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onlypinkslut · 2 days ago

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toji fushiguro x slutty pregnant!fem!reader 🍼 NSWF 18+ 🍼

✩ part one ✩ next>>

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cw: emotional neglect, pregnancy struggles, bodily fluids (piss accident), public humiliation, realistic depiction of pregnancy symptoms (swelling, leaking, back pain), visible body changes, body image issues, loneliness, mild degradation, toji gaze, nonverbal tension, soft obsession, breeding themes, toji being a feral man with a quiet fixation.

♥︎40k words

six months ago you didn’t know this was how you’d end up. you didn’t picture yourself waddling in a sundress with swollen ankles and a back that constantly ached. you didn’t imagine waking up in sweats at 3am, leaking through your flimsy bralettes, cheeks hot, thighs slick, stomach bloated and heavy with a baby you were growing alone. you thought he loved you when it happened. you thought he’d change.

but he didn’t.

he kept saying it was an accident.

you told him if he didn’t want to be a father, then he should’ve worn a condom. but that conversation replayed every night now, his words like needles. he barely touched you since. never kissed you goodnight anymore. didn’t care when you cried over your sore nipples, didn’t care when your back gave out in the kitchen and you needed help getting off the floor. you didn’t recognize your own body anymore. your hips had widened into a full slope, your thighs touched now when you walked, jiggled with every step, and your once-small belly button had popped forward like a button on a shirt too tight. even your arms had gotten softer, rounder, heavy from cradling your stomach. you looked in the mirror and didn’t see a woman anymore. you saw a thing that was made to be used, filled, bred.

and worst of all… you were horny.

feral.

pregnancy hormones had made you into something sick. you got wet over ads for formula. you rubbed your thighs together when you felt the baby kick. your nipples were always sore and swollen, so sensitive they ached if your bra rubbed wrong. and your boyfriend didn’t even want to look at you.

toji fushiguro hadn’t touched his fiancée in over seven months and it wasn’t because he didn’t want to. it was because she didn’t let him.

the first year of their engagement had been fine. empty, curated, expensive, but fine. hana liked luxury and he didn’t mind buying it. handbags, skincare fridges, matching sets from paris that sat untouched in velvet-lined drawers. she was polite and pristine, a pilates instructor with perfect posture and cold hands. but she had rules.

she slept with her face mask on. she cried over gaining three pounds. she timed her orgasms like they were workouts, breath sharp, core tight, never letting go too much, never messy, never sloppy.

he should’ve seen it coming.

she froze her eggs the same week she bought her new veneers.

when he told her he wanted a baby—really wanted one, not in some theoretical future, not as a borrowed cousin at brunch—she looked at him like he said he wanted to raise a wolf.

she said it would ruin her body.

she said he didn’t understand the trauma of childbirth.

she said adoption exists and we can hire a surrogate and you’re being selfish.

and he tried. fuck, he tried. he nodded through her presentations, even met the poor art student she suggested should carry their child. she looked about seventeen and couldn’t even look him in the eye.

and still, hana asked if he was happy.

he was not.

he was not fucking happy.

he was thirty-eight. his back hurt every time he tied his boots. he was tired of drinking protein sludge and being around women who smelled like almond milk and botox. he wanted to smell skin. milk. birth.

he wanted something real.

and lately, he’d been having the same dream.

someone warm in his lap. soft. heavy. crying. breasts leaking down his arms, stomach big and tight against his chest, thighs sticking to his legs. he’d wake up rock hard, humping the sheets like a dog, teeth clenched.

he never told hana.

instead, he started driving at night.

aimless loops through old streets. past playgrounds, daycares, corner markets that sold diapers and baby wipes and off-brand pacifiers in pastel plastic. he’d park and sit there sometimes, engine running, his hand fisted in his lap, thinking about what it would smell like to press his nose to a breast that had fed a baby.

he couldn’t explain it.

he didn’t want sex. he wanted breeding.

and every time hana spoke now, he felt something crawl up his spine.

she booked a couple’s massage for them that morning. he skipped it.

she texted him a blurry selfie from the spa, legs crossed, glass of lemon water in hand. you’re missing out, she wrote.

he didn’t reply.

he was already in his car.

you had to sit on the edge of the bed just to put your shoes on.

your thighs kept swallowing your panties. your ass had gotten so fat you could barely pull your old underwear over it, and you’d long given up wearing anything with a waistband. your stomach sat like a heavy globe on your lap, skin tight and itchy and patterned now with angry pink lines. your nipples darkened so much they looked bruised and your bras were stained from constant leaks.

you used to cry about it.

used to beg him to tell you you still looked pretty. but he barely touched you anymore. said he was tired. said he didn’t feel attracted to you when you were like this.

you’d scream and ask what like this meant.

he’d say he didn’t mean it like that.

you stopped asking after that.

you weren’t even supposed to be pregnant. he said he was gonna pull out. he said it was an accident. and when you peed on that stick and came out crying, he just stood there. said you should think about options.

but you couldn’t.

you’d felt something the second that second line appeared.

you felt it now too. every kick. every roll. you knew you were doing this alone but you still felt… alive.

horny. god, it was sick. but you were always wet. always aching. even now as you waddled beside your friend in a too-tight sundress, your thighs chafing, your back sweaty, your breasts heavy and bouncing slightly with every step. your belly was pushing the fabric so far forward the dress looked see-through from how taut it was stretched.

you’d only come out to buy pacifiers.

but now you were sweating through your dress and hungry and needed to pee.

you were mid-sentence when it happened.

a loud horn. a screech.

your friend screamed and yanked your arm so hard you almost toppled.

you screamed too, not even thinking, not even breathing—just instinct, arms wrapping your belly, feet locking in place, every nerve in your body snapping shut like a cage.

the car missed you by a hair.

but the fear made you lose control.

a gush of hot piss rushed down your thighs, soaking your dress. you felt it drip into your shoes.

your face burned.

your heart thudded in your ears and your breath caught in your throat as the truck skidded to a stop, tires shrieking.

and then the door opened.

you barely heard your friend swearing beside you, too dazed to focus on anything but the figure that stepped out.

he was huge.

broad in the way that filled doorways. thick thighs wrapped in black canvas, boots heavy enough to crush bones, shoulders stretching a plain t-shirt that looked dark grey but might’ve once been black. sweat clung to the sides of his throat, his sleeves rolled tight over veiny forearms, one thick vein bulging from his neck like a rope as he walked forward.

he had a scar across his lip.

his eyes were green.

they hit you like a truck harder than the one he almost drove into you.

his gaze dropped immediately.

to your soaked thighs.

to the wet fabric clinging to the curve of your ass, the underside of your belly, the hard outline of your nipples through your dress.

he didn’t blink.

and then, for a split second, he breathed in.

like he could smell you.

you felt your knees buckle.

your lips parted.

and in that moment, neither of you said a word.

you couldn’t move.

your soaked shoes squelched when you shifted and the piss had already cooled between your thighs, clinging to the inside of your knees, dripping down to your ankles. your fingers were locked around the underside of your belly, cradling the heavy weight like it was the only thing anchoring you to the earth. you were trembling. cheeks flushed. eyes wide and wet.

he stopped right in front of you.

and stared.

your stomach, tight and round and stretching the fabric until it went sheer under the light. your breasts, so full and heavy the seams of your sundress were straining, nipples clearly outlined and puckered. the patch of soaked cotton between your thighs, dark and humiliated.

aecha’s voice cut through the air before you could even catch your breath.

are you crazy?!

her words snapped the silence like a whip.

you were still frozen, heart pounding in your throat, thighs sticky, feet soaked. the heat of your piss had already turned cold, clinging to your skin and dripping down to your ankles, your sandals squelching softly beneath you. you clutched the underside of your belly tighter, like it might slip out of you if you let go.

she spun on him, voice sharper now.

you didn’t even stop at the red light. are you fucking insane?! you almost hit her!

toji’s eyes didn’t leave your body.

he didn’t flinch.

his head turned slightly, just enough to acknowledge her—but his gaze kept dragging back to you, slow and tense like his jaw.

his tongue moved behind his cheek before he exhaled low, steady.

i didn’t see them.

his voice was flat. deep. rough like it hadn’t been used in hours.

you were still gasping, lips parted, your belly rising and falling beneath your dress as you tried to breathe through the shock. you could feel the fabric clinging to the curve of your ass, your thighs, your inner legs slick with piss and sweat. your friend hadn’t noticed yet. she was too busy stepping in front of you, protective, furious.

she’s pregnant, she snapped. look at her! she pissed herself, you asshole! you think this is okay?

toji didn’t move.

he looked down. at your legs. your shoes. the dark patch spread between your thighs. his eyes didn’t jerk away like most men. they stayed there. his lashes heavy, mouth tense.

i didn’t mean to scare her, he said, slower now, quieter.

his shoulders rolled as he breathed again, but the breath was tight. controlled.

you barely heard them. your ears were ringing. all you could do was stand there, trembling, hands gripping your belly like a shield, heart still stuck in your throat. you weren’t crying. not yet. but your eyes had gone blurry, hot, wet.

you blinked once and your vision caught him.

he was massive.

his chest stretched the fabric of his shirt. veins curled over the bend of his arms like rope. a scar dragged the corner of his lip. his hair was damp at the temples like he’d been sweating behind the wheel.

his mouth moved like he was about to speak, but then you shifted your weight and your belly moved again—soft and slow—and his mouth stopped moving.

his jaw locked.

his gaze traced the underside of your belly like he was memorizing it.

sir, what the fuck, her voice hit again, too close this time.

her hand was on your elbow now, tugging you back instinctively. you took a step, one sandal slipping slightly, the sound wet.

she kept yelling, waving an arm toward the truck, toward the red light, but his attention didn’t drift again.

it was glued to you.

and when he spoke, his voice was more clipped now.

i’ll drive you to a hospital.

your friend let out a sharp breath.

oh, so now you’re gonna be helpful? you try to kill us and now you’re suddenly a gentleman? get the fuck out of here. you’re lucky she’s okay.

he exhaled through his nose, slower this time.

he looked like he was about to argue but then you moved again.

your thighs rubbed. your belly shifted. your chest rose—and the outline of your nipples was visible now, two swollen circles pressing through the cotton. your dress clung to the wetness between your legs. your lips were parted. your eyes glossy.

his face twitched.

your voice broke the moment. small, quiet, soft like you’d forgotten how to speak.

s’kay… sir…

it was barely more than a breath.

you hadn’t even meant to say it.

you just wanted the heat to end. the embarrassment. the tension. you weren’t thinking.

but the second it left your mouth, he changed.

his stomach pulled tight under his shirt. his shoulders rose just slightly—his whole body flexed, once, like he was biting something back. he swallowed hard and you watched his throat twitch.

he didn’t say anything.

he just stared.

and in that second, you could feel it.

the shift in the air. the burn behind his eyes. the way he was looking at you—not like a man who made a mistake. not like someone worried.

