The first time you fuck Satoru real good, he rolls over after and buries his face between your breasts, head still light and spinning in his post-orgasmic haze. He mumbles something nearly unintelligible into your skin that sounds a lot like, "Love you, mommy."
His cheeks burn as the realization of what's just slipped from his mouth sobers him up, getting ready to deny, deny, deny. He buries deeper into your chest, embarrassment flooding his veins. You're going to make fun of him, he's sure of it.
Instead, you tuck your chin to your chest and press a kiss to the top of his head.
"Love you, too, Toru," you whisper softly.
He risks a glance up up at you to find you already gazing at him, hearts in your eyes. His blush deepens as he looks away, your immediate acceptance heating him from the inside out. He lets himself settle back into the comfort of your body, baby blues slipping shut as he places kisses to your sternum.
ᨳິ ׂ 𓈒 𝒎𝒅𝒏𝒊 .. 𝒈𝒆𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒖𝒈𝒖𝒓𝒖 enjoys flustering you with his hot praise ⸝⸝ ྀ
suguru is already ruining you, balls deep and perfectly hitting your sweet spot relentlessly. always able to tell just what will drive you insane, what will have your walls trembling and eyes rolling. he reads you like a book, which is why he's being evil and singing you sinful praises.
"you feel so good, pretty," he hums low, leaning down so he can speak right into your ear, "those little sounds you're letting out are letting me know you feel the same."
you bite your lip to hold back those exact noises he's talking about. whinging at him to, "stop." your words ring hollow to even your ears though. fingers gripping him tight, legs wrapped around his slim waist to keep him trapped inside you.
"i'm just trying to tell you how hot you are," a laugh passes his lips, amused. "you're all twitchy and worked up, i love it."
your cunt drips around him, soaking him in even more slick the more he talks, "sugu, stop– hng– stop talking."
he ignores your words, "shhh, listen." his big palm covers your mouth so you'll be quiet and focus in on the wet squelching of him fucking your pussy. "god, you're so wet. creaming all over me," letting out a wistful sigh, like he dreams about this.
his hand stays on your mouth, "can you feel the way you're pulsing around me?—" sentence cut off by a drawn out groan, and then picking back up like he didn't just almost fall apart, "i can, i can and it feels fucking divine."
suguru can feel the way your skin flushes and heats up under his touch, so obvious to him how much you're enjoying his taunting despite your whining. spine tingling from how much he enjoys this, how good it feels.
your eyes meet his and you break, waterline brimming with unshed tears. the pleasure is overwhelming you, as well as his humiliating praise that you enjoy far too much. not able to tell him to shut up and not really wanting to anymore anyways. your lips press a soft kiss to his palm and he coos at you.
"you're so pretty," he removes his hand and flattens himself to you completely, head tucking into your neck, "my pretty baby. my pretty, pathetic, baby."
his pelvis grinds against your clit, his cock throbbing inside your walls as he keeps pressing kisses to your skin, along with his murmured words. your stomach flips from the stimulation, cumming on him, soaking his dick in fresh, honeyed slick.
"ah, there we go," he sighs. head tilting down so he can glimpse how his shaft looks as he pulls out, dripping obscenely from your orgasm. "messy little thing." and he doesn't sound the least bit disappointed about it.
"you're so evil," you pout, trying to ignore your lingering need. his cock still hard and half-way inside your shaking pussy.
"you love it," suguru stuffs you full once more, his chest rumbling with a moan, "i know just how horny it makes you."
𝜗◞ ♡ 𝒎𝒅𝒏𝒊 ; gazing at 𝒈𝒐𝒋𝒐 & his lifted shirt results in him dry humping you ꒱
every time you catch sight of gojo's happy trail your heart skips a beat. his arms lifting over his head to stretch his limbs out, the t-shirt he's wearing lifting up just enough to display the enticing visage of his lower abs leading down into his pants. white tufts of hair creeping out his pants and trailing upwards enough for you to see and feel a certain way about.
you avert your eyes after staring for far too long, long enough for gojo to pause mid stretch and tilt his head at you. his gaze trailing down his own body, trying to ascertain where you were looking. he doesn't seem like the astute type but you can practically feel the amusement rolling off him, easily picking up on what caught your attention.
"if you wanted me to take my shirt off... you could just ask."
you grumble back at him, annoyed by his ability to notice everything about you, "i don't want you to take your shirt off."
he hums a lilted tune, "hmm, certainly didn't seem that way with how you were eye-fucking me."
"i was not!" you gape at him, "you're imagining things, i fear your ego is growing too large for you to handle."
gojo walks the short distance to where you're sitting on the couch, his form leaning down so he's in your space. lips already hovering over yours as he asks, "so, we're not going to have sex on the couch?"
“i’m not that easy.”
a light laugh leaving him, “i am, you looked at me and now i’m all hard.”
"that's not my probl—"
his lips on yours shut you up, kiss heavy and already needy. he doesn't waste any time slipping his tongue into the mix, the taste of you making him shiver and whine. a sudden pressure around your wrist alerts you to his hold, his hand guiding yours. he places it under his shirt, your palm resting against the same trail of hairs that landed you in this situation.
the thrill that moves through you has you gasping into his mouth, pussy fluttering from how easily he overwhelms your senses. melting into him, letting him kiss you stupid. growing too horny to continue this way, you hold onto him and somehow manage to get him to lay on the couch.
his back resting on the cushions with you straddling him. "i wanna ride you," words spoken soft and tantalising, hand slipping under his shirt again to rest where it once was.
gojo's shirt rides up with your touch, the warm pressure of your soft palm has his cock twitching in his pants. "are you waiting for an invitation?"
"more like a plea," you challenge his glib attitude.
"pleaseee sit on my dick, pretty," his hands slide up your thighs to grip your hips, "i'm aching for it." and as if to prove his point, he ruts his hips up under you. grinding his erection against your clothed cunt.
your nails lightly scratch against his skin, lungs shuddering from the much needed stimulation. you're digging your teeth into your lower lip to stifle down any pathetic sound he might be able to pull from you. failing completely when he tugs you down at the same time that he's rutting up.
"fuuuuck– hold on– hnn– this feels soo—" he doesn't finish his sentence, head tilting back as he keeps dry humping you.
his skin is all flushed and radiating heat, eyes dazed and lost in the muted pleasure he's gaining from this. he's acting like a dog as he keeps relentlessly grinding against you. a small and pitiful whimper leaves him and you're keening into it. hands tugging his shirt up more, palms perched on him as you meet his grinds.
"wait– wait– hng– i'm gonna—" even though he's asking you to wait he doesn't stop his hips, continuing until he's shuddering through his own orgasm.
his pants growing damp as he cums in them, gojo can feel the way his seed clings to his clothes. coating his dick in his own sticky release. if it hadn't felt so fucking good he'd probably be embarrassed but he's in complete bliss right now.
"did you just cum?" you ask him, somehow even more aroused. his relaxed and borderline fucked out expression making you want him more.
he's panting softly, eyes glazed over as he answers, "you shouldn't have looked at me like that."
⡴ utterly whipped gojo forcing you to praise him during sex [kinda a pt 2 to this ? ] ⡴ didn’t even touch word count
he’s balls deep in you, and yet of course he’s still spouting stupid bullshit.
“i’m doing good, right baby?” he moans (moreso whimpers), still thrusting in that half-romantic half-what it’s actually supposed to be—a hookup—rhythm. his normally porcelain cheeks are completely flushed, his cool white hair falls in his face, some strands sticking to his forehead glistening in sweat.
