Tw - Non/con, Manipulation, Mentions Of Breeding, And Unbalanced Power Dynamics.

tw - non/con, manipulation, mentions of breeding, and unbalanced power dynamics.

Snow Leopard!Satoru, who's ecstatic the day his owner, Suguru, brings you home. He's the pinnacle of a spoiled pet, constantly showered in toys and treats and affection, but his owner's a busy man, and he tends to sulk when left home alone. He's had other companions before, another leopard hybrid who nearly killed him before being released back into the wild and a black panther who somehow proved to be a worse influence on Satoru than Satoru was on her, but you're supposed to be more permanent solution, another hosuepet to keep him company when Suguru can't. You're a sweet little housecat, all wide-eyes and raised ears, but still, Suguru wouldn't be surprised if you're begging to go back to the shelter less than an hour after meeting your new roommate.

Snow Leopard!Satoru, who falls in love with you immediately. Suguru practically has to keep him in a chokehold while you explore your new home, eventually curling up on your new bed. Satoru's on top of you as soon as he gets loose, purring obnoxiously while he runs his bristled tongue over your cheek. Suguru's half-convinced that your first day's going to end with bloody claws and bandages, but you only nuzzle into his chest and knead at the blankets underneath you. Satoru's a difficult cat to put up with, and Suguru's relieved that you, at least, find him tolerable.

Snow Leopard!Satoru, who's absolutely massive compared to you. The tips of your pointed ears barely reach his collarbones, and your wrist is only as thick as his fluffy tail. His favorite hobby quickly becomes carrying you from room to room despite your softly mewled protests, and he's not happy unless he's pressed against you as closely as possible. He used to force himself into Suguru's lap whenever possible, but now, he's unbearable unless you're sitting pretty in his. He doesn't even complain when you lose your temper and dig your little fangs (barely half the size of his - a poor imitation of a real predator's) into his arm, just grinning as he tugs at your ears and pinches your cheeks. He's not exactly a wild animal, but he's still at the top of his food chain. You're not quite a mouse, but you might as well be, compared to him.

Snow Leopard!Satoru, who's calling you his mate after less than a full month. You don't know what it means, often parroting it back as more of a question than a term of endearment, and Suguru just brushes it off as Satoru being deliberately irritating. He keeps it up, though. even after you start refusing to respond to it.

Snow Leopard!Satoru, who starts introducing you to new "games". You know you don't stand a chance against him, but somehow, he always manages to goad you into roughhousing, into squirming as he pins you under his full weight. He likes to dangle things above your head, to see how long it takes your instincts to get the best of you before your chest is pressed against his and you're pouting so adorably as you jump and bat at his hand. Sometimes, when you fall asleep mid-grooming session, he'll let his mouth wander lower than it should, and you'll wake up to his tongue lapping over your chest, his face buried between your thighs in a way that leaves you teary-eyed and warm. You've tried to tell Suguru, but you always get embarrassed and end up mumbling something as vague as 'Satoru's being mean to me, again.' In the end, Satoru only ever gets a slap on the wrist and a new reason to tease you, next time Suguru turns his back.

Snow Leopard!Satoru, who fucks you whenever Suguru isn't home. He planned on waiting for your first heat (delayed by your shelter suppressants and the stress of a new home), and he knows he's not supposed to, but he just can't get enough of having your smaller body curled up underneath his, your tail thrashing from side to side as he lazily rolls his hips against yours. You tend to whine, at first, to go on and on about how weird it feels and how much it hurts, but as soon he gets his cock inside of you, all those complaints tend to go away. It's almost funny, how easily your stupid little kitty mind gets all hazy and cockdrunk. He always loves you, but he loves you most when you're drooling and purring for his cum, begging him to breed you properly between hitched moans.

Snow Leopard!Satoru, who's not even mad when Suguru catches him bouncing your half-conscious, fucked-out body on his cock. He wants to be the best possible mate for you, and he couldn't do that if he wasn't willing to show you off <3

❝ ONLY A FOOL FOR YOU ❞ — ꒰ zen’in naoya ꒱

summary — after a nasty break up, you decide the best way to get over somebody is by getting under someone else.

OR — zen’in naoya is a rebound (and he's big mad about it) | wc — 6.5k

content/tw — SMUT, fuckboy!naoya, yandere!naoya, fem!reader, shy reader, introvert reader, pet names (sweetheart, 'adjective' girl, etc.), canon divergence: modern au, pwp, nsfw, size kink, degradation kink (it's naoya), praise kink, masochism, dacryphilia, impact play, chivalrous themes (or misogyny!), possessive behavior, haters to lovers (literally), oral fixation, gagging (a lot of gagging idc), anal play, squirting, creampie, a li’l bit of voyeurism, cum eating, threw in a stray daddy kink bc i am who i am — idc man this is just filth w a thin plot + greenhair!naoya supremecy!!!

a/n — honestly, this is really just me being horny on main for my no. 1 piece of shit, problematic fave (aka my actual husband) yw ♡ lmk what you think!!! comments & reblogs would be gr8 feedback ✧ ˚ · .

────✧.*

B—ZZZ, (b—zzz, b—zzz).

You gasp, head thrown back, a sharp pain tugging at your scalp that quickly bleeds into the spine-tingling pleasure you're already neck deep in, intensifying it. Your trembling hand pauses in its reach for your vibrating phone — to decline the call, choosing instead to clutch desperately at the wrinkled sheets below in search of something to ground yourself to as your senses are overwhelmed.

The heavy hand pressing down on your spine, right between stiff shoulder blades, bars you from raising up. That large palm with your hair wound tightly around it is a heady reminder of where you are— 

B—ZZZ, (b—zzz, b—zzz).

What you're doing. 

Who you're with.

B—ZZZ, (b—zzz, b—zzz).

A particularly deep thrust has the thick cock sliding into you roughly pounding at your cervix, and you keen at the feel. It's a pleasurable pain that you're gagging for now, but you know you'll be nauseated by the deep ache the sure-to-be-bruised barrier will house as a lingering reminder of your choices later.

A sigh of relief is punched out of your lungs, breaths stilted and short — you're getting light-headed without a proper moment of respite to just breathe, with the aggressive backshots you're taking when your phone stops buzzing, the caller finally giving up. 

The strong arm banded under your hips, keeping your shaking legs propped up — making sure you're presented just the way he likes: face down, ass up — flexes and suddenly your lower body's being lifted higher, forcing you to angle your back into a deeper arch for him. 

With your breasts and shoulders pinned to the bed, and your bent knees dangling several inches above the mattress, you have no choice but to let the big brute have his way with you. 

He won't leave you hanging, high and dry. No, he's intent on wringing you out, milking you for all you're worth until he's had more than his fill.

He's already made that clear if the spreading wet patch on the sheets wasn't indication enough. The way he'd had your thighs clenching around his head earlier was a pleasant surprise, the cool metal of his ear piercings on your bare skin a dizzying reminder that he wasn't the man calling your phone.

He'd seemed the selfish in bed type, when you'd spotted him staring without shame at the bar — deep green hair slicked back to show off sharp eyes, heavy chain glinting around his thick neck, and a smug look that said he knew he was a gift to humankind. 

The type of guy that got off in that way that left women feeling used and deeply unsatisfied, maybe even dirty. The kind to be chasing his own pleasure with a single-minded focus. 

His personality also left much to be desired when he'd approached you, but he was an annoyingly pretty face that dressed well — something you could work with when he wasn't talking and fucking up the vibes. 

It didn't take a genius to figure out he had to be just as easy on the eyes underneath all the thin layers of expensive, fitted clothes.

As you hurtle towards another mind-numbing orgasm while he's yet to have his first— 

Well...

That blatant fact alone has you idly reconsidering some prior misconceptions in between stuttered breaths and gasping moans.

You've been wrong about a lot of things in life, lately. 

The ringing starts back up, constant and unrelenting — like the large body towering over yours.

B—ZZZ (b—zzz, b—zzz).

"Answer," his low voice growls into your ear, broad, sweaty chest bowed over your back as sinful hips swirl tightly against the plush swell of your ass. A nip to one of your own ear piercings has you yelping, his sharp teeth tugging the jewelry before rough lips are pressing to your jaw in an open-mouthed kiss — wet and sloppy, just like the heat between your legs. "Tell him you're busy—"

B—ZZZ (b—zzz, b—zzz).

You're vaguely aware that you're babbling, eyes scrunched shut and brows furrowed in dumbstruck bliss, as he bullies your poor little cunt with his fat cock, brutal thrusts, and unrelenting pace. 

B—ZZZ (b—zzz, b—zzz).

You hadn't realized what you were saying, didn't know you were saying anything at all — nothing that could be understood, at least (or so your hazy mind thought) — until a harsh smack to your flank has you crying out in surprise, legs kicking in the air and taut arms scrambling to try to escape the searing sting. 

He keeps you pinned firmly in place, lower body lifted just high enough that he is your only true grounding source, with strong hands and even stronger arms on your body. 

You'd told him no. 

Repeatedly. 

He didn't like being told 'no', and especially not by you.

B—ZZZ (b—zzz, b—zzz).

"Tell him or I will," Naoya hisses, sharp teeth biting at your cheek, before leaning back on his knees, resting on his heels as his narrow hips and muscular thighs flex behind you — working himself deeper and deeper inside your slippery warmth, as if he hadn't already burrowed several layers under your skin with the first mind-shattering orgasm he'd given you much earlier in the night.

B—ZZZ (b—zzz, b—zzz).

You blindly reach, heated face pressed into his bedsheets to muffle your bliss-filled sobs — soaking in his masculine scent, drowning in him him him. You tap recklessly at your phone with shaky little clicks of your manicured nails against the screen until you hear a harsh intake of breath as you bring the device up to your ear.

You and the caller speak at the same time:

"—inally. You there, babygirl?"

"H-heh—ello?"

There's a sigh that sounds undeservingly relieved on the other end, and you hear the rustling of fabric in one ear and the depraved sounds of your slick and bare skin meeting Naoya's in the other. You choke back a moan when he slowly grinds his pelvis against your ass again, hips angled just right where his tip catches against that spot—

"—iss you, babe—"

"S—S’toru," you stutter, trying to tamp down the sound of your building ecstasy and push the less-appealing exasperation you feel at this happening when you're so close to another orgasm into your voice. 

You only succeed in sounding winded, the syllables of his name slurring together as Naoya releases you from his domineering hold — pulling all the way out (you ignore his amused huff at the protesting whine you have to muffle into his mattress with warm cheeks and wet lashes) and lunging forward to grab you by the waist and thigh. 

He flips you flat onto your back in an easy and rapid, fluid movement that leaves you staring, dazed and a little light-headed at the sudden change, up at his ceiling.

"You... ’kay?" Satoru asks, genuinely concerned, though his voice is thick and slow in a way that reminds you of syrup. He's been drinking. Of course he has. He wouldn't be calling you at such a late hour, otherwise. 

Not now, at least.

"Mm—hah!" you bite down on your bottom lip, eyes glossy as you stare up at Naoya in a silent plea for mercy. He declines with a dark brow raised at you before continuing his ministrations. "Mmhm."

"—hat's good. I'm... I'm glad."

Naoya's smug as he looks down his nose at you. His narrow eyes command your attention, pink lips tilted up at one corner at how well you obey, as he rubs the leaky head of his thick, ruddy cock against your clit. He's teasing you, dipping just the tip into your weeping cunt with every pass up and down your soaked folds.

The brief shallow stretch and that awful accompanying emptiness is already driving you crazy, but when he massages his sticky pre into your puffy clit — applies it right from the source — immediately after? Again and again?

You might actually have to be institutionalized.

It's taking everything in you to silence your moans and whimpers while your ex is drunkenly rambling on the other end of the call you were forced to answer. He'd be pissed if he knew. You'd never hear the end of it even though he was the one that cheated.

"I... I really miss you, baby. I know you don't want to hear it—"

Naoya gives your poor, overstimulated bundle of nerves a brief respite as he fists himself with a few quick, tight pumps to redistribute your combined fluids on his skin. 

It's a short-lived mercy, and you choke on air when he suddenly slaps his length against your cunt. He's so mean, making sure your clit takes the brunt of the impact — the swollen little nub throbbing as your damp thighs try to snap shut, but his own broad legs are keeping you spread wide open for him.

He can't help the low chuckle that escapes when you go doe-eyed at the hot, pulsating sensation of pleasure-pain coursing through your body along with your rushing blood, a forearm thrown across your flushed face as you muffle your tiny yelp into your skin.

"—am so sorry. I made a mistake. I want you back. I need—"

Your breathing hitches as Naoya furiously rubs his angry red tip against your aching clit. You can feel the slick sliding from your hole, feel where it pools beneath your ass in the growing wet patch on his expensive, wrinkled sheets. You'd be shocked if you hadn't already soaked through to his mattress.

"—wanna try again, babygirl. Please, I can't lose y—"

Naoya's lazy smirk and the slow appraisal of his eyes as they travel from your flustered expression down the length of your body — locking on to where he's coating you in his arousal as much as you are him — sends another rush of searing heat through you. 

You can't help the desperate 'please' you let out when Naoya dips into your cunt again, teasing your little hole with the promise of being split open and stretched wide wide wide on his thick—

"Yeah?" Both men breathe, one laced with surprise and the other arrogance. You don't know how to feel when the sound of their voices combined nearly has you creaming on the tip of Naoya's dick.

"Y-you'd like that?"

"You like that?"

You nod at Naoya, willing him on silently. He doesn't like that. He lets you know, loud and clear, by the way he slaps his cock against your poor little pussy again and again and again — not stopping even when your small hand shoots down between your bodies, clutching at his wrist desperately as a choked sob escapes your lips.

"Shhh—don't cry, baby. I—I'm happy, too—so ha—"

"Heh, ya cryin’?" Naoya sneers, lips curling back as he rubs his tip along your clit and slaps his cock against your cunt — rubs and slaps, rubs and slaps— "That mouth workin’ or do I need to fix it for you, hm?"

Satoru's too busy bawling and thanking you profusely (for what?) on the other line to notice another man's voice on your end.

Your pretty nails dig into the tendons along his wrist, sure to leave battle wounds he'll wear proudly (a sign of another fight won), as you take your eyes off him to glance at your phone. You're trying to mute the call when a large hand grips your chin roughly, forcing your eyes back onto Naoya's unamused face. 

He keeps your gazes locked as you feel his cock-head prod at your entrance — you can feel the corded muscles of his thighs flexing where he has your own soft legs spread on top of them — and you whine at the stretch of him sinking in, but it's not enough when he stops at just the tip. 

You try to roll your hips, using his broad thighs as leverage to grind down onto him, but he's quick to pin your lower body down with his free hand — the grip on your jaw tightening as he tuts his tongue at you. 

His deep voice is pitched low when he speaks, and you know he can feel the way your pussy clenches at the sound of it by the way he pauses — pink tongue darting out to lick at his lips before that lopsided smirk tugs at them. 

"Aht, aht—use your words, sweetheart."

Naoya takes the phone from your hand, that lazy smirk bleeding into a snide grin as he sees the call's still connected, and carelessly tosses it behind him where it lands somewhere near the foot of the bed.

Far enough away to not bother him, but still plenty close for the dumbass on the other line to get the hint.

He tries again. "Words, angel. This little cunt's not gonna fuck itself."

"It coul—AH!"

He chuckles as your spread legs kick out around him the moment he bottoms out in one mean, deep thrust. He cups a hand behind his pierced ear, tilting his head as he mocks you. "’m sorry, what was that?"

"F-fuck," you whimper, chest heaving as your eyes water. You're so full, you can feel him — like he's in your throat, he's so deep. He could choke you like this, you think. It'd be a noble way to go. Death by dick.

A manic sort of look passes over his face as he eyes where you're connected, big hand pinning you by the hip now sliding across your soft skin until he's pressing on the outline of his cock buried deep — very much visible with how he's got your body angled up for him. 

"Takin’ me so well—" he glides out of you, barely has the head kissing your entrance, before snapping his hips forward — sweat-slick skin on skin clapping — with his heavy palm never straying from where it rests on top of your womb. He grunts as he bottoms out, grinds up into you, cock nudging his hand while his fingers try to grip himself through your pliant flesh.

"The last guy never fucked you like this, huh? Didn't reach this deep?"

Sparkling tears stream down your face as you sob out your pleasure, empty little head shaking side to side as you babble — mostly incoherent nothings: s-so good, moremoremore, pl—ease! — but it's the breathless 'n-no, n–nev—never!' that he chokes out of you with a mean push down on your bulging lower abdomen as he's buried deep, tip banging on your cervix, that has him smiling like he's just happy to be here.

"Daddy knows," he soothes, rough hands groping and sliding all over your body until they're grabbing at the juncture of your knees — broad chest pressing tight against the backs of your thighs as he pushes forward, leaning his full weight onto you while shoving your legs up to rest by your ears in one motion. 

Naoya has you neatly folded, your pretty eyes rolling back when you're unable to do anything except take, and oh does he give. 

He moans right in your face with cruel satisfaction at how your sweet little cunt's sucking him in. The lewd squelching as your arousal grows at being manhandled and fucked dumb like it's nothing is such a tell, and you don't even know it. 

Your small hands are covering your face, trying to hide the deep blush spanning cheek to cheek and the obscene expressions his cock's ripping from you. Your muffled voice begs sweetly for him — so polite, too, with 'please' slipping off your tongue so easily; it must be your mantra.

You're soaking wet, flooding his thighs all the way down to his sheets with every deep push in and every slow pull out. It's all for him. Just for him. His lips curl back as he taunts you (because he's still Naoya, after all):

"Poor baby, gonna fuck you right. Don't worry. A real man's gotcha."

────✧.*

"H—hah—arder!"

Naoya pauses, a single brow cocked high, before he swings his hand forward again — warm palm aiming for that exact same spot on your ass he's been slapping relentlessly for the last few minutes now. He licks his lips, smirking at how you squeal in pain yet you keep pushing your hips back into his hand like you can't get enough.

"Harder," you whine again, a little desperate as you shift on your knees — wiggling your ass up up up at him until he has a good view of your empty little hole dripping for him, from him. "Pl—ease, f–fuck."

He obliges, what a lady thinks she wants she should get and all, with another heavy hand against your red cheek — the skin hot to the touch from the blood-rush. He's rewarded with a wanton moan sucked into your lungs.

There's already the beginnings of a bruise, in the shape of his large handprint outlined in red, forming on your tender skin.

You'll be sore for days — reminded of him anytime you sit — maybe even weeks while the bruises take their time (slow like syrup) to heal. 

Naoya swears low, almost breathless, as he watches your spasming hole push your cream out. All that just from some slaps. It makes him giddy. He catches it with the flushed tip of his throbbing cock, doesn't let even a drop go to waste when he smears it all over your puffy pussy like he's painting a pretty picture — one only he can see. 

"What a slut," he breathes, the insult nearly reverent, lining himself back up with your tight entrance, narrow eyes glued to the way your lips stretch to accommodate the wide girth of him. "Getting off on havin’ your ass all bruised up like a little whore. That what you are, huh? Whore." 

You mewl into your forearms, shaking your head side to side in vacant protest at how mean he sounds — mind blank of anything but pleasure-pain, pleasure-pain, pleasure-pain—

CRACK!

You gasp, fingers scrambling to grip the pillow ahead of you — burying your face deep — to muffle your shrill scream as Naoya begins treating your other cheek to the same, brutal smacks that has its twin aching. 

You can't help but to press back into him, riding that wave of mindless bliss with a bite, sliding your cunt further down onto his dick until he's plugging you up — balls deep — your little whines breathless and choked as he continues his assault on your soft body. 

For every stinging impact, your body jolts forward — tight walls dragging up the long length of him, stuttering in morse code around his firm heat. 

If you were more lucid, you would have noticed the way he twitches inside of you every time your walls pulsed — as if it were trying to send a message back.

For every diffusing swipe of his warm palm on your burning skin, you press backwards — the arch of your delicate spine more prominent as you bounce along his dick, drooling little pussy swallowing him up whole. 

The greedy way you fuck yourself back onto him has Naoya biting his bottom lip to keep steady when all he feels is you — your soft skin, your slippery wet warmth, the way you body gives while his takes. It has his head spinning, dizzy with lust and want.

"F—UCK," Naoya groans, deep voice rattling, head thrown back — jaw slack, as he grinds his hips flush against your fever-warm cheeks, cock digging deep to hit that spot that has you squealing out for him punctuated with breathless giggles — so stupid from how good he's fucking you. 

He hits that same spot over and over and over again, your hitching cries spurring him on like music to his ears. "T-take it—j-just like that—HAH, fuck. Fuck. Y’look so good like this."

He grips your bruised ass, using his red handprints as a guide, and spreads you open — sharp eyes glazing as he watches the way his cock grows creamier, whiter at the base, with every harsh thrust into your puffy cunt. 

He licks his lips, eyes flickering up a fraction to your puckered little hole — a feral grin forming at how lonely it looks, empty and wanting. 

It winks up at him — tiny thing just asking for it, he swears.

He shifts a hand along your plush ass, thumbing at where the two of you are connected in a lewd display — moaning at the feel of his firm length splitting your pliant little body open, collecting your combined fluids with back and forth swipes along your stuffed seam until his thumb is positively dripping.

He hums, the growing pitch of your little whines, soft giggles, and breathless moans egging him on, and he keeps your cheeks spread wide as he rubs his coated thumb along your tight little ring. You suck in a sharp breath, puckered hole spasming at the sudden attention, and he gives you no time to protest as he presses the tip of his biggest, thickest finger against your rim until it yields — working more in until he's got it notched deep, down to the knuckle. 

That's all it takes, really, to have you creaming his cock — tight little walls clenching around him until it gets a touch too snug for him to move properly. 

He settles for grinding his hips in a tight seal against yours, swirling his dick around and churning your insides until you're a babbling, drooling mess under him at the overstimulation as he makes you ride out your orgasm with more pleasure. 

You'd said harder, begged for more (even said please), and who was he to deny a woman? He was a gentleman, after all. Raised proper. 

He uses his thumb in your ass and his cock in your cunt to keep your hips propped up, hunching over you to shove two fingers deep into your open mouth — laughing meanly when you gag on your moan as he tries to reach down your throat. 

He noses along your neck and jawline, humming in contentment when your spit-slick lips wrap around his thick fingers — little tongue curling around them as your cheeks hollow out on a suck.

"Good girl," Naoya coos, and then he's the one choking — a low swear stuck in his throat — at how your still-spasming pussy and ass clench tightly around him at the praise. 

He breaks the seal of your lips, grinning at the amount of spit already leaking out and down your chin, to hook your jaw below your tongue. He hisses as he rises back up, tall on his knees as his hips and thighs flex. 

His fingers are occupying every hole his dick can't, and it's still not enough for him.

Naoya drags you up by the mouth, narrow shoulders against his pecs as you keep that delicious arch for him — poor thing still trying to run from the pleasure you were begging for earlier. He shifts the thumb in your puckered hole, swiveling it around until he can get a better grasp on your ass cheek. 

He uses that new grip to pull you further onto his cock, long fingers pushing down your throat to gag you when you scream and try to scramble off of him as his cock-head nudges deep deep deep—

"Gonna gush on my cock, too, pretty thing?" His voice is gruff, breath warm against the cool metal of your ear piercings. You can't answer with the way he fucks the very breath you need out of your lungs with each slow, deep thrust upwards. "Wanna wash all that cream down these heavy balls, huh? You gonna clean me up after I fill you full, little girl?"

You gag yourself on his fingers as you try to nod your head eagerly, tears spilling down your face as he tickles the back of your throat, drool dripping from your chin and down to your bite mark covered tits. 

"Mmph—mm–mmhm!" is the best you can give him.

He'll take it.

And your womb.

He hooks his fingers under your tongue again, letting your gasping, broken cries ring out into his bedroom as he pummels your pussy with reckless abandon. He wiggles his thumb every now and then for good measure; he doesn't want you forgetting that he's everywhere inside of you right now. He feels his balls tighten and he grunts, sharp teeth biting down on the juncture of your neck as he presses in deep one last time—

"O-oh! Oh f-f—uck!" You squeal as your thighs shake violently, spread wide around his own, his hips grinding up into you as he cums inside — cock pressing hard and deep into that one spot that has your vision whiting out as you gush around him, soaking his lap and the sheets directly below.

"Good girl," Naoya praises, voice deep on a groan, head tossed back.

Your own head falls back along his sternum as breathless, satisfied giggles spill from your lips, basking in the buzzing afterglow of such an intense orgasm, before you're back to sucking languidly around his long fingers until he pulls them free. 

You don't have time to whine at the loss when he's nudging your chin up to catch your mouth with his own.

It's a wet and messy kiss, lips moving and tongues lapping until you're gasping for air — tugging his hungry mouth away from yours with a harsh yank of his hair. He hums, licking his lips, eyes hooded low and cheeks flushed as he looks down at you. 

He maintains eye contact as he slowly pulls his thumb free, kissing the furrow of your brows as you wince at the sting and sudden emptiness. He kneads your tender ass, as if in apology, before pressing you forward with a hand between your shoulders. You gasp when he pulls out, still half-hard, at the rush of fluid leaking from your stretched hole.

He tsks, spit-soaked fingers swiping along your drenched folds to scoop his cum — rough pads shoving it all back deep inside of your warmth in a way that has you breathless and feeling hot all over again. He doesn't stop until he's satisfied, patting your glazed, swollen cunt softly once he's done. 

Curious as to what he'll do next, you tip your head over your shoulder just in time to watch him suck his fingers clean, tongue lapping between the webbing to catch what wouldn't fit in his mouth.

You swear weakly, doe eyes glossy, at the sight. He smirks, wiggling the two glistening fingers at you in a little wave.

"Don't be jealous, I have something else for you t’ suck on."

The way his muscular arm draws your eyes — bulging bicep flexing, forearms vascular with such an intense pump — to where his hand grips at the wide base of his cock coated in your cream and his seed has you swallowing down the pool of saliva in your mouth. 

He beckons with those same two fingers crooking at you, eyes heavy with satisfaction.

"Come clean daddy up."

You're quick to listen, shuffling around in a tangle of lethargic limbs and damp sheets to crawl over and rest between his knees. He laughs at your eagerness, smoothing your sweat-damp hair away from your face, collecting it all into a nice tail to grip in one hand.

He hisses, a bit sensitive but enjoying himself nontheless, as you kitten lick at his slit — collecting most of the mess with a curl of your little tongue around his tip. 

Your lips wrap around him — just the tip, of course (you're a mean one, too) — and you suck his head clean, only popping off with a wet sound once it's shiny with your spit.

You hum in delight, small fist pumping along his re-inflated shaft, at the sinful taste of your combined orgasms, an idle part of you thinking how you could easily get used to the salty sweet tang. 

You lick a thick stripe clean from the base of his length up to the tip, following the pulsing vein all the way, and playfully show Naoya your cum-coated tongue before you swallow it down. 

His clenched jaw drops with a deep groan, hand full of hair tugging your head back — narrow eyes flaring as you moan at the sting on your scalp, glassy eyes slipping shut as you savor—

Your eyes snap open in surprise when he spits into your open mouth, warm and wet, with no warning. 

Your lips snap shut, throat constricting on a swallow out of instinct, before he can even command it. 

That seems to please him because he hums, low and almost like a big cat purring, with a stupid, self-satisfied smile on his pink face. The hand holding your hair tightens as his cock bobs, abs flexing, in a dead giveaway to how much he had liked that.

You're about to suck him down when something catches your attention, a small frown tugging at your lips as you glance over towards the foot of the bed. 

Your phone's laying in the tangle of sheets, black screen up. There's a persistent hum, like a bug flying around your head, that sounds loud in the sudden quiet.

Your skin prickles with uneasy awareness though your mind's much too fucked out to focus on what that might mean. 

Were you actually hearing your ex's voice or were you just having auditory hallucinations from the lack of blood-flow to your brain? 

You're not all that sure, and you can't really bring yourself to care too much either when you've got such a pretty cock standing at full mast, waiting to be laved clean with your naughty little mouth right in front of you.

Taking Satoru's call while Naoya was working himself balls deep into you had been risky, but you'd made it to the other side with multiple screaming orgasms, shaking legs and eyes wet with tears of pure bliss — a simple, novel shift in your life that has you grateful for the man before you, even if he was a jackass.

(All Satoru made you do these days was cry sad tears. No orgasms to compensate.)

The least you can do is thank the man that made it all possible to see the light at the end of the tunnel again, and what better way than the one he asked for?

Naoya notices where your attention has shifted to and scowls, handful of hair tugging you back to reality — back to him — with a sharp pull.

"Let daddy see what that mouth can do," he coaxes, guiding your head back to his neglected length with sudden urgency. He has your face nearly pressed against where your combined spend has been slowly dripping down to his balls. 

You smile to yourself at the needy tone lacing his words, how his deep voice strains with want. He's been so good to you, giving you everything you asked for and more. It's about time you reciprocate.

Naoya chokes, hand dropping the length of your hair to roughly grip at your scalp, pushing you down further as you lap up the thickening fluid on his heavy balls. He swears when you suck one into your mouth, tongue massaging it as your lips keep it hostage. 

You alternate, cleaning the other one until you're just playing with them for fun while your small hands work in tandem — one stroking along his length and one fondling the twin that isn't in your mouth.

"Fuck—f–fuck, that's... good. Feels s’go—od."

The way you hum happily around his sac, starry little doe eyes looking up at the pinched expression on his face — his brows furrowed, mouth gone slack, sharp eyes squeezed shut — has a broken keen coming out of him.

His dick's pulsing in your hand with every twisting stroke, and you know Naoya's close to busting again with the way his balls have started to tighten with your attention. 

He might like edging himself, you think, when he yanks you up by the hair to press a filthy kiss against your swollen lips — tongue shoving in to tangle with yours when your mouth parts on a startled gasp. 

Naoya moans into the kiss at the taste of you both on your tongue, and he doesn't pull away until you're both light-headed and panting. A long, shiny string of spit connects you until his tongue lashes out and snaps it, grinning down at you after swallowing what he caught.

"Gonna let me fuck that throat or what?"

He drags you along with him, arm hooking you by the waist, up to the top of the bed where he reclines against the headboard. Naoya's muscular legs are spread lazily for you — so you can slot yourself in close — offering you ample room to work with and make yourself comfortable. 

His cock stands proud, thick and flushed — the fat tip glossy with pre oozing out in anticipation. It bobs, briefly slapping up against his stomach, as you slowly crawl on all fours towards him looking dazed yet determined — all heart eyes as you focus on the way his tip glistens in the dim light.

You kneel before Naoya like you're at an altar, bowing your head low to lap at his gooey slit, the beginning of your prayer to him.

Naoya eyes your phone with a cheshire smile while you choke down his length, his big thumb brushing the pretty little tears from your lash line as he coos down at you — his gentle tone contrasting his crude choice of words:

"Such a hungry little slut, aren't you? ’s a good thing daddy's got so much t’ feed you, huh."

He knows it's only a matter of time before you notice the screaming that's starting to filter through the receiver as the man's volume increases. 

He tangles his long, thick fingers into your hair — holding your head still as he fucks up into your mouth in a move that has you gagging violently, your throat constricting around his cock in a way that has him sucking in air through his teeth.

"Greedy baby," he jeers when he tries to drag you up, but you whine in protest. Your flushed cheeks hollow on a vicious suck that keeps your glossy, swollen lips wrapped tightly around the width of him. "Can't even go a second without this fat cock in one of your holes."

"WHO THE FU—" 

Naoya's chuckle drowns out Satoru's tinny swears, the sheer volume of his yelling blowing out your phone's speakers. The sound of an incoming video call fills the room alongside your gagging and slurping as Naoya fucks himself deep into your throat.

"Answer the fucking call," Satoru snarls.

Your vision is hazy, distorted by the tears in your eyes as you continue to gag and swallow around the thick cock in your mouth, drool dripping out and down your chin. You still try to reach for your phone where it's been tossed aside, clear across the king-sized bed, with the intent to decline and end the prolonged call altogether.

But then Naoya leans over — the long length of his body and arms easily reaching it before you can, and you choke as his other hand meanly shoves your head back down as he thrusts into your mouth while the sound of the video call connecting joins your gagging.

Satoru balks at the smug grin and marked up broad chest that fills the screen, his face crowded so close to his own phone's screen that all that shows are his wide, bloodshot blue eyes and part of his forehead. There's a pulsing vein visible just above his brows.

"Who the fuck are you, and where the fuck is my girl—?!" 

Naoya tosses his head back as he hisses out a mixture between a groan and laugh. Your wide-eyed panic has your throat clenching around his cock, and he can't say he hates it. 

Gojo Satoru's bitching as he face-fucks you only makes it better.

An idea comes to him, completely ignoring the way Gojo's threatening to beat his ass, and it takes only seconds for him to follow through — flipping the camera's view to you.

He watches as the man's face falls, goes slack-jawed, at the sight of your sweet, glossy lips stretched wide around the base of his fat cock — cute little nose pressed against his trimmed pubes — with tears in your eyes as his large hand helps you bob up and down the long length of him. You're drooling and gagging, a pretty little mess, and it's all for him. 

"This your girl?" Naoya taunts, wrapping his fist in your hair before pulling you off of his cock entirely. You whine, mouthing at his shiny, spit-coated tip, looking up at him in a way that's utterly depraved. 

Your eyes are wide, all pretty color and blown out pupils with lashes spiked with tears, but they're glazed over in a way that says nobody's home — too fucked out from his cock, and eager to please in return.

He makes a show of how desperate you are to lap at his sloppy dick and heavy balls again, tugging you further back by the hair. 

Gojo's silent in his rage, camera shaking as he seethes. 

Naoya lets your hair fall loose from his fist, and it's nearly instantaneous — how you swallow him back down to the hilt, gagging yourself and drooling like a baby, but never giving up.

That's all it takes, really. That, and the way your throat clenches as you hum in contentment when Naoya reaches a hand down to pet at the nape of your neck — rough fingers scratching at the base of your skull — has him swearing as he shoots his load down your throat. 

"F—UCK, that's it—drink up, angel."

You try your best, wanting him to praise you more — to call you more pretty names.

But there's more than you anticipated, though, as your lips slide up his length. The viscous substance chokes you as it fills your mouth. You pop off of him with a lewd, wet sound, and he glances at the absolutely revolted look on Gojo's face when you open your mouth to show Naoya all of his cum laying thick and white on your tongue.

He taps a long finger against your chin in silent command, and your glistening eyes crinkle shut as you happily oblige, stray tears glittering down an abstract path along your flushed cheeks. 

You swallow it all down, sticking your naughty little tongue out — clean and pink — as you playfully go 'ahhh' to show him how well you listened.

"Heh," Naoya flips the camera back to show his face. He didn't think it was possible for the man to look even more upset as he was met with an unmistakable Zen’in. "I think you mean our girl."

---

Fated Pair

Alpha! Tomioka x Omega! Fem! Reader

18+

Your entire life, you lived as a beta, not having to worry about such tedious things like glands, heats, and instincts. But that all changed when a certain slayer came to town, altering everything as you knew it. It seemed fate had finally brought you together.

Since fated pair won my omegaverse poll, here ya go 👀 Might make a second part in the future just to clarify some things in their relationship...

Big thank you to my beta readers @mistymuichiro & @thosestarry-nights & @astrasolitaris !!!

