Ong shikamaru pulling out to slap your pussy when you get too needy 😏
You could barely move. Your hips and thighs burned from being folded in the same position for so long—legs forced all the way back, knees pressed nearly to your shoulders, ankles locked in the firm, unyielding grip of Shikamaru’s hands. The stretch had long since crossed from uncomfortable into something sharper and meaner: a deep, shaking ache that lived in the hinges of your joints, the soft vulnerable insides of your thighs, and the tight pull of muscle along your hips. Every time he shifted even a fraction—every time he rolled his hips or adjusted his hold—the burn flared hotter, a bright, helpless flare that made your toes curl and your breath hitch. You could feel the strain in every fiber, your body locked open for him, completely unable to close your legs or ease the pressure no matter how much your muscles trembled and begged for relief.
Your cunt throbbed from being edged for what felt like an eternity. The pulse of it was relentless, a heavy, wet, insistent ache that sat right behind your clit and radiated outward in hot waves. The little pearl had long since swollen past its hood, shiny and flushed a deep, angry pink, peeking out fully as if begging for attention it wasn’t going to get. It twitched visibly with every beat of your heart, so sensitive that even the air against it felt like too much. Your pussy was so messy it was obscene. Thick, shiny trails of slick coated the insides of your thighs from the crease of your hips all the way down to your ass, pooling beneath you on the sheets in a dark, spreading stain. Every time Shikamaru bottomed out, more of it gushed out around his cock in wet, filthy pulses—loud, slick sounds that filled the quiet room, the kind of wet noise that made heat crawl up your neck even through the haze of desperation. Your entrance was swollen and puffy, the outer lips shiny and parted around the thick stretch of him, inner walls clinging greedily every time he moved.
He had been fucking you for what felt like hours.
His thick cock bullied your cervix with every deep, measured thrust. The blunt, heavy head kissed that sensitive ring of muscle at the end of you, pressing just hard enough to make your stomach flutter with a mix of pressure and sharp pleasure, then dragged back across your sweet spot on the way out with slow, deliberate friction. Slow. Deliberate. The kind of pace that never quite let you fall, only kept you suspended right at the edge, your orgasm coiling tighter and tighter without ever snapping. His dark eyes stayed locked on yours the entire time, half-lidded and calm, like he was watching something mildly interesting rather than the way your body kept trying to break apart underneath him—the way your stomach tensed, the way your thighs shook, the way your cunt fluttered and clenched around every inch of him.
“Shhh,” he murmured, voice low and almost gentle whenever you tried to buck your hips up to meet him. The sound was pure faux sympathy, soft and cooing, the kind of tone that made the denial feel even more deliberate. “I know sweet girl. You’re so desperate, aren’t you? Look at you.” His thumbs stroked the soft, trembling insides of your knees almost soothingly even as he kept you pinned wide open, the pressure of his grip never easing. “Trying so hard to fuck yourself on my cock. So cute. Your little cunt’s already dripping down to the sheets and you still can’t stop chasing it even though it’ll get you nowhere.”
You whimpered. The sound came out broken, wet, half-swallowed. Your cunt clenched hard around him in response, greedy and fluttering, the inner walls spasming in tight, rhythmic pulses that milked another thick rush of slick out around his shaft. For a second the pleasure spiked so high your vision blurred at the edges, white sparks dancing behind your eyes. You were right there—right fucking there—orgasm coiling tight and mean in your belly, your clit throbbing so hard it felt like it might burst, your entrance trying to lock down around the thick base of him.
Shikamaru felt it the second it started.
He pulled out in one smooth, deliberate motion.
The sudden emptiness punched a sob out of you. Your cunt clenched around nothing, the empty walls fluttering wildly, another heavy gush of slick spilling out onto the already-soaked sheets. Before you could even process the loss, his hand came down. Three sharp, wet spanks landed directly on your dripping cunt in quick succession. The first one cracked across your swollen outer folds with a loud, wet slap, sending a bright sting radiating through the oversensitive tissue. The second caught your exposed clit dead-on, the impact sharp and precise, making the swollen pearl jump and throb under the force. The third smeared your own slick higher up your mound, fingers dragging through the mess as the spank landed. Each impact sent white-hot sparks racing up your spine and down into your empty cunt. Your hips jerked helplessly against nothing, thighs straining hard in his grip. Tears pricked hot at the corners of your eyes.
“Ah-ah,” he cooed, louder now, almost pleased, watching the way your pussy kept twitching and leaking under his palm. “None of that baby. You don’t get to come just because you’re leaking all over my sheets.” His fingers stayed pressed against your pussy for a long moment, feeling how soaked you were, how your entrance kept twitching and trying to suck something—anything—back inside. He rubbed two fingers slowly through the mess, spreading the slick, feeling the way your swollen folds parted for him. Slick stretched between his fingers in sticky, shiny strands when he finally lifted his hand. Only when it clung to his skin in thick, glistening threads did he line himself up again and push back in.
The stretch was almost too much after the brief emptiness. His cock filled you in one long, relentless glide, the thick shaft forcing your walls open inch by inch until his hips were flush against yours again and the blunt head of him was kissing your cervix once more. You sobbed. Your walls fluttered and clenched around the thick intrusion like they were trying to milk him, trying to force the orgasm he kept denying you, the inner muscles spasming in continuous, helpless little contractions that only made the wet sounds louder.
“There we go sweetheart, there we go,” Shikamaru murmured, voice still that same soft, condescending croon. He started moving again—slow, deep, punishingly thorough. Every thrust dragged the full length of his cock against the same oversensitive places, the head bullying your cervix, the shaft grinding over your sweet spot with wet, deliberate friction. Every retreat left you empty just long enough to make the next thrust feel like too much, the stretch borderline overwhelming. “So good for me when you’re like this. All fucked-out and shaking. You can barely even think, can you? Just this messy little cunt clenching around my cock and those pretty tears in your eyes.”
You couldn’t. Thought had narrowed down to the burn in your thighs, the wet slap of his cock moving through the mess he’d made of you, and the constant, cruel tease of almost-release. Your clit pulsed in time with your heartbeat, so swollen it hurt, the hood completely pulled back, the pearl shiny and desperate every time the base of him ground against it. Every time that happened on a particularly deep thrust, your whole body jerked, a broken sound tearing out of your throat.
He felt the next spike coming before you did.
Out again.
Spank. Spank. Spank.
The third one landed harder this time, right over your clit, the wet crack loud in the quiet room. The sound that tore out of you was half-sob, half-scream. Tears slipped free, sliding hot down your temples into your hair. Your cunt clenched around nothing, gushing another thick rush of slick that painted his fingers shiny and ran down over your ass. Your thighs jerked hard in his grip, the stretch burning hotter with every desperate movement.
“Poor little baby,” he cooed, almost sweetly, watching your face with those dark, calm eyes. “You’re right there, aren’t you? Hurts, doesn’t it? Being this close for so long. That little clit all swollen and neglected while your cunt keeps trying to come on nothing.” He waited until your slick was clinging to his hand in long, sticky strands again before guiding his cock back to your entrance. He didn’t thrust this time—just pressed the blunt head against your swollen, dripping hole and let you feel the stretch as he sank in slow, slow, slow. The head popped past your entrance with a wet sound, then the thick shaft followed, forcing your walls open until he was buried to the hilt and kissing your cervix once more. “But you’re going to take it. You’re going to stay open for me and keep clenching around my cock like the messy little slut you are until I decide you’ve earned it.”
Your answer was another broken whimper. Your walls fluttered around him in continuous, helpless little contractions, like your body was trying to force the orgasm out of pure desperation. The stretch of him against your cervix on every thrust had gone from intense to almost painful in the best way—a deep, heavy pressure that made your stomach flutter and your toes curl. Your thighs trembled hard in his grip. The burn in your hips had become a deep, constant fire, muscles locked and shaking, joints aching from being held open for so long.
He didn’t stop.
Shikamaru kept that same slow, devastating rhythm, hips rolling so every inch of his thick cock dragged against the places that made your vision white out. Your folded thighs trembled harder in his grip. The burn had gone past aching into something almost feverish—muscles locked, joints screaming, yet you couldn’t close your legs even if you tried. He held you open like it was nothing, like the strain of keeping you folded for this long was just another minor inconvenience he was too lazy to complain about. Slick continued to gush out around him with every thrust, running in warm, thick rivulets down your ass and soaking the sheets further. The wet sounds were filthy, constant—the slap of his hips against yours, the wet suck of your cunt around his cock, the soft, broken noises you couldn’t stop making.
Your cunt kept clenching around him in tight, rhythmic pulses. Every flutter milked another thick bead of slick out around his shaft. It ran down in warm rivulets, soaking the sheets beneath your ass, making the wet sounds of his thrusts even filthier. Your clit throbbed so hard it felt swollen beyond what should be possible, the little pearl fully out from under its hood, shiny and desperate every time the base of his cock ground against it. The contact was electric, too much and not enough all at once, sending sharp sparks of pleasure-pain up your spine.
“Look at that,” he murmured, dark eyes never leaving yours. His voice stayed soft, almost fond, the way someone might speak to a pet that was being particularly pathetic. “Still trying to come. Even after all this time. You’re shaking so hard I can feel it through my hands.” He gave your thighs a light squeeze, thumbs pressing into the trembling, overstretched muscle, feeling the way it jumped under his touch. “Does it hurt, baby? Being this close and not getting to fall? That pretty little cunt of yours is so swollen and messy for me. I can feel every single time it tries to lock down.”
You nodded frantically, a broken sound catching in your throat. Words wouldn’t form. Your hips tried to jerk up to meet him again—small, abortive little movements that only made the stretch in your folded position worse, the burn flaring hotter as your body fought the position he kept you in.
Shikamaru felt the next spike the second it started.
He pulled out.
The emptiness was brutal. Your cunt clenched around nothing, fluttering wildly, another rush of slick spilling out onto the sheets in a thick, shiny pulse. Before the sob fully left your mouth his hand was already coming down.
Spank.
Spank.
Spank.
Three sharp, wet cracks right across your dripping folds. The third one landed dead on your exposed clit and your whole body arched as much as the position allowed, a raw, desperate sound tearing out of you. Tears spilled freely now. Your thighs jerked hard in his grip. The sound that tore out of you was raw, desperate, almost animal. Your pussy kept twitching and leaking under his palm, the swollen folds shiny and red from the repeated spanks, your entrance gaping slightly and trying to suck at nothing.
“Shhh,” he cooed, louder, watching the way your pussy kept twitching and leaking under his palm. Slick clung to his fingers in shiny strands when he finally lifted his hand. Only then did he notch the head of his cock against your entrance again and sink back in with one long, relentless thrust that forced the air from your lungs. The stretch was immediate and overwhelming, his thick cock forcing your walls open until he was buried deep and the head was pressing hard against your cervix.
“There. Does that feel better sweet baby?” His voice stayed that same gentle, condescending murmur even as he started moving again—deep, slow, punishing. Every thrust kissed your cervix. Every withdrawal dragged along that swollen sweet spot until your eyes rolled. “You’re doing so well. Taking it for so long. I know it hurts. I know your little cunt is aching to come. But you’re going to keep clenching around me just like this until I say otherwise.”
You were past coherent thought. The only things left were the burn in your hips, the constant heavy throb between your legs, and the cruel cycle of almost-release. Your walls never stopped fluttering around his cock, greedy and desperate, trying to pull him deeper, trying to force the orgasm he kept snatching away. Slick continued to pour out of you, coating his shaft, his balls, the insides of your thighs, running down to soak the sheets in a growing wet stain.
He edged you through another near-peak.
Then another.
Each time the same: the slow drag of his thick cock, the building pressure, the moment your body started to tip—and then the sudden emptiness, the sharp wet spanks across your soaked, oversensitive pussy, the soft cooing praises while you sobbed, and only when your slick was coating his hand again would he push back inside and start the whole merciless process over. Your clit pulsed visibly now, so swollen and neglected it hurt to look at, the little pearl shiny and red, twitching with every heartbeat. Every accidental brush of his pelvis against it sent lightning up your spine. Your thighs shook so hard the muscles in them jumped under his palms. Tears and sweat mixed on your skin. Your cunt was a mess of its own making—gushing, clenching, dripping down to your ass with every thrust, the entrance swollen and shiny and constantly trying to lock around him.
Shikamaru leaned in a little closer, dark eyes still locked on yours, expression calm and faintly amused.
“You’re close again,” he observed softly, almost conversational, even as your walls started that rapid, desperate fluttering around him. “I can feel it. That pretty little cunt of yours is trying so hard. Clenching and leaking and begging without a single word.” He didn’t pull out yet. He just slowed even further, grinding the head of his cock against your cervix in tiny, deliberate circles that made fresh tears spill and your stomach flutter with the heavy, almost-painful pressure. “Beg properly this time and maybe I’ll think about letting you come. Or maybe I’ll just keep you like this a little longer. You’re already such a mess for me… what’s a few more minutes?”
Your answer came out broken and wet, half-sob, half-plea, hips twitching uselessly against the burn of the position while your cunt kept clenching around him like it never wanted to let go—walls fluttering, slick gushing, clit throbbing, the entire oversensitive mess of you suspended right at the edge of something that still refused to break.
Big aspirations and even bigger dildos—in which a poorly thought out plan makes it incredibly hard to act like your feelings for Jean Kirstein are platonic. Not when they’re anything but. And especially not when you’re half naked in his lap.
18+ ONLY
wc — 2.7k
prompt — cockwarming, creampie
additional content — NSFW, 18+, best friends to lovers speed run, dildo use, implied masturbation, unprotected p in v, praise kink, jean kirstein’s big dick
“If you keep doing that, I’m gonna come,” Jean growls, and his low, rough tone sends you off-kilter, shoving you headfirst over the precarious edge you’ve been foolishly dangling from.
In retrospect, perhaps this wasn’t the best idea.
–
In the long list of questionable decisions you’ve made today, one of the first catalysts guaranteeing inevitable disaster was your lack of foresight to lock your bedroom door before stripping off your shorts and underwear and preparing to lower yourself down onto the ridiculously large dildo that had been delivered in an even more comically large Amazon box this morning.
Your best friend of many years and college roommate, Jean Kirstein, came home just as your makeshift “stand”—you’d hastily attached the suction cup at the base of the dildo to the last clean plate in the cabinet for lack of a better surface—went flying across the rug, ripping the few inches you’d manage to ease down onto right out of your lube-slick channel. You’d hit the floor with a thud, growling in frustration. This, understandably, had the unfortunate effect of attracting the concern of said roommate, who swiftly burst into your room as if you were in the middle of being robbed.
The concern quickly morphed into hysterics as he spotted the giant purple dildo wiggling uselessly a few feet away from where you were lying on your stomach, punching the carpet and yelling at him to get out with as much dignity as you could muster.
“That’s my shirt,” he commented dryly, ignoring your pleas for him to forget everything he had just seen.
“Well it was in my drawer,” you spat back, trying to push the dildo-plate behind you, although the damage was already done.
Jean leaned against the doorframe, folding his arms. “I have so many questions.”
“Our business hours are between 8 and 5, so you’ll have to call back tomorrow. Sorry,” you said with a dismissive wave, subtly kicking the plate and dildo beneath the bed.
The suction cup chose that moment to pop off, and all ten inches came rolling back into view right where a bar of sunlight was stretching across the floor from the window. It would have almost looked artsy.
If it weren’t a fucking dildo.
“I thought you ordered a lamp,” he observed mildly, motioning to the huge cardboard box you’d yet to take out to the recycling bin.
“I’m gonna order you a fleshlight if you don’t shut up,” you grumbled, shoving on a pair of sweatpants.
Jean crinkled his nose, running a hand through his hair. “That thing’s so big, the landlord might start charging us for three tenants if he sees it. Is this a cry for help?”
“I’m trying to prepare myself for seducing Eren at the party Saturday night,” you whisper-yelled, as if anyone else was going to overhear you in your otherwise empty apartment.
“Jaeger?!” he barked out with a disbelieving laugh.
“Everyone says he’s huge. I don’t want it to be a disaster.”
“He’s not that fucking big!” he exclaimed incredulously.
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Can you like, go be somewhere tonight? Go get so high with Conny you forget you saw anything? I’m gonna go try in the bathroom instead.”
“You’re kicking me out of my own apartment so you can shove a giant, sparkly purple dildo inside of yourself imagining it’s Jaeger’s dork ass?”
“I love it when you talk dirty to me, Jean.”
He groaned. “The bathroom sounds like an even worse idea. You’ll slip, hit your head on something, blood will go everywhere, and we’ll lose the security deposit.”
“Or my plan will work, I’ll get laid this weekend, and you can stop complaining about how grumpy I’ve been lately,” you reasoned matter-of-factly.
Jean’s hand came to rest on your shoulder as you attempted to push past him to leave the room, aforementioned dildo jiggling menacingly in your hand. “You’re gonna hurt yourself,” he said a little more softly, raising a brow as he cast another look at the offending object.
“I have lube!” you shot back defensively.
Jean glanced up at the ceiling, muttering something about regret under his breath before exhaling, “Let me help you.”
–
In all the years that you’ve known Jean, you’ve done an excellent job at keeping your little crush on him your best kept secret. A secret kept under the most formidable lock and key, buried deep in the depths of your psyche. Tucked away in the very back of a dusty, old cabinet like an expired can of corn.
Objectively, you know Jean’s handsome. You’re well aware.
With his intense, hazel eyes—ones that see everything.
His tall, solid form.
His sinfully curved, pink lips (and his habit of idly sliding his tongue along the bottom one).
His long, dexterous fingers—a dangerous thought.
That fucking mullet he let grow in, which shouldn’t be nearly as sexy as it is when he rolls right out of bed and leaves his room looking like a pillow-rumpled supermodel.
He’s hot, okay?
And sure, you’ve drunkenly kissed at a few parties over the years. Jean’s seen your ass more times than you can count. Definitely your boobs that time he ran into the bathroom to puke while you were showering. Sometimes he has a habit of putting his head on your lap when you’re both on the couch, nudging you till you card your hands through his soft brown hair like a damn dog.
But it’s always been platonic.
Friendly.
Two people who are just very, very comfortable with one another. Comfortable in knowing that neither intends to ruin their stable, solid friendship by carelessly sprinkling feelings into the mix.
Comfortably going so far as to share the sordid details of your sex lives (or lack thereof, lately) while leaning against the kitchen counter eating take out food without batting an eye—though you’d be lying if you said you didn’t try to one up him sometimes when you feel that familiar, unwelcome twinge of jealousy yawning awake inside of you.
But this?
This is asking too much of your restraint to keep your heart walled off and your mouth clamped shut. In your defense, it was already left in pitiful tatters after grinning-and-bearing it throughout the seven-month-long nightmare that was Jean dating fucking Pieck.
—
The next phase of your slew of terrible ideas today began with Jean sitting at the head of your bed, back against the wall, holding the dildo between his legs. Like your own personal fucking dildo holder. Grinning like this wasn’t the single most awkward thing the two of you have ever done (save for the time you both fell asleep with your head in his lap on the couch and woke up to his accidental boner poking you in the ear—neither of you ever mentioned that again).
And it would have been totally fine if it worked out like you imagined in your head the moment he pitched it—you sinking down onto the silicone schlong a few times, stuffing in as much as you could while he held it still. Then letting him carry on with his day while you lay there in bed for a little while with it lodged inside of you, getting yourself used to the stretch. Totally fine.
The reality of the situation was far different, entailing a sticky, slippery mess of lube coating of your hands and a dildo that bent and flopped in every direction as you tried to carefully impale yourself on it while maintaining some sense of dignity.
You had given up fairly quickly, butting your head against Jean’s collarbone and sighing as you asked if he thought Eren would go slow.
He was quiet for a moment.
“…do you trust me?” Jean had asked carefully, like his next suggestion wasn’t going to send you spiraling.
Like “Just sit on my dick, as a friend!” wasn’t the most fucking confusing statement your heart, brain, and vagina had ever heard.
–
Which is how you find yourself in your current predicament, straddling Jean Kirstein’s lap with far more inches of him than you’d realized he’d been keeping tucked away buried to the hilt in the velvety heat between your thighs. Raw, skin-to-fucking-skin, because you’re both in a miserable dry spell with not a single condom to be found between the two of you. And somehow the combination of “known you for half of my life” and “just got tested” and “IUD” sounded better than one of you being tasked with trudging to the pharmacy.
Or, god fucking forbid, going down one floor to ask Conny for one.
Nope.
You have three days to prepare yourself for whatever may come with Eren, so sitting on your best friend’s intimidatingly large dick sans condom the least of your worries. Even if it feels so incredible you’re literally silently choking on the moan threatening to spill past your lips.
Even if you fucking swear you heard his breath hitch when the thick head of his cock began to slip past your entrance, stretching you open wide as he breached your damp channel.
Even if he hardly had to touch himself to get hard for this.
Even if his gaze darkened when you choked out, “Jean, your dick is huge.”
This was a terrible idea.
“If you keep doing that, I’m gonna come.”
“Doing what?!” you ask, exasperated.
He rests his hands on your waist, “Doing this,” and squeezes firmly, “on my dick.”
“This isn’t even sex,” you tell him, ignoring the way the close proximity of his hazel eyes sets a flurry of emotion stuttering in your chest. “It’s like, cockwarming at best. You can’t come from cockwarming if you’re not even turned on.”
Jean raises an eyebrow. “Do you even know how tight you are?”
“That’s obviously why I was worried about Ere—”
“It’s like this,” he cuts you off, wrapping a hand around your throat. It’s a loose hold, only meant to prove a snarky point, but a spark of arousal seeps through your body anyway at the mere suggestion. His eyes widen a fraction at the traitorous way your walls clamp down on him even harder in response. “What, you into being choked?”
“I’m into a lot of things, Jeanie,” you tell him haughtily, trying to ignore the heat blistering beneath your skin.
“Like dumb idiots named Eren Jaeger?” he counters, making to grab for the tongue you’re currently sticking out at him.
If you didn’t know better, you’d almost think Jean sounds like he’s jealous.
Which he definitely isn’t.
But you poke the bear anyway.
“What, are you jealous?”
He shifts slightly, and you bite your lip to stifle the moan as your cunt spasms around the pressure from his cock.
If he notices, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, his brow furrows as the corners of his mouth tilt downward slightly. “I just think you deserve better.”
You tug on his earlobe, letting out a weak laugh in an attempt to dispel the sticky, messy feeling of hope trying desperately to cling to the arousal stirring in your gut. “Says the guy who’s currently fucking me.”
Jean scoffs and deadpans, “I thought this wasn’t sex.”
Who are you kidding? Certainly not the tension coiling ruthlessly in your abdomen.
You move a little, trying and failing to relieve the sensation of hot wax dripping down your spine. Instead, you let out a tiny, strangled noise when your throbbing clit presses down against his pelvis, the resulting flood of pleasure setting every nerve ending in your body on fire.
The way he growls out your name through gritted teeth is a warning, but his low tone only serves to stoke the flames licking their way up between your thighs.
You move again, inhaling sharply through your nose.
“Fuck,” he groans quietly, head hitting the wall behind him with a resounding thud.
You’re not sure if he does it on purpose, but his hands find their way back to your hips, calloused fingertips pressing directly against your skin as he slides them up beneath your shirt. His shirt.
The next time you rock against him, his grip on you tightens. And then, you feel it—he tugs you forward.
You lean further into him, without really meaning to, forehead coming to rest against his. “What are we…”
“Just keep going,” he murmurs.
He shifts again, sinking down lower so his back is pressed against the mattress, and you realize the angle gives you more purchase to grind down against him when he pulls at your waist, thumbs lazily skimming your hip bones.
“Jean…” you whisper, not really sure what else you intend to say.
“I want you to feel good,” he says softly, pushing his hips against you, even though he’s snugly bottomed out.
It feels so fucking good—
—laying atop Jean while he stares back up at you, pupils clearly dilated in arousal—
—watching his eyes fall shut as you run a hand along the stubble on his jaw—
—knowing he’s well aware the slickness between your legs is no longer from the lube, your cunt gushing with arousal at the feeling of being stuffed deep with his thick cock.
So you tell yourself you’ll figure the rest out later when you start to shamelessly grind down against him.
“You don’t have to be quiet for me,” Jean teases when you cough to cover up a gasp.
Your answering moan is nearly a whimper, and Jean’s muscles tense beneath you as he continues to guide your hips. He doesn’t try to pull his cock out from where it’s lodged inside of you, doesn’t start thrusting and fucking up into you. He just lets you chase the clitoral stimulation you so desperately need while you’re cockwarming him, groaning along with you at each needy drag.
“Good girl, that’s it.”
This is far more intimate than you bargained for, the gentle slide of his hands up your back scraping your heart out bit-by-bit.
“Holy shit, you don’t know how close I am to coming right now,” he moans in a gravelly, unsteady tone.
All you can do is whimper his name when the rubber band suddenly snaps in response, your body trembling as a wave of white-hot pleasure crashes over you.
And then Jean’s hands are cupping your face, his lips crashing into yours. He kisses you fiercely as you whine and shudder through your orgasm, moaning into your mouth as you card your fingers through his hair. You can feel his cock throb inside of you, pulsing with need as your tight cunt spasms and contracts, relentlessly squeezing his shaft while you soak him with your release.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he’s groaning, both of you too drunk on pleasure to move when he suddenly climaxes, cock pumping thick, hot ropes of cum deep in your pussy.
Chests heaving, Jean slowly sits up, forehead falling against your shoulder as he wraps his arms around your waist.
After a few minutes of silence, he finally murmurs, “Don’t fuck Jaeger.”
You tilt his head upward, finger resting just below his chin, skimming the stubble that’s there. Too many emotions are swimming in his hazel eyes, more than you can identify—save for one that you recognize with a jolt of clarity. It’s the way you look at him, when he’s not paying attention.
Longing.
Desire.
Soft, gentle, unfiltered affection.
This time, you’re the one to close the distance between your mouths, brushing your lips against his.
“Who?” you ask, smiling into the kiss.
Jean chuckles, the sound like warm honey, and he deepens the kiss, one hand sliding to the back of your head. Though you remain seated on his softening length, cum begins to seep from your slick heat, pooling on his balls and abdomen.
He goes to move, but you don’t budge. “You wanna get cleaned up?”
You shake your head, the corner of your mouth tilting upward with a smirk. “I’m comfortable.”
Jean bites his lower lip, huffing, “My cum’s dripping all over, and I’m two seconds from getting hard again if you keep squeezing down on me like that.”
Feigning a look of innocence, you flex the muscles in your tight, soaked channel one more time for good measure. He chokes, and you grin.
“Good.”
— likes, comments, &/or reblogs are greatly appreciated!
p-puppy play with Shikamaru?? She’s normally a stubborn and annoyed girl during training but no one on the team knows how much he puts her in her place.
———————————-
You hated how easily he could flip the switch on you.
Out here in the middle of the village, with the afternoon sun beating down on the training grounds and half the rookie teams milling around, you were the same sharp-tongued, arms-crossed, perpetually-annoyed kunoichi everyone knew. You’d just finished chewing out a couple of chunin for slacking on perimeter checks, voice clipped and eyes narrowed, when Shikamaru strolled up behind you, hands in his pockets like he hadn’t a care in the world.
“Rough day, huh?” he drawled.
You shot him a glare over your shoulder. “Don’t start with me, Nara. I’m not in the mood for your commentary.”
He tilted his head, that lazy half-smile tugging at his mouth—the one that never reached his eyes when he was calculating. Then, soft enough that only you could hear it, he said the words that made your stomach drop and your thighs press together under your skirt.
“You’re adorable.”
Two simple words. A death sentence wrapped in velvet.
Your breath caught. You knew exactly what they meant. In public you could be as stubborn and mouthy as you wanted. In private, that phrase was his way of telling you the game was over the second the door closed. You were going to be put in your place. Thoroughly.
You forced your face to stay annoyed, even as heat crawled up your neck. “Tch. Whatever.”