like someone starving.

you lowered your eyes, breath shallow, and let your arms hug your belly again.

he stepped forward once.

and your friend moved to block him again, furious.

you’re not going near her. we’re calling someone. you’re a fucking pervert.

he didn’t answer.

his eyes dropped one last time to your thighs, your roundness, the soaked patch darkening your dress.

he clenched his jaw.

you were still trembling when you heard her again.

your friend’s voice—loud, breathy, full of panic and disgust—like she was trying to speak enough outrage for the both of you.

you could barely process the words. your pulse was ringing in your ears, blood hot and wet behind your knees, and your thighs were still slick with piss, sticky and clinging under the weight of your sundress. the fabric sucked to your skin now, outlining the full curve of your belly, your swollen breasts, the soft part of your ass that had doubled in size since month four.

he was still standing there. staring.

his body hadn’t moved. broad frame parked right in front of you like a barricade. thick arms loose at his sides, fists flexed once—like his hands were caught between apology and something darker.

she was still yelling, something about suing, about the red light, about how you could’ve fallen. how you could’ve lost the baby.

but the words didn’t feel real.

only the ache in your bladder. the hum in your belly. the burn in your throat.

you blinked. the back of your hand brushed your stomach again, slow and automatic, like your body was trying to shush itself. like maybe if you rubbed enough, the heat would stop climbing.

you looked up at him.

it took effort to speak, voice thin and scratchy from the shock.

he didn’t mean to.

your friend stopped.

turned to you like you’d just betrayed her.

what?

you could barely meet her eyes.

it’s okay. really. just—just calm down.

he didn’t even touch me, you wanted to say. he didn’t hurt me. you couldn’t explain the tremble in your knees, the way your fingers curled tighter under your stomach like you were shielding something sacred.

toji’s voice came low behind you.

not sharp. not defensive. just heavy. irritated.

you need to stop yelling.

he wasn’t looking at your friend.

he was looking at you.

she’s already scared.

the air went quiet for a beat.

your friend scoffed, eyes darting between the two of you like she couldn’t believe what was happening. like she was about to explode.

and still, he didn’t move.

he was so much bigger up close.

you hadn’t realized how much until now.

he was standing in front of you fully, body blocking the sun, taller by at least a foot. his chest rose slow and thick under a worn black tee, his belt sitting snug across a hard waist and broad hips, cargo pants hugging his thighs. the outline of his biceps twitched slightly under rolled sleeves. his neck, veined and flexing with each slow breath, looked like it could snap jaws.

he looked down at you like he was studying something raw.

a creature he’d never seen before.

he glanced once more at your belly—still shifting softly with the baby’s movement—then back to your face.

you barely reached his chest.

you rubbed your bump again, slower this time. you weren’t thinking. your fingers just needed to move.

the silence was thick now. uncomfortable.

and he broke it.

let me take you to a hospital.

his voice was lower now. slower. his throat worked through a swallow as he added—

or at least let me buy you new shoes. new clothes.

his eyes dropped to the puddle near your feet.

your soaked sandals. the piss glistening across the tops of your feet, tracing your ankles, your calves.

you didn’t answer right away. your fingers were still rubbing slow circles at the top of your belly, like a woman hypnotized. your lips felt dry, but your eyes were soft now, too soft, blinking slow like you were calming down—because he was calm.

he was so calm.

and your friend was standing beside you, breathing hard, arms crossed, trying to regain control.

we don’t need your help.

toji didn’t even look at her.

he took one half-step closer. not enough to threaten. just enough that you could smell him.

you tipped your head back to look up at him, lashes fluttering as the shadow of his body covered yours again, heat crawling up your neck like shame.

but he didn’t mock you.

he didn’t pity you.

he just looked at you like he saw everything.

your fattened thighs, your stretched stomach, the leak-stained crotch of your dress, the quiet way you trembled under pressure and still tried to be good.

you didn’t know why your lips moved again.

but they did.

soft. breathy.

okay…

your friend made a noise behind you, somewhere between disbelief and rage.

you didn’t hear her.

you were still staring up at him.

and he—

he hadn’t blinked once.

aecha’s voice came sharp behind you.

tighter this time. pissed. frantic.

no.

you flinched.

no, you don’t know him. you don’t even know him. just because he’s got some fancy car and a belt that costs more than your rent doesn’t mean you can trust him.

her hand wrapped around your wrist without asking, tugging once. hard. like she thought if she pulled fast enough, you’d snap out of whatever spell you were under.

but it wasn’t a spell.

you screamed.

not loud. not theatrical. just a soft, strained, pregnant scream—high and aching, more like a cry than a yell. your sandals squeaked, your balance slipped, and your free hand flew to your belly protectively as your whole body buckled forward.

aecha.

you whined it. breathless.

what’s wrong with you?

tears blinked down your cheeks without warning. hot, fast, shameful. your voice cracked around the edges, too hormonal, too broken, your other hand still pressed over the top of your belly like you were cradling the baby through the shock.

aecha didn’t back off.

she was fuming.

no. i’m not letting you go anywhere with him. i don’t care how he talks or how fucking pretty you think he is. he’s a stranger, and you’re pissing yourself in the street, and you’re six months pregnant—your boyfriend is going to flip out.

you snapped your wrist from her grip before you realized you were moving.

don’t.

you yanked your arm away with a force you didn’t know you had, your breath ragged now, lips trembling.

dae wouldn’t even care.

you didn’t mean to say it. it came out like a gasp.

if dae was here, he’d be embarrassed. he wouldn’t be helping. he’d look at me like i’m disgusting.

you paused, one hand still pressed against your belly, dress soaked and clinging to your thighs.

he wouldn’t have stopped the car.

aecha’s face twisted. something between betrayal and helpless rage.

then fucking go, she hissed. her arms went up, face burning red.

go with your pervert. good luck.

she glanced once over your shoulder at him, then back to you, eyes narrowing.

good luck, slut.

and then she turned.

she didn’t say goodbye.

you stared after her, stunned, lips parted, heart thudding in your throat.

and that’s when you felt it.

warmth behind you. a shadow moving closer. no touch. no breath. just presence. heavy and thick and masculine and impossible to ignore.

you didn’t have to look to know it was him.

he was behind you now.

and towering.

his voice came low. not soft. not mean. just flat with quiet judgment.

looks like you got some issues to work through with your people.

a pause.

let’s go, pretty girl.

you blinked slow.

you turned your head, just enough to glimpse him over your shoulder.

you could smell him.

spiced cologne. versace eros. musk and heat and the faint burn of a cigar smoked hours ago. not fresh. just clinging to him like memory. like sin.

you didn’t say anything.

you just started walking.

your steps were slow. sticky. the wet fabric between your thighs chafing. your breath still uneven. your face hot with shame.

he didn’t guide you. didn’t rush.

he walked ahead, a step or two in front of you, broad shoulders stretching his shirt. his back was wide. tapering into that solid waist, thick belt, heavy boots. he opened the passenger door of his black range rover and held it without a word.

you stood there.

staring at the interior. the leather seats. the glossy touchscreen. the quiet hum of luxury. the cleanliness.

your eyes flicked down.

you were soaked.

your legs were dripping again, slowly, and the hem of your dress was stained from where the piss had clung and dried along your thighs.

your voice was so small when it came out you almost didn’t hear it.

do you have… a towel or something i can sit on?

he turned his head toward you.

his brows rose. barely.

and then a quiet snort. not amused. not cruel. just slightly exasperated.

he tilted his head, leaned an elbow on the door, and looked down at you fully now. his pecs flexed under the cotton of his shirt as he breathed, arms heavy and veined, his expression unreadable except for the bare twitch in his jaw.

it’s just piss.

you flinched.

he blinked slow. looked at the seat. looked back at you.

a lil mess.

his eyes dropped once—belly, tits, thighs.

ya think i care?

his voice dropped lower.

i’ll get it cleaned. that’s what car washers are for.

he leaned in just a little.

what you should care about is that you didn’t get your belly crushed by a fuckin truck.

you blinked again, glassy-eyed.

now sit.

you nodded.

slow. obedient.

and you did.

the leather stuck to the backs of your thighs the second you sat.

it was warm. not from the sun, but from the seat itself, like his truck had been running long enough to trap body heat inside, to soak it into the cushions. the piss that had dried into your panties dampened again from the pressure, and you could feel it pressing up, warm and slick between your thighs as your weight sank in. the stretch of your hips forced your knees to spread slightly, and your belly rose high between them, taut and round and full, pushing against the lower curve of your breasts. the seatbelt was too tight. the air smelled like pine and men’s cologne and the lingering ghost of a cigar—smoke and sweetness, burnt sugar and old breath. your breath stuttered. your fingers hovered over the seatbelt, unsure where to start. your hands were trembling. your panties were sticking to your folds. your thighs still burned. and he was standing there. outside. his shadow cutting across your lap through the windshield, frame so wide he filled the driver’s side window before even opening the door. you looked down at yourself and felt so exposed, even in the air-conditioned silence of his car. your nipples were hard again. your stomach shifted. your lower back was starting to ache but you didn’t say anything. you just sat there with your knees sticky and apart and your fingers curled in your lap like a child, body sore, face hot, mouth dry, and the part that scared you most was how safe you felt. how wet you were. how good it felt to be looked at. not with pity. not with disgust. not like dae did. but like you were something to keep. your breath hitched as he finally opened his door and slid in—his presence loud even in silence, engine purring as he shut the door and filled the cabin with nothing but heat and him. toji.

and you couldn’t look at him yet. not yet. not without gasping.

he drove with the kind of ease that only came from a man who was used to being in control. one hand on the wheel, broad palm curved over the leather grip, the other resting low on his thigh, thumb tapping the denim like a rhythm he didn’t notice. he slouched into the seat but still took up all the space—spread knees, wide back, the muscle in his forearm flexing every time the car turned. the cabin was cool but heavy with heat, the kind that lingered after bodies had been inside too long. the faint hum of the engine, the low thud of tires rolling over patched concrete, the quiet pulse of the air vents—it all blurred together as the city smeared past the windows.

you hadn’t said much since getting in.

you were still adjusting to the way the leather clung to your thighs. your stomach sat heavy in your lap, tight and round, straining the fabric of your dress, rising and falling with each uneven breath. the belt stretched uncomfortably across the slope of your belly, biting a little into your side, and your feet had already begun to swell again. you stared out the passenger window, arms curled loosely around yourself, hands smoothing down the same spot over and over—just below your navel, like you were trying to convince the baby inside that everything was fine. that you weren’t trembling. that you hadn’t just been humiliated in the street.

his voice broke through the hum.

how far along?

you didn’t look at him. just blinked slowly, lips parted from the weight of everything.

six months.

he hummed low. not a word. just that sound men made when they were thinking but didn’t want to give too much away.

you like it?

you breathed out through your nose. not a laugh. not an answer. just something tired.

it’s hard.