“i—what?” you manage to say, still out of breath from how he’s fucking into you with his unfairly big cock. every perfect ridge and vein of it is dragging against your walls as he thrusts in and out of your sopping cunt—though you’ll deny how wet you are because of how large gojo’s ego will be if he knows he actually arouses you.
“say it.” he pouts above you, gripping harder on your shoulders he’s deemed a perfect leverage point in you to help with his strokes. “say i’m doing good… please?” his blue eyes pleading to you like a puppy dog.
“gojo, i’m not fucking doing th—” he shoves all the way back in and stops his thrusts. you moan without even meaning to from the sheer amount of girth being stuffed in you. he juts his lower lip out further, clearly upset by your answer.
“c’mon,” he looks physically pained as he restrains himself from continuing his thrusts. “just say it and i’ll keep fucking you.” he whines out, sounding a lot more weak and less intimidating than he thought he would.
you breathe out. you know he’ll hold on to this for the rest of the foreseeable future but you’re close anyway. you’ll come then kick him out like always and if next time he keeps mentioning it, you’ll just stuff his face with your pussy.
“you’re doing so good, gojo.” you moan out in a shaky voice.
he moans, loudly, near pornographic, and he gets back to thrusting immediately, except he seems more motivated. his strokes are fasting and more like he’s trying to impress you. his sounds are more desperate and huffy than before.
he reaches around your waist to hug you closer and shove his face deep in your neck, right below your ear.
“haaah, fuck, baby—say i’m the best you’ve ever had, please.”
“mm, god, gojo you’re the best i’ll ever fucking have.” he cries out. cries out and actually cries. tears start streaming down his pale face and cupping along your neck and collar bone where he’s found solace. he’s breathing like he’s just run a marathon.
unwantedly but admittedly, you say this next one yourself. it’s almost like you’re starting to… like him. ew.
“such a g’boy for me, satoru.” he nuts. immediately thick cum oozes into your pussy, spilling out from how overstuffed it already is with his girthy, oversized, genetic lottery winning cock. his whole body shakes and shivers while he releases, still trying to thrust so you could finish like the good boy he is.
unfortunately he forgets he’s not god and ends up overstimulating the hell out of himself by the time he gets you to cream by his thumb pressing along your clit.
he brings his head up, covered in sweat as he’s still shaking from the feeling of nutting the hardest he ever has.
he looks nearly completely out of it before his lips curl into a smirk. “you finally called me satoru!” and then he’s attacking your lips and shoving his tongue so far down you’re throat like he’s wasn’t just near seizing from cumming.
choso’s eyes widen and he makes a small, choked sound. his cheeks turn bright red, his entire body stiffening.
“i—i…you..we can..?” he stammers, voice barely above a whisper. his hands are gripping your bedsheets so hard his knuckles are turning white.
“yeah, you can kiss your girlfriend, cho,” you murmur, tongue swiping over your bottom lip. his wide eyes follow the movement, and he swallows thickly.
choso’s face flushes further and he slowly, hesitantly leans towards you. his eyes flutter closed just as his lips softy touch yours in a gentle kiss. his hands stay frozen on his thighs, not knowing what to do with them.
you slot your lips gently against his, hand curling at the base of his neck before you pull back slightly, smile etched on your lips. “you can touch me, you know.”
choso looks at you like you’ve just presented him with an impossible math problem.
“wh—where?” his breath hitches and he tentatively places a warm hand on your thigh, the other hovering awkwardly near your waist. “here?”
“sure,” you giggle, pulling him back to your lips from his nape.
he makes a soft whimpering sound against your lips, his hand on your thigh tightening slightly. the hand hovering near your waist finally settles at your lower back, pulling you closer.
your hands trail from his neck into his hair, gently tugging at his inky strands, and choso makes another desperate sound that goes straight to your core, his hand slipping just under the hem of your shorts.
choso gasps softly against your mouth, breaking the kiss for a moment. his eyes are hazy with want, lips slightly swollen.
i definitely just touched her underwear, he thinks to himself, mind racing. lace. it was lace. oh my god, she hates me. she’s gonna hate me. am i supposed to tell her it was an accident? do i pretend it never happened?
choso feels his pants growing tighter. he nearly faints on the spot out of embarrassment. no, no, no, not now, nonono—
unaware of his inner turmoil, you pout, tilting his head towards you again. “cho, baby. what’s wrong?”
“nothing!” he chokes out immediately. “this is just—it’s so good, i—“
“we’ve only kissed a little,” you tease, pushing his hair back delicately. his eyes flutter shut when your nails scrape gently against his scalp, and his cock throbs very insistently in his pants. both of his hands tense on your waist immediately. god, she’s gonna think i’m so weird. think of something else. think of broccoli. i hate broccoli. or—or boring, three hours movies. or..or…
choso loses his train of thought when you straddle his lap, eyes glinting at him before you kiss his jaw softly, sucking at a spot just below his ear. he whines, head tilting back, hands automatically gripping your hips. your lips on his neck send electric shocks straight to his groin, making him throb painfully against your core. “mmnh—“
when you start kissing him again — with tongue, he tells himself — he nearly whimpers. his hands pull your waist down onto him, straining for friction.
you pull your shirt over your head, breathless, eyes blown wide as you look at your cute, adorable boyfriend. he gulps, brain short-circuiting with your tits eye-level to his face.
you pull his hair, tilting his head up to yours, and he moans as he gazes at your parted lips, your lust-blown eyes.
he promptly cums in his pants at the sight with a full-body shudder, panting, a whine getting caught in his throat. “oh—oh my god, i’m so sor—“
“shhh, cho, s’okay,” you mumble, kissing the corner of his mouth before laughing softly and dropping to your knees between his legs, lidded eyes looking up at him through your lashes.
𓂃 ⭒ you come to a realization that megumi has never initiated sex.
𓂃 ⭒ TW: FEET!
The morning light filtered pale through the kitchen window, catching across the table and warming the bare line of his shoulders where his skin stretched taut over his muscle, still unmarked from sleep, and It catches on the faint red scratch marks down his back from last night—it probably stings a little when he moves.
you padded out from the bedroom in his shirt alone and your underwear, the hem brushing the sensitive backs of your thighs, the fabric soft and worn against your skin with every step.
He’d already been up, moving quietly at the stove like always, glancing over his shoulder once when he heard you, his dark eyes acknowledging you without a word, just a flicker of whateverin them before he turned back to the pan, the quiet sizzle of eggs filling the space between you.
He’d made yours scrambled, soft and steaming, his sunny side up with the golden yolk pooling slow and thick; two plates set across from each other, close enough that your knees could brush his under the table if you shifted just right.
“Eat,” he said, already sitting, fork in hand, and you slid into the chair opposite him, the wood cool against the bare backs of your thighs where the shirt rode up slightly, your foot tapping his without thinking, the contact sending a small spark up your calf.
You’d been talking about your week—something to reschedule, a friend’s text that made you laugh, little details spilling out while he listened in that quiet way of his, fork moving steady between plate and mouth, occasionally asking one question that proved he’d caught every word, his voice low and even, but now your eyes kept drifting to him mid-sentence: the flat plane of his stomach visible where the counter shadowed it, the easy flex of his jaw as he chewed, collarbone sharp under skin kissed gold by the light, and that slow crawl of warmth started at the base of your throat, sinking lower, pooling heavy between your legs as you watched him sit there, shirtless and effortless
You reached over again, dipping the corner of your egg into his yolk, the gold spilling warm across your fork, and he never said a thing about it, he never really does when you do something that annoyed him, his foot still against yours under the table
“You’re really sexy, you know that right,” you said, voice softer than you meant, and something in his expression settled, shoulders easing just a fraction as he looked up from his plate.
“You tell me all the time,” he murmured, eyes flicking back down, but not before you caught the faint tightening of his jaw, the way his throat worked on a swallow.