Shikamaru just hummed, low and knowing, and lit a cigarette like nothing had happened.
The walk back to his apartment was torture. Every step made the anticipation coil tighter in your gut. You kept up the act—snapping at a vendor who overcharged, rolling your eyes at the way the wind messed up your hair—but Shikamaru walked beside you in silence, that little smirk never leaving his face. He didn’t touch you. He didn’t have to. The promise was already doing its work.
By the time you reached his door your palms were sweating.
He let you step inside first. The second the lock clicked, the air changed.
“Strip.”
The command was quiet. You hesitated half a second too long—bratting on instinct—and his voice dropped an octave.
“Now, puppy.”
Your fingers fumbled with the zipper of your jacket. You hated how fast your body obeyed even when your mouth wanted to argue. Jacket, mesh top, skirt, panties—all dropped to the floor until you stood naked in the middle of his living room, arms trying to cover yourself out of habit. Shikamaru’s dark eyes dragged over every inch like he was memorizing it for later.
He opened the drawer by the couch and pulled out the collar. Black leather, soft inside, with a small silver tag that read Shikamaru’s in delicate script. Your stomach flipped.
“On your knees.”
You sank down slowly, knees pressing into the rug. He fastened the collar around your throat with careful fingers, buckling it snug but not tight. The little bell on the tag chimed once. Then he clipped the leash to it and gave a gentle tug, forcing you to look up at him.
“There she is,” he murmured. “My stubborn little thing. Everyone out there thinks you’re such a hardass. They have no idea how fast you melt the second I put this on you.”
You swallowed. The leather felt heavy and right against your skin. “I’m not—”
He tugged the leash again, cutting you off. “Quiet. Puppies don’t talk unless they’re told to.”
Your cheeks burned. He walked you—actually walked you—on all fours across the living room and into the bedroom like it was the most normal thing in the world. Every time the bell jingled it sent a fresh wave of humiliated heat between your legs. You were already wet. Pathetically so.
Shikamaru stopped at the foot of the bed and sat down, still fully clothed. He spread his knees and gave the leash another pull until your face was between his thighs.
“Present.”
You knew what he wanted. Cheeks flaming, you turned, lowered your chest to the floor, and arched your back so your ass was up and on display for him. The position made the collar press against your throat. You felt the cool air on your soaked pussy and wanted to die of embarrassment.
He didn’t touch you right away. He just looked. You could feel his gaze like a physical weight.
“Already dripping,” he observed, almost bored. “And I haven’t even touched you yet. Such a needy puppy.”
You bit your lip hard to keep from making a sound.
Finally his fingers traced down your spine, over the curve of your ass, and between your folds. One slow drag through your slick. You jerked and the bell chimed.
“Stay still.”
You tried. You really did. But when two fingers pushed inside you without warning you couldn’t stop the broken little whimper that escaped. He pumped them lazily, scissoring, stretching, curling just enough to make your thighs shake.
“Tell me what you are.”
You opened your mouth. “I—I’m your—”
He added a third finger and thrust harder. The words shattered into a moan.
“Try again.”
“I’m—ah—your puppy—”
“Good girl.”
The praise hit harder than the fingers. You pushed back against his hand without thinking and earned a sharp slap on your ass for moving.
“I said stay.”
You froze, trembling, while he finger-fucked you slow and deep until you were panting and the rug under your knees was damp. Every time you got close he slowed down or pulled out completely, leaving you clenching around nothing and whining.
“Please—”
“Please what, puppy?”
You hated how small your voice sounded. “Please let me come…”
Shikamaru chuckled, low and dark. “Not yet. I want you stupid first.”
He stood, finally shedding his clothes. You heard the soft rustle of fabric, the clink of his belt. Then the blunt, thick head of his cock dragged through your folds, teasing your entrance.
You tried to push back. He grabbed the leash and yanked your head up, forcing your back into a deeper arch.
“Ask nicely.”
“Please fuck me,” you whispered, voice already wrecked.
“Please fuck me what?”
“Please fuck me, Master.”
The word tasted like surrender and you loved it.
He sank into you in one long, relentless thrust.
Your mouth fell open on a silent scream. He was so deep it knocked the air out of your lungs. The stretch burned in the best way. He didn’t give you time to adjust—just started moving, slow and grinding at first, letting you feel every inch.
Then he leaned over you, chest to your back, one hand braced beside your head, the other still holding the leash.
“Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”
You tried. “Y-you—”
He snapped his hips forward hard enough to make your arms buckle. The bell on your collar jingled wildly.
“Full sentence, puppy.”
“It—ah—it belongs to you—!”
Another brutal thrust. Your words dissolved into a high, broken whine.
Shikamaru’s voice stayed calm, almost conversational, even as he started fucking you in earnest—deep, punishing strokes that made your vision blur.
“Does my puppy like getting put in her place like this?”
You opened your mouth to answer but he chose that exact moment to speed up, hips slapping against your ass, cock hitting that spot inside you that made your toes curl. Every thrust punched a whimper out of you instead of words.
“Use your words,” he said, almost gently, and fucked you harder.
You couldn’t. Your brain was static. All that came out were desperate, stuttering sounds—half-formed syllables, moans, little broken “ah—ah—ah—” noises that only seemed to encourage him.
He laughed softly against your ear. “Can’t even talk? That’s okay.”
He slowed just enough for you to catch a breath, then rolled his hips in a filthy grind that made your eyes roll back.
“You don’t have to talk, puppy. Just sit there and be all dumb and pretty while I fuck this cute little pussy.”
The words hit you like a drug. Your arms gave out completely. You dropped to your elbows, ass still up, face pressed into the sheets, drooling a little because your mouth wouldn’t close properly. Shikamaru kept the leash taut, controlling your head, using it like a handle while he pounded into you.
Every thrust was deliberate. Deep. He bottomed out each time, grinding against your cervix before pulling almost all the way out and doing it again. The wet, obscene sound of skin on skin filled the room along with your helpless little cries and the constant soft jingle of the bell.
You were gone. Mind blank. The stubborn, annoyed girl from earlier had vanished. There was only this—being held down, fucked stupid, reduced to the drooling, whimpering thing he wanted.
He reached under you and rubbed tight circles over your clit with two fingers.
“Come.”
You shattered instantly. The orgasm ripped through you so hard your vision whited out. Your walls clamped down around him in rhythmic pulses and you sobbed his name—or tried to. It came out as a wrecked, stuttering mess.
Shikamaru didn’t stop. He fucked you straight through it, pace never faltering, dragging every last tremor out of you until you were twitching and oversensitive and still trying to push back for more.
Only when your legs started to give out did he finally let go of the leash. He flipped you onto your back like you weighed nothing, hooked your knees over his elbows, and folded you in half.
“Look at me.”
You forced your eyes open. His face was flushed, hair sticking to his forehead, but his expression was calm. Focused. Possessive.
He slid back inside you in one smooth thrust and started moving again—slower now, but deeper, grinding on every downstroke.
“Tell me you’re mine.”
This time you didn’t even try to be coherent. The words came out slurred and broken between moans. “Y-yours— I’m yours— Master— please—”
He kissed you then, messy and deep, swallowing every sound you made while he chased his own release. When he came he buried himself to the hilt and stayed there, pulsing hot and thick inside you, groaning low against your mouth.
For a long moment neither of you moved. Just the sound of ragged breathing and the faint chime of the bell when you shivered.
Eventually Shikamaru pulled out carefully and collapsed beside you. He unbuckled the collar with gentle fingers, set it aside, and pulled you into his chest. One hand stroked slow circles on your back while the other brushed sweaty hair from your face.
“You did so good for me,” he murmured, voice soft again. “My perfect, stubborn, adorable girl.”
You made a small, embarrassed noise and hid your face in his neck. He chuckled and kissed the top of your head.
“Love how you fall apart for me and no one else gets to see it.”
You stayed like that for a while—limp, fucked-out, safe—while he traced lazy patterns on your skin and occasionally pressed kisses to your temple. The contrast was dizzying. Out there you were the girl who snapped at everyone and rolled her eyes at the world. In here you were his. His to tease, his to ruin, his to put back together.
And you wouldn’t have it any other way.
Shikamaru’s fingers eventually drifted lower again, tracing the mess between your thighs with idle interest.
“Round two in ten minutes,” he said lazily. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how you kept trying to talk earlier. We’re going to work on that.”
You groaned, half protest, half anticipation, and he just laughed—that low, satisfied sound that promised you were in for a very long night.
Exactly like he’d warned you with two simple words hours ago.
reader holding onto Shikamaru’s biceps as he fucks her 🙏
———————————
You’re not sure when it happened. One day Shikamaru had been the same lanky, sharp-minded man you’d always known—lean, efficient, never someone who bothered with training past what was required. Then, almost overnight, those arms changed. Thickened. Hardened. Veins started mapping the surface of his biceps and forearms like dark rivers under pale skin, and the muscle there sat heavy and solid whenever he moved. You noticed first. Of course you did. You’d been riding that cock for months already, taking him whenever the mood struck (which was often), and suddenly every time he braced above you or reached past you for something, those arms filled your vision and your cunt clenched like it had a mind of its own.
He never seemed to catch on. Shikamaru just looked faintly pleased whenever you climbed into his lap or dragged him down onto the futon, as if getting his dick wet was a pleasant surprise rather than the near-constant state of affairs it had become. Oblivious. Happy. Content to let you use him while he used you right back.
Until tonight.
You’re face-down on the futon, cheek pressed to the soft, slightly damp cotton that already smells of sex and his skin—warm, faintly smoky from the evening’s training, undercut by the clean musk of his sweat. Your arms are folded under your head because there’s nowhere else for them to go. Shikamaru is draped over your back in a deep, mean prone bone, one heavy thigh shoved between yours to keep you spread wide, the other braced outside your hip. The solid weight of him pins you down, his chest warm and faintly damp against your shoulder blades, breath hot and steady against the nape of your neck. His cock is buried to the hilt inside you—thick, long, relentless—and every sharp snap of his hips drives the blunt, flared head straight against your cervix with a deep, internal thud that radiates outward in hot pulses. The impact is deep enough to punch a soft, punched-out sound out of you every single time, the kind that catches in your throat and leaves it raw.
Your cunt is soaked, dripping steadily down the insides of your thighs in slick, warm trails that cool against the air and make the sheets sticky beneath you. Every time he bottoms out there’s a wet, filthy schlick-slap of skin meeting skin, the sound thick and obscene in the quiet room. Your clit is swollen and throbbing, trapped hard against the futon with nothing to grind against except the relentless friction of being fucked so deep the whole bedframe creaks and the futon shifts under your hips. The pressure builds in tight, aching waves, every thrust dragging the thick ridge of his cock along your front wall and forcing another broken sound out of you.
He’s been talking the entire time. Low, lazy, almost conversational praises murmured right against the shell of your ear while he ruins you, his voice a warm, gravelly vibration that sinks into your skin.
“Fuck, you’re taking it so well… so wet for me… listen to that, how messy you get when I hit that deep…”
Your eyes keep rolling. Every thrust forces another wrecked little noise from your throat—half-whine, half-moan—and the air feels thick with the scent of your combined arousal, salt and heat and the faint metallic tang of how hard he’s been working you. You’re close already, cunt fluttering around him in tight, involuntary squeezes that make him hiss through his teeth, when one of those newly powerful arms suddenly slides forward. He braces his forearm against the futon beside your head, the skin of it hot and slightly damp against your temple, then curls it inward until the thick bicep presses against the side of your face and the back of your skull. The motion is casual, almost thoughtless—just shifting his weight so he can arch your back harder, tilt your hips up, and drive even deeper.
The new angle is devastating. His cock punches past the soft give of your cervix with every stroke, the pressure deep and almost too much, a heavy, blooming ache that makes your toes curl and your thighs tremble. All you can see is that arm. The curve of the bicep, swollen and hard under the skin. The way the muscle swells further when he shifts. The thick, dark vein that runs along the inside, standing out sharp and prominent, pulsing faintly with his heartbeat. The skin is warm, slightly salted from sweat, and the scent of him—clean sweat and faint pine from the soap he uses—fills your nose with every shallow breath.
Your hands fly up without thinking, fingers digging into the solid heat of it, nails biting just enough to leave little crescent marks that you can feel catching against the firm flesh. A strangled, high whine tears out of your throat as your cunt clamps down hard around him—slick, greedy, spasming like it’s trying to keep him locked inside. The squeeze is so tight it almost hurts, a hot, rhythmic flutter that milks him from root to tip, and the wet sound of it is filthy in the quiet.
Shikamaru goes completely still.
For one long heartbeat the only sounds are your ragged breathing, the soft creak of the futon, and the wet pulse of your walls squeezing around his cock. Then he flexes.
Deliberately.
The bicep under your palms hardens further, the vein standing out even more, jumping under your fingertips. The same desperate clench ripples through your cunt again, harder this time, a full-body shudder that makes your hips twitch uselessly against the mattress. Another broken noise spills out of you—high, needy, almost a sob. He feels it. Of course he feels it. The way your walls flutter and grip, the way your fingers dig harder into the muscle, the way your whole body tightens around him like a fist.
A low, surprised laugh rumbles against the back of your neck, warm and vibrating through your spine.
“Oh,” he says, voice suddenly awake, smug as hell, the sound of it curling low and pleased. “That’s what it is.”
He flexes again—slow, controlled—and your entire body jerks. Your fingers dig harder into the muscle, feeling the heat of it, the solid give, the way the vein throbs under your touch. Your hips try to push back even though there’s nowhere to go. Your cunt milks him in tight, rhythmic pulses that make him hiss through his teeth, the sound sharp and hungry.
“You’ve been jumping my bones for weeks,” he murmurs, almost delighted, and starts moving again. Harder. Meaner. The arm stays locked around your head, forcing your spine into a deep arch so every brutal thrust hits the same devastating spot. The head of his cock grinds against your cervix in short, grinding pulses that make stars burst behind your eyes, the pressure deep and relentless, the wet slap of his hips against your ass louder now, wetter, the scent of sex thicker in the air. “And yet I didn’t even notice until just now. All this time you’ve been climbing on my cock because of my fucking arms?”
You’re past coherent answers. All you can manage is a wrecked little sob as he pounds into you, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room, the heat of his body blanketing yours, the solid weight of that arm keeping you exactly where he wants you. He keeps flexing under your hands just to feel you squeeze him tighter, keeps crooning filth into your ear while he uses that new strength to hold you open and arched while he ruins you.
“Look at you. Gripping them like you’ll die if you let go. Cunt’s fluttering every time I do this—” another flex, another helpless clench that drags a broken moan out of you “—fuck, you’re dripping. Soaked the sheets already. All because I got a little muscle baby?”
He shifts his weight, driving even deeper, and the head of his cock grinds against your cervix in short, grinding pulses that make your toes curl and your thighs shake. The arm around your head tightens just enough that all you can see, all you can feel, is the hard swell of that bicep and the thick vein jumping under your fingertips every time he flexes on purpose. The skin is hot, slightly slick with sweat, the muscle rock-solid beneath your palms. Every flex sends another tight, desperate ripple through your cunt, the sensation so sharp it borders on overwhelming—heat and stretch and pressure and the constant, throbbing ache of your neglected clit against the mattress.
“Gonna make you come just like this,” he promises, voice gone low and rough with the kind of arrogance that only appears when he’s completely sure of himself. The words vibrate against your ear, warm and intimate. “Keep staring. Keep squeezing. I’ll flex every time you start to slip, until you’re crying on my cock and begging me not to stop.”
He does exactly that.
Every time your orgasm starts to crest and then stutter, he flexes hard under your clutching hands and fucks into you with short, savage snaps of his hips that keep you right on the edge. Your clit is throbbing so hard it hurts, a constant, pulsing pressure against the damp cotton. Your cunt is a mess of slick and swollen heat, clenching around him like it’s starving, the wet sounds of it obscene and constant. Tears of pure overstimulation are already leaking from the corners of your eyes into the futon, the salt of them sharp on your lips when you try to catch your breath. He just laughs softly against your hair—warm, amused, utterly smug—and keeps going, using those arms to hold you open and arched while he ruins you for anyone else.
“That’s it… just like that. Such a needy little thing. Good girl. Fuck, you’re so transparent once you know what you like.”
He doesn’t stop. He just settles in, cock bullying your cervix with every thrust, the deep, internal ache blooming hotter with every impact. Biceps flexing under your desperate hands, the vein jumping, the muscle hard and hot and inescapable. His voice stays low and filthy and endlessly amused as he fucks you through one orgasm and straight into the next—your body shaking, cunt pulsing around him in tight, helpless waves, the wet heat of it soaking everything between you—until the only things left in the world are the burn of those arms under your palms, the thick stretch of him inside you, the wet slap of skin, the scent of sex heavy in the air, and the relentless, overwhelming pressure of being taken apart by the man who finally noticed what you needed.
12 months ago, the last of Ozai's loyalists have captured and poisoned you. The aftermath of this attack leaves you permanently altered, struggling with the physical toll of a mercury-like toxin that has left your legs completely paralyzed.
Heavily inspired by the events in the Legend of Korra when Zaheer poisons Korra.
pairing: Zuko x Fem! Reader
warnings: major character injury, depression, implied/mentioned torture, heavy angst, hurt to comfort
The silence in the Fire Nation palace wasn’t the peaceful kind; it was the heavy, suffocating sort that pooled in the corners of the room like cooling lava.
For (Y/N), the world had shrunk to the dimensions of a silk-draped bed and the intricate carvings on the ceiling. It had been six months since the last of Ozai's loyalists had kidnapped her, six months since the mercury-like toxin had been forced into her veins, and another agonizing six months since her legs had become nothing more than dead weight attached to a soul that felt equally leaden.
Zuko entered the room with a tray, his footsteps intentionally soft. He had traded the regal stride of a Fire Lord for the hesitant shuffle of a man walking on thin ice. He looked older—not just from the years that had passed since the war, but from the exhaustion etched into the lines around his golden eyes.
"I brought the tea Iroh sent from Ba Sing Se," he murmured, setting the tray down. "It’s a blend meant to settle the spirit."
(Y/N) didn’t turn her head. Her gaze remained fixed on the balcony, where the sunlight of Caldera City mocked her with its vibrancy. "My spirit is settled, Zuko. It’s buried. There’s a difference."
Zuko flinched. He sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out for her hand, but stopped himself. He remembered the warrior she had been—the way she used to dance through fire-bending forms, her laughter a sharp, bright contrast to his own brooding nature. Now, she was a ghost haunting her own skin.
"The healers are coming back tomorrow," he said, his voice straining to hold onto a hope that she clearly didn’t share. "Katara is arriving from the South Pole. She thinks that with the poison fully purged, we can start the physical—"
"I can’t feel my feet." Her voice was a flat, jagged thing. "I can’t feel the floor. I can’t even feel the sheets against my skin unless I look down to confirm they’re there. Why are we pretending, Zuko? Why are you keeping me in this cage?"
"It’s not a cage, (Y/N). It’s your home."
"A home is a place you live in," she snapped, finally looking at him. Her eyes were rimmed with red, the fire in them replaced by a cold, dark resentment. "I’m just waiting here. I’m a statue you have to dust off and feed ocassionally."
Zuko stood up abruptly, the tray rattling. "Don't say that. You’re the woman I love. You’re the person who stood by me when the whole world wanted my head. I am not giving up on you just because you’ve decided to give up on yourself."
He stormed out, the heavy doors thudding shut behind him. (Y/N) closed her eyes, a single tear tracking a path down her cheek. She hated him for his hope. It felt like a demand she couldn’t meet.
The arrival of the Gaang should have felt like a reunion, but to (Y/N), it felt like a funeral procession. Sokka’s jokes were forced and died quickly in the heavy air of her chambers. Aang’s gentle smile was tempered by a profound sadness he couldn't quite hide behind his monk’s composure. Toph, usually the loudest of them all, was uncharacteristically quiet, her feet sensing the stillness in (Y/N)’s lower half—a vibration that simply wasn't there.
The days blurred into a cycle of humiliation and pain. There were the stretches that made her muscles scream while her nerves remained silent. There were the moments when she tried to stand, supported by Aang’s airbending and Zuko’s strong arms, only to collapse into a heap of useless limbs and sob quietly into Zuko’s chest.
The worst part was the pity. It was in the way they whispered in the hallways, the way they looked at her like she was a broken vase, sharp pieces sprawled on the floor.
One evening, after a particularly grueling session where she had failed to even twitch a muscle, (Y/N) found herself alone with Zuko in the gardens. He had carried her to a stone bench overlooking the koi pond.
"I wish you would just yell at me," (Y/N) whispered, watching a bright orange fish break the surface. "I wish you’d get angry that I’m not getting better."
Zuko sat beside her, his hand finally finding hers and gripping it tight. "I am angry, (Y/N). I’m furious. I’m angry at the men who did this. I’m angry at the universe for taking so much from someone who gave everything to save it. But I could never be angry at you for being hurt."
"I’m not hurt," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I’m broken."
"The Fire Nation was broken," Zuko said firmly. "I was broken. My face is a map of where I was broken. But we’re still here. You’re still here."
"I’d rather be dead than be a burden," she spat, the words tasting like ash.
Zuko’s grip tightened until it almost hurt. "You are not a burden. You are my heart. If I have to carry you for the next fifty years, I will do it gladly. But don’t you dare tell me your life is worth less because you can't walk."
The thought of never walking again was a physical weight. A suffocating blanket that neither of them could throw off. (Y/N) felt like a spirit, watching her life happen from the sidelines, while Zuko felt like he was watching the person he loved drown in a shallow pool, unable to pull her out.
A week later, Katara cleared the room. Even Zuko was shooed out.
The room was filled with the scent of jasmine and the thick, humid heat of the natural springs. Katara helped (Y/N) sit, and lowered her slowly into a deep stone tub filled with mineral-rich water. She stood behind her outside of the tub, her sleeves rolled up, her movements fluid and calm.
As the warm water rose to (Y/N)’s waist, she felt... nothing. Just the familiar, terrifying void where her lower body should be.
"I know that look," Katara said softly, her hands moving through the water, creating gentle ripples that pulsed against (Y/N)’s skin.
"What look?" (Y/N) asked, her head lolling back against the rim.
"The look of someone who has decided the battle is over before the final blow is struck." Katara’s voice wasn't judgmental; it was weary. "I saw it in the mirror for months after the war. I saw it in my father when my mother was taken. It’s the look of someone who thinks their trauma is the only thing left of them."
(Y/N) laughed, a dry, bitter sound. "You’re the Master Healer, Katara. You’re the hero. You don't get to talk to me about being a victim."
"I was a girl in a village who watched her mother get taken to save her," Katara said, her eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp intensity. "I spent years carrying the weight of an entire tribe on my shoulders while the boy I loved was the target of the entire world. I have been broken in ways that don't show up physically. I’ve felt that same helplessness—that same belief that the world would be better off if I just disappeared into the snow."
Katara moved closer, her hands glowing with a soft, blue light as she submerged them near (Y/N)’s hips.
"The poison is gone, (Y/N). The physical blockage is cleared. What’s left is the wall you’ve built to protect yourself from the disappointment of failing. You’re so afraid of trying and failing that you’ve chosen to fail by default."
"It hurts," (Y/N) whispered, her eyes watering. "Every time I try and nothing happens, it kills a little more of me."
"Then let it kill the part of you that’s afraid," Katara urged. She took (Y/N)’s hand under the water, pressing it against her own thigh. "Feel the water. Don't try to move your legs. Just feel the heat. Feel the weight of it. Your body is still yours. It’s not your enemy."
(Y/N) sobbed, her shoulders shaking. "I can’t. Katara, I can’t."
"You can," Katara insisted, her voice a steady anchor in the steam. "I’m not asking you to walk. I’m not asking you to stand. I’m asking you to exist in this moment. Right here. With me."
Katara’s bending became more focused. The water began to swirl in rhythmic patterns around (Y/N)’s feet, stimulating the nerve endings with precise, pressured currents.
"The world is still waiting for you," Katara whispered. "Zuko is sitting outside that door, probably burning a hole in the floorboards with his pacing. He doesn’t want a warrior. He wants you. But you have to want you, too."
(Y/N) looked down through the clear, steaming water. She saw her legs, pale and still. She thought of the poison, the cold, metallic slide of it through her veins. She thought of the anger she had used as a shield to keep Zuko at a distance, because if she pushed him away, she wouldn't have to see her own reflection in his worried eyes.
She breathed in the jasmine. She let the warmth of the spring seep into her pores. She stopped fighting the water and started listening to it.
Just one thing, she thought. Just one small proof that I’m still in here.
She focused every ounce of her will—the same will that had faced down armies and mastered elements—into the tip of her right foot. She didn't think about the miles she couldn't walk. She thought about a single, infinitesimal point of contact between her mind and her flesh.
Move.
Deep beneath the surface, shrouded by the blue glow of Katara’s healing and the swirling eddies of the spring, a big toe twitched. It was a movement of perhaps a fraction of an inch, a tiny ripple in the vast stillness of her paralysis.
(Y/N) gasped, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Katara’s eyes widened. She didn't cheer. She didn't shout. She simply squeezed (Y/N)’s hand, a fierce, knowing smile breaking across her face. "I saw it."
(Y/N) leaned her forehead against Katara’s shoulder, her tears finally falling for a different reason. The feeling of hopelessness hadn't vanished; the road ahead was still long, steep, and paved with a thousand more failures. But the silence had been broken.
Outside the door, Zuko heard the sound of (Y/N) weeping—not the hollow, hopeless sound of the last six months, but a raw, cleansing sound. He leaned his head against the wood, closing his eyes as his own breath hitched in relief. For the first time since the accident, the fire in his heart didn't feel like it was flickering out. It felt like a spark hitting dry kindling.
They weren't whole yet, but they were no longer just waiting to end.
yes, the idea of reader getting used as a fleshlight is fantastic, but what about reader using him as a dildo? not worried about his pleasure. you're only fucking him because he's a loser with a huge cock.
you're stuffing your panties (lacy, soaked through, reeking of your perfect pussy) into his face in a failed attempt to stifle his loud, unabashed moans. he definitely hasn't been fucked before, if so, not like this. due to his inexperience, he's probably came way too many times already inside you, and so you're bouncing on his fat, slimy cock with cum sloshing inside you and leaking with every bounce onto his pelvis.
"oh fuck- shut up, will you? i'm t-trying... mmnh... to focus," you manage out. trying to sound stern is basically an impossibility when you've got his cock smushed inside you to the hilt.
his hands are fisted in the sheets, knuckles white, thighs trembling beneath you as you sink down on him and then rock your hips back and forth while completely stuffed. this method doesn't give him as much pleasure as it does for you, but you don't care. this isn't for his pleasure, or your connection. all you care about is how deep he hits when you sink all the way, how your cunt's clenching so tight he can't stop shaking.
"f-fuck-!" he whines again pathetically through the lace in his mouth, drool soaking the crotch of your panties where they're pressed over his mouth and nose. his eyes are wide, glassy, fixed on the place where you meet him. it's humiliating how desperate he looks.
"you like getting used, huh?" you pant, beginning to bounce again so the overstimulation hits once more. you let his big, drooling cock drag and catch with each rough bounce. it makes that slick, wet sound every time you move.
"ah- ye-yeah, like it soooo much," he moans so loud it vibrates through your soaked panties, tries to say something, but you shove your panties harder into his face so you don't hear what shit he has to say. his cock pulses again and you can feel more warmth spill out of you, overflowing from the tip, dripping down to his balls in glooping heaps. "such a -shit- big fucking cock wasted on a nobody like ngh! you. y-you don't deserve it."
your voice cracks halfway through but you don't stop or pretend this is anything but using him like he's just a toy that happens to twitch and moan and cum without your permission. your hands are braced on his chest for balance, his skin hot and slick under your palms from how hard he's sweating, poor thing.
you push the underwear just enough to see his eyes, which are teary and rolled back. his eyes clamp shut when you drop down especially hard, and his whole body jerks like he's seizing. his stomach tightens under your hands but the second you grind down again deep, slow and mean, he lets out a strangled sob into your panties, soaked through with spit and the sharp scent of your cunt.
