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symbiomancy · 1 month

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movie —getō suguru

—summary: You can't decide on an outfit to wear to the movies.

—cw: f!reader, brother x sister, p in v sex, creampie, foreplay // AO3 ver

—wc: 3,8k (send help)

—note: can't decide if suguru is a third year in high school or a first-year in university :/

Suguru leans against your doorway, arms crossed over his chest. He takes a moment to survey your room, the clothes strewn across the floor, even more clothes piled onto your computer chair, a mountain of makeup items on your desk. With any luck you’ll clean up before he plans to vacuum tomorrow afternoon but knowing you, he’ll end up sorting through everything and cleaning up for you.

Ah, the things he does for the sake of your company.

His eyes snap up from the floor when you step out from behind the closet, pulling a shirt over your head, the zipper of your skirt fisted in your free hand to keep it from slipping off.

“We’re going to be late,” he says and you visibly jump, tug the shirt over your head, hair sticking out in every direction. You frown at him, grab the first shirt off the floor your hand finds and throw it at his head. He catches it with ease, stares at you with an unamused look.

“Pervert,” you say, turning to the full-length mirror resting against the wall. “I can’t get these stupid socks to stay up.” You lift a leg to show off your white over the knee sock; its’ top curls into itself with the movement, slides down your knee.

“C’mere.” Suguru pushes off the doorway, beckons you along with the sweep of his hand. He piles your array of decorative pillows and stuffed animals to one side of the bed, just enough to give himself room to sit, and pats his thigh. You pull the packet of double-sided tape from the nightstand next to your bed, press it into his waiting hand, and sit on his lap. Suguru raises a brow at the back of your neck but doesn’t say anything, busies himself with peeling the strips of tape from the glossy paper to not be distracted by the way you squirm in his lap, his cock pressing against your ass.

He presses the pieces of tape against your thigh, then tugs the over-the-knee sock up. “Press down,” he says, breath ghosting against the shell of your ear. You clear your throat, let him adjust your fingers, and do as he says. Suguru places the tape onto your other thigh, pulls the sock over it and presses down, hands cupped around your thigh so everything adheres.

They’re warm, large. Sturdy. He cooks, he cleans — he folds your knees over your shoulders with them. Simple black rings adorn his fingers. His nail polish is chipping; you’re not sure if you have any black left. You make a mental note to grab a bottle from the store on your way home from the movie.

“There.” He tentatively releases his hold on your thigh. The ghost of his touch lingers, thrums beneath your skin. You peel yourself from his lap and skitter over to your mirror, do a twirl, lift one leg and then the other, drop into a crouch and stand again. The socks and their tape stay in place. You flash him a grin from the mirror, blow him a kiss that he catches, presses against his cheek. Warmth blooms in your chest.

Suguru lets himself flop onto his back, fishing his phone from his pocket to check the time. If you manage to get off your ass and get dressed in the next 15 minutes you might actually make it to the movie. 10 minutes, if you want to grab something from the concession stand. He navigates to the cinema’s homepage to check if and when there are any screenings for tomorrow. Then again, cleaning with you in the house is a day-long activity.

You frown at your reflection. Now that the socks stay up, you realize the pretty lace at the top doesn’t go with your skirt. It drops into an unceremonious pile on the floor as you unzip it and beeline over to your closet to flip through the skirts piled on their shelf. Maybe you should do a thorough try-on one day and get rid of everything you haven’t worn in a while or will never wear again. Bet your big brother would like that. You conjure an image of his heavy, heated gaze, staring at you through lidded eyes, a finger raised in a signal to give him a pretty twirl. The mere idea of it sends a jolt of excitement through your very being and you bury your face into the smooth fabric of a white skirt and squeal.

“You weren’t any more or less dressed when I got in the shower. Half an hour ago.” Suguru glances up from his phone just as you’ve stepped into the white skirt, tugging the zipper up.

“Yes, I was.” You stare at your reflection in the mirror. “Fuck, I need a new shirt.”

“What did I say about swearing?”

Heat erupts in your cheeks, in your ears, rolls into your torso and spreads into your extremities.

Suguru tucks away his phone, looks at you from his spot between the round migrating plushies, swats one away with his hand. It rolls off the bed. When you lean forward to grab a shirt from the ground, Suguru gets a full view of your ass, the curve of your cunt just barely peeking out. He places a hand over his half-hard cock, palms it through his pants. “The fuck are you wearing? That’s not underwear; that’s silly string between your ass.”