you could feel his eyes on you even if he didn’t turn his head. just that quiet, crawling weight of being watched. it didn’t feel judgmental. just present. too present.

in his head, he compared you to hana.

hana, who used to stand in front of the mirror pinching her skin between her fingers like it was a threat. hana, who rationed her food in ounces. hana, who said things like my body is my business and i don’t owe anyone a baby and then cried when her period made her bloat. he hadn’t seen her naked in months. hadn’t wanted to. she was delicate, yes. beautiful in the way you admire from far away. but she didn’t feel real. not like this.

you—soft, flushed, visibly struggling to stay upright in the passenger seat, leaking into your soaked panties, cheeks blotched, thighs swollen, belly round and shifting beneath your own hand—you looked like a woman who had been taken. like you’d been filled up and left to carry it, like your body had bloomed in real time from pain and pressure and feral need. you looked like you needed someone to hold you up and drag you through the fire, not give you protein shake recipes.

he shifted in his seat, thumb tapping harder.

the screen lit up.

hana.

incoming call.

you saw it. you didn’t need to stare. the photo—her white teeth, perfect tan, frozen in that fake-candid look. the call pulsing on the glossy black screen, vibrating softly beneath it.

he ignored it.

you said nothing.

it came back. again. same call. same name.

his jaw ticked once. he silenced it with a flick of his finger, then pressed into the touchscreen and disconnected bluetooth completely.

you heard him clear his throat. like it meant nothing.

got any cravings? want me to get you some sushis.

your eyes drifted toward him, half-lidded. your lips curved, lazy. slow.

he was trying.

you’re really gonna offer sushi to a pregnant woman?

you turned your head to the side and looked at him, properly, for the first time.

he didn’t smile, but his lip twitched. the scar across it stretched. he looked back at the road.

look, i don’t know the rules.

his voice was rougher now. the kind of hoarse that came from clenching too long, holding something in.

you rested your cheek against the window for a moment, eyes fluttering shut as you rubbed your belly again.

mmm. just get me something greasy.

he glanced sideways. the kind of glance that scanned too much in too little time. his eyes dipped over your knees, your thighs, the curve of your ass flattened against the seat, the soft roll of your hip pushing against the seatbelt.

anything in particular?

you shrugged.

fast food. something shitty.

he laughed—barely—but it cracked his chest open. a low, grating sound, deep from his stomach. he rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and muttered something like okay under his breath, his eyes lingering longer this time. not on your belly.

on your mouth. your thighs. the way you shifted when you said shitty like you wanted to be seen.

you sat there. leaking. swollen. unbothered.

he turned the wheel one-handed again.

and took the next exit.

he didn’t talk too much at first.

his voice had that weight to it—masculine in the quiet way, the kind of voice that stayed low, gravelly, a little dry at the edges like it only got used when necessary. deep but not showy. like he could make your whole name sound filthy just by saying it once in that slow, half-bored tone.

but now that the silence had cracked, he let the words come easier.

you didn’t even know how the conversation started. he said something about how hot it was lately, how the city smelled like pavement and sweat, and how your man should’ve been the one out there with you, carrying your bags, watching the road.

you hummed. didn’t say much. just rubbed your belly and pretended you weren’t throbbing between the legs.

his voice kept going.

sometimes steady, sometimes quiet, always low. god, so low. like his whole chest vibrated with it. and you tried not to react. you crossed your legs and then uncrossed them. you shifted in your seat and every time the tires hit a bump in the road, your swollen breasts bounced under your dress, nipples raw and aching. you knew. you knew he noticed. his hand never left the wheel but his jaw kept flexing tighter.

your thighs rubbed with every movement, sticky with sweat, the soaked fabric of your dress wedging between them like it belonged there. your sundress had ridden up almost to your hip by now and you hadn’t even realized until his eyes dropped for a second too long at a red light and he caught the crease where your thigh met the swell of your ass.

he didn’t say anything.

but he knew you saw him look.

you twirled your hair around your fingers and turned toward the window again, pretending not to care. pretending you weren’t horny out of your mind. pretending your pussy wasn’t hot and wet and swollen, pressed into your ruined panties, clenching every time he spoke low beside you.

he sounded like he could fuck with his voice alone.

the kind of voice that didn’t rush. didn’t ask permission. the kind that told you what to do and made you want to do it, even while your pride made you cross your arms tighter under your sore tits and act like you were listening to the radio instead.

he said something about how nobody gave a fuck anymore. how men these days were soft. too scared to deal with blood or stretch marks or leaking or mess.

you glanced at him out the corner of your eye.

and you couldn’t help it.

you smiled.

a tiny little smirk tugged the corner of your mouth and you let it sit there, quiet, like a secret.

he caught it.

he didn’t say anything at first. just glanced back.

what?

his voice curved a little. not quite teasing. but it had a different texture now. a subtle pull. a hook.

nothing, you said, twisting your hair again.

he didn’t push.

you wished he would.

you were chewing the inside of your cheek now, pressing your thighs together, trying to sit still but you couldn’t. everything ached. your back. your feet. your pussy. you wanted him to say something disgusting. you wanted him to stop acting normal. to reach over and drag your leg over his thigh and press your hand to the bulge you knew had to be there.

but he didn’t.

he just drove like he wasn’t about to lose it.

like he hadn’t been staring at your soaked thighs ten minutes ago like he was starving.

he adjusted the mirror. rubbed the back of his neck again with that big, veiny hand. cleared his throat like it might calm something in him.

you liked the way he drove.

one hand on the wheel. broad fingers tapping sometimes. arm flexed enough to make the veins shift up his skin, thick forearm stretched out under the sun. he leaned back a little more now, like he was getting comfortable.

you peeked at his lap.

quick.

low.

his zipper was bulging slightly. not obscene. just present. enough to make your mouth dry.

he asked if you were always from the city. what you did before. what you were planning to name the baby. he didn’t sound like he cared for small talk—he sounded like he wanted to know. like he’d memorize every word. like he’d store it somewhere.

you gave short answers. didn’t want to talk too much or seem desperate. you weren’t the kind of girl who poured her heart into the first man with a car and muscles and a voice that made her spine buzz.

but you were squeezing your thighs together again.

and he noticed.

you knew he did.

he didn’t speak for a while after that. just breathed.

the window was cracked and his cologne was still thick in the air—versace eros and something else. tobacco. his skin. sweat. something dark.

you hated how much you liked it.

he asked if you needed to stop. if you were hungry again. if there was anything he could get you.

and you couldn’t stop your lips curling again.

you didn’t even look at him when you said it.

i already told you.

his eyes flicked toward you.

fast food. nothing cute.

he huffed a breath out his nose.

half laugh. half groan.

you eat like a guy.

you smiled wider.

you drive like a guy.

he laughed at that. really laughed. voice deeper when it cracked open like that, his grin pulling crooked over his scar.

you like it?

you turned toward the window again.

smiled.

maybe.

and god—he wanted to pull over.

he wanted to stop the car right there and make you say it again but slower. messier. with your lips wrapped around the word.

his hand flexed tighter on the wheel.

and you?

you just kept rubbing your belly.

playing innocent.

and bouncing softly with every bump in the road.

the dress was too small.

he’d handed it to you outside the fitting room like it was just a quick fix. said nothing special, just something soft for now. it wasn’t fancy—just a blush-colored thing, simple cotton, ribbed texture with a soft hem and v-neck that dipped too low—but you didn’t expect it to cling like it did.

it pulled tight under your chest the second you slid it down. the fabric caught the curve of your breasts and pressed there, lifting them up without a bra, the cotton molding around the swollen weight of them like a second skin. you could see the dark outline of your nipples through it immediately. the hem refused to go past your thighs. it stopped high—mid-thigh in the front, rising even more in the back where your ass had filled out from the pregnancy. the side seams looked stretched already. you couldn’t even bend over in it without flashing everything.

but it was soft. and it was his.

and when you stepped out, biting your lip, shifting your weight, mumbling something about how fat you felt—he didn’t laugh. didn’t tease.

he just looked at you.

and nodded once.

perfect.

you didn’t realize how high the heat would climb until after lunch. it was already late—sun starting to slope orange against the sky—and the fast food had settled heavy in your stomach, mixing with the bloat of hormones and heat. you felt stuffed. full. thighs rubbed when you walked. your black panties were too tight now, sticking to the lips of your pussy under the cotton, digging into the crease of your hip. every step you took, you felt them ride higher. cling deeper.

and you liked it.

he helped you back into the car again, hand resting on your hip as you climbed in slow, your belly swaying, the thin dress catching against your ass. he adjusted the door for you, hand brushing lower than it needed to go, steadying you—and the pressure of his palm against your waist made your thighs clench before you could stop it.

you bit your lip.

looked up at him.

he didn’t say anything.

but he was smirking.

and you didn’t even hide your smile when you leaned back in the seat and let the dress ride up higher.

you lounged sideways in the passenger seat now, belly rising in the middle, thighs spread slightly, one hand idly smoothing the front of the dress while the other twisted into your hair. your cleavage was soft and obvious, breasts heavy and pushed up by the tight cut of the neckline, stretch marks faintly visible along the upper curve. you let your legs fall open just enough that the edge of your panties peeked out. black. soaked. tight around your hips.

he didn’t say anything.

but he wasn’t pretending not to look.

the screen buzzed once—another call from hana—and he shut it off with a flick of his thumb. didn’t even flinch.

thank you, you murmured, not meeting his eyes.

for the dress. for the food.

your voice was warm. syrupy. that kind of sweet that made men think they weren’t being manipulated.

and sorry, you added. about my friend. she’s always been like that.

he raised an eyebrow, glancing over at you as he pulled onto the highway.

like what?

bitter.

you smiled, softer this time.

we’ve known each other since high school. she’s… competitive. when we were younger, if i got attention from guys, she’d make this face. like she was offended by it.

his jaw worked as he merged lanes.

so she’s always had that energy.

you nodded.

mhm. the you-think-you’re-special energy. the i’d-look-better-in-that energy. she never liked when men paid attention to someone else.

he nodded slowly.

yeah.

his voice was darker now. not angry. just quiet.

i get it.

you watched him for a second. the way his neck flexed, one hand still loose on the wheel. his chest rising under the soft stretch of his tee. the bulk of him completely taking over the driver’s seat like the car was made around him.

he didn’t ask anything for a while.

then—

your boyfriend.

he said it flat.

he lucky to have someone like you?

your smile curled slowly.

you didn’t answer right away.

just twisted your hair tighter around your finger and dropped your eyes to your lap.

soft giggle.

i think he’s still figuring that out.

toji exhaled through his nose. one of those deep, quiet sounds men make when they want to say a hundred things and swallow them all.

he looked at your thighs again.

your stomach.

the line of your black panties between your legs.

he didn’t hide it this time.

you saw him look.

you didn’t stop him.

you smiled again.

he’s not exactly hype about the whole baby thing, you said lightly, adjusting your tits with one arm as you spoke, pretending it was casual.

