than a few breaths for him to catch up on unsolicited air, before a deep and boyish moan rips out of his chest like wind had gotten knocked out of him.

in all your glory, you squat down— he’d been too dazed out to even notice when you’d taken his brick hardened dick out— and ride him. you’re pulling out all the big guns— both hands and feet planted on the mattress, your silk robe resting right above your lower back, as you sink down on him.

gods, it takes everything in him— everything, to not bust. his fingers tighten against themselves as his toes curl, and his head is thrown back, but even so, he never takes his eyes off of you. the ripples of your ass ricocheting with each bounce, the amplified bass of your cries, the melody of your wetness squelching on his cock.

why the fuck would he ever look away?

your pace is steady and fast— you are by no means wasting time. and he loves it just like that, quick and meaningless despite his love for you being everything but that. every meet of your ass on his hips comes as fast as the last one, and tugs on the coiling in his stomach ready to snap.

sweat begins to collect at his hairline, and given the fact you’d sprayed him earlier, he’s certain his hair is now matted to his forehead. no matter though, “justtt like that,” he eggs you on, knowing despite your foul mood, there’s nothing you enjoy more than praises. there’s nothing he enjoys more than praising you, “use me baby, this dick ‘s all yours— fuckkk,”

and because he knows his princess so well, you ride him even harder— his sincere words running like fuel to you. he notices your creamed unison coating the peremiter of his dick, glazing his shaft to the point he can barely feel himself in you because of how wet everything feels.

“damn— ‘m not gonna last,” he warns you, and to his biggest mistake. his balls are heavy with love he’s itching to release in your womb, and if you keep jerking at his cock with your gummy walls, he’s bound to spill. he blames it on it being the first round, after all.

you tilt your head back and there’s a mischievous glint in your pretty eyes. you bat your lashes a few times, and the corner of your lips tug into a radiant smile, “yeah? you wanna cum inside, baby?” there is literally nothing more he wants. he nods his head excessively, not enough languages in this entire world to describe in words just how badly he needs to fill you up with his sperm.

but still, he tries with moot point, “yesyesyesyes— fuck, i’ll do anything,”

and with purposeful kegels, you clamp down on his cock whenever you bottom out and latch onto his tip whenever you sit up. he can’t take anymore— he feels heat licking at every extremity of his limbs, blood rushing into his head and his abdominal muscles are caving in. he needs it— he needs it.

at the very last second, just as the dam is ready to break and release— you pull away.

his eyes widen before snapping shut as his orgasm washes over him anyways. his cock springs out of your warmth and rests at the crack of your ass, and shoots. he’s soiling your gown in his nut, and you slip a hand between your thighs to cradle his twitching balls. his back arches at your touch, and somehow, shoots double his average load.

“aweee,” you coo condescendingly while fondling his privates, giving him both the best and worst time of his life, “‘s too bad i’m still upset with you.”

his ears ring pretentiously as his limbs fall limp— not his dick though. never his dick when you’re around— his breathing ragged and skin blotched a bright shade of pink. with an adorable giggle, you give your ass a little shake, and his dick bounces with you, shooting weaker spurts of cum. what a view.

but shit. . . he’s gonna be here for a while, isn’t he?

as long as it’s with you, he doesn’t mind. he’s ready for round two whenever you are.

sum calm, sum slight 🙂‍↔️. enjoy these crumbs while i fight for my life

[unsiee]

HOTLINE BL☆NG!

summ. wine nights and free will? a recipe for disaster— such as matching your ex on a corny dating app and having him in your bed within that same hour. . .

cw. eventual smut. 18+. fem!reader. alcohol/substance consumption. ex boyfriend!gojo. mild toxicity. breakup & makeup. girlhood ft jjk girlies. unreliable narrator sorta. sukuna slander. mild impact play. mild asphyxiation. oral (f). fíngering. backshōts. reader is a little questionable. self sabotaging my beloved. lowkey angsty. @/3aem on tumblr for art creds. most of these stories are real shit i’ve heard/experienced LOL. can you tell i’ve never used tinder a day in my life? 16.4k words. . oops.

rena’s note. @yung-notorious and her filthy mind. . .

“you like it when i fuck you like this? yeah you do.”

god, you do.

you can’t bring yourself to remember why you’d ever let go of dick this good. the kind that had you taking the rubber off and considering finishing inside. the kind that had you babbling apologies for having done absolutely nothing wrong. the kind that made you begin to believe his careless whispers, empty promises to work things out.

his fingers dig in the column of your throat, the weight of his hand wrapped tightly at your neck. he’s everywhere at once, but simultaneously no where to be found. while you can feel his tip prodding at your most sensitive spot, you don’t feel the overwhelming force of love he once bore with open arms for you.

“nahhh. . . don’t start running now.” you didn’t realize you were. the sheets are crumpled in your tight hold, while your other hand lightly pushes at his lower abdomen. naturally, he pins your wrist at your spine to maintain his ruthless pace, and with another gentle yet cruelly empty promise, “not when i’ve just gotten you back.”

how the fuck did you get yourself in this mess?

friday nights were meant to decompose after a long week. a cute tradition you followed— sipping on moscato wine and munching on takeout with your homegirls while the lamest horror movie played as background noise. the skincare bit happened every third friday of the month, which fell on this particular night, thin layers of korean products lathering at your skins while fluffy headbands sat atop your hairlines, keeping stray hairs away.

it was an easy way of recapping all of your week’s worth of bullshit and listing each girl’s new lineup of men of the season.

girlhood.

“i’m cool off men for a whileee,” you sigh, placing your third wine glass on the coffee table. you tuck your legs back onto the couch, propping your head into your palm. you watch as shoko, who’s seated on the floor, grabs your glass and fills it with another unsolicited round. you narrow your eyes at her, “after the shit kuna pulled— girl, slow down!”

“don’t watch me,” shoko chews at her unlit blunt tucked in her teeth, lifting an arm above her head to pass you your refill. despite the slight spin of the room, you accept the cup against better judgment, “keep talking. what the fuck did he do now?”

“you mean what didn’t he do,” seated in the pink bean bag rested on the floor, utahime quips. in between her teeth sits a wooden stick, drizzled in the honey-like wax residue she smeared over her shin. “i woulda left his ass the second i found out he— FUCK— lived with his mama at his big age.”

as utahime soothes her smoothened skin, yuki leans over the coffee table to grab at the blunt passed over to her. “y/n baby, you know i love you,” she starts off, taking a deep inhale before ghosting the smoke. you can tell she’s about the cook the shit out of you, “but come on— he lives in his parents’ basement. was that not a red flag in itself? is that seriously the kind of man you see yourself marrying.”

“nevermind the fact he’s pushing thirty and still unemployed,” shoko throws in her two cents, takeout back in her lap as she breaks open a new set of chopsticks, “he’s one more ‘tap in’ away from getting caught by the feds.”

“how much y’all wanna bet he’s at the club right now as we speak?” it’s a rhetorical question, but utahime pauses her waxing to check. with sticky fingers, she taps away at her phone, and with a knowing smile she yelps, tilting her screen towards you three, “aha!— and there goes the infamous money spread.”

“cornballllll.” shoko cringes.

you’re filled with dread and shame at the sight presented. god— every single chance you gave this man, he spun around and somehow does worse. it’s not like the two of you were together— never officially, but the sole fact that you’ve let this man treat you as if you were his girl haunts you. you’ve let countless of bullshit slide all because his stroke game came second within all the men you’ve dealt with.

the only thing you’ll give him besides a being a good lay is that you’ve never had issues concerning other women. he’s a very transparent guy— you’ve yet to receive a “hey girlie. . .” text from anybody. though, it isn’t like either of you have ever dropped any hard launches. it was mostly content that only close friends could catch onto— the interior design of his car, your latest set of nails, subtle shots of his tattoos, your purses and jewelry. nothing evident but pretty obvious to those who know.

if sukuna was still cool with him, however. . . yeah, he’d definitely know, considering the fact he purchased most of the purses you own. that’s excluding the fact your favorite necklace, the one with your name engraved, the one you always wear, was also bought by him.

“move,” you push utahime’s hand away from your peripheral, slumping further into the couch. embarrassment floods you yet again, and you drown it away with more wine. much to your chagrin, they spare no mercy as they giggle at your pout, “not too much on me— shoko, you’re literally the one who put me on!”

“don’t do that,” she rolls her eyes, picking at the orange chicken on her platter. you have half a mind at chucking your drink at her. “all i told you was to fuck him. nobody said anything about keeping him around.”

“instructions: unclear,” utahime giggles, smearing another coat of wax mixture onto her calves. “she’s now a year deep into a situationship with a man who files for disability checks to blow on parlays.”

you spring up in your seat, your wine nearly spilling on shoko in your excitement, “shit, i never told you guys!”

“told us what?” yuki kills the blunt in the ash tray, and stretches an arm to grab at her food. she knocks over a few emptied bottles as they roll on the carpet, and winces when one of them knock at shoko’s knee, “my fault girl.”

shoko clicks her tongue, but you loop your arms around her neck as you proceed, “before you bitches attacked me for literally just being a girl,” you decide ignore the way they all groan, “i was trying to tell you all why i finally ended shit with him.”

“well don’t hold back now!” utahime eggs on.

“guess what i found out,” you set the empty wine glass back onto the table. you’re most likely gonna need your hands in this specific conversation, “he bet thirty thousand dollars on the super bowl game— and lost.”

the room falls quiet. utahime pauses in her ripping, yuki drops her noodles from her chopsticks and shoko nearly chokes on her wine. amidst it all, three pairs of eyes slowly crawl to meet your gaze, in complete disbelief at what you’d told them.

“are you deadass?” shoko speaks first, her facial expression almost incredulous. her eyes are teary from her food slipping through the wrong tube. “you’re playing, right? right?”

“she has to be. . . this is a new level of low even for him.” yuki shakes her head, most likely in attempts to give him the benefit of the doubt. you don’t blame her— no sane person would drop thirty grand on a fucking betting app of all things— and on top of that, lose.

“i wish i was?!” you groan, still upset, “the worst part is that he told me that money was supposed to be deposit money for a condo he’d been,” you raise your fingers in air quotes, “looking into.”

“you know what though? this doesn’t actually surprise me,” utahime laughs, as if she hadn’t been in a daze for a solid minute. she rips at the strip, and winces, “didn’t i just say he was getting checks to place on parlays? frank gallagher looking ass.”

“but thirty thousand?” yuki emphasizes, blinking rapidly in her disbelief, “what the fuck would possess somebody to bet thirty grand on anything?”

“grown ass man, by the way.” shoko mumbles mindlessly, before chowing down some more food. you can’t find it in yourself to disagree.

utahime nods, blowing a puff of air, “on god, bro. don’t he got mortgages to pay off or some shit?”

yuki shoots her a deadpanned look, “girl, with what house.”

and that had been your final straw with him. not the fact he lived in his mother’s basement despite clearly having money to rent out a place, or the fact he was still flexing bands he allegedly has on the gram— but blowing all your money on a fucking football game. and losing. you do respect yourself, as much as these girls believe you don’t. a man with no ambitions and no money? you need to run and far.

“i’ll miss his dick though.” you pout, the alcohol already coursing through your body. being wine drunk always made you horny, that was a known fact, and letting go of one of your greatest eaters was not on your bingo card. naturally, the girls roll their eyes at your antics, “boo me all you want— he horsed me the fuck around in bed.”