“Is so.” Your hand shoots to your behind, tucks the skirt hem against your cheeks. “You can see it through the fabric can’t you?”

“That too.” Even if there’s barely anything to see, he thinks, but doesn’t bother verbalizing it.

You frown, brows furrowed, and turn your lower body to check your reflection in the mirror. It’s not noticeable unless you know where to look, but if you lean forward… The skirt hikes up when you test it and you make an indignant noise in the back of your throat, stand up ramrod straight.

“Seriously?” You tug on the back of your skirt again, lean forward. It hikes up again, pussy on full display.

Suguru has tucked his phone back into his pocket, now upright again, sitting on the edge of your bed, elbows resting on his knees. He eyes the flimsy fabric, the way you flash your pretty little cunt at him every time you try to bend over and the skirt hikes up. A warmth curls at the base of his spine and his cock jerks in his pants, tenting the material. He stands.

You don’t even notice he’s moved at all until he stops behind you, swings an arm around your front, pulls you flush against him. He rolls his hips against your ass, cock straining in his pants. You push back against his body, delight in the little gasp it elicits from him, so breathy. “See what you do to me?” He mutters, words muffled against the side of your neck. “Are you going to take responsibility for getting your big brother like this?”

You hum, a denial on the tip of your tongue as you lean forward to adjust your frilly socks, and Suguru’s body follows, arms still tightly wound around your waist. His cock presses against your barely-covered pussy, drags the fabric just enough to send a jolt to your core, heat pooling between your legs. You take an even breath in, ignore the heat of his breaths against your skin.

“That’s a you problem, pervert.”

Suguru releases his grip on you, tilts his head just enough to catch your eye in the mirror; one which you immediately turn your gaze away from to stare at your socked feet, hands working on smoothing down the wrinkles in your skirt. Maybe this one won’t do, either. You very pointedly don’t look up when his hands rest on your shoulders and he coaxes you to turn around to face him.

He leans forward, wraps his arms around your thighs and throws you over his shoulder. You squeal, hands finding purchase in the back of his black shirt, and his own hand smacks against your ass with a crisp smack and you nearly squeal again. Suguru turns, stalks across the room and drops you onto the spot he’d cleared on your bed, although it has once again been overtaken by your round forever migrating plushies. They bounce with you, several dropping to the ground and rolling away.

You barely have enough time to reorient yourself when his hands close around your ankles and tug you over to the edge of the bed. He leans in, one knee placed on the very edge of your bed, just shy of your cunt, hands on either side of your head. His hair is messy, strands falling out of the half-up style he’s sporting.

“Now is that any way to talk to your big brother?” He brushes a strand of hair away from your forehead with a hum. “I cook for you, clean, help you with your homework, let you climb into my bed because you’re so afraid of the dark—”

Your hand strikes out, aiming for his side but he catches it, fingers wrapping tightly around yours. He lifts it to his face and presses a kiss against the inside of your wrist. “S-Sorry,” you croak out with what must amount to a grimace, not an attempt at a smile.

“I take care of you… I spoil you rotten, and you call me a pervert.” He tuts. “I can look at you if I want to; you were made for me. These hands,” he spreads your fingers, laces them with his, “this face,” his eyes land on you, half-lidded and smoldering, and heat erupts under your skin, blooms in your face and you have the sudden desire to shy away from him, burrow between the blankets and never look at him again. “This body — this pussy.” He brings his knee forward, presses it against your cunt, smears your arousal against the jean fabric. Your mouth falls open, back arching, hips bucking into him. “Everything about you was made for me. Just me.”

The world swims. You breathe in, nearly choke on it when Suguru adjusts his knee, the coarse jean fabric dragging against your throbbing pussy. He’s so good, always knows how to take care of you, better than anyone.

“Say it.”

“What?” You blink, mind fuzzy, composure fraying at the edges.

“You were made for me.”

“I was made for you.”

“Good girl.” Suguru leans in, presses his face to the crook of your neck, lips ghosting over the sensitive skin. A shiver strikes down your spine, into your core, wetness pooling between your legs. His lips press down into a chaste kiss against your neck and u whimper. He gains courage from it, brings his lips flush against your skin in featherlight open-mouthed kisses. They trail up the column of your neck, over the curve of your jaw, to the corner of your mouth. He pulls back with a grin, pupils blown, eyes half-lidded.