“Yeah,” you breathed, fork pausing halfway to your mouth, “I do,” and the words hung there, making you shift in your seat, thighs pressing together against the ache building slow, your bare foot sliding higher along his calf now, feeling the fine hair there, the muscle tense beneath.
You tried to leave it, picking up your fork again, but the thought lingered, thick in the air between your plates—how many times you’d said it, how he called you pretty instead, always pretty, his voice soft with it like a habit etched deep: You look really pretty, but pretty wasn’t sexy, wasn’t the feeling you felt watching him now, and it spilled out before you could stop it. “Do you even think I’m sexy—like actually,” you pressed, fork resting down with a soft clink, “do you look at me and think—”
“I’m not having this conversation ” he cut in, voice even but edged, exhaling slow through his nose as he set his fork aside, the tips of his ears going pink, faint but there, blooming under the morning light.
“Okay,” you said, hearing the edge in your own tone sharpen, thighs squeezing tighter under the table as frustration mixed with the heat, “well now I’m getting angry, because I’m genuinely starting to wonder if you have sexual feelings for me at all,” and your foot pressed harder against his leg, insistent, sliding up to hook behind his ankle, pulling just enough to feel him shift toward you.
He exhaled again, deeper this time, fork down fully now, and you watched his chest rise and fall, bare skin catching the light, nipples tightening slightly in the cool kitchen air. “That’s all you have? A sigh?” you pushed, gaze dropping to where his hands rested on the table edge, fingers flexing once, knuckles pale.
“Eat your food,” he said, picking up his fork again, but his eyes stayed on you a beat longer, the air thickening between you with every tick of the kitchen clock, distant car hum outside fading under the sudden pulse in your ears.
Then—“I think you’re pretty,” he said, not looking away this time, voice quiet and rough, “I think you’re really pretty, and I love you,” like those words alone could settle it, his fork hovering, yolk still unbroken on his plate, ears pinker now, jaw tight as he held your gaze.
“I know,” you whispered, leaning forward slightly, shirt gaping at the collar to bare the curve of your chest, “you’ve said it for five years—I’m asking if you get hard thinking about me,” and the words landed blunt, your foot sliding higher still, toes brushing the inside of his knee under the table, parting his legs just a fraction as heat flooded your core.
He put his fork down. Hard. The tips of his ears burned pink fully now, and he looked at you, fully looked, expression caught between disbelief and that familiar exasperation, the one that always cracked when you pushed close enough.
“Babe,” his voice dropped low, rougher, “I have sex with you—isn’t that enough to show you that I—” He stopped, breath hitching as your toes dragged slow along his inner thigh, feeling the twitch of muscle there, the sudden heat radiating from him.
“Have you ever just been somewhere,” you murmured, voice thick, leaning closer across the table so your breath nearly brushed his knuckles, “doing something completely normal, and thought about me and gotten hard—not during, not because something was already happening, just out of nowhere” and your foot pressed firm now, heel digging into his calf, toes teasing higher toward the crease of his thigh.
He looked at you. Then away. Jaw working hard, ears flushed deep. “Yes,” he rasped finally, quiet and flat like it cost him, but his hand slid under the table suddenly, catching your ankle—not pulling away, just holding, thumb pressing into the arch of your foot, warm, sending sparks straight up your leg.
He reached for his fork but didn’t lift it, eyes on the table, voice barely above the sizzle of cooling eggs still in the pan. “When we first started dating I couldn’t always—” Another pause, ears burning, jaw clenching tight as your toes flexed against his grip. “It wasn’t something I could control all the time—I’d think about you and I—” He stopped again, breath ragged, free hand flexing open and closed. “I did things.”
“You jerked off thinking about me,” you said, low and certain, foot pushing insistent against his hold, feeling the tremor in his thigh now, the heat building where your skin met his.
He said nothing, just moved food around his plate, fork scraping faint, but his grip on your ankle tightened, thumb circling slow over your skin, pulling you closer under the table inch by inch.
“Megumi,” you breathed, voice cracking soft, and he finally looked up, eyes dark and half-lidded.
“Just eat your food,” he said, hoarse, but his hand didn’t let go, sliding higher now to grip your calf, fingers digging in just enough to sting, pulling until your knee nudged his under the table.
“Why didn’t you just tell me that,” you whispered, not pushing now, just needing, your free hand reaching across to trace his knuckles, nails grazing light down to his wrist, “back then.”
The words barely left your mouth when Megumi’s grip on your calf tightened. He didn’t speak. Instead, he shifted forward in his chair, eyes locked on yours, and slowly dragged the sole of your foot higher up his thigh until it pressed hard against the growing bulge in his sweatpants.
He rocked his hips once, grinding the hard line of his cock along the arch of your foot through the fabric. Then again, slower. The heat of him radiated through the thin material as he used your foot to rub himself, hips rolling in shallow thrusts that made the chair creak faintly beneath him.
“I love you this much,” he murmured, voice low and rough, eyes half-lidded as he kept the steady grind going, pressing your foot firmer against his length. “Enough to lose it just from this.”
He kept moving like that for a long stretch, hips rocking steadily, dragging his clothed cock up and down the length of your foot, toes flexing occasionally against him.
His breathing grew heavier, jaw tight, but he never looked away.
Another slow roll of his hips. “This much,” he repeated, quieter this time, thumb stroking the side of your ankle as he held your foot in place.
Finally, he reached down with his free hand and shoved the waistband of his sweatpants down.
His cock sprang free, heavy and flushed dark at the tip. The first thick bead of precum welled up and immediately spilled over, dripping warm and slow down the top of your toes, sliding between them in a slick trail.
“Every time I’m alone, I think about this,” he muttered, voice low. “About how your skin would feel.”
He wrapped his hand around the base and guided the head along your foot, smearing the leaking precum over your skin. Then he pressed forward, sliding the full length of his cock between your toes and along the arch, fucking your foot in slow, desperate strokes.
“Sometimes I do this when I can’t sleep,” he breathed, “pretend it’s you I’m touching, that it’s you I’m fucking instead of my hand.”
His hips rolled steadily now, the wet sound of skin sliding against skin filling the quiet space as he thrust between your toes, precum continuing to drip and coat your foot with every pass.
He kept that pace for a while, eyes dark on where his cock moved against you, hand occasionally adjusting your foot to tighten the grip around him.
“Fuck,” he breathed, hips stuttering once before he caught himself and slowed again, drawing it out. Another thrust, another slow drag of his cock along your slick toes.
His breathing turned ragged. His grip on your ankle tightened as his thrusts grew a little shorter, a little faster. With a low groan, he came, thick pulses of cum spilling over your foot, coating your toes and the arch in warm, sticky ropes that dripped down slowly.
He stayed there a moment, chest rising and falling, cock still twitching against your messy foot.
“I think you’re very pretty” he murmured, dazed, voice rough in his throat.
Then he stood, chair scraping back, and pulled you up with him. One hand hooked under your thigh, the other gripping your hip as he turned you and sat you back down in the chair. He stepped between your spread legs, cock still hard, and lined himself up.
“I’ve imagined this,” he said, breath shaking against your mouth. “So many times”
Slowly tracing his thumb over the went stain of the underwear, he moved them to the side the he pushed in slowly, sinking into you inch by inch until he bottomed out, hands gripping the edges of the chair on either side of your hips.
Then he started thrusting, deep, steady rolls of his hips that rocked the chair beneath you, his body leaning over yours as he fucked you right there in the seat.
His thrusts stayed deep and steady, hips rolling forward in a slow, unrelenting rhythm that pushed you back against the wooden chair with every stroke.