“you used to say the same shit about gojo,” utahime points out, rising to her feet as she grabs the used strips in her hold, before circling around the couch, “and look how that ended up.”

technically. . . she wasn’t exactly wrong but that still stung a bit. “hime, seriously?” shoko rolls her eyes, and you feel her hand rubbing at your foot soothingly. her motions are a little stiff but you appreciate the sentiment, “we get you don’t fuck with him but he was still her man. and basically my friend, kinda.”

you hear her wince in the kitchen, followed by footsteps, “right. . . sorry girlie.” she runs back to you after throwing the waste away, and kisses at your temple. she doesn’t comment on the pout on your lips. “i didn’t mean it. . . okay maybe i did, but i’m still sorry!”

your history with gojo was complicated. you’d met him through shoko in your third year of college, at a kickback party hosted by his people. it’d been an invite only thing, but shoko had brought you along as a plus one, and you both instantly connected. as far as you were concerned, it was technically supposed to be a sneaky link vibe, but you soon learned gojo was anything but sneaky. in fact, he was so vocal in him wanting you, that he actually did end up getting you a couple months later.

he’s a year older than you, therefore he’d graduated a year ahead. the separation in itself was something you hadn’t looked forward to at all, but he had found himself a condo downtown, not too far from your residency, therefore seeing each other hadn’t been an issue. he always made it clear he wanted to see you— even after gruelling nine to five shifts in the office. his words matched his actions, driving you up to his place since yours had a stupid curfew policy for visitors.

(you’ve kept him in your dorm numerous times.) (your closet has suffered enough with his lanky ass.)

the first year worked out for the better. he was still welcomed to the parties you invited him to, he made time in his schedule help you with your studies, planned consist dates and even took you out on trips. he was physically, mentally and emotionally present— and you genuinely believed he would be your forever man when you’d introduced him to your parents at your graduation ceremony and he seemed thrilled. they adored him— and that says a lot considering they hated all your other exes. with good reason, but still.

it’d been the honeymoon phase until it wasn’t.

you expected arguments. those are inevitable in relationships, but with every argument he grew distant. you were now both graduated students juggling between jobs, rent and a relationship. it was a lot— your schedules never seemed to align which jumbled into multiple failed dates, which further escalated into more arguments. it hadn’t always been him, you could agree you were at fault too. that post graduation depression spiralled worst than you’d anticipated— the fear of falling behind when your boyfriend had already been successful so early into his career entirely consuming.

he reassured you plenty, but you could see it in his face as he spoke to you— he was exhausted. of work. of life. of you. he had bigger fish to fry than dealing with a workaholic girlfriend with low self esteem. the bigger the promotion, the less your value. you’d seen this play out before— it was less i love you’s and more hours in the office. less dinner dates and more project plannings.

the more time you spent by yourself, the more your mind began overthinking. you had no place in his life anymore. you didn’t resent him for it— you wish nothing but the best for him. he deserves to be successful in life, and he’s already so close to it. your slacking behind is nothing more than dead weight in his rise to the top.

the breakup had been anticipated. you’d broken up with him first. he never asked you to explain why. he nodded, never uttering a word. it’d been the first time you’d seen him in weeks. you kept it simple, “we should break up.” and he kept it even simpler, a curt bounce of the head in agreement. as quick as he’d entered your apartment, he left.

and that’d honestly been it. you’d been together for four years, and broken up for a year and a half. after all this time, you still don’t resent him for it. he made the rational choice in prioritizing himself and his future, and you simply didn’t fit in it. it took you quite some time to work on yourself as well, and you’re honestly satisfied with where you are in life. the breakup clearly worked in favour for you both.

it sucks that he was genuinely the only man you ever cared about. the only man you can confidently say you loved.

“look— now you got her thinking about him!” shoko complains, chucking the nearest thing— a throw pillow, at utahime. it hits her square in the face, to which she lets out a muffled oof! “way to fucking go.”

you blink out of your thoughts. well that’s embarrassing, you got caught up in the past again. you lift yourself from the slumping position you’d unintentionally fallen into the midst of daydreaming, “shit, my bad. got flashbacks to that time he ate me off the bone after his first promotion.”

“yo, what?!” yuki hollers, falling into a fit of laughter. shoko rolls her eyes so much you’re thinking it’ll get stuck at the back of her skull and utahime physically cringed from head to toe. “so fucking unserious— here we are, worried about your ass and here you go, upset you lost your best eater.”

not exactly, though there was some truth to her words. gojo was your best eater, and nobody’s topped him since. he really did tongue fuck you that night like you were the boss who raised his pay. but it wasn’t just the sex you missed— you wholeheartedly missed him. the closest thing to a soul bond you’ve experienced, now gone.

they don’t need to know all that though.

“oh come on,” utahime groans, picking at her nails. trust her to find any reason to slander your ex. for what reason? she’s never told you other than him annoying the fuck out of her, “he could not have been that great. it can’t be anything you can’t find elsewhere— plenty of men eat pussy.”

“okay but do they enjoy eating it or is it more of a duty thing?” yuki points out, rolling her thumb on her lighter mindlessly. she watches the flame arise, casting a soft glow on the sheet stuck to her face, “because you can definitely tell the difference. one eats for foreplay, the other eats for his own pleasure.”

shoko hums in agreement, still poking at her plate, “a man versus a munch,” and with a beat of silence, she takes a deep sigh, throwing her head back, “i should call him.”

“no! no you should not,” utahime laughs, before shooting you a glance. your smile quickly falters and is switched with a look of confusion as she points a nail filer in your direction, “and you,” you cock a brow, “stop thinking about him. we’re supposed to be independent women, y’all need to stand the fuck up.”

“hime, please, you were literally just complaining to your close friends about your latest dry spell.”

“irrelevant!” she dismisses yuki, waving a hand absentmindedly. you don’t see how it’s irrelevant exactly, but you let her proceed. “we are sexy, successful and strong women. stop relying on the past and focus on the future. there are bitches that fought for their lives for the freedom we have! you could literally get dick anywhere— they actually have apps for it, if you didn’t know—”

“so tell us, o’mighty one,” shoko cuts her off, “are you suggesting we download tinder to relieve our stress?”

she remains quiet, and you can see the gears churning in her head. you’re about ninety nine percent positive shoko was fucking around, but the scrunch in your friend’s eyebrows tells you she’s seriously contemplating the idea, “. . yes actually.” she finally decides.

“hime. . .” shoko groans, but is effectively cut off when she springs up to her knees to grab at her phone.

“no, seriously, think about it!” she scrolls through her phone like a maniac, searching through the app store and typing the name in. you all watch her incredulously, her enthusiasm in the matter as if she hadn’t been preaching about feminism half a minute ago, “i’ve met some of my best lays in college through tinder. i haven’t been on this app in years though.”

you don’t see why not. you were pretty tipsy and would never have agreed to this under typical conditions, however it could be regarded as a bonding activity. you also haven’t been on tinder since before your last relationship, and the shit sukuna put you through this past year was enough to make you want to deal with literally anything else.

“i’m down.” you pull out your phone, and shoko may have gotten whiplash with how quick she snaps her head back to eye you. you shrug your shoulders, “we don’t have to take this shit seriously— god knows i’m not entertaining anybody on this app for real.”

“exactly!” utahime nods, walking up to scoot herself beside you. she nudges at shoko with her foot, who flicks at her toes to keep her away, “it’s just for shits and giggles.”

“i’m definitely not doing this shit,” yuki crawls to sit at the couch’s feet, right at shoko’s side, and grabs at the remote sitting uselessly on the table, “but i will be watching you both embarrass yourselves.”

“the only other bitch with common sense here.” shoko sprawls her legs onto yuki’s lap. she receives a slap at the back of her head by utahime, and naturally she slaps the hand right back. “can’t stand that little fucker sometimes.”

“aweee, love you too!” she blows a kiss at her to which she receives a middle finger. you snort, eyes glued on your screen as you redownload that forsaken app back into your phone.

you’d probably regret it in the morning, but that was something saturday you would have to deal with. as of right now, with white wine in your system, logic was not an option. you were learning to live more in the moment, and apparently that starts with the corniest dating app in the world.

it’s not like you’d magically stumble upon your ex on the platform. now wouldn’t that be something? ha!

there’s no fucking way.

this had to be one big, fat cosmic joke. a cruel prank, even. and if it was, then the universe had a twisted sense of humour. you still don’t believe it— were the girls in on this? this kind of shit didn’t just happen to anybody.

it took about a total of twenty minutes between logging back into your old account, updating your password and bio, and swiping left on passing profiles until you landed on it. on. . . him.

you blink slowly. your phone is shaky beneath your unstable hands, and you’re pretty sure you’ve been holding your breath in far longer than recommended for the average human. it’s quiet as fuck in the room— despite the three girls huddled over your shoulders, sticking their noses in all directions to get a clearer view of your illuminating screen— almost as if to confirm if what they were seeing was truly was they were seeing, as if this was all too fucking ironic to be true.

there’s a knot of anxiousness that simmers in the pits of your stomach. you’re pretentiously aware that even the slightest movement— one wrong click or swipe, would ultimately change everything. there was too much at risk here. “oh there’s no fucking way. . .” shoko speaks up first.

utahime leans in impossibly closer, a few centimetres away from fully emerging with your iphone as her nose scrunches, “way too sexy? fuck around and find out? god, he’s still so corny, i swear.”

your eyes trail over his biography, curiously. that “way2sexy” had been an inside joke you both shared years ago— back when drake had dropped one of gojo’s favourite albums, certified loverboy. he overplayed the shit out of that song when it came out, so much that you received multiple complaints from your RA for “public disturbance”, but he swore it worked as daily affirmations for him in the same sense crystals and tarot cards worked for spiritual girlies. you called him corny for it, but before you knew it, it’d shown up in your spotify wrapped the following year.

rapid memories of morning rays of light peeking through blinds, a groggy yet mysteriously clear “alexa, play way 2 sexy” as you fixed your sheets and lit your candles, fighting over who gets to spit toothpaste residue first, hearty laughter to fumbled lyrics, shared minty kisses paired with one “gimme one more” too many.

the ache clenching at your heart is hard to ignore.

“i would give him the benefit of the doubt in believing he hasn’t updated his account,” yuki draws out, eyes narrowing as a finger sticks out to point, “but his age matches. emoticons as a grown man. . . no shade though.”

his age did match. inside joke aside, none of it was adding up. if he already had his account set up years ago, had he willingly changed his bio to one of your most infamous gags after the breakup? if you were to swipe right right now, would it instantly match? you don’t think you want to figure it out— both possible outcomes scaring you shitless.

“should i swipe left?” you speak uncharacteristically softly, torn between the idea of tucking your tail inwards and running away from the opportunity or your typical it is what it is mentality.

“yes! obviously— mmmph?!”

“do you want to?” shoko, with a pillow stuffing an agitated utahime in the face, counters. between all the girls, she seemed to understand you the most, granted her own relationship with the man. you’re sure he had given her his own version of their breakup, how you’d opened the doors to endless opportunities for him, had given him the easy way out. you never bothered asking her, afraid of the illusion you’d created to shield yourself shattering, “only you have the answer to that.”

“i honestly don’t know,” you sigh, joints in your thumb aching from hovering over your screen for too long. swiping left meant completely abandoning any the possibility of the two of you as one. you don’t want that responsibility weighted on your shoulders again, “what if he’s moved on? the shit that’ll do to my ego if i swipe right and he passes on me?”

shoko finally grants her friend the permission of speech, freeing her off the couch decoration, though the look she gives her serves as a warning to tread lightly. with a heavy breath, utahime releases a puff, “i’d crashout, just sayin’.”

“but what if he hasn’t moved on?” yuki poses, and apparently that was all the confirmation you needed to swipe. fuck pride— pride wasn’t going to get your back blown out. pride wasn’t going to help you get the love of your life back. pride can go fuck itself.

“wait—”

utahime is cut off again, however, not by shoko but tinder itself. the notification pings loudly, resonating in depths of your ear cavity and shoots straight to your chest. you can feel your heart pounding wildly against your rib cage. it’s so silent you can hear a pin drop, and the way your gut churns gives away the end result to your spontaneity.

it’s a match.