"mmnh, fuck, look at you," you breathe out, "you're crying, sweetheart. is it too much?" you coo mockingly, dragging your hips up until just his swollen tip is nestled at the edge of your cunt, nearly pulling out. the area where his cockhead enters you is smeared in cum and slick. he scrabbles at your arms, needing to be back inside you. then, without warning, you slam back down, clamping hard on him.
he screams behind the fabric. legs kicking. you begin grinding down hard as punishment until you feel another twitch inside you, his cock thickening, spurting another weak, creamy load. his fifth? sixth? doesn't matter.
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✿ You never considered being a late bloomer something to be ashamed of. Waiting for the right person always seemed like the logical thing to do, but when you come across a problem you're convinced can only be solved by losing your virginity, there's only one man in your life you're comfortable asking for the favour.
✿ Warnings: nsfw, f!reader, piv, pwp, protected sex, virgin!reader, loss of virginity, awkward!reader (though who wouldn't be when you're asking one of your best friends to take your virginity), oral f!receiving, "casual" sex (cuz is it ever casual), fluff, biting/marking, dry humping, pet names used: 'good girl', 'sweetheart', praise kink, let me know if any are missing!
Word count: 11.1K
It had come up in passing.
You and Wriothesley had first met during an event organized by a mutual friend, and after hitting it off, you would often find yourself joining The Duke for tea in Meropide. It became a tradition, the two of you never going more than a week without seeing one another. You talked about a lot of things, your respective pasts, future plans, you discovered a newfound comfort in Wriothesley the same way he discovered a newfound trust in you. Slowly, the nameless yet undeniably faultless bond you two shared blossomed into one of the most special friendships you’ve ever known.
One afternoon, while Wriothesley was rambling on about a particularly disastrous date he’d been on a few years prior, it slipped past your lips that you’d never made it past second base.
He looked shocked by that declaration, hitting you with a “really? You?” before brushing it off entirely, starting to tell you about a case he’d been working non-stop for a couple weeks, but you could barely listen to him after that.
Really? You?
What could that have possibly meant?
It stayed heavy on your mind. It wasn’t as if you didn’t have the natural urges for intimacy, you were a grown woman after all, but the right opportunity never seemed to preset itself, and that wasn’t a fact you often dwelled on. You didn’t want to give yourself up to a one-night stand, risk a bad first experience, but you also rarely had time to go on dates and uncover a real connection.
So you avoided it all together.
However, it’d be a lie to say you haven’t been under extra stress lately. Not for any particular reason, you’ve just seemed more prone to feeling overwhelmed. You’ve tried mediation, yoga, breathing exercises, more midday walks. Nothing has seemed to work.
One of your friends recommended sex.
And surprisingly, you haven’t been able to stop considering it. The more people you talk to about it, the more people who vouch for the fact that it’s the perfect thing to help you relieve how tense you’ve been.
But you can’t just spontaneously go out and bring someone to bed, at least not yet. You need a way to break the ice, have a nice first experience full of trust and comfort to erase your hesitance. After that, you can be impetuous. Stop fearing something not working out, because it won’t be your first encounter, and it won’t be your last.
So, you need to find someone to lose your virginity to. Someone you trust, who you know respects you and wouldn’t take advantage of your vulnerability for their own gain.
There’s one person in your life who fits that description, and you’re on your way down to see him right now.
-
Wriothesley smiles at you when you reach his office at the top of the staircase, but it falls a fraction when you don’t return it. You’re nervous, is all. It isn’t everyday that you ask someone, whose relationship with you has been entirely platonic up to this point, if they’d be willing to have sex with you purely so you can gain the confidence to go out and do so with other people.
God. He might never want to talk to you again.
“Hi,” you greet, forcing the word out through the smallest opening in your windpipe. Your throat feels all clogged up, your anxiety visible everywhere from the spike in your heart rate to the way your fingers are nervously fidgeting with your shirt.
Wriothesley frowns when you take a seat across from him, a cup of tea already prepared in front of you. He’s clearly picked up on your state. “Are you feeling alright?”
You manage a nod, cupping your hands around the warm ceramic cup. “Yeah, I’m fine, I’m just…” You knit your eyebrows together, your mouth hanging open as you reluctantly meet his eyes. His brows are resting low above his blue hues, a crease between them enunciating his concern. “I wanted to talk about something.”
Wriothesley grins at that. “You can talk about whatever you want. Is something troubling you?”
“I—Well, sort of.” You settle on. “Do you remember what I brought up a few weeks ago?”
Wriothesley chuckles, taking a sip from his own tea, the cup already half empty. You showed up a little bit later than usual, but only because you turned around about five times on the way here before ultimately deciding you had to at least try. “I’m going to need you to be a little more specific.”
Right. You’ve talked about a lot of things. Still, you were hoping he’d get the message just so you wouldn’t have to say it.
“We were talking about dating,” you confirm, and Wriothesley offers you a brief nod. “Um, I mentioned a… Lack of experience.”
Wriothesley looks you up and down, his face twisting like he’s surprised to see you bring this up again. You suppose he did dismiss the subject quite swiftly last time. “I see. Yes, I remember.”
“Okay. Perfect.” You drop your hands to your thighs, nervously flattening your palms over the fabric of your skirt. “It’s about that.”
He nods slowly, his confusion radiating off of him in a way that somehow makes you feel warmer. For a man that’s meant to personify ice, you consider him anything but cold. “Alright.”
You clear your throat, and suddenly your train of thought is lost to the currents on the other side of these metal walls. You bite down on your lip, looking anywhere but his eyes.
Will you have sex with me?
Too blunt. Way too blunt.
“Um,” you nearly choke. “When we spoke, and I told you that I, um, have never really gone further than kissing with anyone.”
Wriothesley nods along again, like the trajectory of this conversation even has him too freaked out to verbally guide you along your rambling. You’ve been vulnerable with him before, with embarrassing childhood stories or your deepest insecurities. You probably looked similar to how you do now, shying away from his gaze while also over analyzing every muscle in his face, the most microscopic movements, wanting to know what each word makes him think of you.
Then, he would help you along, shooting out encouraging sentences about how your secrets were safe with him and how he thought too highly of the woman you were now to be too judgmental of any mistakes made in the past. It was a grace you offered him, too, when he told you about how he wound up in the fortress in the first place.
However, you always thought what he did back then, despite how the court viewed it, was a perfect reflection of the man he grew into. Selfless. Assertive. Caring. A person willing to put their bodies and their images on the line in favour of another who might need their help, especially those more vulnerable than them.
You falling face-first into a mud puddle in front of all your peers at the ripe age of seven was surely not a reflection of who you are now. At least, you hope he didn’t think so.
“You said something to me,” you continue finally. “You said, ‘really? You?’”
Wriothesley cocks an eyebrow, one hand wrapped around his teacup and his opposite forearm resting against his desk. He leans forward, as invested in what you have to say as ever. “Um, I did say that, yes.”
“What did you mean by that?”
Wriothesley barks out a small laugh, his rested arm coming up to his jaw as his eyes flicker away for a second. Awkwardness from him is an odd sight. Even when he opened up to you about his life, each word was without stuttering or hesitance, and he held your eyes during even the most gruesome details. Now he can barely look at you.
“I just meant, well, look at you.” He gestures to you subtly, and your face shifts. “I was just caught off guard to find that opportunities haven’t arose for you already.”
“I…” You start, thrown off even more by how he started that sentence. Look at you. Look at what? What is anything he says ever supposed to mean? “Opportunities have come around, I had boyfriends when I was in school and stuff, it’s been more of a choice thing.”
He drops his arm to the desk again. “Hm. May I ask why?”
You shrug, pulling your chair a bit closer, some of your tenseness easing away now that you’ve managed to begin the discussion. However, you’ve yet to ask him to sleep with you in a friendly-favour way. “I didn’t want to give that part of myself to someone who would make me regret it, or look back at it with resentment. I want to have a good first experience, and I’ve never met anyone that made me confident it would be good with them.”
You meet his eyes, finally, looking you over in thought. “That’s respectable.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Is it?”
“It’s just admirable that you’ve maintained that respect for yourself, and didn’t lose it to teenage impulsiveness or the similar urges that come with adulthood. I respect that, is all. The restraint, I suppose.”
The compliment, if that’s what you would call it, drills it’s way into your bloodstream, a new, unfamiliar warmth flowing through your veins.
“And did you?” You ask quietly.
He chuckles, dropping his head. “Well, I’ve been a free man for quite some time. I’m not in the same boat as you, but there’s nothing significant enough in my list of experiences to dwell on.”
Comforting. You think. Maybe?
He looks up at you again, rolling his shoulders like he’s trying to ease out the tension of such a delicate subject. “Is that all you wanted to discuss?”
“Uh, no.” You confirm quickly. You can quite literally see the way his body stiffens once more. “I’ve, uh, been thinking lately.”
“Okay. And?”
“I’ve been stressed out.” You say quickly. “You know how busy I’ve been, I mean, you’ve been busy, too, with paperwork and a rise in inmate incidents and—”
He utters your name to cut you off, your eyes snapping to his.
“May I ask, does this subject still pertain to your virginity?”
You nod weakly. You don’t believe you ever worded it so bluntly yourself, but alright.
Wriothesley looks confused, sipping his tea. “…Alright. Go on.”
You huff. “Again, I’ve been really stressed, and I haven’t been able to figure out how to feel better. I’ve gone on more walks, I got into yoga, I’ve been sleeping more, eating healthier, I even paid a visit to Sigewinne while visiting a few weeks ago, and she prescribed me medication that hasn’t done a thing.”
Wriothesley furrows his eyebrows, a deep frown enveloping his features. “I’m sorry. You never mentioned this to me. I have herbal teas that help me when—”
“Thank you, Wrio, but that’s not…” You grip the edge of the desk, sighing. “I’ve tried everything. The teas, the exercises, name it, I gave it a shot. To no avail. I started talking to a lot of my friends about it, and the only thing any of them have recommended me that I haven’t already tried is, well,” you pause for a moment. “Sex.”
He freezes, eyebrows firmly planted high on his forehead, the pale skin crinkled in surprise.
“Oh.”
You nod slowly. “Yeah. Which is a little bit of a roadblock for me, as I’ve explained.”
Wriothesley carefully places his teacup down, the ceramic hitting the plate with a soft clink that manages to rattle you. “I see.”
“I can’t just…” You breathe deeply, your voice shaking with the vulnerability of all this. “Go out and find someone to help me alleviate my stress. Like I said, I at least want my first time to matter, to be memorable and comfortable. Then, after that, I can be reckless without it tainting a milestone that’s important to me.”
You pray that your words make sense to him. That he doesn’t think you’re being silly or unreasonable.
He watches you closely, taking in your words. “Have you tried…” He makes a face, halfway between a cringe and an embarrassed scowl. “Doing it yourself?”
Your heart skips a beat. “Uh—Um, yeah, I tried. It’s not really the same.”
It’s true. If anything, trying to handle it yourself just stressed you out more, because it suffocated you with the feeling of it not being enough. You need more.
Him. To be specific. You need him.
You haven’t quite found a solid opening into confessing that yet.
Wriothesley wets his bottom lip. “Okay.” He enunciates the word. “I—What—What’s your plan, then?”
You’re my plan.
“I want that option,” you mumble. All your blood, equipped with the extra warmth he orchestrated, floods your face. “To be able to go out and let off some steam when I get like this. But like I said, I need to have a good first experience first.” You study his plain expression, whatever is going on inside his head barely displaying on his masculine features. “Does that make sense?”
You can feel yourself stalling, word-vomiting all over his wooden desk. You feel a different kind of exposed than you have with him in the past. Not less comfortable, but more expectant. More scary, maybe. Like it holds more weight.
Wriothesley huffs, sluggishly leaning back in his seat, his limbs stiff and constantly readjusting like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “Um, I mean, alright. Yeah, that makes sense. I know some men that I trust would be good to you, and I’m sure they’d be—”
No. God no.
“No—Wriothesley, I don’t want a stranger.”
“I know.” He nods. “It wouldn’t be a stranger. Do you remember Nick? He was at that event Furina invited us to last month, you guys seemed to get along—”
“I don’t know Nick, Wriothesley. I don’t trust him. Especially not with this.”
Wriothesley stares you down, the gears turning in his head. You can tell by the narrowness of his eyes and the slight redness in his cheeks that he has an idea of what you might be implying, but doesn’t want to say it out loud.
“So.” Wriothesley clears his throat, sitting up a little, clearly restless. “Do you have a plan?”
“Somewhat.” You murmur.
“And?” He cocks an eyebrow.
You take a deep breath. The worst he can say is no. At least you’ll know you tried. Maybe then you can just go out, find someone random and hope for the best. But you’ll be glad you tried with him.
“I just really want it to be with someone I trust. That’s my biggest condition.” You reiterate, pulling your chair in again, even closer to him when he leans forward in sync with your movement. “I don’t have a lot of men in my life I trust…”
You stare at the liquid in your tea cup.
“Except for you.”
Wriothesley’s breath hitches, the noise only loud enough that you just barely catch it. You keep your eyes down, unable to draw your gaze to his, but you picture his reaction vividly in your head. Eyes blown wide, lips parted, hands gripping the armrests of his chair. Whether he does those things out of shock, disgust, or something else entirely, is the fear that makes you refuse to face him.
He says your name, but still, you keep your head down.
“What are you saying?” His voice is controlled, but deeper than before.
“I just…” Just say it. Stop stalling. “Okay.” You sigh. “I understand if this isn’t something you’re comfortable with, if you say no I won’t take it to heart and we can just… Forget this ever happened.”
You finally meet his eyes. Whatever expression he wore before must’ve fizzled out, because his face has shifted to something more neutral, listening intently while watching you closely.
“I’m asking if you’ll do it. If you’ll sleep with me. Just once! It doesn’t have to mean anything—It won’t mean anything. I just don’t trust anyone else.”
Wriothesley doesn’t speak right away. His eyes widen for a fraction of a second before settling again, indicative of the fact he had already caught on and was simply waiting for his suspicions to be confirmed.
He opens and closes his mouth, then pushes his eyebrows together and looks away.
“I really do understand if you don’t want to.” You say to the side of his face, hands lifted in front of you in a surrender gesture. “You don’t have to sugarcoat a rejection. It’s okay, I can handle it. I just figured I’d ask.”
He draws his gaze to yours, eyebrows still pressed low, and he breathes deeply through his nose.
“If I said no, what would be your next move?” He asks, a bit strained.
“Uhm, I’d probably just resort to, I don’t know, A Nick type or something. Just hope for the best. But—” You shake your hands. “Don’t worry about that. Seriously. It’s not your responsibility, I’ll be fine. I only want you to say yes if you want to.”
He says your name, resting both forearms against the desk in front of him. “Are you… Sure about this?”
You manage a nod, dropping your hands back to your lap and intertwining your fingers. “Yes. I’ve had a lot of time to think it over. I trust you, and I mean, I’ve always wanted an excuse to break that ice for myself. I’ve just never met anyone to do it with.”
He nods slowly.
“It really doesn’t have to mean anything,” you repeat in a whisper. “Just think of it as a favour for a friend.”
He laughs at that lightheartedly, lifting one hand off the desk to run it over his hair. “You know, I’ve had many favours asked of me in my time, but never something like this.”
His calm demeanour soothes you, his normal self shining through the awkwardness. Even if he ultimately decides to turn you down, at least he doesn’t seem to find the proposition off putting.
“You don’t have to decide right now,” you tell him. “I can give you time to think.” You blink, a million thoughts rushing through your brain. “…I could write up a contract.
“A contra—What? No—No, you don’t need to—Archons. I don’t…” He sighs, looking at you. “If I can do something to help you, I always want to do it. No matter what it is. I just never expected anything… Like this.”
You smile softly. “I never thought I’d be asking it, either.”
He nods along, biting down on his lip.
“So, to confirm…” He straightens. “Just once. You lose your virginity to me, and then you…” He urges you to finish the sentence for him.
“Won’t have to be so anxious about sex in the future,” you verify. “I can be like my friends, go out and have one night stands without worrying too much about bad or inadequate experiences, because it’ll just become a small tick on my… Sexual timeline with no significance.”
You cringe at yourself.
“Sexual timeline, huh?”
“Shut up.” You grumble, squeezing your own hand in your lap.
He grins, crossing his arms over his wide chest, the backrest of his chair holding his weight as he loosens up a bit. “Okay.”
You raise your eyebrows. “Okay?”
“Okay. I’ll do it.” He nods. “I’d much rather it be me than a stranger or someone you don’t fully trust. If this whole good-first-experience-to-break-the-ice,” a mouthful, really, “is important to you, then it’s important to me, too.”
You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Alright.” You nod quickly. “Thank you. Uhm…”
“Maybe I should come to your place?” He offers gently. “Above the surface? Sometime this weekend?”
You nod again, your words jumbling together in your throat. This weekend. “My place, yeah, okay. Uh, Saturday night?”
He smiles. “Good for me. I’ll be there.”
Holy shit. Holy shit. He said yes. You didn’t really think he’d say yes.
“Okay. I’ll, uh…” You stand on legs that feel like jelly, leaving your tea behind. “Go now. I’ll see you then.”
Wriothesley doesn’t encourage you to stay longer like he usually would, but you don’t take it as something negative. He understands if you stay another second, you might melt to a puddle of humiliation on the floor.
He bids you farewell, repeating the circumstances of your plans one more time before sending you off, and part of you feels like he did so just to tease you. The second the elevator out of the fortress hits the surface, the Fontaine air hitting your skin everywhere it’s exposed, it really dawns on you.
You’re going to have sex with Wriothesley.
Holy. Shit.
-
What the fuck did people do before a hook up?
You did the routine stuff, things you were able to easily come to the conclusion needed to be done. You cleaned your apartment. You took a long shower, almost three hours in length with everything you felt should be covered in there. You nearly passed out four times, but managed.
And then you started freaking out. What will he think if you put in too much effort to be presentable? Will he believe you’re trying to court him? That your tangent about this being meaningless was nothing but a cover-up? That this is all a ploy to get in his pants?
And then, there’s the fear if you don’t put in a lot of effort. Might he believe that you don’t respect him, don’t find him worthy of the most put-together version of yourself? That you don’t care to make this enjoyable for him, too?
Ultimately, you decided you’d rather feel good about yourself, but the fears that he’ll believe this means more to you than it does lingers.
You put on your nicest dress, a length that goes to your mid-thighs and a colour awfully close to that of the tie Wriothesley often wears. You doused yourself in a perfume he complimented once. You decided against candles and rose petals, but you did brew a tea you have on hand that you know he enjoys.
You quickly opted out of alcohol. Being inebriated would take away from the whole point of this experience.
You spend enough time on your hair to look nice, but not so much so that you’ll be upset if it gets ruined. Jewellery that’s easy on the eye, but also comfortable and easily discardable if you decide to do such.
By far, the hardest thing to pick was what to put under the dress.
You were worried if you opted for your nicest lace set, that you bought on a whim and never let another person see, he’d, again, think you were genuinely trying to seduce him. But, he’s a man, and he has needs, too. It felt only fair to do whatever you could to help this be something he found enjoyment in.
But, what difference would it make if he’s not even attracted to you?
…
You chose the lace set. It’s red and black and leaves almost nothing to imagination. Just looking at yourself in the mirror made you feel a level of scandalous you never really have before.
Now, the time you two agreed on is rapidly approaching. You’re reapplying your lip gloss for the nth time, having wiped it off countless times already by nervously nibbling on your lip. You’re reconsidering every choice you made tonight. You’re thinking he might not even show up. You—
Three knocks at the front door nearly make you yelp, dropping your gloss onto your vanity with a muted bang.
You hastily collect it, dropping it in the drawer and slamming it shut.
You start to rush to the front door, but slow down a bit as you fear seeming too eager. When you reach the door, you take a deep breath before turning the lock and pulling it open.
Wriothesley stands there, and his eyes widen for a moment when he takes in your appearance. His outfit is nicer than usual, but nothing you haven’t seen him wear before. He holds flowers. Your favourite.
He brought you flowers?
“Hi,” you greet, your voice quiet and shaky.
Wriothesley offers you a kind smile. “Hello. You look nice.”
You take the flowers when he holds them out to you, mumbling a quick thank you before inviting him in and rushing to the kitchen to put the flowers in a vase filled with water from your sink. He follows close behind, taking in your organized apartment, his gaze continuously flickering back to you and your outfit.
“You didn’t have to doll yourself up so nicely for me,” he tells you, and you turn to face him. “Don’t get me wrong, you look amazing, but I didn’t agree to this on the condition that—”
“I know,” you interrupt, flattening your palms over the front of your dress, Wriothesley’s eyes trailing your movement, his throat bobbing with a thick swallow. “I just—I’m new at this, y’know? It felt right to… Look nice.”
“You always look nice,” he insists, which flusters you. “But, if your objective was to amplify that, you’ve been considerably successful.”
You smile nervously, his tender words making your head feel fuzzy. You appreciate the environment he’s trying to create more than you can put into words, especially not right now. You’re not sure you can manage more than two sentences. “Uh—Thank you, Wriothesley. You look lovely, too.”
“Aw, shucks,” he grins, walking over to the counter and leaning his hip against it, his body barely a foot from yours.
“I made tea,” you spit out. “Would you like some?”
He hesitates before nodding. “If you’d like to have tea first, of course we can.”
You nod back. The two of you take a seat across from each other with your respective teacups, blending into nonsensical conversation almost immediately that nearly makes you forget the circumstances of tonight. Your anxious tics fade out of frequency, and your tense muscles relax. You’re reminded how easy it is to be calm with him, and the more he studies each comfortable movement you make, the more you think that was exactly his goal.
Wriothesley drinks the rest of his tea, your eyes watching the way his throat moves as he swallows it down.
It’s impending now, and while realizing such does still make a hint of that nervousness return, it returns with something else. Something unfamiliar. Something eager.
Wriothesley meets your eyes, and you offer him a soft smile in which he returns. He leans his forearms forward against your kitchen table.
He says your name gently. “I want to give you a chance to back out of this. Of course, at any time, you change your mind, and we stop. But I just want to remind you that there’s no pressure on you.”
“I know,” you assure him, folding your hands together in your lap. “I haven’t changed my mind.” You pause, watching him closely. “Have you?”
He shakes his head before you even get both words out. “Of course not. I would just hate for you to think I’m expecting anything from you besides your trust.”
“You have my trust,” you tell him.
He nods. “Then we’re okay.”
“We’re okay,” you repeat, your eyes gliding from his empty cup to yours, also bone-dry. You flush.
“Uh…” You look at him, and he raises an eyebrow. “Should we go to my room, maybe?”
“If that’s what you would like,” he responds easily.
You offer him a brief nod before standing on uneasy feet. His passiveness, his willingness to let you have full control, is almost something you’re averse to. He’s the one with more experience, but you don’t exactly know how to ask him to take the reins. You don’t want this night to peak with the dull request of should you put that inside me, maybe?
As you walk down the hallway, overthinking every movement of one foot in front of the other, something else floods your mind. You imagine him in control, him bringing the assertiveness you’ve witnessed in the fortress to this experience. It makes something twist low in your stomach, and if he weren’t no more than a foot behind you, you’re sure you wouldn’t be able to fight off a more physical reaction to the thought.
The way he doesn’t even have to raise his voice to demand respect in the underworld, how just the cock of an eyebrow will have even the most unruly prisoners compliant at his feet. You can see yourself being just as obedient, becoming putty in his hands at a single murmured request.
That was the whole point of this. He’s the only one you can trust with that, trust to put him in full control and do with your body what he understands both of you will enjoy.
You start to feel that twist in your stomach blend into that physical reaction, a tingling sensation flushing your skin and making your clothes feel too tight, the apartment feel too hot.
Once you’re standing in the middle of your bedroom, you turn to him. He scans the room, illuminated by only a lamp on the right-hand side. Your bed is made nicely, curtains closed, floor vacuumed, smelling faintly of the fragrance you coated yourself in shortly before his arrival.
The two of you lock eyes. The lighting in this room reminds you of that in the fortress when it gets to be dark outside. The metal stronghold is close enough to the surface that the shifting of day and night lightens or darkens the surrounding ocean, dimming the interior through the glass windows.
Those times are when you’ve most often had the pleasure of seeing Wriothesley in his element, commanding abidance with ease.
Fuck. You can feel his eyes everywhere.
“How do you want to do this?” Wriothesley asks suddenly, the quiet question followed by your name, said in a way that makes you throb. You didn’t think you could get to this point so quickly with nothing but your imagination and a little bit of eye contact. “Would you prefer to maintain control?”
The fact a man of his calibre would even offer submission to you is exactly why you knew from the get-go you could trust him.
You shake your head. “No,” you confess hoarsely. “I wouldn’t even really know what to do.”
Wriothesley nods, the ease in the action making you think he expected that answer. “So, you’d like me to be the director here?”
You pinch the fabric of your dress on either side of your thighs, half-fidgeting, half trying to contain how trapped and warm he’s making you feel. “If that’s… Alright with you.”
He grins. “Of course. I can handle it. Being in charge is my job.”
He steps closer, and all you can bring yourself to do is stare, your feet bolted to the ground beneath you.
“Can I kiss you, then?”
Holy shit. You had barely even considered this. I mean, you got the whole platonic-sex thing out of the way, but you didn’t discuss kissing. You didn’t prepare yourself for kissing.
You nod without a thought in the world, a purely reflexive response, like your instincts and the need starting to course through your veins are taking control of your body like a puppeteer.
His calloused hand finds the side of your face, his fingers sliding over your hair. You sink into his touch, dropping your eyes to his lips as he leans closer, your own parting in preparation.
The second his mouth presses against yours, the warmth surges through you at a degree so intense your hands immediately find his shoulders for support. You feel the hard bone hiding beneath the fabric of his shirt, and when you squeeze, it feels like the shape was perfectly crafted to be in your palm. You melt into the kiss, into his figure, pressing yourself to him firmly.
He’s so articulate, and God, it’s paying off in your favour. His lips move against yours with a level of precision only such a disciplined man could possess, and when his hand that isn’t on your face glides to your lower back, even more of your nervousness, if any even existed anymore, fades into sheer excitement.
You hook one arm over the back of his neck, pushing up onto the tips of your toes, kissing him with more fervour. The action greatly contradicts your plead to give him full control, however, he doesn’t fight you on it. Instead, he matches the pace you’ve set to regain dominance, guiding the movement of your feet until the two of you separate just long enough for you to collapse back on your bed.
You try to prop yourself back up on your elbows, but Wriothesley slips his hands under your body to sweep them out from under you, pinning both your wrists above your head in one swift movement. Your next exhale comes out as a whine, and he drinks up the sound by pressing his mouth back on yours.
“This okay?” He mumbles against your lips, a roughness to his voice that greatly differs from the one that appears in his exhaustion or frustration. No, what he’s feeling right now is something you’ve never had the pleasure of knowing before this moment.
You prop your knees up, squeezing around his hips, slotting him perfectly against your body with no escape. Your dress rides up your legs, bunching up around your thighs. You nod once, tangling your fingers in his hair.
“I’d appreciate if you’d use your words,” he suggests, his lips grazing along your face until he’s planting kisses across your jaw.
“Yes,” you breathe, tugging the dark strands by the root. “It’s okay.”
He groans at the pull, but doesn’t deter you, dropping his face further as he starts kissing and sucking at your neck. You tilt your head back, granting him as much access to your skin as possible.