He kept one hand braced on the edge of the seat beside your hip, the other gripping your shoulder to hold you steady as he sank into you again and again, the slick, wet sound of his thick cock sliding in and out of your dripping pussy filling the quiet kitchen.
You moaned softly, legs wrapping tighter around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back to pull him even deeper.
Your walls clenched greedily around his length with every thrust, slick arousal coating him and dripping down to soak the chair beneath you.
Megumi responded by leaning in closer, his bare chest brushing against the front of the oversized shirt you still wore, the fabric bunching up between your bodies as he fucked you with that same measured pace—drawing almost all the way out until just the swollen head stretched your entrance, then pushing back in fully, letting you feel every veiny inch split you open.
You gasped sharply when he shifted his angle slightly, angling his thrusts upward so the fat head of his cock dragged hard against that sensitive spot inside you with every roll forward. “Ah—fuck,” you whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure shot through your core, making your pussy flutter and squeeze tighter around him.
His free hand slid down from your shoulder, fingers tracing along your side until they reached the hem of the shirt.
He pushed it higher, bunching the material up around your waist so nothing sat between you. Then his palm flattened against your stomach, thumb brushing low as he continued the steady drive of his hips, feeling the way his cock bulged slightly under your skin with every deep thrust.
Without breaking rhythm, he reached between you with his free hand, fingers finding your swollen clit and rubbing slow, firm circles in time with his thrusts. The added pressure made your thighs tremble around him, a broken moan spilling from your lips as your hips bucked up to meet him. “Megumi—oh…,” you gasped, toes curling hard where they pressed into his back, your pussy gushing wetter around his pistoning cock.
Megumi’s jaw clenched, a low groan escaping him as your walls fluttered and clenched greedily around his length. He didn’t speed up right away, just kept the same deep, controlled pace, hips grinding forward on the downstroke to press flush against you, his heavy balls slapping softly against your ass with every thrust. His fingers never stopped their steady circling on your clit, occasionally switching to firmer strokes that made your eyes roll back.
He tilted his head, lips brushing your ear. “Like this?” he murmured, voice rough, the words timed with a particularly deep thrust that made the chair rock beneath you and a fresh gush of your slick coat his cock. “Tell me if you want it harder.”
You nodded frantically against him, nails raking down his back as you moaned louder, “Yes—harder, please—” Your pussy clenched desperately around him, sucking him deeper with every thrust.
He obliged immediately, shifting his weight to drive into you with more force, the thrusts turning sharper and faster, the obscene wet slap of skin meeting skin growing louder as he pounded into your soaked cunt. His hand stayed between you, fingers working your swollen clit faster now to match the new rhythm, rubbing tight circles while his thick cock stretched and fucked you relentlessly in the chair.
Your moans turned into desperate cries, thighs shaking as pleasure built hot and tight in your core, his hips snapping forward with controlled power, each brutal thrust pushing you closer to the edge while he kept his dark gaze locked on your flushed face.
His thrusts grew harder, sharper, the chair creaking beneath you as he drove into your soaked pussy with deep, relentless strokes.
His fingers kept rubbing tight circles over your swollen clit, never slowing even as your walls clenched hard around his cock.
You gasped sharply, head tipping back against the chair, thighs shaking around his waist. “Megumi—” The word broke off into a moan as the pressure coiled tighter, your pussy fluttering and squeezing around him. Your nails dug into his shoulders, heels pressing hard into his back as the orgasm hit, sudden. Your walls spasmed around his length, slick heat gushing out around his cock while your hips jerked up to meet his thrusts.
Megumi groaned low, hips stuttering once before he pushed in deep and stayed there, grinding slow against you.
His cock twitched hard inside your pulsing pussy, then he came with a rough exhale, thick pulses of cum spilling deep into you. He kept rocking through it, short, uneven thrusts as he emptied himself, his cum starting to leak out around his cock and drip down onto the chair beneath you.
You stayed locked together like that, breathing hard, the wet warmth of his release slowly trickling between your bodies while the tremors faded.
Hi so I made another version of this and I couldn’t decide which one to post so I’m gonna post both 😭
you’re spooning with your boyfriend megumi in the cute matching pajamas you bought for the two of you, tucked under the blankets as the two of you watch that tv series you’ve been begging him to watch with you. it’s not his type of series, but he’s enjoying watching it with you because he gets to hold you and it’s making you happy.
here’s the problem though.
the two of you has been like this for hours. your backside pressed into him, your constant shifting and jolts of laughter was rubbing against him. normally this wouldn’t be a problem, he’s a composed man, able to conceal his urges, but he’s so needy right now. he wants to be in you so bad, his erection threatening to poke into your plush cheek harder as he tries to push his dirty thoughts into the back of his mind to watch tv with you.
his grip around you tightened slightly as he snuggled further into you, tilting his head to breathe in the scent of your shampoo before resting his chin on your shoulder. his eyes trained on the tv while his hips unknowingly grind against you softly to soothe the ache in his cock. “just trying to get comfortable, baby.” he would excuse himself when you asked him why he was moving so much.
he feels like such a pervert
this night is supposed to be spent watching your favorite tv series, but here he is with a boner that just won’t go away. he tries to give all his focus on what’s unfolding on the tv, but he just can’t, not anymore at least. his thoughts are clouded with your sweet moans when he first slips it in, how good your warm slick walls feel when he fucks into you at a steady pace, and how tight you clench and spasm when he rips an orgasm out of you, moaning his name.
obviously his mind isn’t as sharp as he likes it to be, he’s been zoning out staring at the tv while he ruts against you softly, and you couldn’t help but feel it this time, he’s rock hard. you brushed it off at first, but now? it’s undeniable. your brows furrowed, glancing over your shoulder to speak. “gumi? are you okay?”
“i’m fine.” his reply was short, almost a groan if you listened hard enough.
“you’re hard.”
shit.
his hips stilled, sighing in the crook of your neck, embarrassed about being caught. he wanted to apologize, speak up, say something, but the words are stuck in his throat. you think it’s cute when he gets shy about wanting you, so you spare him, grinding back against him to show that you want it too.
that’s the only sign he needed.
he’s still spooning you from behind, shorts and underwear pushed down haphazardly as he left open mouthed kisses along your neck. he dragged his fingers from your slick pussy, tasting your juices from his digits with a groan. “i need you…so bad.” he admitted between aroused breaths, lifting one of your legs and bringing his leaking cock to your entrance. you pushed your hips backwards against his, helping him slip inside.
the moan he let out when he pushed his tip in was almost louder than yours. he pulled you against him tighter, arms wrapped around your stomach as he nuzzled his face in the crook of your neck, pushing in slowly inch by inch. he bottomed out with a groan, your walls twitching and clenching around him from the intrusion. you leaned back against him, moaning softly from the fullness of him.
he pulled his hips back slowly before pushing himself back in, cock dragging against your slick walls. “fuuck…you feel so good pretty baby..” he whined, eyes threatening to roll back behind his closed eyelids as he began to fuck into you in a steady rhythm. each thrust making him even more pussy drunk by the second.
and he just started fucking you.
you just felt too good, better than he rememberers. you warm wet walls hugging his cock had him fucking into you faster, moaning pathetically into your neck as he chased the feeling blindly. he lifted one of his arms caging you to his chest to hang around your shoulder, his hand tilting your chin towards him to kiss you.
you clenched around him tightly, pleasure blooming deep inside you as you moaned into his mouth, cock gliding in and out of you and pressing into your sweet spot with every deep and languid stroke. he was so deep you could swear you felt him in your stomach. your walls sucked him in further, body chasing the pleasure faster than your mind could. the room was filled with the long forgotten buzz of the tv, squelching sound of your soaked pussy every time he fucked into you, and the shared moans as you lost yourselves in the pleasure of each other.