Warnings: Omegaverse, Smut, Yandere Tendencies, Dub-con, Rut, Heat, Kidnapping, Scenting, Mating Bites, Sex, Vaginal Sex, Face Riding, Cunnilingus, Doggy Style, Rough Sex, Creampie, Knotting, Breeding, Pregnancy Kink, Impregnation, Dirty Talk, Praise

5k Words

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“Go get more water… towels too!”

“Guard the entrance to the block as well - make sure no one comes through-”

“Close the door!”

You could still hear the commotion outside, your family scrambling with commands and precautions like busy bees in a hive. Although if you were in their place, you supposed you would be too.

This was all your fault. None of this would be happening if it weren’t for you. Why did it all have to change?

You were a beta. You were supposed to be a beta. In your family lineage for as long as anyone could remember, everyone either grew to be a beta or an alpha, and even the ladder was quite rare. Your siblings and yourself were always warned to keep your distance from omegas. They were needy, weak, and always brought trouble along with them. Even your father, who was an alpha, biologically programmed to desire an omega, despised them, citing them as nothing but lustful rodents who relied on others to care for them.

At the time, you neither held resentment nor admiration for the secondary gender. If anything, you were grateful. Even when your age of puberty came, you hadn’t needed to deal with the struggles of a heat or rut or anything of the matter. You were simply normal, experiencing the usual growing pains and figure development. You hadn’t worried when your cycle never came, plenty of people blossomed later in life. Life was easier, nobody shamed you, you fit in with the general population, too well. You never could bring yourself to date or fuss over anyone. It wasn’t that you didn’t have crushes, you did, but they never seemed worth any hassle. You couldn’t imagine a future with anyone, nor did you hold any attraction except superficial. They weren’t the one.

But that all seemed to change overnight, your world quite literally flipping over the next morning as a strange feeling overcame you. Your parents warned you all that morning to be careful as there were reports of a monster near the village, so you assumed the feeling of uneasiness was a result of your body’s natural apprehension. But you fell terribly ill within a few hours, hellish cramps overcoming your body and bile spilling out of you to no end. Mother chalked it up to some surge of influenza and the others joined her theory, and you kept your own thoughts to yourself. You’d still never admitted that you’d never gotten your period, and now seemed too late as you’d become an adult already. It was far too late to worry them.

Thankfully the illness had come and gone within a few days, leaving as quickly as it had come. But just when you’d given in to the assumption that it was just a sickness, it’d returned again, far stronger and more potent. You couldn’t even walk then, your body in so much pain that you couldn’t stop throwing up and trembling. You’d genuinely thought you’d been dying, but, yet again, it left you after only a few days. As did the company that had returned to the village. You family was becoming concerned, and you felt far too afraid to admit to them of your fears. Moreover, you didn’t want to speak them into existence.

The third bout of sickness was when a doctor was called in, the worst of your suspicions confirmed. You were an omega, later developed, but developed nonetheless. You worried Father wouldn’t speak to you ever again when he disappeared for several weeks, not a whisper of where he was going, until he’d returned late one night with the reason for his departure - the strongest heat suppressant available in the country. You took it without a second thought, uncaring of the symptoms as you prayed they would free you from this curse of misery. And it seemed to work for some time. You weren’t plagued with crippling pains and aches, you didn't have as many thoughts of depression and anxiety. You thought you were cured.

But it was only a temporary reprieve.

As only weeks later you were burdened yet again with an explosion of suffering, the worst one yet. You spent most hours weeping and crying, begging the gods to let you experience even a moment of peace. Your father seemed to change strategies as he instructed your siblings to go into town and fetch articles of clothing to bring back to you, to find the source of these forcefully induced dry heats. One by one you smelled them, scrunching your nose and cringing at all of them. They smelt disgusting, horrid enough to make you spit up all over again. It’d gotten to the point where you’d sob in Father’s arms and beg him not to make you smell another one, begging for his forgiveness for ruining everything. He just held you tight and pushed another piece of cloth to your nose, asking you if this was the one. You threw up again.

Finally, your youngest brother stumbled in one evening, the color drained from his face and his eyes wide. You wept when you saw him, another test clutched in his quivering fist, knuckles whitening. Slowly he handed it to you, a hand to your neck to force you to take it in. With tears in your eyes you did so, preparing to gag, but the feeling never came.

With a single breath your eyes rolled to the back of your skull, drool collecting on your tongue and threatening to drip down your lip. It smelt magnificent. A delicious combination of sweet rain and fresh moss. Purrs of pleasure came rippling from your throat and you nuzzled against the fabric, the tip of your tongue gently tracing the fibers. All the pain slowly melted away, your brain becoming fuzzy and clean like swabs of cotton. For the first time in forever, you felt truly safe.

Your mother gasped

“Where - who did you get this from?” she croaked.

Your brother gulped. “The - the guy who came ‘c-cause of the monsters…,” he mumbled, “The slayer…”

Everyone stopped and looked at him, their eyes dark and grave.

“H-he came up to me in the square… asking for my scarf - or actually… (y/n)’s scarf…”

Father glared at him. “You idio-”

“Let him finish!” Mother interrupted as she held him back. Your brother just looked down and fiddled with his hands.

“So I gave it to h-him, a-and he seemed to like it, so I took his handkerchief, b-b-but,” he paused to look up at them, “h-he said it didn’t matter… that he’d… pay for her.”

Your father took in breath and sighed, carefully walking over to him, towering over the small boy.

“Were you followed?”

“I-I don’t think s-so…”

“Good. Lock the doors.”

Everyone took shifts to stay up that night, guarding the doors and peeking out the windows for any sign of visitors. You could sense their troubles, but for the most part you kept to yourself, cuddled up against the handkerchief and resting. Despite the brief ease of pain, you still felt the discomfort of your heat, still missing something but not quite sure what yet. 

There were no signs of any trouble for several days, until the night you woke to hushed voices and sounds of scurrying. Listening in, you quickly gathered what was happening.

The man - no - the alpha was here. Father went outside to talk to him. Although you were pretty sure there was no talking involved… more likely there was yelling… maybe some threatening.

After a few painful minutes, he came back in, a deep scowl painting his face. He also carried with him a multicolored robe, half red, half tessellated. He threw it to you before walking to the main room where the rest of your family was. You quickly huddled over it and started cuddling. It smelled perfect.

“... What did he say?” Mother hesitantly questioned.

“Bastard is stubborn. Says he’s not leaving without her. Told him ‘tough luck’. Nobody is leaving until he does.”

Your siblings all groaned, resuming their posts of either guarding the door or taking their turn of sleep. Despite not being yourself, you still felt the guilt of it eat at you. As soon as they left, your mother leaned closer to him.

“Dear… are you sure this is what’s best? Look at her - she’s miserable… we all are.”

He just shook his head at her.

“He’s not taking her. Not my daughter.”

-

The following days were gruesome. For everyone. No one was allowed to leave other than the occasional grocery run. No one could go out to their individual jobs. Even hobbies were off the table as every hour of the day was spent protecting the house. Protecting you.

This was the longest heat you’d had yet. It was as if your body knew your alpha was nearby, waiting for him to come claim you before you were allowed to calm down. The dry spell was wearing off, the sharp pains being transformed into uncomfortable cramps that made you desperate to wrap your legs around something. Your every entrance ached for company, feeling empty and barren without the presence of your alpha’s taste and essence. But regardless of your buzzed mind, you were still you enough to be too embarrassed to complain about that discomfort.

But even that part of your dignity was wearing thin. Every day without your carnal needs being tended to was just multiplying them. They all tried to give you privacy to take care of yourself, but it was simply impossible to leave you alone for too long. You needed to have eyes on you at all times in case the worst happened. In case he found you. So you settled for wrapping yourself up in his clothing. How was it possible for a single man to smell so edible? You found yourself wondering on the quiet days what he looked like, where he lived, how many pups he wanted. The primal part of you was oh so desperate to please him, regardless of how much you knew about each other. The omega part of your mind assured you every hour of the day that this was fate. That you were meant for each other. That you needed each other. 

But some part of you was still skeptical. No one else had felt right, so why would he? 

Everything would be fine… within a few days, surely the standoff would break. The man had to leave sometime. Regardless of the heartbreak such a thought brought you, it was what was best for everyone. 

-

You were awoken one night to a sudden crash of noise outside your room, followed by voices bickering. Vaguely you could make out the voices of your parents, followed by one you didn’t recognize. One that sent warmth right to the core of you. Within moments there seemed to be an altercation, two thuds hitting the ground. The sound was short lived as silence followed soon after. Your heart raced with the footsteps that slowly crept to your door, your arms hugging your scented jacket to your chest. The steps were ceased with more conflict, another bout of harsh words spoken before several more thumps followed. Like they were nothing.

Frantically, you crawled into your closet, quietly shutting the door and shaking as you curled into yourself. You tried your best not to cry, not to make a sound, but you were scared, horrified. Every conscious cell in your brain was screaming at you to run while the other half were begging you to get pupped. Your breathing stopped as soon as the door slid open.

His footsteps treaded carefully across the wooden floor, taking their sweet time to take in the scenery of your room. To find you. A subtle trill of growls could be heard along with the creaking of the floorboards, adding to your horror. He seemed to stand still for a few moments, taking in long drawls of your scent before heading straight to your hiding place. You froze.

You braced yourself as the closet door was carefully, slowly pushed open, your eyes shut tight and pouring with tears. A sob escaped you as the moonlight poured in to shower you. You were done for, you were sure of it. 

A gentle hand whispered along your hairline, tucking the hair out of your eyes.

“It’s okay kit, I’ve got you… I’ve got you.”

The sound of his voice was like that of an angel, soft and pleasant to the ear. Shyly you looked up from your lap, curious to find the owner of such a song, and you were not at all disappointed. Velvety, fluffy dark hair, a large muscular build, deep azul eyes. You could get lost in those eyes. You so desperately wanted to.

You were confident then that you had died and standing right in front of you was an angel ready to take you to heaven. No other explanation would suffice. He was simply too beautiful to truly exist. A rush of slick pooled down your thighs and you whined. Your hands were reaching up toward him before you could stop them, his own sinewy arms coming down to wrap under your arms to hike you up. You whimpered as you were lifted to his chest, looking back sadly toward your abandoned coat. He promptly leaned over and snatched it up. “I know, omega, I see,” he mumbled into your ear, sending a thrill up your spine.

He draped your haori, his haori really, over your shoulders so it would cover your nude back before he headed back out the door. You didn’t know where he was taking you, nor did you care. All you cared about was getting more of his scent into your body as you smelled and licked at the gland in his neck that he had so gracefully exposed for you when he tore aside his uniform.

As he carried you out, you could see the unconscious bodies of your family lying on the ground, not one of them with a single scratch. He must’ve knocked them out somehow. All except your father, who still seemed to be attempting to get up. He rambled angrily at your alpha, words no one could understand as they slurred from his mouth. Your alpha stopped in the doorway to your home, turning to face your struggling father who glared from his place on the floor. You looked down at him sadly and tears welled in your eyes.

“I left my payment on the table. We’ll see you again… sometime," Alpha spoke, not a hint of sympathy in his eyes. Not even when he turned you around did he seem to be riddled with guilt, a mewl falling from your lips as shape canines pricked at the nape of your neck, sinking deeper and deeper until you were howling from the pain, your vision going stark white as you were claimed. You passed out not a moment after, your alpha licking his lips of your sweet blood.

When you awoke you were in a house you didn’t recognize, in a bed that wasn’t yours, but you had a hard time caring as everything smelt purely of him. His scent fermented in the air you breathed like a fine wine, getting you drunk off the mere smell. Perhaps it was because he sat only a few feet away at the foot of the bed, as if guarding you from the outside. It made you feel that much safer. As soon as he saw you rise from your slumber, his pupils grew, the cautionary slits becoming dilated orbs. You pouted when he backed off the mattress, his hand pointing toward you, as if commanding you to stay in place.

“Nest, omega.”

The command rang in your ears like an alarm, your mind quickly working overtime to complete the task. Your alpha must’ve prepared as there were several piles on the floor composed of blankets, pillows, and clothing, all perfect for your nest. You set about collecting the one that you deemed fit, weaving them together over the bed like a second layer. It was like your body instinctively knew what to do as you not once had to overthink how to craft your nest, your hands doing all the work while your mind wondered. When you were finally finished, you sat at the center of it like an obedient dog, looking to your owner for your next order.

Your heart soared when he softly smiled at you, briskly walking over and cupping your cheek, running his nose along your jawline. His skin touching yours felt like fireworks were going off inside of you. Heat rose to your face as you then realized he was completely naked as well.

“You’re such a good girl… good omega. It’s time for you to complete the bond,” he murmured as he joined you in your nest, setting himself in front of you and moving his fluffy, long hair to the side, exposing his nape. Your own mating bite throbbed like a reminder on your neck as you eagerly latched your little teeth to his skin, biting as hard as you could until blood filled your mouth. It tasted sweet. You licked your lips as you pulled away, blushing at the indent it left in his skin, showing your marking of him. The throbbing eventually faded away into nothingness, paving the way for a heady pleasure that reached from your head to your toes. You felt complete, like a part of you was missing this entire time and you just hadn’t realized it. Every sense of struggle and rebellion inside you vanished, and you collapsed back onto the bed.

“Alphaaa…” you moaned, writhing in your nest with a newly awakened pleasure, one that made the emptiness in your womb all the more noticeable. Pups. You needed pups.

“Get up, omega. You’re going to sit on my face,” he leisurely commanded, staring down at you with possession and licking his lips. Your body moved on its own, shifting to the side so alpha could lay in your place while you straddled his head. Embarrassment still managed to weasel its way inside of you. What if he didn’t like the color? The smell? The taste? For once, your brain and your omega were both anxious about the same thing.

He seemed to notice your apprehension as took a deep breath of scent, growling lowly and dragging you down to properly seat yourself in his mouth. You cried out as he dragged his tongue between your slick folds, settling the tip on your clit and bringing it into his mouth to suck. Your legs trembled on either side of his head, your hands falling to clutch at his locks to brace yourself. His own paw wrapped around your ass, guiding you to properly grind yourself against his tongue while he enjoyed you. Sounds of rapture tore from you, falling upon his eager ear like music from the gods. Slick poured down his throat like an elixir, coating his tongues and messily dripping down the sides of his mouth. He ate from you like you were a ripened fruit, abundant with juice and teeming with nectar ready to be plucked and devoured. 

Your grief of emptiness quickly fell to the back of your mind as you focused on the divine ecstasy of being eaten, your sex swollen and sensitive as alpha relentlessly took what he needed from you. He shamelessly groaned into your heat, openly expressing how pleased he was with what you had to offer. He cursed every so often, spreading your lips open with two fingers and pressing his nose close to smell your feminine scent. Those same two fingers were quick to sneak into you, spearing you open on his thick digits, all to prepare you for something much bigger. It didn’t take you long to come, juices leaking out of you generously as you clenched on his thrusting fingers and cried out. He still rocked you upon his face as you came down from your high, licking up every messy drop from you regardless of your sensitivity. You bit back your tears and let him do as he pleased, so very eager to please your alpha. You’d be in agony without him so the least you could do was feed him.

You turned back after a moment to distract yourself from the overstimulation, desperate for something to cling to. Your gaze instantly landed on the cure for all your agony.

His cock stood tall and proud between his strong thighs, the tip flushed with color and large veins popping all over it. It was so thick… so long… it was going to tear you apart so easily… you’d never wanted anything more in your life. You drooled as you looked back at it, a renewed vigor alighting in your cunt. Especially when your eyes lingered down to the base of it, the beginnings of a bulbous knot taking root there, preparing to plug you up so you can keep all his little babies warm. You salivated at the thought.

Finally, alpha had his fill, pressing several soft kisses to your pussy before unraveling you from his face and setting you aside. Your belly stirred as you watched his cock bob between his legs as he rose up, his muscles straining beautifully like strings on a harp as he moved. You wanted nothing more than to crawl in his lap and lavish him with attention, worship your alpha like he so deserved for taking care of you so well. But your body refused to move, clinging to his every word and awaiting his command. You watched hungrily as he stood and stretched his arms and neck, likely sore from lying about for so long. He laughed softly as he caught you staring, your eyes staring lovingly between his thighs as you panted like bitch in heat. After all, you were one.

“Down,” he told, his voice imposing and husky, “Spread your legs.”

You didn’t even have to think as your body did what it was told, lying on your back obediently in the center of your nest and opening your legs. He grinned meanly.

“Not that way. Present for me.”

You whined as you rolled to your front, planting your face in the sheets and raising your ass high in the air, presenting your little hole for breeding. 

He chuckled and climbed in the nest behind you, running a warm hand along your spine.

“That’s a good girl. So obedient for me… You want my kits don’t you?” he crooned. 

You cried out into the bedding, raising your hips higher and wagging your ass at him. He tutted at you and kept you still with hand, leering down at you with predatory eyes like a fox to a rabbit.

“Puh-please alpha… it hurts…,” you sobbed, sniffling weakly and trying to press your thighs together to ease the ache inside of you. He easily pried them open again, slipping his swollen cock between your legs and dragging it across your cunt and belly.

“I asked you a question, omega. Answer me.”

“Y-yes, alpha!,” you cried, biting your fist with frustration, “I-I want your kits… s-so bad…”

He chuckled again with approval and playfully rocked his member against you. “You do, don’t you… I’d bet this is your first time wanting anything like this, isn’t it?” You furrowed at his question, plagued by its accuracy. He seemed to take enjoyment with your confusion.

“I was in a similar situation myself,“ he muttered, taking his cock away from your legs and pressing the leaking tip between your folds, making you shiver. “I didn’t want anyone, didn’t need anyone, I thought it just wasn’t meant to be.”

He slowly pitched his hips forth into your tightness, stealing your breath away as he split you open. Despite the abundance of slick, the stretch hurt more than anything, tears dripping down your cheeks as you whimpered. He only stopped when he was balls deep, every inch of his cock swaddled by your plush insides. You swore you could feel him all the way to your brain.

“Didn’t - didn’t think I’d ever meet anyone I’d wanna mate with,” he grunted, nearly whining from how tight you were, “But then I was called to that small, little village, could smell you a mile away… took me weeks to find you…”

“Please d-don’t move yet alpha,” you begged feebly.

“I know kit, I know… ‘s your first knot, I’ll be gentle,” he promises, easing your worries as you went limp into the bedding.

He waited patiently for your pain to ease, running his hands along your sides and petting your thighs. Regardless of the hurt, slick gushed from you due to such nurturing.

“Asked your father to give you up… even offered him money, but he refused. So, I had to take you. Alpha knows what’s best, don’t I?”

“Y-yes, alpha,” you faintly murmured, your body heating up as you were molded around him like clay.

He softly smiled at you and rolled his hips, churning his cock into your guts. You shook with the sensation, so sure you would burst any moment with how full you were. Every second he moved, the wetter you became, slick sticking to his thatch of pubic hair and coating his heavy balls. The ache of penetration melted away with every second, pleasure filling the gaps it left.

His hand reached under you and pressed at your belly, rubbing the bulge he’d left in you.

“Gonna leave my pups right here, right where you need them… need you to keep them warm until they make it to your belly.”

You hardly even heard him as you drooled into the nest, moaning and mewling like a little whore. The pain was hardly there anymore, euphoria overwhelming you as you eagerly ground back into him, desperate for more of what your alpha could give you. Taking the hint, he began truly thrusting into you, pulling out several inches before shoving it all back into you, bullying your cervix into submission. Your cries of pleasure only increased in volume and frequency, filling the room along with the sloppy noises of your union. You wanted his cubs. You needed his cubs.

His knot, you realized. His knot was the answer to everything, the solution to all your problems. Without it you were just a hollow shell of an omega. You came from just the epiphany, squeezing tight around him and squirting slick into his lap.

“Kn-n-not,” you whined, “kn-not… knot… knot!” You were going to die if you didn’t get it, you could feel it!

He laughed cruelly behind you, “You want my knot, omega?” His hips moved faster, pounding you into the bed and ruining the nest you worked so hard to make. You didn’t care. There were more important things at stake.

“Yes!” you pleaded, sniffling pathetically and digging your nails into the many blankets surrounding you. He growled darkly and loomed over you, threading his hand around the back of your skull and shoving you into the mattress, limiting your air intake. He violently pistoned into you, using you as nothing but a hole to breed his cum into, precisely what you wanted. You squealed for him, happily gave him free use of your form to use for his benefit, anything was worth it if you got his babies. 

You could feel his knot grow as it pressed in and out of your hole, thickening furiously and stretching you beyond repair, ensuring that not a drop of his precious essence would exceed it. A dopey smile was plastered on your face as you let him use you, your hair messy and tousled as you were buried into the bed.

Finally his knot threatened full capacity, popping in and out of you painfully before locking inside, swelling to its full size and keeping you in place. You wailed with bliss, your climax a mere hair's breadth away as you awaited for a single push to make you tumble over the edge.

Your alpha panted viciously behind you, grunting and groaning as your cunt milked him unforgivably, The moment the first wave of cum filled you, you saw stars. Fireworks of scorching white lit up behind your eyes, blinding you and making you bawl. You’d never felt such bliss, such elation, it was bordering on the edge of painful as one high bled into another and another and another. Wave after wave of piping hot sperm was emptied inside you, filling out your belly and gushing into your womb. His large knot promised not a drop would go to waste as every ounce was kept in your pussy, filling you to brim so much so that you could nearly taste it.

You weakly tried to crawl away as it became too much for you, you couldn’t take it anymore. But even without his unrelenting hold on you, his knot wouldn’t allow you to go anywhere.

“No, omega,” he growled harshly, “Warm my kits that you begged for. You aren’t going to leave here without my litter growing inside you.”

He leaned over and pinched his teeth around your scruff, rendering you useless as you went limp underneath him. It was too much, you couldn’t take it all. But what choice did you have as he kept you in place, taking load after load of his potent seed into your womb, exactly what you had asked for. You pathetically wept against your arms as your belly was filled.

As was an omega’s fate, regardless of what was planned for. 

-

-

-

---

"creature of myth."

pairing: vampire!gojo x fem!human!reader summary: when you receive an offer of marriage from a mysterious wealthy lord, it’s too good a deal for your family to turn down. but nothing could be so perfect... right? content: MDNI (18+  ONLY), dark content, nsfw, gets dubcon/noncon in some spots, yandere behavior from gojo, implied death/k*lling of a character (not reader or gojo), arranged marriage, victorian au, plot that ends with porn lmao, spooky dooky vibes, blood, blood sucking/eating, praise, biting, unprotected sex, creampie, virgin!reader, discussion of virginity, cherry popping, pain, pet names (princess/love), reader is highkey clueless about sex, discussion of masturbation, ideas of masturbation as “sinful”, very minor religious themes, fated “mates”, gojo is highkey insane, coercion and manipulation, like SO much neck kissing, ooc gojo??? (had to alter his character to match a victorian vampire lord LMAO). a/n: PLEASE READ THE CONTENT WARNINGS. THERE IS DARK CONTENT AHEAD. is this a gojo fic or a twilight fic?? Going back to my roots fr fr. straight down to the “SAY IT, SAY IT”. this fic is also way too long my apologies bbs. i hope you like a hefty side of plot with your porn. parts of this fic feel way too cheesy to me but sometimes i eat that up, yk?? this fic was inspired by this amazing work by @rice5x ! and, finally, thank you all for the support on my most recent fics. i'm just getting back into being active on this blog and it's been amazing reading each and every comment/reblog/ask. they genuinely fill me with so much joy. keep them coming hehe. anyway, i hope you enjoy and remember, ALL AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED. credits: dividers by @cafekitsune. banner art by @ndsoda on twitter. wc: 11.6k (sowwy)

You remember perfectly the way your mother’s jaw dropped when Satoru Gojo proposed to you. You’d never seen the man, and you still hadn’t. He’d asked to marry you via messenger, a simple letter delivered by hand with a list of all the things he’d be willing to pay for your hand. Offers of money, land, protection, connection- anything so long as he got you. You’d thought it was a joke. Your father nearly took a shovel to the head of the poor messenger, thinking the letter was some kind of cruel prank, some sort of targeted disrespect. You’d only started to believe when you really looked- saw the Gojo crest embroidered on the man’s suit, the fine leather of his boots. If it was a prank, somebody had spent a great deal of money and effort to pull it off. 

You’d asked for proof nonetheless, and you’d gotten it. Documents signed and sealed with a well-known waxen crest, gifts that could only have been purchased by a wealthy lord. The one thing you never got was the lord himself. He refused to see you, to come down from his mysterious castle on the hill. It didn’t surprise you. He rarely deemed town worthy of his presence. He had a reputation as a recluse, as a man who only ever liked to see and never be seen. What little glimpses people got of him were usually through the dark window of his carriage. Still, his appearance preceded him. White hair, light eyes… “haunting” said those who had the luck to see him. Those who went to work for the lord tended to return… changed— if they returned at all. 

You accepted, of course. How could you not? You were a peasant family with no status or wealth to your name. The promises Lord Gojo had made would make your parents into aristocrats all on their own. But that left you wondering… why did he want you? You offered him no benefit. If anything, you sullied his bloodline. The question scratched at the back of your mind. It came to you while you ate breakfast, while you washed your clothes, while you weeded in the garden. Some part of you told you that you needed the answer before you ever stepped foot in that castle. You needed that answer, but you’d never get it. 

Your wedding wasn’t even a wedding- just a piece of paper that had already been signed and witnessed, once again delivered by a familiar messenger. You signed at your dining room table and… that was that. You were married. 

Later that night the carriages arrive. Men flood your home, all dressed in blue velvet, the Gojo crest embroidered on their chests. They seem puzzled when you tell them you’ve packed all your belongings into a measly three bags. 

You say a quick goodbye to your parents, drawing them into stiff embraces. You love them, and they love you, but you can’t bear to see their faces as they send you away to a man who couldn’t even show his face for your wedding. 

The carriage ride is somehow longer than you’d thought it would be- apparently, the castle’s size makes it seem deceptively close. The trip is rocky and twisty and altogether unpleasant as you steadily make your way toward the castle gates. By the time you reach them you think you’ve probably dozed in and out of consciousness at least half a dozen times. 

The castle is even more intimidating up close. Spires that swirl into the clouds, sculptures that stare, doors that look more suited to being locked than opened. It’s… terrifying. 

When you finally roll to a stop, you move for the door. When you swing it open you get your fair share of strange looks from your attendants and remember that you should have waited for the footman. Your face heats as you climb out anyway, unwilling to subject yourself to the further humiliation of waiting for assistance. 

Your feet hit gravel and all you can do is stare- up, up, up, to where the castle’s peaks disappear into the fog. When your eye flashes to a window on the east side of the manor you think you see a swaying curtain. You tuck your arms around yourself and shiver, but it’s not from the cold. 

You nearly stumble over your feet on your first step inside. The entrance hall is larger than your former house, with ceilings that stretch so high you can hardly make out the figures on the frescoes that adorn it. Silver and blue drape everywhere, the Gojo family colors. You swallow when you see a chair that is most definitely worth more than your family’s annual income. 

The floors are marble and when your worn heels clack against it, you only feel reminded that you don’t belong here. That question pricks in your mind again as you pass portraits of every Gojo heir to have lived in the last three hundred years. Why me? Why me? Why me? 

Your footman deposits you in your room, a place more lavish than you’ve ever seen. You have a four poster bed with a canopy of blue velvet, a window that overlooks a sprawling estate, and more square footage than you’ve ever dreamed of. 

“Pull this if you need any sort of assistance, ma’am.” 

You turn to see your footman referencing a silver cord at your bedside. You assume it’s one of those contraptions that rings a bell in the servants’ quarters. You try to hide your amazement- you’ve never seen one in real life before. 

You clear your throat and give your most ladylike nod. “Thank you, um-” you pause, your brow furrowing. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I asked your name.” 

Your footman appears stunned to silence, like he’d never expected you to care about his existence, much less his name. He recovers quickly, though, and forces a small smile. “Thomas, ma’am.”

You smile and it’s genuine. “Thank you, Thomas.”He bows and makes a beeline for the door, but you have one more question. “Oh, um, Thomas-” He freezes, turning slowly on his heel to face you. 

“Yes, my lady?” 

You cringe at the title. The sound of it creeps across your skin, foreign and… wrong. Why me? Why me? Why me?

You clear your throat again. “Do you know, um, well-” You shift, trying to word your question properly. “Do you know when I might see the Lord?” 

There is a pause, a moment of tension and silence, and then an answer. “No, my lady.”

Thomas does not stick around for more questioning. The door clicks shut behind him and then you're left with only the sound of retreating footsteps. 

You’re stunned to say the least, mouth still halfway open, more questions on the tip of your tongue. Should you seek him out? Was that proper? Would he come to you? Would he meet you for dinner, perhaps? Surely he would come to your room tonight to… consummate. Would that be the first time you lay eyes on him? When he’s over you? 

You sigh. There’s nothing much to be done about it now. You find your way to the bed and sit down hesitantly. It feels like a crime to rumple such primped and polished cotton. You do it anyway- it’s going to happen sometime, right? You fall back against the mattress and don’t fail to notice how utterly comfortable it is. The silvery patterns on your canopy swirl and bend together. You’re tired. You didn’t sleep much last night, anxious for the morning… and it’s only mid-afternoon now. You had time for a nap, right? Your eyes are closing before you can convince yourself it’s a bad idea and then you’re swept away into a world of warm darkness. 

You wake with a start. Your first thought is that it’s dark now. Your room is pitch black except for the stream of moonlight passing through your stupidly large window. Your mouth feels dry and your skin is cold, like you’ve just woken from a nightmare. If you have, you don’t remember it. Perhaps that’s a blessing. 

You sit up, combing a finger through your hair and laughing pitifully when you realize that you left your shoes on as you slept. You hope Thomas didn’t walk in to find you in yet another unladylike position. A glance at the foot of the bed reveals he might have. Your bags have arrived- all three of them. You eye them with a combination of longing and contempt. They don't match this place. They’re worn and used- everything here is shiny and new. Still, they’re all you have, and all you have left of your life before. All you have left of home. 

You stretch your arms above your head, nearly groaning at the burn in your muscles. The carriage ride did your body no favors and you suspect you’ll be sore for many days to come. 

You rise, no longer content to lie in bed. You’ve had your rest and, from the state of darkness outside, you suspect your new husband might be joining you soon. The thought twists a certain tightness into your gut, but you push it aside. If that was the price you paid for all he gave your family… then you’d pay it gladly. 

You start with candles, finding a box of matches at your bedside. You light every candelabra you can find. The room, the castle, seems so perpetually… black- like it soaks up every ray of light it touches. Even when you’ve finished it doesn’t feel like enough. You make a note to ask Thomas for more in the morning. 

You find a meal, carefully prepared and preserved, on a table near your dresser. Judging by the fact that it’s still warm, you conclude that it can’t be much past mid-evening. You originally intend to pick at the food as you unpack, but one bite has your mouth watering. It is the most delicious thing to ever touch your lips, complete with dessert waiting on the side. You clean your plate before moving onto your bags. 

You lay your clothes out on the bed. A few dresses, riding pants, undergarments, an assortment of ribbons and bows. At one time these items had been the finest things you owned- now you owned a castle. 

You find an armoire that looks like a master sculptor carved its edges and grab a dress, intending to hang it. Instead, your dress hits the floor when you part the doors to find the hangers already full. Your lips part. Luxury dresses of silk and satin line the rack, fading into some that appear more casual outfits of cotton and linen. You stretch a hand out, curious and utterly… amazed. To think your new husband had gone to all the effort… Your hand brushes purple silk and- 

“Do you like them?” 

You screech, jumping to face the voice at your back. It takes a moment for your eyes to find him, leaning casually against one post of your bed. Your breath is stolen for a second time. Snow white hair, piercingly blue eyes, pale soft skin… you know who he is even without looking at his dress, at the air of authority he claims. He’s your husband… and he is the most devastatingly beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. 

He laughs, then, and it’s a warmer sound than you’d thought it would be- rich and full. A sound that seeps into your bones and settles in your soul. 

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, but the twinkle in his eyes makes you think that perhaps that’s a lie. 

Your heart pounds and your eyes flash to the door. It’s shut. You didn’t hear it open, nor did you hear it close behind him. You also didn’t hear footsteps, didn’t hear breaths, didn’t hear him. 

He follows your gaze and laughs again, though it sounds a bit… strained? 

“I have a habit of being unintentionally lightfooted. I apologize.” 

Your heart is still pounding but you find it in yourself to have some decorum. You snap your jaw shut and bow your head slightly in respect. “You must be Lord Gojo. Forgive me for my insolence.” 

There’s a beat, and then footsteps– ones you actually hear this time. You clench your jaw when he stops before you and then nearly gasp when he takes your hand and brings it to his lips. 

“Satoru, please,” he winks and you think you might stop breathing. “I am your husband after all.” 

You force yourself to nod, to swallow, to act normal. But how can you in the presence of a man that looks like… that? There’s something too unreal about him, too perfect. It’s almost… unsettling. 

“Of course… Satoru.” 

He straightens and shows you a close-lipped smile that digs a dimple into his left cheek. You have to look away to avoid stumbling over your own feet. 

“So, do you like them?” Your brows furrow- “The dresses,” he clarifies. 

“O-oh.” Your features relax into an easy smile. You turn back to your armoire, running a hand along another gown. You don’t think you’ve ever touched something so… finely made. “I like them very much. I don’t know how to thank you.” 

There’s a little chuckle as you turn to face him again and you have to steel yourself before you meet his eyes. He’s mesmerizing, too mesmerizing. You think you could probably lose yourself in those eyes forever… 

“No need to thank me. If they don’t fit, we’ll call for the seamstress in the morning.” 

You nod softly, still lost to the situation. There’s a beat of silence in which your husband does nothing but… look at you. His eyes roam freely and the hair on your arms stands under his gaze. He traces the lines of your nose and jaw and lingers on your pulse. Can he see just how fast your heart is pounding?

“Did you… get dinner?” It’s a stupid question, you know, but you don’t think you can bear another second of that look he’s giving you. “I fell asleep and found a plate. I hope I didn’t prevent a proper meal…” You trail off. Perhaps you shouldn’t have pointed out your own shortcoming? 

He gives you another smile and you swear he inches just a little closer. “You did no such thing. I’m… perfectly satisfied.” 

You nod, glad that he doesn’t seem upset at the very least. Your lips press together, unsure of what to do or say. You’ve never had a husband before. Wasn’t he supposed to just sort of… put you on the bed and… do it?

Your eyes flit to said bed and your husband must see because he hurries to continue. 

“Well, I’ll see you in the morning then, hm?” His eyes flit to your armoire and back again. “Wear the blue dress with the lace to breakfast, yeah? Been dying to see it on you.” He chuckles like he’s just told some sort of amusing joke.

Your brows furrow. That was… not the topic you’d been expecting. “You’re not…” You feel your cheeks heat and tighten your jaw. “Not staying the night?” 

His lashes lower a fraction and those eyes pierce you again. You don’t think you could move even if you wanted to, even with him prowling closer, each step eating up the space between you. He doesn’t stop until you’re nose to nose and you can feel his breath fanning over your cheeks. It’s cold somehow, chilling, and you shiver. He smirks. 

“Not tonight.” 