It’s hard to ignore how much more intimate this feels than what you expected. What you expected was sex, which of course, is an extremely intimate act, but you also prepared for sex. You didn’t prepare for the taste of him, faintly resembling a mix of mint and the flavour of the tea you brewed for him, the combination working through your bloodstream like an aphrodisiac. You didn’t prepare for the feeling of his mouth on your neck, taking the first opportunity to mark you, sucking and biting the skin in a way that would surely linger for days to come, a reminder of what the two of you had done. These weren’t the kinds of deeds you thought people performed for one night together.
Were you going to complain about it?
Like hell you were.
You mumble his name in response to his teeth sinking into the skin above your collarbone, and he grunts in response, his hips shifting between your thighs. Holy shit.
His mouth travels back up to yours, less careful this time, like he’s already come to realize how welcome he is against you. He pulls your lip between his teeth and bites until you gasp, using the opportunity to slide his tongue against yours.
You moan at the feeling, your hand that isn’t knotted up in his hair clutching the fabric on his side for support. You let him take the lead without any battle for dominance, entirely consumed by his kiss, in the way he conducts it.
You’re suddenly shifted further up the bed, your head elevated as he tucks a pillow beneath it. You pant, watching with stars in your eyes as he sits up between your thighs, kneeling with your legs tossed loosely around his hips. Your mouth waters.
He shrugs off the top layer of his shirt, revealing a plain white tee beneath it. In a silly way, the simplicity of it once again makes this feel more intimate, almost too much so. You aren’t used to seeing him look so casual, so comfortable. This should be reserved for something different. Something real.
Your train of thought derails when he throws the shirt away and reaches for his belt.
The sound of it being unbuckled is like the crack of a whip, sending jolts of electricity all throughout your body. The sightis something else entirely, the way his lips are parted, chest rising and falling, as the most calm and collected man you’ve ever known fumbles with the accessory like he’s lost all sense of coordination.
You reach forward without thinking, and Wriothesley drops his arms to his sides with a groan when you tug the belt out of his pant loops for him. He’s quick to collect it from your hands, tossing it carelessly onto the floor beside your bed.
His hands slide up the outside of your thighs, your red dress scrunched up around your waist, your lace underwear barely hiding behind the rolls of fabric. You watch Wriothesley’s face as he examines you, eyebrows furrowed in a deep concentration.
“Can I lift this?” He purrs, his voice a melody that entirely disarms you. You’re gone. You’re entirely gone. You’re beneath him, you’re warm, you’re bothered, and you are gone.
You get halfway through a nod before your lips part. “Yes.”
Wriothesley doesn’t miss your consideration of his prior command. “Good girl,” he praises, pushing your dress higher.
Archons. Add that to the list of things you didn’t expect from casual sex.
He curses at the sight of your underwear, and your skin warms. Red and black lace, the colour scheme happening to match that of his regular uniform. He can’t seem to peel his eyes away, a few beats of silence passing as neither of you make a move.
“Are you okay?” You ask quietly.
He blinks, snapping out of it. “I—Yes. Of course I am.” His hands start sliding up and down your thighs again, a soothing gesture that barely serves its purpose. “I just—Fuck.”
You swallow hard, pushing yourself up a bit. Wriothesley doesn’t coax you back down again, he just watches as you hook your hands under the bundled up dress, peeling it off the top of your head. The noise Wriothesley produces borders on a whine, like the action has fully defeated him.
He helps you strip it entirely, adding it to the pile started by his black blazer and belt. He takes in the sight of your matching articles, the lace bra and underwear, gently guiding you back onto your forearms so he can get a full view of you.
You can’t imagine how erotic the vision is. You’re before him, legs wrapped around his hips, thighs separated, entirely at his disposal wearing nothing but two small, revealing pieces of clothing that also happen to mimic colours he associates with himself. You worry it’s too personal, but he doesn’t wear the face of a man urging to complain.
“You are…” He shakes his head, breathless. “Sneaky.”
You furrow your eyebrows. “I’m what?”
“I’m just starting to think this whole proposition was a ruse to kill me,” he confirms, his gaze not leaving you once. “You should know it’s working.”
You manage a smile. “Didn’t take you as a man to surrender so easily, Your Grace.”
He chuckles lowly. “I usually wouldn’t.” His hand is on your stomach now, enveloping the space between your bra and underwear. “I’m a lot of things,” he utters your name, “but I’m not foolish enough to fail to pick my battles.”
You bring both your hands to his, one wrapping around his wrist while the other finds a few of his fingers, holding him flush to you. “And what battle are you picking?”
“The one where I die right here,” he says without missing a beat. “At your hands. I’d go a lucky man.”
Was that a casual thing to say?
Regardless of the way the words go over in your head, your body reacts to them by greedily popping up and forcing him to lean back over you. Your mouths slot back together, and the way you’re depriving him of oxygen makes it believable that you truly are trying to kill him.
You slide a palm up the front of his shirt, feeling the warmth of his scarred skin. He doesn’t shy away from you. He’s never hidden from you, in fact, you’ve already seen the permanent markings of his past that are forever engraved in his skin, and it’s because he chose to show you.
Something crosses your mind, the way this encounter isn’t just about your belief in him. He’s putting himself on the line here, too, offering you vulnerability, offering you his trust.
Wriothesley takes your wandering hand as in invitation to tug the fabric over his head, discarding of it. Both your hands are exploring now, planted just above the hem of his pants and gliding upwards until they’re clutching his bare shoulders.
You push, guiding him to lean off you just enough for you to take in the sight of him. The ragged lines cutting through his skin, a canvas of pain he endured before you even knew his name.
His next breath is uneven.
You meet his eyes, his gaze locked on yours, like he’s studying your reaction to the sight of him in this context.
“I think you’re beautiful,” you tell him, voice quiet, like you’re trying to enunciate how those words are only for him, despite how alone you already are. They aren’t even for the echos between the walls, the four words are for nothing but his own ears.
His jaw tightens, his eyes trailing down your body before flashing back to your awaiting stare. “I think you’re…” He swallows. “Perfect.”
Your breath hitches, reaching for his shoulders instinctively. His words, his touch, it all feels too real. Too honest, too against the words you two shared in his office mere days ago.
You should push him away, tell him how your heartfelt promise of this being meaningless is already starting to fade from reality. You don’t even know how to define the difference between meaningless and meaningful sex, you have no comparisons to make, but you wouldn’t pin a single thing he’s said or done to the former.
You should really tell him.
But you think he might already know.
He says your name, and you look to him with expectant eyes.
His hands travel downward, hooking under the lace that’s currently the only thing separating him from the flood of arousal he’s already created.
“Can this come off?”
You whine, your heart rate picking up before you nod.
“Words,” he reminds you, his thumb suddenly finding and pressing against your clit through the fabric. You moan, your neck arching, head pressing against the pillow he placed. You can’t spit out a word right away, clutching the sheets as he draws firm, slow circles, pleasurable but insufficient. “Come on, baby. You can do it.”
Gods. Who’s trying to kill who, again?
You buck against his hand, nodding again. “Yes—Yes.”
He doesn’t waste a moment following your verbal approval, situating himself off the bed, your legs untangling from around his waist. He gently tugs you back down to the edge of the mattress, and then he’s delicately pulling the fabric down and off.
You gasp at the feeling of the cold air hitting you. Wriothesley curses, seeing the way you’re dripping helplessly for him despite the fact he’s barely touched you. He forces your thighs open wide, and your eyes screw shut at the feeling of his gaze studying you, spread open for him like this.
“Fuck…” He says lowly. “Can I touch you?”
You shift, gripping the sheets tighter, your eyes opening. Your voice comes out strained and whiny. “Of course you can, Wriothesley.”
“Archons,” he chokes out, and then he’s lowering to his knees before you. Your legs rest on either side of his figure, held open by his shoulders between your thighs. One of his hands inch up the bed, finding yours.
His hand envelopes yours, encouraging you to release your death grip on the sheets. “It’s okay,” he assures you, first are foremost. “Relax for me, baby. I’ve got you.”
You nod, his tender words and action working in his favour. You manage to loosen up your tense muscles, taking long, deep breaths per his command. “I trust you,” you whisper, allowing him to intertwine his fingers with yours.
He grunts, his other arm wrapping around your thigh, forcing it up onto his shoulder. “Good.”
His palm flattens against your lower stomach, his thumb poking out and finding your clit again. You gasp out, back arching at the feeling of his skin against you. He applies the perfect amount of pressure, rubbing slow circles experimentally, like he’s doing his best to understand your body.
“Wriothesley,” you moan.
“Oh, fuck.” He drops his head to your inner thigh, nipping at the skin there. You gasp again. “You’re killing me, saying my name like that.”
You exhale shakily. “Noted,” you manage, forcing words out despite the way the pleasure shooting you makes your wind pipe feel small. “That’s my goal, according to you, right?”
He chuckles, moving his head to lick a stripe up your cunt, collecting your wetness until he’s moving his thumb away to lap at your clit. You cry out at the sensation, squeezing his hand and darting your free one to grip his hair.
He pulls back, and when you crane your neck to look at him, you see yourself coating his lips, and he looks fucking drunkon you, a competitive glimmer in his gaze. He meets your eyes and grins. “We’ll see if I don’t take you out first.”
Your comeback dies in your throat when his lips wrap around your clit, sucking firmly. You whimper his name, spurring him on as he hungrily works at you, and fuck if this feels like the amount of effort anyone would put in as a favour for a friend. It feels so real it would scare you if you had time to worry.
“Gods,” he murmurs. “You have no idea how good you taste.”
“Wriothesley,” you whine. “Don’t… Say that.”
He laughs lowly. “Why? Am I winning?”
Your chin tilts back, eyes fluttering shut. “For now.”
He hums, pressing the vibration right against you. “We’ll see about that.”
His thumb pokes back out, drawing those same firm circles on your clit as his tongue starts to tease your fluttering hole. Your grip on his hand tightens, and you buck against his face, making him chuckle.
“Eager,” he notes, though the way the word emerges from his throat makes it seem like he’s more amused than mocking.
All you can manage is a nod.
His tongue dips inside you, just barely, but it makes you moan out anyway. He repeats the action, dipping in and out of you over and over again, before his hand retreats from your clit and his mouth is back.
“Shit, Wriothesley,” you choke out.
“I know,” he mumbles reassuringly against you, before suddenly doubling his efforts. His tongue strokes your clit, deliberate and hungry. You squirm and moan, sputtering out incoherent pleads as he periodically responds with choked praises. He sucks hard, a flick of his tongue making you writhe. His hand, which he had resting on your stomach, moves until he’s probing your opening with his fingertip.
Your breath hitches, opening your eyes to catch the moment he peers up at you, silently asking for permission.
He lets you off the hook with a nod this time, sluggishly licking your clit as he presses his middle finger inside your cunt. You pull your lip between your teeth at the feeling, good but unfamiliar, foreign but undeniably him. This wasn’t ever the part that worried you, your lack of partners didn’t take away from your natural inclinations to explore your own body, it was always about who would take permanent residence in your list of lived experiences as being your first time.
With each passing second, you are infinitely happier with your choice.
His finger drags against your walls, his ministrations on your clit never faltering. He rolls his tongue over you again and again, suctioning in a way that has you nearly pulling his dark hair out at the root. He simply grunts, and you’re sure a bullet wound wouldn’t be able to hinder him at this point as he finds the perfect point to curve his finger, and suddenly a coil is winding tight deep in your stomach. You gasp his name.
He recognizes your warning, humming as he continues to devour you with reverence. His finger caresses that spot inside of you just right, and it isn’t long until you’re shaking, holding your breath as you barrel so close to the edge.
“Let go,” he murmurs against you, and it sounds the most like a demand out of anything he’s said all night. “Go on, baby.”
His words, the authority behind them, are the last push until you completely shatter for him. You cry out, your body thrashing as he pulls his hand from yours to hold you down at the hip. He works you through every wave, studying the way you moan and twitch for him, and only when you make a whine-like noise of defiance at the overstimulation does he pull back.
He’s panting, both his hands on the tops of your thighs now as he studies the way you slowly float back down to this plane of reality. You’re near limp against the bed, and only when you peer down at him does he ascend back up your body, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead.
“Are you okay?” He asks gently, stroking the side of your face.
You lean into his touch. “Mhm…”
“Don’t believe that counts as a word,” he notes, a hint of humour in his tone. Your eyes flutter open, meeting the frost hues staring down at you. There’s a look in his eyes you can’t place, but it makes you feel like your heart is swelling to three times the size, and you imagine you’re mimicking the expression as you look up at him.
It feels almost natural, holding his gaze in this way. Somehow, it feels even more natural than your friendly lunches spent in each other’s company, or your casual conversations about the weather or your careers that precede deeper ones about things you’ve only ever shared with one another.
It’s a look you’ve only ever offered him, fuelled by a feeling only he’s ever drawn out of you.
What is this?
Your mouth twitches up in a small smile. “I’m okay.” Your hand threads through his hair. “Should I do something for you?”
His eyebrows knit together. “Hm?”
You swallow hard. “To help you…”
Realization flashes in his eyes, and he laughs lowly before reaching for your free hand, guiding it until he’s pressing your palm to the front of his pants. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
Your breath hitches, heart racing as you feel the bulge insistently pressing against the thin fabric. He keeps his hands over yours, and when you start to massage the tent in his pants, he pulls you away.
You whine his name.
He shushes you by pressing his mouth to yours, and the taste of yourself on his lips is so erotic it makes you buck your hips against his. He grunts, hooking one of your legs over his waist before he grinds himself against your bare pussy. He keeps kissing you, maddeningly slow, rocking his hips with precision.
“Oh Gods,” you whimper against him, slinging an arm over his neck, the other grasping his side.
He says your name, pulling back from you and meeting your eyes. “We can stop here,” he offers, pressing a peck to the corner of your mouth.
You shake your head. “No—I want to keep going.” You blink at him. “Do you want to stop?”
“No—Archons, not at all.” He sounds almost offended. “But more than anything, I want to give you whatever the hell you want.”
You press your hips up, clenching around nothing at the sensation of his hardness rubbing against you. “I want you.”
He curses, dropping his forehead to yours. “Gods—I want you, too.”
One of his hands travel upwards, cupping your breast through the lace. You tilt your head back, listening to his heavy breathing. He sounds like he’s barely keeping himself together, like every bone in his body is screaming with how desperately he wants to be inside of you, but he’s utilizing his restraint to focus on you and your needs above himself.
“Take it off,” you tell him.
He’s quick to take you up on that, helping you lean up so he can reach for your back and unclip the garment. He’s gentle as he pulls the straps down your shoulders, and his eyes study it one more time with appreciation before tossing it aside.
He swallows when he looks down at you, now fully naked and on total display for him. You expected to feel awkward or exposed, but you don’t. Not now. Not with him.
He leans down, taking one of your nipples into his mouth as he continues to fondle your other breast. You grip his shoulders, letting him do what he pleases. His mouth travels to the curve under your chest, sucking and biting enough to leave more marks in his wake.
He thumbs your nipple, taking the nub between his thumb and pointer finger before squeezing gently. You whimper, bucking your hips again.
“You’re doing so well,” he tells you, voice thick with arousal. “You’re such a good girl, you know that?”
“For you,” you murmur without thinking, mind fogged by your need for him.
“Yeah?” He pushes, dragging his lips over your chest, up until he can put his forehead against yours again. “For me?”
You nod rapidly, your hands reaching for his pants, gripping the hem.
“Just me?”
Fuck. Two words further prove to you that this has become nothing like what it was supposed to be. Nothing about this is serving the purpose it was meant to, because hell if you were going to use this incredible experience as motivation to go out and have other mediocre experiences with mediocre men. Your stomach twists just thinking about it, being anywhere but here, with anyone but him.
You start to push down his pants. “Yes,” you breathe. “Just you.”
He doesn’t stop you, mumbling something under his breath as he instead helps you discard of the clothing until he’s kicking it off his feet. He stands then, readjusting you on the mattress again, slipping that pillow back under your head, and he reaches for another to place beneath your lower back. You trust the way he situates you, laying there obediently, waiting for him.
He grabs his pants for a moment, reaching in the pocket for his wallet, and then in his wallet for a condom.
You watch with anticipation as he hooks his fingers in his boxers before he’s pulling them down, too, freeing his cock. Your thighs push together automatically at the sight of him. He’s big, and the head is flushed and dripping precum down his thick shaft. He doesn’t give you the pleasure of ogling for long, crawling back on the bed and pulling your legs open before kneeling between them. You whine at the sight of him ripping open the rectangular package before he’s rolling the condom onto his length.
Your heart pounds against your chest. He catches the bewildered look on your face, dropping down to plant kisses all over your skin, anywhere he can reach, until he feels you start to relax under his lips.
“You’re still sure?” He murmurs.
“Yes,” you say, your voice betraying you with the slightest shake.
“I’m going to take care of you,” he promises, getting so close that his mouth it right by your ear, and his chest is against yours. “I’ll be gentle, alright?”
You nod, both your arms wrapping around his shoulders. He takes this as an invitation to reach between your bodies, grabbing his cock at the base and sliding the tip from your entrance all the way up to your clit, collecting your arousal. You choke out a whine every time he drags back up, nudging the oversensitive bundle of nerves firmly, and eventually, he presses the head against your opening until he’s just barely pressed inside of you.
You gasp at the slight stretch, your head falling back against the pillow. “Wriothesley.”
“I know,” he says, voice rough. His lips find yours, and even as you struggle to reciprocate at the feeling of him pushing you open, it soothes you. “Such a good girl.”
Your arms tighten around him, holding him flush to you as he rocks his hips, filling you another couple inches. You blubber out his name in the midst of a string of moans and gasps, your walls aching around the intrusion. He pauses momentarily, letting you adjust.
“Look how good you’re doing,” he purrs, mouth hovering just above yours. “Taking me so well, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” You cry, moving one hand to his shoulder so you can dig crescents into his bare skin. He grunts.
“There you go,” he encourages. “Just hold onto me, sweetheart. I have you.”
Does he ever.
All the air in your lungs rushes out when he finally starts to press forward again, filling you slowly, and Wriothesley grunts at the way your walls clench around him as his cock bullies it’s way deeper into you. He studies you, every movement, every breath, only giving you more when he’s sure you can take it, and he makes these judgments without you needing to say a word.
You cry out when he fills you completely, his hips flush against yours. The overload of sensation makes you feel like you’re already falling apart for him, breathing in quick moans and squeezing around him like you’re trying to pull him impossibly deeper.
“Fuck,” he curses, bracing an elbow next to your head, making you feel beautifully caged in by his form, trapping you somewhere you’d happily stay forever. “Look at you. Taking all of me.” He kisses you once. “Good girl.”
The praise sends a pleasurable jolt through your bones, your hips shifting in a way that makes him feel deeper. You tremble, unable to form words, and he doesn’t push you. He just peers down at the way he has you filled to the brim, and then his gaze snaps back to your face, all needy and fucked-out, and he’s not even close to done with you yet.
His trails kisses all over your face, down your neck, between your breasts, and you feel like you’re being worshipped. Wriothesley was never one to be too outspoken about the presence of Gods in the world you two shared, but in this moment, you’re sure that would change if you yourself had such status. He praises every inch of you like an altar with no hesitance, no shame.
“You can move,” you manage to tell him, your words ending in a squeal when he shifts the slightest bit.
He adjusts himself above you, one arm resting beside your head again, while the other reaches for your hand, limp against the bed, and interlocks your fingers. You squeeze when he draws his hips back, until you’re only about halfway full of him, and then he thrusts forward once more.
The sounds he pulls from your throat only motivates him further, and he sets a steady, cautious pace, stuffing you to the brim over, and over again. He groans from above you, the feeling of you around him tearing him apart bit by bit. You can’t do anything but helplessly squirm and moan beneath the weight of him, soaking in the soothing kisses and bites he smothers you with as he fucks you.
“Harder,” you gasp out, back arching into his chest, his skin warm and coated in a layer of sweat. “I can take it.”
“Shit,” he murmurs, dropping his forehead to your shoulder as he fulfills your request. He pulls his hips back further than before, and then he drives back into you all at once. He coughs out your name, your entire body jerking with the punishing thrust. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, his cock dragging along all the right parts of you as he sets a new pace.
He begins fucking you with abandon, his hips snapping against yours until your eyes are screwed shut so tight you’re seeing stars. Your nails rake down his back, layering old scars with new scratches, covering bad reminders with what can only be described as the best you’ve ever felt in your life. You angle your hips to let him in deeper, and he slams against a part of you that makes you scream.
“Wriothesley—Wriothesley, oh God.” You cry, clinging to him like he’s your only lifeline.
“There you go, baby,” he growls, his pace never faltering as he presses his mouth by your ear. “Keep screaming for me. Let all of Fontaine know who’s fucking you.”
Like your body physically rejects the idea of not obeying him, every snap of his hips makes you scream for him again. You blabber nonsensically, about how good he makes you feel, about how bad you need him, and the last thing on your mind is how far from casual this is.
His hand retreats from yours, landing on your hip to hold your writhing body still. He grinds all the way to the hilt, and you’re already longing for the feeling of being this close to him before it’s even over.
Just like all your friends said, you can feel all your stress, all the worries of the last week, last month, last year, whisk away under his touch. The pit that’s been living in your stomach explodes and paints the rest of your body with the warmth between you and Wriothesley, and the terrors that have been plaguing your restless mind reform to the shape of his perfect face. He’s all you can see, all you can feel, all you can afford to let haunt you.
When his thrusts pick back up, he’s moved his hand from your hip so he can rub your clit as he fills you. You shriek, a shudder washing over you.
He kisses you again, leaving you with nothing to do but hold onto him and let him drink up every sound you make. His hand leaves you hurling towards your peak, and he chases after it, deliberately fucking into all the right spots as his hands works tirelessly at your clit.
“Come for me,” he urges against your lips, the strain in his voice giving away just how close he is to tipping over the edge with you. “It’s okay, baby.”
He undoes you with his words, your orgasm crashing over you so powerfully you’re left in an absolute daze, all tense muscles and throaty cries, pulsating around his twitching cock. You can do nothing but greedily take the continuation of his bruising thrusts as he works you through the climax, and by the time you’ve come down enough to remember your own name, Wriothesley groans it as he presses all the way into you before spilling into the condom.
He huffs above you, keeping himself buried deep as you both use the sounds of each other’s breathing to ground yourselves. You’re still holding onto him, and he slowly starts to kiss your cheeks, and then your temple, your forehead, your eyelids, mumbling praise after praise like he’s never known something more magnificent.
“Beautiful,” he says quietly, and you hum. “Did so well. So proud of you.” He buries his face in the crook of your neck. “So fucking happy you asked me for this.”
“Me too,” you whisper back, chest rising and falling under the reassuring pressure of his body on yours.
He slowly pulls out of you, groaning as he leans off like it physically pains him to separate from your embrace. You lay there, feeling weightless with all of your limbs so tuckered out they’re near numb. Your eyes beg to flutter shut, but you can’t bring yourself to exit this moment yet, watching him as he slowly navigates around your room, discarding off the condom before pulling nothing but his boxers back on.
He offers you a reassuring smile, promising his return, before dipping into your bathroom. He returns with a damp cloth, and he doesn’t let you move an inch to assist him as he cleans you up.
When he’s finished, he finds a pair of underwear and a large tee shirt in your drawers and redresses you with a tenderness so potent it makes you ache. He lifts you into his arms, sitting against your headboard and placing you in his lap.
You clutch his shoulders as he kisses at your neck, soothing the raw marks he left behind. You relax against him, allowing him to tend to you.
He says your name, bringing your attention back to him. You lean back, half-lidded eyes meeting his.
He cups the side of your face, his gaze flickering all over you, studying you like he’s trying to commit you to memory.
He swallows hard. “You’re happy?” He asks gently.
You smile softly. “With your favour for a friend?”
He chuckles at your sarcastic tone, the skin on his face flushed a light pink. “Among other things.”
You cup each side of his neck, feeling so deprived of the closeness already. You don’t know if it’s because you’re still coming down from what just happened, but your want to be near him feels more real than anything.
“Plan went a little off the rails,” you admit warily.
He cocks an eyebrow. “Yeah? What part?”
“The not-meaning-anything part.”
He pulls you forward, your foreheads pressing together. His breath trembles, one of his hands sliding up and down your back through your shirt. “You’ve never meant anything but everything to me.” He nuzzles his face in your neck. “Fuck, I swear, if you were serious about seeing other guys after this…”
You giggle, hugging him. “I won’t,” you promise, your face pressed against his hair. “Like I said,” you whisper. “Just you, Wriothesley.”
✿ Author's note: second solo wrio fic wooo!!! my biggest roadblock in writing wrio is not wanting to give him too much sexual experience because it seems ooc but also wanting to make him an exceptional lover because that''s my truth. let's just say he reads a lot!!!! hope u guys enjoyed :)))
author's note ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ written for suna rintarou, matsukawa issei, and ushijima wakatoshi. set in post-timeskip | kinktober 2024 mlist
content warnings ₊˚⊹ handjobs, cumplay, cum eating, dom/sub dynamics, tit sucking, petnames, x fem! reader, ageless/minors dni (18+)
suna rintarou
your darling boyfriend adores your tits. never mind in public or private, suna stares when he gets the chance. he says you can’t blame him, at least not when you have a rack like that.
“mm- f-fuck!”
the sound of slick skin on skin fills the room. your hand leisurely tugs at suna’s weeping dick, thumb swiping over his sensitive head. you smear his precum as his hips buck at the contact.
his legs are thrown across your lap in your shared bed. suna buries his face between your tits, groaning into your chest as you tighten your hand and pump his cock. his fingers dig into your soft flesh, thumb and index finger pinching your nipples.
his hot breath fans over your left breast when he moans with his mouth open. suna latches onto your nipple, sucking and swirling his tongue as he thrusts shallowly into your hand. his mind is blank. all he wants is to cum on your fist as he sucks on your tits.
you let out a soft noise when suna’s teeth pull on your sensitive nub. his free hand works your right tit, palming you.
“gonna cum, baby?” you breathe.
suna looks up at you with glossy eyes and his cheeks pink. “please? please, wanna cum for you so bad, you feel so good.”
as if you could ever deny him.
“ah! fuck! mmph! g’nna cum, please- s’close!”
you focus your touch near his head. suna’s mouth closes over your tit again, muffling his moans as his back arches and his toes curl. then he’s cumming all your hand as you work him through his orgasm.
suna’s lower back feels like it's melting. his head is hazy, blood pumping through his veins as he comes down from his high. you smooth his hair back from his sweaty forehead.
“c’mon baby. one more?” you coo.
suna gasps when you smear his cum back onto his soft cock, using it as lube. the pleasure edges on the border of being too much when you run the pad of your finger over his sticky slit.
“can’t- please, not-”
“aw, baby. please? for me?”
you squeeze his balls and suna sees stars.
matsukawa issei
“shit!”
matsukawa has been moaning ever since your soft, pretty hands wrapped themselves around his cock. his mouth is ajar, saliva collecting behind his tongue.
“what’s wrong, ‘sei?” you laugh from behind him. “something bothering you?”
you twist your hand over his sensitive, sticky head and he has to physically stop himself from arching his back into your touch.
“yes, fuck. your hands feel so good,” he gasps.
matsukawa doesn’t know which hentai you’re trying to recreate again, but that’s the last thing on his mind right now. all hail ero mangakas, honestly.
your other hand caresses the plane of his chest, pinching his nipple teasingly as matsukawa swats you away. you giggle and rest your chin on his shoulder from behind.
“what? you don't like your nipples played with?” you tease.
“shut up,” he grumbles in reply.
you pick up the speed as you work at matsukawa’s cock. it’s thick, with a thick vein running along the bottom side. he hisses when your hand grazes his sensitive head.
matsukawa’s head falls back onto your shoulder. he squeezes his eyes shut, letting out shaky breaths. his abs flex and clench as he melts into your touch. he loves it when you play with him like this. not to say that he can’t be the dominating one in bed, but matsukawa thinks it’s stupidly sexy when you take the lead sometimes, too. blame a man for thinking his hot girlfriend pushing him into bed and giving him a handjob is, well, hot.