“well. . . shit.” shoko slumps back into the couch nonchalantly, and you don’t need to see her to know she’s sporting a smirk. you do feel her knee knock into yours. fake ass idgafer.

you’re no better, biting down your bottom in order to suppress the smile itching to spread. a year later and the sole idea that he’d already came across the same mindset as you, willing to give whatever it was that needed a second shot, had you beyond delusional. god, you need help.

“look at youuu, cheesin’ and shit!” yuki pokes at your cheek and you swat her hand away, ultimately caving into the smile. fuck yeah you were geeked— it’s hard carrying a nonchalant attitude when you were an honest to god, soft hearted lovergirl. if you played your cards right, with a few lash bats and glossy lips, you’d be getting dicked down in no time.

“i’m gonna be sick.” utahime deadpans.

“and i’m getting dickkk,” you sing, jumping to your feet as you stood on the couch. you turn around, hands clutching onto the headrest, giving your ass a cute shake as it rotates in circular motions. you feel shoko’s hand tapping it encouragingly, her phone illuminating as it records while she rests her head on your moving thighs. you hear yuki cackle, pulling out her phone to film as well. you giggle, “rip that pussy!”

“ayeeee!” they complete the lyrics, and the vibes are restored yet again, girly giggles filling the room. when your legs begin to feel wobbly, you stop your twerking to plop yourself right back down, leaning your head onto shoko’s shoulder.

you hear her click her tongue as the recording of your ass graces her screen, and she groans, “gojo is one lucky bastard— he can’t handle all that.”

he most definitely can, and has. you’ll opt with shrugging in the meantime.

“with that being said,” utahime jumps in, crossing her legs, “what’s the next move here? you reaching out first?”

your lips straighten as your mind reflects. if you still know him as well as you think you do, he’s definitely going to text you first as soon as he sees the green light. sure, you were anxious for a reply, desperate to check what his temperature was— but you’d already sacrificed a grand amount of dignity just swiping right. he could do take on the role of texting first.

“nah, i’m almost a hundred percent sure he’ll—”

ping!

you all whip your heads to the source of the sound. your phone. the screen shines as it undergoes facial recognition, and exposes the messenger. from tinder. gojo. sending you a message. just as you’d expected.

you can’t help the cocky smile, eyes trailing at their perplexed faces, “—text me first.”

naturally, the girls are impressed. even you are— that timing? would it be insane to genuinely be considering gojo might honest to god be your soulmate? yuki blows a puff of air, followed by a laugh, “your pussy has to be magical cause what the fuck?”

“ladies and gentlemen,” utahime stands to her feet, fisting her hand into an imaginary microphone, and addresses her fake crowd. in the hostiest voice she can muster, she curtsies as she continues in comedic fashion, “miss pussy fairy in thee flesh.”

“put a stamp on it.” shoko shakes her head in acknowledgment, laying her own phone in her lap as she claps. yuki places two fingers in her mouth and whistles at you, to which you rise to your own feet and dramatically place a hand over your chest in faux humility.

“oh please!” you flatter yourself, tucking your hair behind your ear. you smile behind your palm, your improv classes in high school coming in clutch, “this is too much— thank you! thank you deeply.”

“girl, byeee,” utahime breaks character first, giggling as she sits back onto the abandoned bean bag. you mimic her motions, as she pops open a stray water bottle and swallows a big gulp, “open his text! i wanna see what he said!”

you’re in the same boat, thumbing at your phone to unlock it and open the app. naturally the girls hover over you yet again, just as eager to see how he finally broke the no contact phase. it took him less than three minutes to slide in your messages, as the option had finally been granted.

right as your thumb hovers the message, a hum draws out your throat, “how much y’all wanna bet it’s something corny?” you tease, something close to a hunch giving it away. seeing as your assumptions were deemed accurate just a few minutes ago, the only way he’d think of clearing the ice would be with something plausibly lame.

“open itttt!” utahime ushers you, hands clamping at your shoulders. you roll your eyes, letting her dramatics sway your body back and forth before she lets up. you let out a sigh, and open the unanswered message.

and just as you’d predicted. . .

@gsatoru: they say shooters shoot 👀

“oh brotherrrr,” the girls groan in sync, and even you can’t stop the cringe that stiffens your face. if there’s one thing that hasn’t changed, it’s the fact he still doesn’t act his age. he needs to let those college days go.

“now, what’d i tell y’all.” you tut, leaving out the part of nostalgia simmering deep and warmly in your bones at his predictability. ever the goofy he was, gojo satoru. jeez.

“i was really found myself rooting for him too,” shoko sighs, rising to her feet. she dusts at her lap then stretches her limbs lazily, “i’m gonna go pee— hime, i swear to god, don’t take my seat.” she doesn’t look back to flip her off when she hears utahime blow raspberries her way. to which, against shoko’s wishes, leaps over to snatch her seat.

both you and yuki give her a deadpanned look, but yuki voices out your thoughts, “she’s gonna get on your ass and i’m not helping you out.”

“girl, boo.” utahime rolls her eyes, “more importantly, what the fuck do you answer to that?” her nail taps at your phone screen, peering at you expectantly through lashes.

you consider your options. do you reciprocate the same energy or do you call him out on his corniness? matching his vibe would be like starting off a blank slate— a new start, new conversations, something almost superficial. like a fling you meet at the bars for one night of fuckery that you regret the next morning. but calling him out would induce in falling into familiar patterns— calling him a cornball while he attempts to sweet talk you, old conversations brought up, risking broken boundaries for the sake of reminiscing.

decisions, decisions, decisions.

“i’m thinking taking the easy way out.” you nod your head, readying your fingers as you type your response out.

you miss the exchanged glances between utahime and yuki, too busy trying to format how to come off playful but not forgetful. flirty but not desperate. come pull up on me but demurely. well you’ll be damned— in what world had you ever expected second guessing yourself for gojo?

“what’s the easy way out?” yuki asks, and you hit send. where this confidence comes from is beyond you, but any error you make you can blame on the wine (you’re hardly fazed but it’s nice to have something to pin the blame on instead of yourself) (old habits die hard).

you tilt your phone, holding it out as you watch the girls’ brows furrow, eyes scanning over the screen. when their faces contort into a look of amusement mixed with horror, a girly giggle escapes your throat.

@yourstrulyname: sukuna ryomen wsp with you?? 🙈

“you didn’t!” utahime hollers, her laughter so intense she doubled over to clutch at her stomach. yuki sways her body back and forth as she finds herself in a hysterical fit as well. “goddd, i would kill to see the look on his face right now.”

“yooo, that’s evil.” the blonde swipes at a tear. “woulda had me deactivating the whole account.”

“who’s deactivating?” shoko pops back in, not without slapping utahime upside the head. she ignores the way utahime complains in favour to swipe a nearly emptied bottle to pour.

“it’s not even that bad,” you defend yourself, flashing her your screen as she installs herself in the bean bag utahime once occupied. her eyes squint as she reads the conversation, nearly bulging out their sockets when she catches your message, “nahhh, don’t give me that!”

“if he gives you the time of day after that,” shoko swirls the wine in her glass, snorting, “he must really still be in love with you.”

“he should know i’m playing. . .” you’re not sure if you’re trying to convince the girls, him or yourself. you really were just joking around— albeit a terrible joke, but one regardless! sukuna was officially removed from the roster, a financially irresponsible man never standing a chance against you, “right?”

“don’t ask us?” utahime chimes in, uselessly, to which you roll your eyes. well shit, maybe you should double text? let him know you were just fooling around, trying to check temperatures and establish the mood. your phone pings again, and all unnecessary thoughts are thrown out the window.

@gsatoru: oh so you got jokes now?

as you’re about to let him know you’ve been had jokes, but never the goofy type, you see the bubbles pop up, a telltale that he’s got more to tell you. you let him have it, already having possibly fumbled the mission before even starting. it feels like an eternity and a half waiting on his text, the girls having huddled over you yet again, just as curious to see what he had to counter with.

@gsatoru: can’t be a joke if the guy had you outside on valentine’s day tho. stk steakhouse? really girl?

your jaw falls slack. you watch with burning eyes at your screen as your built up suspicions were ultimately confirmed. okay, so those two were still somehow connected. you didn’t like to question male friendships, the lack of loyalty not one you’d ever understand. god forbid you ever started fucking with utahime’s ex of many years.

“wait. .” said girl speaks up, drawing the word out as she processes his answer. her tongue rolls around in her mouth, face cringing as the next words follow, “i can’t lie, he kinda ate you up.”

“just sassy as fuck,” shoko laughs, and it’s one of those giggles reserved to shit she honestly finds hilarious, “really girl is crazy. all comfortably like he’s one of your homegirls.”

“now what’s wrong with stk’s?” yuki grumbles, picking at her nails with a childish pout on her lips, “everybody isn’t born with a silver spoon plugged up our asses. god, i can’t stand rich people.”

you don’t bother answering the girls, already aware he chewed with his response, that he’s as sassy as he was years ago and that he had found that particular steakhouse shabby despite it being a fucking steakhouse. these were things you already knew. your thumbs proceed before your mind can register,

@yourstrulyname: been keeping tabs on me?

“you don’t look too happy,” shoko pokes at your cheek. there’s an ache creasing in your forehead, and you relax the furrow of your brows. you’re not exactly upset, just a bit on edge with his approach— you can’t tell whether he’s on tens or not. whether he’s genuinely joking around or not.

“i’m fine.” you poke back, and she nods. she ushers the other girls to pick a new movie to play, and you clock this is her way of allowing you some privacy between exes. you shoot her a grateful look, and she offers a sly wink. you’ll make sure to update her on whatever happens as soon as it’s over.

you switch your ringer off, and open his new message.

@gsatoru: hard not to when he posts you like he has smth to prove

@yourstrulyname: who said it was me?

you knew it was you. you knew he knew it was you. but still, you wanted to hear it from him yourself, wanted to know if he really was keeping tabs on you ever since the breakup. it’d help ease your mind with unanswered questions.

@gsatoru: you mean besides the bags and jewelry i got you?

@gsatoru: your build was a dead giveaway. could recognize you blindfolded in a room full of women

you bit your lip. you could work with this text, play around with it and see if shit flips. would he fall for the bait? you’ll start off slow, create an opening and see if he decides to indulge.

@yourstrulyname: like what you saw?

he answers instantly and your heart sinks a bit.

@gsatoru: of course

@gsatoru: you’re as a beautiful as the day you left me

is that how he saw it? you assume you did leave him in a practical sense, but there was no way he hadn’t seen it coming miles away. you had both been caught up in your lives, the additional stress of romance an unwanted factor in the rise of your careers. so yeah, you’d given him the opportunity to leave. it’s not as if he fought it anyway, so did you really leave him if he’d closed the door on his merry way out?

this was starting to get personal. toeing between the line of uncharted territory and familiarity. everything you didn’t want— debriefing the logic behind the underwhelming breakup on tinder of all places was out of the fucking question.

@yourstrulyname: you still cool with sukuna?

@gsatoru: something like that

@gsatoru: he’s slimey as fuck for sliding on you tho

you figured as much. you couldn’t imagine a world where gojo wouldn’t feel some type of way at his friend going after his ex girlfriend a couple months fresh off a breakup. he probably felt the same way towards you, the difference being one owes him more loyalty than the other.

@yourstrulyname: and what does that make me?

@gsatoru: did he mean something to you?

he didn’t. you think of the importance of somebody meaning something to you— the fear of losing that person larger than life itself. the joy of waking up in that person’s arms on a rainy morning. the vulnerability in bonding souls with that person. the relief your body undergoes as it melts in that person’s embrace.

he didn’t mean shit to you.