he wanted me to end it.

toji didn’t respond.

he was gripping the wheel tighter now. his knuckles pale.

and you?

you shifted again. thighs spread wider. dress riding up.

i wanted it.

he didn’t look away.

you smiled again—slow, slutty, aching from the inside out.

you asked, and he answered.

my girlfriend hana doesn’t want kids too, he said, voice rough now.

you tilted your head.

but you do.

he didn’t answer.

he didn’t need to.

you could feel it.

and the silence sat between you now—thick, hot, alive.

your panties were soaked.

and he hadn’t even touched you yet.

the air had gotten quieter.

not awkward, not stiff—but that kind of silence that starts to gather when two people are sitting too close and pretending they’re not thinking the same thing.

you were still lounging in the seat, belly rising with every breath, thighs parted from the weight of it all, the pink dress riding high enough now to tease the crease between your leg and hip. your panties had long soaked through. you could feel it each time you shifted, the cotton sticking and pulling between your lips. it was obscene, how hot and wet you were just from talking to him.

and he was still pretending to drive like it was nothing.

you didn’t know what made you do it.

maybe it was the way he stared at the road like it had done something to him. maybe it was the clench of his jaw when you mentioned your boyfriend not being excited. maybe it was the vein that curled over his hand as he gripped the steering wheel, that thick forearm flexing with every slight movement.

but when you looked at him again—really looked—something caught in your chest.

you gasped. soft. barely audible. more breath than voice.

he noticed.

you didn’t hide it this time.

he turned his head slightly, still driving, and you saw it—the frustration sitting in his jaw, the way his mouth tightened around it like he was chewing something bitter.

you okay?

you nodded, but your eyes were still on him. still wide.

he sighed.

it’s nothing.

he glanced over at you again.

i just think your man’s an idiot. that’s all.

you blinked slowly.

your hand rubbed over your stomach again, gently, without thinking.

i don’t get it either.

his mouth twitched. like he didn’t want to say what came next but couldn’t stop it.

you show up like this. all soft. glowing. you chose this. carried it. wear it like it’s yours. your back’s hurting and you’re still smiling like it’s worth it.

he ran a hand through his hair, rough, frustrated.

and some guy has that—you—willingly, and he’s too fuckin blind to know what he’s got.

you shifted again. slowly. your thighs spread further, the hem of the dress crawling higher.

you looked out the window to steady yourself.

he kept going.

hana froze her eggs last year. told me she wanted to preserve her options. said pregnancy’s a trauma to the body.

he scoffed once. dry.

called it that word—trauma. like it’s a disease.

your brows knit as you turned back to him.

she can, though. right? she’s able to?

he nodded once.

yeah.

then she’s stupid.

your voice was firm. no giggle. no sugar.

there’s so many women who can’t. who’d kill to carry once. and she can? and won’t?

he didn’t answer right away.

he looked straight ahead, chest rising.

i always wanted it, you know.

you were quiet now.

wanted a team. kids everywhere. house noisy. gym gear all over the floor. sons i could raise hard. teach them not to take shit.

he paused.

and girls i’d spoil so much they’d never need some prick to tell them they’re pretty.

you bit your lip.

your voice came quieter now.

you’d be a good one.

he looked at you.

not with pity.

not like you were some single mom in need of saving.

he looked at you like you were his already.

and you touched him.

you didn’t think. you just let your fingers reach across the console, brushing against the warm skin of his arm, right below the sleeve.

it was harder than you expected.

dense. hot. tight with muscle.

your fingers looked small against it—soft and slow as they moved over the grain of his forearm, up toward the curve of his bicep.

he didn’t move.

but his knuckles whitened on the wheel.

you’re not wrong, he said finally.

his voice was lower now. hoarse like it was dragged up through his chest.

i don’t care about weight. i don’t care if she’s sore or messy or loud or cries for no reason. i’d still take care of her. i’d train harder. go to the gym more. lift more. carry her if i had to.

he paused.

but she won’t listen.

you nodded slowly, your hand still resting against his arm, heat from his skin seeping into your palm.

some women don’t know how lucky they are.

he looked at you again.

you think i’m lucky?

you met his gaze, cheeks flushed, breath warm.

you don’t need to ask.

he didn’t smile.

not really.

but his hand shifted.

and yours stayed where it was.

you kept it there, resting gently against the rough swell of his forearm like it had a right to be there, like it belonged. your fingers were soft, too soft—he could feel the difference instantly, how much smaller they were, how different they felt from what he was used to. you weren’t doing anything special. you weren’t stroking or gripping. you were just there. pressing against him like it was natural. like you didn’t need to ask.

you watched the road, but you weren’t looking at it. your eyes were glassy, unfocused, fixed on nothing. you were too aware of the heat rising up your thighs again, of the wetness clinging under your panties, of how tight your dress felt now that you’d eaten. your belly was heavier. the pressure made you spread your legs more, the hem riding up again, black panties peeking in the corner of his eye as he turned the wheel.

you glanced at him.

his jaw was still clenched.

he looked straight ahead, his mouth drawn tight, hand gripping the wheel like it owed him something. but he didn’t tell you to move. didn’t shrug you off. didn’t say a word about the way your palm was still pressed to his skin, how your nails had grazed a vein a minute ago and made it twitch under your touch.

you swallowed softly.

he finally spoke again, voice rougher than before, like gravel pressed into asphalt.

i tried to talk to her about it once.

his throat moved as he swallowed, fingers tapping once against the leather of the wheel.

told her it wasn’t about control or forcing her to be something she’s not. it was about what i wanted.

you listened.

not with pity. not to flatter him.

but because he sounded tired.

not the kind of tired that sleep fixes.

just a man who’d spent too long wanting the wrong thing from someone who couldn’t give it.

she said i was trying to change her.

he laughed, but it wasn’t a good one. it was hollow, low in his chest.

i said i’d love her no matter what. even if she gained weight. even if she got pregnant by accident and hated it at first. even if she screamed through every month.

he paused, jaw tightening again.

told her i’d be there. i’d train harder. protect her. spoil her if she needed it.

he turned to look at you for just a second.

but she won’t listen.

you nodded slowly, biting your lip.

your hand squeezed his arm—just once, soft, reassuring—but you didn’t pull away.

some women just… don’t get it.

your voice was quiet now.

they want to be wanted, but not needed. they want attention but not weight.

you felt the tears sting at your throat suddenly. not the dramatic kind. just that little ache when someone says something that hits too close.

and you said, almost in a whisper—

i would’ve killed to hear that from my boyfriend.

toji turned his head again.

looked at you.

really looked.

his eyes dropped—slow, unhurried—to the soft curve of your belly, the gentle way your dress clung to the roundness, the stretch of the fabric across your full breasts, the faint peek of your black panties between your thick thighs, the sheen of sweat under your cleavage.

he looked back up.

you’re too good for him.

your heart knocked once against your ribs.

you shouldn’t say that.

but you didn’t mean it.

he didn’t answer.

his hand left the wheel for just a second—long enough to rake through his messy hair again, push it back like he was trying to cool himself down.

he laughed once, quieter this time, more like an exhale through his nose.

you’re bold for a pregnant woman.

you smiled.

pregnancy makes me bold.

you shifted again, crossing your legs in the seat, the fabric stretching tighter across your ass as your stomach jutted higher. your thighs clamped together, sticking from the heat. your dress hiked again, and the waistband of your panties caught just under the curve of your belly.

you didn’t bother to fix it.

he didn’t bother to pretend he wasn’t looking.

and when his eyes dragged up from between your thighs to your breasts again, you let them linger.

he said, softer this time—

it’s good.

his voice was low now, like it belonged in a bedroom and not a car.

that women like you exist.

you tilted your head, letting the air settle.

you mean messy? tired? hungry? always needing help standing up?

he chuckled once.

i mean real. not empty.

you smiled again, slower this time.

stretch marks and all?

his answer was immediate.

especially those.

and you laughed. but it broke into a soft sigh, because you believed him. you wanted to. even if it wasn’t your name he’d said over the phone. even if he hadn’t touched you. even if you were still pretending this was just a ride.

he didn’t take his eyes off you at the next red light.

and you didn’t look away either.

you just rested your hand on your belly again.

and kept your legs parted.

you shifted again in the seat.

slow. deliberate.

your thighs parted wider as you leaned back against the cool leather, one hand resting under your belly, the other smoothing up toward the top curve of it, fingers trembling slightly as the pressure shifted. you could feel the kick coming before it happened—the little roll beneath your skin, the low tight push that made your breath catch in your throat.

and then—there. sharp, firm.

you gasped.

not soft this time.

a real sound, laced with something deeper—like a moan that didn’t know where it belonged. it left your mouth open, lips parted wet, and your head tipped back for a second as your thighs shifted again, trying to accommodate the stretch of movement inside you.

mpf fuck.

you whispered it like it was nothing. like it belonged to the air between you.

he gripped the wheel tighter.

you rubbed your bump again, nails dragging lightly over the fabric of your dress, just above the peak. the cotton was so tight now you could see the outline of your belly button, the shape of the kick pulsing against it.

another gasp.

you bit your lip.

his voice broke the silence. strained. low.

you alright?

you nodded slowly, still panting, still rubbing.

yeah.

you turned your head to look at him—eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, mouth open just enough that your breath hit the window when you exhaled.

he’s kicking again.

toji’s throat moved.

you hummed again, but this one was filthier—lower, breathier, like it was meant for someone. your thighs tensed, parted slightly again as your back arched gently, belly tilting forward.

you can feel it… if you want.

your voice didn’t come out innocent. not anymore.

he turned toward you—just for a second—but that second was enough.

your dress was pulled so tight now across your chest that your nipples were visibly hard beneath the fabric. your breasts were on the verge of spilling out with every bump in the road, cleavage slick and full and heaving with each moan. your thighs, spread open around your belly, let the black band of your panties peek up again, soaked and clinging. your stomach moved once more beneath your palm, the kick pressing out like a signal.

he stared.

you’re gonna make me fuckin insane, you know that?

his voice wasn’t teasing anymore.

you bit your lip again and smoothed your hand lower, pressing gently just above the kick.

he’s strong.

toji let out a breath, slow and tight, adjusting his grip on the wheel like he didn’t trust himself not to swerve off the road.

you still want to feel?

your voice was lower now. nearly a whisper. but not nervous.

you wanted this.

his hand came off the wheel.

and he reached for you.

his hand left the wheel like it was instinct. like his body moved before he gave it permission. fingers flexed once in midair, hesitating, unsure of where to go—her thigh? her belly? the waistband of those soaked black panties peeking between her legs like a secret?

you didn’t look at him at first.

you kept your eyes out the window, lashes low, rubbing slow circles over the roundest part of your stomach, where the baby had shifted again, pushing into your palm from the inside like it knew. like it was putting on a show.

you moaned again. this time softer.

higher in your throat.