His head dips and for a moment you think he’s going to kiss you, but then he’s bypassing your mouth altogether and- his lips connect to your pulse. His mouth is cool, just like his breath, and you shiver uncontrollably under his touch. 

His touch is just a fleeting moment, just a wrinkle in time, and then he’s gone. His footsteps are quiet brushes on the hardwood and the creak of the door even seems tamed in his presence. 

“Goodnight,” is all he says, and then he’s gone. 

You climb into your bed an hour later wondering what in the world just happened. 

~  

You do wear the blue dress to breakfast and you can only gape in the mirror when you realize that it fits perfectly. It has you second-guessing yourself. Had you sent your measurements in advance and forgotten about it? No, you’d only sent a handful of pieces of information to the Lord prior to your marriage and you remembered all of them very clearly. Everything had gone through a messenger, everything had been clear and direct– you would have remembered sending your measurements– you didn’t. So had he just… guessed? 

That seemed impossible with how everything fit you like a glove, but it was the only explanation you had. The only one that made sense. 

When you join Satoru for breakfast it’s in a sitting room as lavishly decorated as the rest of the castle, but perhaps organized to be a bit more… liveable. He has no plate in front of him, only a tin cup that hides the contents of whatever he’s drinking. You assume coffee or juice. Perhaps he’s just not a breakfast person. 

“It fits!” he says. His hands clasp together in front of him and he smiles again, dimples and all. 

You nod and fight the heat that bubbles beneath your cheeks as you take your seat. “Yes, perfectly.”

A plate is set before you and a glance up reveals it’s Thomas serving your breakfast. You smile, hoping for some acknowledgement from him, for a small piece of comfort. Instead, you get his averted gaze and quick retreat. Your brows furrow, but before you can say anything, Satoru is back to speaking. 

“I hope Thomas treated you well yesterday?” 

You glance up, but Satoru’s eyes aren’t on you, they’re on your footman. His smile is bright, but it’s anything but friendly. You fight a shiver. 

You glance at Thomas. He’s perfectly still, perfectly straight, but you think you see a muscle clench in his jaw. You clear your throat. “Y-Yes. Thomas was very helpful.” When Satoru keeps staring the boy down you add, “-and very respectful.” 

That seems to satisfy. Satoru breaks his stare and some of the tension in the air instantly eases. He shoots you another dimpled smile, this one with a little more warmth. “Perfect.” 

There’s a beat and then he’s standing, draining whatever he has in his cup and then straightening his jacket. “Well, I have some work to do. I’ll see you for dinner?” He’s grinning again, like it’s so normal for a man to abandon his bride on their wedding night and then again the morning after. All you can do is nod. He chuckles. “See you then, princess.” And then he’s gone.

~

If this is to be your life you don't know how you will survive it. You spend the day milling about. Through the gardens, through the castle, through the stables. Thomas is never far behind, but any attempt at conversation is nipped in the bud by hit shortness. It’s like he fears coming too close. He’s never closer than a couple paces except when he has to bring you something, only to retreat again as soon as possible. The other servants barely pay you any mind apart from giving you a respectful greeting and then immediately averting their eyes. There is no work to be done, no guests to be had, no parties to plan… and no Satoru. You don’t see your husband once on tour around the grounds. You ask Thomas where his office is only for him to vaguely point out a window in the east tower. You don’t see so much as a ripple in the curtains. 

Dinner comes around at the pace of a snail. When it’s finally time to get dressed a lady’s maid whose name you don’t even catch arrives to help you lace your dress. As soon as your corset is deemed tight enough she’s back out the door with a curtsy. Thomas leads you to the dining room and your eyes roam the whole way. Even after having spent the whole day exploring, there are halls and corridors that you’ve yet to step foot in. 

The dining room is just as gorgeous as the rest of the place– filled with singular items that could feed entire families for years. Somehow, you think you’ve already grown accustomed to such things, since the only thing you truly care to look at is your husband. Satoru’s already seated, but he stands when you enter, looping around the table to pull a chair out for you. 

You give him your most genuine smile, accepting a kiss to your knuckles in greeting before you settle. “How was your day?” you ask as he takes his seat again. 

He chuckles. “Perfectly fine. And how was yours, princess?” Your nose crinkles. That’s the second time he’s called you that. Something about it feels wrong. You’re still getting used to being a lady. Princess feels even worse. 

“It was… good.”

You watch a perfect white brow arch in the candlelight. “Oh? Just good?” You don’t miss the way his eyes flicker to the corner– to Thomas. 

You hurry to elaborate. “Well, I just– I can’t help but feel as if there’s not much… use for me.” Servants flood in, some carrying wine, others carrying trays that hold more food than the both of you could ever possibly consume. 

That brow arches impossibly higher. “Use?” His lips crack into that smile again, but it’s tight this time. Too tight. “You have no use. You only enjoy yourself. Surely Thomas has told you that.” 

A plate of steaming food plops in front of you. Even its heavenly smell can’t quell the sudden dread in your gut. “Of course! Of course he did.” Your stomach twists and you decide that perhaps now is not the time to press the subject. “I’ll just… I’ll try riding tomorrow.” You hate riding, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind. 

Satoru’s smile thaws into something less menacing. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy that.” 

You nod eagerly. “I’m sure I will.” 

You grab your fork, eager for a new subject. From what you can tell, dinner is roast chicken and vegetables, though it’s the luxury version as everything seems to be. The spices are intoxicating and the green beans are even arranged in a pretty little pattern that makes them look too good to eat. You do anyway. The first bite nearly makes you moan, but you chew slowly, delicately, trying not to let your upbringing show.

It’s not until several bites later that you realize you’re the only one eating. A quick glance reveals your husband has no platter, no chicken or green beans. He’s only… watching you. You clear your throat, dabbing at your lips with a napkin. 

“You’re not… eating?”

That permanent smile grows a little wider and you can’t help but feel as if there’s something… menacing about it. “Ate before I came.” 

Your brows furrow. “Oh. Were you on the road?” 

You think you see something wild flash in his eyes. “No.” 

The rest of dinner passes slowly, almost painfully. Satoru doesn’t eat a bite, doesn’t even look enticed. You wonder how that’s possible when it smells like a spice bomb went off in the dining room. 

By the time you’ve cleared your plate you’ve discussed everything from the number of horses in the stables to kinds of crops grown on the estate. It’s comforting to know a little more about your new home, but it’s not enough. 

“Is there a library?” you ask. You’re on dessert now. It’s the best chocolate cake you’ve ever had and it takes everything in you to hold back a moan each time it touches your tongue. 

“Of course.” Your husband’s eyes flicker to Thomas again and you’re honestly starting to fear for the poor footman’s life. Everytime you ask a question it’s like Satoru is angry it hasn’t already been answered. “It’s yours to use as you please.” 

You smile lightly. “Perfect. Thank you.” 

He softens a bit at that. “Is there anything specific you wanted to read about?” 

You shrug. “The estate, I suppose. I should know my home’s history, no?”

His eyes get that wild look again, that sparkle that you know speaks to nothing good. “Oh, absolutely. I have some personal favorites to recommend. I’ll leave them aside for you?” 

You swallow and give him a shallow nod. “That would be perfect. Thank you.” 

He chuckles. “My pleasure.” 

When dessert is finally over, you stand slowly. Satoru’s not far behind you, saying he’ll walk you to your room. Your heart leaps at his words. Will he stay with you tonight? 

He offers you his arm in the hall and your mouth runs dry when you feel the corded muscle beneath his jacket. By the time you reach your room, you’re thinking of tugging him in behind you. His denial to stay with you last night was not only confusing, but… off putting. Nearly offensive. Did he not like how you looked? Did he think something was wrong with you? 

You muster all the courage you possess and force your lips apart. “Will you stay with me tonight?” 

His eyes spark again and you hold your breath. He presses closer. This is it, you think. His lips hover over yours, eyes glimmering in the candlelight. And then he dips his head, his mouth pressing to your pulse. 

“Not tonight,” he whispers– and then he’s gone. 

~

You wake suddenly. It’s the middle of the night, you gather. The light streaming through the window is weak enough to only be that of the moon. 

Your heart is pounding and your skin is slick with sweat despite the chill in your bones. A nightmare, you think. It must have been a nightmare. 

As you settle back into your sheets you swear you see a ripple in the darkness. You close your eyes. If your nightmare is real, you’d rather not see it coming.

~

The library is huge. It’s sprawling and smells of paper and leather and everytime Thomas lights a candle you flinch at the idea that one misplaced spark could end thousands of years of knowledge. 

The books Satoru left you are… perfect. Just what you were looking for. They’re all comprehensive volumes of the history of the estate, many of which reference each other. You’re stunned to see that several are written by very well-known authors of both the past and the present. You knew the Gojo family’s influence reached far, but not that far. You peruse the titles. The Gojos: A History, A History of the Gojo Crest, History of the Gojo Castle, Revisiting the Gojo Family: A Comprehensive History. Altogether you have well over a few thousand pages of information– but there’s one book that doesn’t fit with the rest. It’s relatively unassuming. A black cover with some sort of gold rune etched onto its front. When you flip to the title page it reads “Creatures of Myth and Where To Find Them”. Your brows furrow. You slide it to the side– must have gotten mixed in with the others, you think.

~

You ask Thomas to bring the books to your room. He does. Very respectfully. He sets them on your bedside table and then retreats like a kicked puppy with only a polite goodbye. You sigh. His behavior has only gotten stranger in the past few days. You think the servants’ coldness must have something to do with Satoru, but you can’t figure out why. Had he ordered them to stay away? Why would he? 

You decide it’s a question for another day and dive into your books. You spend hours, days, reading every chapter, page, and word. The pure amount of information is dizzying. Apparently this specific estate had been in the hands of the Gojo family since the eighth century (with several razings and consequential rebuilds). You also learn that Satoru was not only the most wealthy lord on the continent, but the most wealthy man. Even wealthier than the king apparently, though that fact was kept fairly under wraps to protect the crown’s ego. The estimates of your husband’s net worth made your head spin.

Satoru joins you for breakfast and dinner every day. You never see him eat a morsel. It’s… unsettling to say the least. It’s always just that tin cup, filled with something you could never quite see. You develop a pattern of waking in the night, too, with the overwhelming sense that something is watching you. Sometimes you could swear you feel the bed shift as you jerk awake. Each time you simply close your eyes and try your best to slow your heart, convinced your mind is playing tricks on you. 

Your days feel a little more productive with a book in your hands, but you’ve read them all three times over by the time a fortnight has passed. You find yourself packing them up to return to Thomas when a certain black cover catches your attention. You grab it from the pile and settle back into your seat. You’ve nothing better to do, right? 

You flip back the cover, revealing a familiar title. “Creatures of Myth and Where to Find Them”. You don’t recognize the author’s name. A quick scroll through the table of contents reveals nothing particularly interesting, but you pick a random chapter on ghouls and decide to start there. 

It’s fascinating. Nothing about the style is boring and the words fly by. Your silly little myth book is a page turner. By the time you notice the light has started dying you’ve read about ghosts, fairies, werewolves, and goblins– all of which have been a delightful little read. A glance at the clock reveals you have a half hour before dinner. One more chapter, you think. Your eyes skim the title. “Vampires [Vampyr]”. 

You skim the first paragraphs until your eyes settle on a line that catches your eye. 

“Contrary to popular belief, vampires are not always crazed blood-hungry monsters. Many live among humans quite comfortably and are able to avoid detection with a little well-placed effort.” 

You purse your lips. What a… terrifying thought. You skim a little further. 

“A vampire’s key characteristic is, of course, their desire and need to drink human blood as sustenance. However, a vampire can be spotted sooner if one is able to recognize their subtler traits. Vampires often have skin lacking any sort of flush. The lack of blood in their veins results in a sickly pallor, even after the most rigorous exercise. Their skin is also noticeably cold to the touch. At best, a vampire’s body will reach room temperature. Vampires can also be noted for their preternatural beauty. They will stand out as the most attractive person in any crowd. Finally, a vampire will have fangs. If one wishes to identify a vampire, one only needs a good look at their teeth”.

A chill settles over your skin. You flip ahead a few pages. 

“Vampires are unable to consume typical human food. Should they attempt to, their bodies will immediately reject any and all foreign substances.” 

Your stomach drops. You don’t want to think about why. You skip the rest of the paragraph. 

“Vampires possess several supernatural abilities that set them apart as a human’s predator rather than their equal. Vampires are known to move unnaturally fast and are notably light footed. If a vampire does not wish to be heard, they will not be. A vampire’s strength is inhuman, well over ten times that of the average man. They also have a penchant for darkness, an ability to hide away in the shadows that cannot be explained. Oftentimes they will seem to appear from thin air.”

You skip ahead again.

“Vampires have been known to take mates. Mates usually come in the form of another vampire, but in some cases a human has been chosen. Vampires are fiercely protective of their mates, bordering on obsession. Any person deemed a threat to their bond or their mate’s safety is usually disposed of quickly. Oftentimes, vampires make these decisions with haste, with little regard for whether or not the threat was real. A vampire will do everything in their power to please their mate, but have been known to forcibly restrain their mates in situations of unrequited feelings. Above all else, vampires wish to possess their mates. Two bonded vampires will sometimes spiral into gloriously destructive fits in their endless desire to protect and possess one another. A vampire bonded to a human will show an increasingly protective nature, often isolating their mate from others.”

Your heart pounds. A bead of sweat rolls down your back. You flip the pages, desperate– desperate for a piece of information that will save you from the thoughts spilling in your mind, from the thoughts you will do anything not to believe. You reach the “Where to Find Them” subsection and nearly gasp with relief. Surely, vampires do not pose as wealthy lords of Europe? 

“Vampires can be found everywhere. They do not exist in only one country or continent, but all over the world. Odds are that you have faced at least one vampire in your life, unknowingly or not. Some vampires choose to live solitary lives, surviving in the wilderness where human society will not attempt to tame their wild nature. Others choose to live among humans, some even existing in positions of very high authority.” 

No, no, no. This can’t be happening to you. It can’t be real. You’re dreaming, you’re having one of those nightmares again. You’re going to wake up any second. 

“One tale recounts a razing of the Gojo estate in the 12th century.” 

You’re panting, hyperventilating. This isn’t happening. 

“Soldiers of the enemy force recounted a singular man, the son and heir of the then Lord Gojo, taking out a minimum of 800 men. He was described as having his family’s characteristic white hair as well as blue eyes. Eyewitness accounts depict the Gojo heir as covered in blood and killing savagely and with inhuman strength.” 

No, no, no. 

“(See next page for only existing portrait)”

Your fingers tremble but you can’t stop them. There’s no way. It’s not possible. 

You flip the page and Satoru stares back at you. 

Knock! Knock! Knock!

You nearly scream. Your door rattles angrily, but you’re not sure you can answer it, not with the knowledge flooding your mind. The knocking continues. You run your hand over your face and smooth down your hair. You feel frazzled, dirty, despite not having moved from your chair all day. Another knock prompts you to set your book aside and stand. You do your best to compose yourself, to put on a straight face. You fail instantly when you pull back the door not to reveal your faithful attendant, not Thomas, but Satoru. 

You bite back a shriek and instead force a smile. You’re suddenly very aware of the blood pounding in you veins and of the fact that he most likely knows. 

“Hello,” he says, but his voice is lower than usually, more intense. 

You force a breath into your lungs. “Hello,” you answer, but it sounds more like a squeak than a greeting. 

Something flashes in his eyes, something familiar, something that is no longer interesting but rather terrifying. “Are you alright? You seem a little… flushed.” The concern on his face feels anything but genuine. 

“I’m fine,” you answer, but even you can tell that reply too quickly, too eagerly. You rush to cover it up. “Is it time for dinner? Where’s Thomas?” 

His lip twitches and you see a muscle in his jaw flex. “Thomas has… left us.” 

No. This wasn’t happening to you. There was no way this was happening to you. 

“He… what?” There’s an unmistakable wobble in your voice that only causes Satoru’s face to fall further. 

“It’s no matter. He’s gone. Now it’s just you and me, hm?” He chuckles and the sound rattles your bones. “In fact, I was thinking I’d cut down on the number of servants we have entirely…” 

You mind races with the memory of knowledge you wish you didn’t have. “Vampires are fiercely protective of their mates, bordering on obsession. Any person deemed a threat to their bond or their mate’s safety is usually disposed of quickly.”

You nearly stumble, but lean against the doorframe just in time. Your husband had disposed of a man, all because he brought you meals and books?

“What have you been up to today, princess?” The question breaks your trance just in time for you to see your husband’s eyes flicker behind you. 

You wet your lips. “Just some reading.” You plead that he doesn’t ask anything further. He does. 

“About the estate?” he asks. 

You nod and try to swallow the lump in your throat. “Yes.”

His smile returns and this time it’s not forced. “You got my books, then?” 

You try smiling back, but you’re fairly sure it looks more like a grimace. “Yes.”

“Anything interesting?” he presses.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. Does he know? Does he know that you know? “Yes, of course. Lots.” 

He pauses and you see the debate and then the decision in his eyes. You think it’s the first time you’ve felt true terror when he meets your gaze again. “I think we should skip dinner tonight. It seems we have so much to discuss.”

You don’t even have the wherewithal to scream when he steps into you, forcing you back until he’s shutting your door behind him. He doesn’t stop there, though. He keeps pressing, keeps pushing until your knees hit the bed and you’re falling to the mattress. He crawls right after you.

“Who knew my little wife was such a reader? All those books in such a short time… You must be simply spilling with information.” 

You retreat across the mattress, squeaking when your back hits the headboard and his arms cage your waist. You’re trapped.

His hands find your hips and you’re all too aware of how cool his touch is. Even more so when he pulls you right into his lap.

“Satoru-” your voice is pitiful, breathless, and you’re ashamed to say it’s not just from the fear in your gut. He’s never been this close before, never touched you, held you like this. “Thomas-” 

“Don’t speak his name.” His face pulls into the first scowl you’ve ever seen and the sight is enough to root you to the spot. Never have you seen anything more frightening. A creature so beautiful, so perfectly angelic, filled with an insurmountable rage. It’s wrong. “He’s gone. He’ll never bother you again.” He’s closer now, his breath skating over your skin. It’s cool and now you know the reason why. 

You shake and tremble and you know– Thomas is dead. Your husband killed him– killed him for getting too close when all he did was stay at a distance. Satoru killed him. Killed him. 

He buries himself in your neck, his voice a near whine. “Thought I could put up with it, just so you’d have someone to take care of you…” He groans. “I was so wrong, princess. Couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand the way you smelled more like him than me…” 

You feel him melt against you then, relief washing over his body in a wave. “But he’s gone. And now it’s just you and me, hm? Just you and me…” He hums, like remembering that fact is all he’s ever needed.

He’s kissing your pulse again, now, and your heart is racing faster than ever. Your fingers curl into his shoulders. You should push him away, away, away. He’s a killer, of thousands no doubt. You’ve never felt at home here, never felt like you belonged. This is why. You’re not even the same species. He’s something else, something your hands were never meant to touch. 

Your mind screams at you to do go, to shove and kick at him and leave this place behind. Go, go, go your gut says… but you don’t. You can’t. It’s too… good. The feeling of his cool lips against your skin, of what you’re sure is his tongue prodding at your pulse… it’s intoxicating. He is intoxicating. How could anyone blame you for wanting more of someone, something, so divine? 

“Have you figured it out yet, love?” Your breath hitches and he chuckles, licking a long stripe up your neck, before he settles back at your pulse. Always your pulse. “I can feel those little gears turning. Tell me, what have they discovered?” 

He knows you know. But he’s going to make you say it. You swallow and feel his grip on you tighten. “You’re…” Your breaths come faster. You can’t. Not aloud. Aloud makes it too… real. 

“Yessss?” he prods. He’s licking at you again, all the way across your throat to find your other pulse-point. 

“You’re not…” Something sharps nicks at your skin and you bite your lip to hold back a whimper. 

“Go on, princess.” You think he’s just smelling you now, just burying his face as close to you as possible and taking you in. 

You close your eyes tightly, holding back tears. “Not human,” you breathe. A piece of you breaks with the admission.

He huffs a little laugh against your skin and pulls back to look you in the eye. “That’s good,” he purrs. “But I think you can be a little more specific, no?” His lips press to your chin, then the corner of your mouth, then down to your jaw… “Tell me.” 

Your lips wobble, muscles clenching tighter with each passing moment. You don’t want to say it, don’t want to speak it into existence, but you also don’t dare to disobey him. 

“You’re a…” You shake and tremble. He draws a line up your neck with the tip of his nose.

“Mhm?” 

You open your eyes, thinking this might be the last time you see. “Vampire.” 

He chuckles and you feel his teeth press to the skin of your neck. “That’s right, princess. So smart.” 

He smiles and you suddenly realize you’ve never seen his teeth before. Everytime he smiles at you it’s close-lipped and dimpled. But this… this is the smile of a predator– all white and pointy and fitted with a set of menacingly long fangs. You sob at the sight. 

“Shhhhh,” he coos. He has your chin in his hand, forcing you to truly look at him, to see him for what he is. “I won’t hurt you, love.” You want to believe him so badly it burns, but his laugh washes away any fire and turns it to ice. “Not unless you want me to.” He wiggles a brow like it’s just a little joke, like he’s not an actual fucking vampire that had his fangs over your neck just moments ago. 

“Satoru,” you beg. You’re not sure what you’re begging for. Release maybe? But, no, that’s not right. You don’t want him to let you go, not when you finally have him close after all this time. “Why did you pick me?” 

The question slips out. You hadn’t even been thinking about it, hadn’t even noticed it scratching at the walls of your mind, but it made its way out nonetheless.

His brow creases, but not in confusion. Moreso in… thoughtfulness. “Do you think about that a lot, princess?” 

You nod and you suddenly want him closer, want him to touch you everywhere, hold you like his life depends on it. You want him, no matter how horrible it might be. 

He nods and hums, kissing the tip of your nose lightly. “Well…” he says. His thumb swipes over your lips when he leans in to whisper in your ear. “At first I wanted you for this.” His head dips to your neck again and you feel the familiar brush of his lips against your throat. “You smell…” he chuckles. “Like heaven. Which is a place I’ll never get to on my own, so I had to bring my own little slice home, no?” He laughs again, a little louder this time, genuinely amused. “Went into town one day and caught your scent on the street. At first I thought I must be walking past the bakery, but, lo and behold, there was no baker in sight.” He’s still kissing at your pulse, worshiping it. “Went crazy, princess. Didn’t think I was going to be able to contain myself when I found you. Thought it might be quite the scene.” He huffs a laugh and you shiver, somehow both terrified and intoxicated. “But then I saw you–” he groans and something clenches deep at your center. “And I knew I needed more than just your blood. Needed you.” He’s rocking into you now, and your breath catches when you feel something firm against your backside. “Went to you in that little room you slept in every night. Watched you. Couldn’t stay away. Knew I had to have you.” You feel him smile against your skin. “After a week I couldn’t take it anymore. Sent you that letter, married you. Made you mine.” He groans again. “Then I met you and you were so pretty, princess. Already knew it, but hearin’ you talk to me, look at me.” Teeth graze your pulse. “Needed you more than ever. Almost took you right on the fucking floor in here while you were lookin’ at those dresses.” You whine when his hips roll into you again. “Oh, but I knew I couldn’t. You’re so fragile, love. Had to wait, had to make you feel safe, yeah? Spent all this time forcing myself to stay away, ‘fraid of what I might too if I was in your presence too long. Had to control myself. Had to make you realize you could trust me.” He panting, like he’s so pent up he can hardly sit still. “Do you trust me, princess?” 

Your brows scrunch. Say no, say no, say no a part of you screams. Run, run, run. You can’t. “Yes,” you breathe. 

You feel him smile again, feel the pleasure of submission. “Good girl.” 

You’re on your back. It happens so fast your eyes don’t even have time to gasp. You don’t see Satoru, but you feel him. Everywhere. His hands are roaming your body softly, sliding under buttons and laces and popping them off. Your dress loosens with every passing moment until Satoru reappears above you, diving straight for your neck again. “So good, princess. Let’s get you out of this dress, yeah?” 

You nod wordlessly, entranced. He finds your mouth as he rids you of your clothes. His tongue presses in and you flail against him, unsure of what to do, of how to handle the intrusion. The kiss is heavy, too heavy, but Satoru can’t seem to stop. He devours you as he gives up on laces and buttons and simply shreds your dress down the back. You tremble when the cold air hits your skin, when his cool fingers dust your collarbone. 

“I always forget how many damn layers they make you ladies wear,” he chuckles. His hands run beneath your shift, up across your bare thigh. You gasp at the touch. No one has even been so close to you before. You feel the threads of your corset snapping away, feel your breaths growing deeper. You tremble when he pulls your sleeve down past your shoulder and runs his mouth along the newly exposed skin. 

“Satoru,” you gasp, and your hand pulls at his flowing white shirt. 

He chuckles, pulling back just enough to see your face. “You wanna see me too?” You nod, lips parted and eyes glassy, and he laughs again. He lips dust over the corner of your mouth. “Alright.” 

His hands shift from you to himself, working at the laces on his chest. His movements are speedy, practiced, like he’s been lacing and unlacing shirts for hundreds of years. Your throat tightens when you realize that he has. 

You gasp when he reveals himself, when his shirt slides away to reveal an expanse of pale skin and carved muscle. You’ve never seen a man like this and seeing one this close up for the first time is nearly blinding. He’s art, you think- nothing less. 

“Touch me, princess,” he says. You can’t. You shouldn’t. He’s too beautiful, too perfect to be beneath your insignificant hands. “Need a little help?” he asks, and there’s a lilt in his voice that makes you sure he’s grinning. 

His hands find yours and bring them to his chest, running your palms over his collarbones, his pecs, down, down, down across his abs that you can feel each and every one… You whimper, watching your own fingers grope his skin. He pulls you lower, lower, lower, and you gasp when your fingertips brush the waistband of his pants. But then he’s laughing again and he’s throwing your arms over his shoulders and pulling you closer, kissing your neck like it pained him to be parted from your pulse for so long. 

“Not so fast,” he says, like he wasn’t the one nearly stuffing your hands down his pants. His hands are on your corset again. You can feel it dangling onto you by a thread, literally. All he needs is a couple more pulls and you’ll be bare. By the look he gives you, you can tell he’s 

thinking the same thing. “You touch me, now I touch you, yeah?” There’s a tug and a tear and then so much… cold. You’ve never realized how cold this castle is, not until you’re exposed to its elements fully. You’re naked. 

Satoru sits back on his knees and just watches. His gaze is searing, burning, despite the iciness of his being. It’s too much. Your hands move to cover yourself, to maintain some modicum of your dignity- 

“No.” Strong hands find your wrists and pry them apart. “Let me see you,” he says. His tongue darts out to lick his lips. 

Your jaw clenches and your frame shakes, but you do as he asks, letting your hands fall limply at your sides. There’s silence for many more moments and it seems to go on so long that you can only squeeze your eyes shut under his gaze. Surely he will turn you away now, get up and leave, tell you this was a mistake, tell you that you’re– 

“Beautiful,” he breathes. Your eyes snap open to find him already staring at you. “Beautiful,” he says again, and then he’s on you, lips at your pulse, hands on your skin. His touch is cool and you squeak at the chill that runs up your spine. You’re not sure it’s entirely from his temperature. 

His mouth seeks yours and he devours you. You feel as if he’s sucking your soul out through your lips. “Tell me you’ve never done this before,” he begs. “Tell me I’m the first to touch you.” 

You whine against his mouth, both aching for more and overwhelmed by what he’s already giving you. “Y-You’re the first,” you whisper. 

His groan is deep, primal. It rattles through your chest and you whimper when his hands dig into your waist hard enough to bruise. “Yes,” he breathes, and you shiver again. “Lie back, princess.” Your eyes widen, with anticipation or fear you’re not sure. Probably both. He chuckles. “Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle.” 

You pray he means that. “Just relax, love. Here, hold my hand.” His fingers find yours, twining them together. When you swallow, his eyes follow the bob of your throat. He leans back again and your body twitches when his free hand skims the skin of your thighs. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he finds your knees and you gasp when he parts your legs, revealing you so completely to his gaze. The way he stares, like he’s committing you to memory, it’s nearly enough to make you snap your thighs shut, but a squeeze from his hand reminds you to relax, to trust. 

His palm skates up your thigh and settles near your hip, his fingertips inching closer to where you can feel an embarrassing throb. 

“Tell me, love. Have you ever touched yourself here?” His fingers dust low on your tummy- just low enough for you to catch his meaning, but not low enough to give you any relief. Your face heats and your teeth dig into the flesh of your cheek. You have, you have touched yourself there, but it’s the last thing you want to admit to your new husband. It’s shameful, it’s dirty, it’s- “Don’t think I’ll judge you, princess. Just wanna know.” 

You gulp down a breath. You should come clean. “Y-yes,” you stutter, and the sound of your voice so weak and helpless only makes you flush further. 

He chuckles and squeezes your hand again. “On the outside or the inside?” 

Your eyes widen. I-inside? You’d never considered that… “J-just the outside,” you answer. 

Your eyes grow even wider when his head rolls back and he moans straight up to the ceiling like your answer is heaven-sent. When he looks back to you his fangs are on full display. “Well, I think you and I are in for a little treat today, hm?” 

Your brow furrows and your lips part to ask him what he means– his fingers travel those last few inches down your tummy and find your clit. You squeak and jolt so violently that he presses a hand to your hip, holding you to the mattress. “Somebody’s sensitive,” he chuckles. He holds you still for a moment and then lets your hips go free. “Try to stay still. I promise it’ll feel good.”

You nod hopelessly, but this time you’re prepared for when he touches you again. Your muscles clench at the first touch, at the foreign sensation of a touch down there that wasn’t your own. But then it’s more. It’s languid, slow circles around a spot that you’ve never been able to pinpoint so well on your own. It’s heat building in your tummy that seeps through every vein and into every pore. It’s relaxation that you’ve never known, that has you melting into the mattress despite the chill of the touch. 

There’s a little huff of a laugh and then his voice. “Good girl. Feels nice, yeah?” You nod hesitantly and squeeze desperately at his hand, searching for an anchor. His head cocks to the side and you watch the smile slide across his lips. “It’s about to feel even nicer.” 

By the time you realize what he’s doing it’s far too late to stop him. His mouth closes around your cunt and you yelp, trying to wiggle away from the overwhelming sensation- but he’s got his freehand on your hip again and his grip is bruising, punishing, as he holds you in place. He licks a stripe through your folds and you find yourself jolting again, uselessly so against the pressure of his palm on your hip. “Stop that, princess.” Your heart drops at the admonishment until you feel his guiding touch. “Rock into me like this.” His hand rocks your hips into his mouth and the pressure of his tongue against your clit is so delicious that you whimper. “Good girl,” he says and your heart rises right back up. “Keep doing that, now.” You don’t dare defy him. You rock like he showed you, a little jerkily at first, and then you find a rhythm that has you seeing stars. “That’s it, love,” he says, and the sound is muffled against your cunt. “Here, put your hand in my hair.” He finds your wrist and guides you forward until your fingers are tangling in those snowy locks. They’re even softer than you’d imagined. “Good girl,” he whispers and suddenly he’s taking one last long lick and lifting his head to meet your eyes. “‘M gonna put my fingers in you now, princess.” Your chin wobbles. “It might hurt a little bit, but stay still, okay?” You can’t do anything but nod. 

His eyes return to your cunt and you can feel him prodding at your entrance, circling the hole as you clench in anticipation. “Relaaaaaax, love,” he says and you nod. A deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth– 

You feel the exact moment he pushes into you and a whine of pain rips from your throat. Your walls clamp down like a vice, angry at the intrusion– but it’s already too late. There’s a beat of silence, of anticipation, and then he’s– laughing? 

Your brows furrow when you hear it, your head lifting to a sight that locks your limbs in shock. Satoru’s hand is lifted in front of his face, his pointer finger coated in– blood, you realize. Your blood. And he’s a fucking vampire. 

“Oh princess,” he coos, and the manic look in his eyes makes you tremble. “You really are perfect.” 

Things seem to slow as you watch him take his blood covered finger into his mouth. You’re sure you’ve never seen an expression more blissful, more lost to sensation. His eyes roll back and his body shivers, like he’s ascending to some higher plane. Maybe he is. 

When he pulls his finger from his mouth it’s completely licked clean. You hold your breath. He’s going to go for your neck now, right? He’s had a taste and now he’ll want more of it, all of it?

“Fuck,” is all he says. His mouth is back on your cunt so fast you don’t even see him move. 

Your mouth falls wide. It hurts, the way he is so desperately licking at you. You feel his finger again, pressing in, in, in, only to pull back and suddenly be joined by another. The stretch tears at you. You thrash and jolt, but Satoru doesn’t bother telling you to stop this time. His arm wraps over your hips, holding you in place. He seems immune to how hard your legs squeeze at his head or your hands pull at his hair. He’s lost. You can feel him licking, lapping, and prodding at you like you’re a fucking gold mine. He’s lost to desperation, to the need for more, more, more. Every so often he lifts his chin and you see his mouth smudged with a mixture of your wetness and your blood. He laps at his lips like an animal, dragging his thumb across his chin and sliding it into his mouth to make sure he gets every last drop. 

You’re not quite sure when the ravenous pain turns to a ravenous pleasure, when it turns from terrifying to downright delicious. You don’t notice your moans filling the air until Satoru joins you, groaning and whining into your cunt and telling you to keep going, to keep making those sounds. The hand you have buried in his hair doesn’t fight to push him away any longer, only to pull him into those now practiced rocks of your hips. His fingers thrust deep, curling into a spot that makes you feel so good and his mouth has found your clit again. He sucks your nerves lightly between his lips, tongue swirling in little circles. Your thighs start to shake. 

“Yes. Yes. Give it to me.” 

“S-Satoru–” you breathe. Warmth and tightness pool in your tummy, and you recognize it as your approaching orgasm, though you know this one will be far different than any you’ve ever managed to give yourself. Your body shakes and your breaths tremble and then– you fall over the edge, rocking your hips senselessly, losing all form of rhythm. Warmth tingles in your spine and seeps all the way down to your toes. You think you cry out, cry for your husband, cry for more, cry for less, but if you do you don’t hear it. All you hear is the pounding of your pulse, of pleasure throbbing in your veins until the world slowly seeps back in through the corners of your vision. 

Satoru is grinning. A speck of your blood clings to his chin and his fangs peek out from behind his lips. The sight makes your blood run a little colder. If any part of you doubted what he was before… well, there was no doubt any longer. 

There’s a shift between your legs, his hips slotting between them, and you’re suddenly snapped back to reality. From the look in his eyes, you’re not done. 

Frantic hands find his pants and he undoes each button with a quickness that is almost inhuman. You wonder if he could go even faster, if he’s holding back so as not to scare you. If he is, it isn’t working very well. Fear surges in your veins right alongside anticipation. 

“S-Satoru–”

“It’s alright, love.” His hand finds yours without his eyes ever looking up. His grip is just a little too firm, a little too cold. “Just stay still.” 

You whimper, but you don’t think he’s paying attention to that, and soon enough, neither are you. His pants slide down just past his hips, just enough. You gasp. 