he was starting to lose himself already, usually, he would murmur soft praises in your ear, biting his own lip to stay quiet. but now? he’s a whimpering and groaning mess, thrusting into you with nothing in his mind but how good you feel. he couldn’t stop fucking you, wouldn’t dream of it, his breathing stuttering as he lost himself inside of you. he continued to whine into your neck, breathing ragged as his dick twitched wildly inside your velvety walls, precum spilling into you messily and creating an obscene ring on the base of his cock.
his desperate moans and his hips slamming into yours as he chased his own pleasure didn’t help nothing to help the ache of arousal in your pussy, your orgasm nearing as he reached down to rub at your clit. his lips chased yours again, trying to silence his moans to no avail. your walls clenched tightly around him as he rubbed dizzying circles on your clit, desperate to get you to cum before he did.
his insistent deep thrusts and the dizzying clit stimulation had you shaking in his hold, pleasure tightening then exploding as you came around him, soaking his hips and his cock with a loud moan of his name. he pulled back, praising you breathlessly and incoherently as he nuzzled back into your neck. his thrusts now losing rhythm as he chased his orgasm, mind turning into mush as he babbled in you neck, slurring about how much he loves you and how good you feel.
“g-gonna cum…please baby..wanna cum in you s-so bad…please baby.” he was too far gone, begging to cum in you, to make you his, to claim you in every possible way. his arms caged back around you as he continued to beg for you, dick twitching wildly and balls tightening as he struggled to hold back, kissing at your neck to ground himself.
his desperate pleas had you tightening around him, despite your orgasm seconds earlier, arousal blooming inside of you yet again as you nodded against him, moaning your permission. and thats all it took. his cum spurted into you, ropes painting your insides, fucking every stream into you as his eyes rolled back, moaning the loudest you’ve ever heard from him.
who knew he could ever fuck you like this?
he stayed buried in you, tilting your head to kiss you again, trying to come down from his intense orgasm. he mumbled apologies against your lips for distracting you, rubbing his hand soothingly up and down your stomach as he reached for the remote with his other hand.
at least now he can actually focus on the show now, right?
BF Satoru who really likes your new glasses
fem!reader slightly suggestive
a/n: kinda self indulgent because im pretty insecure about my glasses
You were always a little bit insecure over the fact that you needed glasses. You never really liked how they looked on you. It felt clunky and awkward and it made you feel much more like a loser. Basically it did little to uplift your self esteem.
So yeah, maybe you felt like celebrating when your workmate had accidentally broken your glasses. At least now, you had a reason to not wear them but Satoru was insistent that you get a new pair immediately.
“You need to see things baby.” Satoru said.
Reluctantly you dragged yourself over to the glasses store. It took you a considerable amount of time to decide on a pair of frames but eventually you settled for something that seemed fitting for your face.
With your new glasses perched on your nose you head back to your apartment.
”Toru? I’m home.” You called out as you stepped into the apartment.
It’s quiet for a few moments before you hear the sound of feet padding against the wooden floor.
“Baby? How was the—”
Satoru quickly cut himself off. His eyes widened before he dramatically fell onto his knees and shuffled closer until he was kneeling right in front of you.
”Toru? What’s wrong with you?” You tried to pry Satoru’s arms off of you to get him on his feet but he buried his face in your stomach and let out an odd, strangled sort of sound.
“Holy fuck. I’m hard."
“What?" You forced Satoru’s face off of your stomach and forced him to look into your eyes.
“Your new glasses. God, you're so pretty.” Satoru whined. He tightened his grip around your torso which caused you to stumble forward. You placed your hands on Satoru’s shoulders to stabilize yourself.
“Did you just say you're hard?” You raised a brow, tilting your head down to meet Satoru's gaze.
“I’m sorry, lovely. You're just so pretty. You look like you'd tell me to shut the fuck up and just thinking about it is doing things to me.” Satoru groaned. He pushed himself off of his knees and cupped your face in his hands.
Satoru leaned down and pressed his lips against yours. He pulled away a few seconds later only to gaze into your eyes lovingly.
“You look ridiculous right now.” You murmured.
“And you look so sexy right now." Satoru countered, pressing another kiss on your lips.
summary: spend the night with a former king with a grudge.
warnings: 18+, MDNI, the freakiest installment yet, true form!sukuna, two dicks, four arms, many mouths, oral (f!receiving), fingering (f!receiving), ass eating (f!receiving), anal, double penetration, suspension, i cannot overstate how much more freaked out this chapter is than the others
a/n: two more chapters left!!! art by @/woshihedawei on x
You look around the room, at the men so eager to service you, and yet…
You're angry. What concubine, what man thinks he can ignore you? Who is he to think that he gets to bypass tradition, to disrespect you so blatantly? No, you won't stand for it.
"Apologies, but I believe I should speak to the man who thinks he's better than the rest of us. If you'll excuse me…"
All it takes is a glance at Shoko to have her scrambling to follow you out of the bathhouse.
"Your Majesty, I really don't think it's a wise idea to try and engage with this particular concubine. He's not…pleasant."
"He is my concubine. He does not get to decide whether he wants to see me or not. Show me to his room."
Shoko sighs and shakes her head but does as you ask regardless. She knows better than to try and dissuade you when your mind's so keyed in on something.
"Be careful, Your Majesty." Shoko bows and shoots you a worried glance before walking off.
"Honestly," you mutter before opening the door in front of you. "Why is she acting like I'm about to be eaten?"
You falter as you take a step in. The room is pitch black, but there's a swirling current in the cool air that throws you off kilter. A chill shoots up your spine, but you can't quite pinpoint the emotion causing it.
There's no sound.
No light.
No motion.
Just you, your shallow breathing, and a growing sense of unease that makes you want to turn on your heel and run back to the bathhouse, into the warm, waiting arms of one of your other concubines.
Fear feels beneath you. You're too good for an emotion so lowly, but it insists on clawing its icy fingers up your sides until it's gripping your throat.
Or, wait…
Your own hand travels up to your throat, just to find a massive hand clasped around your neck. First, your muscles contract, creating an impossible tension throughout your whole body.
Then, you scream.
The sound barely has time to travel before another massive hand is smothering it back into your mouth. The door gets kicked shut, closing off any chance of light bleeding into the dark room. This is the first time in your privileged life you've ever been afraid for your life.
The air shifts behind you, gravity seemingly rearranging itself around your body until you can't tell what's up, down, or sideways anymore. The shock prevents you from registering the second pair of hands hoisting you into the air by your hips, but you're screaming into the massive hand again once you do.
When you've finally stopped, warm breath hits the side of your neck, and an arrogant voice asks, "Are you done?"
Your retort gets muffled against his palm, and the man behind you chuckles.
"My apologies, Your Majesty," he sneers, dropping his hand from your mouth. That palm settles over your lower belly, and he tugs you flush against his chest.
It's at that moment that you realize you're dwarfed by the man behind you, though you're not particularly certain if you could call him a man at this point. You're dangling in midair, supposedly being held up by his hands. Your mind can't even begin to conjour up an image of him, not one that makes sense, anyway.
"What were you trying to say?"
"Unhand me! You can't just grab at me!" you snap, fear and anger lacing your voice in equal measure.
Two of the man's hands roam over your sides as the other two keep you snug against his front. He presses a low, rumbling hum into your shoulder. "I don't think so."
"Who do you think you are?! I ought to call Shoko and have the guards come in here and—"
"And what?" Sukuna snarls. A pulse of energy spikes through the room, and candles scattered over different surfaces blaze to life. It's not enough to be able to discern the correct shapes of anything, but it is enough to see four matching hands on your body.