a breathy little sound that wasn’t innocent but still tried to wear the costume.

toji’s breath caught. you heard it. low and hot, right before he cleared his throat and spoke again, trying to steady himself.

where?

you turned toward him slowly, like it took effort.

your lips were parted. your cheeks flushed. your thighs still slightly open, dress bunched up at the top of them now, cotton stretched so thin across your breasts it looked translucent in the light.

you lifted your hand and touched a spot—low, near the right side of your belly, just above your waistband.

here.

he moved closer.

his hand hovered now, a few inches from your stomach, broad palm trembling slightly with restraint.

you waited.

bit your lip.

tilted your head like you were thinking about something dangerous.

you don’t have to, you said softly, lashes fluttering.

but your voice betrayed you. that breathy little twist at the end made it sound like you wanted him to. like you wanted him to know you were too polite to beg but your body was aching to be touched.

he didn’t answer with words.

his hand lowered.

and pressed gently over yours.

you both gasped at the same time.

your hand was soft. his was rough—calloused, thick, hot even through the thin cotton of your dress. the weight of it on your stomach made your thighs twitch slightly, made your spine curl forward just a bit, belly pressing into his palm like it wanted to be held.

he didn’t rub. didn’t move. just rested it there.

like he was grounding himself.

the baby kicked again. hard.

your breath caught, lips twitching.

you moaned. sharper this time. almost a whimper.

he felt it.

his fingers tensed slightly, thumb brushing over the fabric where your skin curved up beneath it, tracing the shape of the movement.

his jaw clenched.

he’s strong, huh?

you nodded, biting your lip again, curling your fingers under the hem of your dress like you were fixing it—but you didn’t pull it down.

you let it bunch up more.

your thighs spread a little wider.

he’s active lately, you murmured, shifting your hips just slightly in the seat.

probably feels all my tension.

you glanced at him now. eyes glassy. lips wet.

then maybe you should relax, he said.

you giggled.

you’re sweet.

his hand didn’t move.

your stomach moved again beneath it. your dress was nearly riding up over your hips now.

you looked down at his hand.

big. veiny. flexing slightly every time your body shifted under him.

your fingers brushed his wrist—barely—just as another kick moved under the skin.

you smiled like it tickled.

and then you sighed, slow and breathy, as if the weight of his hand somehow settled your entire body.

mmh. yeah. right there.

you weren’t talking to the baby anymore.

and he knew it.

you didn’t move his hand. not even when he flexed his fingers, broad palm dragging lightly over the curve of your stomach, thumb grazing the rise of your bump like he was memorizing the weight of it. the baby kicked once more—gentler now, like it was settling—and you sighed, leaning further back into the seat, letting your legs relax, your dress riding higher with every breath.

you rubbed over his hand slowly. like it was normal. like this was something people did. your fingers traced the ridges of his knuckles, the callouses across his palm, the edge of his wrist where his veins stood out thick beneath the skin. you let your thighs part just a little more and pressed his hand flatter against the top of your belly, humming quietly like it soothed you.

he was driving slowly now. slower than needed. the streets were mostly empty, just sunset bleeding into dusk and soft city lights flickering on like sighs. the hum of the car, the soft brush of your fingers against his, the heat of your skin—it filled the air between you like smoke.

he spoke again, voice quieter now. lower. almost like he was pretending to ask something innocent, something polite.

how’re your breasts holding up?

you turned your head and looked at him, pout forming before you could stop it. your eyes were glassy again, lashes heavy, mouth open slightly from the heat pooling in your core.

mmph. sore. disgusting. huge.

you shifted in the seat, one arm sliding up to cup the weight of one. your hand barely covered it.

nipples are… dark. fat. i hate them.

toji’s jaw ticked once, fingers flexing again where they rested on your stomach. he made a soft sound. not quite agreement. not disagreement either. just… pressure.

mm. happens.

his hand slid lower, rubbing in slow circles over the tightest part of your belly.

you cupped both breasts now, tugging the dress down slightly—not too far. just enough to let the neckline pull lower, the swell of cleavage more visible, soft skin marked with faint reddish stretch lines that glowed in the warm light. you didn’t hide it. you showed him like you were showing a friend a rash. like it was helpful.

see?

he nodded once.

tight. controlled.

yeah. looks heavy.

you let out a breathy little laugh.

they are. everything’s heavy.

he rubbed lower.

your thighs twitched again.

the ride was quiet for a few more blocks. your eyes fluttered slightly, head resting against the seat. the movement of his hand over your belly had slowed, turning into gentle strokes. your fingers had drifted back to his wrist, tracing him. grounding yourself.

when he turned onto your street, the headlights caught the curve of your apartment building, familiar and dim.

you straightened a little, twisting toward the window.

he’s not here.

your voice was small. hollow.

you stared at the driveway. your boyfriend’s car wasn’t parked.

again.

you tried to sound annoyed.

but you just sounded… tired.

toji’s voice came after a beat, warm and low.

you want me to walk you up?

you hesitated.

then smiled a little.

nah. s’kay. i should walk. sitting too long makes me sore.

you started shifting in your seat, preparing to gather your bag, your limbs heavy and sticky from heat and arousal and all the weight you carried. you adjusted your dress, but didn’t pull it down all the way. you still let it sit high across your thighs.

thanks for today.

you looked at him when you said it, trying to smile fully, but your voice cracked just a bit.

really. i… i’m glad i met you.

he nodded once.

eyes steady.

but he didn’t speak.

he just reached over slowly, his hand sliding down.

at first it was casual. neutral.

his palm moved across your thigh—thick, warm—fingers curling slightly as they met the meat of it, squeezing once.

you gasped softly.

he didn’t flinch.

s’nothing, he muttered.

his hand moved slightly. back and forth. rubbing slowly over the top of your thigh.

man’s supposed to help.

his voice was deeper now. quieter.

especially when women get like this. pregnant. tired.

his hand moved again.

you were frozen.

his palm slid higher, fingers brushing over the seam of your inner thigh now—pressing, then pulling back, then pressing again like he was testing what your body would allow.

he squeezed your thigh again.

and then—lower.

just a little.

the heel of his hand brushed the crease where your pussy met your leg.

you twitched.

he didn’t react. didn’t apologize.

his voice stayed steady.

feels hot.

his palm settled there.

you looked down.

your panties were soaked. you knew they were. drooling, almost. the outline of your pussy pressing against the cotton like it was begging. swollen, puffy from the heat, from the attention, from the sheer frustration of being untouched for so long.

you moaned softly. not loud.

just a breath that came out too thick to hide.

he rubbed once more.

still pretending it was nothing.

still staring forward like he was only helping.

and you sat there. legs open. tits sore. panties wet. eyes wide.

letting him help.

you didn’t even notice how tightly you were squeezing your thighs until he pulled his hand back.

his fingers dragged slow over the seam of your skin, where your panties had already begun to stick from how wet you were. the cotton clung to your pussy, soaked and puffy, every inch of you swollen with heat and pressure and the weight of everything you weren’t getting at home.

his thumb brushed higher—just barely.

enough to graze the edge of your lips beneath the fabric.

you twitched.

gasped softly.

your eyes fluttered.

he didn’t say a word.

just rubbed his hand over your thigh again, slower this time, dragging the wetness upward—until it glistened faintly in the glow of the console light.

then he pulled back.

you watched him.

dazed. throbbing.

he didn’t meet your eyes.

just sniffed once—quiet, subtle—like clearing his nose.

but you saw the way his fingers hovered near his mouth before he wiped them quickly on his jeans.

casual. nothing to see. like he was drying sweat.

but he knew.

you both knew.

his door opened first.

the air changed immediately—the warm thud of summer night sweeping in, thick and heavy, the sound of his boots on the pavement, his keys jangling softly as he turned toward your side.

you sat there. thighs wet. heart racing.

he opened your door slowly.

his scent hit you all at once.

man. not boy.

spiced cologne and soap and something low and smoky, like the back of his neck had held a cigar once and never let it go. the smell of chest hair and heat. of someone who never needed to speak too loud.

his shadow fell across you as he leaned down.

c’mon.

you blinked.

i said i’m good, you muttered, shifting like you were going to step out.

but your knees didn’t follow.

your body was too heavy. too hot.

and he didn’t wait.

he bent down and lifted you—slow, deliberate, one arm slipping under your knees, the other beneath your back.

your ass dropped onto his forearm with a soft thud. skin to skin. hot. bare. the dress had ridden up too high now and you weren’t wearing anything under it but those soaked, thin panties.

you gasped again.

your arm looped around his neck out of instinct, fingers tangling in the collar of his shirt.

toji.

mm.

he didn’t look down. didn’t adjust his grip.

just straightened with you in his arms, shifted your weight against him like you didn’t weigh anything at all.

his free hand reached into his pocket and clicked the key fob.

behind you, the car beeped softly, locking with a low whine.

you felt his bicep flex beneath you.

felt the sweat on your back.

felt the way your thighs stayed parted from how wide his arm stretched them.

you turned your head slightly, breath catching.

you didn’t have to—

your voice cracked a little.

he cut you off.

man’s not home, is he?

you swallowed.

no.

then let me do my job.

his voice was flat. clipped. almost annoyed.

he carried you to the stairs like it was nothing.

like you didn’t weigh eight months of softness and craving and water and blood and aching need.

like you weren’t pressed right against his chest, tits full and rising against him with every shallow breath.

he didn’t speak again until your feet touched the ground at the top of the stairs.

you were flushed. gasping a little from being held like that.

you know…

you turned around, one hand on the doorframe, your voice soft.

you can leave now.

his brow twitched.

just slightly.

leave?

he repeated the word like it offended him.

i didn’t carry your ass up here so you could say that.

you blinked.

he looked you up and down—slow, like he was taking inventory.

the way your dress clung to your stomach.

the wet outline between your thighs.

the stretch marks high on your tits, the way your nipples dented the cotton.

your hair twisted, messy. cheeks flushed. pupils wide.

he stepped closer.

i didn’t drive you. feed you. dress you. carry you…

he reached out—touched your belly again.

soft. reverent.

just to get dismissed like a fuckin delivery man.

you swallowed hard.

didn’t say anything.

he looked at you for another second.

and then, softly—

you want me to leave?

you didn’t answer.

your pussy said no before your mouth could.

you didn’t even pretend to argue.

you stood there in the doorway with your hand curled around the edge of your belly and your dress sticking to the curve of your ass and you said it under your breath, lashes low—

m’kay. you can stay.

he didn’t say thank you.

didn’t smirk.

he just nodded once and muttered—

that’s what i thought.

then reached past you to open the door himself, his arm brushing your side, heavy and warm, the keys still in his hand as he turned the knob like it was his house, like he’d done it before.

you stepped in first.

he followed you without hesitation, boots landing slow and deliberate across the threshold. the air inside hit different—cooler, still, softly perfumed from whatever cheap plug-in you’d tucked in the hallway outlet weeks ago. lavender. maybe vanilla. maybe just something warm and clean.