“fuck, i’m pretty close,” he pants.
you feel his cock twitch in your hand. your hand creeps up to cup over matsukawa’s mouth. his eyes blow open as his moans become muffled, breath hot against your palm. you hold his head against yours.
“yeah? are you? doesn’t that feel good, ‘sei’?” you whisper into his ear. “wanna cum for me?”
matsukawa cums harder than he ever has before. he lets out a deep groan, legs tensing and twitching as he cums, cums, and cums. some of it lands on his chest as you continue to stroke him, forcing out the last drops.
“f-fuck,” he gasps when you remove your hand.
his body melts into yours. you kiss dark curls, praising him, and matsukawa thinks he might just bust another load there and then.
ushijima wakatoshi
ushijima’s the kind of guy who prioritises your pleasure before his. sure, joke around about how nice guys finish last, but it’s true. so when you suggest that you help him get off first, ushijima is reluctant.
“there you go, toshi. that’s it. just relax for me.”
your breath tickles the shell of his ear and ushijima’s brain melts into nothing. your hand works his hard cock, his tip angry and red from the stimulation.
some part of him feels awkward about giving up control, but god, does it feel good. you sit on his lap, knees on either side of his hips. ushijima’s hands cradle your ass as his breath comes laboured and heavy.
“does that feel good, toshi?”
ushijima’s always had trouble articulating his thoughts coherently. now’s no different, especially when his lips are swollen from kissing yours, and the only thought bouncing around inside of his sex-drunk head is cumming.
he moans. it’s a low, drawn-out sound, almost sounding like a whine as ushijima buries his face in the crook of your neck.
“aw, baby, you’re really cute like this,” you coo.
his face is hot with embarrassment but his thighs twitch and his abs clench, hips thrusting shallowly in time with your hand.
“wanna cum,” he groans. “please.”
your skin is soft against his. he’s had his fair experience of masturbating when you weren’t around because of work or family, but ushijima’s never liked doing it. he favours finishing with you, cunt butterflying around him and squeezing out his seed.
you kiss ushijima’s temple. you speed up your pace, earning a strained groan from him. his hands come up to grope at your chest greedily as he grows closer and closer to finishing.
“g-gonna, shit- cumming, cumming-”
ushijima bites down on his lower lip as he spills himself all over your fist, his head tilted back slightly as white flashes across his eyes. all he feels is electric pleasure pulsing through his cock.
he finally lets out a heavy sigh, muscles relaxing all at once. his ears pop as he drifts back to reality.
“you came so much,” you laugh lightly, glancing down at the cum all over your hand.
as you lift your fingers to your mouth and lick it all off, there’s a glint in ushijima’s eyes.
“now it’s your turn,” he breathes.
you yelp as he puts his hand between your legs, touching nothing but wet slick.
cw ⋆⟢ MDNI, nsfw, best friend & fuckbuddy who casually makes conceptual porn for twitter!mattsun x fem!reader, exhibitionism (filming/recording), heavy make-out session with mattsun, mutual masturbation, fingering, handjob, light edging, cunnilingus, light dub-con, multiple orgasms, unprotected p in v, size kink, big dick mattsun (he's back!), tummy bulge, rough sex, praise & degradation, objetification (kinda), manhandling, hair pulling, spanking, choking/breath play, marking, physical restraining, dirty talk, pussy slapping, spitting, face slapping, squirting, blowjob, deepthroat, light face-fucking, cum on face, finger sucking & cum eating, all characters are aged up!
the hum of the city was a distant murmur, barely penetrating the thick curtains of mattsun's apartment. the only sound that mattered right now was the soft clink of ice in your glass and the even softer brush of his knee against yours on the worn sofa. you'd been through a couple of rounds of whiskey sours, the kind he made just right, tart and sweet with a bite. the conversation had meandered, as it always did, from the ridiculous to the profound, punctuated by comfortable silences that only best friends could share without feeling awkward.
but tonight, there was a different kind of silence. a heavy quiet that seemed to thrum between your bodies, a familiar tension that had always been there, just beneath the surface, whenever you two were alone like this. your eyes drifted over him, the way the dim light caught the sharp line of his jaw, the lazy curve of his lips, the dark, knowing glint in his eyes that always seemed to be watching you...
"you know," you started, the words a little slurred, a little braver thanks to the alcohol, "it's wild how much of a fucking menace you are."
he chuckled, a low rumble in his chest that you could almost feel through the cushions. "oh? and what, pray tell, makes me a menace tonight, doll?" his voice was always like that, a smooth, deep current that could make a damn grocery list sound like an invitation to sin.
you leaned back, mirroring his relaxed posture, but your insides were anything but. "you know what i'm talking about," you took a slow sip of your drink, letting the words hang in the air. "'twitter's most dangerous sex symbol', huh?" you shook your head, a smile playing on your lips, but your gaze was unwavering. "they're not wrong though. you're a whole damn phenomenon."
he just watched you, a smirk playing on his face. he knew you knew. he'd always known. it was part of your fucked-up, honest-to-a-fault dynamic. you'd tease him, he'd deflect, and the unspoken understanding would just simmer.
"and you've never filmed me," you said, the question finally tumbling out, blunt and unadorned. it wasn't an accusation, not exactly. more like an observation, laced with a curiosity that had been gnawing at you for a while. "you've filmed others. casual partners. you've put them on your feed. but never me. why not?"
the smirk died on his face. the easy, comfortable amusement drained from his eyes, replaced by something darker, something intense and unguarded. his laugh, which had been on the cusp of bubbling up, died in his throat. he set his glass down on the coffee table with a soft thud, the sound amplified in the sudden, heavy quiet.
his eyes, those dark, knowing eyes, swept over you. a slow journey from your hair, down your throat, over the curve of your chest, to your legs, stretched out beside his. it felt like he was seeing you for the very first time, or perhaps, seeing something he'd deliberately kept himself from acknowledging.
"because," he said, his voice dropping to a rough, almost guttural whisper that made your breath catch in your throat. he leaned closer, invading your space, the heat of his body radiating against yours. "because you're the one person i can't stay casual with. you're the one i'd ruin a little too eagerly and end up sounding completely fucking wrecked for on camera." his hand lifted, hovering inches from your cheek, not quite touching, but the intent was clear. "and i can't let the world hear me like that, baby."
the air crackled, thick with unspoken words, with years of shared history and suppressed desire. the whiskey sours had done their job, stripping away the usual filters, leaving you both exposed. his gaze was burning now, a raw, primal hunger that mirrored the sudden clench in your gut.
"if i ever filmed us," he murmured, his thumb finally brushing your cheek, sending shivers down your spine, "it would go way deeper than just some porn shit for the internet. it would be… something else entirely."
your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat. his admission, so raw and unexpected, had set a fire in your veins. you met his gaze, unafraid, a dangerous smile curving your lips. "show me, then," you whispered, your voice surprisingly steady, a challenge disguised as an invitation.
then the dam broke.
his eyes flared, dark and possessive. without another word, he closed the distance, his mouth crashing down on yours. not soft, not gentle. it was hungry, demanding, an explosion of pent-up desire that had been simmering between you for years. his lips were hot and firm, tasting of whiskey. your hands went instantly to his hair, clutching at the soft strands, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss until your teeth scraped and your tongues tangled in a desperate dance.
he groaned, a low, animal sound that vibrated through your chest. his hand, the one that had been hovering, slid down your jaw, cupping your chin as he tilted your head, giving him better access, devouring your mouth. the other hand plunged into your hair, pulling gently, tilting your head back even further as he ravaged your lips, your neck, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down your throat.
"fuck," he breathed against your skin, his voice rough with need. he tasted the pulse fluttering wildly at the base of your throat, his teeth nipping lightly, sending a jolt of pleasure through you. "you have no idea how long i've wanted to do this, like this."
you whimpered, a soft, helpless sound that only seemed to fuel his hunger. your fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel the warmth of his skin beneath your palms. he pulled back for a split second, just enough to tear off his shirt, tossing it carelessly to the floor. the sight of his chest, broad and muscled, made your breath hitch. your hands immediately found purchase, tracing the hard lines of his abs, the taut skin, the faint scars from volleyball.
he was already working on your clothes, his fingers surprisingly deft as he unzipped your jeans, pushing them down your hips with practiced ease. your panties were next, a soft whisper of fabric as they joined your jeans on the floor. you shivered, not from cold, but from the sudden exposure, the anticipation.
his eyes devoured your body, lingering on the curve of your hips, the swell of your breasts beneath your shirt. "beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. he stripped you of your top, letting his gaze feast on your nakedness. you could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, but you didn't look away, holding his gaze, challenging him to look deeper.
he slid his hand between your legs and you gasped, your hips instinctively arching into his touch. he chuckled, a low, dark sound that sent shivers through you. "eager, are we?"
"always," you whispered, your voice hoarse.
he pulled back, just for a moment, and you saw him reach for his phone on the coffee table. your heart skipped a beat. this was it. the line was truly being crossed. he didn't say anything, just positioned the phone carefully on a stack of books, angled perfectly to capture both of you. he didn't press record yet, but the implied threat, the promise, was enough for now.
then his hand was back, warm and firm, on your inner thigh. his fingers trailed higher, teasingly slow, until they found the wet heat between your legs. you moaned, a raw, needy sound. he slipped a finger inside you, then another, his thumb brushing over your clit with excruciating precision.
"haah—fuck," you breathed, your hips bucking against his hand. he was so good at this, knowing exactly where to touch, how to stroke.
while he worked you with his fingers, his other hand went to his own zipper. you watched, mesmerized, as he freed himself. your eyes widened at the sight. he was massive. even though you had (not only) seen it several times before, it was always a surprise. it was thick, veined, and stood proud, throbbing slightly.
"like what you see, doll?" he asked, his voice a low growl, catching your gaze.
you couldn't speak, just nodded, your eyes glued to him. you reached out, your hand trembling slightly, and wrapped your fingers around his shaft. it was hot and hard, filling your palm. you started to stroke him, slowly at first, then picking up the pace, mimicking his rhythm inside you.
he groaned, his head falling back against the sofa. "god, yes. that's it. you feel so fucking good around my fingers." he leaned down, his mouth finding your neck again, sucking a bruise there. "keep going, baby. show me how much you want it."
you whimpered, lost in the sensations, the dual pleasure of his fingers inside you and your hand around his thick cock. you could feel yourself getting closer, the pressure building, a sweet, agonizing ache spreading through your core.
suddenly, he pulled his hand away from you. you groaned in protest, but he just grinned, a predatory glint in his eyes. he leaned down, pushing your legs wider, and then his mouth was there, hot and wet, engulfing your clit.
you gasped, your back arching off the sofa. his tongue was a revelation, skilled and relentless, swirling and flicking, teasing and sucking, and you couldn't get enough. you clawed at his hair, holding him to you, urging him on.
"oh, issei—fuck," you whimpered, your body trembling uncontrollably. his tongue worked you harder, faster, until your vision blurred and your body convulsed, a wave of pleasure crashing over you. you cried out his name, a desperate, guttural sound, as you came, hard and fast, your muscles clenching around his tongue.
he pulled back, a triumphant smirk on his face, his lips glistening. "already?" he teased, but his eyes were dark with satisfaction. he didn't give you a moment to recover, immediately diving back down, his tongue finding your clit again, even more insistent this time.
you were still buzzing from the first orgasm, your body hypersensitive, and his renewed assault sent you spiraling again. your hips bucked, your fingers digging into the sofa cushions. he was relentless, sucking and licking, driving you to the brink once more.
"fuck! issei, stop, i can't—oh my god!" the words were torn from your throat as your body seized again, a second, even more intense orgasm wracking you. you cried out, a loud, uninhibited shriek, your legs trembling violently. he licked you clean, savoring the taste, before finally pulling away, a satisfied hum rumbling in his chest.
you lay there, panting, your body humming with residual pleasure. he looked down at you, his eyes dark with a hunger that hadn't been sated. he reached for his phone, finally pressing the record button. the small red light blinked, a silent witness.
"now," he rumbled, his voice low and dangerous, "it's time for the main event."
he shifted, kneeling between your legs, his erection throbbing, slick with pre-cum. he held his cock at your entrance, teasing you, letting you feel the blunt head pressing against your wet folds. you whined, desperate for him to enter.
"say please," he commanded, his eyes locked on yours.
"please, issei, please," you pleaded, your voice raw.
he grinned, a flash of white teeth. "that's my good girl."
then, with a slow, deliberate push, he began to enter you. you gasped, your body stretching around his immense size. he was so big. so impossibly thick you could feel yourself tearing, a sharp sting of pain quickly followed by an overwhelming fullness.
"aghh, fuuuck," you hissed, your eyes watering.
he paused, letting you adjust, his chest heaving. "too much?" he asked, his voice laced with concern, but his eyes were still dark with lust.
"no," you choked out, shaking your head. "don't stop."
he nodded, and then with a guttural groan, he plunged forward, burying himself to the hilt. you cried out in a mixture of pain and pleasure. your lower stomach bulged visibly with the sheer size of him, a shocking, undeniable evidence of how deep he was inside you.
he looked down, his eyes widening in disbelief, a raw, primal laugh escaping his lips. "fuckin' hell, doll, look at that!" he swore, grabbing your hips, pulling you tighter against him. "look how deep i am inside ya. you're practically swallowing me whole."
he started to move, slow at first, then picking up the pace, his hips grinding against yours. each thrust was deep, powerful, stretching you to your limits. you could feel him hitting your cervix with every bottom-out, sending shockwaves of sensation through your body. you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him even closer, desperate for more.
he leaned down, his mouth finding your ear. "you feel so good, so tight around me," he whispered, his voice thick with lust. "you're made for this, aren't you?"
your moans were becoming increasingly filthy, pornographic, echoing in the room. his head spun, his eyes glazed over with animalistic pleasure. he was a man possessed, driven by the raw need to claim you.
you started to abuse your own clit with your fingers, circling and pressing, adding another layer of intense sensation. your eyes never left his, a silent challenge, a shared madness. your face was a mask of obscene pleasure, biting your lip, touching yourself, watching him watch you. he let out a low growl, a primal sound that sent shivers down your spine. he laughed, a short, sharp bark, utterly undone by your audacity.
then he flipped you over onto your stomach without warning, pulling you up onto your hands and knees. you gasped, scrambling to adjust, feeling the sudden stretch and pull of him still inside you. he pulled out just enough to reposition, then slammed back in from behind, a deep, guttural grunt escaping his lips.
his balls slapped against your clit with every deep, bruising thrust, sending sparks of fire through you. he grabbed a handful of your hair, tugging your head back, exposing your neck.
"you're such a slut," he snarled, his voice rough, but there was an unmistakable note of adoration beneath the degradation. he lifted his free hand and spanked your ass, a sharp smack that made you cry out. "a fucking good one."
he leaned in, chest glueing to your back, his breath hot against your ear. "you like that, don't you? being fucked raw like the dirty whore you are?"
"issei," you whimpered, your body trembling, unable to form words. he let go of your hair, only to wrap his ridiculously big hand around your throat, squeezing. not hard enough to truly hurt, but hard enough to restrict your breath, to make your vision swim at the edges.
"tell me you're mine," he growled, his voice a dark command.
you choked out a strangled, "m'yours, mattsun. always yours."
he released his grip slightly, then assaulted your neck with a series of bites and hickeys, marking you, claiming you. "yeah, my good, dirty girl. so fucking good." he praised and degraded you in the same breath, a confusing, exhilarating mix that pushed you further into the depths of your own depravity.
he pulled back up, grabbing both of your arms, holding your wrists firmly. he pulled you back, forcing you to arch your back even further, to look up at him, your head tilted back at an impossible angle. you were a pliant toy in his hands, completely at his mercy.
you smiled, a wide, unhinged grin, a giggle bubbling up from your chest as your eyes met his. "fuck me harder," you begged, your voice breathless.
he stared at you, his eyes burning with a dark amusement, and then with a growl, he flipped you back onto your back. he hiked your legs up, pressing your thighs to your chest, exposing your swollen, slick pussy to him.
he gave your pussy a sharp, stinging slap, the sound echoing in the room. "you asked for it now, baby," he snarled, and then plunged his cock back in, hard and fast, burying himself to the hilt again.
"ahh! issei!" you screamed, a raw, primal sound, your body arching off the sofa.
he leaned in, grabbing your jaw, his fingers digging into your flesh. "open your mouth," he ordered, his voice laced with venom, eyes burning into yours.
you obeyed instantly, your mouth falling open, panting. he looked at you, a devilish glint in his eyes, and then, with a disgusting, wet sound, he spat.
"now shut the fuck up, whore," he growled, forcing your mouth closed, and then, with a sharp smack, he slapped your cheek.
the sting brought tears to your eyes, but it also ignited something else, a wild, untamed fury that mirrored his own. you glared at him, but you didn't fight, didn't protest. you just took it, letting him dominate you, letting him break you down.
he started to fuck you senseless, his thrusts relentless, pounding into you with a savage rhythm. he held your legs high, exposing you completely, his eyes never leaving your face, watching every shudder, every moan. you were a mess of sweat and tears and pleasure. your body was a vibrating string, stretched to its breaking point.
"cum f'me, doll," he demanded, his voice hoarse, his own breath ragged. "fucking scream my name."
and you did. you screamed his name, a desperate, guttural cry as your orgasm hit, a tidal wave of pleasure that consumed you. your body seized, your muscles clenching around him, and then, with a sudden, gushing release, you squirted, a warm flood soaking the sofa, making a mess of both of you.
he roared, a triumphant sound, his eyes wide with a feral satisfaction. he pulled out, still hard, still throbbing, then grabbed your hair, pulling you up onto your knees on the sofa, your legs still trembling. he guided his thick, dripping cock to your mouth, pushing the head between your lips.
"open wide, doll," he commanded, his voice thick with impending climax.
you obeyed, gagging slightly as he pushed deeper, fucking your throat with the same ruthless efficiency he'd used on your pussy. you choked, tears streaming down your face, but you held his gaze, taking every inch of him. he drove into your throat, again and again, his hips bucking, his face contorted in a mask of pure ecstasy.
he was close, so close. you could feel the tremors running through his body, the tension building. just as you thought you couldn't take any more, he pulled out with a wet pop.
you gasped for air, your throat raw, your eyes watering. he stood over you, his chest heaving, his eyes burning into yours. and then, with a guttural groan, he came, a thick, hot stream of cum erupting from his cock, splattering all over your face, lips, dripping down your chin.
he watched you, his breathing ragged, a dark, primal satisfaction in his eyes. he reached out, caressing your chin with his thumb, wiping the cum from your soft skin. he brushed your lower lip and slid his thumb inside. the small red light on his phone was still blinking, recording every last, depraved second.
he glanced at the camera, then back at you. the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "happy now, doll?"
23 wishes ⋆⟢ one character. one fantasy. every day until i'm 23 <3
"please." you plead, hips circling gently, left eye twitching as his cock hits so deep that it makes you see and feel stars. it hurts so good — your body not used to sitting its full weight over nanami's length. he's pressing against your cervix, making it nearly impossible to gain the strength to actually ride him like you know you can.
still, that's not why you're begging. you don't care if he shows you mercy, but you just know that you need more. "hit me. slap me, please."
"what?" his voice is shot — deep and heavy in his throat as he licks over his lips in passing. his red-bloomed chest rises and falls with a vengeance, pink nipples shaded a deeper hue of red as your manicured claws dig and grasp at his hard pecs.
"mmm— i need it."
"no, you don't, and you sound crazy."
"noooooo," you let your head hang heavy between your shoulders, hair everywhere, and falling into your blurry gaze. his thick, strong hands are tight on your hips, digging bruising wells into the gathered flesh. it's as far as he'll go — the most pressure he's willing to give you. "just once. on the cheek."
"i would never," he bites like it's his final prayer, aiding you with a buck of his hips. his fingers dip deeper as they bear your weight, giving him just enough space to make you really feel it.
"please! b-but i'm begging,"
"absolutely not."
"it's the only way i can c—
"no, it's not. i'm not a fool,"
you finally break, tears slipping down your cheeks as he fucks into you with shallow thrusts. the room is hazed over in lust and sweat, but you're so close to your peak, yet so far. he can go on and on like this — never losing stamina, waiting until you come undone before he even has the nerve to think about his own release.
only, something is different this time. your touch is strong and sure of itself, eyes screwed shut as you try to hold back. you can't for much longer, and he can see as much.
with one final, broken plea, you turn fists in his skin, bearing your teeth as you seethe down at him. "fucking hit me."
"is this what you want?" finally, he's giving in — his eyes crazed and bloodshot as his thrusts grow mean, almost like he's punishing you with his animalistic need. the sound of skin slapping skin is deadly and heated, bouncing off the walls and the ceiling before making its way back to you. every breath is measured and shaking, every gaze on fire as your wet cunt closes in on him, shuddering dangerously, squeezing around him like you never want him to leave.
"giveittome," it's all one word — jumbled and messy, sticking to your lips like dripping honey. it's a stare-off, one that you two would never speak of again, yet dream of every single night. "what? are you not man enough?"
he doesn't speak — not that it would give you a further clue to his state of mind. nanami never lets himself get too worked up when you poke his nerve, but something about this sensation... you're squeezing down on his cock, naked skin a sea of wonder as your breasts rise and fall in heated breaths.
he reaches up from his hold on your waist, veiny hand snaking around your neck where he presses just slightly. "I think you know the answer to that," he bites, heart racing as he slaps an open palm across your cheek, sending your head to the side against the surprisingly heavy force.
the pain is searing and its immediate, making your cunt flutter something mean against him — clamping down so hard that he can't move without drawing a painful breath.
"yeah? mhm, like that?" he grunts, shoving two fingers in your cheek to yank your head back to where he can see your dripping, wrecked gaze. with a pop, they withdraw, and dripping with your own spit, he slaps you again, across the same tingling cheek, biting his lip when your back arches and vision whites out.
he watches you cum like that, harder than you ever have before, and wonders.... why didn't he do this sooner?
toji starts acting different when an audience is involved
18+ camgirl reader x fwb toji, filming, prone bone, headlock, possessiveness, dirty talk, creampie
toji doesn't bat an eye the day you ask him to join you on stream.
the deal you lay out for him is simple. a generous 30% of your tips just to come on cam and fuck you the way he always does. a couple of basic positions, maybe a toy if your viewers really want one. there were only so many ways to get off in front of an audience, why not add another person into the mix?
and toji agrees like he was born for it. call it the way his dick tends to speak for him after a quick fuck, or his soft spot for anything that involves touching you. either way, the man ponders your offer as casually as he would the weather, pulling your naked body closer with a very serious "what day do you need me?"
he shows up to you apartment a handful of days later with a purpose, freshly showered with his choppy fringe styled the way you love. he greets you at the door with a kiss far too deep to not send butterflies between your legs. he leads you to the bedroom with an unreadable look on his face, hand splayed across your lower back.
your viewers adore him, and that's putting it very mildly.
he's been teasing you for the better half of an hour, answering questions with his dick to the hilt and his hands cupping your ass. you’re all but weightless in the seat of his lap, arms thrown around his neck with your legs bracketing his. toji takes the time to savor you, watching the way you shake every time he lifts you up and down his throbbing length.
"huh, how'd we meet?" he mumbles, leaning forward to read a question at the top of the queue "uhh, college i think? fucked her at a halloween party and i guess she never got tired of me." he laughs, thrusting up into you to punctuate the shitty joke.
the set you'd worn for him hadn't stood a chance from the second you turned the camera on, shucked off and discarded on the floor by his heavy hands in the handful of minutes leading up to this very moment. toji wasn't just fucking you, he was drawing it out, teasing you up the wall just because he can.
he takes a moment to spread you open, hands pulling your cheeks apart to show off where your bodies meet. the viewers go wild at that, throwing money at the both of you like there’s no tomorrow.
you perk up at the telltale ding! letting you know a hefty donation had gone through, turning to try and get a better look at the monitor.
except, toji grabs your chin with practiced efficiency, pulling your face into his neck before you’re able to read what the accompanying request says.
“hm?” he hums, scanning the brightly lit screen. “yeah, i can do that.” he reasons, shifting onto his knees underneath you.
you whine into the crook of his neck as he finally lays you down on your back, feeling him lean to the side to pick up the camera.
“wait you’re not supposed to–.” you whine, all too aware of how deep he feels inside of you now. you watch him swipe the little device from its place on your desk, holding it up to your pussy with his lip caught between his teeth
"not supposed to what? hm?" he asks, fake sympathy lacing his tone. “fuck, look at that.” he grumbles. “this what you guys wanted?”
the chat detonates with a force you’ve never seen before. you’re already way past your donation goal for the night, with more money funneling in every minute.
he sets a steady pace for the both of you, fucking his wet cock in between your legs with seamless thrusts. you can feel every inch of him like this. the way his tip drags heavy inside of you, how his girth stretches your hole to it’s maximum. even the veins on the underside of his shaft lick at you sweetly.
he holds the camera right up to your shaky body. the frame shakes every time his hips meet your ass, and the mic is probably picking up his heavy breaths but neither of you care at this point. this isn’t about the content anymore, toji’s fucking you like he wants to eat you alive.
he presses his palm gently into the little pudge of your stomach, searching, wanting.
“mhm, there it is.” he drawls, massaging the shape of his length through your tummy. “you feel me in here?”
you nod shakily, not knowing whether to look into the camera or up at him.
“yeah? gonna keep me in here?”
he’s never like this when the camera is off. never as performative as he is now. you flutter around him involuntarily and the groan it earns you practically comes from his soul, his shoulders shaking with pleasure.
“oh, fuck.” he drawls, fastening a hand to the meat of your hip to ground himself. he leans forward then, lips attaching to your neck as he grinds the head of himself inside of you.
“pussy’s too fucking good.” he grumbles, “way too good.” you feel his head turn to the camera at that last part, almost like he’s trying to prove a point to the viewers at home. that’s when it clicks. toji didn’t just agree to come on here and fuck you, he came to lay a claim on you. to show the people who tune in every night that only he could fuck you like this.
“who’s this belong to?” he asks sternly. he slaps the tip of himself against your budding beat, filling the room with slick noise. “say it.”
you’re so far gone you barely register the question. all you can focus on is getting him back inside of you. too slaps himself against you again, harder this time. you jolt at the stimulation.
“fucked you stupid already?” he teases. five fingers close around your chin and guide your face to the side, right in line with the camera. “who’s this pussy belong to? hm?”
“yours.” you breathe.
“nobody else’s?” he finally sheaths himself inside of you, and you both groan. toji wastes no time and quickly works his way up to a steady pace. in and out like a piston in a well oiled machine.
“no, nobody.” you punctuate. the hand around your chin finally releases and moves down to the back of your thigh, hoisting your leg forward until your knee reaches your chest.
he’s so deep like this, deep enough it even hurts a little if you focus too much.
“gonna let me cum inside?”
you nod, squealing at a particularly deep thrust.
“yes, fuck, always.”
“whenever i want?”
“whenever you want.” you whine, head ascending to the clouds as the pad of his huge thumb makes down to rub over your clit. toji plays your body like a fiddle. like he's the only man on earth who'll ever make you feel this good. in a way, he pretty much is.
you can feel your heartbeat in between your legs now, hammering against your walls to the beat of each stroke of his. toji hisses, almost like he can feel your impending orgasm, and pulls out with a nasty squelch to set the camera back on your desk and flip you over as quickly as he can.
he has you on you stomach now, fully in sight of the cam with his forearm locked against your neck, holding your head up for the viewers at home. toji lays flat up against you, focusing the brunt of his weight into fucking you prone bone.
a quick peek at the monitor confirms your suspicion that you look ruined like this. lips pressed into a pout from the force of his bicep curled around your face, sweaty hands fisted into the sheets below you for purchase, the whole nine yards. toji must be thinking the same thing judging by the way he looks at you. proud, almost. like you’re something he created with his bare hands.