It's also enough to see the bulging muscles carving up his forearms and cording his chest where his robe is starting to fall open. Dark bands of tattoos wrap around his wrists, and matching lines trace over his pectorals.
"What do you possibly think your guards could do to me?"
"Are you a magician?" The words fall dumbly from your mouth, your mind still caught up on the miraculous lighting of the candles.
"I am a King," he growls, gripping you tighter. "And you will address me as such."
"If you're a king, why would you be in my harem?"
"You insolent brat. It took one hundred and fifty of your finest men to capture me. Are you ungrateful for the opportunity to be mine? I've waited years for you to visit…" Sukuna trails one thick finger down the opening of your bath robe, and it causes goosebumps to prick your skin. Sukuna hooks his chin over your shoulder and lets you get a good look at his profile. His features are sharp, and there's a quality to him that suggests he's been hand-carved from the most resilient bedrock imaginable.
His eyes dart toward you, the look so sharp it causes your breath to hitch. "Do not tell me you're thinking of running away now."
Despite the fear still lingering in your veins, despite every instinct in you telling you to get out of this room as fast as you possibly can, despite every logical thought in your head…you hesitate. He's not hurting you—he hasn't hurt you. His grip is firm but not unkind. With strength like his, he could crush you in his bare hands, and he's not even leaving bruises on your skin. If he was going to hurt or kill you, he would've done so by now.
That's the excuse you tell yourself to cut down on the fact that under all the fear, a heady kind of want is pooling in your navel. It's slow and thick, but it's slowly starting to travel up to your brain and numb all rational thought. Whatever reason you'll tell yourself to make it feel better later, you don't run. You don't want to. Somehow, you're right where you want to be.
"No, I'm not," you say. Your voice is surprisingly assertive despite the tremble.
"How fun." He turns you around in his grip, two of Sukuna's hands grip your thighs while the other two act as a seat underneath your ass. You get to see his face fully now. All the eyes, all the tattoos, his messy hair.
And, nestled in the shockingly pink strands, sits a glinting, gold circlet.
A crown.
It's mere existence mocks you. You want to knock it off his head, but his hands are pulling you closer, and a tongue is extending from a freshly revealed mouth in his stomach, and you're just…stunned.
"What the fuck," you say bluntly.
Sukuna tsks and tugs you closer. "Do not act like a prude. I can smell your arousal."
"That's not—you are infuriating. I forbid you from smelling me."
Your words are met with a cold sort of amusement. "That is impossible given the fact that you are smearing yourself all over my abdomen."
Since your legs are wrapped around his waist, your cunt is pressed up against the planes of his abs. And, of course, it's leaving behind a slick trail every time either of you shift.
"Don't be so crude," you snap.
"I am a crude being." One of Sukuna's hands grabs a fistful of your hair, and he tilts your head back. "Now quit talking. I tire of it."
"I have never heard anything quite so rude in my life."
"I can tell," Sukuna says dryly. "But if you refuse to shut your mouth, I will simply have to make you sound more pleasant."
Before you get the chance to ask what he means by that, the thick, pink tongue protruding from his stomach swipes over your glistening cunt, causing a quiet whimper to slip past your lips.
"Better already," Sukuna grins smugly, watching as your face twists in pleasure while his tongue starts taking you apart. It's messy and loud, and obscene schlicks emanate from between your thighs as the thick muscle starts working past your entrance. It alternates between fucking into you and swirling around your clit in broad, sticky flicks.
Just as your thighs start to quiver and your pleasure starts to mount, the tip of his tongue dips down to your perineum.
"Have you ever been touched here before?"
"That's disgusting," you slur.
"That was not an answer. Answer me." Sukuna tips your head up just enough for his sharp gaze to pierce into your own.
"No, I have not," you mutter.
"I shall show you, then. You'll need it, brat."
"Need it for wh-at?" your voice breaks as the tip of his thick tongue dips past the rim of your asshole.
"You will see."
How reassuring.
He works at you slowly, dragging his tongue in and out of your tight hole, gradually working you open. The foreign sensation has you squirming forward, but it just makes your clit bump up against his abs. You don't know if you want to run away, lean into it, or forsake the choice altogether by dropping dead, but anything would be better than the numb pleasure he's giving you.
No, giving isn't the right word. He's allowing it. He's not trying to please you. He just wants to watch you jump.
Each shaky twitch of your hips has Sukuna smirking wider, sharp teeth on display as he leans forward to bite at the side of your neck.
"Sensitive."
You bristle at that, your hands digging into his biceps and scratching long, pink marks down the length of them. "Y-you're so—"
"Y-you're so," he mocks, cutting you off and parroting your words back at you. "Spit it out."
"You're an ass," you hiss. "An arrogant, haughty, nasty asshole."
Sukuna leans forward until he's nose to nose with you and forcing you to breathe in his every exhalation. "I wish I could say the same about your asshole, brat. You taste disgustingly good."
Heat crawls from your chest, up the sides of your neck, and blossoms over your cheeks. With the way Sukuna's ogling you, you feel like a flower plucked from a garden that's being inspected for any impurities. It manages to infuriate you and turn you on at the same time.
You'd try to strangle him, but you don't think your hands could comfortably wrap around his neck.
So, you settle for the next best thing. He shouldn't get to have all the fun, right?
Sukuna grunts when your hands slide up his arms. One of his thick eyebrows cocks itself at you, but he doesn't say anything. Not until your fingers find his pink nipples and start rubbing circles into the peaked flesh in time with the thrusting of his tongue.
"What are you doing," he hisses.
"Touching you."
"Who allowed you to do that?"
"Myself, obviously."
"Tch." Sukuna doesn't protest again, but he's certainly not happy about the arrangement. He's just grateful that you can't see the shameful stirring in his pants. There's nothing he hates more than being weak, but giving you the satisfaction of knowing you're working him up is becoming a close second.
Even as you're slowly getting used to the intrusion of his tongue, you still jolt every time it slides even half an inch deeper. You're so distracted by it that you don't notice one of his hands undoing his pants. You don't even notice that very same hand snaking up between your thighs until he's shoving two thick fingers into your dripping cunt.
"Sukuna," you gasp, instinctively clamping down on his fingers and tongue when they slide into you in time with each other. His only response is a hum that seems to vibrate through your soul before he begins working your pussy open in the same way he's been working your ass.
Each drag of knuckles over your g-spot has you moaning into the open air of his room. The heavy atmosphere still exists, but it feels more constricted now. If Sukuna were to let go of you and blow out all of the candles, you're not sure you'd ever make it out of his room. The thought of being trapped in a room. Alone with Sukuna. For the rest of your life…it's enough to send a shiver down your spine.
You're done trying to separate the fear from the pleasure, though. He gives you both in spade, entertwined to create a force of emotion you couldn't escape from if you wanted to. Each drag of his thumb over your clit is tempered by his bared teeth threatening the side of your neck.
As you finally surrender your internal moral debate, you find that your orgasm is slowly creeping up on you. You don't dare say anything in fear that he'll stop. You don't trust him not to rip himself away from you, just to hold you spread apart in the air while he watches you squirm and drip onto the floor.
Fantasizing about that shouldn't turn you on as much as it does, but it hastens you toward your orgasm. A few more swipes of Sukuna's thumb have you cumming with a gush of fluid that coats his palm and wrist.
A snarl rips its way out of Sukuna's chest, and he grips your face with his slick hand, smearing your own release around your cheeks. "Lick it clean."
Your tongue darts out before you can think twice about the humiliating order. The drag of your soft tongue against his palm has Sukuna's arousal burning brighter, and he has to snatch his hand away from your mouth before he does something stupid.