the apartment was quiet, dim but warm from the low amber bulbs you always left on in the evening. not much furniture, but what you had was yours. a small white rug. thrifted couch, overstuffed with throw pillows you never sat on. pale curtains. framed sonogram on the end table. two plastic baby bottles on a folded towel by the kitchen sink.

you turned slightly, face flushed from heat and nerves and unspeakable filth still wet between your legs, and started walking barefoot toward the living room.

your dress clung with every step. you moved slow, almost dragging your feet like you needed him to see the sway in your hips, how the hem rode higher in the back now. the air made your inner thighs prickle, sticky with your own arousal, and when you sank down into the cushions of the couch, you let your knees fall open like it was just comfort—just soreness—nothing more.

but the fabric bunched. the pink cotton stretched.

and the soft swells of your breasts pushed forward, the top of your dress scooped too low to hide the warm brown skin of your areolas. dark now. wide. peeking from the neckline like you hadn’t noticed. your belly sat heavy in your lap, tight and round and twitching now and then from the baby’s soft kicks.

toji lingered at the doorway for a second, his boots still planted on the hardwood, staring around the apartment like he needed to memorize it.

you said something light.

i picked the rug. on sale. and the plants. they’re fake, but…

you smiled to yourself, shrugging.

he looked at you.

at the rug. the table. the bottle warmer.

you wanna take your shoes off? you said, glancing down. i always do when i come in. keeps the floor clean.

he huffed softly, kneeling with one hand on the wall for balance. big hands unlacing heavy boots, sliding them off one at a time. when he stood again, he left them neatly by the door beside your white sandals, his socks thick and dark against the pale carpet.

you were already reclined into the couch. your legs bent slightly now, thighs parted, the dark triangle of your panties barely covered by the dress bunched between your knees. your stomach looked even bigger from this angle. heavy and high. tits full, round, straining the neckline.

toji walked over, slow and solid, and sat beside you without asking.

the cushion dipped under his weight.

his body pressed against yours immediately—his thigh against your thigh, the side of his arm grazing your shoulder, thick and warm and solid like concrete. he threw one arm across the back of the couch, not touching you, but hovering just close enough that you could feel the heat of it behind your neck.

he turned his head slightly.

sniffed once.

not loud. not obvious.

just a quiet inhale through his nose, slow and deep.

you smelled like something soft and edible—cheap body cream, maybe cocoa butter. something with sugar. something sticky.

he exhaled and leaned back further into the couch, eyes scanning the room again.

s’nice.

his voice was low. quieter now.

he let his hand drop lazily to your shoulder for a second, squeezing it with his thumb like it meant nothing.

you sighed, leaning into the couch more, letting your legs open slightly again, belly heavy between them, thighs pressed against his.

your panties were wet enough to leave a mark on the fabric now.

and still, your voice stayed light.

i didn’t think it’d feel this good to sit again.

you smiled.

he looked at your legs.

yeah?

you hummed.

yeah. everything’s swollen. thighs. feet. tits.

he nodded, eyes dropping to the spot where your nipple peeked from the stretch of fabric, the color darker than he imagined. rawer. wider.

he cleared his throat.

you’re… handling it well.

you giggled softly, letting your head tip to the side, toward his shoulder.

you’re handling me well.

he didn’t respond.

but his hand dropped behind your back again. heavier now.

he rubbed once, slow.

and kept breathing you in.

you didn’t move away when his hand dropped behind your back.

he wasn’t even touching you fully, not really. just resting his arm there—casual, possessive in that offhand way men like him were built to be. his forearm grazed your upper back when you shifted, and you knew he could feel it when you shivered. when you exhaled too long. when your thighs pressed tighter and the wet between them warmed into something more dangerous than just heat.

you reached lazily for the remote on the end table, the curve of your breast pressing into your belly as you leaned forward, your neckline dipping just enough that the top swell of your nipple peeked out again. dark. wide. heavy from how full you were.

he watched it.

didn’t blink.

you flicked on the TV, volume low, some late evening news hum in the background.

you adjusted yourself again, resting back into the couch, thighs parting like they needed space to breathe. you felt the wet press of your panties stick and tug at your folds, a slow, warm pulse sitting low in your gut. you didn’t fix your dress. didn’t close your legs. just leaned your head slightly toward him, acting like none of this meant anything.

you glanced up at him, your voice a little lighter now.

you want a drink or something? water? beer?

you stretched your arms a little like it was no big deal, pushing your tits up again under the tight cotton, your belly sitting perfectly round and high between your legs, pressing into the hem of your dress.

he didn’t hesitate.

i don’t need a beer when i got this.

your lips curled into a half-smile before you could stop it.

you rolled your eyes, biting your lip after like it didn’t mean anything, like the heat suddenly building in your chest and dripping down your spine didn’t just flood your panties again.

you’re so full of yourself.

your voice cracked slightly as you said it, but you smiled—flushed and warm and sore, and secretly, aching.

toji didn’t move.

he didn’t reach for you. didn’t touch you more than he already was.

but he noticed everything.

he saw the way your breathing changed. the way your thighs flexed. the way your dress had hiked so far up now it looked like you were halfway undressed without realizing it.

he turned his head slowly toward you, the side of his nose brushing your temple, voice rough.

and you love it.

you looked up at him.

big eyes. wet mouth. skin hot.

you didn’t answer.

you didn’t need to.

you leaned further into the couch, pretending to get comfortable—but really, you just wanted his arm closer, his thigh touching yours again.

his hand shifted behind you slightly, elbow brushing your shoulder, knuckles grazing the back of your neck in that soft, quiet way that didn’t feel intentional but was.

you reached for the throw pillow in your lap and pulled it down over your thighs, adjusting it like it was for support—but really, it was the only thing stopping you from rocking your hips into the couch.

you didn’t know what you wanted him to say next.

but you knew he knew.

and toji?

he just sat there, breathing you in, letting the tension climb. letting it drag.

the tv played quietly in front of you. meaningless noise. background to a silence so heavy it made your chest throb.

and you couldn’t help the next breath that slipped out of you.

wet. warm.

and just a little too close to a moan.

you shifted the pillow.

slowly. carefully. like you were just trying to get comfortable, just trying to support your sore thighs and aching back. but the second the edge of it pressed between your legs—right against the heat soaked into your panties—you moved again.

softer this time. lower. letting the curve of your pussy drag against the fabric like it wasn’t on purpose.

you sighed.

toji heard it.

he didn’t move. didn’t speak at first.

just watched you from the corner of his eye—your belly rising and falling, thighs tensing slightly under the cotton, your dress now so high up it barely covered the dark triangle where your panties had long been sticking to your folds.

you shifted again. slower now.

his voice came quiet.

rough in the way a man speaks when his mouth is dry but his cock is hard.

what’s it feel like?

you blinked, dazed.

what?

pregnancy.

you looked at him, surprised.

he was watching your stomach now, his hand resting behind you still, his other forearm draped along his thigh. he wasn’t touching you—but his gaze made your skin prickle like he was.

he spoke again, slower.

what’s it feel like. when you pee. when you shit. when you move. you ever feel… trapped in it?

your face flushed instantly.

you swallowed. shifted the pillow again, hips pressing forward just slightly to catch more pressure against your soaked cunt.

it’s weird, you said softly, eyes down.

i used to be normal.

toji’s brow twitched.

you shrugged, pouting slightly, rubbing your hand over the top of your bump like you were grounding yourself.

then i got… soft. everything got big. my belly. my thighs. my tits. nipples went dark. my pussy got darker too.

you laughed once—half embarrassed.

even my pee smells weird now. and i sweat more. it’s like… nothing fits. like i don’t look cute anymore.

he watched you in silence.

then hummed low in his chest.

didn’t say he agreed. didn’t nod.

just let the sound sit there.

and then he leaned back a little further.

s’just tits and pussy.

you blinked. turned toward him.

what?

he looked at you like you were the one being dramatic.

that’s all it is. your body’s doing what it’s supposed to.

he glanced once at your thighs, your dress, the faint outline of your pussy straining against the pillow you were grinding slow and subtle into.

you’re eating for two. sweating for two. feeling for two.

his voice was low now. flat. honest.

so what if your pussy looks different. that’s what it’s for.

your mouth opened slightly.

your hand pressed down harder into the pillow.

your thighs tensed.

he looked at your tits.

you said they got heavier.

you nodded slowly.

he lifted a hand, flexed it once, like remembering.

still light enough for me to carry you earlier.

thank you for reading if you made it this far 🩷 i’m sorry i couldn’t use the usual pink layout this one was just way too long 😭 but i hope the story still hit. love u. part two cmming tmrw filthier and nasty 🎀

onlypinkslut

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aceecee · 1 hour ago

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Insatiable - Chapter Thirteen

*This is just my MC, not a depiction of what Mara looks like.

TW/Tags: sexual content (thigh riding, tit play), cockblocking oneself, yandere behaviour, obsession

Synopsis: You reunite with the woman who had you so deeply engraved into her heart.

WC: 3K

Masterlist

Are you real? She wonders.