“gonna show them how you cum for me?” he asks you, low enough for only you to hear.
you nod the best you can, unable to hide the sweet noises he draws out of you with every press of his hips. you’ve cum on only his dick before, but this feels different. stronger, almost. more intimate. the world beyond your bed seems to be the furthest thing from your mind right now. toji is the only thing you can focus on.
the chat is up to a rolling boil at this point. you’ve wracked up enough money to pay your rent and then some, not to mention the jaw dropping orgasm you feel building in your stomach. toji seems more focused on cumming than making the viewers happy at this point, pistoning into you like he was born for it.
he angles his hips just a tad bit lower, and just like that, you’re clamping down on him hard. creaming on his heavy length with a noise so desperate you’re 90% sure it’s what pushed him over the edge as well.
his load seems to go on for ages, filling you up in steady, hot pumps until it spills out from around the length of him. the arm curled around your face slowly retracts, leaving you face-down in the sheets with your legs shaking and your chest heaving.
toji snakes his fingers under your chin to turn your gaze toward him, letting the pad of his thumb stroke your cheek softly. his presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, cradling your face in his palm for a few moments until he’s sure you’ve come down from the cloud you’re on.
he pulls out of you slowly, hand on your lower back to keep you from squirming too hard. you watch him pad over your desk, cock swinging between his legs as he bends down to face the camera with a sleazy grin before waving goodbye to everyone and pressing "end stream".
your roommate has been running her mouth to her now ex-boyfriend that you were a nerdy little virgin, and after they broke up you let kuroo find out if she's telling the truth.
starring. kuroo tetsuro x fem!reader
genre: fluff, romance, smut, timeskip!kuroo
wc: 9.7k
warning: 18+ mdni., smut. nsfw. unprotected sex. cunnilingus. some themes of exhibitionism (?). cheating. mentions foursome. detailed smut. tit play. oral (f and m!receiving). face sitting. creampie. p in v. pwp (?). kuroo and reader matches each others freaks.
You live in a two-bedroom apartment tucked away in a quieter ward of Tokyo—not too far from the city’s rhythm, but just enough to give you a breather. It's modern, clean, and honestly more space than you need. You could’ve gone solo. The rent was well within your budget, a little indulgent even, but something about sharing the space felt… right. Whether it was a leftover instinct from dorm life or just the quiet knowledge that silence in too many rooms can get heavy over time—you weren’t entirely sure.
Eventually, through a casual coffee catch-up with an old college colleague, you were introduced to someone else who happened to be in the same position: apartment hunting, strapped for time, and looking for something stable. The arrangement was convenient. She seemed easygoing enough, worked long hours like you did, and respected shared space. No red flags, no awkward tension. You didn’t overthink it.
And for a while, everything just... worked. You had your routines—brushing past each other in the kitchen during rushed mornings, the occasional shared takeout dinner in front of the TV, the soft hum of separate lives running parallel. You didn’t hang out much, but you coexisted comfortably. That was enough.
What you hadn’t expected, though, was the shift that happened a few months in. The subtle kind. The kind you wouldn’t notice at first—until a stranger’s shoes started appearing by the door on the weekends, or the low murmur of laughter drifted from her bedroom late at night.
You didn’t care.
She could do whatever she wanted, and it wasn’t your business. When she first told you she was seeing someone—some guy named Kuroo, apparently—you offered nothing more than a nod. They’d been together for a few months, she said. “He might start staying over more. Was that okay?” You told her it was. You didn’t mind. Not really.
Even the nights when the walls failed to hold their secrets didn’t bother you. You’d hear it, sometimes. Soft giggles turning breathy. The rhythmic creak of her bedframe against the wall. The occasional slip of a moan that crawled down the hallway. But it was always distant. Easy enough to ignore. You’d just turn up the volume on your music or pretend your pillow muted everything. It didn’t affect you.
You rarely crossed paths with him.
Work kept you out late, and on most nights, you slipped into the apartment quietly, careful not to wake anyone even when you knew they were still awake. Sometimes you’d see him in passing—a flash of dark hair as he leaned over the sink, his hoodie thrown carelessly over one shoulder. His voice would drift from the other room, low and teasing. But he never really looked at you. Never acknowledged you. And that was fine. You had no interest in making small talk with your roommate’s boyfriend.
He must have thought she lived alone.
And maybe she wanted it that way.
Still, there was something oddly satisfying about the way he lingered in the living room sometimes, eyes drifting over the shelves that lined the far wall. The ones filled with manga spines, collector’s editions, limited-release box sets. Hand-built Lego models positioned with the care of a gallery. You’d catch the subtle pause in his voice when he spoke near them, the shift in his tone from casual to curious.
“This stuff’s cool,” he said once, running a hand along the edge of a display. “Didn’t know you were into Legos.”
You hadn’t been close enough to see her face, but you could hear the disdain wrapped around her reply.
“God, no,” she laughed, that practiced little snort she used when she wanted to sound above something. “That’s my roommate’s. She’s like, a total nerd. Obsessed with comics and kids’ toys and whatever. I let her keep it out here. It’s, like, her thing.”
You stood just out of sight in the hallway, expression unreadable, your bag still slung over your shoulder.
You didn’t say a word. Just turned toward your room, the door clicking shut behind you as her laughter faded into silence.
Let her laugh. Let her act like it was something to be embarrassed about.
Because the way his voice had caught before she answered? You didn’t miss that.
It was subtle—the kind of pause most people wouldn’t think twice about. But you weren’t most people. You caught that split-second hitch in his voice. Like he was expecting someone else to respond. Like he had a different name on his tongue before hers came out. And once you noticed that—everything else started to unravel.
After that, your roommate’s colors started bleeding through her carefully layered persona. The kind of girl you swore you left behind in high school. Pretty, mean, passive-aggressive. The type who needed to feel above someone just to breathe easy.
She liked to act casual, like it was all girl talk. Like she wasn’t trying to sink her claws into your insecurities.
“Kuroo was so good last night,” she would say, eyes glinting as she leaned against the counter, always loud enough for you to hear. “I swear, he knows my body better than I do. He had me pinned—biting, moaning, choking. I couldn’t stop shaking.”
She’d glance at you as she said it. Smirking. Cruel.
“I mean... not that you'd know what that’s like,” she added with a fake laugh, stirring her tea like she hadn’t just thrown acid at your self-worth. “He doesn’t go for girls like you.”
You smiled. Calm. Unbothered.
“You’re right,” you said sweetly. “And I’m not interested. That’s fine.”
But inside? You were laughing.
Because she had no idea.
You’d lived that wild, messy, electric kind of life she only pretended to understand. Back in college, you’d had your fair share of boyfriends—and girlfriends. Pretty ones, sweet ones, dangerous ones. The kind who got on their knees just to worship your thighs. Who sucked on your tits like they’d die without the taste. You’d been kissed against dorm walls, fucked in music rooms, devoured in the backseat of a car while your heels dug into fogged-up windows. You’d had people beg to taste you—tongue-deep until your legs shook, until your moans echoed down quiet hallways.
You’d been wild. Reckless. Insatiable. You’d even tried a threesome with a married couple once—just to see if you could make them both fall apart. You did. Twice.
But then you graduated. Got a job. Realigned your priorities. You weren’t that girl anymore—not all the time.
You hung up the stilettos and the lipstick-stained wine glasses. You traded morning-after texts for early meetings. Nights spent tangled in sheets became nights at your desk, fingers flying across a keyboard instead of someone else’s skin.
You retired from the chaos and focused on your career.
But that girl—the one she thought you couldn’t possibly be?
She still lived within you, and she was just waiting to come out and play.
You’d almost forgotten her until that morning. The one where she sat at the kitchen island with bed hair and a proud smile, sipping her coffee like it was just another Tuesday. She didn’t just talk about her night with Kuroo—she dissected it, glorified it, sprinkled it over your morning like sugar in your tea. Not that you asked, but she offered every lurid detail anyway, like you were the best friend she never had and the enemy she always needed. He was so big. He made her gag. She choked a little—laughed as if the memory alone still lingered at the back of her throat.
You didn’t flinch. Not then.
But it didn’t stop. It became a pattern. Whenever Kuroo stayed the night—his shoes by the door, his laugh echoing in the kitchen—she’d find a way to mention it. How her throat was sore. How she could still feel him. How she couldn’t walk straight. All of it tossed out with that lazy grin and self-satisfied tone. At first you told yourself it was just her way—crude, bold, a little drunk on the attention. But something in her voice changed. Something smug. Pointed.
And then came the men who weren’t Kuroo.
You saw one first by accident. You’d woken early for work and padded down the hallway, half-asleep and still rubbing your eyes, only to nearly crash into him outside the bathroom. He was tall, wearing nothing but boxers and looking for a jacket. He blinked at you like you were the one in the wrong hallway. He muttered a soft “morning,” then disappeared into her room.
You didn’t say a word.
But the worst—no, the most unforgettable—happened one humid night when sleep just wouldn’t come. You'd tossed in bed until frustration took over, deciding a warm glass of milk might help settle you down. The hallway was dark, the tiles cool beneath your feet. But the second you turned the corner toward the kitchen, your breath caught.
Her bedroom door was wide open.
You froze.
The sounds were unmistakable—flesh on flesh, low groans, the wet thud of skin colliding with skin. Heavy breathing, slurred moans, and the distinct slap of motion too fast to be just hands. The room reeked of alcohol and sweat. And you saw it all—every obscene detail lit by the dim glow of her desk lamp.
One man was behind her, rhythm sharp and relentless, his hands gripping her waist as she braced herself on shaking arms. Another lay beneath her, her knees braced on either side of him while he thrusted up into her from below, mouth latched to her breasts, tongue circling one nipple then the other like he couldn’t decide which to devour first. And a third—God—the third stood in front of her, hips pumping as she sucked him down, her mouth stretched wide around him, spit slicking her chin and dripping to her collarbone.
You watched as her whole body trembled under the force of it—three men, three directions, all taking turns. Her throat constricted as she took him deeper. Her back arched as the one underneath groaned into her chest. The man behind her pulled her hips back, harder, rougher. She whimpered. Moaned. Her nails scraped the sheets. And when the one in front finally shuddered and came, you saw the spill of it leak past her lips, trailing white down her chin as she let out a breathless laugh—uncaring, uninhibited, completely lost in pleasure.
None of them noticed you.
Not even when you stepped back and nearly knocked over the dish rack in your daze.
You almost laughed.
So much for good sex.
So much for Kuroo not going for girls like you.
You didn’t sleep that night.
The next morning, she confronted you in the hallway, freshly showered and still damp, eyes smug with victory. “You saw, didn’t you?”
You didn’t deny it. Just nodded once, softly.
And she beamed—fucking beamed. “I can take three cocks at once,” she said proudly. “Feels good, you know? Having every hole filled at the same time. It’s like—ecstasy. And they even took turns, babe. I lost count of how many times they came. My holes have been filled thrice as much.”
You stared at her, mouth dry, heartbeat unsteady. Her words were half confession, half performance.
And then, as if it were an afterthought, she added, “I wanted you to see it.”
Your brows furrowed. “What?”
“I left the door open on purpose. Thought it might loosen you up. But I figured you wouldn’t join anyway. Those guys probably aren’t into your type.”
You didn’t rise to it. Not yet. “How about Kuroo?”
That made her pause for a second. Just a flicker.
She shrugged. “The dick’s good. But he’s getting clingy. Talking about labels and exclusivity and all that serious shit. I don’t like that.”
Your stomach sank. “You told me it was serious.”
“It wasn’t. Until he thought it was.”
And just like that, she turned away, humming to herself as she made her coffee like she hadn’t just shattered something in the room. Something delicate. Something quiet and private and stupidly hopeful that you didn’t even realize you’d been holding on to.
You never judged her. God knows college has been a blur for you too. You’d partied, drank too much, made your own share of mistakes. But still—something about seeing her like that, twisted and shaking and laughing with a mouthful of someone else, had done something to you.
Maybe it was the betrayal. Maybe it was the performance. Maybe it was that deep, unspoken part of you that had started to care about Kuroo even if you didn’t want to admit it.
But what you never forgot—what stayed carved in your mind, looping over and over like a cruel joke—was the smirk she wore as she wiped cum off her chin and looked toward the door.
She knew.
And you’d never seen her look more pleased.
It was one of those rare, treasured off days—the kind where time stretched and slowed, unbothered by alarms or obligations. You padded out of your room with a fresh mug of coffee and a sealed box in hand: the latest Lego Architecture set you’d been dying to build. The living room was quiet, lit by soft daylight filtering through the sheer curtains, and for once, blissfully yours. Or so you thought.
You settled cross-legged on the rug, carefully opening the box and sorting the pieces into neat color-coded piles across the coffee table. The soft clink of plastic against plastic was meditative, your fingers already moving by muscle memory as you started on the foundation.
Then, the door creaked open.
You glanced up, expecting it to be your roommate stumbling in from a late-morning hangover—or another boy doing the walk of shame. But instead, it was him.
Kuroo Tetsuro.
Hair tousled in every direction, eyes half-lidded with sleep, and wearing nothing but a loose shirt and sweatpants slung far too low on his hips. He blinked at you like you were a hallucination.
“…Shit,” he muttered under his breath before stiffening like he’d been caught stealing.
You raised an eyebrow.
There was a beat of stunned silence before he scrubbed a hand down his face and cleared his throat. “You’re—wait, you're the roommate?” He pointed at you like he couldn’t quite believe it. “You’re her roommate?”
You looked back down at the half-built Lego set and calmly clicked a few pieces together. “Mmm. That’s what it says on the lease.”
Kuroo stared at you, then at the Lego box, then back at you. “Is that—oh my god, is that the Fallingwater set?” His voice pitched up slightly, boyish excitement suddenly blooming on his face.
You blinked, slightly surprised at the sudden shift. “Yeah. Limited edition, too.”
His eyes lit up in a way you hadn’t expected from someone who, until now, had only existed in your mind as a tangled mess of sex sounds and sneaky exits.
“I’ve wanted to build that one for months,” he said, stepping closer without even realizing it. “Frank Lloyd Wright is—God. His work is insane. That cantilever design? Pure genius.”
You stared at him for a second, momentarily caught off guard. “You’re into architecture?”
“I’m into Legos,” he corrected with a grin, dropping down to sit a few feet away from you on the floor. “Architecture’s just the gateway drug.”
The way he said it was so earnest, so casually nerdy, that you couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh. He didn’t seem to notice he was still inching closer, eyes darting across your sorting piles with the practiced gaze of someone who had done this a hundred times before. His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for a piece, to help build.
“You’re not usually home,” he added after a second. “She always says you’re working.”
“I usually am,” you replied, not bothering to hide the slight edge in your tone. “Today’s the exception.”
Kuroo paused, then gave you a sheepish look. “Well, I feel kind of dumb. I’ve been talking to your Lego collection like it was hers.”
You glanced at him, amusement tugging at your lips. “So you do talk to the Lego sets.”
“Only the ones that deserve respect,” he shot back easily, gesturing toward your build. “That one? Deserves a round of applause.”
There was a pause—just long enough to realize how quiet the apartment was with only the two of you in it. Just long enough for the tension to crackle faintly in the air, unfamiliar but not unwelcome.
For the first time, you were seeing him as something more than your roommate’s cocky lay. He was still smug. Still smug and way too attractive for his own good—but there was a softness there too, the kind that clung to people who used their brains for more than ego. A surprising amount of dork nestled beneath the devil-may-care smirk. You didn’t know what to do with that just yet.
Still, you couldn’t resist the tease.
“You can help sort, if you wash your hands,” you said, tilting your head.
Kuroo gave you a mock gasp. “You think I’d touch a limited edition set with dirty hands? I’m offended.”
You laughed under your breath as he stood up and headed to the sink, and as the sound of running water filled the space, you glanced back down at the instructions in front of you.
It seemed like, for once, today might actually be interesting.
And maybe—just maybe—so was he.
Eventually, you and Kuroo became close, as he sometimes helped you with your builds if you were free and he happened to be in the apartment.
It was just an innocent hangout since you two shared an interest—nerding out over collectors' sets, comparing mini-figures, debating Marvel versus DC, and even spending quiet evenings building modular LEGO cities in comfortable silence. It was never anything more than shared company, quiet companionship, and a love for plastic bricks and fantasy worlds.
But apparently, that probably hit a nerve with your roommate.
Because a few days later, you came home from work and stepped into the middle of a storm brewing in the living room.
“You always hang out with her now,” your roommate spat, her arms folded tightly across her chest. “Why?”
You froze, one foot just inside the doorway, the other still outside. You blinked at the tension in the air—at the way Kuroo stood across from her, jaw tight, like he hadn’t expected this either.
“She’s cool,” Kuroo said simply, voice calm but edged in confusion. “We like the same stuff. That’s all it is.”
“That’s all it is,” your roommate echoed mockingly, rolling her eyes. “So what, you're into nerds now? You think you're gonna build a little LEGO love story with her?”
Kuroo frowned. “It’s not like that.”
She scoffed, arms flying up in the air. “Bullshit. You’re getting soft. And since we’re airing things out—guess what, Kuroo? I’ve been fucking other people the entire time. Not just one or two.”
You watched from the hallway as she stepped closer, lips curling into a smirk. Like this wasn’t a confession—it was a flex.
“Three guys,” she said, slowly, as if daring him to react. “At the same time. And I liked it.”
She said it proudly. Like there was no shame, no remorse, no thought to how it might hit him.
And it did hit him.
You saw it in the subtle shift of his stance, the way his shoulders pulled back and his jaw clenched. He didn’t yell. He didn’t crumble. But you saw the exact moment it clicked—that he wasn’t just some convenient hookup to her, but completely disposable.
“You’re serious?” he asked, slowly.
She shrugged, unapologetic. “Dead serious. And I don’t get why you’re acting like we were exclusive. I never promised you anything.”
He inhaled sharply through his nose, glancing away like he was trying to keep his temper level. “I just thought we respected each other. I thought you gave a shit. And I thought you and your roommate were friends. That’s why I even talked to her in the first place.”
The room fell uncomfortably silent after that. You felt a sting deep in your chest—for him.
You knew Kuroo wasn’t the type to get attached easily. But he had cared. He wouldn’t have lingered around your coffee table for hours helping you alphabetize your manga, or asked you what your dream Star Wars set was, if he was just killing time between fucks.
And now, he looked like he’d just had the wind knocked out of him.
You didn’t want him to see your face, the way your brows pulled together or how your heart ached with sympathy for him. So, quietly, you backed away from the hallway and slipped into your bedroom, shutting the door behind you before the fight could escalate further.
You didn’t want to hear any more of it—not the insults, not the ego, not the unraveling of something he’d believed was real.
All you could do was sit on your bed, palms pressed to your thighs, and let yourself hurt in silence—for the boy who never deserved to be treated like a backup plan.
After that argument, you never saw much of Kuroo again. You hadn’t asked for his number or any of his socials, and he never asked for yours either. Maybe it was intentional—maybe it wasn’t—but either way, you chalked it up to a chapter that closed before it could fully begin. It was easier that way, wasn’t it? Your roommate moved on fast. So fast that the same night you’d heard her moaning another boy’s name through the thin apartment walls while you buried yourself under a pillow and turned the volume of your anime up louder than usual. You weren’t sure if it was pity or residual anger that lingered in your chest, but either way, you avoided bringing it up.
A few months passed. Your job had picked up pace, and while your calendar was often cluttered with deadlines, you managed to put away enough money to indulge yourself a little. Which is why you didn’t even flinch at the entrance fee for the local comic and toy convention—hell, you even treated yourself to priority access, determined to beat the crowd before anyone could swipe that rare LEGO Star Wars Ultimate Collector Series set you’d been eyeing online for weeks. You weren’t sure if it would even be there, but the hope was enough. And if not, there were always manga volumes to haul home, limited prints, and maybe another blind box you didn’t need but would justify with weak logic about resale value.
The place was buzzing with life. Cosplayers brushed past you in elaborate wigs and armor; booths were stacked high with colorful displays; the air smelled like plastic wrap, buttered popcorn, and overpriced takoyaki. Your bag was already a little heavier than it should’ve been—three volumes of a manga you hadn’t even started and two keychains you didn’t need clinked together at your side—but your heart was light. It was a good day. You were in your element. You were happy to be spending money that you earned doing something you didn’t hate. That in itself felt like a win.
You were crouched in front of a display, squinting to read the fine print on the LEGO box tucked in the farthest shelf corner—your prize almost within reach—when a familiar voice slid in from behind you, smooth as ever, but touched with disbelief.
You turned. And just like that, the convention disappeared for a second.
Kuroo stood a few feet away, noticeably overdressed for the venue. His dark button-up was tucked neatly into charcoal slacks, the lanyard from the Japan Volleyball Association still clipped to his belt, a blazer slung casually over one arm. His hair was a little more tamed than the last time you saw him, like he’d just stepped out of a boardroom instead of a crowd full of anime fans and collectors. And yet, his expression—wide-eyed and visibly caught off-guard—was anything but polished.
“…Tetsu?”
He grinned then, that same crooked smile that used to flash your way over unfinished LEGO builds in your living room, the kind that warmed something unguarded in your chest.
“I thought that was you. I’d recognize that laser-focus over a brick set anywhere,” he teased, stepping closer. “You stalking LEGO aisles now?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” you said, glancing pointedly at his outfit. “Did you just come from a funeral or are you here to do tax audits on people’s purchases?”
He laughed, the sound genuine. “Meeting at the JVA ran long. I was supposed to head straight home after, but I saw the convention signs on my way out and figured I’d pop in. Nostalgia, you know? Didn’t think I’d run into anyone I knew… especially not you.”
Your smile faltered only slightly, the past nudging its way in. “Yeah… I didn’t think I’d see you again either.”
For a second, neither of you said anything. The noise of the convention carried on—someone shouted about free pins at booth twelve, another person squealed over a celebrity sighting—but in that moment, it was just the two of you, standing shoulder to shoulder in front of a LEGO display that felt like a full circle too ironic to ignore.
“I didn’t get to say sorry,” Kuroo said quietly, his voice softer now, lower. “Back then. I should’ve reached out. But I didn’t even know how.”
“It’s okay,” you said, and maybe you meant it. Maybe part of you still felt the sting of that goodbye-that-wasn’t, but seeing him again like this, in the middle of a day you thought would be just another solo outing, made the ache feel a little more bearable. “You don’t owe me anything.”
His eyes searched yours for a long moment, as if trying to read between the lines. And then, with a small smile, he gestured toward the shelf. “So… you finally get it? That LEGO set you’ve been after?”
“Almost. Some guy just bought one before me. I’ve been debating if I should just fight him for it or cry in the corner.”
Kuroo smirked, like it was 3AM again and you were bickering over missing pieces. “I’ll help you strategize. Worst-case scenario, we distract him with a full-blown scene in the Gundam section.”
You laughed, and just like that, the heaviness began to lift. Maybe the past didn’t need to be reopened in full detail. Maybe there was something worth picking up from here instead—on neutral ground, between plastic bricks and overpriced manga—and maybe this time, neither of you would let it slip so easily.
You eventually started spending more time at Kuroo’s apartment—not because it was necessarily more convenient, but because the idea of inviting him over to yours felt layered with complications you weren’t ready to unpack. Your roommate still lived there, and after everything that had transpired—the awkward tension, the quiet spite, the ghost of her moaning someone else’s name just hours after things ended with Kuroo—it didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel neutral. And you didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of thinking she had any space in whatever it was that you and Kuroo were slowly building now.
He never asked questions. Just unlocked the door, let you in, and cleared space on his coffee table for your snacks and whatever LEGO set he’d been tinkering with that week. It became your quiet ritual. He’d handle the bulk of the instruction booklet while you sorted pieces by color or shape, occasionally bickering about which build deserved priority. You laughed more often than you had in weeks. Kuroo, for all his smug quips and relentless teasing, had a calming presence when he was relaxed like this—lounging in sweats, hair pulled back haphazardly, glasses perched on his nose, and a cup of instant coffee steaming between you.
It was during one of these hangouts—somewhere between building a replica of the Millennium Falcon and reorganizing his manga shelf—that he really started noticing the little things about you.
You wore glasses at his place. Not the contact lenses or styled versions of yourself that the world got to see, but the comfort version—the one with oversized hoodies, your hair tied up, and those thick-rimmed frames slipping down the bridge of your nose every few minutes. You’d wrinkle your nose every time they slid too far, push them back up with a finger, then hunch further into the build like you were preparing for battle. It was absurdly endearing.
Kuroo found himself watching you more than he watched the pieces. The way your brow furrowed in focus, the way your voice softened when you talked about your favorite arcs, how your hands hovered when he got too reckless snapping bricks together.
And the more time he spent with you, the harder it was not to remember all the things your ex-roommate used to say about you.
He hadn’t thought much of it at the time. She’d speak in offhand remarks—half-laughed criticisms and quiet jabs that he hadn’t really questioned. Stuff like, “She’s sweet, but kind of childish, don’t you think?” or “Her room’s full of toys and junk, I don’t know how she lives like that.” It sounded harmless then. Maybe even normal, like the kind of light annoyance roommates always had about each other.
But now, sitting across from you while you earnestly explained the rarity of a certain manga edition you were planning to hunt down next weekend, he realized how misplaced those comments really were.
Your roommate hadn’t been annoyed. She had been dismissive. Cruel, in subtle ways that made him feel gross now that he understood the full picture. Because if this was you—brilliant, expressive, unapologetically passionate—you weren’t someone to mock. You were someone worth watching. Worth listening to. Worth knowing.
Kuroo was starting to think he’d like to know you even better.
And he did.
The more time you spent at his place, the more the line between casual hangouts and something softer, something more intentional, began to blur. It wasn’t sudden—nothing about it was rushed or dramatic—but rather a quiet shift, the kind that unfolds slowly when two people realize they enjoy each other’s company more than they probably should.
It started with the little things.
He began walking you home instead of just waving from the doorway. He'd pick up your favorite snacks without needing to ask. Once, he texted you in the middle of the workday just to share a photo of a new LEGO architecture set he spotted in a store near the JVA office—“Made me think of you,” he’d said.
Then came the first not-quite-date, when he asked if you wanted to grab ramen after a long build session. It wasn’t phrased romantically, but when he held the door open for you with a lopsided grin and a low, “Dinner’s on me,” it lingered like a promise.
After that, it became a quiet pattern—late-night meals, museum dates disguised as “research” for future builds, bookstore strolls where he let you drag him into the manga aisle even though he always ended up walking out with more volumes than you did.
One evening, he surprised you with a black box tied in yellow ribbon, smugly handing it over like he was presenting you with a Nobel prize.
You opened it to find a bouquet of LEGO flowers—intricate, colorful, and painstakingly detailed.
“I figured they wouldn’t die on you,” he said with a small shrug, but his ears flushed red, betraying just how much the gift actually meant.
You smiled so brightly it made his chest ache.
Later that night, you sat side by side on his floor, building each stem and petal piece by piece. Your fingers brushed occasionally, and each time it happened, he didn’t pull away. Neither did you.
And when you were finally finished, the vase of plastic blooms sat proudly by his kitchen window, catching the light like real blossoms might. It stayed there—quiet, permanent, and real in its own way. Just like the two of you were starting to become.
More sets of LEGO flowers bloomed forever in the corner of Kuroo's bookshelf, perched beside a manga box set he'd later surprise you with. Then another. Then a collector's figurine. A special-edition Blu-ray. It became a habit for him—dropping by a shop after work, carrying something that made him think of you. Something you’d gush over while adjusting your glasses or scrunching your nose in delight. Kuroo loved how animated your voice became when you explained the significance of a certain volume or lore from a world he only half-understood but always listened to anyway.
He loved the way your eyes sparkled when you carefully peeled away the plastic wrap, reverent in a way that almost made him jealous of the object in your hands.