"Insatiable brat," he mutters, shifting his grip on you once again. You find yourself staring off into the darkness of his bedroom, the only focal point being a distant, flickering candle that seems to taunt you. He tugs you back until your ass is nestled against his crotch. You're not exactly a stranger to male anatomy, but you do know that something you're feeling is wrong.
His erection starts at the cleft of your ass, nestled in between your cheeks, and you can feel the leaky tip forming a sticky pool of precum in the arch of your back.
So what exactly is the thing resting along your inner thigh?
When you look down, you're greeted with the sight of his cock, hard and heavy with a black ring tattooed around the base. You've either completely lost it, had your mind twisted around in circles by the unsettling influence of this man, or…
"You have two penises?" You pause for a moment and think. "Peni?"
One of his hands claps down on your ass, and you yelp. "Do you find yourself amusing, you wretch?"
"I do, actually—fuck, fuck, fuck," your voice cuts off into a high pitched whimper as he notches the heads of both of his cocks onto your waiting, prepped holes. He pushes in slowly, crimson eyes fixated on the greedy way you suck him in. In all his years of living, he's never had a mortal take him so well. He's halfway tempted to ravage you until you physically can't leave his room without support, but he knows he'd be executed by as many men as it took to bring him down.
Maybe some other night, then.
He can't bottom out, but he nestles as deeply inside you as he can manage. The tip of one of his cocks is slotted right against your cervix, the other burrowed so deeply inside your ass that you feel like you're being split open. Sukuna's two lower hands have a harsh grip on your hips while his upper arms hug you around your shoulders.
You're stuck right where you want to be.
Sukuna spits a glob of saliva right where his cock is feeding into your asshole, making the pull out even easier. Even his first thrust in has your eyes rolling back in your head. You've never felt so full in your life, stuffed to the point of feeling like you're about to split open. It's absolutely fucking divine.
Each rock of his hips has your toes curling in midair. You have to rely on him to support you, but there's a freedom in it, too. You don't have to worry. You don't have to fight. You don't have to act like you're above your baser needs. You can simply be.
"Kuna, Kuna, don't stop," you whine. "Please don't stop…"
"I am not stopping until you're choking on your tears," he hisses, rutting into you like some kind of animal. His grip is harsh, his pace unrelenting as his skin slaps into yours. Your ass and upper thighs are already bruised and tender from his hips pounding into yours.
Sukuna shifts his grip on you slightly, causing the angle of his cock to change. He's drilling into a spongy spot nestled deep inside you now, causing your jaw to fall slack and pleasure to start closing in on the edges of your vision. Sukuna takes the opportunity to slip a thick thumb into your mouth, and you're all too happy to start sucking on it.
"Just like that. Not so proud now, huh, empress? Do you like being split apart? Did you imagine this when you marched down to my bed chambers?" Sukuna hunches his massive shoulders down until he's curled over you, just to run his nose over your cheekbone and sneer into your ear. "You thought you'd put me in my place, didn't you?"
"Mmph, yesh," you slur around his thumb.
"So honest," he croons. "Your pussy is honest, too. You're about to cum again, aren't you?"
"Mhm, kunaaa…" You press your face into your hand in a desperate attempt to ground yourself as your pleasure starts to spike once again. It's intense, the sensation of both of his cocks thrusting in and out of you and rubbing against each other through the thin wall separating them.
He finally takes pity on you, sliding a hand down between your thighs to stimulate your neglected clit. While you expected him to rub circles over the nub, you never anticipated an extra mouth to materialize on his hand and suck your clit into it.
The extra stimulation has you cumming immediately, your body locking up as pleasure wracks through you. You can't scream, you can't move, you can barely fucking take it, but Sukuna's decent enough to work you through it.
Just to start fucking into you right after, chasing his own pleasure this time. It only takes a few more thrusts for Sukuna to reach his peak, but he doesn't pull out. No, he buries himself deep inside and cums inside you, completely unashamed.
"Hah, fuck…" He holds you tight against his chest, panting into the side of your neck as his cocks twitch and twitch and finally still inside you.
At this point, you expect him to yank himself out of you, toss you on the floor, and watch you crawl your way out of his room. He does end up pulling out of you, but it's much slower than you were bracing yourself for.
He also doesn't toss you onto the ground. He carries you deeper into the darkness, just to deposit you on what you can only assume is his bed. It's cozy and absolutely massive. It has to be to accommodate his size. He doesn't use a towel to clean you up, but the mouth that had formed on his hand is used to lick away the remnants of your encounter.
You'd be more grossed out by it all if you weren't focused on coming back into your body.
Sukuna's heavy footsteps trundle off into the darkness, only for him to reappear by your side on his mattress a minute later.
"Are you okay?" he asks gruffly.
You turn your head to look at him. You can barely make his features out in the low lighting, but you can see enough to be able to thread your fingers through his hair.
"Mhm."
"Good."
Sukuna leans forward and uses all four of his arms to drag you against his chest.
"What are you doing?"
"I have learned that mortal women enjoy being held after being fucked."
"Hmph." You nestle back against his chest and squish your cheek against his bicep.
"Am I wrong, woman?"
"No." You let your fingers trace over the thick black band tattooed around his wrist. "I just didn't expect it from you."
"I am not a monster."
"You could've fooled me, King Kuna."
"Do not mock me."
"I'll mock you all I fucking want."
"Tch. Shut up and go to sleep before I knock you out."
"You'd never," you yawn.
And, if Sukuna is honest with himself, he knows he never would. Unfortunately, he finds you much too adorable.
all written content belongs to @cherrys-wrld. i do not own the original characters or the art used above. do not feed my work into ai, repost, translate, or copy it.
this fic is part of my night with the empress special event. the other parts are not necessary to enjoy this fic, but they're linked here for your enjoyment.
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The concept of Izuku moaning when we adjust his tie
🏁 eighteen plus only ! ⋆ mdni ⋆ smut, characters in 20s, breath play kinda, grinding, gagging, ties r sexy, slapping, pro hero izuku midoriya, fem reader !
gods bc i think he’d find it so sexy if you picked out his tie for him every day like a good wife. he leans back on the bed, shirt loose and unbuttoned (because he loves watching you do it for him) whilst you rummage through his draws for the perfect tie for the day.
izuku would manspread just a little bit to make room for you as you sashay your way back over to him — patterned, pastel green silk slipping between your fingertips — he swallows think because he can’t help but think about you tying him to the bed frame. looping his wrists together. keeping him bound to you for all of eternity. his gaze drawn to the way you fiddle with the material.
you don’t sit in his lap when you reach him, your knee settling right between his legs — close to where he needs you most, the edge of the mattress dipping from your weight as you lean against it. you’re so pretty above him, taunting him like he can’t reverse the roles and flip the situation. the silky tie is cool against his neck as you toss it over him — eyes glinting with mischief like you know he’ll be rock hard all the way up to first period.
“chin up, zu,” you whisper to him, a forefinger tilting his head up to the ceiling so you’ve got more room to work with. izuku’s sure he looks stupid with love, dumb with lust but he doesn’t care because all he can think about is your hands around his throat and the way your knee bumps his growing erection whether you mean for it to or not. when his face starts to wander as you work on him, trailing down to your chest barely concealed by your skimpy sleep shirt — you tap his freckled cheek just once. “nuh uh, eyes up. you know what to do.”
and he sighs through his nose at that, because as much as izuku loves you obedient, he loves you mean and bossy too — gets a kick out of knocking you down a peg later when you least expect it. “sorry baby,” he mumbles, amused, flashing you a lopsided grin as his hands slink up to grip your waist.