You’ve never seen a man in the nude, never even dared to think about what it might look like, though it seemed you no longer had to guess. His hand wrapped around his shaft, giving one long and slow stroke that made his breath hiss through his fangs. The tip was flushed, angry, and leaking something that looked clear and sticky. You couldn’t help but notice it was a lot thicker than a finger, or even two. If his fingers had hurt…

He moves with that alarming quickness again, leaning down to hover over you, chests nearly pressed together. “Gonna take you now, princess. Gonna make you mine.” His eyes bore into yours, blue and shimmering with something wild. His hand presses into the mattress beside your head. “Stay still, now.”

It’s all the warning he gives you. You feel like you’re splitting– straight up the middle. You wail, hands flying out to claw at his back. It hurts. It hurts. 

“Satoru, p-please! It’s–” 

Lips catch yours– hungry, feral. The kiss is not gentle, not soothing. It shuts you up, it keeps you quiet, it keeps you still as you feel him sinking further, deeper into you. It’s too much, you try to say, but the poke of sharp teeth against your lips keeps you silent. Your hips jolt and wiggle trying desperately to escape the stretch but it’s no use. By the time he’s fully inside you, tears are streaking down your cheeks, fat and heavy. His lips break away and his eyes reappear. You shake when you see that none of the wildness has been tamed, that you’ve only just begun.

“Good girl,” he coos, and a cool finger traces a line across your jaw. “Took me so well.” You hold back a sob when his hips shift a little, testing, prodding. He must see the pinch of your eyes, the twist of your mouth, because he’s quick to comfort. “Just hold my hand, princess.” His hips rock in earnest this time and you whimper, squeezing down on his hand with all your might. You’re panting as he chuckles. “Breathe, love. Breathe. Soon you’ll be begging for more,” he laughs. It’s not long before he’s rocking into you sincerely, setting a pace that stretches you to the brink of breaking. At first it’s all you can do to grasp onto him, to bite your lips through the whimpers and hold his hand. And then it’s… more. It’s heat and warmth despite the coolness of his body on yours. It’s sensation and… pleasure. He laughs when the first moan slides past your lips, burying his face in your neck once again. You hear him at your ear, panting his hot breath across your skin. 

“Feel good, princess?” You nod, letting your hips rock against his as he showed you before. It feels good– it feels right. He chuckles, but there’s nothing light about the sound. “Wanna feel even better?” Something sharp pokes at the skin of your neck, hard enough to make you squeak, to make you freeze at what you know he wants. 

He pulls himself back, pressing his forehead to yours, searching your eyes with his. Something like a cruel smile dances on his mouth. “Just a taste, love. I promise it won’ hurt.” His tongue darts out and licks across your lips, his thrusts rocking just a bit faster. “You’ll feel s’ good an’ I’ll only take a little.” He laughs again and it sends a chill through your bones. “Promise.” He sounds breathless, like he’s struggling to restrain himself. The increase of his pace makes you whine and you squeeze his hand again. He buries himself back in your neck, panting. “Come on, love. Say yes. Say yes f’ me.” Your eyes glaze over. Your body justles with each new thrust. He’s desperate now, seeking a release that you don’t think is any kind you’re familiar with. “Yes, yes, yes,” he chants in your ear. You’re not sure when his words twist in your mind, when they settle on your tongue and push past your lips, but you know it feels so right when they do. 

“Yes,” you whisper. 

His fangs clamp around your pulse. You scream when the sting rips through you, violent and savage– but it only lasts a moment. Pain fades to… ecstasy. You feel his throat bobbing with each swallow, feel your blood seeping from your skin and onto his tongue. You’d thought it would feel slicing, draining, like the life was being sucked from you. It doesn’t. It feels wonderful. Heat spreads under your skin, emanating from your neck and down to your toes. It feels like breathing for the first time, like sugar being pumped into your veins. It feels like heaven. Your hand tangles in his hair, holding him close. You don’t want it to stop, not ever. You could die like this, have him suck every last drop of blood from your veins and thank him for it with your dying breath. 

He’s moaning now, hands curling into your hips while he fucks into you relentlessly. The pace is grueling and brutal. You know it should hurt but only feels perfect. Anything less would not be enough. Anything else would leave you wanting. You feel it building, feel that familiar twinge at your core. The ecstasy flooding through your veins has it coming faster, has you teetering on the edge in moments. 

“Satoru…” You hadn’t noticed how dizzy you felt until you tried to speak. You wonder why… “‘M gonna…” 

He fucks you harder, something menacing and deep rumbling in his chest. The sound makes you shiver, makes you whine, makes you come. 

Your body shakes and a cry rips from your throat, cunt clenching like a vice around him. Your eyes roll back, hands scraping trails down his back. Your thighs quake with the intensity, with the overwhelming senses of pleasure that erupt throughout your body. Every nerve is firing, every hair rising. It’s an unstoppable current, one that sweeps you away, helpless to its pull. 

His thrusts grow sloppy and untimed. His grip on your hips tightens, holding you in place while he makes you his. His teeth break from your neck and when you look up through blurry eyes you see his head thrown back, your blood streaming down his chin in thick little globs. You feel it when he cums, feel the thick ropes of it seeping into your womb, feel the way he keeps fucking you, pushing it deeper and deeper inside. He’s moaning, chanting your name like a prayer at the heavens. 

When the moment ends he slumps over you, eyes half lidded and tired. There’s a familiar grin on his lips, one that inspires both comfort and uneasiness in your gut. You can’t help but stare at him, at the blood that stains his chin and cheeks, that reddens his lips so beautifully. You want to reach out and touch him, touch his blood-soaked skin and see what it feels like, what it tastes like. What you taste like. 

His eyes slide to the side, finding your pulse again. You groan. Yes, you think. Please, yes. More. You don’t think you’ll ever get enough of that. Of his teeth in your flesh, of the euphoria flooding your veins. More, more, more, your mind chants. 

He chuckles lightly and shakes his head. “No, princess.” He raises a finger to trace the curve of your neck. “I took more than I should have…” His expression doesn’t tense with worry. His cheeks pull into a smile, those little dimples shining through. “But what can I say? You just taste so good.” Like he needs to emphasize his point, his tongue darts out to trace his lips, lapping up some of the remaining blood on his chin. “You taste like mine.”

You whine. More, more, more. It’s all you can think about. You lift an arm weakly. You want to pull him to your neck, to make him drink, to make him fill you with the heaven you had just moments ago. 

He catches your wrist and brings it to his lips, inhaling deeply. His lips split into another grin and you see his eyes spark again with the wildness you crave. 

“Not yet, princess.” he coos. “But soon.” His smile grows even wider, until those fangs are on full display, until you’re trembling again. “Forever,” he whispers.

taglist (dm me or send an ask to be added!): @lacheri, @la-undercover-latina, @keiva1000

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꒰ྀི 𝐵𝐿𝒰𝐸 𝒟𝑅𝐸𝒜𝑀 ꒱ྀི

꒰ 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 . . . ꒱ word count 29.4kay , prequel to 2w&l [ can be read as a stand alone ] , black hyper fem reader ! , brother's [ former? ] best friend eren , ony and eren r bestiez , reader'z 19 in dis , ony + eren are 23 , bisexual eren , bisexual ony , tattoo artist eren , auto designer ony , some miscommunication , reader has a panic attack , crybaby reader , switches povs a lot in dis ! ! be warned , flirting , ony says da n - word a few times , virginity loss , lotsa cum omgie , big dicks ony + eren , eren has a dick piercing , daddy kink , oral sex [ fem. receiving ] , masturbation , cum swallowing , praisepraisepraise , reader's not particularly chubby however she iz described wif a soff' tummy , all of da feelings rllie jump out in d end , endin's also kind of abrupt cuz i doooo wna expand more on da sexual dynamic of da relationship :] will do so later . [ also on aO3 ]

𝜗ϱ 𝓁𝓊𝓋 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒 𝒻𝓇𝓂 𝒷𝑒𝓁𝓁𝒶 . . . phew ૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ ∩꒱ྀིა finally ! are u happie she'z here ?? took mi like . . over a month 2 write dis . story title is inspired by dis song . Minors , Ageless Blogs Do Not Touch ! ! ! !

“ ‘teoooo!” 

black, thick heeled, mary jane loafers drum against the burnished, cherry oak panels of flooring. tiptaptiptaptiptap. a girl’s little hand reaches out for the curved doorframe, using it for leverage to stop her body from propelling forward, to keep her legs from continuing to pump and sprint past it, as she pokes her head into a bedroom. 

sheer, dandelion yellow curtains billow atop of a warm, spring breeze. the current is smooth and gentle; flies over the desk that sits diagonal from the window, drawing attention to an algebra two textbook that sits open atop of it whose thin pages seem to shyly bid her hello, and a binder right beside it. 

empty.

a wee, mean pout graces your lips, plush and glazed over with the sweet, artificial, watermelon flavoring of a lollipop to which’s stick you hold between small fingers, and to further showcase your ever-growing frustration, as if your groans and huffs weren’t enough, you stomp your foot prior to lifting your chin and belling out a firm, “ 'teo!” 

he’s not in his room, in the backyard, nor the kitchen. 

‘mateo’s a teenager now,’ you’ve heard your mother tell her friends last week over raspberry iced teas and fruit tarts after their book club meeting. you’d been a few feet away from where the six of them sat on the veranda, crouched within the shimmering, sun warmed palette of grass as you held out a slightly trembling finger right atop the tip of a blade of green where a particular, stubborn ladybug had landed to coax him to climb upon. ‘he goes to school, eats us out of house and home, does his chores, then holes up in the basement. i don’t like it, but — it isn’t the toddler days so, i guess i can’t be too mad.’

the basement.

once more, the tapping staccato of your mary jane’s echo throughout the otherwise quiet home as you race downstairs, make a sharp right at the end of the railing, then come face to face with a shut door.

‘open it and freddy kreuger’s goin’ to snatch you in, slit your stomach, and replace your guts with maggots and worms,’ casually, mateo had informed you of your awaited fate six months ago while standing upon the bottom stair, tuna melt in hand, and toasted breadcrumbs decorating his chapped lips. ‘stay out of the basement. you have your playroom and i have mine.’

the entire family had been well aware of your more than grave fear of the rubberfaced boogeyman after a sleepover with your friends to celebrate your tenth birthday two years ago. you’d snuck the dvd out of mateo’s media console cabinet after you were sure he and your parents had fell asleep, furthermore, all five of you girls woke them up with screams and sobs only about a half hour into the film. let this also be commended as the day where your first panic attack struck — it was that bad.

and while your parents use freddy as means of a reprimand to keep you from rising up on your tip toes to reach the highest shelf in the pantry and, quite literally, jam your sticky, little hands into the cookie jar, or maintain good grades . . . mateo uses it to keep you out of his space.

discounting the trembling of your fingers and throat knotting with a lump big enough to induce you to feel as though you’d choke and faint at that same moment, you reach for the gold handle of the doorknob. 

you’re a brave girl — the bravest of them all. 

“. . . ‘teo?” your voice is a meek whimper as the door is pushed til only a slither of space separates it from the threshold. 

the case of stairs leading down to the flat level of the basement are made of thick, solid wood. because of the boards being so inured, the sound of the soles of your shoes landing on them seem to be amplified as you cautiously begin to step down, one by one.

“mateo?” it’s only right that your fear starts to transcend and tiptoe a line of irritation. you feel as though you’re quite literally risking your life, dancing with the devil, all in efforts just to let your big brother know that your mother told him to separate his laundry by wash cycle specification. how stupid.

the closer you get to the bottom, the louder comes the sound of applause, cheers, and, oddly, the deep tenors of multiple voices. 

the corners of your lips are tugged downwards when you take in the scene in front of you. 

it isn’t dust covered boxes toppled to the brim with old photo albums, deceased loved ones clothes, old radio sets, and aged, money collecting antiques that decorate your basement — no, your father had the space renovated and constructed into something more akin to a lounge a week after you all moved into the home. 

the ac is cranked up to its max. a sharp waft of cool air flies over your plaid skirt and through the locs of your braids. on the sixty inch flat screen television is a video game’s loading screen — madden, and seated on the loveseat, back angled to face you, is a boy.

aslant from him, is your brother lounged across a large bean bag chair, playstation controller in hand, a can of cherry coke at his socked feet, and bag of chester hot fries upon his lap. he’s chewing on what looks like a handful of them, murmuring, “ ‘m gonna whoop your ass, jaeger. watch this.” while crumbs fly out of his mouth with enough force to compare to bullets. 

you cringe at the sight, prior to finally making yourself known.

“mateo.”

two heads snap towards you, and you happen to meet a green eyed stare first. 

if asked, you wouldn’t have been able to describe it back then — the immediate shock your heart seems to undergo as it bunny hops over its usual, steady beat then begins to pound against the corral of your ribs. a simple glance from him has your painted nails sinking into the meat of your palms until a bloom of red bordered them. similar to a spooked fawn, you stand there for a moment, knees trembling as the toes of your feet begin to idly turn inwards towards one another. 

the thing is, you’ve always been a bit of a shy girl, opting to stand behind your parents’ legs when being introduced to one of their friends or a long distanced family member. never have you been able to place your own order at a drive thru’s window or raise your hand in class, granted you almost always knowing the answers . . nonetheless, you don’t think this current feeling compares to those. it’s something deeper — more fierce. at a minimum, you were always able to mumble your name or shake a hand when being introduced, albeit, after mateo does such — ‘sorry, man. this my lil’ sis ( ❤︎ ). ( ❤︎ ), this eren, say hi,’ you’re only able to fester enough courage to lift a hand and flutter your shaking fingers. 

eren is your brother’s age, you can tell. he wears from what you could see, a plain black tee with a band’s name, nirvana, you read, printed on the front. his hair is tapered cleanly at the back, however, a bit long in the front, a few strands fall into his eyes that blink plainly at you before he gives a polite, closed mouth smile and holds up his hand. “hey, ‘s cool to meet you.” a thin strip of titanium runs horizontally across the top row of his flawless, white lines of teeth and you let your eyes drag across the four rubber bracelets he wears on his left wrist, two, tiny blemishes near his jawline, ‘til finally, you let them land on the fine dark hairs that line the top of his plump, upper lip. nadeshiko — you’d been taught the word a few weeks ago by one of your friends who was japanese. ‘it’s a really, really pretty shade of pink. kinda like bubblegum.’ 

nadeshiko pink was the color of them. they shined subtly, whether it be by chapstick or rather him quickly licking them prior to speaking, you don’t know. but they were pretty . . he was pretty.

“mm,” you fist the fabric of your skirt in a fist. an uncomfortable warmth begins at the peak of your nose before you feel it blossoming to both your cheeks. “m-mommy wants you, ‘teo.”

your brother lets his head fall back before giving a short groan and setting his controller down to then stand, “alright. hol’ on, bro. i’ll be back.”

you follow close behind him when he starts to trudge up the stairs, skipping two at a time. unable to help it, you spare a single last glance of eren before the sight of him is hidden behind the wall once more, albeit, alone in your room, you can’t help but pout upon the realization that he’d been reimmersed into the video game, not another regard of you given.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀  ❤︎

you hadn’t known what the feeling was.

you just knew that you really, really, really liked being around eren. following the months after meeting him for the first time, eren pops up at your house at a more increasing extent. every friday, sometimes saturdays, a few thursdays, a rare tuesday. a glance of him lounging upon the living room couch, one, long leg sprawled along the cushioned arm, stare heavy and long as he gazed at the television was always just enough for you to feel that exact sensation of queasy warmth just as you did in the basement.

you’d watch him smile with your brother, watch the magnificent sea green of his eyes glimmer before they’d tightly shut in order for him to throw his head back and emit the most prettiest bellow of laughter from the pit of his stomach, and sometimes, shards of jagged, tined ice would skirt the edges of that queasy warmth come the realization that mateo got to see that same, striking grin everyday.

“alright, ma’. we headin’ to jj’s party — i’ll be home by eleven like you said.”

parties, parks, football games, basketball courts, you’d never seen your brother hang out with someone as much as he does eren. 

kindled summers peppered with warm nights and the comforting buzz of fireflies and cicadas phase into the chambré days of autumn, and soon, that becomes a frosty winter, heaving with dim, caliginous skies and porcelain mugs the shape of gingerbread houses with creamy, hot cocoa. indubitably, enters spring — with the fresh budding of flowers, warm rain, and new swelling of leaves upon branches. and the cycle begins anew.

you watch eren grow. you watch him grow out the thick, chocolate waves of his hair until it reaches his mid back, then, you also watch him cut it all off again. his style of clothing transforms, what was once band tees, faded jeans, and vans becomes air force ones, new balances, and jordans. more loose jeans and sweats, hoodies, and beanies. his retainer is retired to only night wears, he’d told your mother, and his acne smoothens over into flawless, warm tan skin after a trip to the dermatologist and a prescription. you watch eren become a man, and naturally, your feelings for him triple. 

it’s only fair that you feel a little bit blue, seated within the balcony box of an auditorium as your new principle calls out his and mateo’s names to walk the stage and grab their diplomas. the smiles the two of them wear are nothing short of bright and wide as they do. fighting to hide your pout, you stand behind the jittering, bustling bodies of your parents, aunt, and grandmother, after the ceremony’s over, watching them take what seemed like a million pictures and videos of the two boys on their day, until you’re ultimately nudged by your mother between them. “picture with your sister, mateo, c’mon! big smiles — you three are so cute. oh my god, michael, look at them!”

more than hyperaware of eren’s arm draped casually over the hill of your shoulder as he leans in with a smile, you struggle to keep from tensing up or trembling too much or as your arms go behind his and mateo’s backs. he’d smelt of fresh soap and cedarwood, that day — potent and electrifying. you scramble between feeling relived and bummed when the pictures are over and he’s giving mateo a goodbye hug. “i’ll see you later, man. probably tomorrow or somethin’,” he’s smiling after pulling away. “you know me.”

“oh, for sure,” mateo nods. “go find your moms. tell her i said hi.”

he gives you one last wave and you return it with a warm smile.

for years to come, that’d be the last memory you’d have of eren jaeger.

with mateo off to college and you a freshmen in high school, it’s difficult to find intel on where he’d gone. he had fled the city, that was for sure, nonetheless, no one knew where, not even mateo. “he always told me he wanted to be a tattoo artist . . you can’t do that in the suburbs,” clarified your brother on his rare visit home for thanksgiving. “eren’s never had social media either so,” he shrugged, face smoothed over with indifference. “hopefully he’s okay wherever he is.”

you suppose it’s true when they say high school is one of the fastest four years of your life. it’s all a blur. 

with you participating on the student council, school newspaper, and being vice captain of the cheer squad, your extracurricular activities bring not only a lot of attention, but more friends. heedless to say, by the end of your senior year, almost everyone knows your name. you’re crowned as ‘the sweetest’ and ‘most likely to be successful’ within the yearbook and accepted into the most prestigious university two states over from where your parents lived, bringing you here today.

it’s now your sophomore year of college. the first year had been something . . enervating, you’d say. you had hardly even left your dorm — opting to stay in and enroot yourself into the monstrous sludge that is college level assignments. freshmen fifteen had caught you by the throat, reason being pizza, instant ramen, and iced coffee had become your meal staples, nevertheless, while some of the calories had made your tummy softer, most of such had gone to your thighs, hip, and butt, spreading them wider and filling you up from where you’d lack come the years before. 

today, you’re nineteen. it’s only the second month of the semester and you’re already studying for two midterms. 

“okay, so, what about tomorrow?”

you shake your head from where you sit, butterfly style, in the cushioned seat of your desk chair, laptop open onto the window of an electronic textbook and upon your legs as you click a pink star by a sentence to remind future you to paraphrase and write down in your notebook. “mm-mm, gigi. tomorrow i plan to catch up on sleep.”

your roommate, giselle, is nothing short of a character. on first greetings, she’d been quiet and kind — allowing you to choose which side of the room you wanted first, inviting you out to the dining hall with her, bringing you back snacks from her trip to the market. over time, shimmers of her personality began to show. she’s kind of loud, energetic, stubborn, fun . . always down for a night out. it shocks you how she still maintains anything above a three point o’. 

she sits upon her bed, compact mirror in hand that she holds dangerously close to her eye where she adjusts a strip lash upon, “mm, what about sunday?”

“uh uh.”

“okay, next thursday?”

“cramming for a quiz.”

giselle lets her arms flap onto her lap as she fixes you with an exhausted stare, “friday, then.”

“can’t. visiting my parents next weekend.”

“oh my god.”

she throws her head back, “seriously, ( ❤︎ ). can we fucking hang out for once? i never see you outside of this room.”

you play with a ring on your finger, twisting it left and right while you hesitate, “i dunno, gi.” 

giselle stands, lengthening herself to of her beautiful, five foot nine glory, then begins to scoop her knee length, knotless braids up into a high ponytail while walking over to you, “tonight then. just me, you, and like two of my other friends. we’re gonna go to a bar, my big cousin works there, she can sneak us a shot or two — it’ll be fun. we’ll only be there ‘til like, ten thirty.”

quietly, you mull her words over. last time you went out’d been a few months back . . a house party. it was fun, lots of fun if you decide to be completely honest with yourself. your brain incurred a break from persistent studying and when back in lectures the few days after, your focus and diligence inflated. you suppose it’s time for a break, to indulge in life’s simple pleasures again. why not? 

“okay,” you melt where you sit, trying your best to give giselle an upset frown though your wide grin breaks it each time. 

“okay, okay!” she squeals and bounces on her toes while running back to her bed to grab her phone. “hurry! get ready, i’m gonna text them and let you know you’re finally comin’ outside again.”

you make sure to save your progress and power your mac off while rolling your eyes, “this better be fun.”

“it isssss! i swear, i promise, for real.”

it takes you almost two and a half hours to get ready. you haven’t shaved in almost a month, therefore, your shower routine gets bumped up to an even forty five minutes due to you needing to exfoliate your skin with a yummy, vanilla and cocoa butter scented sugar scrub and lather shaving cream across your body. you get dressed then do your make up and hair, and by the time you’re grabbing your purse, giselle advises you of the awaiting uber outside.

“won’t your cousin, like . . . get in trouble for what she’s doing?” warily, you ask the question while gazing at the shadows of passing streetlights and open signs coasting along the features of her face.

glossed lips purse as giselle shakes her head, “owner’s never there. she basically owns it herself, honestly.”

you decide to take her word for it. the bar is named ‘ the grove. ‘ it’s located on the more opulent and lavish side of the city, a fifteen minute drive out from your school. the gray bricked building sits on the corner of a main street, right beside a rooftop dining restaurant. tinted, glass double doors shield the interior of the establishment from passing onlookers and upon first entry, the first thing you notice is the lighting. warm and dim, it encrusts the bar with an ambience of intimacy. to the right of you is the bar wall, it reaches what could be the ceiling, if not for the balcony that hovers over it, full to the edges with bottles of alcohol. the bar counter stretches for about twenty feet. it curves in then out, forming a design of what looks like the infinity sign with bustling bartenders filling the two holes of space between. 

you’re nervous.

never having been to a place like this before, you struggle with the decision of opting to sit at the actual bar, the few round tables in front of the small platform of the stage, the curtained off sofas along the edges of the wall, or up on the balcony. providentially, after likely viewing how tight your spine tenses directly after you both stepped pass the threshold, giselle intertwines the fingers of her hand within your own to tug you over to the bar, near the middle where her other two friends sit. 

greetings and hugs are shared. you recognize the two of them — jasmine and lana. you often see them at social events around campus and a few parties. similar to giselle, the two of them are what you’d also call social butterflies, floating here then there, next to you one minute, then carrying a conversation with someone new the next. you take a seat upon a stool beside your friends, tugging down the bottom hem of your tiny, pink, velvet skirt before you do. “what’s gonna be your drink of choice today, hm?” lana rubs her shoulder against yours, giving you a smirk while tapping her nail against her own glass. “i’ve got a manhattan.”

timidly, you shrug, eyes scanning the laminated menu a few inches away from you. “uh . . pina colada?”

immediately, an accord of giggles are heard. your responding pout is precious, “can y’all not?”

“no, no — nana,” giselle waves a woman over to where you all sit. you take it that she’s her cousin, the two of them share a few features, although slight. giselle introduces you to her prior to stating, “four shots of casa, an amf, and pina colada, pretty please?”

“mm, all for you?” teasingly, nana lifts an eyebrow while reaching for four shot glasses under the counter. giselle’s previous bambi eyed expression levels out in order for a more smug to soon replace it, “well, duh, of course!” she’s snickering when you nudge her calf with a foot. “ugh, for all of us, nana. don’t be like that.”

“mhm. sure, sure.”

it takes about an hour for you to get it — for you to understand why so many enjoyed frequenting bars and dwelling within the establishments when their lives were either at their highest of highs or lowest of lows. with the components of two shots and a pina colada intertwining and embedding themselves within the vessels of your body, you loosen up and begin to enjoy yourself. it’s a nice place to be and get away without worrying about real life’s problems. the four of you girls busy yourselves with the latest campus gossip, about which professors were pissing you off the most and which you’d sleep with if boiled down to you needing some extra credit near the end of the semester— very juvenile, albeit . . . fun.

after one more shot is when your eyes begin to wander.

they stray from paying attention to lana as she rants about what caused the latest breakup between her and her girlfriend to the end of the bar on your right. an older woman, you suppose around mid thirties, busies herself on her phone while a glass of cognac sits next to a tan birkin bag on her left. you trail them across a group of buddies there, a couple here, lonely man there, until you land on a man.

he’s seated on the left, at the ‘ curve ‘ of the infinity where the bar rounds out.

your eyes squint with suspicion come the rising feeling of uncertainty, excitement, and . . unfortunately nausea as you stare quietly.

he sits with a friend, nodding along to whatever he’s saying while picking through a small basket of french fries. he’s . . beautiful, you find. a certain mystic charm that surrounds the air of where he sits — that freezes you in place, though sucks you in all the while. his hair is a bit long. he turns his head to gaze into his acquaintance’s eyes and say something, quickly, you steal a glimpse of the messily wrapped bun sitting at the nape of his neck. though the lighting of the bar is dim, you force yourself to keep watching . . to keep staring ‘cause . . . fuck . . why does he look so familiar?

“. . . ( ❤︎ )?”

vaguely, within the far pocket of your mind, you hear giselle calling your name.

the guy smiles — its a big one, reveals almost all thirty two of his teeth as it pushes smile lines and dimples into his cheeks. 

“. . eren?”

your feet is moving before you’re able to process it. you stumble on the first few steps, feet needing to slow down with your mind, before you’re flipping back the curls of your sew in and righting your posture. 

giselle groans, “oh my god, this girl is drunk. watch my purse — ( ❤︎ )!”

“eren?”

two heads turn when they hear his name. you’re only able to catch a blur bordered glance of his friend before your focused is directed towards him. god, you feel as though you’re twelve all over again. you’d thought that he couldn’t get any more attractive, nonetheless, he did. he wears a black, leather varsity jacket, badges of suede patched all over it with a clean, white tee underneath and thin, diamond chain dangling from the smooth column of his neck. eyes of cold teal study you for a moment — your eyes, your lips, your nose. he seems to scan each and every feature prior to the glacial irises of his own melt and a slow smile starts to spread across his lips. 

“nah, no fuckin’ way,” he mutters.

a nipping chill rakes the cord of your spine.

your eyes have to rise an entire foot higher come the action of him standing to his full height and soon pulling you in by the sides of your ribs to then wrap you in a tight hug. “( ❤︎ ), what the fuck, man?”

you giggle, unable to contain your excitement, “eren, oh my gosh.”

“what the f—“ he pulls away to hold you at arm’s length and take you in. a longer sweep of his eyes from the pristine lines of white that glosses the tips of your toes to the cushioned headband holding your bangs back on your head has something alien twinkling within the depths of sea green, and you, too engrossed in the sight, the scent, the feel of finally your eren, hardly notice the lingering stare upon your midsection before they trail up to your collarbones, lips, then eyes. licking his own, smile lessening to a smirk, eren lets you go to soon lean his back on the bar counter while folding his arms, “what you doin’ here, lil girl?”

you’re aware of giselle behind you when she touches your waist, “oh, ‘m here with m’friends from school. this is giselle.”

giving a polite smile, giselle leans in to shake eren’s hand, “hi, sorry. i thought she was walking up to some random ‘cause,” dearly, as if you both were two pups in a pin, she tips her head against yours and you lean into her embrace with a big grin, “someone here drunk a little bit too much,” after, she hums, “i didn’t know you guys knew each other.”

“oh, yeah,” eren’s eyes are fixed directly upon your own. “we go way back.”

you flush. you simply can’t help it — how can one human being appear so captivating? “mhm,” you nod, head tipping a bit further back and chin falling much quicker than usual to be classified as anything but a motion of insobriety, “i knew eren when he was in high school, gi’ . . . and i was a, hic —, a tiny, baby ( ❤︎ ).”

giselle smirks, finding you all too cute, “is that right?”

“mhm.”

she turns to eren, “so, i take it you guys wanna,” a finger is waved between you both. “catch up? talk a bit?”

eren drawls a low, “of course, of course,” while smiling. “ ‘m gonna get some water in her. ‘ve never seen her like this before.”

“ima be watching,” cutting her eyes, giselle gives eren a quick examine. “i’ll be back to get her soon.”

with her gone, you realize her grip on your waist had been what was stabilizing you from falling straight onto your face. gradually, you began to tip forward onto the rounds of your toes, however, eren is quick to catch and guide you to sit down onto the stool he’d been occupying, “okay, okay,” he murmurs, reaching for the glass of water beside the basket of fries. “you good? you feel okay?”

you sip from his straw, grateful for the cool liquid, “mhm,” you hum quietly. “gi says ‘m a lightweight.”

a low chuckle is heard on your left. you turn your head to discern the cause and notices it had split from the lips of eren’s friend. the tone of his skin is a gorgeous, warm toned dark brown. a red sox cap is positioned backwards on his head full of waves and low irises of toasted, somber auburn shines brightly within rings of pink. you discover that he’s pretty, too. your nerves ignite at the ends, as if sparked by a match. suddenly, you’re hyperaware of everything you do — how you sit, how you talk, how you breathe.

you press your soft palms against the fluff of cheeks, willing some composure while watching a plump droplet of water race down the surface of the chilled glass veiled in condensation, “sorry,” you can’t help but murmur. 

“nah, you good, ma.”

quickly cognizant of never having introduced the two of you, eren softly says, “shit, sorry. ( ❤︎ ), this is . . this is ony. ony, this ( ❤︎ ).”

timidly, you give a small, nonetheless warm smile and hold a hand out, “nice to meet you.”

ony takes it softly within his own, the sheer expanse of it completely dwarfing your little paw as he gives it two, slow rises of up and down. his eyes never part from yours as he mumbles a soft, “likewise. it’s a pleasure.”

when you pull away, you reach for the glass of water again — wrap your lips around the straw and gather enough of it inside your mouth to make your cheeks bulge, prior to swallowing.

“so, why you out here, hm?” eren leans the side of his body against the counter once more. “your parents know you out in a bar? there’s no way you’re twenty one yet, i know that for a fact.”

you give a weak shove to his bicep. call it a cheap shot, whatever. you aren’t surprised to find that just as the rest of him had grew, his muscles have bulked up, too. “don’t be a snitch, eren,” you sniffle and shake your head. “ ‘m . . ‘m nineteen. ‘m grown.”

his eyebrows lift, “oh, you grown?”

“i’m grown.”

pushing his tongue against the lush warmth of his cheek, eren smirks before slowly nodding, “okay. alright.” he grabs the basket of fries with two fingers hooked and slides them in a beeline til they were in front of you, “bet y’lil ass didn’t even eat today before you came here,” he mumbles underneath his breath. “eat. you can’t tell me no.”

you weren’t planning to. you take a few between your fingers and bite into them, “. . i’ve missed you,” the confession is grumped through a mean pout as you slowly chew. “you disappeared on me a-after graduation.”

stunned silent by your bluntness, eren only has enough brain power to stare at your pretty face for a spell that soon stretches into a quiet reply of, “ ‘ve missed you too . . i’m sorry about all that.”

“you hurt ‘teo’s feelings, too,” you swallow your fries, eyes focused on your finger that clasps into the open hole of the basket so that you can begin to twist it back and forth. “he acts like he doesn’t care, but i know he does. you were like, one of his only friends.”

you hear eren adjust himself. he turns to face the area behind you, lips parting for words to emit, until he ultimately clamped them closed, faces you again, and sighs, “i’m sorry . . really. i didn’t mean to . . ghost all of you like that. it was fucked up.”

“it was,” you nod in agreement. “wasn’t nice, eren.”

“mhm,” quietly, he admires you. “i know. was gonna pop over one day and surprise you guys, but,” he sucks some air in between his teeth and rubs at the diamond stud that pierces through the skin of his earlobe. “got scared, you know?”

“mm, yeah?” you tilt your head when you look up at him. 

and won’t you look at that . . .

eren decides this is the moment where he realizes you aren’t a shy, timid, spoiled little girl anymore. you wear lengthy, cat eyed wispies along your lash line and they seem to flutter as you blink softly at him. he tries not to glance at your tits that sit up nice and full within your long sleeved, square necked top, at your soft, bare thighs because your skirt just had to be so fucking short that you’d might as well have came out the house in a belt — because this is his former best friend’s baby sister.

he’s watched you grow up just as you did him. 

in the years knowing you before, he’s never looked at you as nothing more than mateo’s sister. he’d greet you sometimes when he would catch sight of you seated at the dining room table completing your homework assignments. on a rare day would he tease you and pluck the tail end of a braid, finish the rest of your favorite apple juice, all in efforts to be an inconvenience and make you whine. in a way, he supposes he began to look at you as a sister, too.

though, tonight, he forces himself to realize that you both are older now . . grown.

you’ve gotten those pretty tits played with before, maybe. by some insolent boy in grade eleven, in the back of his dad’s old pick up at a drive in movie theater. you’ve kissed and tasted and felt and yearned.

nonetheless of eren knowing this, he still can’t shake the feeling of wrongness that versos each of these thoughts. 

making himself look away, he licks his lips and grabs hold of the glass of water to take his own sip, “you don’t think i should?”

you smile — pretty ass smile. 

god, how puberty fucking blessed you. 

“no, no, i think you should,” you hum. “it’ll make us all happy — hey, why’d you come here, anyway?”

it appears as though your drunken, little mind races quicker than your mouth. you jump around on topics and slur your words, and as much as it is precious, eren figures he’d rather you be sober for any more heavy topics within your conversation. “work on tattoos. perfect my craft. build clientele. angelcrest was,” as if he could feel the weight of the town on his shoulders, eren flexes his shoulders and clears his throat. “stifling.”

again, you nod, “mhm, i get it. that’s why i had to leave — tattoos!” suddenly, you notice them. on his hands, fingers, knuckles, there’s a peek of ink coiling up the back of his neck. 

your eyes are round with fascination as you reach for his hand before flinching back. “can i . . — wait, permission,” you are suddenly reminded by your mother, ‘ don’t touch anyone without their consent first. ‘ you blush. of all days, of all times. “can i touch?”

eren grins. oh, you’re fucking adorable. “yeah, go ahead.”

silently, ony watches the two of you interact.

if he decides to be completely honest with himself . . it’s cute.

akin to a tiny, diffident lamb and an attentive, keen wolf — the two of you seem to dance around one another. hesitating with some of your words, pausing to let the other finish speaking first if one of you happened to accidentally talk over the other, trying to keep yourselves from making any sort of unnecessary physical contact. though eren has never mentioned you before prior to tonight, going off the conversation you two share and the obvious hug, ony realizes that the two of you share history. 

he hones in on how eren smiles at you, how he nudges the glass of water on over to get you to swallow a few more sips, makes you eat a bigger handful of fries.

truly, ony would believe the two of you were just strictly, old buds if not for how you unconsciously lean into the man. 

it’s somewhat comical due to the fact that eren isn’t being the slightest bit subtle neither. his eyes seem to tremble when they look into yours — it’s as though he’s fighting with himself to not give in and glance down at your plush, glossed up lips for the thousandth time or admire the graceful line of your neck, down to the smooth canvas of your bosom where a layer of dainty, gold chains lay upon. 

you both are train wrecks, nevertheless, ony can’t tear his sight elsewhere.