@yourstrulyname: no

@gsatoru: then that makes you someone who made a choice

neutral and impassive. you wondered if he truly meant that. in a sense, you assume he really did mature.

@yourstrulyname: so he’s in the wrong but i’m not?

@gsatoru: who am i to assign right from wrong? you’re both adults at the end of the day

you don’t know what to answer to that. there was a lot of truth to his words— you were both consenting adults with choices made. jeez, just what had gojo gone through all these months that made him none the wiser? you’re considering leaving him on opened for a while, at least until you come up with an answer to that philosophical ass message, when he double texts you.

@gsatoru: this is so backwards lmaoo. what’s good with you? how’ve you been?

so he realized it too. thank fuck— skipping small talk and diving into the nitty gritty this late at night was not how you expected your night to go. the girls had completely forgotten your predicament, invested in the latest reality tv show flashing on your flat screen.

@yourstrulyname: been good. you?

@gsatoru: wow you’re as dry as ever

@gsatoru: life’s been blessed, could be better tho. too much to explain over text

oh? was this what you were thinking it was?

@yourstrulyname: what are you getting at, gojo?

@gsatoru: gojo? so it’s fuck me then

@gsatoru: not getting at anything. ball’s in your court, yn

so it was. you contemplate it for a second— should you invite him over tonight? the girls won’t be upset about kicking them out, and if anything they’d encourage you to call them as soon as it’s over. you suppose your doubts lie within the idea of having your ex boyfriend back into your territory. in the comfort of your home, a home he’d once already graced.

as scary as it sounded, you also desperately craved seeing him. it’d been a solid eighteen months since you’ve broken up, and thirteen since you’ve last seen him entirely. ironically, around the time you started getting involved with sukuna. you weren’t sure if it was your heart or pussy talking, but laying up in bed with this man was not something you were against.

fuck it.

@yourstrulyname: you know where i stay at

and his response comes instantly.

@gsatoru: be there in half an hour.

oh fuck.

“yo. . .” you speak up, for the first time in a few minutes. the girls turn their heads, acknowledging you, as you shut your phone close and chuck it across the sofa. “i love y’all but y’all gotta go, like now.”

shoko shakes her head, but there’s a smirk on her lips. utahime, as lost as ever, gives you a frown. yuki has most likely caught on, rising to her feet, dusting her lap, “say no more.”

the girls do you an immense favour as they excuse themselves. they pick at empty bottles and containers, throw dirty dishes in the dishwasher, rearrange the throw pillows and even light up your candles. you feel bad for kicking them out so late, so you pitch in some money for gas as well as the inconvenience.

as they cleaned out your living room and kitchen, you’d rushed to your shower for a mini cleanse. pulling out your bests, you wash over intimate parts thoroughly, lathering your limbs in scented soap, before rinsing, brushing your teeth and stepping out. you stare at your reflection through the haze of steam, the foggy mirror reminding you of the missing messages he used to leave on mornings you had to get to work.

no point in dwelling on the past when he was on his way over this moment. you swap your silk robe for the skimpiest loungewear you own— matching camisole and shorts, and let your hair cascade back down. you’re about your fifth spritz of body spray when the doorbell rings, and your stomach flutters.

you halt in your step when you notice how fast you’re going. yikes! the last thing he needs is his ego inflating, knowing you were rushing to get him inside, nevermind the fact you washed, pulled out your sexiest pyjamas and even wore a brand new pair of panties. you know. . . just for preparations. better safe than sorry.

after the third mindless lap around your kitchen, you make your way towards the door. you inhale sharply, clenching at your shaky fingers, easing your nerves. you quickly snap out of your daze, pulling the door open.

his eyes, momentarily distracted by the number engraved in the wall next to your door, glaze over your figure curiously. his hands are tucked in the pocket of his sweatpants. he lets out a breath, a sound borderlining a chuckle as it shoots straight to both heartbeats, shoulders drop from its hunch,

“hey.”

he’s thick.

no perverted shit. you’ve noticed he’s put on weight in the right places— not to say he’d been anything less than nicely built in the past, but his biceps are significantly fuller and the material of his compression tee stretched over bulging muscles in a telltale pattern.

somebody’s been at the gym one too many.

“you good with this?” he mumbles, hand running across the smooth skin of your calf. with every stroke of his palm are fleeting memories of the past, burning deep into your limb. you hate the way your stomach sinks st the thought, “me being here and shit.”

“wouldn’t have let you in if i wasn’t.” you answer honestly, back pressed into the arm of the couch. you don’t understand how fast he’d gotten comfortable with being in your personal space just like that— you don’t understand how you’d allowed him in your personal space just like that.

he nods, and the air is eerily quiet. you watch with furrowed brows as he traces shapes into your skin with his fingertip, a frenzy of emotions resembling those of turbulence all in cerulean eyes. he’s torn— you can see it in the way his nose scrunches, as if he’s debating on whether he should voice out his thoughts or not. whether it’s worth debriefing— if this is his last shot or not.

with all this time passed, he’s still so easy to read.

“what is it?” you sigh, albeit irritated. the last thing you’d planned when you got rid of your friends in favour of having your ex over was this weird ass tension roaming. crazy sentence to speak— you know, but you were really hoping it’d be less talking involved and more sexing. it wasn’t that you were against conversing with him, but the way he was choosing to go about it was just so. . . awkward .

he senses the irritation laced in your question and immediately chuckles. his laugh sounds breathless, almost dry, but he shakes his head. his free hand swipes at his nose, a tic of his you noticed years ago whenever he’s feeling bashful or caught, and clears his throat.

“how’d you and sukuna happen?” he rips off the bandaid, and asks you the last question you wanted to hear. the tracing on your leg slows down, and your arms tighten a bit around your torso.

you let out a puff of air. if gojo notices your discomfort, he doesn’t mention it. in fact, he doesn’t pull the question back at all— he stares at you intensely, as if baring into your soul, as if the answer to his question will determine whether the boulder weighted on his shoulders will free him of restraint or not.

as if he still stood a chance or not.

“not much to say,” you shrug, as dismissive as possible. he doesn’t budge, the same intensity in his gaze and you roll your eyes, “honest to god. we broke up, he was there at the right time and shit happened.”

the words simmer into the stillness of the night, and he swipes his tongue over his lips pensively, “were y’all ever official?” he pushes, and you click your tongue against your teeth, offering him a deadpanned look. seriously, as if he didn’t know his own friend— in what world was sukuna anything worthy of official?

“god, no.” you shudder, and he nods again. “you know your friend.”

“i don’t,” gojo counters, momentarily wrapping his hand around your ankle. it fits as perfectly as it did all those years ago, where thumbs at your anklet— another prized possession he’d gotten you. your face heats in embarrassment, and he flicks his eyes to glance at you, a fleeting smirk on his lips, before staring back at the jewelry, “going after my ex girlfriend is not something i expected. i don’t know him at all.”

fair enough, you think to yourself. there has to be some lingering resentment towards you for the same reason. had the tables been turned and he’d gone after one of your closest friends, you would’ve cut him off from your life completely. you were being truthful— it wasn’t anything remotely serious with sukuna, not even close to how it’d been with gojo, but you could see it as a matter of principle. you’d already taken the initiative to break up with him first, and going after his homeboy?

god, you had questionable morals.

“it’s different with you,” he feeds in, as if he could read your thoughts. it was probably written all over your face, the scrunch in your brows never letting up. his index finger slides beneath the band of your anklet, the contrast of the silver shade lining perfectly against his complexion, “‘s hard to explain, but you broke up with me so you technically owe me no loyalty— besides, i get why you ended things. never blamed you.”

now that peaks your interest. he gets why you ended things with him? he never blamed you? you clear your throat, forcing the question out, “you do?”

“of course,” he shrugs naturally, as if it hadn’t taken you eons to conclude. as if it hadn’t broke you apart when you’d realized how unneeded you were, “i honestly expected it. you deserved better than what i was giving. you must’ve been lonely— work had always taken a big part of my time, and that left you behind in the dust.”

you’re waiting for the punchline. he continues, “i can’t lie to you— i was wishing you’d resort to cheating over breaking up. that way you’d still be mine, even if it was temporarily,” he chuckles, a soft shade of pink dusting over his cheekbones, as he sniffs, “corny, i know. but you didn’t deserve putting up with my bullshit, so you left. time is of the essence, and that was the one thing i never seemed to give you. you fell out of it— out of love, so. . . i’m sorry.”

words cannot seem to leave you. you’re left utterly speechless— that had been so far from the reason, the realization sitting bitterly at the pit of your stomach. anything, literally anything, would’ve been better than hearing him lie to you again.

“that. . .” you inhale a sharp breath, steadying yourself, “is nowhere near the reason why we broke up.”

he stops in his caress. you think he got whiplash from how fast his neck snaps, eyeing you incredulously. he genuinely seems so confused, and you hate it. to think he’d show up with some lame ass excuse, so far stretched from the truth of the matter, and expected you to believe that. to believe him.

he blinks slowly, “i don’t understand.”

you try to pull your leg away from his lap, feeling like he was stripping you bare of the last bit of dignity you had left, wanting to rip you open. he presses the weight of his hand lightly, urging you to stay near while simultaneously giving you the option to pull away. the ball was in your court yet again.

“wait— help me understand,” the pad of his thumb rolls over your ankle bone gently— far too intimately. your feet curl away, protectively, and his fingers stroke at the ball of your heel, “please. what drove you away? what was it i did?”

there’s a pang in your chest. does he really plan on keeping this up? right in your face? it was one thing wishing him well despite the obvious, but dragging it out even a year later was a bit much. inviting him over was starting to seem like a terrible idea.

“i fell out of love?” you parrot, unbelieving. “gojo— i’m not the one who fell out of anything. i gave you a way out, and you happily took it,” his face contorts into a deeper state of confusion. you huff, “i’m not blaming you for it or anything, but shit, don’t get up in here with lies to cover your ass.”

“lies?” he whispers, to himself, running his free fingers through tousled white locks. he stares at your anklet hardly, like the gift has all the answers he’s looking for. you don’t think he’s avoiding eye contact, but he seems so distraught, so out of the loop, that broadway ought to sign him to a new movie deal. what an actor.

“time is of the essence and you failed to give it?” you continue regardless, throat restricting as it burns in an emotion you’re far too familiar with. suddenly, you feel like you’re twenty five again, left to your own devices and thoughts in the emptiness of his apartment, dressed in your prettiest outfit and another failed date night. “i never gave a shit about that, i knew how much of a hardworking man you were. i took it to the chest— anything to keep you from leaving. you stopped loving me, gojo.”

his jaw falls slack, mouth gaping and you blink your lashes furiously to prevent tears from appearing. god, this was so humiliating, bearing your heart raw in front of your ex boyfriend, “y/n, i never—”

“spare me,” you scoff, mortified by the rush of emotions coursing through you. you take a deep breath in, calming yourself to avoid further explosive feelings, “this isn’t me saying i was the perfect girlfriend. i know i wasn’t— you know i wasn’t, and piling a spiralling partner on top of all the shit you were dealing with wasn’t an option. that’s fine,” it was fine. it didn’t matter, “doesn’t matter anymore. i broke up with you, you didn’t fight to stay, and we both moved on. shit happens.”

it hurt a lot. the sound of the door clicking shut, followed by the crack splitting in your chest. the run towards your bathroom, emptying your contents from both your stomach and heart. you were undeniably a mess, that period of time it took for you to recover. you would never voice it out loud, but you’d been praying he’d tell you just how wrong you were. how he needed you in his life. how you weren’t a burden to him. how he loved you enough to fight through it all.

he hadn’t.

there’s a soft hum in the silence. the sound of your clock ticking near the entrance door. the pounding of your heart against your rib cage. seconds turn into minutes of quietness, and it does no good to your mind. you’re focusing your gaze on the inanimate objects in your apartment, anything to dismiss the reality of the situation. your leg feels cold as his hand pulls away suddenly.

he rolls his tongue against his cheek. another tic of his— he’s formulating his word choice, carefully. you’d seen a ton of this before, though it usually followed a deep sigh and a you’re good baby, trust me. the more you’d see it, the more anxious you became. and christ, if that anxiety wasn’t forming right back.

it takes a while for him to speak, and every passing breath had your chest tightening. he runs his hand across his face, tiredly. when he pulls it away, there’s a melancholic smile on his face, “i think there’s a lot that needs to be addressed. jesus, i always knew you sucked at communicating but this is something else.”

you glare at him. he doesn’t mind it, continuing, “no, you weren’t the perfect girlfriend. but you were my girlfriend, and that’s all that mattered to me. you wanna talk about spiralling? nothing i’m not familiar with— you’re the only reason i didn’t let myself fall into that rabbit hole. you kept me going after graduation. i worked as hard as i did to make sure you wouldn’t have to lift a finger around me. that was the end goal— you were end goal.”

gagged is what you felt. nothing else pure shock. he doesn’t stop there. he isn’t merciful anymore.