If not…

...then what a cruel trick.

~~~

For a second no one speaks.

Sylus lingers for a little bit before walking by you, leaving you two alone. His hand lightly brushes yours in comfort, it helps.

You’re both grateful for having this moment be just between you two but the hammering in your heart wishes he would stay, so you wouldn’t be alone as she stares at you in a mixture of awe and confusion.

She’s grown a little taller, something to be expected after all these years but you still tower over her. The memories of all the times you used to tease her about it nearly make you smile. No longer does she sport the long fringed hairstyle, now it’s cut off at her shoulders, oddly reminding you of the way you used to have it styled in your shared childhood. She’s dyed it red. It suits her.

Red means passion.

But it can also be for danger.

She fits into the hunter uniform better than your imagination had served you. The white shirt fits so snug, you can just see a hint of the muscles underneath. It’s intoxicating.

But it’s clear she hasn’t been taking care of herself. Deep eye bags have settled under her eyes, which flicker constantly in exhaustion. You don’t blame her, not after she’s lost two of the most important people in her life at the same time. Not after losing you.

Her eyes give nothing away as they take in every inch of you. You feel your breath catching in your throat as she does so.

Do you look okay?

Will she be disappointed?

You’re no longer the girl who used to smile easily, who gave care out like it was nothing, who expected nothing in return.

But you can be for her. You’ll be anyone for her.

You’ll do anything.

For her, sacrifice means nothing.

Time seems to slow down with each step she takes toward you, drawing the moment out leaving you on edge. And so fucking nervous.

Your heart might give out when a hand comes up to cradle your face – not in affection but to touch and feel if the skin beneath is real.

“I-is this some type of trick,” she whispers finally, eyes glossed in tears. You violently shake your head in response. For the first time, anger courses through you for your situation. You curse the people who took you, who so effortlessly captured your ability to speak. No longer are you numb to the pain they afflicted upon you, not when you can’t tell her so.

All you can do is hold her in your arms as she collapses into tears. Whether from the overwhelming incident currently occurring or because her exhaustion has finally caught up, you don’t care. Not as you cradle her soft body against yours.

[Name], she whispers into your skin. Repeating it over and over again.

It’s easy to carry Mara out of the room, she feels too small in them, too skinny from lack of eating. You’ll have to remedy that during her stay here, she’s lived without yours and Caleb’s food for too long.

Sylus greets you as you exit, one eyebrow raising in controlled surprise. “Take her into your room,” he softly commands.

Mara wakes up in soft sheets with a killer headache.

Her hand comes up to rub the throbbing her temple, smiling softly as she recalls her dream. At least in this one, she got to see how you would look grown up. At least in this one, it wasn’t your young self asking why she had failed you.

None of her fantasies compared to what she dreamt of last night. The length of your hair, the shape of your body, how you had felt so real – how you had wrapped your arms around her. Years of loneliness had disappeared in that moment, for a while you were by her side and all was alright with the world.

For a while.

But her actions halt as she realises she’s in an unfamiliar room, leaping to her feet as she recalls her meeting with the boss of Onychinus. The very man who might be responsible for the deaths of…

For the deaths of…

Perhaps one day, she’ll be able to think or say it outright.

A knock on the door snaps her out of it. She doesn’t respond, mentally preparing for whoever steps through the door when she hears the doorknob turn. In steps…

You.

You’re carrying a tray of food, smiling when you notice she’s awake. Not caring as her jaw drops open, or that she’s in the corner of the room with her hands rolled into fists ready to strike whoever walks through.

Not you, though. Never you.

“It wasn’t a dream,” she lets out, causing you to smile. She remains frozen, unsure of what to do. Taking one hand off the tray, you guide her back to your bed. Too caught up in the warmth of your hand on her, she follows you without question. Mara already shows signs of improvement on her face from the sleep she had, to your relief.

When you try to remove your hand, so you can put the tray down gently on the nightstand, she pulls you right back on top of her. The food goes flying and lands with a loud shatter on the floor but you’re too distracted as you end up straddling her to care. Her hands come up to rest on your hips, like it’s natural, like it’s meant to be.

Mara wastes no time in exploring your body, hands moving across every inch like an explorer in an unknown part of a map. Her hands caress your chest, feeling the blood pumping through your veins, fingers trailing over the goosebumps on your arms, one hand rests over your heart just so she can feel it beat.

She’s real. She’s real. She’s real, repeats in her head over and over again. She doesn’t realise she’s crying when a hand cradles her face and wipes the tears away. She lurches forward, grabbing you into a hug, arms wrapped tightly around you and her head buried into the centre of your chest. You simple thread your fingers through her hair as she wails into your chest, pressing kisses to the crown of her head.

No words need to be spoken for you to know this is all she needs in the moment. Neither of you really know how much time passes nor do you really care. Mara’s cries seem to slowly die down, she settles for breathing in your artificial scent from lotions and perfume.

Her mind seems to reel, no matter how much proof she gathers that this is real, she has a hard time believing the evidence. Slowly her head lifts up, heart clenching in awe as you gaze at her softly. It’s when she finally notices the scar across your neck, eyebrows raising in question. Her hand immediately reaches to trace, dangerously gentle.

“What happened?” she nearly shouts in concern.

You open and close your mouth a few times, unsure on how to proceed. “C-can’t…” you trail off. The tears make a comeback in Mara’s eyes, as she comes to her own conclusion. “Can’t speak?” she finishes for you. You nod.

“I know how to sign,” she confirms. “They taught us in the Academy,” her eyes widen at the sentence. “I’m a hunter now, [Name],” she rests her chin where her head had been, gazing up at you. “Aren’t you proud of me?”

The sadness in the air is replaced by two soft laughs as you nod.

[“You have no idea how much.”]

For a little bit, she stares at you. As if contemplating doing something that she believes might ruin the moment. “I want to do something, angel. Please don’t hate me,” she pleads. You tilt your head in confusion.

[“Never.”]

It’s all the desperate woman in front of you needs. Years of believing you were dead, of finding sanctuary in those carrying pieces of you finally boil over. Her lips are on yours before you can even move, kissing you like the starved fool she is.

Maybe you’re no better as you immediately return the kiss, delighting in the way she hums into your mouth with joy. Her hands slip under your carefully selected night-gown, moving up your thighs and taking the silk material with them. All she has to do is slip a strap off your shoulder to gain access to the skin underneath.

She swallows your moan as a cold finger gently brushes the tip of your nipple, unsure if she can proceed. Taking your whines as confirmation, her hand cups your breast, feeling whatever she can in her hand. You can feel yourself get lightheaded as neither of you have yet to take break from kissing. Your entire body heats at her touch, grinding your lower half into her thigh, chasing friction as you lose yourself in each other.

Yet the rational part of her mind wins as she realises all the unspoken questions between you two. There’s still so much she doesn’t know. Like why you’re in the N109 zone in the first place. She pulls away from you as realisation sinks in, the moment is ruined leaving you staring at confused.

“Was it Sylus who did this?” she asks, pointing at your neck. Blinking as you mentally go over her words, you shake your head.

“What are you even doing with him? He’s dangerous,” she hisses, not wanting to admit to herself that she’s jealous.

“He might’ve even been behind Caleb’s death!”

[“Sylus would never do that,”] you defend.

Mara’s eyes dim at your response, pushing you off her and creating distance.

“You mean the same man that just kept me locked up for three days, forcing me to try and resonate with him?” she snaps.

You look away ashamed, you had gotten used to the changed man Sylus had become for you, that your forgot what he can truly be like. How can you even begin to explain it all to her?

That one day, she’ll come to love him. Just like you do.

“Why aren’t you shocked he’s dead?”

Your eyes widen at her question as you meet her gaze. It’s the first she’s ever looked at you in anger and in betrayal.

“How long have you known?” she whispers.

[“Since it happened.”]

Mara says nothing and it leaves you panicked.

“I was so caught up in you being still alive, I didn’t even see the signs,” she chuckles darkly, bringing a hand up to push through her hair. “I need to talk to Sylus,” she finishes, leaving the room.

Leaving you behind.

Mara steps out into the hallway.

For the first time in her life, she doesn’t want to see you.

Because the heartbroken look on your face is still imprinted in her mind, no matter how hard she tries to remind her heart that you deserve it. Because she’s never made you cry before and all she wants is to go back into that room and finish what she had tried to start.

She takes out her Hunter watch, not shocked as it displays no signal. She comes across a black bird, perched on a pillar. She looks over the bird, deciding it closely resembles a crow despite it being so metallic. Mara thanks her hunter skills as the bird she thought was a statue suddenly zooms past her, into another corridor. She doesn’t know why she follows it.

Soon she comes across a room, her resolve to talk to the man in charge out the window as she hears him talk to a man in that cold manner of his. Every hair on her body stands on edge, a desire to run wins. But a quick flash of your face stops her and it’s enough time for Sylus to force her out.

Mara finds herself in some sort of dining room. Sylus walks over and pours her a glass of wine, like she hadn’t put a bullet through him not so long ago.

“This will be useful for defending yourself in the N109 zone,” he places a gun in front of her with a cold chuckle. As always his indifference to her, leaves her angry.

“Are you mocking me?”

“I’m giving you a way out.” He takes a seat in front of her. “Since you can’t escape, why don’t we make a deal?”

“I’m not interested.” She drinks the wine, the strong liquid an escape she desperately needs.

“As long as you have desires, there will always be deals to make.”

Sylus’s right eyes glows that familiar red, the same that gave her all those hallucinations. He flips a coin in his hand. “So many days have come and gone. You should know your own desires by now.”

“You mean [Name]?” her eyes narrow, standing up and gripping the edges of the table as a clutch. “Is that why she’s here? You’re going to use her as a bargaining chip?” And here she was defending you, she thinks bitterly. What do you see in this guy, angel?

“You know what, fine. I’ll accept this deal. I resonate with you and not only do you give me the Aether core from your auction, you let me leave with her-”

“No.”

Mara glares at him. “What do you mean, no?” she snarls. “Is the core that precious to you?”

“No, she is.”

His declaration is like a splash of cold water on her face, the buzz from the wine is all but faded.

“[Name]’s free to go as she wishes anyway,” he tilts his head with a mischievous look in his eyes, bordering on malicious. “But she’s still mine.”

But he’s still not done. “Besides with the way you just ripped her heart out, how confident are you that she’ll even leave with you now?” he smirks.

“H-how did-”

“This is my house,” he responds wryly. “Of course I know what goes on in it.”

Mara finds herself lost in how to respond. She moves forward to clutch his hand in hers.

“Release me. You can’t do that just yet.”

He knows the woman before him is moving in desperation. You do seem to have that effect on all of them.

Mara looks up at him, wondering why he’s struggling in his head. Wondering why his power seems so familiar. For a while she grips onto his hand, trying her best to will her evol to work. Embarrassment at her own actions creep up, Sylus’s lips quirk at her cuteness though she’ll never know it.

“After all that arrogance, it seems like you can’t even control your own evol,” he teases.

“At the very least, it doesn’t want to be activated in front of you!” she bites back. Again [Name], what do you see in this arrogant jerk!

He shakes his head. “Just as I thought. You’re too weak.”

“You’ve seen the scars on her body,” he whispers. “How can you protect her from the powerful enemies she’s made?”

Mara stares at him.

“Face it. She’s protected as long as she’s by my side.”

“What happened to her? What enemies are you talking about?” she questions.

“It’s not my story to tell,” he waves her off causing a scoff out of her.

He pinches the area between his brow. “Eat as much as you want,” he commands.

She turns to look at the long table. It’s filled with exquisite dishes, each one familiar. Sylus clears his throat to get her attention. “[Name] cooked all your favourites. She was concerned at how frail you felt, the least you can do is eat the food. After you’re done, come find me outside the base’s entrance.”