“shit, i know that university . . i live about twenty minutes away.”

you’re tilting your head again — in that same endearing manner you did before and ony watches the limbs of eren’s fingers grit, hitherto him shoving the fist into his coat’s pocket. “really?” your voice pitches an octave higher, coated with sweet wonder. “been thinkin’ about you all this time and you’ve only been twenty minutes away?”

eren shakes his head with a smirk, diverting his eyes to a crumpled, coffee shop’s receipt he tugs out from his jeans’ pocket and soon, a lone pen he finds laying beside the menu. “here.” swiftly, he jots down his number on the backside of the slip. “save it, hm? call me whenever you need me.”

always impeccable with her timing, giselle makes herself known after the receipt is folded and tucked safely into the waistband of your skirt. “okay,” you smile and turn towards ony. “it was so n-, hic—, nice to meet you . . ony. bye-bye guys.”

both men watch you stand to your feet and lean into giselle for balance. your friend wraps her arm around the dip of your waist, murmuring ‘i know, i know’s to your muddled giggles and faint babbling as you walk away. 

“. . . mm,” is all ony says with a slim leer, vigilant in how eren replaces your seat with a heavy sigh. a soft smile still graces the petals of his lips, in spite of the fact of you being long gone outside of the door and ony can’t help but ask, “y’all go way back, huh?”

facetiously, eren gives a long groan and ducks his head, “bro, don’t gimme that shit.”

ony chuckles, “nah, nah. she’s cute, jaeger. y’all used to be friends?”

with a slow shrug, eren dwells on that word, “. . not really — i don’t fuckin’ know. i used to be tight with her brother back when we was in high school, like when i was sixteen . . she was twelve. we didn’t really talk much, me and her, but we was cool.”

ony shoots back the rest of his whiskey, turning his focus to the bitter zing the alcohol leaves within the pillow of his mouth instead of letting the both of your interactions play out in his mind once more. the giggles, smiles, shy touches, and hums. sniffling, he casually utters, “i think lil ma has a crush.”

eren shakes his head. “shut the fuck up, o’.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀  ❤︎

the worst day of your short lived, admittedly average life is on a thursday, two weeks after.

eren’s face might as well have been pressed and developed into film and looped on a projector within your brain — you can’t stop thinking about him. the sleepy eyed stare he subjected you to as you spoke, never tearing them away from your own not once, the graceful slope of his strong nose, hollow dimples, calloused hands, wide shoulders, it all makes your head go a bit fuzzy. the morning after had been a bit of a blur. subjected to needing giselle to give you the run down and clearer recaps of all that exactly happened, you end up cocooning yourself within the white polka dotted fleece of your favorite blanket while whining and begging her, “no, no. did i say that, really? please, gi, don’t tell me i said that.” as she went on to describe your behavior.

you suppose it’s rather clear that intoxicated you carries more, or rather less, of a filter on her in contrary to the sober.

nevertheless, you also think that you should thank her. sober you wouldn’t have approached eren at that bar, never in a million years. you’d have convinced yourself it wasn’t him, veritably, if soon realizing it was, you would have glued yourself to that stool you sat in, too anxiety ridden and meek to do anything but share an occasional, uncontrived peek in hopes that he’d notice you first.

sighing out, you adjust yourself within your bed, sinking deeper into the you-shaped indentation your body has molded the few hours before. your phone screen lays only inches away from your face, dimmed to its lowest possible setting. it’s currently three o’ eight am, you have to be up for class in approximately four hours. giselle’s soft snores normally are a comforting white noise, though tonight, you simply can’t get your mind to quiet down and focus on them.

an episode of bridgerton playing on your screen is soon swiped away so that you are able to open instagram.

liking a few stories here, commenting there, respond to a rare dm here . . . you find your thumb pressing down on that tiny magnifying glass and the blinking cursor seems to mock you as you hesitate.

fuck it.

eren’s phone number is soon typed into the search bar and without glancing twice at the username, you click upon the top result.

‘ jaeinkz ‘

a whopping total of nine hundred and twenty six thousand followers decorate the top of his page, adjacent to a label of two hundred and fifty five posts. 

“oh, wow,” can’t help but slip faintly from your lips as you push the satin fabric of your bonnet higher up your forehead, it’s as if you thought it had been obstructing your vision . . . making you perhaps see things that weren’t there, however, no, it’s true. eren’s profile picture is an image of his turned with a glistening, diamond bezel shining in the lobe of his ear and feathery strands of fawn escaping a beanie framing it. in his bio sits three tagged accounts ‘ @.mininkz @.mikakolors @.sashart ‘ with a booking email underneath. as you scroll, you find that his work is nothing short of exquisite. he seems to dabble in almost all styles — traditional, blackwork, geometric, and hand poke . . what sticks out to you the most, and what he seemed to love doing if going by how many have been posted along his page, had been watercolor.

you appreciate the diversity of his posts.

skin tones range from a nearly translucent pale to the deepest brown, and still, regardless of them all, marvelously, vibrant shades of ruby, orange, amber, cerulean, and lime leap out.

‘ incredible ‘ ‘ best artist out rs bro ‘ ‘ u killed dis shit E ‘ ‘ every time i think u can’t get any better u prove me wrong ‘

you find yourself smiling at the comments — why? you’re not too sure of the answer. maybe it’s because you’re simply proud. you were always sure that eren would have gone on to accomplish his dreams, frankly, you just weren’t positive that you’d ever be able to visually see it, albeit . . . here you are. it’s remarkable to witness.

it’s when you go to click on the post of a specific side rib piece when abruptly, the university’s inbuilt fire alarm bellows out. it makes your entire body lurch as giselle gasps herself awake.

“what the fuck?”

the continuous shriek of the siren bores uncomfortably into the drums of your ears and it’s when you’re slowly standing to gauge what was going on, comes the sound of doors opening and sleepy, discombobulated mumbling. it’s only right that the incessant, scarlet flashing of a firetruck’s emergency signal fulgurating in past your curtains follows suit.

“please exit the dorm! we need all students to exit the dorms as quick and calmly as possible!”

your fight or flight pummels into high gear as your RA begins to pound down the closed doors of your hall. you feel your heart commence to a familiar race with each second that passes. minutes are akin to hours while you and giselle hurry to pile and mound your suitcases and duffel bags with as much stuff as you’re able. with each bag you zip and each button you close, your lungs continuously compress and contract. they seem to fill with little to no air, no matter how deep of a breath you take. 

“just breathe, babe, yeah? i bet it’s something stupid. s-someone pressing their hair or something.”

you loathe it — it being the usual facade of your self control and composure slipping away with each gasping, shuddering breath you force yourself to take. air never seems to load your lungs, and you recognize that you’re gulping, an action you partake in with the intention of keeping away the agonizing feeling of your throat closing up each time this feeling happens.

“gotta call,” you’re mumbling as your hand knots within the fabric of giselle’s nightshirt as she leads you down the flight of stairs within the fire escape. “parents. my parents. my parents.” strangely enough, focusing more on your own words than the chaos of which surrounds you is enough to keep you from giving into your instincts of wanting to simply give up and lie down.

“see — look it,” giselle’s rubbing your shoulders when you both are standing on the curving curb outside. it’s cold tonight — a frigid forty degrees. all you’d wore to sleep was a tiny pair of white, cotton shorts and barely managed to slip into a hoodie before you left the room. you tremble. “jus’ breathe. in through your nose — hold it. mhm, good. now out, slow. see?’

it takes you a while to gather your previous poise and ease. with roaring blazes of crimson and blood orange dancing across the rooftop of your dormitory building, hysterical screams, and broken sobs lining the flumes of your ears, it’s not a question as to why. 

you suppose that it all gets a little bit blurry after that. time seems both bounded and limitless. students are quickly given the decision of choosing between leaving to stay with family who lived close by or be gathered inside of the library for the rest of the day to sleep . . . you’re tired. 

you’re so tired.

and somewhere near that inky, somber place enclosed by the bounds of your mind, you know that you shouldn’t do what you’re about to do . . . be that as it may, you cease yourself from traveling too far within that dangerous abyss of dubiousness as you click on a contact, place your phone to your ear, and wait. it rings . . and it rings . . and it rings until the line clicks as the person answers with a languid murmur of, “hello?”

swiftly clobbered with the feeling of ignominy, you swallow over the knot still encased within the channel of your throat prior to sniffling and uttering a quiet, “eren . . h-hi, ’s . . it’s ( ❤︎ ).”

susurration is heard. you assume he’s laying down within his bed, much like half of the world’s population is at this time, however, when he speaks once more, his voice is a bit more clear, as if he’d sat up to better hear you, “mm, yeah? hi, mama. wha’s goin’ on?”

your head swivels upon your shoulders in order for you to observe your surroundings — a few students sit on the curb with their bags, phones to their ears while they explained to their families or friends what was happening, some record the flames that now melt and char the windows of the dorm, the firemen working to put it out with long hoses, the reverberating sound of a helicopter’s blades spinning overhead and steady line of police cars pulling in through the iron gates.

unwittingly, the corners of your lips keel over as you slap a hoodie covered paw to your eyes to try and keep your tears at bay. it all overwhelms you in the worst of ways. you’re sure you’re being a crybaby, too sensitive, a wuss, nonetheless, you’re unable to help it, “i don’t k-know what to do, m-my dorms on fire, my parents live two hours out a-and i don’t have a car. ‘teo’s on the . . the other side of the country, i h-had no one else to call.” the speed of which your words fly out are akin to a mile a minute. eren’s only able to discern the words of dorm and fire and he finds himself moving before he knows it.

“ima be there.”

you hadn’t expected eren to actually come to your university and pick you up — not for a moment. 

you catch eye of a pristine, space grey bmw m4 cruising around the curved entryway as you sit upon the trunk of giselle’s kia, parked in the lot about ten feet away from the dorms and promptly . . . you know. pieces of gravel and tiny pebbles pop and crackle under the weight of four, blacked out rim tires as they slow to a halt beside her car and gently, you swipe your finger under your nose, watching the driver’s door swing open.

when he steps out, reminiscent of that night at the bar, your heart begins to pound. 

“awe, mama.”

he wears a pair of black sweats, thick black socks, and nike slides. the jacket he dons is a zip up. it’s clear he must have hurried on over due to the fact that he does not wear a shirt underneath it. it’s zipped to cover about three fourths of his torso and briskly, you let your eyes dance across the tight groove of his pecs and the dip of his collarbones as he rounds the front of the car. upon you standing onto your feet, his arms are opening wide to coax and envelop you into his embrace.

“mm, ‘m so sorry,” he mumbles, comfortingly beginning a leaden rock on your feet from side to side. “ ‘m sorry.”

his hugs are nice . . . they’re so nice.

he wraps his arms around the back of your neck and grabs hold of his own elbows with the opposite hands so that he can completely engulf you within his hold. it’s as though he’s trying to obscure you from the rest of the world and its horrors, savagery, and acerbity. the muscles of your body render as you melt into him. you stand about eight inches shorter than eren. your face is buried into his heart as you squeeze your arms tightly around his stature, noting that this is exactly what you need . . what you’ve been needing. 

“you’re okay, yeah?” he makes you look up at him — lets you go, tilts your head up by the chin. “y’all both okay?” his eyes quickly glance towards giselle and waits until the both of you nod.

“said it was the cause of a candle,” she explains, leaning an elbow on the trunk. “got knocked over, caught on a curtain — rest is history. nobody died, don’t worry.”

eren huffs a breath, rubbing a hand over his head that’s sheathed by his jacket’s hood. “my god. scared the fuck outta me man.”

“you didn’t,” you swallow and inhale a thin, shuddering breath. “you didn’t h-have to come pick me up, eren.”

he’s moving — stepping around you, grabbing your pink, hard cased, hello kitty printed suitcases and rolling them to his trunk. “was gonna ask to stay with me, yeah?” his voice still holds the tenors of sleep . . it makes his baritone much richer and gruff as opposed to usual.

“only for the night, eren. i-if that’d be okay—“

blithely, he’s lifting a shoulder them dropping it while hoisting the door of his trunk open and sliding one suitcase in at a time. “fuck that. when is the dorm being rebuilt?”

giselle hastily answers, “fire only reached the top three floors. heard the dean say it’s gonna take them at least a month or two.”

the trunk is closed with a slam, after which he’s giving you a small smirk while taking your duffel, “you’re stayin’ with me until it’s done then. easy commute, comfy bed . . i cook sometimes.”

room for discussion is withdrawn. his eyes teeter the stroke of sapphire underneath the golden rays of the rising sun and he fixes them on the deep chocolates of your own, letting you read the firm resolve that swims inside. he’s already made up his mind. “giselle, you . .” he juts a thumb out towards his car, letting her fill in the rest of his sentence, and giselle gives a small smile while shaking her head.

“thanks for the offer. my mom lives like forty minutes away, ‘m jus gonna stay with her ’til all this blows over.”

he lets the two of you say your goodbyes while settling your backpack and duffles in the backseat. “mm, be good, yeah?” your friend squeezes you tight with a kiss to the crown of your head. “go get some rest and call me when you wake up.”

when you’re settled within the passenger seat of eren’s car, you aren’t surprised to find that the interior is just as immaculately clean as the ex. blended scents of mint and black ice seem to be ingrained between the leather seating — it swathes and comforts you in the best way possible. “you okay?” he’s asking quietly, strong hand pushing the gear shift into drive as his other wraps around the bottom of the wheel. he’d already asked the question before, albeit . . he wants to be sure. 

sluggishly, your head goes to lean against the window. you appear so small to eren in that moment — swallowed by your hoodie, arms wrapped around yourself, and body curled. your mumble is meek as you retort, “ ‘m okay.”

aside from the low volume of brent faiyaz’s voice floating in through high definition speakers to enshroud the ambience, the drive is quiet. your eyes close, letting the push and pull of the car moving lull you into that narcotic state of consciousness and not. you find that eren comforts you. you don’t have to worry about much. your mind falls to a mute when he’s around — rushing thoughts of where you were going to go, you possibly needing to take a leave of absence, the never ending factors of stress are all temporarily forgotten.

it’s as though he takes over the reigns. he doesn’t allow you to carry your own bags, no, ‘he’s got it.’ asks you twice if you’d like something to eat from the bakery provided within his apartment’s lobby as he walks you through past security and a doorkeeper. he’s making sure you stay close beside him after you’re both exiting the elevator shaft on the tenth floor and striding across cranberry, gold trimmed carpet to a door whose gilded, etched plate above the doorbell reads the number 1018.

come the door opening and first impressions of eren’s home, you find that it’s clean . . similar to his car, it’s almost unnaturally so. 

you follow his motions once he kicks off his slides inside the foyer, neatly placing your little, pink, fur trimmed crocs beside a pair of ‘mocha’ jordan ones. the juxtaposition of the two of them next to one another feels strangely satisfying, as if that’s where they’re made to be. 

round with wonder, your eyes scan every inch of his place when you’re able to walk further inside soon after.

his living room is first you see when exiting the corridor. it’s massive — sits in front of his open spaced kitchen, completed with a long, wide ‘L’ shaped sofa the tone of cool, olive green. delicate beams of amber pour in through three, large, arch shaped windows. they draw attention to a fish tank, grand and roomy,  sitting atop of a full bookcase — swimming with curious guppies, neon tetras, and cherry garbs. you gravitate towards it, gasping and tenderly placing your finger upon the glass where a wading angelfish sways at a standstill. quietly, you coo, “. . you have little fishies.”

eren scoffs a small chuckle behind you as he places your bags beside the settee, “i do.”

though being of different breeds, all of them seem to exist in calm harmony. a tetra shoots itself in a firm, straight line to dive for a thatchet of moss to pick at and a guppy smoothly glides out of its way to make room.

“mm, yeah, these are my babies,” eren lowers his face a few inches away from yours to gaze fondly at them, too. “ ‘m too busy for a cat or dog right now. these were my next choice,” he points to a particularly bored looking cherry garb. “that’s jerry,” then that excited tertra. “rick. the angelfish you’re touchin’ is morty. summer and beth are over there . . . then you got, teddy . . bob . . and there goes gene.”

it takes a moment for you to familiarize yourself with the names. “wait,” a slow smile starts to spread across your lips come the realization. “seriously, eren?”

his eyes glint with boyish glee as he straightens back upright, “lemme show you to the room.”

his apartment has one, wide, lengthy corridor that breaks off into two more come the end of it. on the left are three doors, one slimmer than the other two leaving you to assume that it may be a closet. on the right are only two. he turns down that way and heads straight for the door ahead which he opens, stretching his arm and adjusting his body to allow you first entry. “you let me know if you need anything, yeah?”

it’s far bigger than you’d expected — completed with a king sized bed and sixty inch flat screen. the curtains above the arched window are left partially agape and pushing through it is a glistening beam, pouring warmth right onto the center of the mattress. it’s as though it beckons you to curl within it; oh, how you yearn to. you wrap your arms around your body once more, a comforting habit used to soothe and give you the confidence needed in order to turn back towards eren and meekly murmur, “. . i appreciate this. i’m sorry, again.”

“nah, nah. no,” as if instinctively, eren finds his fingers reaching for the curve of your waist, however before he can touch you, his thoughts catch up with his actions, and quickly, he shoves his hand inside of his jacket’s pocket. “no need to apologize. i don’t mind you bein’ here . . . okay?” he bends at the waist and lowers his head to catch your downward gaze and waits until you give a timid nod prior to him smiling. “i seriously don’t. so, don’t think you’re intrudin’ on me or anythin’. no more sorries.”

“. . no more sorries.”

what a sweet thing you are. eren constricts the doorknob within a sweating fist. “you gotta get some sleep.”

right.

he’s right. your exhaustion weighs down your eyelids — makes you stare at him with hazy debility waxed over normally wide, attentive irises. “mkay.” you turn on your heels and make your way for the bed, having to give a bit of a hop with one knee on top to fully pull yourself onto it. “gnight, eren.”

you’re precious. 

“gnight, mama.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀  ❤︎

minutes drag into hours — idle and lax.

with the golden disc of the sun hanging high within the blue skies, eren works. he sits inside of his room, at his desk, sketching designs, answering emails, things to keep his mind busy instead of worrying about you.

how frightened you had been. you shook in his arms when he’d hugged you — frail and weak. a girl like you shouldn’t be put into situations like that . . situations between life or death, it had clearly been too much for your dainty, pearl coated heart to take on. you’ve only just entered his life again, eren doesn’t think he’s ready to let you slip away any time soon.

when the sun starts its slow descend is when he pushes himself away from his desk to shower and begin the process of deciding what to eat for dinner. he’s lazy today, he will be honest. he wonders what you like . . .

when you were a little girl, you seemed to have an insane obsession with mexican food, more notably, burritos. warmed tortillas nearly swollen and bursting with barbacoa, pollo asado, rice, spicy salsa, sour cream, cheese, and avocado. he takes the chance of ordering one for you with a grilled chicken salad for himself. 

it’s while he’s snatching a bottle of water from his fridge when the doorbell buzzes. 

“. . fuckin’ ony.”

there’s no one else he knows that is able to bypass security, the doorman, and input the code needed for his apartment floor. no one else has the audacity, and upon him opening the door, not a soul stands on the other side, apart from onyankopon. “you missed me?” a bright, handsome smile is expanded across two, thick, double hued lips as he walks inside and kicks off his new balances.

“i didn’t,” eren closes and locks the door behind him, heading straight for the couch. quiet footsteps follow after ony tears off his coat and hangs it within the linen closet. “i really fuckin’ didn’t.”

“yeah, yeah. shut that shit up,” he plops down beside eren on a cushion, naturally letting his legs fall far apart to work himself into a comfortable position. “giants game is on. you cook?”

shaking his head, eren nibbles on the soft skin of his bottom lip, “ordered food.”

ony spares a look beside the door of which he entered from, catching eye of the crocs, radiant and pink — jibbitz of hearts, stars, bows, and hello kitty characters popped into almost every hole — sitting beside his shoes. they’re a blaring mar, starkly standing out against eren’s black, brown, and olive decor. “. . . who you got over here?”

“hm?—“

delicate footsteps are heard padding ony’s way. his head swivels on his shoulders . . and there you stand. 

you rub an eye with a fist, lips parted around a wide yawn, bonnet askew, hoodie practically sliding off of your shoulder. “oh,” sparkling eyes of fawn catch ony’s then you’re quickly pulling it back into place. “sorry.” they snap to eren’s and both men watch you take a hesitant step back, as if you were unsure you were allowed to come any closer. 

“no, no—“

“—you good, you good.”

without thinking, the two of them separate to leave the middle cushion open. “c’mere,” eren finds himself a bit glad to see you up. you’ve slept for nearly twelve hours, he’s missed your face. “you remember ony, yeah?”

you do.

your steps are light as you round the couch. 

ony . . .

he appears to be even more pretty than that night at the bar. similar to eren, he wears a pair of sweats, though his are grey. his legs are long, and still, underneath thick fleece, the firm muscle of his thighs bulge. “hi, ony,” you give a soft smile and take a slow seat between the two, folding your hands between the warm, plush skin of your own. 

“hey, ma’,” he licks his lips. “i heard about the fire at your school. that was your dorm?”

no longer inebriated, today, you can hear the faint traces of a southern accent peppering the deep modes of his voice. it drags out his tone, makes a few words string loosely together. goosebumps pebble the surface of your skin at the sound, “uh huh . . yeah, it was mine.” 

“damn, ‘m sorry,” similar to eren, ony seems big on eye contact. pools of warm brown gaze sympathetically into your own and it makes your tummy feel as though goo has replaced all of your organs. “you managed to grab all your stuff though, right?”

“mm, m-most of it,” you scratch at your knee, suddenly nervous. “left some stuff . . little things, i think i’ll be okay.”

eren’s speaking up beside you, “you call your family?”

“mhm,” you give a nod. “took them a second to remember you. they’re happy that you’re lettin’ me stay — told me to tell you that they’re hoping to see you again.”

he’s smiling, dimples deepening, “yeah?”

at the sight, you can’t help but smile, too. “mhm.”

you suppose that the conversation dies after that. you pull your legs up to your chest, wrap your arms around your knees, and tune into the television. truthfully, you know nothing about football — what you see happening are squads of men running back and forth along ice frosted grass, tackling one another over a little, spheroid ball. ony calls out an ‘interception,’ eren shoots out a firm ‘fumble’ and all you really hear is the sound of tv static. 

unconsciously, when one of them yells out a game play, you take the moment of deep voices overlapping one another to inhale a deep breath. 

they both smell nice . . utterly divine. eren teeters a line of cool bergamot and pine while ony smells warm . . similar to coconut and mahogany. the both of them are huge, too — statures looming over your own, even while you all sit. you’re aware that the tiny, juvenile crush you had on eren when you were a child is once again unfurling itself. similar to a wilted tulip, it blooms with the warmth of his smile, strengthens with the simple graze of his finger across yours, dazzles at the mere sight of him . . nonetheless, always a girl who’s wanted more, who’s learned to grab a handful when offered an open chance, you’re aware that a new seed has been planted when you spare timid glances at ony.

modestly, you assume that this all may be physical with them both — strictly surface level. you’re enamored with their features, you’re sure plenty would agree, because as much as you think you know eren, you don’t. he’s older now, he’s changed, he’s morphed, and he’s matured. 

you reckon that you have to take your time to learn about him again, about them both, come you gauging a more than friendly graze of ony’s arm slipping around eren’s waist once he stood and steps past you both to open the door at the sound of a knock. 

“hungry, mama?”

overhead, motion detected lighting fades in within the kitchen after eren grabs two, large plain paper bags from the hands of a cheery blonde, closes the door, and walks over to it. your nose twitches at the familiar scent of marinated meat, “. . . burritos?” 

your excitement is palpable. you quickly pad over, ony following, to watch him open the bag upon the island, prior to pulling out a foil wrapped cylinder, more or less the size of his bicep. “thank you so much.” 

you haven’t ate in over a day, your stomach gives an aggravated growl at the trivial realization. it’s endearing, watching how wide you have to open your little mouth to take a bite of it. “c’mere, you’re gonna dislocate your jaw,” ony hums, carefully taking the burrito from your hands to then turn and grab a knife from the block beside the sink. cute eagerness is hidden beneath a poorly made veil of self control as you watch him cut a diagonal line within the center of it, splitting the burrito into two. “hm.” he gives you one.

“thank you.” 

you’re biting into it quite easier now, sinking your teeth into tender meats and a warm, flour tortilla. “tastes good?” eren stands on the other side of the counter and spares a glance up at you through wispy strands of umber that falls into his eyes while drizzling a zest filled dressing over his salad. “want some of ours?”

you’re hesitant, glancing between it and ony’s quesadillas. 

“why you shy for?” the latter asks quietly, head tilting to follow your eyes when you look away. “hm.”

he holds it out and — candidly, you just can’t help it — you lean it to take a small bite . . humming a soft, “hmmm.” at the savory taste of carne asada. a fork of eren’s salad is next, you have to tilt yourself forward, palms flat on the island to take it and in doing so, a piece of fresh, crisp lettuce clings to your chin. casually, eren swipes it away, eyes fondly twinkling, “messy thing.” 

“both are yummy,” you comment before holding your burrito up to eren’s lips. “hm . . bite.”

“dietin’, mama. ‘s why i got a salad.”

you can’t help but pout at the rejection for your burrito. how bad it must feel. naturally, you turn it to ony. “bite.”

he does so with no hesitation and a huge smile of awe covers your face as you gasp, watching him take a more than generous chomp. “oh wow,” you’re giggling, taking in how slow he chews. 

eren scoffs, rolling his eyes, “fuckin’ greedy ass. you regret that now, hm?”

“shut the fuck up, jaeger,” he turns his attention to you. “shit’s torch. thank you, ma’.”

“mhm,” you take a seat upon a stool, languidly swinging your legs one at a time, letting a bout of silence hang over you all until ony utters a small revelation, “you’ve never told us your major.”

“ ‘s communications.”

both men drag out loud, exaggerated ‘ oh! ‘s, clearly impressed. silly. a sheet of warmth flourishes across your cheeks, beginning first at the rounded tip of your nose. “stop it,” you whine, simpering at their puerility. 

“what are you doin’ after?” eren murmurs around a mouthful of greens. “do you know?”

you give a feeble shrug, toying with the foil that surrounds your burrito, “somethin’ in marketing and advertising, most likely. or social media managing. i really like both.”

“for real?”

you give one, firm nod, “mhm.”

“does this mean you’re like,” eren tilts his head. “ig famous or some shit?”

his question makes you laugh. “no, no, ‘m not . . i mean, i have a decent amount — not as much as you.” you regret the words almost as soon as they tumble from the plump hills of your lips. eren had never given you his instagram — that, you all know. 

ony smiles, chewing slowly while sharing a knowing glance with him. eren discerns what shines within his irises, can practically hear him — ‘what i say.’ “so, now you know we got ourselves a superstar on our hands.”

rolling his eyes, eren swivels on his heels to walk towards the pantry, evidently trying to dodge the topic, “here we go with this shit. i’m not, ( ❤︎ ), don’t listen to the bullshit—“

“—nah, nah. she’s seen it. she knows. eren’s a fuckin’ diva.”

“you get on my fuckin’ nerves.”

you twist your stool from left to right, interest piqued. “oh yeah?”

ony gives you a casual wink, jutting his thumb eren’s way while shaking his head and muttering, “i jus like fuckin’ wit’ him.”

two wine glasses and a mug are sat upon the middle of the island, “we don’t need you drunk tonight,” eren utters, swiftly grabbing a bottle of lemonade from the fridge. he opens it then tips it against the mug, pouring til the liquid reaches the rim. “plus . .” he gives a bland shrug, eyebrows quirking. “you’re underaged.”

“you’re no fun.”

“mm, yeah, i know.”

while he works on unscrewing a tough cork off of a bottle of wine, you take another bite of your burrito, curiously eyeing the lines of ink tatted along ony’s hand. it’s a face . . . you aren’t sure of whose. it isn’t realistic, no, it resembles a michelangelo sculpture — completed with an expression seized over with melancholy, eyes void of irises and pupils, meticulously coiled hair, and a firm, lineal nose. “. . can i touch?” you reach for it, hesitatingly, noting ony’s slight surprise. 

“for sure.”

tenderly, you stroke your thumb along the face’s cheek, enamored by the realism of it all. it’d appeared that he had a true sculpture embedded within the skin of his hand. “whose face is this?” you softly inquire. “ ‘s a greek god, yeah?”

“mhm,” he curls his fingers into a fist and you watch the tendons and bones underneath his skin flex as it moves, seemingly changing expressions. “eros.”

“did eren do it?”

once more, ony nods, “shit’s clean, mm?”

you’re amazed, smiling while trying to make his fingers curl and relax to get the face to move once more, “i love it — so pretty.”

quietly, while working the cork off, eren admires the two of you. how quickly you are to open up to ony, more importantly, get ony to open up to you is . . oddly interesting. he’s known ony for nearly five years, having met him almost immediately after moving into the city. it had taken months for eren to get the guy to speak a full, two sentences to him, and yet, here you are . . . sweet, kind, soft spoken you. 

he’s sure you aren’t aware of the sheer amount of power you hold within your hands come later into the night. 

you fill the two of them in on your life, beginning the stories after eren and your big brother had graduated. you tell them about your high school days, how you participated in clubs, made the cheer squad, attended homecomings, and prom. you show them pictures of you with your friends, in your uniform, face a bit more cherubic and soft as opposed to now.

the more both him and ony learn, the more questions they have. yeah, they’re aware that you graduated valedictorian of your class, but who’s that guy that took you to prom? just a friend? oh. are you both still in contact? okay, nice. when did you meet giselle? you’re a bit of a shy girl, she approached you first, yeah? they knew it. you really like burritos, why? . . hm, okay. that’s a first. a big fan of sweets, too? caramels, chocolates, gummies, all that? wow.

following, there are the questions that they . . . merely keep to themselves — ones they’re sure you’d be too timid and bemused to answer. such as, why in the fucking world are you so pretty? how did you get to become so pretty — what made you so pretty? they have to know. why do you make eren’s heart feel as though it was three beats away from shooting out of his chest? why are you so easy to talk to? why does ony see you being in his life for years to come when he’s really only known you for a measly four hours?

when his phone begins to buzz, it catches the attention of all three of you.

“. . shit, i gotta go,” ony mumbles, holding it within his hand as he reads a text from the screen. he only has to say one word, or rather, the name ‘connie’ for eren to nod. 

you slump into the corner of where you sit curled upon the couch, disappointment oozing from your pores akin to water through the sides of a moorish jar. connie . . . a unisex name. could it be his girlfriend? the thought is fleeting. you watch him and eren stand, he moves in a bit of a haste — it has to be a significant other, surely. tenderly, you pout, watching him slip his feet into his shoes and shrug into his coat. “alright, ima hit you later,” you hear him tepidly relate to eren. before he leaves, he leans upon his left foot to take a more full look at you over the brunet’s shoulder. “you be good, alright?” he gives you a knowing nod, waiting until you return it. “mhm. you promise?”

within your arms is a throw pillow — you squeeze it tightly, firmly, willing those flapping, interminable butterflies swarming inside of your tummy away before giving a soft nod and biting down on a smile, “i promise, ony.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀  ❤︎

living with eren comes to be more cozy and pleasant than you’d initially thought.

you hadn’t expected him to be so welcoming, nevertheless, he is. each morning, around seven to eight am, you’re surprised to find him up, dressed, and ready to get the day started. he makes you breakfast everyday, too — meals range from cute pancakes in misshapen forms of stars, mickey mouse's head contour, and your favorite sanrio character, to a simple açaí bowl, toppled with granola, fresh fruits, and sweet honey. on days when you have no classes, you make sure to wake up an hour earlier and sit at the island to simply watch. 

there are also mornings where you’d exit the bedroom, disoriented and still blurry eyed to find ony standing right beside him — mixing batter in a large, sunken bowl, helping grill lean strips of steak within a sizzling skillet, and those are the days you find yourself much quiet than usual. and you’re sure eren notices. when the sun shines in through his large windows, finding only the two of you, you’re asking shy, curious questions about his occupation, his mom, his other friends ( you’ve managed to learn all of their names — mikasa, armin, sasha, and connie ). 

you suppose that the reason as to such is because you would rather much observe the two men when all three of you are together. 

eren’s . . . different with ony as opposed to how he is, or should you say was, with mateo. and incipiently, you’d thought of yourself as being too nosy, drawing up conclusions and speculations that weren’t even there, especially doing so without enough concrete substantiation. of course he’d be different with a friend as opposed to when he was sixteen in high school and now, a grown man. 

he and ony do not play video games as much as he and mateo did. they don’t go to parties, arcades, and hide your homework from you the way he and your brother used to, all in efforts to make you whine.

no, the two of them work out with one another. they watch games on the couch with one another, cook, eat, and on occasion, smoke with one another. and you’re positive that many other people with close friends do the same, nonetheless, it’s more in how the two of them do it. they don’t sit on opposite sides of the settee when smoking or watching a game, no, they are always close — close enough to have their thighs touch, their knees brush against each other’s as they leisurely sway in and out and the two of them swoop lower and lower within their bounden highs. while they cook together, ony’s hand is on eren’s slim waist, moving him out of the way to grab a small bottle of garlic seasoning instead of him simply asking eren to slide over or get it himself. when they smile at one another, something deeper wades within the four pools of jade and stone brown, you’re certain of it.

come week eight of you staying with eren, you aren’t sure how to feel.

you’re confused, emotions tied and bundled up into one, great, big ball of horrible mush. you like eren — that, is something that you are assured of and, admittedly, you hate that you do. you loathe that seven years of pining has only seemed to collectively intensify your feelings with each passing day. you’re a blushing mess after one glance from him is given, too shy to say more than a few sentences at a time. withal . . . onyankopon makes you feel something incapable of words.

granted, you’re more trusting due to him being eren’s closest friend of over five years, regardless, if the two of you were to meet on your own separate terms, you’re sure he’d plague your dreams the same way he does now.

tonight, you lay awake, staring at the smooth blades of a rotating ceiling fan above you, willing away the thoughts of them both. you have a quiz tomorrow, you’ve studied for it all week, and you’re supposed to be going out with giselle and lana again the day after. your itinerary for the next few days is booked with small tasks in between, such as a nail appointment, tutoring sessions, and more studying. you are a busy girl, albeit, you can’t sleep. whether due to your rushing thoughts or the faint, eerie sounds slipping in through underneath the crack of your closed door, you don’t know. 

tilting your head downwards, you stare at the doorknob for a moment — awaiting the moment it begins to leisurely twist to give you all the more reason to scream and barricade yourself in the bathroom, though, it never comes. the sounds draw out longer and the more frequent they grow, the more your curiosity blossoms, unfortunately. 

your hand slips underneath a pillow so that you’re able to grab hold of your phone and inspect the time — twelve o’ two. 

you suppose you might as well go and pursue the source of such — what if it’s eren? hurt or in pain? an intruder? naturally, you hope for the former. you’ve never even killed an ant on your own, you doubt you’d be able to take on a human being. 

you leave only a sliver of space ajar when you first open the door, peeking a single eye out into the gloomy hall. evidently, the sounds are more reverberant. you tremble like a lone leaf in the fall, trying your best to gauge the distance between yours and eren’s room with your eyes . . his door is only about four steps away. since you’ve been staying with him, he leaves it half opened, and from the inside of it, light pours into the corridor against a single wall. 

the tv is on.

the source of lighting is a good enough beacon of encouragement to have you give a quick squeal and scurry on over to the threshold, fist already raised in preparedness to knock upon his door . . yet, you stop.

or, in better words, you freeze.

you come to discover that the sounds are being emitted through the mouths of two people — of his and onyankopon’s.

you can’t see much — eren’s king sized bed’s headboard is positioned against the wall that faces the door some feet away from it. nonetheless, you can make out onyankopon. he lays atop of eren, barren from his usual crewnecks, jeans, and air forces. blue light glistens upon the dark brown of his skin — sinewy muscle rippling within the stoutness of it as one tatted arm flexes, rising up then down between their bodies. 

the both of them are mostly quiet — whispers and mumbles incomprehensible. it’s the volume of their baritones what you’d heard . . both of them terribly deep. they echo off of the four walls, rumble throughout eren’s apartment, drip down masonry and plaster, slow and thick. 

eren’s tone veers along the edge of a whine, when he utters, “fuck, ‘yan . . s-shit.”

your heart pounds within your chest come the realization of your suspicions being proven true. 