“i know i didn’t go about it the right way,” a regretful puff of air is released, “i canceled on you often. our phone calls were shorter, our texts were vaguer and at some point i’d forgotten what you tasted like. but i never loved you any less. not once, even after we argued. not to say i’ve converted into those spiritual people, but you’re the closest thing to a soulmate i’ve experienced.”

shit, you weren’t tripping. he felt it too. fuck. the weight of his words made it impossible to steer him away. you want to intercept, to call him a liar and turn a blind ear at his confession, to shield yourself but how could you when every word he spoke broke the bricks you’d built down?

“i’m not an asshole— i could feel you slipping away. i did try my damned hardest to reel you back in, as you’d done with me. clearly that hadn’t worked how i was hoping it would,” a bitter laugh, or maybe a resentful one. towards you or himself? you wouldn’t know, “it’s because i loved you so much, i let you go. i knew i was losing you, and when you finally came to me, the right thing to do was agree. why keep you from reaching your fullest potential? you weren’t happy with me, trying to fight the inevitable was cruel.”

the inevitable. letting you go was the right choice to make because fighting the inevitable was cruel. he loved you so much he had to let you go because you deserved more than what he had to offer. you call bullshit— in what right did he have to make that choice for you? what right did you have to make that choice for him?

it’s too much at once. your eyes burn with a remorseful feeling, your heart aches in agony and your mind is clouded with thoughts. there your ex boyfriend sat, wide eyes still as blue as when he’d once been yours, presenting you his heart raw in cupped hands— and you still couldn’t find it in you to believe him fully. everything yet nothing made sense. vulnerability was a scary thing, and you weren’t ready to face it.

so, you kiss him.

his breath is taken out of his chest as you lean forward, sealing his mouth shut. you can’t take any more of his merciless words, and the only way to get your mind off it is by getting on it. he feels stiff against you, pupils dilating as you mould lips with his own. your hand travels to the back of his neck, sitting on your knees as you hold him still.

and with a faint lip smack, he pulls away ever so slightly, hands hovering awkwardly over your waist, his breath warm and fanning your cupid’s bow, “wait—”

“don’t wanna talk,” you interrupt, placing another chaste kiss on his lips. he tastes as good as the day you left him. and with another soft smack, your voice lowers, reduced to a whisper, “you gonna fuck me or not?”

he blinks and you stare back at him, full of conviction. a simple yes or no question— and he could gladly see himself out if his answer didn’t satisfy you. his hands finally rest on your waist, and you take it as an invitation to straddle over his hips. he eases your movements by aiding, lifting you just barely to sit on him. his hands fit just as they did all those times ago. a sour, bittersweet feeling— fingertips caressing the nakedness of your torso beneath your camisole.

your back arches as he finds your sensitive spots with quickness. he’d always been great at that, leaving trails of goosebumps past his teasing touches.

“you’re doing it again,” he mumbles against your lips, ever the hypocrite, fingers gripping at your waist like a vice. he rolls your hips over his own, reeling in the softness of your palms cupping at his face. you ignore him when he continues, still nibbling on his bottom lip the way he loves, “you can’t— mmh, avoid this forever.”

maybe not, but you sure as hell could right now. the tip of your noses bump into one another as you tilt your head, deepening the kiss. you want to rid your mind of these plaguing thoughts, ones that made you doubt everything you thought you knew. losing control was out of the question, so naturally you needed it back into your grasp.

sex was an easy way to do that.

“yes or no, gojo.” you give him one last chance, grinding your hips down on his awakening dick. you feel his bulge through his pair of sweats, the print so evident you wondered why he was trying to fight it. the sight alone had your panties dampening in your arousal, uncomfortably sticky against your loungewear.

he hums in between kisses, a false pretend of debating his options. his fingers slip beneath the waistband of your shorts and past your panties, fondling at the flesh that sat beneath. he could fake it all he wants, but fuck chivalry— he was turning to mush the more you sucked at his tongue, licking at the crevice of the roof of his mouth.

it’s when you sink your teeth into the flesh of pink lips, not hard enough to draw blood but enough to draw a moan from him, he comes to a conclusion. he nods his head, snaking his arms to wrap at your waist tighter as finally kisses you back.

“it’s always a yes.” for you. he doesn’t say it, doesn’t need to, but you hear it and dismiss it. no more lovey doveyness and time to get to the nitty gritty of shit— getting your back blown out. the very thought alone is enough to put a smile on your lips.

bingo.

your bedroom door hardly shuts before he pins you against it. he’s annoyingly big— tall in height and wide in weight. he towers over you comically, hands roaming at every inch of your body as he drinks you up. his lips seek yours desperately, sliding over your glossy ones with practice that suggests hints of comfort.

your arms loop at his neck, and his at your waist. his mouth hardly lets up of yours, mumbling a little jump, as you comply with ease. thighs trapping him in your hold, you then find yourself face to face with him as he lifts you, large palms cupping at your ass. you fit just as perfectly in his hands as you did years ago, flesh so fat he gropes it tenderly.

the walk from the door to your bed passes in the blink of an eye, a timeframe you find pointless to recall as you indulge in the taste of him through his tongue. his presence is so overwhelmingly powerful— every touch and caress at your body reducing your limbs to mush. you cling to him, either out of safety reasons or desire, tilting your head from side to side to deepen the lip-to-lip action.

when he gets to the edge of your bed, he lowers you until your toes reach the floor. due to the difference in height, your lips part, a thin string of saliva connecting from both your mouths as proof of your unison. the blue shade of his orbs darken with desire, eyelids lowering as he drinks up the sight of you— lips plump and swollen, slick in saliva, chest heaving from lack of oxygen.

he raises a hand from your waist to cup at your face, and you detest the way your lean into his touch. your cheek fits in his large palm, and he swipes a thumb at your bottom lip, collecting your shared spit onto the pad of his digit. as he smears the fluid further across your mouth, he prods his thumb a little further— testing out the waters, wanting to see if you’d cave into old habits.

naturally, you allow it, his thumb swallowed by your puckered lips. you roll your tongue over his finger and your eyes never leave his— hoping to convey the rush of emotions you feel through your sultry gaze. your core throbs in want, your stomach erupting in butterflies and your heart pounding unnecessarily. unspoken words you’re positive he understood, if the way he groans when your teeth sink lightly into his digit said anything.

“you’re gonna be the death of me,” he mumbles, popping his finger back out. it’s coated in saliva, and like the freak he is, pops it into his own mouth. once he’s had his fill, he removes his hand from his mouth, and lowers it to your fleshy waist, slipping past the waistband of your panties, “take these off— ‘m hungry, need a taste of that pussy.”

your cheeks nearly split from your excitement, and you comply to his order, gripping at the hem of your shorts to pull them down to your ankle. he assists you despite the previous demand, his own hands atop of yours, a warmth and sense of security so familiar. when your shorts reach past your mid thigh, you allow him to meet you halfway.

he pulls your shorts down to your ankles, lowering himself to a knee. his movements are agonizingly slow, basking in the sight of your thighs in contrast of the shade of your loungewear. he steadies a hand onto your calf, patting it lightly, and you lift your leg just barely, permitting him to slide the shorts off your ankle and tossing it aside.

when the item is discarded, he redirects his focus back to you. he pampers your skin in kisses— delicate but hungry, trails of moisture crawling back up at your inner thighs and shooting right to your core. he looked unexplainably sexy on his knees, littering your body in hushed praises, the tip of his nose nudging at your soft skin. you bit your lip in attempts to cease it from wobbling at the intimacy he was providing.

“god, you smell so good,” he speaks into you, hands snaking to the back of your thighs, pressing you forward into him. your panty covered cunt presents itself right before him, and he plants his nose right into your intimates, your body shuddering as his nose bumps into your clit deliciously. a shaky breath escapes you, and his hands travel upwards to play with your ass. “turn around, wanna eat it from the back.”

the words are taken from you when his hand slaps your ass encouragingly, releasing a mini squeal, “you’re still too freaked out.”

“mhm, something like that,” you don’t see it, as you’re occupied on spinning on your feet to plant your hands on your matters for stability, but you’re positive he’s smirking. your arch your back for him, wanting to properly present the meal he plans on devouring. your cunt oozes slick against your thong just thinking about how he’s going to do you in, “there’s that arch,” a hand slides in the curve of your lower back, before snapping the band of your thong. it recoils against your cheek and you jerk forward at the sting.

“oh? did that hurt?” he taunts, and as you’re about to protest, he does it yet again. the snap is intense but never painful, but the nerve he had to play around like your pussy wasn’t a few centimetres away from his face. you don’t acknowledge how your panties cling even tighter to your folds.

“fuck off,” you curse through gritted teeth, but your hips wiggle backwards in attempt to get him to hurry it up. as if now was any time to tease— you couldn’t stand it when he did it all those years ago, and your feelings haven’t changed since, “get on with it. . . the fuck?”

you hear him sigh, almost disappointedly, and it only aggravates you further. your brows furrow in annoyance and you think you feel a vein tick at your temple.

“still so disrespectful,” gojo tuts, rubbing at your booty tenderly. so he wasn’t exactly wrong, but how was he expecting you to react when he’d just said he was going to eat you out, and proceeds to do anything but that? of course there’s going to be a little pout on your lips, “we gotta work on that attitude of yours.”

your face twists into a look of further aggravation, and you tilt your head back, readying whatever other bratty objections you had— though you’re ultimately interrupted by a sharp sting that spreads across your ass.

the strike of his palm against your cheek sprawls into an intense heat, the pain oddly pleasurable, and the moan that rips out of your chest is impossible to suppress. your eyes nearly jump out of their sockets at the audacity, and right as you’re about to complain, he does it again. and again.