You pout up at him, bring a hand to the back of his neck, the soft strands of hair splayed between your fingers, and pull his lips onto yours. His tongue surges forward, pries your lips apart and wraps around your own. There are large hands in your hair and on your throat and on your jaw, fingers pressing down against your cheeks, cupping your face. He tastes like mint, like that gum he likes, the one that’s so overwhelmingly minty it makes you sneeze every time you chew it. But on his tongue, it’s a pleasant aftertaste, something you could easily get addicted to.

Suguru adjusts his stance, leans on one hand to bring the other one away from your face to explore your body, fingers ghosting over your skin. They graze the underwire of your bra and he pulls back abruptly, a string of spit connecting your lips, to frown at the offending garment.

You follow his gaze, prop yourself onto your elbows, fingers attempting to undo the hooks at your back. Suguru stares at your exposed throat and leans in to press a chaste kiss against it. Then another and another, trailing down as you frantically attempt to dislodge the bra hooks, heart thundering in your chest. He grazes his teeth over your skin, bites down and you mewl at the pain that erupts in your flesh. Suguru mutters an apology against your throat, presses his tongue flat against the bite. It soothes the pain, but does little to calm your pulse in your ears.

Your hands are shaking, a sob stuck in your throat. This stupid bra and those stupid hooks, bent out of shape and always getting stuck, ruining everything —

“Breathe,” Suguru mumbles as he resumes his movement, inching closer to your breasts. “You can do it. Take a breath.” His hands glide down the length of your torso, grab a handful of ass each, and squeeze. “You’re okay.”

You swallow around the panic clawing up your throat and run your fingers over the hooks behind your back. Two are loose, just the one remaining latched. Suguru’s lips return to you, bite down at the skin pulled taut over the collarbone. He suckles on the blooming bruise, runs his warm tongue over it to soothe the ache.

The bra finally — finally — releases and you claw the straps from your shoulders, discard the item onto the floor and tangle your fingers in his hair. Suguru snatches your free hand, pins it against the bed, continues his assault of open-mouthed kisses over the expanse of your skin. He nibbles on the plush of your breast.

His tongue circles your nipple, glides over it and you buck your hips voluntarily. His hot mouth closes around the stiff peak and he chuckles. It reverberates against your skin, in the very cavity of your chest. You shiver, too warm and too cold at once, and grind down on the knee between your legs.

Suguru releases your breast, huffs a cool breath against it and you inhale, sharp and high-pitched. He tuts. “So impatient.” His grip on your thighs slackens, moves across the skin, fingertips leaving goosebumps in their wake. They stop at the hem of your skirt, lingering there for just a moment and you whine, tug on the fistful of hair in your vise grip. His mouth falls open in a barely audible gasp, eyes fluttering shut, a notch between his brows.

Fuck, you think, that had to have hurt. You untangle your shaking hand, wince when a few strands stick to your sweaty fingers and tug his head along. Sorry, sorry, sorry, you chant in your head, angling your hand between your bodies to tug at the skirt’s zipper. One of his hands swats yours away, then pushes under the white fabric. His fingers ghost over your underwear — fuck, there really is barely any fabric to it — over your clit and you buck against them.

“Keep it on,” he says, voice smooth and rich. His fingers burrow under your underwear — really, you’re never wearing anything like that out of the house, period, he’ll make sure of it if he has to — and slide through your folds, circle your clit. His thumb comes to rest against your entrance. He pulls your lips apart, gathers your essence onto the digit.

“Suguru…” You whine. He hums, takes a breath to ease the horrible discomfort rearing it’s ugly head in his pants. “Stop teasing and put it in already; you’re gonna ruin it if you keep being mean.”

He laughs, low and honey-like as he withdraws slightly, places his hands onto your thighs to push them apart. He snatches a decorative pillow from the foot of your bed to prop under your hips. It leaves him nearly at eye-level with your weeping cunt. The non-existent underwear is drenched and he pushes the sopping fabric aside, stares at the threads of slick connecting it to your swollen pussy. He pauses, watches you clench around nothing and fuck, it sends a jolt straight to his dick. It presses against the crotch of his jeans, so hard it aches. At this pace, he might cum on the spot.

“You’re going to kill me like this, baby,” he says as he hooks his fingers over your ruined panties and tugs them down your thighs.

“You gotta make up your mind; do you want my legs open or closed?”

He sends you a playful glare and pulls his shirt over his head, drops it onto the pile on the floor. His belt buckle clangs against the wooden floor and he almost trips over his pants and boxers when you let your thighs fall open, a hand spreading your pussy. You clench around nothing, so desperate for your big brother’s cock.