“c’mon, pa’, gimmie that nut,” ony mumbles, working his fist more swiftly, direly. “fuckin’ pretty ass.”

a horrible feeling overcomes the expanse of your chest. it’s one you’ve never experienced — comes across as though your heart was literally twisting and coiling to become one, small knot which climbs up into the wire of your throat to then sit there and inflate. briskly, you turn on the heels of your feet, tip toeing as quick as you can back to your room to then close and lock the door. 

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀  ❤︎

you wake up late.

of course you do.

after spending most of the night letting the lewd image of onyankopon and eren engross your mind, you manage to finally get some sleep around five am after a painful sobbing session. how stupid you are. the signs were all there. you can’t help but feel angry at yourself, reasons as to why still unclear. you wish you’d have just stayed in bed, ignored the sounds, forced yourself to go to sleep. in doing that, your eyes wouldn’t be almost swollen shut and head wouldn’t be pounding as though someone had been beating it with a hammer an hour straight. you’re aware that you would still be in the blind, you know, but . . at least your heart wouldn’t hurt as much.

hurrying out of the room, you’re making a straightaway to the front door. your uber is only two minutes away and you recognize that you are already missing the first five of your lecture. huffing quietly. you’re already mentally preparing yourself for the energy you’re going to need to plead your case to your professor in efforts to get a small extension—

  “—( ❤︎ )?”

don’t stop. don’t look.

“. . mm, yeah?”

your eyes are locked upon the door. you’re only about eight steps away, it isn’t much.

“hey, hey, hold on.”

onyankopon’s legs are longer than yours. he’s able to intercept your path without much of a hassle, standing right in front of the entry to the foyer. thoughtlessly, you take a step back when he makes himself known, sparing a glance up into his eyes. he’s smiling, though it goes a bit fraught at the edges when he views your appearance.

“. . what’s wrong?” he gently asks.

it isn’t the lack of blush, faux lashes, and glitter adorning your face that has him concerned, it’s the heavy bags underneath your eyes, the coating of puffiness that surrounds them. usually, you’re dressed in darling two piece sets, a cute skirt and top, hair pulled up into sweet pigtails or even pinned back with bows . . . today, you’re donning all black — leggings, hoodie, and ugg boots . . . box braids pulled back into a simple, low pony. something’s wrong. both he and eren can see.

“nothing.”

to make matters worse for you, eren wants to take a look for himself and it leaves the two of them in front of you, obstructing you from leaving. “what happened?” he asks. “not hungry today, mama?”

your nails dig into the fleshy part of your palm. you hear the pitch of his voice — more quiet, whimpering . . you hear ony’s — tender, sodden in raw infatuation. “no,” you shake your head. your next inhale is shaky and your eyes begin to prick with a familiar sting. “i g-gotta go. ‘m late. sorry.” quickly, you scuttle around them to hustle through the foyer, unlock the door, and part. 

for a moment, eren’s confused. the corners of his lips tug downwards as the door slams and he quickly replays the discussion over within his head, fighting to figure out where the obvious issue lied.

it doesn’t take much for ony to decipher why you’re acting so different today. understanding irons out the bewilderment that graces his face and while inhaling a slow breath, he starts his path back over to the kitchen, saying only one thing, “i think she saw us last night.”

eren’s quiet for a moment. 

nah . . . impossible.

. . . did you? 

rubbing a hand across his jaw, he pauses, letting the words marinate, “. . nah,” he murmurs. “nah. that’s crazy—“

“—she did.”

“no.”

“i’m telling you, bro,” onyankopon’s eyes are firm. “she did.”

before you went to bed last night, you and eren were fine. you ate dinner together, introduced him to one of your favorite shows — hello kitty and friends, he thinks it was called, you ate ice cream, then you both parted ways around ten to call it a night. 

he doesn’t think he was loud when leaving his room an hour later to let ony inside, doesn’t think neither of them made too much noise when that happened again — something that’s occurred only once before . . months before you found your way back inside of eren’s life for a second time.

then again, they did leave the door open.

“. . shit,” eren breathes out the word through a low groan, falling into a stool at the island beside him. “she didn’t seem mad, though. no?”

onyankopon shakes his head, “not mad . . more . . sad, i think.”

sad. that is true. your face did appear swollen and veneered over with gloom before you left. the two explanations as to why you’d be upset are evident — the first is simply you being bigoted. both he and onyankopon know that you aren’t that at all, not in any shape or form, so that’s ruled out immediately. eren’s only seen you cry once before today — when you were younger and found out your friends had gone to the movies and mall without you. you’re a sensitive girl; you cry when your feelings have been hurt and disregarded.

ony decides to let eren figure out the obvious second reasoning on his own. “i gotta head out,” he says, tipping his head back with a glass canted at his lips to swill down the rest of his orange juice. “. . ima catch you later.”

“for sure.”

both men hesitate. when ony stands, he’s hit with the sudden urge to lean in and press a delicate kiss against the warm pads of eren’s lips . . similar to the way he did less than seven hours ago, when they were both alone, sated and sweaty. however, at the last second, he withdraws — sucking in a deep inhale before nodding. “. . ‘m out.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀  ❤︎

funnily enough, you vex onyankopon’s thoughts for the rest of the day.

as an automotive designer, his head is almost always bustling with new ideas, deadlines, requisitions, and contracts. while he works — inspecting the lot where near almost fifteen cars are parked and being worked on throughout, clipboard in hand to document progress, connie’s headway in wrapping a mclaren 765lt within a pearlescent pink cast vinyl sparks the first of many thoughts of you.

your sweet face laden with dejection and woe was enough to hurt his heart — it sits within the core of his brain, flashing over and over again. in a way, onyankopon supposes that he feels . . guilty. he sees the way you gaze at eren when you think no one else is paying attention, how you giggle and blush and nearly purr when he mumbles an impulsive ‘good job, mama’ or ‘ ‘m proud of you.’ you’re absolutely smitten.

he guesses he should feel a bit jealous, too . . or maybe, possessive. 

his and eren’s relationship has no other word to describe it aside from ‘complicated.’ to the world, more specifically their other friends, they’re simply thick as thieves. no one really knows how bad ony longs to hear his voice after an especially long, taxing day. how content he feels when eren is simply in eyeline. how much his love for eren truly grows.

withal, he doesn’t feel the slightest bit upset that you may adore eren as much as he does. he’s easy to cherish. 

he feels a tender pity for you, at most. doubtlessly, he knows that you’re confused, sullen, heartbroken, and he finds it impossible to carry on his day, knowing you’re probably wishing you hadn’t got out of bed this morning. 

— hey. u out of class yet?

ony sends out the text while sitting in his car, reclined back comfortably in his seat, still parked in front of his lot. he’s honestly astounded when you reply back.

— got ten more minutes. why? — bout to come scoop u. drop lo.

it takes you nearly five minutes to go ahead and do so. you’re probably overthinking yourself into another batch of tears. ony sighs at the simple thought, “this lil girl, man.”

you’re a bit of a brat. he sees that now.

upon you first catching eye of his obsidian black lexus es 350 before he hops out of it, you remain seated atop of the bench you lounge on, arms folded, face unreadable. onyankopon has to step onto the curb and meet your eye while motioning to the passenger seat’s open door. you stay firm, “. . did eren send you? i could’ve jus’ took an uber again, i don’t mind—“

“—nah,” ony takes hold of one of the shoulder straps to your backpack to carry it. “he didn’t. c’mon.”

your stubbornness proves to be futile. after you climb in, he makes sure you buckle into your seatbelt prior to placing your backpack in the seat behind you. and as was foreseeable, you’re quiet while ony drives. you’re almost always quiet around him and he’ll be honest, it makes him feel a certain way when eren ends up telling him about a funny thing you said, how you’re possibly one of the most interesting people he’s ever known, and realizing you obviously don’t feel comfortable being that same way around him. 

onyankopon gets it though. he’s not much of a talker neither, and he’s aware of how frustrating it is to have someone continuously try to poke and prod to get you to. he’ll simply just have to wait for you, no matter how long it takes.

“. . ice cream?”

pulling into a parking space right in front of ‘ candy’s ice cream parlor ‘ surprises you and, more or less, onyankopon allowing you to get triple scoops does too. you embellish your favorite flavors with drizzles of chocolate syrup, whipped cream, and brownie bites, and with a smile, take a big spoonful. “ ’s yummy.”

only having bought a vanilla milkshake for himself, ony relaxes against the cushion of the side of the booth he sits in, modestly watching you take another spoonful and slip it between the glossed pillows of your lips. “you sure you don’t want nothin’ else?” 

shaking your head, you bore a nice hole within the mound of sweet cream, making sure to get a chunk of brownie right along side it, “thank you for this,” you hum. “i appreciate it, ony.” you really do. cliche, you know, heartbroken girl burying herself in ice cream and cheesy rom-coms, nonetheless, both has always been enough to soothe you after a particularly rancid day.

giving a slight shrug, onyankopon angles the straw at his lips to take a sip, “felt like you needed it,” the tone of his voice mellows when he continues, “y’seemed a lil’ . . upset earlier.”

he takes heed in how quickly you look away from him — your body shifts and your jaw tenses. “mm, yeah. it was over something . . something s-stupid.”

ony had wanted you to tell him on your own, but, when the open chance comes . . introduces itself so glaringly, well, he just can’t help it. artificial curiosity douses the bass of his voice as he asks, “ ‘cause of school?”

“. . . no, not really.”

“what? family?”

“nuh uh.”

silence overcomes the table. you refuse to elaborate. your eyes remain fixed on your ice cream as your ears tune into the glitzy pop song chiming through the parlor’s inbuilt ceiling speakers. you can’t tell him. you don’t want to engage in the topic for not a second longer. seconds quickly tick into a minute and when you pardon a glance up to look at ony, you find him already gazing back at you, relaxed smirk decorating the soft fullness of his lips. 

you watch him inhale a breath, irises casted downwards as he shifts and adjusts the carhartt beanie upon his head, “. . ima be honest, ma’, alright?” he licks his lips and you watch his eyes pull back up to meet yours before they grow heavy. the expression on his face is nothing short of enticing . . almost coy. coupled with his now more lazy posture — legs, as always, spread wide, one knee rocking leisurely from left to right . . you kind of hate how if affects you, how he affects you. “i think you’re beautiful.”

the curveball is thrown. subtly, your lips part in fair of your awe. 

and he shrugs, as if what he’d told you had been a simple fun fact. “i think you’re smart as shit. you’re kind. you’re sweet. i’d fuckin’ kill to get to know you more, on some real shit. i see you in my life for a long time and i know you confused,” his finger taps idly upon the table as he pauses for a moment. “. . i know you have questions . . about some shit . . — shit that i genuinely can’t explain.” perspicacity — it glimmers within the ponds of his eyes and within a fraction of a second, you know that he knows. “eren cares about you, a lot. more than i think either of you know.” and with that, he stands, signaling you to do the same. “lemme get you’on home.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀  ❤︎

eren discovers that you are ignoring him.

after onyankopon dropped you back off at his place, much to his surprise, you said your thanks, went into your room, and haven’t came back out. it drives him insane, you drive him insane. he finds himself pacing come the next morning, having realized you haven’t ate in over fourteen hours. “fuck,” he sighs, standing within the open door of his refrigerator. he sees the carton of strawberry yogurt cups seated on the bottom shelf, pink stanley tumbler,  squeezy pouches of fruit juice, assorted within those are onyankopon’s favorite pineapple sodas, alkaline water, and organic snack bars.

with each passing day, the more the two of you intertwine yourselves within his life. akin to thread, you both weave and weave your way around him and his heart, pulling tight, refusing to let go. 

“she’s fuckin’ mad at me,” he mutters. ony sits upon the couch — having slept over again, he’s dressed in only a pair of sweat shorts and socks. and it’s a hard thing for eren . . realizing that two of the most beautiful people he knows are horribly aware of the fact that they are beautiful. ony wastes no time constantly tearing off a shirt and you practically adore prancing around in your little dresses and skirts. the both of you stress him out.

“she not.”

“she fuckin’ is, man.”

smacking his lips, onyankopon stands, “she cool, eren. really . . jus’ give her some time, pa—“

neither men hear your footsteps until you’re nearing the kitchen. briskly, mouths are shut and attention is given.

you feel their eyes peering, scanning, watching you drop the duffel bag you carry near the entrance of the foyer so that you can place your hand upon a wall for balance and slip one foot inside of a calf length, fur covered boot. 

“. . . ( ❤︎ )—“

“—where are you going?”

they watch your foot fall and you stand there for a moment, back facing them. irritation pricks at the base of your neck with a million needles it seems. you fight to gather in your composure, fight to keep from not being too much of a bitch because, still, you’re aware that you’re in eren’s home. manners have been instilled within you since you could hold your own head upon your shoulders.

both eren and ony hear the peep of your gentle voice as you give a huff before turning around and forging a small smile, “out.”

ony inspects your outfit — it’s a knitted, pink, two piece set. the skirt is scarily short and the top is sleeveless and high necked with a cream colored bow threaded right atop the mounds of your full breasts. you tempt him, you really do. he’s tempted to bolt lock the door, tempted to go out and gauge out every person’s eyes who gives you a sheer glance. 

before he can ask, ‘where?’ eren’s beating him to it. no longer does desolation grace the handsome features of his face — his arms are folded, eyes intense and focused directly upon yours. it’s clear the two of them allocate similar thoughts.

you lift an arm then let it fall with a slap against the smooth, bare skin of your thighs. it’s a clear motion conveying ‘why do you care?’ “jus’ . . out. ‘m going to giselle’s to finish gettin’ ready. i’ll be back tomorrow—“

“—tomorrow?”

the tinkling chimes of your ringtone break through the conversation and, in all honesty, save you from being grilled. quickly, your other shoe is on and you’re turning back towards the door, “she’s already here, i’m leaving. bye.”

when it slams closed, onyankopon’s attention is focused directly back onto eren, awaiting the next move. he’s fully prepared to follow you out, to pull you back, right into his arms and never let go, only if eren shares those same thoughts, craves to do those same things. instead, he simply close his eyes and give a slight head shake, “. . . i need my fuckin’ bong.” you’re going to drive him up a fucking wall. 

he walks into his bedroom, practically snatches it from the cabinet of his nightstand, and packs the bowl until it almost overfills. “so, we jus’ gon let her—“

seated upon the settee with a true crime documentary paused on the television screen, the only sound heard echoing throughout the condo is the quick bubbling of smoke flowing through the bong’s water chamber as eren pulls a cloud of the drug into his lungs through his mouth. “—‘m not about to think abt that shit, ‘yan,” he intercepts, voice wavering on strained as he holds the smoke within his chest for a second longer. “i don’t care.”

he cares. he cares a whole fucking lot. what the fuck could you possibly have planned that you’re not going to make it home until tomorrow? why the fuck does he even care? he doesn’t know, can’t figure it out. “i don’t care.”

scoffing a “yeah, okay,” onyankopon rips the bong from his grasp to place his lips within the mouthpiece and inhale a long drag. “you repeated yourself.”

“. . .” furrowing his brows, eren lets his head fall against the back of the sofa. “what?”

“you said ‘i don’t care’ twice,” ony does the same. thick, silvered smoke pours from his mouth and coils into the air above their faces, dispersing into a haze of fumes. “lets me know that you care.”

“fuck you.”

“mmm.”

eren tries to get you out of his mind. he does — desperately. he smokes, he naps, wakes up, refreshes your instagram in hopes that you’d go on to habitually post your daily outfit checks, or perhaps a picture of one of your favorite snacks or meals, something to let him know that you were okay, albeit, nothing. he feels like he’s eighteen all over again with a first crush, longing, itching, wanting. what throws him off, and admittedly ony, too, is that around ten o clock, one more refresh of your page and suddenly the two of them are met with the symbol of a lock, and your followers and following list are greyed out and unable to be clicked upon.

ony stands up from the stool inside of the kitchen he was seated upon within his disbelief, “she put herself on private,” he utters, eyebrows fusing in close until a tiny divot rests between the space of them. “she fuckin’ removed us and privated her account, man.”

“this fuckin’ . .” eren’s next inhale is deep. he rubs at his jaw, beginning to pace. you’re clearly wanting to play, wanting to hide. you were aware that they were going to be watching and it’s clear now that they should have been one step ahead and knew that you would. akin to a joust of chess, eren finds the both of them now stuck, unable to move. his mind begins to conjure the things you could possibly be doing — flashes of your pretty smile, your sweet giggles, soft hands caressing the plane of someone’s skin, it flies in and damn near bludgeons his lungs out of his chest. “where the fuck could she be?” he’s muttering. you’re not much of a social girl. that’s more of giselle’s proficiency . . .

“fuckin’ giselle.”

it isn’t hard to find her instagram. she posts a shit ton more than you and the last clip of her story had been of her hand, clearly yours ( you’re the only girl they know who has cute bows and heart charms glued to your acrylics ), and two other girls’ holding pink tinted shot glasses with a caption of ‘ don’t think club bliss ready 4 us tbh. ‘ “club bliss,” onyankopon licks his lips, letting the name plummet within the depths of his mind to familiarize himself with it. “. . shit’s downtown, like thirty five minutes away. my nigga JC owns it.”

shrugging, eren’s already making his way down the hall to his bedroom, “c’mon. bout to shower and get dressed. not about to play with this girl no more.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀  ❤︎

you make sure you don’t drink too much tonight. you refuse to experience the daunting repercussions of another hangover. two shots and half a glass of a lemon drop are just enough for your usual introversion and self scrutiny to thaw. “just bend,” jasmine had managed to acquire the four of you a section of your own within the nightclub. you hadn’t known that she and giselle invited more people outside of you guys’ immediate group, nonetheless, about twelve of you in total adorn the divans of your section. “and do it. shake your ass.”

you surmise that this is what you need. the music is loud enough to fill the expanse of your brain from corner to corner, the club is dark enough for you to not worry about who’s looking, you don’t want to think about them. not for a second longer.

though it does still pain you to realize — they are not yours. in all probability, they never will be, and you force yourself to admit that it’s okay. you’ll be okay. 

throwing your plush butt in cadenced circles into the welcoming canvas of giselle’s crotch while she squealed and recorded it all on her phone was a step into the right direction, you think. 

and in all honesty, you don’t know when you realize the rhythmic, encouraging pats on your butt have transitioned into a firm grip around your waist — don’t know when those same hands slid up to your soft tummy to push you up and have your back connect to a rigid, firm chest. “mm,” you’re mewling and tilting your head rearward when the person bends to tuck their face within the graceful slope of your neck. “wha . .” 

“you showin’ out, ma.”

you smell his cologne, and the top you wear is completely backless — it allows you to feel the algid gold of his chain grazing the bare skin of your spine. “. . ony?” you have to turn and face him . . figure out whether it was really true.

he stands before you, dressed in a light blue crewneck over a plain white tee and grey, distressed, patchwork jeans. the colored beams of the club glint along the handsome features of his face — painting him green, red, yellow, then blue. underneath them all, you note how heavy his eyes are, the faint smell of weed that undertones the warm notes of his body wash and cologne. immediately, you’re pushing him away, uttering one word, “no.”

he doesn’t seem surprised by your response, not in the slightest. he’s reaching for you, tugging you back into him firmly, then veering you both on your feet in order to have your back hit the mirrored wall that separates your section from another. the broadness of his stature easily hinders the view of you from any keen, prying eyes. you don’t know if you appreciate it or not. “ony, move, what are you—” you’re already whining and pushing at his chest with feeble, little paws. “m-move, i don’t . . don’t wanna do this. lemme have fun.”

he gazes at you through the leaden lids of his eyes, dragging them across the plumpness of your glazed lips then back up into your own, catching notice of the surface of them. they’re misty — iced over. you’re tipsy . . definitely fucking tipsy. “how many times we gotta tell you to stop drinkin’,” he murmurs, stolidly grabbing your face within one of his hands — thumb on your cheek, four fingers on the other. “you’re nineteen. don’t get fucked up.”

you shove his hand away, pushing at it with the both of yours. “ ‘m grown, how m-many times do i have to tell the both of you that . . . stalker. f-fuckin’ stalker.”

how did they find you? you debated on blocking the both of their accounts from yours after removing them, however, doubled back in fear of you going too far. at this very moment, you regret it. you should have gone with your first mind. 

onyankopon has the gall to chuckle — to smile and gaze at you as if you were just a silly, little thing . . one who was just speaking to speak, has no real idea of what was going on or what she was saying. unable to help it, your lips lour into a firm pout and you hold eye contact when reaching a curled fist back then letting it slam against his pectoral. “move,” you hiss, brows linked. “if you don’t move, i swear—“

“—whatchu’ gon’ do?” swiftly, his hand curls around the column of your neck. 

your mouth clenches shut as you stand there, nevertheless, refusing to back down. the milieu surrounding you both appears to fall silent while your eyes remain rooted upon one another’s. the impassivity of his own is blatant. his eyebrows lift and he leans his face closer down to yours, “say it,” he softly demands. his fingers flex around your throat and on instinct, your head tilts further up so that you’re able to pull in an easier breath. “whatchu you gon’ do, mama?”

eren is never too far away from ony . . . you should have known that he’d reveal himself come enough time passing. your vision of the rest of the club is obstructed by yet another tall, stout figure. you no longer can see a thing, only them. 

“ugh!” you huff and push onyankopon’s hand from your neck, fighting to elbow your way through them, withal, unsurprised when one of the two holds you right where you are.

“you drunk?” eren’s tipping your chin up and while at the same instant you ask, “so what?” onyankopon’s muttering a calm, “she’s tipsy.”

so, you’re tipsy and shaking ass — eren inhales a deep breath and, surprisingly, steps aside after a few seconds, opening a gape wide enough to allow you to pass through. your skepticism is evident, nonetheless, you push your way out and immediately grab hold of an oblivious, dancing giselle’s hand to tug her in the direction of the dance floor. he watches you until your body vanishes within a sea of others. “let her go,” he’s mumbling to onyankopon, falling down onto the sofa and making himself comfortable. “let’er do whatever the fuck she wants. she’s comin’ back home tonight, though,” tipping a shot back, he then shrugs while gulping it down. “cryin’ or not.”

onyankopon can’t help it though.

with each glimpse of you on the dance floor he catches, he’s lured in — enticed by the glossy pout of your lips before they stretch into a captivating smile, the sway of your curled, butt length, knotless braids, pinned back with twinkling clips studded with gems, your ass . . . fat, perky, and round — seemingly fighting to spill out of another signature, tiny skirt as you rolled it within a crotch . . . a crotch not covered by another skirt or dress your friends wear, but instead jeans . .

suddenly concentrating, his head slowly leans in forward and he only has to see the fine dusting of hair along a face of the person holding onto your waist before he’s walking over. 

“fuck no,” he’s scoffing and with enough ease to rival snatching candy from a gluttonous child, he’s pulling you into his chest, calmly staring, waiting for the man to make a move, albeit, when all he gets is two hands being pulled up to shoulders as a form of yield, his focus is placed directly on you.

you’re still humming and swaying to the lyrics of veeze’s song, gomd, regards only focused on yourself. you fit comfortably within his arms, plush and warm. when he squeezes his arms around you, your body softens up, as if it was on purely instinct. “ony,” you’re groaning when he leans down to kiss the pane of your shoulder — once more, his scent and stature being the dead giveaway. “no, no,” he’s uttering into your ear, tightening his hold on you once more when you attempt to squirm away. “can let you get away with a lot of shit, ( ❤︎ ), but dancin’ on another nigga’s a no go.”

you’re turning to face him when arrives the confession, “yeah?” you can’t help it. he feels good, looks even better with a plate of gold molded around the bottom row of his teeth. your hands reach for his arms, then you tug them upwards so that they remain on the sweet curve of your hips, silently telling him to keep them there. “ ‘m single though, no?”

onyankopon appreciates the difference between you sober and not. he supposes he gets a closer insight on what’s going on in your little brain through her. you don’t hesitate on your words and shy away in that precious manner he’s gotten used to. “. . . you can call it that.” your hips start to rock, a rhythmic sway from left to right and he follows, pushing your chest closer into his own.

“we’re all single, right?” 

when he gazes into your eyes, he sees it . . . you know the truth, you’re awaiting the moment to catch if he lies. licking his lips, onyankopon hesitates, “. . somewhat.”

your head tilts, “wha’does that mean?”

“means shit is complicated.”

“between who?”

his head tilts back as he bellows out an attractive laugh, unable to reign it back in when it falls out. you acting as though you are oblivious is amusing. “( ❤︎ ),” he dips his head into your neck again, keeping it there. you feel the tepid gusts of his breath blowing over that specific area of it, the one that tickles and makes your core heat all the while, when he murmurs, “mama, why you makin’ this so difficult, mm?”

you shove him away.

ony thinks you’re going to pout, huff, scream, however, when he sees the brewing of dew that begins to brim your eyes, his own soften. you’re turning before he can say another word, slipping through the crowd with little ‘pardon me’s and ‘sorry’s so that you can enter the section once more, grab your bag from lana’s hand after saying a quick goodbye and telling her that you’ll text, before you’re making your way towards the exit.

both eren and ony are hot on your heels. “hold on, hold on, hold on.”

the air outside is crisp. when a gust of it flies over your heated body as you push through the doors, it dries your eyes, and sobers you quickly. outside of the building, the world is much quieter. it soothes your racing brain, and you’re ignoring the two of them, steps firm and quick as you open your phone, click on uber and start the process of requesting a ride. “can you chill?” eren’s voice rocks upon the thin line of frustration and despair as he stops himself in front of you, stepping from side to side as do you to keep you from taking another. “jus’ . . stop for a minute, alright?”

“eren, just let me leave,” you blub out through a defeated whine. “can i go?”

a muscle within his jaw ticks, “not until we have a conversation, no.”

“what is there to talk about?”

a pulsing silence follows your words. tension is thick — it extends and swells until the pressure of it broadens into eren’s chest and has him quietly saying, “one conversation then we’ll let you leave,” he mumbles. “conversation out of the fucking public, yeah?”

your arms fold and you look away from the both of them as you mull it over. you’re cold, goosebumps send the hairs of your skin standing upright, has one of your ankles crossing over the other in a poor attempt to warm your legs, and your uber is said to be over twenty minutes away. “okay,” you grumble. “. . ‘m cold.”

“i wonder why,” onyankopon hums, leading you all to the direction of his car that’s parked on the corner. he opens the door to the backseat, allowing you to climb in first before he slips into the driver’s and eren in the passenger. truthfully, you’re nervous. you feel as though you have so much to say, and still, so little. so much to profess, yet it all lies at the back of your throat, viscous and curdled. 

when seated upon the couch within eren’s home, you watch him and ony go about kicking off their shoes and turning on a few lights. eren adjusts the thermometer to heat the apartment up for a moment during which, onyankopon grabs one of your favorite, soft baked, strawberry granola bars from inside of the pantry — a mere snack for you to nibble and sober up on. “hm,” he hands it to you over the back of the couch you currently lay cuddled up on underneath a chunky knitted throw blanket. “want water, too?”

shaking your head, you begin to unwrap it with nimble fingers, “. . thank you.”

the words sit at the pit of your stomach and sweet strawberry and fresh grain sticks uncomfortably to the roof of your mouth, making you stroke your tongue against the roof of it . . back and forth, back and forth. “i s-saw . . both . . you two . . c-couple nights ago,” they are blatted out before you can even attempt to trawl them back in. oddly, you feel ashamed when you find your admission no longer enclosed within the vault of your brain, however, floating within the space the three of you find yourselves in. “wasn’t spyin’ or anything, thought it was an intruder, uhm . .” those yucky feelings are returning. the ones that make you feel as though you were pathetic, revolting, stupid. “i didn’t want . . i don’t — . . i h-hope you both aren’t upset, i jus’ . . i know i should’ve jus’ stayed in bed and i shouldn’t have felt, mm, be so bothered—“

“ma, chill,” eren’s muttering, prior to you finding yourself being maneuvered, pulled in close so that your body is practically molded into the side of his. a soft kiss is sown against the crown of your head as you sniffle and wall your face away with your small hands, refusing to look at them. “we’re not upset with you. fuck no.”

mewling, you shake your head, thumbing with a ring on his finger. your own tremble with the intensity of too many emotions boiling inside of you, “you are, jus’ say it—“

their voices are unified when they say, “we’re not.”

your eyes flit up after a while, slow and warily. you seem to calculate their emotions, not making a move to say another word until one of them does. “there’s no need for apologies,” ony plainly says. “not from you, at least. you good, ight? we’re sorry . . you had to fuckin’ find out like that.”

shaking your head, it’s clear you feel as though their apology is unwarranted, “no. don’t have’ta say sorry to me. i s-should’ve known you guys were in a relationship—“

eren’s slowly widening smile and onyankopon’s scoff of a chuckle is enough reaction for you to pause and await clarification. were they laughing because they didn’t take you as someone so dumb and shallow that it took you so long to realize? . . . god, with each passing second you seem to feel worse and worse. 

you’re curling away — slowly working yourself back onto the opposite cushion, however, eren’s arm is pulling you back against him, “me and o’ are . .” he hesitates, clenching his jaw, fighting to place what the two of them do into comprehensible terms. 

“we fuck sometimes.”

again you sniffle, waiting for one of them to provide more context, “. . platonically?”

they stumble once more, until eren answers, “. . not really.”

“. . . so feelings are involved?—“

“—this is why i said this shit is complicated, ma,” onyankopon cuts in. “he’s mine, i’m his.” the two of them are sure that feelings got involved within their friendship close to a year and a half ago now. what used to be amicable, nonsexual hang outs progressed into something more. it’d built over the course of fifteen months until nearly three ago, when it all reached a zenith, onyankopon’s cock ended up buried inside of the grooved, pulsating channel of eren’s throat after a drunken night at a kickback thrown by mikasa.

you don’t pretend to understand. “mmm.” you realize there’s no point. they’re together, and though your feelings may feel as though they’ve been pummeled and bashed into piteous  threads of nothing, you know that this will only be a fleeting emotion. you’re fully prepared to cry until your heart’s content and work on bouncing back to your old self within a few weeks’ time, already rolling over which rom com and ice cream flavor you think will make you feel somewhat better tonight in your head when abruptly, you feel the comforting stroke of eren’s thumb stroking over the bare skin of your hip. “uhm,” suddenly, he seems apprehensive — glistening emeralds of jade snap back and forth between yours, quiet words stuck within his throat. “can i — . . i have to do somethin’ . .” he mumbles. “alright?”

“okay, yeah,” you softly reply. “what is it?” you’re prepared to stand and move out of his way, thinking he wants you to grab the remote or something.

despite that, he shakes his head and keeps you still, “jus’ close your eyes.”

after a few moments, you timidly comply. there’s the sound of shifts, prior to the sensation of something being dangerously close to your own face that only has your body tensing with fear as time ticks on and realizing it has no plans to move . . seconds feel more akin to minutes as you await whatever he has planned, “. . . eren wha—“

you’ve been kissed before.

once . . . the night of your prom by your date. it’d been a sloppy thing — he’d blurted out that he’d been crushing on you since the beginning of junior year . . . saw you in your cheer uniform at the football team’s first homecoming game and wanted to make you his since. it had been an experience you continue to describe with one word, dreadful. tongue got involved far too quickly than you’d expected, his nails dug too tight into the cushion of your waist and it made you wince and pull away before the kiss progressed passed a mere six seconds. all in all . . . traumatizing.

initially, eren kisses you softly. if you could manage to put it into detail and explain it to someone without your brain short circuiting halfway through, it’s almost as though he tests the waters . . . gives you sometime to pull away, to push him away if it hadn’t been what you expected or wanted. 

what he doesn’t know is that you’ve wanted this since the night you saw him for the first time again, since you caught eye of him seated at the bar, since he pulled you into his arms, wrapped his arms around you tight, invited you into his home, revealed himself to be just as sweet, gentlemanly, thoughtful, and kind as before. since you’ve begun to relearn one another — seen him for the first time with a familiar retainer on come the both of you bumping into one another at two am, yearning for a glass of cold water. since accompanying him to a session at his tattoo shop, watching him hone in and lose himself within his exquisite craft . . . yeah, he doesn’t know any of this.

his surprise is palpable when you give in, melting like sweet vapor within the sun, and taking hold of the shoulders of his shirt to pull him closer. 

eren feels the trembling breaths you exhale. what were once shy caresses soon inch into desperate grips as you fist the fabric of his tee within your hands and tug him even closer. its as though you can’t get enough. his lips are soft . . smooth. he smells faintly of weed, however, tastes as sweet as toffee. you all but whine when he pulls away, just barely deciphering his hand weakly ringed around the pillar of your neck. 

god, you’re the picture of pure debauchery.

eren hadn’t kissed you for longer than twelve seconds, he’s sure, and yet, your lipgloss is completely smudged, lips no longer glistening with the cosmetic, but of his saliva. quickly, your eyes flash with emotions . . nevertheless of you trying to hold them in, your irises have always been expressive — constantly conveying how you feel before your mouth does. he sees how long it takes for your actions to catch up with your brain, then you’re somewhat frowning, as if you were confused on the reason of why he’d stopped, then you are shying away again upon taking heed of your current predicament.