“o-okay, shit!” you attempt to voice out, but he’s relentless, delivering blow after blow onto the same ground. there’s a curve in his palm, and it amplified the sound across the room. despite your protests, you can’t deny every jolt of pain rushes to your clit. you’re positive he knows you’re enjoying this, “gojo— fuck, okayyy!”

to your pleasure, he eases the slaps, opting to smoothen his hand flat across the reddened flesh. he hums pensively, the heat of your skin radiating against his palm in a way that forces a smile on his lips, “ ‘okay?’ what do you mean by that, baby?”

you clench your teeth at his faux ignorance. you know exactly what he wants from you, and you’re not sure if you’re able to give it to him as you are. an apology— he wants you to apologize, that bastard. your left cheek stings like a bitch, even with his now gentle touches, and your core is begging you to cooperate with him, in order for that attention it was neglected of. he is such a dickhead— putting you in a predicament like this one.

you swallow the last bit of dignity you hold, a constant reminder in the back of your mind that this was for the greater good— for the sake of your pussy. with a pained sigh, you tilt your head backwards to meet his playful gaze that stares back at you, right below the plump of your ass, and you muster the cutest look you can give.

doe eyes paired with a little pout, “‘m sorry. . . for the attitude,” you’re not sorry at all, but you desperately want your cunt in his mouth, so you do what you have to do, “can you eat it now? please?”

he flashes you a million dollar smile, all thirty twos on full display, and it takes every ounce of willpower in you not to roll your eyes right then and there. he was so full of shit, his eyes might as well brown. but still, you knew he got off on this kind of thing, and when he presses a quick kiss at the print of your lips, he replies, “of course, sweet girl— only because you asked so nicely.”

there’s no further need to speak, as you feel your thong being pushed to the side, followed by a cold breeze hitting your bare cunt, meshed with warm breathe as he feasts .

gojo eats you out like he has something to prove, and you know what— maybe he does. to prevent you from straying from him, he grounds you with two firm hands gripping at your ass. he spreads the flesh apart, his tongue lapping at your slick greedily. you can’t tell who’s moans are louder— yours or his, the man so engaged in sucking at your clit, nibbling on the bundle of nerves with practiced ease. you hold onto the sheets on your bed with dear life, thighs trembling as you struggle to hold yourself up.

“fuck, don’t stop,” you whine, pushing your hips further back, your mind overcame with utter greediness for more of that insatiable pleasure. you might as well have swallowed him whole into you, just as he’s swallowing you whole into him, his tongue diving deep past your hole and into your folds. he flicks his tongue expertly, licking at every crevice and nook of your cave, his jaw working overtime as his bottom lip never lets up at your clit.

your entire pussy is consumed by him, no area going neglected— drool slips past his mouth and spills onto your floor. a familiar heat licks at the pit of your stomach, a telltale that your dam is bound to burst anytime soon. he remedies your ache with another painful spank at your ass, groaning into your pussy when you clamp down on his tongue.

he was so fucking nasty— fucking into you with his tongue like he needed this more than you did. he makes out with your cunt, like he was a starving man on death row. at a particular cruel angle of his tongue fucking, your body would react with an all consuming tremble, fingers clawing at your duvets, your lungs releasing pathetic mewls. and the further you pushed back into his merciless mouth, the closer his nose nudged at your puckered forbidden hole.

he pulls away with a gasp, subbing his mouth out for his fingers, the pads of three fingers rubbing messily at your sloppy lips. the sound it creates is downright filthy, so painfully loud that it damn near drowns out your own moans.

“pretty fuckin’ pussy,” he spits a wad of saliva at your already soaked cunt, further amplifying the squelching sounds. he drags his fingers down to your clit, pinching at the bud with enough pressure to have your knees buckling, before sliding back upwards to your clenching hole. he slides into your entrance, index and middle fingers twisting in with ease, “bet she missed me, hm?”

“y-yes!” you nod mindlessly, your high creeping up on you as he works himself into you. taking six inches of fingers twice was a task in itself— the average length of a man’s dick serving purpose as fingering was just downright disrespectful. his knuckles poke at your silky walls, stretching you out to the best of his abilities, “shit— oh fuck, ‘m gonna cum!”

to your statement, he latches his lips back to your neglected clit, sucking on the bud as if he were intentionally trying to milk you dry. he hums at your taste, the vibrations shooting right up your alley and into the knot tightening in your guts— and when he curls his fingers upwards, at that spot that has stars dancing beneath your eyelids, the dam breaks. that knot stood no chance.

“oh goddd,” you cry out, spraying your release all over. it dribbles out your pussy and past the lower half of his face, to which his jaw widens as his mouth gapes— greedily aiming to slurp at your juices while simultaneously flicking your bean. the stimulation has your brain going dumb, as you fall flat onto your bed, drool collecting at the corner of your mouth and staining your sheets damp.

he lets you ride out the euphoric bliss, the movements of his fingers and the lapping of his tongue slowing down the more your body reacted to the overstimulation. when he deems you well spent, he lets up, slipping his fingers out and popping them back in his mouth, swirling your taste across his pallets, “as sweet as ever,” rising back to his full height.

you haven’t came that hard in a while, limbs reduced to nothing as you merge into one with your bed. your legs are still trembling, and your chest heaves as you exhale deep breaths. letting your eyelids close shut, you take the time to regroup yourself from that mind shattering orgasm. who the fuck had he been fucking that forced him to keep this skill? granted, you had no right to complain but holy shit, he was no fucking noob.

you feel the weight of his body press on top of you, a well-built chest meeting your moist back. it doesn’t take much to realize he’s hovering over you. his lips litter kisses at the column of your neck, moving up to the shell of your ear, leaving a trail of goosebumps after each embrace, “you tappin’ out already?” gojo snickers at your shell of a body, and you kiss your teeth at his typical mockery, “what happened to my champ while i was gone?”

“fuck off,” you pout, a little embarrassed by the fact that you really were retired from the game. sure, you were getting dicked down real good by your previous partner (question mark), but it never had you as exhausted as you currently were. there was absolutely nothing gojo satoru couldn’t do, and that ticked you off to no end, “nobody said shit about tappin’ out.”

“hm. . .” he hums, nuzzling his nose into your jugular, his hips grinding into the cleft of your ass. it’s impossible to ignore the bulge poking into you, and you doubt he was trying to hide it regardless, his hips rolling against the plushness of your behind, “guess sukuna didn’t do as good of job as he should’ve.”

that has your eyelids opening right back up. talk about an awkward situation— bringing up you and your ex’s (question mark) sex life while having sex with your other ex was a double edged predicament in itself. had you agreed, which lowkey wasn’t entirely wrong, you’d be stroking the fuck out of gojo’s ego and be disrespecting sukuna. but had you disagreed, you could end up on gojo’s wrong side and fumble an entire night worth of dicking.

so, once more, you take the easy way out, at the expense of inflating the white haired man’s ego, much to your dismay, “think you can do better?”

he stays silent for a while. in what you assume is him coming up with an answer to your question, his kisses travel to the dead centre of your shoulder blades, wet and open mouthed, as they crawl lower down your spine. with every kiss, your body caves into a state of relaxation, as if he was undoing every stress clouding at your hazed mind with his mouth alone.

he lands at the middle of your back, before he pulls away abruptly. and just as soon as he started, he was finished— removing himself off your body entirely. panic settles quickly in your stomach, as you turn your head around to see what he was up to. had you unintentionally hurt his feelings? damn, and here you were enjoying the body worship.

“what are you—” your words are cut off as his hands cup at your waist. he slides you back towards the edge of the bed, your feet planted on the floor once more. you feel some residue of your previous orgasm beneath your heels, eugh. you don’t have much time to spend thinking about how gross it feels when a hand holds your shoulders, and lifts you right back up.

your brows jump to your hairline in surprise at the sudden manhandling, though you can’t deny you found just a bit sexy. with his chest pressed into your back once more, you can feel his heartbeat thudding at the blade of your left shoulder, the organ withholding a steady rhythm— the tempo of a lullaby you’d once been accustomed to. and then big arms wrap around your frame, and holds you.

you hate the way your body folds so easily to his touch. it’s been an entire year, and despite your mind shouting at you for the intimacy you’re allowing to gallop right back into your life, your heart craves it. the sense of security his embrace offers you alone makes the least of sense, but you blindly lean into him, allowing yourself to be deluded for the time being. he won’t be yours as soon as this is over, so you might as well take the most advantage of the situation.

it takes a minute for either of you to speak. here you stood— half naked and legs sore, but still happily in his arms. his cologne is still as rich and dominating as it’d been all those times ago. he breaks the silence first, his chin resting above your shoulder, as he mumbles, “you really hurt my feelings, you know.”

to some degree, you know you did. about what exactly? you weren’t sure, but still, you offer him what you believe he wants, the realization leaving a bitter taste in your mouth, “i’m sorry.”

“‘s all good,” he kisses your cheek so tenderly that your neck cranes to the side to meet his gaze. gojo had always been so readable when it came to emotions, as he always wore his heart on his sleeve, but even with all the knowledge you knew about, you weren’t prepared for the look in his eyes. raw, unfiltered emotions. you only notice the close proximity between you both when your noses bump into one another. he shoots you a warm smile, “could never be upset with you. you hold that power over me.”

it’s you who kisses him first, and he returns the favour with more intensity. it’s an awkward positioning for your neck, but you don’t let up regardless of the ache in your joints. his mouth stays on yours as if you were his lifeline, tongues sloshing one over the other, brushing your lips together so gingerly.

in the midst of his tongue down your throat, he slips a hand in between your thighs, cupping at your abandoned pussy. the casual brush of his fingers at your core sent a breathy whine from your throat right into his mouth, and it only motivated him to work harder, rubbing slow patterns into your throbbing clit. your hips chase the feeling, riding the wave of his fingers.

he pulls away from your mouth, just barely, mumbling against your kiss bitten lips, “one of these days you’re gonna let me finish speaking,” followed by a knowing smile. sure, it could be seen as a flaw, but it was the only way you could protect yourself while keeping him within arm’s reach. never ready to have him but never prepared to let him go, “we can do that later— gotta blow your back out first.”

you couldn’t agree more.

it all happens so quickly— he retrieves his hand from between your thighs, having collected your juices at his fingertips, before lubricating his dick. he pumps at the length leisurely, his bottom lip tugged by his top row of teeth, and the groans he lets out are enough to have you squeezing your thighs eagerly, your cunt aching and ready to go. in the midst of your eagerness, you slip your hand behind you and catch his twitching cock, working your wrist right above his own, jerking him off.

a deep groan grumbles from his chest, and he instantly stops your hand from moving any further. you frown at his ceasing, but when you tilt your head to voice out your confusion, he offers a sheepish smile, “don’t wanna cum too soon,” ever the minute man, he was.

though, you soon find yourself regretting your own thoughts the very instant you feel the tip of his dick pushing past your entrance.

there’s a blended harmony of both your moans that bounces off the walls. his fingers dig deep into the flesh of your hips, holding onto you so tightly you’re positive you’ll bruise, and you clamp down on his intruding dick so tightly you’re positive you never want to let him go. the initial stretch is a feeling you’ll never get used to, but the sensation is all but unwanted.

“fuckkk, y/n,” he moans right into your ear, his voice so full of want, you can’t help but understand exactly where he’s coming from. he pulls his hips back, almost entirely, though his tip stays inside. it takes him a second to regroup, mumbling incoherent words under his breath, before he plunges back into your cunt.

and from that point on, it’s wraps. he fucks into you like a madman— as if he’d been punishing you for your crimes. punishing you for sleeping with another man. punishing you for leaving him a year and a half ago. punishing you for punishing him. his pace is ruthless— hips meeting your ass as fast as he’d pull out, pounding into your little hole to mould it into the shape of him.

he’s thick, this time on perverted shit.

you’re so painfully full of him, and despite your arms stretched outwards to grip at the sheets that had suffered more than enough of your abuse on them, your walls never let go of him. you don’t want him to pull out ever, utterly obsessed with the rough pace he set from the jump. it feels impossible keeping the curve of your back when the tip of his length repetitively attacks at your golden spots.

“ohmygoddd,” you words come out slurry, head lolling forward uselessly. if he kept fucking you like this, you weren’t going to let him leave again. stuck in an endless loop of bliss, with every thrust into your folds, his balls would slap at your clit and drive you insane, “y’re d-doing me s’gooddd,”

“yeah?” he eggs on, his voice as breathless as you’d been, though his pacing would never suggest so. there’s a hypnotic recoil of your ass bouncing back onto his pelvis that indulges him into disrupting it, delivering a new spank at your cheeks. you cry out at the feeling, and he strikes again, hips never letting up, “tell me more baby.”

you rise at your tip toes when you feel yourself sinking, legs giving out yet again. you hold yourself up at your elbows, a newfound confidence pushing your hips back to match his pace. when he heaves out a loud moan, you’re encouraged to keep going. the melody of your skins slapping against each other echoes into the stillness of the night, arching your back the further he plunges into your guts. you’re so turned on, the evidence creaming around the perimeter of his cock, easing the slides of his dick inside of you.