He walks over to the door, turning back to say one final thing.

“You better hope our deal is successful. Otherwise, consider this your last meal.”

The snow-haired man approaches the crouched figure taking refuge in his bedroom.

“First time in the doghouse, little bird?” Sylus teases as he crouches in front of you, eyes softening when your lift your head up – swollen eyes meeting his.

[“She hates me,”] you sniffle. He moves to sit down next to you.

“She doesn’t hate you,” he comforts. “She’s just angry. Rightfully so.”

His larger hand comes to hold yours, tugging you into his side. “Even if you had wanted to go back, I wouldn’t have let you. Not at that time, so we can share the blame.”

[“Don’t be hard on her, this is all to much for her.”]

He chuckles. “I’ll do what I want,” he playfully coos, wiping away tears on your face. “Now stop crying, we have somewhere to be.”

AN: You know it's serious when Sylus has to play the therapist. Sorry for the short chapter! It's also more of a filler, I feel.

Tag List: @serenity-loves-red @crimsonmarabou @reni502 @r0ckb1n @queenkymmie @plzdonutpercieveme @perqbeth @mephisto-with-a-knife @tumblingdevils @angelwhizpers @eolivy @yuurisfavblog @miuangel @young-adult-summer @loreleis-world @macaronnya

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serensama · 1 day ago

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Illario Summer Appreciation Week: Day 2

All the things we didn't say (and How to enjoy a Summer's day)

Set in the A word with friends/Of Houses, Hearts and Hidden things universe (Lilya x Illario) and meant to be interspersed throughout different points of their relationship.

Hope you enjoy!

Read on Ao3 Rating: PGish? Teen and Up Word Count: 2.1k Prompt: "Camping/Camp Fire"

--- Talented. That was how many people saw him. And he was.

You wanted someone killed with flair? Almost no one did it better. Needed someone to charm a room and have them eating out of his palm? Consider it done with him on the job. Fashion sense? He had it in spades. Your wardrobe could not be in better hands.

However, it seemed there was a limit to his talents. At least, when it came to… camping. Camping. Even the word itself made his skin crawl. He wasn’t averse to getting his hands dirty when it came to blood or bone, but… dirt? Maker, no.

When Lilya asked him to accompany her on another contract- this time, eliminating a rogue researcher in Arlathan who’d riled up too many religious fanatics, he hesitated. Not because of the danger, but because she mentioned walking. A lot of it. Through forests. And no inns.

He’d asked her, gently, if the matter was close to her heart. The man’s theories challenged Elven gods and likened them to Andrastian myths. Being an elf herself, he thought maybe it was personal, but she’d just laughed and reminded him she was from an alienage. The Dalish gods' held no power over her. She believed in the Maker, same as him.

Still, something had tugged at him, something she wasn’t telling him.

“Did you just miss me so much from my three days away from you? It’s understandable. I am so very missable. These eyes. This jaw. This body. It’s okay to want me, Paloma,” he grinned, fixing the pack on his back.

“I mean… I did. Now? I miss ‘missing’ you. Go away,” she said, deadpanned, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I’ll write and ask Chance to come and help me. Or who was that Crow from House Arainai? The one that asked me out during the last Satinalia masque? Marcello? Mario? He seemed more than happy to come along anywhere I went-”

“Alright.”

“-imagine me and Miguel, cosied up at night in the same tent, for safety, you know-”

“Okay, Paloma-”

“-and the researcher might be deep in the forest, might take weeks to find him. It’ll just be me and Marco, keeping each other company through the long days and cold nights-”

“... Really, Palo-”

“-who knows what will transpire in my loneliness… Who would I turn to for comfort? To keep my spirits up. Maybe he offers to scrub my back, and he notices me shiver and says he knows exactly how to warm me up and I’m so, so cold-”

“Lilya! Come on!” he laughed, playing cool although he genuinely detested every word she had just said. That damned Arainai idiot. Shooting above his station, even if he didn’t know they were something, everyone knew she was last with Viago. A Talon. For all intents and purposes, she was still Viago’s, living in his Villa and receiving the treatment and contracts only someone who was considered a Master would get. Bloody Arainai- as if he stood a chance with her, of all people. --- “Illario- are you still setting up our tent?” she called out, water skins in hand, refilled from a nearby stream. Lilya had returned to find him kneeling beside a perfectly arranged pile of ropes, poles, and still-folded canvas. “I… have you… have you ever set up a tent, Illario?”

He gave her a long, withering look.

“... What about me, makes you think that I have done this before?”

“Then why in the Void did you say yes when I asked you to do it?”

“How hard could it be? Some sticks. Some fabric. Who knew it was more complicated than finding someone's pancreas?!”

She just pressed her lips together, the smallest puff of amusement eking out of her mouth before asking him to start the fire instead. That, at least, he remembered. From survival training. Twenty-five years ago.

By the time their tent was up, Illario had managed to start a fire, small and pitiful, but technically a fire. She just handed him a bow and told him to hunt something up for dinner unless he wanted to subsist on dried meat and berries.

Now that, that he could do. Except... this was Arlathan.

Sentinels. Rage demons. Halla. He almost threw his dagger into a halla’s neck before remembering hearing something about it being sacred to her people- did the elves eat halla? Would she be upset if he killed one? He spotted some nugs nearby…but no. Furless, shrieking, baby-handed nightmares. He wasn’t that desperate. He’d rather eat the Rage demon.

And so he returned empty-handed to Lilya’s raised eyebrows.

“There were… moral complications,” he explained. “I almost brought back a nug.”

“Oh no,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “We’re not eating those things.”

“Thank the Maker. So… just rations, then?”

“You’re lucky you have me with you, Master Dellamorte. Whatever would you do without me?”

Whatever indeed.

“There were fish in that stream up ahead,” she continued, tapping him on the chest with her knuckles. “Come on, I’ll show you the good kind.”

Finally, something he really knew. Creating makeshift weapons? Easy. He and Lucanis did that as kids when Caterina took their toys away. And aim? No one had better aim than a Crow. He had bagged five fish before Lilya stopped him.

“It’s just dinner, not a royal banquet,” she’d reminded him, laughing. “We’re only two people, Illario.”

She taught him how to descale and gut the fish. It felt... oddly domestic. He could picture her back at the villa, in their kitchen, laughing with Lucanis as they both tried to teach him something, which he would inevitably fail at. He wouldn’t mind being the butt of a joke, if it were for them.

He could imagine a future, one frighteningly soft and terrifyingly real, where the two people in his life could finally hang up their weapons and do whatever they wanted. Neither of them was particularly cut out to be assassins. Not to diminish their skill, but they were too kind for this life. It would kill them in the end, not due to a job, but because of the job.

He was broken out of his thoughts when she commended him for his good work on the fish and started grilling them, launching into a story of the last time she had done this, which was just before the Crows had taken her in. She was mid-story when her smile faltered, and her voice dropped.

Illario watched her closely, her eyes rimmed with tears as she pretended to be busy cooking their fish, nose reddening as she desperately fought against her emotions. Or memories.

“Lilya… are you alright?” he asked cautiously, not wanting to spook her.

Lilya was always a truthful person, but guarded. Remaining mysterious helped her stay alive as a Crow, it was just good sense really, but he would not deny that it stung just a little that she didn’t feel she could reveal more of herself to him. It felt unfair that people like Viago or Teia knew parts of her that he didn’t. She paused for the briefest moment, knowing she had been caught. She flashed him a reassuring smile, so bright it hurt to look at, still twirling the fish so they wouldn’t burn.

“Of course, it’s just the smoke getting into my eyes. I’m fine.”

They ate in companionable silence, smiling at each other as they finished their meal, the fish somehow more delicious knowing it had been caught and prepared by their own hand. Illario went and rinsed the dishes as she got their bedding ready. Or beds. He was not sure what he was expecting, but two separate bedrolls was not it. Granted, they were right next to each other, but it wasn’t what he had pictured when he thought of being in a tent with his lover. Images of furs, pillows, and a very naked Lilya waiting for him seemed more in line than the two very thin grey bedrolls. They looked more like the rags the prisoners at Velabanchel wore than something either he or Lilya should be sleeping on. Let alone be in the vicinity of.

---

It was awkward. That's what it was. There was a rock in his back, weird noises coming from the forest around them and he was sure he could feel insects crawling all over him, but he ignored it all when Lilya shifted to her side, letting him coil his arms around her to breathe in the scent of her hair. Her shampoo and hair oils were still evident even under the smell of smoke that clung to her.

“Lilya.”

“Hmm?”

“Are you going to tell me the real reason you asked me to come along to this contract?” he asked quietly, testing the waters once more. “If you tell me to drop it, I will, but we both know you could have this contract done in less time and with less hassle alone. Do not get me wrong, I am truly looking forward to you and me frolicking around naked in the woods-”

“We are not going to do that, Illario.”

“A pity. But…still. I just don’t believe you wanted me here just so you could teach me how to prepare a fish.”

She remained silent, confirming his suspicions.

“Paloma. I’m not complaining. You must know by now that I enjoy spending time with you… even if we have to sleep in the dirt… but I have to admit I am curious.”

Lilya played with his left hand, his arm trapped under her head. She brushed the faded scars along his skin before flipping his hand to trace the lines on his palms to distract her.

“Like I said- it’s not a big deal-”

“The last time I was in Arlathan, I had just been taken from Highever,” she said, her voice low. “The slavers were looking for more elves that looked like me- pretty ones, they said, that buyers would pay top price for. We didn’t have to worry, they said; they wouldn’t hurt the merchandise - too high value for scars, you see. I haven’t been back here since and I… I just didn’t want to be alone.”

He didn’t speak. Just held her tighter, as if he could pull the weight of that memory off her shoulders and help her bear it.

“Thanks for coming, ‘Lario. It was nice of you to come even after finding out we wouldn’t be staying in inns with the silk sheets you prefer,” she yawned, kissing the palm of his hand before making herself comfy.

“Of course I’d come, you mean a lot to me,” he said without thinking, stiffening when he heard the words slip from his mouth. They had danced around the truth for nearly two years. It was never meant to be more than a convenience, a distraction. But there it was, an admission of something more, spoken aloud and hanging heavy in the air between them.

Lilya didn’t acknowledge what had transpired. She just turned in his arms, curling in toward him and settled in his embrace, something she had never done unprompted before.

“Goodnight, Illario.”

“Goodnight, Lilya.”

---

He did not have a good night.

It wasn’t the rock in his back, or the bugs he was sure were crawling into his pants and into places he didn’t want to think about. It was the feeling that this- whatever this was - was more than either of them had been willing to name. And now it was out there. What did it mean? Would she pull away? Could he let her?

He was exhausted. Uncomfortable. Spiralling into existential uncertainty. The questions would’ve been easier to wrestle with if he were laying atop a feather-stuffed pillow and mattress.

Still, he’d endure worse, if it were for her.

He closed his eyes and took in a breath, nodding silently as the first pieces of the puzzle slipped into place. Seemed he already knew the answers to all his questions, maybe he’d known all along. Maybe he’d known that it wasn’t just about the thrill, or the secrecy, or the fact that she wasn’t supposed to matter. Because she did matter. More than anyone. Illario rested his chin on the crown of her head and let his silence, and her steady breaths, speak for what they couldn’t put into words just yet.

One day, he promised himself they would have a proper discussion about what they continued to skirt around. But before all of that, they were going to find a village, a tavern or a decrepit shack they could commandeer, because he was not going to sleep on the cold ground again. And if they were going to keep running around and play dumb to whatever was happening between them, he was going to make damn sure they were at least as comfortable as possible.

They deserved that much. Especially after all the dirt.

#illario summer appreciation #illario summer 2025 #illario summer appreciation week #illario dellamorte #Illario x rook #illarook #Illario summer day 2: camping/camping fire #dragon age the veilguard #dragon age fanfic

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