“uhm.” quietly, you release a breath.

unable to help it, eren smirks, “that was okay, right?” he mutters, eyes flicking between your own and your lips. 

was more than okay. “uh huh.”

you rub them together, finding your eyes drifting. they slide from eren’s to the thick, double hued plushness of onyankopon’s — both men notice. “. . don’t do that,” ony chuckles, eyes closed as he rubs at the bridge of his nose with two of his knuckles. “chill, aight?”

it’s only fair that you deserve a taste of him, too. maybe you’re being greedy . . .

“you both aren’t gonna let me leave, are you?” delicately, you ask the question, falling back against the comfortable cushions of the sofa. in reality, the idea of leaving and heading back to lana’s is now buried within the furthest margin of your mind. you watch the two of them share a look before onyankopon shrugs, “. . we’re not gonna keep you here if you don’t wanna be . . we’d prefer it,” he begins to smile. “if you stayed though.”

you hum a soft, “mhmmm,” with a giggle, pushing your cold, little toes underneath eren’s thigh. “. . so, what are we gonna do now?”

the three of you are quiet for a moment, letting the question steep within the matter of your brains. there’s plenty of things you all are able to do. sleep, is one. watch a movie, bake some cookies, dive more into detail about the ever-growing feelings the three of you share for one another that seem to weave tighter and tighter into a jumbled mess with each passing day — lots of things. “watch a movie in my room,” eren offers while leaning his head against ony’s arm that lays outstretched along the back of the couch. “if you want, mama, ’s up to you.”

immediately, you nod. you simply just want to be around them, everything else is trivial. “can we watch somethin’ scary?”

“somethin’ scary?” you’re all beginning to stand. onyankopon reaches his arms back to give a nice stretch and you allow yourself to take only one peek at the slip of skin and dusting of hair that traces down his belly button and disappears within his jeans. “y’sure you can handle somethin’ scary, pretty girl?”

“mhm!” you’re nodding and smiling over your bottom lip that your top row of teeth nibbles into. “ ‘m a big girl, ony.”

“mm, yeah?” he’s tossing his arm over your shoulder, leading you down the hall. “lets see about that then.”

the movie eren chooses is thirteen ghosts. he explained to you that it’s a bit old, figures it’s something that you should be able to handle. before you all climb into his bed, you hesitate, unsure of where to lay — whether beside eren or ony. “hm,” they discern the dilemma all over your face and rub at the opened space between them. 

the movie begins and you examine how the three of you all sit up — legs outstretched, postures aligned with the help of eren’s firm pillows. you’re not sure of exactly who lays down first, nonetheless, the other two follow and about halfway into the film, you’re curled up with your back towards eren, front facing onyankopon. you’ve been trying to focus for the past forty five minutes, fighting to understand the plot, names of characters, and what’s going on, however, your brain is engrossed in all things ony and eren, eren and ony. 

you feel as though you’re breathing too loud, moving too much, obviously not paying attention — you can already hear giselle demanding you to get out of your head, to relax, and stop thinking. 

it’s hard not to, though. 

ony lays upon his back . . an arm folded behind his head, the other draped across his stomach. he took off his crewneck — leaves him dressed in a plain white tee, jeans, and his socks. your eyes fix upon the large mitten of his hand . . his trimmed fingernails, the web of veins that decorate the back of it neath another beautiful tattoo of a moth. 

you can’t help it . . the tips of your acrylics start at his elbow before they’re trailing, crawling higher and higher — languid and idle. he doesn’t move or push you away when you coyly pause with your hand above his own. he lets you touch him, trace his tattoo with your fingers, press the pad of one against the tendon in his wrist. “sorry,” you soon murmur.

he looks down at you, “hm? . . what for?”

your eyes remained fixed upon your own fingers, letting them hook beneath his. “. . didn’t ask for permission . . to touch.”

you’re really something fucking else.

“you good,” he softly replies. “don’t trip.”

ony watches your head move — you pull it up to look at him and your eyes shift, down to his lips again. he doesn’t know if you’re doing it on purpose, or if you are. what he does know is that he needs you to stop . . needs you to turn yourself back forward and watch the movie, quietly trace his tattoos, close your eyes and sleep . . . anything to give him a peace of mind. nevertheless, you don’t do either. you huff a bratty, little sigh out through your nose and squeeze at one of his fingers with all of yours.

“ony.”

it’s sudden when he moves, when he lifts up on an elbow and presses you flat on your back so that there’s some inches of space separating you both again, “don’t start nothin’ you not gon’ be able to finish . . alright?” softly, he demands an answer from you, awaiting a head nod, a shake, something. the only thing he gets is just another glance of your eyes carting down to his lips, watching them shape around his words, the slat of gold still encasing the base of his teeth. it’s as if you were dazed — brain full of fluff, his words enter one ear and quickly exit out of the other.

chuckling quietly out of disbelief, onyankopon looks over at eren, “she think i’m playing, huh?”

the other man follows suit, lifting up on an elbow to look down at you with a soft smile, “. . . you want ‘yan to kiss you, mama?”

you squirm, mumbling a small, “yeah.”

“okay,” he calmly croons. “jus’ one kiss?”

“only one.”

you’re so sweet . . so pretty. onyankopon decides to indulge you — just this once. you feel his heavy hand on your thigh, wrapped around it, before he suddenly yanks you to tug you down a little bit lower. there we go. he captures your face between that comfortable cusp of his index finger and thumb, the thenar web, admiring you for a moment through weighty eyelids. you really want this . . . he’s bemused. you want him. truth be told, onyankopon had some doubts about the two of you. he thought you had your eyes sought out for eren, solely eren. 

however, when he kisses you . . he feels how much you’ve been wanting this, too. your arms envelop around the back of his neck to draw him nearer. you let him lead, lips smoothly trailing after his own, and then you try to mimic what your prom date had done to you to coax your mouth to open, only . . more delicately. instead of using teeth, you shyly skim the tip of your tongue against the parted seam of onyankopon’s lips, blossoming when he lets you in . . and the first glide of his tongue amongst yours has a sound escaping from the pit of your chest — something stifled and small. a weak whimper.

it only seems to light a fuel within ony — when your mouth opens wider, his does, too. it’s consuming, the way that he kisses, in a strangely good way. he pulls away after some time and allows you to inhale a shallow breath before your lips are being tapped with soft, repeated pecks, then he’s returning back for more . . for a fiercer taste, a longer one.

then, unexpectedly, he’s gone. his touch, his lips, the taste of him . . it all vanishes within a single moment.

you’re left slightly panting, blinking your eyes up at the high ceiling above you, letting yourself relish in the still tingling sensation that lingers upon the gentle pads of your lips. “we all good now?” ony forces himself to keep his hands where they should be, to himself. 

no, you want to say. no, you’re not all good.

the light cotton of your underwear feels warmer than usual . . sticky. when you spread your knees apart an inch, the tepid air of the room flies in between your thighs and feels nippy. 

quietly, eren scans you . . . sliding his eyes down from your heaving breasts, your plush tummy, to your thighs that now are spread the tiniest bit open. his fingers twitch in your direction, though he stops himself, “you feel okay?”

surprisingly, your answer is honest. you whine out a small, “no,” and they both watch your hands grasp the bottom hem of your skirt. you tug it down, and yet your thighs rub against one another, laggard and incessant. you smell them, you feel them, you’re between them and still, nothing is enough. what was once just wet and uncomfortable starts to plain out ache . . it’s painful, honestly. “hurts,” you mumble. your fingers slide up your thighs — with it, they bring your skirt. 

“no, no, nah,” eren’s chuckling, stopping you midway. “you don’t want this, baby.”

you don’t . . . you’re not ready for the both of them, yet. he doesn’t think you’ll ever be.

surprisingly, you’re whining, “yes, i do,” then grabbing his wrist, tugging it between your thighs. “ ‘m a big girl, eren . . really.”

you have your knees enveloped around his hand. your eyes are wide, glistening, and full of so much trust. you are a big girl, now . . eren has to remember that. you aren’t just mateo’s baby sister anymore — all this time, he thinks that’s what’s been hindering himself from proceeding with you any further. you are everything he wants, everything he’ll ever need. and still, he coasts his attention over to onyankopon, awaiting his decision. you both are. if he decides to wait . . then that’s what you’ll all do — wait.

“you sure?” ony’s voice is deep, quiet.

“mhm.”

and so, you’ll continue.

for the sake of fulfilling his own selfish desires, eren leans down and captures your lips for another breathtaking kiss. predictably, your taste careens the line of sweet and tart . . similar to a lush fruit torte. you hook him in the damndest of ways — the way you taste, the way you breathe, the way you simply exist . . . 

you tremble underneath the first sweep of someone’s hand across your breast. the top you wear is ribbed and cropped — thin straps are pieces of pink ribbon that you had to manually tie yourself to fit your frame more comfortably. because of it being so tight and showing a large expanse of your back, you had to go without a bra and pasties. your nipples harden into tiny peaks of steel, bold and plain, pushing against the material. fondly, onyankopon’s thumb glides across one. he pushes down, pinches, rolls it between his fingers. and you hiccup the sweetest, little sounds, perking your back up with a curve in your spine, “we can take this off?” gently, he asks the question, watching you rapidly nod your head, already lifting your arms.

your voice is soft, whiny, “mhm. yes, please.”

he’s smiling. “alright, ma’.”

your braids are long, you have to sit up in efforts to keep your shirt from snagging on them when he hoists it above your head. afterwards, it’s tossed somewhere, already long forgotten. 

suddenly, you’re nervous again . . laying back down, arms instinctively molding into a fold to shield yourself away from two pairs of eyes — brooding and ardent. “why’re you shy now?” eren’s asking, handsome grin splitting his lips to reveal his teeth. 

you nibble on your lip, feeling a stretch of warmth blossom across your nose, “. . c-cause you both make m’nervous.”

“we make you nervous?” onyankopon finds the admission cute. 

“yeah,” you sigh, deciding to let your arms carefully fall. there’s no point in hiding, you think, and what they’re met with is a pair of plumb, round tits . . dotted here and there with precious beauty marks along an expanse of pretty, brown skin. 

“don’t be,” eren murmurs, reaching out to cup one within the crater of his hand. “want us to make you feel good, right?”

his tongue suddenly scouring across the soft puffiness of your areola to beckon the sensitive bud of your nipple into his mouth wrings a unique gasp out of you — a sound you’ve never heard yourself make before. it’s something weak . . wringed and broken. he pulls off with a wet pucker and a blasé ‘hmm,’ taking a moment to gaze at your chest for a moment as if he were trying to gauge if he liked what he did or not. “felt good?”

you hiccup a quiet, honest, “y-yeah.”

onyankopon steals another kiss when eren tips his head down for one more taste. he swallows every gasp, whimper — clutches at the doughy skin of your hip to keep you from squirming too much. “pretty ass,” he murmurs. “how long you been wantin’ this? be honest.”

you cover your face with an arm, “s-since — ah, eren . .” you mewl and slide your hand through the soft locks of his hair, tugging at his nape when he pulls off of your tit again with a loud pop. “s-since t-that day . . in the kitchen . . . when you came over and h-helped cook breakfast for the first time.”

the two of them had been shirtless that morning — dressed only in sweats after a lengthy gym session and taking a shower. the scene was somewhat domestic, you think, something out of a film. both of them moving about the kitchen, opening and closing the fridge and cabinets as you sat at the island and tried to keep your admiration of their beautiful, sculpted torsos to a minimum by burying yourself within your phone. 

“that long, mm?”

“c-couldn’t help it,” you hook your fingers within the neckline of ony’s shirt, tracing a finger across the gold, cuban link he wears. “you both are so pretty . . . ’s not fair.”

how anyone could be around the two of them and not catch feelings is a mystery in and of itself. it was easy to fall for eren, and succumbing to the ones you felt for onyankopon was, too — just as effortlessly as breathing. your lips are pouted when you grab at his hand, dragging it down your tummy, “wan’ you both . . right here.” both watch how beautifully you melt when onyankopon’s fingers find the precious bud of your clit embellished by the sodden cotton of your underwear. 

“shit,” eren drags out the word slow, viewing how easily your thighs part open to give them an open image of what lies in between them — your shit’s fat. it’s clothed behind a pink thong, traced with white lace and a darling, threaded rose sits within the middle of the top hemming. the chubby lips of your pussy swallows the material, tiny hole spasms around it, dampening the color of bubblegum into a lewd rouge. 

inquisitively, one of eren’s fingers nudges at the hollow delve. he feels your walls clench before a ripple of wetness is breaking through the fibers and leaking down to the cleave of your ass. ony breathes out a gentle curse, beginning a slow tempo while tracing neat, little circles on your clit, “right here, mama?” his arm rests above your head, and with that same hand, he strokes his thumb comfortingly along your temple. your hips shift, rocking up into their touches, pulling away from them, you can’t seem to make up your mind. 

your voice is rising in pitch, “y-yes . . please.”

“whatchu want then?” he’s asking. “we’ll give it to you, you know that right?”

will they? they’re disappointed when you turn your face away and toss your wrist across your mouth, clearly refusing to say. it’s cute though, eren supposes. it’s cute that you’re timid enough to not voice what it’s clear you want, nonetheless, comfortable with their fingers rubbing on your pussy. “can we take these off?” he stows a kiss upon another sweet mole, peeks out from right above the top of your underwear trimming, and waits until you nod before the four of his fingers on both hands are hooking into the sides of them and your pathetic excuse for a skirt, and he’s pulling them down. 

it’s a mess . . . you’re a mess.

webs of slick cling onto the seat of your panties, breaking off into feeble strings when he tugs the material of them down far enough. when snapped away, they gather with the rest of the silken sap that glosses your lips. it’s only right that you reach a hand down to take a feel of and assess the damage, and you don’t seem all that surprised to hear the faint squishing sound of your fingers slipping and sliding between them. you whimper, “ ‘m sorry . .” you’re frowning, genuinely upset. “ ‘m makin’ a mess.”

you’re something else — genuinely. 

“don’t apologize . . do not fuckin’ apologize, alright?” eren’s whispering, eyes transfixed on the oeuvre that is your pussy. “you ever touch yourself, baby?”

you mewl, “only a few times.”

“yeah?” he breathes, pushing one of your legs up higher in order for the light of the television to illuminate your core. “show us . . show us how you make yourself feel good.”

you’re starting to whine again, “eren.” you’re embarrassed — always one intimidated of toys, you’ve relied simply on your fingers for the last year or so since becoming acquainted with your body. it’s rare when you actually even push one inside. your nails click against each other when you slide two of them, ring and middle, up to your clit and begin to stroke slow, sloppy circles atop it. “l-like that,” delicately, you sigh, letting your muscles melt, thighs fall further apart. 

onyankopon parts them even wider, needing to see the exact moment when your little hole clenches up again and releases another wave of slick, adding onto the small puddle that’s seeping through the soft, black fleece of eren’s comforter underneath the cheeks of your ass. his dick strains against the cool metal of his zipper, he can hear nothing but your dear sniffles and moans through the rushing blood of his ears . . . aside from eren, he’s never desired a person as much as he does you. always a man known as cool, calm, and collected, he’s stunned himself when realizing that, regarding the both of you, he’s willing to just about walk to the ends of the world and then some if it’d make you happy. 

he’s never known someone to be so easily cherished before you entered his life. to be truthful, his feelings for you scare him . . you scare him.

“sometimes, i jus’ . .” you never finish your sentence, opting to instead let them see for themselves. your fingers move — slip down so that the pads of them are flushed right up against the opening of your cunt, then you start to faintly push them back and forth. and granted, the action is mere, the sounds your pussy produces are fucking filthy. it’s obvious that you like it — the pressure, that is. you never let them slip inside, only squidge them against that hungry, little pit.

eren crowds in closer, “shit, she’s clenching again.”

another tide of slick from your cunt, another rush of blood to the tips of their cocks. “needy ass pussy.” onyankopon’s suddenly pushing your legs up further . . until your knees knock against your shoulders. you squeak in the same moment he tells eren, “slide a finger in, pa’.”

eyes wide, you’re watching, dazed, as eren’s soft lips pleat before a cool dollop of his spit is dripping from them and onto your pussy. the sight is nothing short of obscene, all the more so when the first knuckle of his middle finger is gliding inside you with enough ease to rival butter and you’re already trembling, mewling for more. he flits it inside until he hits the base, murmuring out to ony, “ ’s fuckin’ tight.”

“yeah?” suddenly, he’s roused to know, “. . anybody else ever been in there? y’a virgin, baby?”

your eyes are closed, acrylics digging into the flexed skin of his wrists as you nod your head and whimper a tender, “mhm.” hips buck when, empirically, eren curls his digit, avid to find one, specific spot. “wan’ you to take it . . you and ‘ren.”

another flow of blood and their balls tense. ony’s sure his tip is probably purple now. “wait, you sure?” reality breaks through his lust dazed brain and hits him with a swarm of questions. are you sure?, is the brunt of them. are you absolutely positive? but when your eyes open and he takes in the sheer amount of faith and certainty that swims within them, suddenly he’s aware that you’ve probably thought about this before, likely, over and over again. 

“m s-s-sure . . oh my god,” your back’s curving upwards when eren starts to stroke his finger inside of you, firm and steady. 

“you trust us that much?” he hums softly, stamping a sweet line of kisses up the plush chub of your tummy, within the valley of your tits, to your neck. “trust us enough to break your lil pussy in? shape it only for our cocks — that much, baby?”

the muscle of your thighs tauten as your pussy squelches around the single digit. you feel dirty . . . nevertheless, in the best of ways. “f-fuck me,” you’re admitting quietly, tipping your head back when the even edges of his teeth are sinking into the flesh of your neck, scented of apple and creamy iris. “fuck me, please?”

you’re so needy . . . “not yet,” onyankopon lowers down to peck a slow kiss upon your lips. “nah, i need a taste first.”

eren’s finger is gone and you watch them maneuver — smoothly . . effortlessly. once again, showcasing that the bond the two of them share travels far deeper than surface level. onyankopon stands, and before eren turns to replace his spot, he does the same and sharply tugs you towards him by the backs of your thighs until your ass nears the edge of the bed. 

your heart thuds at the sight of him . . . of his hair, luminous and long, swaying over his strong shoulders, the dark glint that wallows within the deep emeralds of his eyes, reading him knowing something that you don’t, his pretty smile, the slightly longer, sharper canines. and then, precipitately, deep, warm tanned skin is soon replaced by a smooth, velvety dark brown. emeralds are now smoky quartz. locks of faint ringlets are three sixty waves. 

you watch, lips parted in awe as onyankopon reaches behind his neck with both hands for the hem of his shirt to then swiftly tug over his head. he’s soon kneeling with a soft breath being exhaled from his nose, adjusting his chain while smirking and fixing his eyes upon yours, “don’t move too much, aight?” he mumbles, curtly pulling you even further until your ass hangs off of the bed, suspended in the air by only his hands. “ion like runners.”

“w-waitwait, wait . . ony.”

you wanted to mentally prepare yourself . . gather some shame. albeit, he simply ignores you. the warm pad of his tongue is wide; it parts the thick skin of your lips without his fingers needing to. your eyes flip back into your skull, legs preparing to close around his head until you hear a small ‘aht . . nuh uh, princess. open ‘em’ and shortly after, eren’s hands are finding the backs of your knees to keep them bent and spread wide. 

onyankopon suckles at your clit, lets his saliva loll out from his tongue, dips the tip of it inside of your hole until nearly half of it is buried inside of you — in short, he’s a fucking messy eater.

he makes you tremble no less than three minutes in. you’ve never experienced a sensation like it . . . mind staggering lust that is. no one’s ever made you feel as though you were two seconds away from being lit on fire if their touch were to ever leave you. 

you’re sobbing out a whiny, “o-ony,” when the thick pillows of his lips pinch the aching puff of your clit, rolling it between them before he lets it snap back into place with a loud smooch. down his tongue glissades, prior to it returning up, curling and scouring every inch of you without him needing to move his head an inch. 

“of course you taste this fuckin’ good,” he mumbles, eyes gliding to meet yours. he wants you to watch him, wants you to notice how good he makes you feel — kill any other thoughts of you being with another human being on this earth aside from him and his boy’s for as long as time exists. you’re theirs now. forever and always. 

his attention on you is diverted when one of his hands is gone from underneath your hips so that he can slowly watch himself ease a finger, deep and snug, inside of your little pussy. you hiccup, head tilting, back arching, hips fighting to buck. he hums, “pull it in — that’s right, yeah . . ‘m givin’ you one more — stop fuckin’ movin’.” he slips his ring finger in beside his middle, watching how wet they reappear when exiting your body.

“ion think we gon’ need lube, baby,” he utters for eren. fuck no, you’re dripping wet. 

sniffling, your toes, glossy with a cute, fresh, baby pink french tip, curl when his finger does the same. and you’re thinking that this is tolerable — his pace is slow enough for you to breathe in deep enough breaths to calm your racing heart . . . that’s until it increases speed, and with that, he also does something with his wrist — he rotates it, twisting his fingers with every pull out of your cunt, which in turn, leads them to begin to caress a raw, throbbing knurl of nerves inside of you that has tears scathing the surface of your eyes. 

“f-fuck, fuck, wait—“ quickly, your hands are shooting down to grab onto his, then both men are moving. eren snatches your wrists, gathering them within one of his own hands, and onyankopon swats a thick, reprimanding smack against one of the orbs of your ass. the sweet sob out you give is exceptional to hear.

“stay still.”

you take it that he’s found your g spot, because with every thrust inside, your pussy oozes . . no longer a thin, translucent slick, but sticky, gooey cream. you tremble, slumping your head back against eren’s thigh, feeling drool pool upon the surface of your tongue. he’s smirking when he looks down at you, dipping his thumb inside of your mouth, admiring how cutely you wrap your lips around it. have you already gone dumb? 

his eyes gaze deep into yours.

no, not yet . . . close, very fucking close, but not yet. be that as it may, they glimmer with awareness, he’s sure you still know your own name. 

“want you to cum, okay?” he utters, slipping his thumb free from your mouth to find the hardened nub of your nipple and tug. “whenever you feel it, want you to tell us.”

onyankopon’s tongue has found your clit again. your eyebrows furrow, nose cutely wrinkles with the onslaught of too much pleasure, “okay,” you snivel. “oh my . . god, why does this feel so good?” you sound broken — frustrated, almost. wrists wriggle within his hand, eren doesn’t think you do it on purpose, nonetheless, he knows that if he lets them go, they’ll revert right back into pushing ony away. 

letting his spit fall onto your pussy once more, the man between your legs licks his lips, halting the thrusts of his fingers to instead suddenly press them in deep and snap them, up and down.

it’s abrupt, the sweet squeaks you give — they’re immediate, “ ‘mcumming’mcumming . .” your shuddering legs latch closed around his hand. “daddy, ‘m cumming.”

forcefully, onyankopon shoves your legs back up and out of his way, “push it out,” he hums, “all of it . . every last fuckin’ drop.”

your pussy spasms, gurgling around his digits and drooling out honeyed cream. eren lets your wrists go and naturally, you’re grabbing onto him, pulling him down closer so that you’re able to bury your face within the slope of his neck in efforts to quiet your sounds. “c-can’t take — a-ah, daddy no,” you’re sobbing when his fingers enter the mix, finding your clit to trace messy halos onto. 

“jus’ take it,” he’s mumbling, kissing along the mounds of your tits. “there you go, fuck.”

when ony’s fingers are removed, so are eren’s. you whimper and pant, thinking you’re in the clear before a palm is falling down onto your cunt with a thick smack. 

from then on, you’re handled sweetly . . given a tender clit kiss, pushed back further up atop of the bed. you watch eren undress — socks first, then he unfastens his belt, the button of his jeans, and kicks them off. shirt torn away, your eyes flit between admiring the swirls of ink traced along the sleeves of his arms, the chasmic gorges mapping out the abs of his torso, or the bulge of his cock, pushing up against the grey fabric of his briefs. 

he’s big . . . intimidatingly so. 

he combs a hand through his hair, sparing a look at the mess of wet between your thighs and then, with his face is unchanging, he walks over to the nightstand, opens a drawer, grabs something, then flawlessly tosses it into the hands of onyankopon. “jus’ in case.”

your heart is pumping when his briefs are removed, you try not to gasp too loud when finally in eyesight of one of the main centers of your sometimes lewd daydreams and envisages. “. . oh  . . goodness,” you whisper. you gather it’s about eight and a half inches and, shockingly, a shade darker than him — akin to a toasted brown with a fuchsia colored tip, fat and leaky. his balls are firm . . chubby, dusted only with a few fine hairs to match his happy trail. it’s a beautiful thing, honestly. cut, long as much as it is thick, and veiny. what had made your eyes almost bulge out of their sockets had been the sight of barbells — small and silver, three of them, running vertically down his frenulum.

when he’s hovering over you, your face caged in by the thick muscle of his forearms, you’re still staring at it, fingers itching to feel. eren can tell. he’s chuckling, using a tendon underneath his stomach to make his dick jump and beckon you, “the piercings, huh?” he mumbles. “you can touch ‘em, mama, i don’t mind.”

“okay . . u-uhm, yeah,” you reach down and gingerly wrap your fist around him. he doesn’t react much aside from his tummy tensing, albeit, when your thumb strokes the three, little piercings, he sucks in some air between his teeth. “they don’t hurt?” you inquire quietly, eyes focused on a frothy bead of precum forming from the small hole atop his tip.

“no, jus’,” he bucks into your hand and gives another pretty smile. “fuckin’ sensitive.”

“oh,” you return it with a giggle. “. . . ’s pretty. i want one now.”

eren hums, “yeah? wanna match wi’me?”

“mhmm.”

you’re cute. you are really fucking cute.

he seizes your lips for another kiss, and with his legs, he slowly separates your own more further apart. the action reminds you of what’s about to happen. you reach for his shoulders, wrapping your hands around them tight. between the both of your lips, you whimper, “ ‘m scared.”

eren pulls away, face softened with gentle adoration, “you’re comfortable, yeah? y’still wanna do this?”

your responding nod is immediate. you do, you really do. 

“okay,” he kisses you again. “gonna go slow,” and with that, you feel the firm pillar of his cock beginning to rock between your lips, nice and easy. the tensed underside nudges at your clit with each move of his hips toward yours — you loosen with a soft moan. “think i can make you cum from jus’ this.”

you’re sure that you can. your clit is sensitive — still swollen and tingling with the assault of fingers and clever tongues. eren waits until he feels you gushing again, lubricating his cock with your desire and care. he waits until he hears the squelching, your sighs, your whimpers . . then he reaches down to take hold of the tip of his cock and carefully start to slide in. your body tenses.

“relax, mama,” ony’s crooning, keenly watching it all from near the opened window a few feet away where he sparks a thick blunt. 

“ ’s gonna hurt more if you flinch.”

you try. your eyes are tightly shut as you exhale a breath, “okay, o . . kay.”

eren finds the rigid nub of your clit, beginning to rub it in tight, stable circles. “like when i rub your clit, hm?” he whispers against your lips. “nice and quick.”

you mewl underneath his touch, nodding. you do. how quick the two of them have managed to learn your body is terrifying. you feel him push in another inch and with it, you focus more on his fingers, his voice, his lips. he smells yummy, you realize, and underneath the initial discomfort, you’re aware that there does seem to be a hidden pocket of pleasure, buried deep within it. when his balls are flushed against the knitted button of your ass, a quiet groan falls from your lips. you feel full — packed to the brim. in truth, it’s indescribable. 

eren dips his fingers into your mouth with one word mumbled, ‘open.’

you do so, allowing his middle and ring finger to slip against the pad of your tongue, collect some of your saliva upon them, then he’s gliding his hand back down, smearing it at his base. “gonna move now, okay?”

“uh huh.”

his first thrusts are slow . . shallow. he rocks in only about six inches, easing the taut, flexing muscles of your walls. “there you go,” he’s sighing, closing his eyes. when he decides to focus on how good it feels, he realizes that . . jesus fucking christ, your pussy is deadly divine. 

you sigh again, relax some more, open yourself further. “. . oh, fuck.”

you feel how much eren restrains himself, muscles within his arms and back tightening with the effort. it feels just as you thought — world staggeringly good. your fingers slide within his hair, arm tightens around his back. “deeper,” you whimper. “please.” you want him to give you all of him — every single inch. 

his voice is quiet, stifled, “you sure?”

you lift your hips, “yes, eren . . gimmie it.”

alright.

he gathers the slipping comforter within his fingers, lifting his head to look down into your eyes. his pupils are blown out, matching your own, and yet still, he makes sure you keep them focused on his when he suddenly presses in, then eases back out. you choke on your next mewl, eyes half lidded though remaining fixed upon his. it’s now a challenge, he supposes. who breaks it first. a slight, little smile starts to lift the corners of his lips when he does it again . . . and again, until he’s fucking you — nice and steady, firm and deep. you surrender without much of a fight given, throwing your head back, eyes shut, “f-fuck, eren.”

“ ‘m givin you what you wanted,” he softly huffs, grabbing one of your knees and bending it towards. “wanted me deeper, right?”

oh my god, it’s lewd, you find. the sound of smacking skin, his dick fucking your cream in and out of you, the moans and groans and sobs and cries. so, this is how it feels. eren’s cock is fat . . it manages to find crevices and crannies inside of you that you hadn’t even been sure existed. small hands find his hips and you sink your nails into them, mouth fallen agape.

“f-fuck,” eren grits out through his teeth. “my god, you’re takin’ it, baby — every . . fuckin’ inch. mm, feels good?”

you’re nodding your head, tits bouncing, legs agape, “feels s-so . . u-ungh!” 

words and reason knock against the barriers of your brain which drives more and more empty with each pummel of his cock within your fat, little pussy. you don’t want to think, don’t want to move — you want this until you physically can’t have it anymore. “daddy,” you whimper the name delicately, skating the opened gaps of your fingers through his hair once more to tug. “daddy, oh god.”

“yeah,” eren breathes, attentive to your words, your body, the soaked babbling of your pussy. “mm, i know — ‘m right here, mama. daddy’s right here.”

unanticipatedly, he pulls out. you both pant, watching as he grips his cock firmly at the base. he squeezes it . . once, twice, dips himself back in, then pulls right back out. “shit,” he moans. “pussy’s too good . . gonna make me cum.” it’s somewhere passed too good. he forces himself to get a grip. he doesn’t want to end this too early, fuck no.

and to somehow make matters worse, or rather, almost send eren into cardiac arrest, you lick your lips with a little smile before saying, “ ‘m on the shot . . you can cum in me, i’ll take it.”

it’s funny, he thinks. how you have the gall to appear shocked when he snaps himself right back in less than half a second after the statement spills from your mouth. yeah. you’ll take it. you’re going to fucking take it — one, two, three, maybe six loads, who knows how much he has inside of him tonight, but your little cunt’s going to take each one, he’ll make sure of it.

your pretty sounds are stolen from your mouth with each pounding thrust. no longer does eren lay atop of you, he’s grabbed you by the knees, bending them until they find your earlobes and with the weight of his body, he forces them to maintain the position while he braces for stability with his hands on the mattress above your head. 

his cock reaches deep, you find. plump, mushroom tip knocks incessantly at the grooved barrier of your cervix and here’s where the tears come . . warm, slow, and dribbling, falling down to your temples as you hold onto your own thighs, weeping for him to, “d-don’t stop, please, daddy, don’t stop.”

“mm, ’s all yours now, baby,” he groans. “ ’s all your dick . . for as long . . as y-you fuckin’ want it.”

you feel gooeyness dribbling down between the fat cheeks of your ass — sticky and warm. sparing a look over the folded rolls of your tummy, you find that eren’s dick is streaked with white. there’s a wreath of it thronged at his base, viscid and thick, leaking down his balls . . and it’s all produced from you. “u-unh, unh, g-god, fuck, ngh . .” your breaths are strained, your muscles burn, nevertheless, you don’t think you’ve never felt so good in your entire life. 

when eren sees you begin to drool, a sphere of pride swells within his chest. there it is. what he’s been wanting. you’re now fucked dumb . . plain out stupid. no longer do comprehensible spill from your swollen, plush lips . . only frail babbles and spit ridden slurs. “good girl,” he grumbles, smearing his thumb within the mess of your cheek. “good fuckin’ girl . . mhm, cream on it . . cream on your fuckin’ dick, go ahead.”

when that same slicked thumb starts to stroke your clit, your entire body tenses with the onslaught of your second orgasm of the night. meekly, almost fearfully, you sniff, “. . o-oh god, ‘m gonna cum, ‘rennie.”

eren’s eyes are brutish, firm when he demands, “do it,” through a low huff. “fuck did i jus’ say huh? . . . ’s yours, ruin it.”

you make him proud when you tearfully obey.

and god, it’s a mess.

you don’t squirt, no, it’s more of . . a stream — a warm cascade of liquid, texture akin to buttermilk as it flows over his dick and down your butt. eren feels how tight your pussy grips him as she works on letting it all run out, ripple by ripple, he feels how hard you grasp onto him, and goodness, he’s smitten by you. he’s absolutely besotted that he simply can’t help kissing you, mewling into your mouth when his own heated coil within the base of his stomach snaps as his balls flex and, with that, he gifts you a fat load of his seed — hot and runny. “oh, fuck,” he moans into the heated cavern of your opened mouth. his thighs shudder as he buries himself as deep as he can, “ooh shit . . g-good girl.”

the both of you are heaving by the time the aftershocks come and he’s careful in settling your legs back down, unfurling you from the surely uncomfortable position. you feel unworldly, mind far from your body, as you let your fingers intertwine within the spaces of eren’s as he pulls it up to his mouth to kiss each of your knuckles, one by one, prior to carefully pulling out.

his cum rushes to follow, leaking out of your now flexing pussy.

“shit.”

you hear onyankopon chuckling as he replaces where eren had been, right between your legs — completely barren from clothes as well, aside from his chain. his thumb finds the slit of skin above your clit and he pulls it upwards to make your cunt stretch and push out another glob of eren’s cum. “fuck . . that pussy’s gapin’ — was pent up, baby. i can tell.”

eyes closed, still laying beside you and fighting to catch his breath, eren laughs softly, “yo’, fuck you ‘yan.” it’s been a long time coming, he thinks. months of pining, runarounds, and hidden feelings. the high he’s riding is unable to be described by words. 

“poor mama,” onyankopon lowly drags, leaning down to peck your lips. you’re so gone, so far gone, you can only whine and reach for him. “i know, i know.”

he kisses your cheeks, your temple, your chin, forehead, soft and slow, awaiting the moment for when you sweetly hum and whisper his name, “onya.”

his voice is just as low when he asks, “you wanna rest up, baby? we can try us later—“

“no.” your voice is small though unyielding. you want him, too. “gimmie.”

alright. he will, then.

your pussy is sloppy when he smacks the tip of his cock against it — glossed over with white that smears along the surface of your thighs, too. strangely enough, onyankopon is in dire need for another taste. he can’t help swiping two of his fingers through your lips, collecting the mixture of you and eren’s love upon the pads of them before laying them on his tongue. he tastes your sweetness underneath the fresh tanginess of eren. oddly . . it balances out. 