Suguru spits into his hand, gives his cock three quick tugs because that’s all he can handle; he might really bust in his hand like a loser if he doesn’t get to be inside you right now. He lines himself up, drags the tip through your folds, gathering your arousal on his tip and you moan, low and just barely there but it sends a fire spreading under his skin and he can see his cock jump at the sound.

He presses the head of his cock against your dripping cunt and pauses just as he’s about to breach it. “Breathe,” he instructs, “relax. I take care of you, don’t I?” You nod frantically, take a deep breath in to quell your racing heart. Suguru nudges the tip of his cock inside and slides in slowly, inch-by-inch, breath by breath. When he bottoms out, pelvis flush against yours, he pauses and you both release a long breath. He’s so big, so thick, fills you up so perfectly — fuck, maybe you really were tailor-made for him — and you clench around him — fuck, you can barely clench those muscles with him inside — and he exhales, quick this time, nothing but a low hiss of pleasure. You’re so warm, so tight, he’s going to lose his mind, and he decides that yes, this is the only pussy he wants out of this life, yours, always yours because fuck, you take him so well.

You reach out, place your hands onto his shoulders, slide them across the skin until your fingers meet at the nape of his neck.

Suguru leans down, presses a kiss to your lips, tongue wrapped around yours. He swallows your wanton moan, sinks his teeth into your bottom lip. You clench around him involuntarily. “Shit — you’re gonna fuckin’ castrate me like this, baby. Are you that desperate for your big brother’s cock?” His hips twitch and he pulls back slightly, agonizingly slow but the drag of him is so sweet you see black spots in the edge of your vision. He fills you up so well when he bottoms out, tip nudging so deep you almost see stars.

He picks up the pace, hips jerking forward faster, harsher, and your eyes roll back and you’re merely working with Suguru’s motions now. He’s rutting into your poor pussy like an animal in heat, heavy breaths escaping him, caressing your sweat-slick skin. Heat coils in your stomach, you’re so close to the edge, ready to tip off and dissolve into a gooey, mindless, weightless bliss.

“Suguru, I’m—”

“Do it.”

Heat flushes through you, pussy clenching around him as your orgasm crashes into you, knocks the breath from your lungs. The world becomes blurry, you can barely register your own ragged breaths as the warmth travels through you, and white sparks behind your eyelids if you try to close them. The euphoria of it races through your veins, sets every nerve ending alight, tapering at your fingertips. It laps at your thoughts, submerges every possible thought in a sea of Suguru, how good he is to you, how good he makes you feel, how well his cock fits into you, and how well you fit around his cock, like you’re made for each other.

Suguru’s hips speed up, it’s too much and you want to cry but it’s heavenly, too much and too little at the same time, you want to push him away and pull him in at the same time. He’s pistoning into you, rhythm almost sloppy, and then—

He stills abruptly, presses himself deep into your still-spasming cunt, so deep it draws another mewl from your lips, and spills inside. Warm, he’s so warm, he fills you up so well. You wrap your exhausted, shaking, legs around his waist, hook your heels together to keep him in place. Every muscle in your body is sore, screaming for rest as he drapes his torso on top of yours, forehead resting against your shoulder, chest heaving.

He becomes dead weight on top of you all at once. His skin is sticky with a sheen of sweat and you place a hand on the back of his neck, card your fingers through the sweat-slick strands of what has remained of his hairstyle. The world stands still for a few moments, the rev of an engine and bird chitter filtering in through the cracked window. This is nice, you decide, you could stay here, like this, with your big brother, the moment frozen in time forever for you to keep.

Then Suguru groans, braces his hands on either side of his hips and pushes himself up with shaking arms and pulls out. His cum dribbles out of you as he leaves and you almost sigh. This is a nice set of sheets. He stays as he is, hunched over, arms slowly regaining their strength, and stares, transfixed, as his cum oozes out of you. He eases himself onto his knees in front of the bed and scoops some of the escaping cum up with his fingers, pushes it back into your puffy cunt. You whine low in your throat and his gaze snaps up.

“I’m sticky ‘cause of you.”

He sighs and dissolves into a short, low laugh. He pulls his fingers out, wipes them against your thigh. “C’mon,” he wraps a hand around either ankle and pulls you closer, “bath time.” He unzips your skirt and tugs the socks free of the tape — hey, they survived you getting railed by your big brother — and discards them amidst the piles of clothes on the floor.

“But we’re missing the movie.”