“Tetsu, I told you to stop giving me gifts randomly.” you scolded him after he just handed you a new set of Lego figures.
Kuroo shrugs his shoulders and gives you a sheepish smile, “I like giving you gifts just because, okay?”
That went on and on—nights tangled in LEGO instructions and accidental laughs, meals shared over manga discussion, and growing routines that never needed to be spoken aloud. Eventually, he started asking you on actual dates. A quick dinner after helping him with his laundry. A detour to the park after a weekend spent sorting model kits. You never had to ask if it was a date—he made it clear every time he paid, every time he walked you home, every time his fingers lingered at the small of your back.
Then one night, he took you somewhere just a little fancier.
A cozy, tucked-away place with dim lighting and soft music humming underneath clinking silverware. You wore something nice—not over the top, but enough to make Kuroo smile the moment he saw you. He was dressed in a dark button-down shirt, sleeves casually rolled, a silver watch peeking from his wrist. Formal enough to make your heart thump a little harder when he pulled out your chair for you.
You talked—about work, a new LEGO release, some anime remake coming out soon, and halfway through dessert, it slipped out.
“So…what are we?” he asked, fingers absently running along the rim of his wine glass.
You paused, lips parting—but he beat you to it.
“I mean, I already know what I want us to be,” he added, voice quieter, more certain. “I’d just like to know if you feel the same.”
Your heart skipped. You didn’t answer with words—not right away. Instead, your hand slid over his on the table, your thumb brushing his wrist like it had always belonged there. Kuroo’s smile widened, soft and crooked.
That night, after he drove you home, it was meant to end the same way it usually did—warm, unspoken affection lingering in the air, a kiss on the cheek, a casual “see you soon” exchanged in the quiet of the night. Kuroo leaned in like always, one hand still gripping the steering wheel out of habit, his lips brushing against your cheek.
But this time, you didn’t let it end there.
"Stay," you said—softly but with no room for refusal—as your hand curled around the lapel of his coat and tugged him through the door. The click of the lock behind you echoed in the quiet, both of you breathing just a little heavier now.
His brow lifted, slightly amused, but when you reached for him—when you pressed your lips to his without hesitation—Kuroo dropped all pretense. He kissed you back just as fiercely, meeting the pull of your mouth with a hunger that had simmered under the surface for far too long.
You wrapped your arms around his neck as if anchoring yourself there, while his large hands settled on your waist, grounding you. The soft press of your bodies swaying closer felt like gravity had chosen this moment to pull tighter.
His mouth moved down—along the curve of your jaw, then lower to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. When his lips found your neck, hot and deliberate, you tilted your head back and let out a breathy moan that made something flicker in his chest and spark in his eyes.
"God, you have no idea what you do to me," he murmured into your skin, voice low and gravel-thick with restraint. His hands were already wandering—sweeping over the curve of your waist, tracing the line of your ribs, bunching the fabric of your top like he couldn't decide whether to peel it off slowly or just tear through it and devour you whole.
Then, in one fluid motion, he hooked his arms under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly. You gasped, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist, clinging to him as he carried you through the apartment like he already knew every step of the way. He nudged open the door to your bedroom with his foot and kicked it closed behind him with a soft thud.
“Are you sure about this, darling?” he asked, lips ghosting over your throat, warm breath teasing your skin. His voice was careful, velvet-wrapped concern undercut by the tension thrumming just beneath it.
“Yes,” you whispered without a second thought—breathy, aching, already burning. “Kuroo, yes.”
That was all he needed.
He set you down on the edge of the bed, fingers already working the hem of your top. He tugged it over your head, eyes darkening as more of your skin was revealed to him. “Fuck,” he breathed out, like seeing you undone just for him knocked the wind from his lungs. “You’re unreal.”
You helped him out of his shirt next, palms gliding across his toned chest as if you needed to commit every line, every scar, every warm plane of skin to memory. His pants were next, discarded somewhere along with yours, clothes tossed carelessly onto the floor as your mouths met again in a kiss that was less polite now—more heat than hesitation, more teeth, more tongue, more everything.
When he finally laid you down on the mattress and hovered above you, bare and wanting, the look in his eyes wasn't just lust. It was reverence.
“You're so fucking beautiful,” he said, almost like he was scolding himself for taking this long. “You’ve got no idea how long I’ve been thinking about this—about you.”
And then he kissed you again, slower this time, as his hand drifted between your legs—testing the waters, coaxing more of those breathy moans he was already addicted to.
“Gonna take my time with you,” he growled, “because after tonight, I’m not going anywhere.”
His voice was thick—low and rough with promise—as his mouth descended onto your chest. Kuroo's lips wrapped around your nipple, tongue swirling slow, lazy circles before he sucked hard enough to make your back arch. His free hand slid between your thighs, fingers parting your folds before his thumb found your clit with practiced ease, rubbing gentle, teasing circles that made your hips twitch.
“Tetsu,” you whimpered, threading your fingers through his dark, unruly hair, tugging just enough to draw a low moan from him.
Kuroo glanced up, eyes half-lidded but gleaming. “That’s it,” he murmured, voice vibrating against your skin. “Keep saying my name like that.”
You gasped as his fingers pressed in deeper, sliding along your slick heat, fingertips curling just right—just enough to make your thighs tremble and your breath catch.
He sucked on your other breast, taking his time, leaving red blooms along your skin like a trail he’d follow again later. The slow, wet sounds of his mouth on your tits mixed with the obscene slick of his fingers fucking you open, setting your nerves alight.
“Tetsu—fuck, I can’t—” you choked out, hips stuttering beneath his touch.
“Yes, you can,” Kuroo whispered, lips ghosting over your nipple before he kissed the swell of your breast. “You’re doing so good for me.”
He pulled back just slightly, lifting his head to watch you unravel for him—your body flushed, eyes glassy, chest heaving with every broken breath.
“Taste yourself, baby,” he said, bringing his glistening fingers up to your lips. You parted them instantly, moaning as he pushed them past your tongue. His groan was almost feral. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”
When he kissed you again, it was rougher—needier. He cradled your head in his hand, the other already stroking his cock as he lined himself up at your entrance.
“Tell me you want this,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours, voice trembling with restraint. “Tell me you want me.”
“I want you, Tetsu,” you breathed, wrapping your arms around his neck. “All of you. I’m yours.”
Kuroo didn’t hesitate. With a low groan, he pushed inside—slow and deep, stretching you open inch by inch until he bottomed out.
“Fuck,” he cursed, jaw clenching. “You feel… fuck, you feel like heaven.”
And when he started to move—thrusting slow, deliberate, grinding deep—you knew you’d never want anyone else. Not when Kuroo made you feel like this.
Each stroke was intentional, like he was mapping your body with every inch of his. One hand anchored beneath your thigh, fingers pressing into the soft underside, while the other stayed between your bodies, lazily circling your clit in time with the slow grind of his hips. The sounds he drew from you were loud, raw, almost embarrassing if they weren’t so fucking honest. You didn’t care. Not when Kuroo was whispering filth in your ear, kissing along your neck like he was claiming you with every mark.
“You feel that?” he murmured, lips brushing your skin. “That’s me. That’s all me, baby.”
When your back arched and your nails raked down his spine, Kuroo groaned—low and guttural, like the sight of you unraveling under him was too much to handle.
To say the least, Kuroo was obsessed with you in bed. He didn't expect someone so quiet, so soft-spoken and unbothered with drama, to be this wild and insatiable behind closed doors. Sometimes his stamina was off the charts—athlete-built and fueled by ego—but even he could admit: fuck, he couldn’t always keep up with you.
It drove him crazy in the best way.
You were demanding in all the right places. Greedy with your kisses, shameless when you rode him like you needed him deeper than physically possible, and vocal when you came, screaming his name like a prayer and a curse. Every time he thought he had you figured out, you flipped the script.
Kuroo used to think he was the one with the upper hand. He wasn't.
Your roommate—back when she and Kuroo were still trying whatever you’d call that—once mentioned you in passing. They were cuddling on your couch, legs tangled up in each other, when she scoffed and said, “She’s probably a virgin. You’ve seen her room, right? It’s full of Legos and manga. All that nerd shit? She’s definitely never been touched.”
He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, just hummed and nodded, though something about the certainty in her tone stuck with him.
Months later, when things with your roommate fizzled and Kuroo found himself in your bed, tangled in your sheets and catching his breath after your second round, he brought it up.
“She said you were probably a virgin,” he told you, laughing, head resting on your stomach.
You had chuckled, brushing your fingers through his messy hair.
“Yeah?” you replied, eyes gleaming. “Tell that to the guys I had in college. I practically broke one of them.”
You weren’t lying.
You proved it to him that same night. Straddling his face with that lazy smile and those goddamn glasses sliding down your nose. You rode him like you’d been waiting to prove a point and holy hell, Kuroo swore he saw the light. You had him pinned, hips grinding, thighs squeezing around his head like a vice, and he welcomed it. Happily. Drowning in your slick, drunk on your moans, Kuroo didn’t even care if he suffocated in your thighs that night.
He’d die a happy man.
You were so hot like that—uninhibited, filthy, hungry for him. And god, you looked so damn good when you sucked him off still wearing your glasses. Hair all messy from his fingers, mouth slick and eyes daring him to look away. He couldn’t. Not when your tongue ran along his shaft like you were savoring every inch. Not when you moaned around him like he was your favorite flavor.
“Fuck, baby,” Kuroo had groaned, head tilted back. “You’re gonna kill me.”
And you? You just smirked.
“I’ll make it worth your while.” He didn’t doubt it.
Kuroo had been ruined for anyone else after that.
The moment you rode him in his home office, shirt half-unbuttoned, your hands gripping the back of his chair, hair falling into your eyes and mouth hanging open when you moaned his name—Tetsurou—like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.
He never wanted to let you go anymore.
If he could marry you right then and there—naked, sweaty, your panties dangling from his desk lamp—he would’ve gotten down on one knee without a ring. Just a promise. Just you and him.
But you deserved something better. Probably something by the ocean. A quiet, golden beach proposal with the sound of waves behind you and a little velvet box tucked behind one of his science joke t-shirts. Yeah. That’d be perfect. He’d plan that out eventually.
Still, your little dates didn’t slow down.
Lego-building marathons in his living room, your legs tangled across his lap as you bickered about which minifig was better. Cuddles during movie nights where you wore his college volleyball hoodie and snuck popcorn from his bowl. Quiet mornings when you stayed over, sipping coffee and flipping through manga in nothing but your panties and his button-down shirt.
You called it simple. He called it everything.
Kuroo kept giving you things. His love language wasn’t subtle.
Whenever you were at your apartment, a box would show up. Your favorite snacks. A collector’s edition manga you mentioned only once. That limited-edition Ninjago set you joked about. Sometimes he even had them delivered while you were out—just so he could text,
"Check your doorstep, sweetheart."
And when you opened the door, it was there. Sometimes with a post-it that read, "Build this with me tonight?"
And you always did. The second you stepped inside his apartment—his real home, now that you’d practically claimed it with your spare toothbrush and the fluffy slippers he bought for you—there’d be a new set waiting on the table. Or a volume laid neatly beside your favorite spot on the couch.
You would groan playfully, “Tetsu, this is too much…”
But your eyes always sparkled. And that was all he ever needed to see.
Kuroo wasn’t a man of restraint when it came to spoiling you. He liked seeing your expression when you tore the wrapping off. He liiked hearing your happy little gasps. And he especially liked the way you thanked him—sweet kisses at first, and then crawling into his lap and grinding down until his hands gripped your thighs, his voice rasping near your ear.
"Fuck, sweetheart. Is this how you're gonna thank me every time I buy you something?"
You always gave him cuddles… or him fucking you in return.
Neither of you would have it any other way.
Most of your dates happened right there in his apartment. It was your little world. The walls full of bookshelves, scattered Lego creations proudly displayed beside framed photos of his team. Your favorite blanket always draped over his couch, because he swore it smelled like you. You’d both start watching something—some superhero rewatch, some obscure Netflix docuseries—and end up tangled on the couch, kisses turning sloppy, laughter breaking into gasps as he dragged you under him.
It was always his apartment. His couch. His bed. His office. You bent over his desk, your nails scratching at the surface as he fucked you from behind. Or on his kitchen counter, panties pushed aside as he held your thighs apart and groaned against your neck.
"You’re fuckin’ perfect, sweetheart," he’d whisper against your skin. "Can’t believe you’re mine."
And you—smirking, breathless, always ready to drive him wild—would moan out, “I’m all yours, darling.”
That was the thing about you two. No matter where, no matter what—it was always just the two of you. A little domestic chaos, a little nerdy fun, and a whole lot of love.
Kuroo Tetsuro was ruined for anyone else.
And truthfully, he liked it that way.
He liked waking up in his apartment with your leg tangled with his. He liked how your shampoo clung to his pillows and how your glasses sat on his kitchen island beside your empty mug. He liked carrying you to bed when you fell asleep on the couch with a LEGO brick half-built in your hand. He liked that you left things behind—your books, your socks, your presence.
Kuroo Tetsuro had turned his apartment into a second home for you, and he didn’t even realize it until one afternoon when you opened a drawer in his bathroom and found your toothbrush, your hair ties, and your lip balm already waiting. It felt easy with him—domestic. Warm. Comfortable. Real.
But last night, he needed more than domestic.
He’d just come back from a grueling business trip—seven days without you. Seven days of restless sleep, ignored hotel breakfasts, and staring at unread messages while stuck in JVA meetings that ran longer than necessary.
And the second he saw your text, “Door’s open. I’m still up.”
He didn’t go home.
He went to your apartment instead. And the second he walked in and saw you in your oversized sleep shirt and those thick-rimmed glasses you forgot you were wearing—his restraint snapped.
He took you right there in your bedroom.
On the bed. Then again on the floor. And once more with your thighs trembling on the edge of your desk as his name broke from your throat in loud, obscene cries you couldn’t muffle even if you tried.
Kuroo always had a thing for your glasses. Something about the way you looked up at him while you were on your knees, eyes blown out, lips stretched around him, lenses fogging up while you sucked him deep like you missed the taste of him as much as he missed the heat of your body. And he always loved how you let him fuck you in them—wanted it even—telling him how dirty it made you feel when his cum splattered your lenses or dripped down your chin as he kissed you hungrily after.
And last night?
He made you wear them the entire time. Told you he’d missed seeing your pretty face get ruined while they were still on.
So yeah, Kuroo made good on every lost second from that trip. Filled you so many times you couldn’t remember if your name or his was the last thing you said before passing out. Your inner thighs ached. Your sheets were still crumpled with drying stains. And you still felt the wet, pulsing mess between your legs as you stood in the kitchen making breakfast the next morning, robe half-open, neck blooming with hickeys.
He had left early for another JVA morning call—but not before kissing your forehead and stuffing you full one last time in the shower.
But of course—unfortunately for you—your roommate had heard everything.
At first, she brushed it off. You weren’t exactly loud usually, and she assumed you were probably a virgin or celibate by choice. But when she heard your voice—unfiltered, breathless, begging—moaning “Tetsu!” like a prayer answered through gritted teeth and slick skin, it made her stomach churn.
And it was the final straw when his voice echoed in return.
Moaning your name.
Groaning about how tight you were. How much he missed your pussy. How pretty you looked taking every drop.
It made her snap.
So when you entered the living room that morning, holding your travel mug and your bag slung over your shoulder, she was already there—arms crossed, face sour, passive-aggressive aura bleeding into the walls.
“How long has that been going on?” she asked without looking at you.
You didn’t pretend to misunderstand. You just sipped your coffee.
“Define that.”
Her nostrils flared. “Don’t play dumb.”
You leaned against the counter, hair still wet from the shower, smirking slightly.
“If you mean Tetsuro—last night was just making up for lost time,” you said airily. “He missed me. So did my thighs, apparently.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“Funny. That’s not what you said when you told me all about your foursome while dating him,” you replied, tilting your head. “One behind, one underneath, and one shoving it down your throat, right? You left the bedroom door open just so I’d see. Said you were trying to prove a point. What point was that again?”
Her mouth opened, then closed. Scoffed. “That doesn’t mean you get to snake away my ex.”
Your grin widened—sharp, knowing.
“Sweetheart, you cheated on him constantly. I just didn’t say anything because, frankly, it wasn’t my relationship to mourn.”
She rolled her eyes. “He’s probably just using you to get back at me. You really think Kuroo Tetsuro would go for you? You said it yourself—he’s a career man. And you—well, look at you.”
You took another sip from your mug. Unbothered. Your petty meter had barely lifted.
“You told me he wouldn’t fuck someone who wore glasses. Now he asks me to keep them on. Funny how things change.”
She scoffed again, louder this time. “You’re seriously going to act like I wasn’t the best sex he ever had?”
“I don’t have to act. I know he’d disagree,” you replied, voice sugar-sweet. “Besides, we were just friends at first. You remember that, don’t you? He liked my LEGO builds. We bonded over manga. I still have the first limited edition he gifted me. First of many.”
“I knew something was up when he started hanging out with you more. You’re not even his type.”
“He said I’m exactly his type,” you said softly. “Smart. Funny. Loyal. And, apparently, really good at taking his cock.”
That was the one that hit.
Her eyes narrowed. “Just because you finally lost your virginity doesn’t mean you’re special.”
You laughed, really laughed, and set your mug down.
“Oh, sweetie. I’ve had a wild sex life in college. I just toned it down to focus on work. Tetsu just brought it back out. And then some. He fucks me in every corner of his apartment. Did he ever do that with you? Kitchen table? Floor? Balcony during rush hour?”
She didn’t answer.
“Didn’t think so,” you murmured.
“You’re lying.”
You stepped forward and whispered like it was a secret.
“He came in me three times last night,” you said casually. “Told me he missed seeing it drip out. Even helped push it back in.”
Her face twisted.
You raised your brows. “But if you want, I can play you the voice memo he sent me last month. He had his cock in his hand and couldn’t stop moaning my name. It’s really quite romantic.”
“Bitch.”
You tilted your head. “Always have been. Just quieter about it.”
She let out an angry shriek before stomping back to her room and slamming the door hard enough to rattle the coat hooks.
You took another sip from your mug and hummed under your breath.
Toned down? Maybe. But this?
This was your victory lap.
And you hadn’t even told her yet about the time Kuroo made you cum just from sucking on your tits while you rode his thigh—glasses on, mouth wet, his hand around your throat as he whispered that he wanted to keep you forever.
TAGS: pervert best friend!mattsun, massive horse cock mattsun, yandere undertones (honestly it's not that subtle LMAO), panty stealing, voyeurism, masturbation, panty fucking, penetrative sex, issei is a pathetic fucking loser, issei and yn are both freakkkkkkkkkkkssssss
a/n: i.. have nothing polite to say. this is @nectardaddy's fault. i caught a fade over this fic so i hope you all say thank you to dodger for the commission <3333
[commission honee here!]
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"I think I'm going insane."
Issei looks up from his phone, eyeing you as you flop down on the couch beside him. You look exhausted and confused, like there's something you've forgotten but you can't find it.
"Why?" he mumbles, shoving his hand into your family-size bag of chips, which he's long since claimed as his own.
"I can't find, like, most of my underwear."
He chokes, spewing chip crumbs all over his lap and your coffee table. His ears start to burn and ring, so he focuses on brushing his clothes off and clearing his throat.
You just laugh, watching him. "Sorry. Kinda TMI."
"'s fine," he mutters. "Have you checked your laundry basket?"
"'Course I did. I can't find them anywhere." You sigh. "Every time I fold my laundry, the pile gets smaller."
"Maybe your washing machine ate them."
"So many of them? And only the nice ones?"
He shakes his head, plastering a smirk to his face. "Maybe it's the universe telling you to go commando all the time."
You only smack him with a throw pillow, turning the movie back on.
—
He doesn't know when it started.
Probably sometime in college. Years ago. Far too many years ago.
Maybe it started when he found a pair on your bathroom floor one day, clearly forgotten after your shower.
Maybe it started when you'd been in a rush to change between work and a party you were going to together, your door accidently left cracked open.
Maybe it started when he dropped by your apartment unannounced one day, planning to make you dinner after a long day — only to find you cheering yourself up in your own way, a low buzz heard from your bedroom and the door cracked open, just wide enough.
Sometimes he thinks you leave it open on purpose. Sometimes he wonders how you could possibly be so forgetful.
Most times he doesn't care, because it all leads to the same result.
Him with his hands down his jeans, guilty of witnessing your private moments. Guilty of seeking them out.
Guilty of the pile of dirty underwear, shoved deep in his drawers for him to reach into late at night.
He should probably have given them back, slowly over time. But now you've noticed and mentioned it to him, so it would be too suspicious for your panties to start reappearing.
And besides… he doesn't want to give them back. They're his now. They belong to him, the same way you do.
Still, sometimes he worries that he should at least let you know. Some might argue that he should just stop, but that's not going to happen. He already knows that. So, his dilemma is whether or not he should tell you.
You are his best friend. Have been this whole time, since meeting at that boring college orientation where you'd muttered snarky comments under your breath and he'd struggled not to break into laughter.
You deserve to know. You deserve to be aware of the things he's done. You deserve to understand that your privacy hasn't been that at all, not for a long time.
But fuck, the chances of losing you are high. The chances that you'll kick and scream and freak out at him are too high, and he doesn't know how to live his life without you. You're too central to everything in his world. Losing you would ruin him.
So here he is, stuck in the torture of lying to your face about the location of your underwear. About the location about the pretty cotton pair that you'd worn yesterday, that he'd found in your laundry basket when he'd gone to the bathroom. That he'd taken from your apartment on the same night that you'd griped about missing so many of them. Even then, he couldn't help himself — it's an addiction.
That pretty cotton pair is currently wrapped around his cock, stretched tight and barely wrapping all the way around.
He moans low, his t-shirt caught between his teeth as he stares down at himself in the dark of his bedroom. There's something about the way the panties barely fit around him — without fail, he feels something deep in his gut, something primal that wonders if you would barely fit around him, too.
His cock twitches in his hand, and he's deliberate about the slow drag of his fist over the mess of fabric and pre-cum.
He wonders if you would cry and whine about the stretch, or if you would take it with no more than a grit of your teeth and some heavy breathing. If you would want to show him you could do it.
You'd always been that way with him. Determined to be independent, to brush off all his attempts to spoil and pamper you.
"I'm a big girl, Mattsun," you'd say, and he'd just bite his tongue, because he always an unspeakable opinion about that particular string of words on your lips.
Would you be that way in this situation, too? With his hands pushing your thighs apart until you hiss and your knees touching your ears and his name on your tongue? Would you still pretend he's not too big for you?
Or would you fall apart, just for him?
The thought pushes him right over the edge, with a choked moan and his cum coating your panties over and over again.
He breathes heavy, dropping his shirt from between his teeth and wiping his hand on your underwear. He wipes them off hastily with a tissue and tosses them into his laundry basket, relishing in the sight of your pretty cotton panties sitting on top of his all-black pile of clothes.
Yeah. He can't give these back. He's attached.
—
A week goes by. In that span of time, Issei goes through the hell of a lifetime.
On Monday, he arrives at your place with a pizza box and is immediately greeted by a pair of your underwear on the floor by the couch. He freezes, staring down at them and trying to locate the source of his heartbeat, because it's all over the place.
And then you come around the corner, jumping when you see him and saying something along the lines of 'using my house key without telling me is some pervert, creep shit'.
He just laughs it off, his voice tight, and sets the pizza box on the table before kicking your underwear — black lace with little flowers that make his mouth water — into your view with his toe.
"Think I found your missing garments."
He has the pleasure of witnessing the burning flush on your skin, but you don't move to grab them.
"They're new. I'm replacing what I lost."
Issei's just found his next target of robbery. "Ah, okay. And they're here instead of in your hamper because…?"
Your flush is darker. He knows what he's going to think about later.
"Can you toss them to me?"
His brain misfires, stalls. "What?"
You gesture to them. "Toss."
"You want me to touch these? Aren't they dirty?" God, he hopes you say yes.
"Not if you don't think about it for too long."
That makes no sense, and he knows you know it. But he's already halfway bent over, worried that any more prompting will have you doing the task yourself.
"Here, freak." He makes sure to sneakily grab them by the gusset, his cock twitching when he feels that they're damp. These aren't a day old like he'd thought — they're fresh.
The fabric flies across the room to you, and you snatch them out of the air, turning toward your bathroom. The moment you're gone, Issei's shoving his hand down his pants and touching himself, the moment brief but successful in making him rock hard.
By the time you're back — only seconds have passed — he's settling into the couch and grabbing a throw pillow for his lap.
The two of you eat straight from the box while you watch TV, Issei careful to only use his clean hand, and then he disappears to the bathroom. It only takes him five minutes to fuck his fist and come silently into a wad of toilet paper.
When he comes back, red in the face, he answers your questioning look with a gruff 'pizza did a number on me' and lets you give him a grossed-out look.
Better than letting you know what he was actually doing.
—
On Tuesday night, long after you'd texted him goodnight and long after he'd fallen asleep, he wakes to the buzz of a text message. When he squints at the notification, he realizes it's a photo you've sent him. He wonders why you're up — it's almost three in the morning.
Oh.
It's a nude.
Issei blinks, blinks again. Puts the phone down and settles back into sleep, wonders when he'll wake from this dream.
Opens his eyes, reaches for his phone again, just to check.
It's still there. Along with more messages from you.
[2:53 AM]
you: HOLY FUCK
you: SHIT
you: FUCK
you: HOW DO I DELETE A MESSAGE
you: DONT LOOK AT THAT
you: ILL KILL YOU MATTSUN
Issei stares down at the screen, eyes flicking between your incoming barrage of texts and the shot of your arched back, body clad in nothing but see-through underwear. Pastel pink, but it doesn't matter because the fabric is mesh and the photo's taken from the back, so he's just staring right at your cunt, completely visible.
[2:54 AM]
you: FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU
you: I CAN SEE YOU READING THESE
you: LOOK AWAY MATSUKAWA ISSEI
you: ILL KILL YOU AND STICK YOUR HEAD ON THE ANTENNA OF MY CAR
He shakes himself out of his stupor and types up a response, fingers trembling.
[2:54 AM]
Issei: i'd like the record to show
Issei: that i did nothing but be here
You: IM GONNA MURDER YOU AND THEN MARCH AROUND WITH YOUR HEAD ON A STICK
Issei: thats quite the artistic photo
Issei: have you considered a career in it
You: LOOK AWAY
You: PROMISE ME YOU WONT LOOK
Issei: i wont look
He doesn't say 'promise', because he already has his hand wrapped tight around his cock.
—
He doesn't bring up the photo, and you eventually figure out how to delete it. He doesn't tell you he'd long saved it to his phone by then, that he'd gotten cum all over his screen, that it had only taken him a few hard strokes to get there.
He just comes by on Wednesday, a box of chocolate in hand as an olive branch, because he knows that — even though it's not his fault — you would only let this go if he lets you blame it on him. And he admits, he does feel a little guilty, same as he always does, for jerking off to the thought of you. Well — the image of you, this time.
So he lets you blame it on him. Lets you smack him on the chest with about as much ire as a bunny, lets you snatch the chocolate from him and cradle it in your arms before letting him in the door.
Leaves it be, until you bring it up. Because if you're going to talk about it, he's not going to be accused of instigating.
"You really didn't look at it, right?"
His eyes flick up from his phone, where he's been settled into his usual spot for an hour already. You're watching him, picking at your nails in what he knows is an anxious habit.
He looks back at his phone, shaking his head. "Nope."
"Not once?"
He looks at you again, eyebrows raised. "I mean, obviously I saw it. But I didn't look again." Lie. "I wouldn't do that to you." Lie. "You know me."
Lie.
You don't know him. Not really. Not everything.
You don't know that it had only taken him a few strokes to come, because he knows now what you look like naked. He knows now, from just one glance, what it would look like to stretch you out. To make you cry when it hurts.
Issei shifts, hiding the tent that's straining against his jeans.