“mmm,” he hums. 

his cock is two toned — a beautiful dark brown that fades into rosewood near halfway. similar to eren, he’s around eight and a half inches . . give or take, nine. just as his, too, it’s even all around — equal girth and length, heavy even while on brick. only difference was . . you notice the ony’s cock curves a bit . . . a bit to the left. you’re intrigued, watching him spit upon his tip, smear it in with his thumb, then breach his way inside.

it’s similar to the first time all over again. you tense . . . hard. 

both of them have to coo and pepper you with sweet kisses to get you to ease up again. “shit,” ony mutters, eyebrows furrowed as he works in the last three inches. “still tight . . how you still fuckin’ tight?”

your answer is lost somewhere within your moans. you were scared of his curve, you’ll admit, however, you find that . . it works. when ony manages to push all of himself in, he discovers that he needs to keep himself still for a moment . . all in fear of not wanting to bust a premature nut come the sensation of your flexing walls. “shit.”

you watch him lick his lips and give you a dazed sort of smile, eyes half lidded, and grill glinting underneath the silvered rays of moonlight pouring in through the opened curtains, “you feel good as a motherfucka’, mama, ‘m not gon’ lie.”

once more, your cunt constricts, “fuck me then.”

he does. 

to your surprise, he starts off slow . . rolling his hips in then out, rhythmically, almost as if there were a song only he can hear playing. you shudder with each thrust forward, eyes cycling back, hands reaching for his forearms. you watch his smirk broaden when his tempo speeds up, morphing your faint, little whimpers into hard gasps and long moans. “mmmmhm,” he mutters, taking the soles of your feet and using them to open your legs as wide as they were able. “yeah . . give me that shit.”

with a faster pace comes harder plunges. a splatter of wetness squelches out from your pussy with each drive in. “you gon’ take it?” he huffs, sliding his hands across down your calves, to your thighs. “you not gon’ run?”

“noo, ‘m not, i p-prom . . pinkie p-promise,” you keen. you’d never. you want to be good for him, too, just as you were with eren. you want to be their good girl. 

and that’s all onyankopon wants to hear.

he pulls out, and with that, falls on his back, and tugs you on top of him. “sit on it.”

reading your apprehensiveness all over your pretty face, he gives you a blinding white and gold smile, “don’t be scared, i gotchu.” your legs are trembling when you slowly swing one over his hip. dark browns focus on the bounce of your tits as you lean forward, reach behind yourself for his dick, rub it up and down your slit a few times, then carefully ease your way on down. “mmph.” you sniffle, placing your hands on the solid, tatted skin of his pectorals. he feels even bigger this way, you suppose, fat and lengthy. you force yourself to keep going, withal, to keep pushing down until his full, stout balls are pressed against the softness of your ass. 

ony moans a soft, “jus’ like that.” his hands don’t go for your hips, no, they slide up until he takes hold of the sides of your torso, more upon your ribs. “i gotchu, don’t even worry, baby girl.”

you weren’t aware that onyankopon would, quite literally, have you. he doesn’t allow you to move an inch, plainly starts to bounce you up and down atop of his cock, lifting your body as though you were the weight of a five pound dumbbell. you squeak, and you squeal, and you cry, holding on by pressing down upon his abs, letting him flat-out break in your dainty, little cunt. 

you’re aware of the picture you must paint. sweet chub of your cheeks polished with garlands of tears, fat of your ass jiggling each time it meets the hard muscle of his thighs, your tits rebounding with each pound . . . you’re something out of a porn catalogue, surely. 

and ony’s very encouraging. he hums and he groans and he hisses, calling you ‘their good girl,’ tells you that your pussy is the best he’ll ever get, demands through low murmurs that you ‘get that dick.’ you find that you crave to do it yourself — bounce, that is. your legs move, feet flattening upon the bed . . and he notices. “w-wanna,” you sniffle, voice broken as you swipe the back of your wrist across your soaked cheek. “wanna m-make you cum, daddy.”

onyankopon has to close his eyes at the simple sentence — what you don’t know is that you almost caught him then and there. he’s two seconds away from shooting triplets inside of you, he’s sure. birth control be damned. 

and you do it. you stabilize yourself with one hand on his shoulder, the other on the cheek of your ass, spreading it all in efforts because you’re curious . . you want to feel how much your pussy has to stretch to accommodate all that he gives. “s-s-sooo big,” you moan, eyes flipped white as a trickle of drool sways from the pudginess of your bottom lip, dripping down to his chest. “s-so big, papa.”

“fuck,” ony’s groaning, lip bitten over with his teeth as he looks between your bodies to find that tiny, fat cunt creaming again, leaking down his balls. “why you . . givin’ it to m-me like this, princess?”

you suddenly slam down and swirl your hips in delicious, petite circles, acquiring some much needed friction from his trimmed pubes against your clit. “ ‘c-cause . . — wan’ y-your cum,” you admit with a pout. you’re needy for it. you’ve gotten a taste and you doubt you’ll ever be the same again. 

never the one to be outdone, ony starts to raise his hips, meeting you halfway. “yeah?” he licks his lips. “you want this nut? . . you gon’ catch it?”

when he speeds up, you’re aware that he’s taken over the reigns again. your head tips back and, once again, you hold on while nodding. “uh huh,” you squeak. “hng . . unh, unggg.” god, you are absolutely filthy. ony knows that you two are plain out disgusting, but, he can’t find it within himself to actually give a fuck.

he has you — the girl of his dreams — brain dead, cockdrunk, drooling, and needy for his cum. “yeahhh,” he drags lowly, eyebrows furrowing, watching your pretty nails disappear between your thighs where you go to rub your clit, “yeah, you w-want this fuckin’ nut . . ima give it to you.” you’re working for it . . clenching and creaming, and rolling your hips. he thinks he’d be a fool to not grant your wishes.

grabbing onto your hips, he bounces you once, twice, thrice, four times before the two of you are reaching your highs in unison. your gasp is hard. you lose your balance, legs trembling too hard that somehow, you end up falling and flat upon his chest, clawing your nails into his shoulders while his fingers grasp onto your ass, forcing you to rock your hips back and forth. “r-ride it out, mama,” he hisses, “ride that shit out, fuck.” the longer, the better.

you unflex your toes when it starts to, sadly, ebb away near a minute later. how disappointing. onyankopon’s arms are wrapped around you. he holds you tight, as though he never wants to let go. your head feels fuzzy — the world is a blur when you feel yourself being picked up and moved. “mm, shit, baby,” he groans. you have his legs weak and, what was once dark, illuminates into brilliance as he carries you inside of eren’s bathroom. you hear water running and you feel ony carefully slipping himself from inside of you before you’re being transferred into someone else’s arms and lowered into a vast jacuzzi bathtub, full of warm water whose surface is clouded with foaming, glimmering bubbles. 

“mm,” you sniffle and focus your sight on ony who stands in front of the mirror, slowly removing the gold cap from his mouth. 

“careful, mama.”

eren’s behind you. carefully, he ties your braids into a big, topple of a bun, making sure they don’t get too wet, just before sinking inside the tub, too. tugging you into his chest, he isn’t at all surprised to feel your muscles liquify as you melt and tip your head back into his shoulder. you’re tired now, of course you are. “wan’ it again,” you admit through a mewl with a dazed smile after ony’s in the tub, too. “an’ again . . an’ again.”

they both chuckle. “nah, baby, you gotta rest for a little bit.”

you agree. one hundred percent. your cunt aches, thighs burn with the exertion of being folded up and all the bouncing, to add, your throat is sore, nevertheless, you suppose all is a small price to pay in order to feel as good as you did when they’re buried deep inside of you, “. . an’ then i can get it again?”

they’ll give it to you as much as you want. they’ll give you the world if it’s just enough to put another beautiful smile on your face.

  ❤︎ — all rights reserved ! © pwncez !

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ORGANISM/ORGASM suguru geto

SUMMARY: who knew suguru geto, your average tall anti-social nerd around campus knew how to fuck and had a big dick? definitely not you.

CONTENT: f! reader, nerd! geto, pwp, college! au, dumbification, praise, switch!geto, degradation, impact play, pussywhipped geto, size kink, mating press, doggy, overstim, unprotected, whiney geto sort of, breath play, geto eating it from the back, (pet names: pretty girl, princess, baby)

WORD COUNT: 5.6k

NOTE: hi idk i was bored and i love dumbification. also i have nerd!geto brain rot bc of this sooo yeah @omgeto my beta reader thank u </3

“Are you like . . . stupid or something?”

Geto’s voice was a low rasp, he was growing irritated— as he should, you were wasting his time, unable to concentrate because every three seconds your eyes would flicker right near his bulge— it wasn’t your fault, he was wearing nothing but a black wrinkled frat hoodie with matching sweats— long dark locks lazily pulled up into a man bun. He’s eyeing you and it makes you nervous, you feel like he’s staring at you in other places but maybe that’s just your mind playing tricks on you.

“No, I’m not stupid,” you matched his irksome tone, a near defeated pout stretching against your sheeny glossed plump lips— a soft sigh exiting your mouth as your eyes scanned the dumb unanswered physiology packet. “This is stupid.”

“. . . No, it’s actually really easy,” Geto scoffs, his eyes flickering into a mere eye roll. He leans up close to you and grabs your hand in an attempt to guide you as you write— and he’s so close to you. You could smell his intoxicating manly cologne scent, a sweet balmy smell. “You’re just lazy. And you keep staring between my legs, I’m not an idiot, Y/n.”

Your eyes ultimately widened once he pointed it out, and you turned to see Geto staring right at you through his glass specs, raising his dark brows. “If you wanted me to fuck the knowledge into your brain, all you had to do was just use your words and ask, princess.”

“. . Huh?” You stammered, and his lewd comment completely caught you off guard. Geto sits upright, bouncing his right thigh as he leans against his palm— and he’s just staring straight at you, the air was thick, his gaze was practically telling you that you heard him.

“I think I figured out your problem,” he lowly sighs, taking the ballpoint pen— skimming his eye through the unanswered problems, some he already marked wrong— x after x, he swiftly shakes his head with a single click of his tongue before humming. “You don’t want my help, you want me.”

You furrow your eyebrows, watching Geto’s body language change— he stands up to stretch, cracking his knuckles, and he was so tall and broad, hard to think this guy was so antisocial— always in his own world, he could have been a type of athlete if he wanted, no one would have second guessed he’d be a nerd— yet here he was.

“What makes you say that?” You cleared your throat, darting your eyes away from him, his bulge was just out there— it was nearly impossible to not look, he wore matching black sweats, burying his hands into his pockets before he raised his chin a bit to look down at you as you sat in the chair.

“. . . You know,” he shrugs, adjusting his glasses for a moment, and again, his body language was so sexy, he didn’t slouch— yet at the same time he did, his gaze was forever on yours, rubbing his lips together for a moment before rolling his eyes. “I can read girls like you. Girls that only have the dirtiest things on their mind. You don’t wanna pass, you just want to feel good, is that right?”

His tone— it lowered and lowered, it was unintentionally natural but it was so attractive. The tiniest rasp in his voice, the mere bass that hid behind had you squeezing your thighs together underneath your skirt. He was right, who were you kidding. This was Geto’s third time tutoring you, and it would always end up the same— you miserably failing or getting things wrong, perhaps you were doing it on purpose— just to maybe tick him off a little. You always did find him easy on the eyes. Especially whenever he was slightly annoyed.

“Um,” you stammered, not knowing what to say— you felt your heart start to hysterically race, and just of course you felt yourself starting to throb, out of all times you’d get aroused now— just embarrassing, then again you were next to Suguru Geto, so you couldn’t exactly blame anyone but yourself, and of course, between your legs. “Well since we’re going over uh,” and you pause, glancing at the white sheet— dragging a nail down the thin paper, “orgasms— I mean— um, organisms, sorry.”

“Did you . . just say orgasms?” He chuckles lowly.

You couldn’t have felt any more embarrassed. How could you mix those two words up? Idiot idiot idiot.

“N-No, I didn’t,” you babbled, and your eyes meet his, he’s got a mere smug look plastered on his face, your own flusteredness fueling his pure and utter enjoyment, seeing you fumble over your sentences was quite adorable— Geto crossed his arms with a simple head shake motion. “Organisms and the um.. functions of it.”

“Uh huh,” he cocks his head to the right, not believing you for a split second. “Want me to teach you how orgasms in a woman’s body function instead?”

You blankly stared at him, shocked— not knowing how much of a dirty mouth he really had, you had to blink a few times, questioning if that’s what he really said, and he definitely said it, giving you a teasing eyebrow raise.

“. . . Yeah,” You nodded, in a frail weak voice— you didn’t apprehend how needy you sounded, Geto’s teasing only continued to make you throb more and more, clenching your thighs together, feeling the sheer fabric of your clothed skirt between your legs, you were so turned on— maybe you were just a dirty girl, screw physiology, you wanted to screw the nerd that was literally right next to you.

You couldn’t lie, throughout certain sessions, you sort of fantasized about Geto fucking you on his desk, lifting up your skirt and spanking you, imagining how mean he’d be— envisioning the nastiest things coming out of his mouth, so many dirty thoughts filled up your brain— it’s got you currently licking your lips, just thinking of it again before Geto lets off a sigh.

“Sure, you always did say you were a visual learner after all. Now lay flat on my desk and face forward.”

And yet— you found yourself bent over Geto’s desk like some college slut, your back in an almost perfect positioned arch, Geto’s lazy, he doesn’t care— he’s got your skirt just pulled up to the very waistline of your hips, you’re practically being shoved into the papers, your mouth slightly opens, lips parting and sweet melodic moans and whimpers leave out as he’s just slurping everything out of you—

Geto’s tongue . . . it was nothing you’ve ever come across before, so filthy, a rough big hand of his grips the right part of your ass, the very pad of his thumb caresses the sweet plushy skin before he spanks you and you whimper.

“Work on the problems while I eat you out,” he mutters in a gruff tone— you shiver marginally, feeling the tip of his tongue swirl against your folds, he had a rhythm— and it felt so good, you tried to reach for your pen but paused once you heard him starting to suck and suck deeply against your puffy clit. “Don’t listen and I’ll stop eating you out, simple.”

“S—Suguruuu,” you cried out, smothering your glossed up lips together, he‘s teasing you in a way, slowly grazing his tongue between your pussy, again and again— yet has it laying flat, you moaned, nearly losing composure from how sloppy he was— he was face deep, you felt the coldness of his glasses brush against your ass before he takes them off, gripping them with one hand— spanking you again with another.

“I didn’t tell you to say my name, dumb girl. I told you to work on the problems,” he grunts, and he’s got such imaginable skill— it’s got you dragging the top of your teeth softly against your bottom lip, he’s eliciting sweet whimper after whimper out of your throat— it’s purely euphoric, not even ten minutes passed and you felt that familiar sensation brewing up inside of you. “You’re dumb but you’re not that dumb, keep up princess.”

You’re just moaning your head off— Geto’s got your pussy laid on his mouth, you’re keeping the arch for him and you moan once more, feeling his warm breath fan against your cunt, his tongue’s creating such shapes against you— a plethora of shapes being made, maneuvering anywhere and everywhere and you’re just so numb. No match for his tongue at all. Supremely without a doubt.

“O—Okay,” you mumbled out in short tiny pants, dragging your right wrist towards you— making your eyes fixate towards the paper, scanning your words over the dumb problems— staring at the dump charts, the dumb anatomy— the functions of orgasms— organisms, and Geto’s just going crazy with his tongue, he’s got your legs shaking, trembling in utter want and need, such pleasure escaping your body, you’re practically being rocked against the wooden old desk. “F-Fuck I can’t concentrate, Suguru.”

“That’s kinda funny, heheh, when could you ever concentrate, hm, pretty girl?” He replies, and his voice is so sly— dripping with such desire and playfulness, it’s enough to get you wet. Soaking and dripping as if your poor pussy was having some sort of pathetic competition with a leaking faucet.

His words, so mean and tantalizing yet they kept reaching straight to your cunt, each and every time, the way he’d dumb you down with not only his words but his tongue— not to mention how every few second he’d kiss the very part of your ass with the palm of his hand, the sting making you whine, it feels so good— you’re trying to maintain focus but you just can’t, he’s making it so hard—

The noises Geto made were just filthy, squelch after squelch. Your pussy was so vocal, he knew how to use his tongue— how to coax such harmonic noises out of a woman, out of you— you always figured Geto was just inexperienced. He’s always somewhere isolating himself— nose buried in a book, his studies the only necessity and priority of his time.

“Tell me the answer to problem b.” he grumbles— grabbing a full of both parts of your ass, spreading it just a tad bit, he swirled his tongue in a circular motion and you moan loudly— it rings throughout the thin walls of his dorm, feeling him playfully nibble against your pussy.

“I—I’m gonna fucking cu—”

“No, brat,” Geto spats, presenting you with yet another mean spank. You bit your lip— your back extending its arch against his desk, and you’re so close— your orgasm was practically dancing off the very top of your tongue. He then pitched his tone. “I—I’m gonna fucking cum isn’t anywhere displayed on the bubbled answers, silly girl.”

Smart ass— that’s all Suguru Geto was. Such a know-it-all on campus, infuriating— but if it was one thing he knew how to do, it was eating pussy.

“Um . . U—Um,” you pant, and he’s basically making out with your folds, his tongue twirls and twirls, he’s so into it— his long black lashes fluttered, closed practically as he’s just devouring your sweetness— pussydrunk nerd, your entire slick covering the very bottom of his chiseled chin. He has to spank your ass to snap you back into reality— and you whine, mouth opening and you’re feeling yourself grow more and more aroused, tongue salivating with your own saliva. “Is it option ‘A’? Where it talks about um— biological— energy f-fuck.. transformation?”

“Ooh. Good girl,” he huffs out, his voice grows lower and lower— the way it pitches, going down an octave, makes you more soaked throughout each second— your pupils just roam across the thin long strip of paper— you’re just so stupid, growing completely feral from how good he was sucking against the pearly sweet nub that was shoved between your clit— so good, he’s carrying you closer and closer towards that point, your mouth starts to feel a bit dry before Geto teasingly hums against your pussy— and you whimper from the unexpected abrupt vibrations he made. “Enough about bio though, gotta show you the astounding science behind a woman’s orgasm.”

Geto’s just talking and talking— you can’t exactly comprehend a thing he’s saying, he doesn’t hesitate to spit on your pussy a few times, bring a thumb up towards your clit— rub it, and repeat— he had such a way with his tongue, including his fingers which came as such a shocker to you nonetheless. Tongue deep, he’d probably die like this happily and he wouldn’t be ashamed at all.

You’re just hanging by a thread— both hands, trembling with want, you’re so whiney— yet you can’t exactly help it, it’s his tongue— his tongue’s to blame, the way it just collides against your folds, it’s so lewd— he doesn’t care how filthy he is either, he’s playing with your sensitive jittery bundle of nerves purposely.

“Mhm— first we gotta acknowledge the pleasure you’re feeling,” he purrs— his tone was purely seductive now, Geto swipes a lick— a singular stripe up your pussy, presenting your entire body with goosebumps, biting down again on your lip and he continues to speak, “. . . those pretty nasty rhythmic contractions that’s about to build up— reaching your very peak before you let go for me.”

His tone was softening— yet you could hear the playfulness coat on his voice, you’re practically soaked by now— he’s such a tease, a flirt— your head’s just spinning, mind racing miles after miles.

“Relax on my tongue,” he rasps— his voice grows soothing now, bringing rough hands to tilt your hips forward, closer towards his mouth— you were the cutest thing, having your black skirt in such a non-caring and lazy way. “There there, focus on your breathing just like that— keep those hips raised just like that for me, yeahhh.”

You swallowed— a tiny subtle whine leaving your lips, and just as he’s coaxing you with his sugary wordings— you’re feeling that rise of pleasure builds up like blocks— it’s just so much to bare, your poor legs can’t help but shake and jerk and jolt— twitching, the feeling on Geto’s sloppy tongue dipping in and out of your folds— coating your pussy with such glacé flavored kisses, he’s addicted, for sure pussy drunk— and once you came, you’re an entire dumbfounded mess.

“F-Fuck— Fuckkk—” You gasped, he’s easily yanking out that needy whine out the very back of your throat, your clit’s just throbbing— you feel it pulsating between your legs as you’re making a mess on his face with your sweetened slick. Geto grunts a little— some free-exposed strands of his hair tickling the very skin of your ass.

His lips were just attached— glued onto your slippery folds like velcro, your lips part, legs trembling and he’s slurping you clean— again and again, easily spreading your achy labia with his tongue, making sure to be messy— be filthy.

“Good girl. Hopefully— that helps you tell the difference between an organism and an orgasm, !heheh.” he pants with a sly chortle— finally breaking his lips away, as he departs, he watches the strings of his own spit leave from his lips— and he finds it so lewd, it takes everything in him to not just go back to eating you out with you bent over his desk again. “Now keep the arch for me, dummy.”

“How am I gonna— be able to finish my work if you’re gonna be f-fucking me?” You pant, breath heavy— you’re even out of breath actually, his tongue taking quite literally everything out of you.

Geto lets off a grunt— and you moan, feeling him grab your hips, he presses up directly behind you, taking a few long seconds to rub himself against you— you bit your lip, feeling the dick print hiding behind his sweats— making your ass roll and jerk in a specific slow rotation that makes you dizzy. “You can multitask, pretty girl, don’t worry.”

And as he says that, you whimper— feeling Geto just move your exposed ass against his sweats, swiping a tongue across his lips, a soft groan exits his pink lips, and you could feel his rock-hard boner, he was so pent up— all because of you, eating you out did such things to him, Geto needed more, he ultimately craved it.

“Think if I fuck you hard enough, the knowledge will transmit into your brain, princess?” He mutters, and you grow quiet once you feel him shift a bit in his pants, and he‘s springing out his length— you couldn't see but you just assumed he was as big as he appeared. The entire inside of the dorm room was fair room temperature, warm yet cool— although Geto’s touch made you feel so hot, scorching with such heat, and not just talking about between your legs. “Figured that’ll help you out a bit considering you’re not thinking about the subject at all, just probably thinking about what I feel like inside of you, mhm.”

“S-Stop talking and j—just fuck me, Sugur—”

“Watch that mouth of yours,” He purrs, his tone is unmistakably smooth, deep, and downright sexy. As he says that, he gives your ass another spank, grunting quietly from the recoil that moved against your left cheek— the sting was just delicious, simply appetizing if you will. “I expect that paper to be finished by the time I make you cum again. Think you can do that for me, pretty?”

You bit back a moan, hard— feeling Geto make sure your legs were spread, thwacking the leaking glossed cockhead of his length playfully against your folds, he’s such a tease it makes your brain swell up— you’re growing hot everywhere.

“Y-Yes, Suguru.” You finally replied, your voice was trembling on its own— you’re so whiny as you fixate your attention once more towards the paper full of unanswered or incorrectly marked physiology questions.

“Good girl, now pick up the pen—” he hitched, and you moan, feeling him just toy with your slick opening, it drags out a soft mewl from you, Geto’s so big— and you were only judging from his tip, your mouth started to water by only just imagining him fully inside. “And focus, you’re a smart girl— not a dumb one.”

Your hips jerked just a bit as you hovered over the wooden desk— facing forward, both arms rested on the creaking sleek surface, your tongue fondles alongside your cheek, staring at the multitude of problems being displayed.

Cells, mechanisms, characteristics.

So many words— words you could practically care less about, the minute you pick up your pen, filling in the tiny spaced bubble of some answer you came up with— you whimpered, feeling Geto slide himself inside slowly, he fit nice and snug— a sexy low groan leaves his lips, and he’s trying to get adjusted, so are you, his size— he was just so big. Stretching your pussy throughout each second, your walls ultimately expanding, you grip around him and it’s got your head spinning, mind racing, hips twitching.

“Mhmmm— think your pussy was made for me,” he huffs out, his voice had such a raspy, slick baritone to it— it had you soaked, drenched. Who knew this nerd who always kept to himself— lurked and lived around campus, the library his second home basically, had such a big dick?

The way your back arched over his desk— turned him on a lot more than it should have, seeing your cute and proper posture, awaiting to be fucked senseless— he couldn’t get enough of it.

Geto used the tips of his fingers to play against the very edges and ridges of your skirt, giving your ass a spank— a sign for you to keep writing and you moaned. “Focus, girl.”

“S-Sorry,” you whined, reading the problems with glossed eyes, once Geto starts up a mean rhythmic pace— you were for sure being fucked against the desk, he started slow, yet had deep strokes with even deeper thrusts.

He found it cute, you were struggling to maintain the arch you had— the way your ass wriggled within his grip as he‘s practically balls deep now, his base taps against yours and you moan, Geto grunts— black thin eyebrows tugging together before he swallows. “F-Fuckkk, sloppy pussy can’t help but grip onto me.”

“S—Suguruuuu,” You whined, and you grew more louder once his tip kissed up against your clit— going past your folds, his girth stretched out so good to where it didn’t take long to reach every single crevice of your cunt. “F-Fuck me harder—”

“Dumb girl, you’re not supposed to be paying attention to me fucking you,” he pants, watching your hips jerk and hit against him— your eyes start to roll within seconds, the desk just creaks and creaks— your legs shook with such intensity, as if you were just walking on eggshells. Geto’s words always found itself towards your cunt, as pathetic as it sounds, his voice— his deep, alluring voice was so smooth, you can’t help but get off from it. “At this rate, you’re not gonna get anything done.”

You’re just fumbling over your words at this point, rying to speak but inarticulate forms of babbles and whines left instead of coherent sentences, his cock was just making you ache and yearn for more. “M-Maybe if you just fuck me good and hard enough I’ll start to u—um, comprehend, Suguru.”

“Is this all you ever really think about?” He chuckles, tilting your hips upwards just a bit— you’re not focusing on the sheet anymore, you’re literally just being completely stupefied by Geto’s length— being fucked vigorously into his desk— the sheer sounds of mean skin slapping reverberates across the entire dorm room—

You’re so loud, you end up forgetting there’s literally other peers of yours sleeping right behind the walls you were in— they probably heard everything. “You’re gonna fail this semester, princess. Last time I checked, dick isn’t gonna be on the exam next week.”

“Can’t help it when you f-fuck me this good—” You stammered, gripping onto the desk— he’s hitting you in all the right spots, your vision merely turns into white to where you’re just seeing star after star— galaxies even, again it could have even been considered euphoric. Geto’s dick was simply out of this world.

You might have gotten a bit addicted though— you’re completely lost, in a trance, you wished he’d fuck you those many sessions ago— you didn’t have to be studying boring useless physiology, you could have been getting your insides stirred instead.

“Still can’t believe you showed up to my dorm with no panties underneath,” Geto murmurs, caressing a thumb against the soft padded skin of your ass, your pretty skirt was ruffled— moving against your slightly pulled up university hoodie and you’re just a whiney stuttering mess—

Each stroke he presents your cunt gets you dumber and dumber. “Maybe you had this entire thing planned. Act stupid so you could get fucked stupid. Tell me I’m wrong, princess.”

“M-Maybe,” you moaned— and he was drilling his hips into you, such speed it has your mouth opening, going agape just a bit with meaningless babbles escaping. A tiny mewl leaves your lips before you reach down to play with yourself before Geto smacks your hand lightly and you let off a soft noise.

“Don’t touch my pussy, girl.”

You gasped, feeling Geto dip his hips just a bit— and that’s when you feel his cock mash against your g-spot and a whine rips from your throat, you felt it— you were sensitive, it’s so orgasmic your tongue is just salivating— he knew where to hit, so good your toes start to curl, and you’re getting close again.

“Read me the problem again,” he huffs out, he still has his glasses in one hand, tossing it on the wooden desk, his hair long— flawless, tangled just a bit, dancing against his broad shoulders. “Proper sentences too, if you stutter once, I’m not gonna let you cum on me, pretty girl.”

“Sugu—” And you paused to breathe through your nose, he scratches such a good itch in your brain, you have to stop and think for a moment— wondering why he’s never fucked you before, you were hooked, the curve of his dick stretched you out so good, you’re just a mess— a messy girl, eyes practically half-lidded by now, not a single thought in the world but just Suguru Geto fucking you dumb dumb dumb.

“Okay— okayyy,” you moaned, your voice trembling on its own— you were so close, that same warm rise brewing up inside of you, being careful with your choice of your words— he was so mean, stutter once or you couldn’t cum? Just imagining that formed a cute pout on your lips as you averted your eyes towards the white thin sheet of paper. “It says— it says to identify the um . . the—”

“Looks like someone’s stuttering, that’s too bad,” he lowly chuckles, and you’re whimpering— your right leg starts to bounce, preparing for its incoming release and you whine.

You pant, staring at the paper. “Wait wait, okay, it says that I have to identify . . identify the biomolecules and— analyze the um . . nerves and pheromones.”

“Good girl, that wasn’t so hard.” He grunts— and Geto’s getting close himself— his hefty base is smacking and smacking against you, and you’re so dizzy— every few seconds he gives you a spank that makes you whine, you’re so embarrassed, bent over his desk— scattered papers everywhere, your handwriting was a bit sloppy— considering you were trying to write while getting ruthlessly fucked from behind. “Mhm— fuck, I’m gonna cum too.”

“. . . Insideee Suguru,” you spat, your pussy was just so greedy— clamping and gripping down on him, it was filthy and so selfish by how you just held him hostage— as if your cunt had a complete mind of its own, your mind is just filled was complete and utter fog, the sounds that leave your mouth is so undeniably lewd— he’s dragging out whimper after whimper from your pretty throat as if it’s nothing, and it’s music to his ears, a song he’d never want to stop listening to if he was being honest. “P-Please.”

“You think you deserve it after wasting my time?” He fake pouts, just grinding his hips against your core, it was salacious— the rotation was circular, in sync yet at the same time it wasn’t— you could hardly keep up with Geto, he was just so big— you couldn’t fathom how he’d walk around with a size this big— let alone why he wasn’t fucking you like this the entire time he’s spent helping you study. You were hardly listening to him, all you knew was that you were close, extremely close, you felt yourself starting to get warm— his hips just buckled against yours before he hit against your g-spot again, with such careless ease.

You pathetically nodded and he spanked your ass. “Not a complete answer, baby.”

You bit your lip— and for some reason once he called you baby, you felt yourself get butterflies— butterflies between your legs.

“Pleasepleaseplease Suguru—” is all you kept saying, all you knew how to say— all your brain could comprehend and formulate. Geto’s hips were just ferociously smacking against yours, and before you know it—

An hour passes, and another— by this point, his cock has you completely stupefied. You only got through three problems, just barely, circling any bubble on the sheet as he’s just plowing you— constantly, each position has you whipped for more, he’s nice enough to let you cum though— even if he makes your orgasms a bit delayed just to get on your nerves.

“Fuckkkk . . . I’m so full,” he groans, and this time, Geto moves you towards his bed, mating press— he’s hovering on top of your pussy, such a mess was pouring out of you, watching his own seed just drip and ooze out, he’s panting heavily now— gripping down on your thighs as his weight presses down against you a bit—

Each time he jerks, he watches the strings of his own cum depart, it’s so messy— and Geto’s loads were always so much, he had a lot to give— and when you asked for him to fill you up in that sweet needy tone, he just couldn’t resist. “Overflowing this nasty cunt,” he huffs, and you whimper— feeling him drag a rough hand between your legs to give it a spank. “But— I’m getting dazed, your pussy’s fucking dangerous, girl.”

You pout, feeling him pull out slowly— you writhe from his actions, and Geto’s breathing was unintentionally sexy as well— everything he did was attractive— his eyes were becoming low now, pink lips parting, tiny dimples pressing against near the corners of his mouth before he plops back against the bed— manspread.

Catching your breath yourself, you made your way towards him— growing an idea inside before you spoke in a soft voice, somewhat shy to ask.

“Can I ride you at least? One more time? I think it’ll um . . help me understand the female body more.”

“You’re so annoying,” he rolls his eyes, and you watch him rub a rough hand against his legs in a motion— telling you to come here, he‘s very much well trimmed but just a few black specks of hair were located near his base. “But fine, go ahead. Knock yourself out I suppose.”

You get on top of Geto— and the eye contact was so sensual, he’s staring at you, giving you his uninvited attention— his eyes trail near your body before he brings a rough hand to attach to your waist, watching you start to sink down on him before he lets off an unexpected moan.

“O—Oh shit.” He whines.

He didn’t expect for you to grip down on him so well— the squelch that happens is so loud, it rings throughout his ears and for a moment, Geto has to blink twice— keeping his gaze on you the entire time. Your hips sputter and within seconds, he’s fully in— you don’t hesitate to start moving and Geto’s jaw tightens. He’s sensitive— he just came minutes ago, and here you were making him even more sensitive, his head goes back and his body language changes.

It was sexy. You were moaning for him, and yet here he is now— moaning for you.

Geto’s got such an aroma that’s loud, he smells good, he was always specific on what cologne brands he’d wear, such sweetness to it, it always drove you crazy, to complete insanity.

“Should I s-stop riding you?” You spoke, trying not to giggle— he was so pretty at this moment, suppressing his vocal moans, seeing tiny veins show near his neck— his eyes flicker for a moment before he spanks your ass twice.

“N-No— don’t fucking stop riding me,” he replies instantly, and his tone— it changed, a mere tremor to it— and you’re making him feel so good, using him to get off for your own pleasure, his cock was thick, just stretching inside your walls as if came easy to him.

You stare at Geto— and he’s glancing back at you, he’s panting— his hoodie was still on, but slightly pulled up, you could just about make out his brick hard abs, a few scratch marks coated there from you— his v-line was perfectly chiseled, as if he was some sort of geek god. “F-Fuckkk. Like that, ride it— like you own it, p-princess.”

He’s the one stammering now— and it’s cute, he grows flustered once you jolt against him, against his warm body with your hips— your cunt‘s taking him in, back slightly arched and you’re whining yourself— feeling him just reach way past that sweetens spot of yours that always knew where to draw you straight blanks.

Geto grabs a handful of your ass, and the way his head leans back against the old headrest, his messy tangled hair flows down his back, he’s moaning— such nerves inside of him being the death of him, as well as your sloppy spasming hips— just no match for your pussy, no matter how many times he tried to deny it.

“Something f—funny?” He huffs out, trying to focus on his breathing, you’re just bouncing on him— time after time, the pace becomes frenzied, reckless, just straight erratic. His dick had you dumb, definition of stupefied— exactly what you were.

“Noo.” You moaned, feeling him bring two hands, making you clamp down harder against him— he’s getting dizzy from how good you’re riding him, he’s going delirious. Swiping a tongue across his lips, he keeps his gaze on you the entire time before he whimpers out of nowhere— and it catches you off guard, his eyebrows furrowed and that’s when Geto came again— right inside your pussy, a straight shot, a straight single load.

He pauses— heaving entirely, that’s when you lean in to kiss him though— you’re expecting Geto to pull away but he doesn’t. He kisses back, his moans going inside your mouth, a sloppy kiss, his eyebrows still furrowed and curled, sensitive from his nerves— from filling you with another thick load as he’s still deep inside, shivering from feeling him still trickle into you at such lengths.

Geto caresses a hand down your back as you stop your movements, and his whines hesitate and pauses for a moment— letting off a deep “Mhm,” as his tongue drags against yours slowly at such luscious sweet pace.

You pull away finally, before giggling— and he glares at you, catching his breath as he stares at you— reaching for his glasses as you leaned up close to him, sneaking a kiss near the bottom of his chin.

“. . . So, did I pass Suguru?” You teased, a near smug grin forming against your lips.

He was so out of it— perhaps you fucked him dumb because it takes him a few seconds to come up with a reply before lightly shoving you off of him. “No you don‘t f-fucking pass, you get an F. Now get out of m-my room. F—fuck . . me.”

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