“We can go tomorrow. Or…” He stands, slides one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, lifts you up. You cringe when your body is jostled with the movement and something slips out of you, glance over your shoulder at the glob of cum that’s splattered on the floor. “We could just make our own movie. When you’re older.”

note: iirc this is my first actual p in v smut, we can only go up from here, lads

divider/banner credit: @/cafekitsune

#jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru x you #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk imagines #jjk smut #geto x reader #geto x you #getou suguru x reader #getou suguru x you #geto suguru x y/n #getou suguru smut #geto suguru smut #getou suguru x y/n

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symbiomancy · 1 month

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skirt —getō suguru

—summary: Your big brother says your skirt is too short; he knows best, after all.

—cw: f!reader, fem nicknames, brother x sister, slight manhandling, spanking / ao3 ver

—wc: 1,7k

—note: this is probably no jujutsu AU

“Hold it right there.”

You turn towards the voice with your brows raised, as if you’re asking him to challenge you, to keep you from the cool spring air on the other side of the front door. Suguru is leaning against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed over his chest. The curves of his biceps have become more prominent lately; him and his stupid private boarding school. The sleeveless shirts he’s started wearing since winter ended have not been kind to you.

“What? You’re making me late.”

He nods at you. “Fingertips.”

You place your hands against your thighs. The hem of your skirt barely reaches your fingertips, but it does reach them. You grace your brother with a grin. “There? Happy?” You don’t bother waiting for an answer and grab your purse and coat, hand already pulling on the door handle to make your escape. “Be back around 10, probably. Bye!”

Almost there. Almost out. The smell of spring invades the house from the small crack between the door and the doorframe. The streetlights are in view with their dim light—

There’s a hand in your peripheral, reaching around you, fingers curled around yours to pull the door closed. The automatic lock triggers with a click. You feel his warm breath on the back of your neck. It leaves goosebumps in its wake, sends a shiver down your spine, a flash of heat between your legs. You press your thighs together, shift subtly but he’s pressed against your back. His free arm snakes around your waist, drops to the hem of your skirt to rub the fabric between his fingers. He’s so warm.

“Drop your shoulders,” Suguru says, voice smooth and rich. Another flash of heat, slick pooling in your panties. You swallow tightly, will your voice to work.

“I did.”

“Then you can do it again.” He pulls back and you almost stumble, wanting to follow where his body heat goes.

You turn with a scowl, fist the strap of your small pink purse in your hand, coat draped over one arm. Suguru waves his fingers in a come hither motion. You press your hand against your exposed thigh, fingertips just where the skirt ends.

“Drop your shoulders.”

You muster the heat of a thousand suns into your glare and drop your shoulders. The edge of your skirt brushes against your palm. “I have long hands!”

“Change, or you’re not going.”

“I hate you.” You let your purse and coat drop to the ground, toe off your sneakers and step past Suguru, knocking your shoulder against his. It hurts and you almost lose your balance but he doesn't even acknowledge the hit. Suguru’s hand comes to steady you, large and warm against the thin fabric of your shirt. You brush him off, disappear into the house.

Suguru sighs, curses under his breath, and picks up your coat and purse, hangs them in their usual spots. He places your sneakers in their place, too. He steps back into the kitchen, turns off the stove, and leaves the food in the pot.

When he finally makes his way to the living room, you’ve tucked yourself into the far corner of the small couch, knees pulled to your chest, skirt splayed out around you. He catches a glimpse of your underwear — not even wearing shorts under that skirt, how shameless of you — and averts his eyes, ignoring the burn in his ears. Something in his body stirs.

“Dinner’s on the stove,” he says as he seats himself on the other end of the couch, arm draped along the backrest. He can almost touch you, the tips of his fingers just about grazing the arm looped around your knees.

“Uh-huh.” You don’t look at him, choose to stare at the telenovela playing on the TV instead.

Suguru finds himself not caring about the umpteenth divorce on the TV screen. Looking at you is an infinitely more pleasant way to pass the time; always has been. You were made after him, so of course you’re for him. He can look at you all he wants, no matter if you're asleep, tucked against his side, or changing with your door open just enough that he can see you from the reflection of the hallway mirror, or if he barges into the bathroom when you're showering to grab something, ducking the soapy bath sponge you throw at his head.

He stares at the buckles of your skirt, the one that’s pressing into your side. He can see the harsh indent forming on your skin when you shift yourself further away from him.

“That can’t be comfortable.”

You level him with a glare, a small crease between your brows. “You said change, or I’m not going. I chose not going.”

“Stop moping. You have no idea how horny teenage boys are; if anything, I’m doing you a favor.”

“You’re not even that much older, stop acting so high and mighty.”