You sigh, nod. Pop another chocolate in your mouth and turn to the TV. He thinks it's finally over.
After another hour, you stretch and yawn, arms high over your head. Issei's trained himself to glance fast and easy, to catch a glimpse of your exposed skin and then look away before you ever notice.
"Did you still wanna go out to eat?" you ask, starting to stand.
He nods simply, knowing very well what comes next. "Yeah."
"'Kay. Gonna get ready."
"Hurry up. I'm hungry."
"Alright, alright," you complain, padding quickly down the hall.
He knows exactly how many seconds to wait before standing, knows how to move through your apartment, knows where to step so that you don't hear him coming.
Knows that he will feel bad about this, like he feels bad about everything, but that he won't ever stop.
You forgot to close the door again. He finds it ironic, that you were so worried about what he'd seen of you but weren't careful about the door.
Just like you weren't careful about the nude.
Just like you're never careful about anyting.
It should concern him, but he's mostly just grateful that it's him and not some other scumbag that gets this privilege.
He peeks through the gap, catching the familiar sight of you stripping, your hands tugging your shirt up and over your head. He lets his eyes linger on your chest, lets himself get hard at the sight, because no one looks like you. No one else meets his every fantasy, which he knows quite well is designed after you.
No one will ever be you.
He swallows, palming himself through his jeans, and leans forward, watching the way your back arches when you pull your pants down your legs.
He watches, hypnotized, when you tug your sports bra over your head so you can replace it with a real bra. Watches the way your tits bounce, watches the way your massage them with a grimace on your face. They must hurt. You must be ovulating.
His mouth waters. There's something seriously wrong with him.
He pulls away from the door quickly, knowing that your dresser is against the same wall and that you'll be turning toward him in half a second. He backs up slow but quiet, his steps to get away the same he takes to get here, every time.
He's on the couch when you emerge, right where you left him.
"Ready?"
He just grunts his agreement and rises, adjusting himself in his jeans as he follows you to the door.
—
It's on Thursday that he almost dies. Truly and genuinely almost dies.
He comes by, like he always does, without permission. Just makes his way to you, like he always does, without thinking about it. He unlocks your door like it's his, leaves his shoes by the door like he lives here. Plans to wait on your couch for you to get home, plans to relax in your place and fuck around on his phone until you get back, because, above all else and no matter what he's done, it's your company he craves most.
He's been sinking into your cushions for about ten minutes when he hears his name being called. Figures you must have heard him come in, must be finishing work in your room. He stands, still distracted by his phone, and pads down the hall to your room. Follows the path that's quiet without even realizing, because it's a habit — a terrible, horrible habit — by now.
Stops at your door, pushes it open slightly with his knuckle.
Looks up from his phone finally.
Freezes.
Watches, unseeing, as you slide two fingers in and out of your cunt, curling at the top and whining when they meet their mark.
His brain stutters, shuts down, flashes through the scene like photos.
Blindfold, tits out, legs spread wide, drool, squelch, squelch, squelch-
"Mattsun-"
Oh.
Your head is tilted back, the blindfold white and wrapped tight around your face. It's the only reason you haven't seen him yet, he realizes.
You have no idea he's here, and if he stands right here and doesn't move, you never will.
Oh.
He should leave.
He should leave.
He should-
"Nggh-Iss-ei-"
The syllables of his name fall out in time with the smack of your palm against your clit.
Everything's so wet. You're so wet. He can see the puddle you're leaving on the blanket. When you pull your fingers out and circle your clit a few times before shoving them back in, you hiss at the stretch.
Shivers run down his spine. Two fingers is enough to make you wince. Two of your fingers, not his.
It's all too easy to imagine the tears that would fall from your pretty eyes and the cry that would fall from your pretty little mouth as he bullies his cock into you.
Issei grips your doorframe, trembling, ears ringing. His jeans are wet.
He just came in his pants.
Oh, god.
He backs away from the door, needing to get away from this. Away from you.
It's as he's slipping your front door closed silently behind him that he hears you come, loud and echoing. His name, echoing.
—
He wants to avoid you. He desperately knows that he should, that he needs to get over this, because coming in his pants just from watching you means that something is seriously, seriously wrong with him. If he's that desperate — that easy — then he really has to stop. Even in a world where you want him (he's still partially convinced he hallucinated that part), you would never want him if you know what he's done.
And he knows he can't keep it from you. He can't keep it a secret until he dies. Even if he tries, it would become painfully clear there's something you're not telling him if you realize how easy it is to make him come. That just looking at you makes him ruin his jeans.
No, this needs to end.
But…
Maybe just one more.
—
He's gripping hard and stroking fast, teeth gnawing into the hem of his t-shirt. He's got your panties around his cock, like he always fucking does, and he's relishing in how tight they are. How tight you would be, and he knows that now. He knows that, and it kills him.
He needs to move fast, because you've just left to pick up the takeout order, and he needs to finish and clean up before you get back. He's already planning how to sneak them out of here. They're the new ones — how long would it take you to notice?
He should be doing this in the bathroom. Even in your bedroom, something with a closed door where he can have enough to time to come up with an excuse.
He shouldn't be jerking off to the thought of you jerking off, in your living room, with your underwear wrapped around his cock.
But he knows that you'd done it, too, not that long ago, and the image of you fucking yourself on your couch, his name on your tongue, makes his mouth dry and his dick hard, so he knows it needs to happen here. If he's going to be done before you get back, it needs to happen here.
"Having fun?"
Matsukawa Issei thinks he's died and gone straight to hell.
He chokes, sitting straight up and then bending in half to hide himself.
You stand in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes trained evenly on his. He stares back, eyes wide and fear coursing through his blood — the life-or-death kind.
"I-" His throat dries up, and he starts to cough, scrambling to shove his dick in his pants, not daring to look down and be faced with the sight of your underwear in a place they should never be.
"Well? Are you?"
You don't sound mad. That almost scares him more.
"Y/n-"
"How long?"
He stands, backing far away from you in order to keep the distance, just in case you start swinging. "Y/n, just wait-"
"How long, Issei?"
He shivers. He can't help the memory of you moaning his name from crossing his mind. "I-I don't know."
"You don't know?" you say, stepping further into the room. Issei hopes it doesn't hurt too much when you bash his head in with a lamp. "Okay. Let's say you don't know."
"I don't-"
"Where's the rest of my underwear?"
He swallows, looks away. "My place."
"No, I know that part." His gaze flashes to yours, full of surprise. You keep going. "I'm asking where. I looked everywhere."
"You-"
It's in this precise moment that Issei remembers — crucially, importantly — that you have keys to his place, too.
He stares, processing, and then looks around, glances into the kitchen. There's nothing on the counter. "Where's the takeout?"
You smile. It promises that evil things will happen to him. "I didn't order it."
"Wha-Then," he starts, shaking. "Where did you-Did you go to my house?"
"Nope," you say casually. "Just sat in my car for ten minutes, waiting for you to do what you always do." You place a firm hand on his chest, fingers curling into his shirt.
When had you gotten so close? When had he let that happen?
"I was waiting," you say quietly. "Because you're just that easy, Issei. Just that predictable."
He doesn't know what's happening anymore. His feet are moving, and he registers in the back of his mind that you're pulling him back to the couch, but he's not comprehending.
You shove once, and the backs of his legs hit the couch, and suddenly you're towering over him.
"You're easy, Issei. All it takes is me leaving my door cracked, seriously?" You laugh. He feels mocked.
But he's realizing.
"Leaving your-"
"All it takes is a pair of panties on the floor, and suddenly you're jerking off on my couch?" You drop down over him, thighs on either side of his, and press your hands to his chest. "All it takes is a single photograph, Issei?"
Oh.
He's a fucking idiot.
"Or was it something else?" you whisper, mouth pressed to the shell of his ear. He's hard again, despite the fear that lingers. "Maybe the sound of me moaning your name while I fuck myself?"
He's so fucked.
"H-How long have you-"
"The whole time," you cut him off. He can feel your lips curl into a smile. "Do you think I'm that stupid? You think I don't know what you are?"
Then, you don't need him to say how long it's been since he started this terrible cycle. You already know. You just wanted him to say it.
"I'm not a-"
"You are," you laugh, leaning back to look straight into his eyes. "You're a fucking freak, Mattsun. You're a pervert."
He hates that his dick throbs.
"Admit it," you urge. When he shakes his head, you tut, a fake frown painting over your face. "Admit it, Mattsun."
"No."
The frown goes away. It's replaced by a cutting stare, and that fear — that life-or-death, hunted for sport fear — is back tenfold.
You roll your hips over his.
A moan falls past his lips, loud and desperate.
Your grin is evil, wicked.
Your hands drop to his jeans, still undone and messily hidden under his shirt. You yank them down, exposing the fabric of your underwear — black lace with little flowers that makes his mouth water, even now.
They're tangled around his cock, which is hard and angry and throbbing.
"Not a pervert, Mattsun?"
He can't deny it, but he can't bring himself to say it.
You pull his dick out of his pants, and his head falls back, mouth dropped open, because your hands are so cold and so small compared to his, and he really needs to stop thinking about that, or he's going to come right here, right now-
You lift off of his thighs and reach down between your legs. "If you're going to use me to get off, I'm gonna use you, too."
Issei's head flies up in alarm, and his hands grip your hips tight, stopping you. "Wait. Wait, wait. You're not prepped-"
You yank one of his hands off and pull it between your legs, guiding him to push your panties aside.
You're completely soaked.
Issei groans low and loud, hips thrusting up into the hand you still have on him. You beam down at him, using that hand to slowly — tortuously — roll your messed up, stretched out, brand new lace underwear down his shaft until they sit pretty around the base of his cock.
He twitches when they're a little too tight, and you laugh breathily. "I knew you were gonna be big, but I didn't know it would be like this, Mattsun."
He whines, unable to think about the implications of you wondering how big he'd be.
When you press the tip of his cock against your entrance, it fits snug and tight, unable to slip in. He has to grip the base of his cock — ignoring the underwear — just so he doesn't come like this.
You work against the pressure, and it eventually pushes past your hole with a slight pop that makes both of you jump and moan. You shiver, your hands gripping hard to his shoulders. He doesn't say anything about the sharp dig of your nails, unable to care about anything but the static in his brain that renders him useless while you slowly coax yourself down his cock.
When your hips finally settle on his, you're trembling and sweating and there's a deep frown lodged into your features. And he's suddenly reminded of that thought he'd had, wondering if you'd cry or take it like a champ.
He was wrong.
You do both.
A tear slips past your eyelashes, sliding down your cheek, and you're clinging to him with a very painful clawing of your nails into his skin, but you're also rolling your hips slowly, back and forth. Back and forth. Wincing and whining, but rolling back and forth. Determined to get used to him.
Issei is useless. He's fucking useless, his hands just laid limply on the couch and his chest rising and falling in fast and uneven breaths.
He'd only ever imagined being in control, taking you and watching you struggle, comforting you while you whine.
He has no control here. He's not even sure he's conscious anymore.
You grind forward one more time, and suddenly the sound that falls past your lips isn't a pained whine. It's a moan, low and breathy, and your nails are easing up on his shoulders, and you're very slowly shifting your weight and starting to bounce.
It's slow, subtle, and barely any movement on his cock, but he's still shivering and moaning and trying to get used to the squeeze of you around him. And then your mouth is on his and he's kissing you back open-mouthed, because he's trying so hard to get his body to respond but nothing's working.
His vision starts to go black when you finally get enough height on your bounce that there's a quiet plap, plap, plap that's echoing in his ears when your thighs hit his.
He feels pathetic.
"Admit it, Issei," you breathe, shaky and pleading. "Admit you're a pervert. Admit you like watching me and stealing my stuff and thinking about me."
He still wants to deny it. He knows it's true, but his pride is pressing down on him, trying to keep him from admitting just what a terrible person he is.
But then you whine low and let a single word pass through your lips.
"Please."
You need this.
You need him to admit the terrible things he's done to you.
You need him to say it, because then it makes it okay that you like it so much.
You and Issei are just the same.
He swallows hard, eyes still unseeing as he stares up at the ceiling but his hands finally finding purchase on your hips.
"Take your underwear," he grunts, suddenly painfully aware of the lacy, sticky mess that's still wrapped around his cock, trapped between you. "Take 'em and use 'em. Keep 'em at my place. Don't wanna give 'em back."
You moan pathetically, dropping your head to his shoulder. "Keep 'em," you whisper.
He shivers. "Watch you change. Watch you shower. So pretty."
You lift your shirt to show him your breasts as they bounce, and he shudders visibly, finally given permission to look.
"Saved that photo."
You throw your head back and moan, hands flying to his shoulders again. The gentle plaps have grown into a loud, lewd, echoing sound, and it's yanking him closer and closer to the edge.
And then he admits the truth, and it sends you hurdling right into your orgasm.
"Been creeping on you for years," he mutters. "Years, Y/n."
You still, your back arched and your mouth dropped open and your body shivering again and again and again against his.
You clench so hard around him that his body jerks and he can barely get out a choked groan before he's spilling into you.
He's trembling, long after he's done coming, and he can't find the breath in his lungs. But you're slumped against him, shaking like a leaf, and he thinks maybe it's okay that this moment changed his life.
You don't lift away to talk to him. He's not sure that you can. You just whisper into his chest, and he just wraps his arms around you, keeping you close.
tags/cw: roommates to lovers, somnophilia, fingering, mattsun sends porn as a coping mechanism, size kink if you really squint
word count: 3.1k
“i’ve always wanted to try that.”
issei chokes on his beer when you speak. you point at the tv in explanation, as though he needs one. the scene playing has just started out with a couple in bed, spooning while they fuck. everything’s covered, but it’s easy to tell through the blanket that the woman’s leg is lifted, her back arching against the man’s chest while she cries out lewdly.
“never been fucked in the morning?” he jokes, keeping his eyes trained on the screen so he doesn’t have to look at you. his laugh sounds awkward even to him.
“mm-mm.” you shake your head, draining your wine glass, and he can’t tell if that’s a confirmation or a rejection of his guess. but he can tell that that wine bottle on the coffee table is empty, because you would never say these things to him sober.
“not that part,” you explain. frowning when you realize there’s no wine left, you rise from the couch, disappearing from the room and padding down the hall. issei sighs in relief at the moment alone, running his fingers through his hair and tugging hard.
“she’s drunk,” he whispers to himself, a reminder. “she’s drunk, and she’s your friend. and you can’t afford rent anywhere else, you stupid fuck.” that’ll do it. he’s broke as shit, and you’re a good friend. he can steel his nerves with those facts.
“she was asleep when he started,” you call from the kitchen.
fuck.
issei drops his head back, hitting it on the wall a few times with purpose. fuck, fuck, fuck.
you come back in, and he straightens, yanking the throw blanket over his lap. you’re too drunk to notice.
you’re too drunk to notice much of anything, really — including your own running mouth.
“she was asleep,” you say again. “and he fucked her anyway—“ you rush to explain yourself, holding a hand out when his eyes find yours, wide and uncertain. “consensually, obviously.”
that doesn’t help. he’d been assuming that, but you confirming it makes it worse.
somnophilia, his mind whispers, the word latching itself to you.
“i dunno,” you shrug, your refilled wine glass brought to your lips. “i think it’s hot, i guess. i’d try it.”
he really can’t afford rent anywhere else.
—
you’re scouring roommate ads in a hungover daze the next morning.
what is your problem?, you think, rolling over to groan into your pillow. you open your bank app, staring at the number in your checking account and wondering uselessly if it’s enough to afford a place on your own. one where you’ll never have to look mattsun in the face again.
why did you tell him that?
your brain flashes through two bottles of wine and drunk admissions, and you switch over to uber eats, deciding that cooking is simply not an option today. standing in that kitchen for more then four seconds and risking running into him is not an option.
you know why you told him that. you know exactly why you told him.
you told him because, despite every coping mechanism you’ve tried over the years of living with him, matsukawa issei persists in being the most attractive man you’ve ever met.
you told him because you wanted to test the waters. why you would ever test the waters with somnophilia, of all things, and not something standard and vanilla like ‘making out with a friend just happens sometimes’ or ‘drunk hookups aren’t so bad’, you will never know.
but you’d told him because you think about it. you think about him, doing things like that. things that aren’t standard or vanilla or easily explained or plausibly deniable.
you think about matsukawa issei fucking you while you sleep. and maybe it’s happened one too many times. maybe now it’s all you think about, enough that it comes up in your stupid, drunk admissions.
maybe — just maybe — you hope he might take you up on it, now that it’s out there in the open like that.
but that’s just a maybe. so you’re looking for another apartment, on the very real chance that he’s going to call you a freak and never speak to you again.
your phone buzzes in your hand.
it’s a text from him.
[10:17 AM]
mattsun: [link attached]
your face crumples into a frown. “what?” you murmur, jabbing a thumb on the link and hoping it’s not a virus.
your phone starts moaning at max volume.
you scream, slamming down on the side button to lower the volume as the video intro plays through. your eyes fly to the title.
milf fucked by son’s friend while she’s sleeping
there’s no fucking way he just did that.
[10:19 AM]
mattsun: smth like that?
“matsukawa!” you scream, rolling out of bed and storming out into the hall. he’s laughing loudly from his room, and you all but kick his door down. “what the fuck is your problem?!”
he’s in bed, cackling gleefully and covering his face with his blanket — but his eyes are anything but shy when he looks at you.
“just trying to ease the tension-“
“by sending me porn?!”
he shrugs and gestures to his phone. “im just saying, you’re not alone! at least—“ he glances down at the screen “—3.8 million other people are into it, too-“
you scream in frustration, turning and stomping back to your room. his laughter follows, echoing through your door even when you slam it.
he does it for two weeks straight. every few days, you wake up to a new link, each video titled something more obnoxious than the last.
guy takes step-sister while she takes a nap
mom wakes step-son up with a special surprise on his birthday
repairman finds sleeping beauty home alone
each one draws an irritated screech of his name and the echoing giggles of satisfaction from his room.
you could stop it. in fact, he’s asked you more than once if you want him to.
‘if you really want me to stop, i’ll stop, he’d said in your kitchen last week.
‘just say the word,’ he’d reminded you on his way out one morning.
‘i think you and i both know how important consent is,’ he’d murmured just two nights ago, leaning on your doorframe, his eyes hot on yours.
you’d shivered under his gaze and pretended to be engrossed in something on your phone. you’d hoped he couldn’t see the way you’d pressed your thighs together, but when you looked up, he was already staring down at them.
he’d met your eyes again and just hummed, flicking his dark eyebrows up at you before turning away. your phone had buzzed with a new link only seconds after his bedroom door had clicked shut.
you’re certain he knows why you haven’t told him to stop. that the truth is that you don’t want him to stop. you’re certain he’s testing the waters now, too.
because each video he sends you gets closer and closer to being about roommates.
your phone buzzes in your hands. you wonder if he knows that you watch each one, waiting for him to pull the trigger on the one that sits unspoken in the space between you.
he does, a week later.
—
you’ve caught him, issei realizes belatedly.
maybe he should have noticed after you started sitting closer to him on the couch. or maybe after you’d refused to tell him to stop sending you porn. or maybe even after he’d sent you something titled ‘roommate can’t help himself while she sleeps’ at 4 in the morning and you hadn’t called the cops on him.
maybe he should have realized you’d caught him after any one of those. but he doesn’t. he doesn’t realize it, not until this very moment, as you’re standing from the couch and bending over to clean the table of empty beer bottles before bed.
he doesn’t realize it until he realizes you’re not wearing any underwear.
he glances at you shamefully when you bend at the waist, hoping you don’t look back and catch him. and then he coughs violently, choking on his own spit and drawing your attention.
he waves you off, blushing furiously and not even bothering to stop his eyes from flying to your ass when you just shrug and bend over again. your pajama shorts have ridden up, but there’s no lacy edge on pink panties where there should be.
yes, he’d noticed years ago that these shorts tend to ride up and not mentioned it. yes, he knows what kind of panties you wear. yes, he has a favorite pair.
what are you gonna do if you find out, call him a pervert? he’d sent you roommate somnophilia porn and you’d made him coffee in the morning.
“‘kay, goodnight,” you mumble, and issei wonders if you’re shy about it or if he’s just hoping you are.
“g’night,” he breathes, eyes finding yours. you keep eye contact all the way out of the living room. your eyes drop to his lap at the last second, and he watches a grin stretch across your face just before you disappear from the room.
he looks down at his lap, and then he swears under his breath. he’s visibly hard in his sweatpants.
—
he feels like a pervert. he really feels like a pervert.
he stands in the hall outside your bedroom, one hand on the knob, feeling like a pervert. it’s 2 in the morning, and he feels like a pervert.
he sighs to himself and turns the knob slowly — ever so slowly, because he knows how it creaks, and he doesn’t want to wake you. he pushes the door open carefully, and then he finds you in the dark, moonlight spilling over your body.
you’re completely naked.
you’re on your stomach, blankets draped over your lower half and one knee bent out toward the wall. issei can see the expanse of your bare skin and the swell of your breast, but you’ve got your back slightly to him, so he can’t see everything.
but it’s enough.
he breathes hard, stepping into the room and shutting the door silently behind him. he runs his fingers through his hair, tugging hard and giving a soft sigh as he pads over to you.
when he lowers his knees to your mattress, it’s with his heart in his throat and his cock straining against his pants. you look so innocent, so sweet like this, even while he’s sliding the blankets off of your skin and exposing you in the moonlight.
is he really allowed to want this as badly as he does?
your breath is steady, only changing slightly when he braces himself behind you, propped up on one elbow. he scoots toward you, breath caught in his throat, and then slides his hand under the back of your knee. you shiver, probably because his fingers are ice cold, and he keeps his eyes locked on the side of your face.
when you don’t give any other sign of waking, he lifts your leg and hooks it backward over his knee, opening your body up for him.
he swears under his breath, staring down at you in the moonlight.
you shift, adjusting to the new angle of your body with a sigh. your back presses to his chest, and issei has to press his lips together so he doesn’t moan at the sight of you.
he keeps his eyes on your face when he slides his fingers along your inner thigh, watching you intensely as his icy fingertips dance close to the spot between your thighs that’s radiating heat.
when he cups your bare cunt, your skin breaks out in goosebumps, but you don’t move otherwise. issei moans now, because your body knows what he’s doing, but you don’t.
he’d had a feeling before — in the weeks between that moment on the couch and this moment right here — that he’d unlocked a new, previously untouched fantasy. that his reaction to your drunken admission might have been about more than just being attracted to you.
he sees it now. now, as he’s sliding two fingers between your folds and watching as you remain completely unaware, he realizes that you’ve done something to him. that you’ve made him want to do this to you, tonight and every night after.
it takes every ounce of his self-control not to shudder and moan in your ear when your pussy twitches under his fingers, reacting to him even when you don’t.
he drops his head to your chest, eyes locked on your face as he takes one of your nipples in his mouth. your lips part, and he freezes, but the sigh that falls out is nowhere near conscious, so he keeps going, sucking and licking and grazing his teeth over the bud while he massages your cunt with his now-warm fingers.
the first sign that you’re reacting is the growing ease with which he’s able to push his fingers against you. your entrance becomes slick, and he can’t help that he pushes his hips against your ass in response, seeking relief. he drops his touch lower and swipes the pads of his fingers through the mess there, spreading it all over your cunt.
when he circles your clit, slippery and warm now, your breathing changes, harder and rougher. the rise and fall of your chest pushes at his mouth, and he latches on with fresh fervor, watching your brows furrow and your lips twitch at the onslaught of sensations.
it shouldn’t be as easy as it is for him to push his middle finger past your entrance.
“fuck”, he whispers despite himself, mouth slipping off of you with a gentle pop and eyes rolling back in his head. your walls pulse around his finger, warm and velvety and wet beyond belief. his cock twitches hard in his pants as he slides his finger in and out of you, searching for that spongy spot that’ll wake you up.
he knows you might have wanted him to fuck you like this, but he can’t help himself anymore. he doesn’t have it in him to be careful anymore.
when his ring finger joins his middle, it’s with intent. the push is rough, bullying your cunt open with the size of his fingers, no doubt longer and fuller than you can get on your own.
you shift under him, a quiet noise of question leaving you, and he lifts his head, attaching his lips to the crook of your neck.
“y/n,” he whispers, more a moan than anything else. “need you.”
he sucks on the column of your throat while you come to, his fingers curling and spreading inside of you — his sloppy attempt to prepare you for him.
“h-huh-“ your head lifts slightly, and then you’re slamming it back against the pillow, your back arching. “oh, my god, mattsun-“
he almost comes in his pants when you say his name like that.
“couldn’t help myself,“ he starts, shaking his head and pushing his body against yours almost desperately. “you were so pretty.“ your cunt tightens around his fingers in response, and he files that away for later. keeps it in mind, the things that make you react like this. “need you so bad, y/n-“
“yes, god yes,” you breathe, a whine trapped in your throat. you turn your head, back still pressed against his chest, and drop your still-sleepy eyes to his lips.
the coil under issei’s navel tugs hard when he realizes how well he can read you.
he pushes his mouth against yours eagerly, moan unrestrained when your tongue slides against his. he wonders if you know how often he’s thought of this moment, years of wanting you and craving the feeling of you coming undone under his fingers.
“please,” you whisper against his lips, back arching when he pushes the pads of his fingers against that spongy spot that makes you whine. “more, mattsun.”
he groans, shivering when you pull his bottom lip between your teeth. “not yet — it’ll hurt,” he murmurs, leaning on every molecule of self-control.
“i can take it,” you just say, pushing your ass back against his aching cock. “promise.”
he never had that much self-control to begin with.
his moan comes out in a shuddered breath, overpowered by the sound of you whining when he slips his fingers out of you. he shoves his sweats down to his knees, meeting your eyes and seeing the urgency he feels reflected in your eyes.
when he slides his cock between your folds, it’s with a choked groan and a heaving pant in your ear.
“can i- are you sure-“ he stutters, already lining himself up at your entrance.
“please, please, please,” you babble, arching your back to make the angle easier on him.
you come around his cock before he’s even halfway in.
there are stars in his eyes by the time you’re done.
you cry out for him, shaking and clenching down hard, and he can’t do anything except bury his face in your hair and keep your leg lifted high with a trembling hand.
“fuck,” he breathes, voice tight. “fuck, y/n-“
“more, mattsun,” you sob. he thinks you might be the girl of his dreams.
pushing the rest of the way in, he shoves down his own orgasm, fighting and kicking and forcing it away so he can last more than thirty seconds inside of you.
he only manages a minute before he’s spilling into you with a stuttered moan of your name, face buried in your neck and head full of static.
you’re just slumped against him by the time he comes to his senses, breathing hard and synced with his.
“sorry,” he mumbles into your hair, ears burning with embarrassment. “i swear i usually last longer than that-“
you laugh, tired and still weak but bright all the same. “yeah — so do i.”
he snorts, pulling out slowly and letting your leg drop closed, trying his best not to moan at the feeling.
“are you sure that was okay?” he asks, a tiny inkling of doubt still seeded in his veins. you just giggle, whispering his name in fond exasperation.
“sorry, which part of me sleeping naked was a warning sign?”
“shut up,” he mutters, curling himself around you and feeling the beginnings of exhaustion start to drain his energy. “i’m staying here tonight. i don’t do one-night stands.”
you just turn in his arms and wrap your arms around his neck. “was i that good, mattsun? i was asleep for half of it.”
you’re gonna be the thing that kills him, he just knows it.
still caring about internet friends you lost touch with years ago is so embarrassing. yeah i had a deam we met up irl recently. the last time we spoke was maybe 7-8 years ago. i still wear the laces we randomly decided was a sign of our friendship. i dont know what any of your socials are or if youre even active on any. sometimes i see someones art resemble yours and i wonder for hours. do you still go by that name you chose? whenever i see it i wonder if its you. we couldve passed each other in this vastness a thousand times and not have a clue.