“toruuu,” you whine, too fucked out to notice your first mistake— calling him by his favorite nickname. at that given moment, you couldn’t care any less, the intense heat in your guts growing once more. the curve of his dick reaches spots you don’t think anybody could reach, almost as if he was made entirely for you, “you’re so big— can feel you, nghhh, everywhere!”

“that’s cause i am everywhere,” you think you can hear him smirking behind you. though, he has every right to feel entitled, with how much of a mess he’s reduced you to. he rolls his hips deep, a firm bulge forming into your tummy. as if he’s got a sixth sense or eye, he leans forward to rest his chest against your back— your eyes rolling back from the new angle. he slides a hand beneath your stomach and presses at the bulge hard. you can’t help the squeal you let out, “that’s me right there.”

you nod your head feverishly, the applied pressure on your stomach pushing his cock right at your cervix. oh god, he was going to kill you. what a wonderful way to go— all judgements clouded in favour of an eight inched dick penetrating your walls, “‘s all yours— mmh, always been.”

and that’d been your final mistake.

because the chuckle he lets out right into your ear is dark. the sounds shoot right up to your spine, shivers crawling up your back deliciously. he might as well be back stabbing you with how his cock plunged so sloppily out of your gaping cunt, “you always knew how to, fuck, pillowtalk,” he pants into your neck, his additional weight onto your shaking frame nothing short on welcoming. the hand pressing into your stomach lowers to your clit, and pinches meanly at the bud, “you know i’d, mmh, give you the world if you asked— my smart girl, shit.”

he’s so cruel, talking to you so lovingly despite it all. you tighten your eyes, in poor attempts to ignore the tenderness of the words fleeting his lips and focus instead on the stretch of your cunt down his dick. you feel yourself creaming on him, further proof of both your unison through his diabolical thrusts. he pinned you into place like this— unable to do anything but take what he gave you gratefully.

at a particular stroke at your abused golden spot, your body releases another tremor of shudders. it overtakes you from head to toe, a moan so ripe escaping your lips as you claw at ruined sheets. gojo works into aiming at that spot over and over again, each thrust more intense than the previous one. the change of his pace, slowing for a minute, draws you near the end of the line quicker than you’d anticipated.

“oh?” he grunts playfully, swaying his hips back and forth into your poor pussy. mercy is nowhere to be found, however, “you like it when i fuck you like this?” another agonizingly beautiful thrust at the same place, you can’t help but reward him with a cry. he’s fucking you into the damn mattress, and he has the balls to ask this question knowing the answer. still, you nod your head mutely, tears collecting at your lash line, and he nips at the skin on your jaw, “yeahhh you do.”

god, you do.

and suddenly, you can’t bring yourself to remember why you’d ever let go of dick this good. the kind that would have you taking the rubber off and considering finishing inside. the kind that had you babbling apologies for having done absolutely nothing wrong. the kind that made you begin to believe his careless whispers, empty promises to work things out.

in the midst of your delusions, he pulls you both back up from the bed, standing once again. at this new position, he reaches impossibly further into you, the difference in your heights making up for the inches he’s dug into you. his fingers dig in the column of your throat, the weight of his hand wrapped tightly at your neck. he’s everywhere at once, but simultaneously no where to be found. while you can feel his tip prodding at your most sensitive spot, you don’t feel the overwhelming force of love he once bore with open arms for you.

or was it you were feigning you don’t? because as he works himself back into you, at a pace so tender yet cruel, the line of boundaries you’d once set has been entirely deterred. a force so overwhelming, just like his entire being, bringing you right back to him as if you’d never left— nevermind the fact your thighs could barely support themselves, quaking pathetically. it was getting too much— everything was a lot.

“nahhh. . . don’t start running now.” you didn’t realize you were. the sheets are crumpled in your tight hold, while your other hand lightly pushes at his lower abdomen. you were a trooper, but there was only so much pleasurable torture you could handle. naturally, he pins your wrist at your spine to maintain his ruthless pace, and with another gentle yet cruelly empty promise, he coos, “not when i’ve just gotten you back.”

how the fuck did you get yourself in this mess?

oh right. . . tinder. you had a bone to pick with the ceo of that app right after you come back to your senses.

“i— i can’t,” you fumble at your words, the lack of oxygen catching up to you. you’re bound to his mercy— hands tied, breath nearly restricted, pussy obliterated, and yet, there’s nowhere else you’d want to be. the pressure on your throat lolls your head backwards, chin facing the ceiling as your eyes fall onto snowy lashes, “gonna cum again— oh fuckfuckfuck,”

and despite his brutality, he shoots you a sweet smile, the contrast in his words versus his actions grand, “right behind you, baby.”

you cum, and hard . much harder than you had before. you gush your fluids down his piercing cock, your folds squeezing him tight as you release. you think your mind blanks for a minute, an orgasm so powerful, you fear your eyes would stay stuck at the back of your skull. you shiver in his embrace, the insatiable desire racking your body from top to bottom.

when he pulls out, you fall flat yet again onto your stomach, face first. you assume you look like a puddle of nothingness, your limbs spent from the overexhaustion. but still, you find yourself in a similar position to prior, as gojo leans over your body, a hand holding him up as the other works on his jerking him cum out. smart move, not finishing inside, though a weird feeling of disappointment sits in your stomach, swapping the fiery heat from your orgasm.

he sinks his teeth into your shoulders as you wince, emptying himself right onto your lower back. it runs hot and smooth into the dimples of your back, that you can’t help but stretch your limp arm towards the mess to collect the residue on your fingers. you pop them into your mouth, his taste still so familiar as he plops right at your side, face up.

there’s a thick silence that fills the sex scented room. you wonder what is going through his brain now that the lust demon that was half his ego had been taken care of. was he on the same page as you were? had he realized just how messy this could turn out? he’s too quiet for a man of his nature— and that terrified you shitless. no matter the outcome, you’re ready to kick him out. post nut clarity was a scary thing— it revealed the violent truth of how tempting the flesh could be, even with consequences on the line.

you want to beat him to it. the last thing you need on your consciousness is your ex boyfriend who’d you invited into your home a year after you broke up with him, leaving you. he seemed petty enough to do the eye for an eye shtick— it wasn’t too out of character for him.

with a heavy heart and sigh, you turn your head to the side where he lays comfortably. the words want to die in your throat, but your urge them out, the sooner the better, “you should—”

“no.” he interrupts, followed by a yawn.

you frown at that, brows scrunching as you insist that yet again, “you need to—”

“nah.” gojo cuts you off yet again, rolling onto his side. his dick falls limp onto your bed, and you don’t think about the mess it’s making. to be fair, you’d done far worse. and it was proven difficult to care about that mess when he brought a finger to play with your loose hairs, cerulean eyes zeroing in on them, “i’m tired. let’s get you cleaned up and go to bed.”

“you’re not listening to me.” you click your tongue, a little desperate to have him hear you. you’re scared to keep him around longer, because you know you’ll grow attached again and that already ended terribly once, and took you forever and a half to get over. he has to leave and right now, “you have to go.”

gojo hums at that. he stops the twirling of your hair, rather reluctantly, and finally meets your sharp gaze. he still looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky, “why?”

you narrow your eyes, “you know why,” you shouldn’t have to explain why two exes cozying up after indulging into each other was a bad idea. common sense, you figured, but was it common sense to have him over in the first place? a flurry of various emotions coursing over you laced with exhaustion had you overthinking like a motherfucker, “this was a bad idea.”

he trails his finger along the slope of your clenched jaw, and you don’t think about the fact it immediately relaxed at his touch. the longer he traced your skin, the longer he kept looking at you like that, you were wavering in your own logic. you’d both gotten what you wanted in the first place, so why was it he was still here? the rational decision would be to pretend this never happened and part ways again, but why was the thought of him locking the door behind him once again at your expense making you feel sick to your stomach?

when his finger lands at your pouty lips, he taps his index finger twice against the flesh. naturally, your pout deepens. his eyes flick from your mouth to your shying gaze, and his index swaps for his thumb. he runs the pad of his finger across the reddened surface, and his voice falls a few octaves lower, hushed for nobody else but you to hear, “you don’t want me to leave.”

you don’t.

he takes your silence as acceptance, and plants a soft kiss to your lips. it’s enough to rid your mind of its plaguing doubts in the meanwhile. and when his hand slides to cup at the back of your neck, ultimately deepening it, you can’t find it in you to care about the consequences for the time being. not when he was swallowing you whole like he was the one terrified to feel you slip from his fingers. you melt into him far too easily.

well. . . that was something you’d deal with in the morning.

tinder: 1, you: 0.

now can y’all stop calling me a deadbeat 🙎‍♂️

[unsiee]

dom!fem!reader

starry-eyed thinking about an anguished choso begging you to ride his face.

he’s on his knees, face-to-face with your glistening cunt, near salivating at the sheer closeness—the promise of such sweet, low-hanging fruit.

“pleaseee.” he whines, panting shallowly like a dog. whining like one, too. he brings his large hands up to grasp your thighs, squeezing them lightly and massaging in small circles as he watches your cunt twitch. “i need you. f-fuck i need you so bad.”

“i know, i know,” you coo. “but do you deserve it, cho’?” you level him with the meanest glare you can muster, bringing a curled finger beneath his chin and angling his head. “only good boys get to taste me.”

choso nods feverishly. blinks wildly as though he’s fighting back tears. “y-yes i deserve it. i’m… i’ve been a good boy.”

“have you?”

a whine. “yes.”

you card your fingers through choso’s hair and pull, a ragged moan trembling from within his throat. like the plucked string of a bass quavering. “good boys don’t take what they want, right?”

“r-right.” he groans. “please…”

you step a little closer, feeling choso’s quick breaths fanning against your skin. “so take what i give you, yeah? nothing more.”

and his lip begins to tremble with desire as you mount his face, hooking a leg over his broad shoulder, wringing his hair a little tighter for support. you grip it as though you are holding the reins to a mighty, wild stallion—and you suppose, in some humorous way, that you are. the dubiously proclaimed wrangler, to your needy, vulnerable pet.

and the second your pet tastes your cunt, he is a groaning, writhing mess. lets out a lengthy, broken whimper as you slowly rock back and forth across his mouth. warm tongue pressed flat against the centre of you.

“yes, cho’, just like that.” you throw your head back with a groan, yanking his hair just slightly. “you better stay still, l-like that.”

he moans into your cunt as you smother him. grinding your folds over his lips, his chin—the tip of his nose. coating him in your juices, watching as he eagerly drinks it down. as though it were the sweetest wine.

and like the good boy he promised he is—has been—choso just takes it. locks his neck, widens his mouth, does nothing to derive his own pleasure, focusing solely on yours—on being your good, little pet. your good, little toy. so you can get off and use him and find release as many times as you wish.

even if his pathetic cock is painfully straining against his briefs, a little patch of precum leaking from the top, he neglects himself. all for you! laps at your drooling cunt and noses your clit until you’re roughly tugging at his hair, rocking against his face, curling your toes in bliss as you cum on his face—all over his lips…

like a good boy, choso makes sure not a single drop goes to waste

[unsiee]

◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ the world around you melted into nothing.

it was slow at first—a subtle, creeping distortion, edges of reality bending and blurring so gradually that you hardly even noticed. the walls of the room seemed to ripple faintly, the furniture dissolving into nothing more than vague, shapeless forms. the floor beneath your feet felt less solid, the weight of your body lighter, almost buoyant.

and then—snap.

the entire world fractured into shimmering, broken light.

aizen's voice was the last thing you heard before it vanished entirely, low and soothing, smooth as silk, slipping into your ears like a soft murmur of warmth.