“I’m old enough to babysit you.”

You open your mouth to retort, say something that’ll definitely earn you his ire until he has to go back to his dorm when your phone rings. The shrill ringtone blares in the quiet of the house. Nobara’s name stares back at you on the phone screen. You accept the call.

“Where are you!?”

“I can’t come.”

“What? Why?”

“Suguru’s home. He said I’m not going.”

There’s a brief silence on the other end of the line. “Just… bring him along.”

“No, he’s being a dickhead.”

A hand grasps your ankle and you’re dragged across the couch, onto Suguru’s lap. He’s wrapped one arm around your waist, the other wrenching your phone out of your hand.

“I gave you the option to change; stop being a brat.” He manages to pry your fingers open and pull the phone from them, place it at his own ear. You strike your hand out, nearly missing his when he leans back to hold your phone out of your reach and you scramble onto your knees, placed on either side of his thighs, to grab it. “They’re staying in. Goodbye.”

You press forward, trying to reach his hand.

He could die happy, he thinks, as you press your chest against his face. The pendant on your necklace almost smacks him in the eye, but he’ll take it, if it means you won’t pull away eventually. It would be a good way to go, smothered by his little sister’s tits. The phone almost slips from between his fingers as he entertains the idea — because they’re soft, he knows they’re soft, he’s felt them between his fingers when you’ve crawled into his bed in the middle of the night because you couldn’t sleep — but you manage to grab it, sink onto his lap, just next to his half-hard cock, thumbing through your contacts with a frown.

“Dickhead,” you mumble, letting your body tip to the side until gravity drags you down onto your side, one leg still hooked over his lap.

He can’t let you insult him like that, now can he?

You almost hiss at him when he grabs your phone from your hand again and tosses it to the side, hands on your waist to pull you towards him. Your skirt rides up, exposing your panties, pink with pretty frills. Suguru traces the direction of the frills with his fingers over the curve of your ass to the inside of your thigh. Your pussy throbs dully. He’s so close, he’s so close, your heart is racing in your chest, mind hazy because he’s so close, he could just—

He brings a hand down onto your exposed asscheek. A half-choked squeal escapes your lips, drives the air from your lungs. It stings.

“What have I said about swearing, huh?”

You open your mouth to retort when his hand comes down on the tender flesh again. It stings, sends a jolt of pain up your spine, and warmth pooling between your legs, sticking to your underwear. But his hand doesn’t leave, only massages the large imprint it’s left behind.

“So?” He grabs a handful of your cheek, squeezes it. You take a breath in, release it slowly. Your face burns.

“P-Pretty girls don’t swear.”

His hand releases your flesh and you have half a mind to whine at the loss of contact when it comes down on your cheek again. The sting of it jolts everywhere. The world swims, you press your thighs together, flex the muscles.

“And you’re the prettiest girl there is. So?”

“No swearing.”

“Good girl.”

Suguru’s fingertips drag over the sore flesh, dip between your legs, over your clothed pussy, slick seeping through the thin fabric. Your breath hitches in your throat as he presses a finger down, prodding at your entrance. There’s heat alight under your skin, rolling into your extremities, between your legs.

He’s so close, so close, he could just brush the fabric aside and take you right there on the couch, bully your pussy with his big cock (it has to be big, you've felt it against your ass when you've climbed into his bed) until you can't take it anymore (but it's fine, you have other holes he can use) because he’s your big brother and he loves you, right? Your parents won't be home before morning, anyway, he could drag it out as long as he wants to. You wiggle, brace your hands against the couch armrest to give yourself leverage to push against his fingers. He just needs to nudge the ruined fabric aside and take the plunge —

Suguru pulls his hand away, pulls your skirt down to cover your ass. There’s a lump in your throat as you shimmy away from him to sit onto your heels. You wince at the sting in your backside.

“You’re mean.” You sniffle, wipe at your misty eyes with the back of your hand.

“I’m sorry, princess.” He grasps your chin, pulls you in and places a kiss against the corner of your mouth. He lingers for a moment, breath fanning your lower lip. Then, he reaches for the throw blanket draped over the couch backrest and places it onto your shoulders. He tucks the ends once you’re sufficiently swaddled. You shimmy until you can lay on your side, head resting on his lap.

The telenovela continues its fifty-something episode divorce arc.

“You want dinner?”

“Later.”

“Okay.” He brushes a strand of hair from your face, curls another around his finger and focuses on the TV.

a/n: ahhh I feel rusty

dividers from @/cafekitsune

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