“shatter, kyōka suigetsu.”

your breath hitched softly, your lashes fluttering faintly as the illusion swept over you, wrapping you in its silken grip.

and suddenly, there was nothing else.

no room. no outside world. no past or future.

only him.

aizen was everywhere.

his voice was in your ears—low and calm, dark and heavy with quiet possession, soft as a whispered lullaby. his breath was against your throat—hot and damp, trailing over your skin in slow, deliberate pulses. his hands were on your body—smooth and warm, his fingers gliding over you in slow, possessive strokes, reverent and claiming.

the truth was, he hadn’t even touched you yet.

he was still standing on the other side of the room, perfectly still, his golden-brown eyes half-lidded, watching you with calm, unreadable detachment. his lips were faintly curved into that familiar, subtle smirk—soft and knowing, like he was already ten steps ahead of you.

his sword remained sheathed at his hip, his long, elegant fingers resting lightly against the hilt.

and yet, you were already trembling.

your legs were weak beneath you, your thighs clenching faintly, slickness already gathering between them. your breath was unsteady, chest rising and falling in uneven, shallow pants.

and he hadn’t even laid a finger on you.

not really.

the illusion of his hands was what you felt—his fingers gliding over your thighs, smooth and slow, thumbs dragging possessively over the sensitive skin. you could feel them—swear you could feel them—but he was still standing across the room, unmoving, watching you.

the hands on your body were nothing more than his illusion—a flawless trick of your senses, so real you could feel the heat of his skin, the faint scrape of his nails, the slow, deliberate drag of his fingertips down the inside of your thighs.

his breath—warm and damp—ghosted over the shell of your ear, even though his lips were nowhere near you.

“good girl,” his voice purred softly, dark and low, as if he were speaking directly against your skin.

your breath caught sharply in your throat at the sound of his voice—the praise—warm and rich, curling through you like syrup, dripping into your veins.

“you don’t need to think about anything else,” he murmured softly, his tone calm and velvety, every word smooth and deliberate, measured and precise.

you shivered faintly at the sound, your breath stuttering into a sharp, uneven gasp.

“there is nothing else.”

his voice was lower this time, softer—so soft it was almost a whisper, slipping into your ears like a faint lullaby, sweet and possessive.

“only me.”

your legs trembled violently, your knees weak, barely holding you upright.

you could feel his fingers—his illusion—gliding lower, spreading your thighs wider, his hands large and warm against your skin.

you let out a soft, strangled gasp when you felt the slow, deliberate drag of his fingers between your legs, parting your slick folds with a slow, teasing stroke.

except—it wasn’t real.

he was still standing across the room.

but the illusion was flawless.

his fingers moved in slow, measured strokes, gliding over your slickness, smearing it messily over your swollen clit with featherlight caresses. the phantom touch was so perfect—warm and damp, slick with your own arousal—you could barely breathe.

your thighs clenched faintly around the false touch, your breath coming in short, uneven pants, your head lolling weakly to the side.

you could feel the wet heat of his tongue now, dragging slowly over the soft, sensitive skin of your inner thigh, trailing upward in long, lazy strokes.

your breath caught weakly in your throat, and you whined softly—desperate and needy, your hips bucking faintly into nothing.

“so needy,” aizen’s voice purred softly, and you swore you could feel his lips curve into a slow, amused smirk against your skin, even though he was still across the room.

his tongue traced a slow, deliberate path upward, dragging over your slick folds, flicking softly over your swollen clit.

you sobbed at the sudden jolt of pleasure, your hips jerking violently, your legs trembling.

but there was no tongue. no lips.

it was all in your head.

his voice was in your ear again—low and smooth, dark with soft, quiet command.

“don’t think.”

the breathless whimper you let out was broken and weak, your voice cracking, your hands clenching weakly at the sheets beneath you.

“don’t even try.”

the phantom tongue was gone now—replaced by his fingers, pressing deep inside you. two, then three, thick and slick, curling upward with slow, deliberate precision, dragging over the sensitive spot inside you with every steady thrust.

your walls fluttered weakly around the illusion, your thighs trembling violently, your breath coming in short, broken sobs.

his voice was so low—so smooth—it felt like warm honey dripping into your ear.

“let go.”

your eyes fluttered weakly, your vision hazy, your entire body trembling with heat, your stomach clenching sharply.

and when you came—fuck—your entire body jolted violently, your back arching sharply, your legs trembling, slick dripping messily between your thighs.

but he didn’t stop.

the phantom fingers stayed inside you, curling and thrusting, dragging over your sensitive walls.

and you could still feel his breath—hot and damp—against your throat, his lips soft and warm, trailing slow, possessive kisses along your skin.

you could feel him everywhere.

his hands on your hips, keeping you still. his tongue dragging slowly over your sweat-slicked skin, lapping at the salt. his voice—low and calm—purring against your ear, dark and soothing.

your legs were already trembling, your body overstimulated, but he didn’t stop.

“again,” he murmured softly, his voice barely more than a low, silken whisper.

and you did.

again and again, he wrung you out—dragging you over the edge until your voice was broken and weak, nothing but soft, breathless whimpers, your entire body trembling.

you came again—your walls clenching helplessly around the illusion of his fingers, your thighs trembling violently.

and still, he didn’t stop.

his voice was the only thing in your ears.

his touch was the only thing on your skin.

he was the only thing in your mind.

his name was the only thing on your lips—weak and slurred, breathless and broken, falling from your tongue over and over again, gasped like a helpless, needy prayer.

and the only thing he gave you in return was a slow, knowing smirk.

because there was nothing else.

there never would be.

only him.

[unsiee]

◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ ichigo was already leaning back against the headboard when you finally crawled into his lap—his legs spread slightly, his arms sprawled loosely at his sides, one hand resting lazily against his thigh, the other slung over the back of the pillow. his shirt was already discarded somewhere on the floor, and the room was dimly lit—just the faint orange glow of the sunset filtering through the blinds, spilling warm and drowsy over his skin.

he was watching you with half-lidded eyes—soft and heavy-lashed, his amber gaze still faintly hazy with the residual heat of the lazy makeout session that had left both of you flushed and breathless.

his lips were faintly swollen from the press of your mouth, his hair slightly tousled from your fingers threading through it, and his chest was still rising and falling in slow, uneven breaths.

he was already hard—his cock straining faintly against his sweatpants, the outline thick and prominent beneath the fabric. you could see how heavy it was, how the weight of it pressed thick and hot against his thigh, the faintest damp patch already clinging to the front of the fabric where his tip had leaked slightly.

your mouth went dry.

your thighs clenched faintly where you were straddling him, and your fingers curled slightly into the hem of his sweats, your hands trembling faintly with nervous excitement.

“can i…?” your voice came out soft, barely more than a whisper, thick with anticipation, your breath catching slightly in your throat.

his eyes glimmered faintly, half-lidded and lazy, and his lips curved faintly into a slow, lopsided smirk.

“yeah,” he murmured softly, his voice low and throaty, slightly rough around the edges, still faintly hoarse from the earlier kisses. “go ahead.”

your stomach tightened sharply at the sound of his voice—soft and warm and so patient—and you slowly hooked your fingers into the waistband of his sweats, tugging them down with slightly clumsy, trembling hands.

his cock was already flushed and heavy, thick and hard, his tip glistening faintly with precum, the head flushed a deep, needy pink. it twitched slightly when the cool air hit it, the exposed skin faintly glistening in the low light, and your thighs clenched at the sight of it.

you swallowed thickly, your fingers trembling slightly, and slowly curled your hand around him.

he let out a low, soft grunt when your fingers first wrapped around his shaft—his hips shifting slightly, his breath catching faintly.

but then you just…froze.

your grip was loose, tentative, and your fingers barely even squeezed, unsure of how much pressure to apply. you gave a few weak, experimental tugs, your hand moving in slow, clumsy strokes—your fingers still trembling slightly with uncertainty, your touch hesitant.

he let out a low, breathless chuckle, the sound warm and faintly teasing, and you glanced up at him, your face flushing hot with embarrassment.

“what?” you mumbled weakly, your voice barely more than a whisper, your brows furrowing faintly.

his lips curved into a lazy, lopsided smirk, his amber eyes glinting faintly with amused affection.

“nothin’,” he murmured softly, his voice low and slightly breathless, his eyes glimmering faintly with mirth. “just… kinda cute how confused you look.”

heat flared violently in your chest, and your face flushed even hotter, your fingers stiffening slightly around him.

“shut up,” you muttered weakly, your voice barely more than a grumble, but you couldn’t hide the faint, flustered waver in your voice.

he let out another low, soft chuckle, and his hand slowly lifted, curling loosely over yours.

“here,” he murmured softly, his voice low and warm, his breath fanning faintly over your face. “like this.”

he slowly guided your hand—his fingers firm but gentle, curling over yours, shifting your grip slightly, his movements slow and deliberate.

his hand flexed faintly, adjusting the pressure of your grip, making you squeeze him just a fraction tighter, and his breath hitched slightly, his cock twitching faintly in your hand.

“yeah—just like that,” he murmured softly, his voice low and hoarse, slightly rougher now, his lips parting faintly with a soft exhale.

he guided your movements slowly—showing you how to stroke him properly, the steady, fluid drag of your fist over his cock, slick and smooth.

“mmh, yeah, good,” he rasped softly, his voice cracking faintly with pleasure, his hips jerking slightly against your grip, chasing the slow, steady friction.

your fingers were still trembling slightly, still clumsy and unsure, but his hand was still over yours, guiding your movements—slow, patient, reassuring.

“tighter,” he murmured softly, his voice low and rough, his breath catching slightly.

his fingers curled faintly over yours again, making you squeeze him a little harder, and he let out a low, heavy groan, his hips shifting faintly.

the sound was low and throaty, rough and breathless, spilling from his lips in a sharp, broken rasp.

“fuck—just like that,” he groaned softly, his voice cracking faintly with pleasure, his fingers tightening slightly over yours.

you slowly grew bolder—your grip more firm, your strokes more confident, more sure, the slick, steady drag of your hand over his cock making his breath hitch sharply in his throat.

his voice was low and throaty now, his moans spilling out in rough, breathless groans, his chest heaving slightly with every sharp, uneven gasp.

his thighs flexed faintly beneath you, his hips jerking slightly into your grip, seeking more friction, and his breath came in short, uneven pants—his voice breaking into low, ragged whimpers.

“shit—baby, yeah, just like that—” his voice was barely more than a rough, broken rasp, low and hoarse, cracking slightly at the edges.

his cock was twitching violently in your grip, thick and slick with precum, throbbing heavily against your palm, his entire body trembling faintly with pleasure.

his head tipped back slightly against the headboard, his throat exposed, his jaw slack, his lips parted slightly with low, heavy gasps.

“fuck—fuck—” his voice was hoarse and cracking now, raw with pleasure, his entire body trembling faintly.

and when he came, it was with a sharp, strangled gasp—his hips jerking violently, his cock pulsing hot and heavy in your grip, thick, hot ropes of cum spilling over your fingers, sticky and warm, splattering messily over his stomach.

his chest was still heaving slightly when you slowly stilled your movements, your fingers still trembling slightly around him, slick with his release.

his breath was low and uneven, still slightly ragged, and he let out a slow, soft chuckle, his lips curving faintly into a lazy, satisfied smirk.

his half-lidded amber eyes glimmered faintly with warm amusement, and he glanced at you, his voice low and throaty, still slightly breathless.

“see?” he rasped softly, his lips curving faintly into a slow, lazy grin, his voice teasing but affectionate. “told you you’d get the hang of it.”