“i’m sure you are, izuku.” you say dryly. before he can quip back with something filthy or snarky, you flip the material of his tie n pull the knot upwards — tight enough to pull an easy whine from between his lips, loose enough for him to breathe. it’s a loud sound, pathetic and broken, drawn out by your knee hard pressed against the obvious bulge in his slacks. grinding carefully, seeing just how close you can push his patience. “say thank you?”
the moans get louder, heartier the more you touch izuku without really touching him — torturing the poor guy to your hearts content. he’ll have to change pants at this point, precum seeping through the black nylon steadily. he can’t help but buck upwards, chasing that delicious friction like his life depends on it. still smirking, because this is truly the only time you’ll have deku vulnerable and needy like this, humping your knee like a horny teenager.
“f-fuck, thank you baby,” deku purrs, eyes dark and words stuttered. he chokes on his own curses because you tug the tie tighter and pull him closer. whimpering deliciously low.
you like him like this, he likes seeing you like this. above him, controlling him. “with feeling,” you tell him, rubbing at his cock harder and faster, taking what you can from deku before the funs over.
green curls bounce to the side as he tilts his head, bucking against you harder — jade eyes swirling with mirth and warning. “thank you, pretty, for tying my tie,” izuku murmurs hungrily — using his grip on your waist to flip your positions, enjoying the shock that melts into your features. with his thigh now between your legs, nestled against your perfect pussy, he tucks the end of his tie past your parted lips. “now let me show you how thankful i really am…”
end. reblogs and comments are always appreciated! just liking doesn't do anything. so leave a comment to motivate this writer if you'd like to see more!!
aali aali!!!!!!!!!!!!!! would you rather have nasty sex with deku or cute naked cuddles with bakugou which turns into nasty sex or let yuji eat your pussy which turns into nasty sex or—
can u like leave me alone (lie) for 30 seconds (never leave me)
i think… i think today cute cuddly sexy with kacchan that turns nasty .. and gross and really hot and sweaty.
just living for the idea that kisses with him start so slow, barely there almost non-existent as you lazily snuggle with him. his arm draped lazily over your waist, almost protective and maybe his hand settled into the divot at the small of your back. and he’s rubbing circles, katsuki’s nose nudging your forehead because he’s still deciding how much of himself to give you. you’re both tired and exhausted from a week of work and yet he can’t keep himself off of you…
like those heated hands slip lower, smoothing over your ass and then dragging lower along the length of your slit just to see if you want him too. he knows you so when your large, bambi eyes blink upwards slothfully and your hips rock back to meet the pressure on your clit. “kats…” you exhale through your nose and pick your head up just to lean into him. “kiss, please?”
“yeah, yeah okay. c’mere baby,” he mumbles and captures your lips quickly, licking against your tongue— all those wet sounds from your sex and your mouths moving against one another becoming apparent in the heavy air that buzzes with a crackling of desire. “closer, not enough.”
please please and he keeps gulping down your moans because you’re kissing him harder than he can keep up, rubbing your cunt faster, harder until a different kind of head pools in your stomach and a flash flood brews between your swollen folds. “mmfuck, get so wet when i…” katsuki cuts himself off, hips kicking and bulge rubbing against your tummy deliciously. swelling to hardness. a finger slides into your hole, clenching as your arousal crudely spills down your inner thighs. “fuuck, all this just from kissin’?”
“mhm, kiss me so good,” you pout, sucking in his fingers like you do with his bottom lip — buzzing and bleary eyes. “i want you to fuck me katsuki.”
“cum first, then you get whatever you fuckin’ want.” his jaw goes slack and his groan rumbles through your body on top of his, fingers plunging deeper and curling cruelly to find all those little pleasure points you wouldn’t be able to reach on your own. the more you rock against him, leak into his lap and make a mess, the harder the blonde gets. “my tongue, your toys, this cock. wanna give it to you, for hours baby.”
bakugou’s voice maintains that charming rasp to his voice, awe struck yet hungry all the same as you baste his digits with your claim in essence. the promise burns at the tip of your ear, almost distracting you from the bubble of pleasure that’s about to pop. there’s no rush, just heavy petting and grinding — katsuki doing his best to keep the stars aligned along your vision. he doesn’t stop even if you’re cumming and trembling with release, soaking him through until he can no longer tell if he’s wet from you or the sweat from the sweltering temperature rising to the roof. he really will drag it out for hours, fingering you deep, rolling you to your sides with your leg hiked up on his hip just to slide real nice along your rippling walls, having you on your back to make you look at him when he paints your insides white.
he doesn’t care if his body screams for him to stop or his balls are wrung dry, katsuki only cares that you feel as good and as blissed out as he feels lucky enough to have you.
end ! likes are appreciated, but just liking doesn’t do much on tumblr! to support and motivate myself and other writers, reply, reblog and comment if you'd like to see more!! — asks are open to thirsts and thoughts! join my taglist ! love you!
katsuki coming home to you wearing a lace miniskirt that you sewed yourself (specifically the one you reposted😼)
✩ ꒱ alexa play mini skirt by aoa — ft. katsuki bakugou .ᐟ
🏁 ꒰ ✩ suggestive ⋆ mdni ⋆ fem!reader. katsuki’s always been supportive of your creative endeavours, especially when they involve making the skimpiest skirt known to man. from scratch. this being the outfit in question.
katsuki coming home from a lengthy, draining day. all of his joints are impossibly sore, he’s been punched in the jaw more times than he can count and on top of all that he had to fill out paperwork for a building he damaged down town so all he wants to do is eat shitty food and flop on top of you for the rest of the evening.
but once he kicks off his combat boots, tosses his training bag to the side and hangs his keys on the hooks by the front door — you come running down the hall with this beautiful, brilliant smile that spreads to him quick, contagious as it pulls the corners of his lips upwards.
“missed you katsuki,” you chirp, throwing yourself into the blonde’s open arms — letting him stabilise you as the friction from your thigh high socks causes you to skid across the hardwood floor. instinctively, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, your body sinks into his bulking frame and katsuki curls around you protectively. perhaps it’s that heroic drive, wanting to shield what’s his away from the shitty world outside.
barely there, lovingly, his lips drag across your hairline whilst heavy arms slink around your waist to keep you near. “missed you more,” katsuki gives you the once over, checking every piece of you has managed to stay in place in the time that he’s been away — the crimson current in his eyes wavering over your face, downwards towards the slope of your neck and oh. “whatcha wearin’? this new?”
the outfit hugging your figure is something he hasn’t seen before. it’s not something you’d bought on his card or begged him to pick up during a mission in milan or given him puppy eyes to bait him into stealing from a brand sponsor at paris fashion week. this outfit, a tight little knit mini skirt trimmed with baby pink lace and it’s matching top… this outfit is completely new.
“mhm! i made it,” you step back, but even as you slip from his grip — the blonde manages to grasp onto your hand and holds you out at arms length in the middle of your entryway in an attempt to get a better look at the little two piece you’d crafted all on your own. “it took a couple months but i finally finished it, do you like it? think it looks pretty cute on me.”
his eyes dart up to your face, shy and struck with pride as your boyfriend admires you. heated gaze slinking from the way your skirt sits perfectly on the form your curves, the knit material hugging your hips whilst the lace tickles the globes of your thighs — an awestruck look sinks into katsuki’s features. “i love it sweets,” his voice rumbles through his chest, striking you right in the stomach with an arrow of hot desire. “look so fuckin’ pretty. do a twirl for me, yeah?”
bakugou lifts your intertwined hand above your head, twirling you in a slow circle just so he can see all the details — smug, when he notices how short and accessible your homemade skirt is. probably on purpose, probably tailored a little bit for him. his hands land right at your waistline once your three-sixty spin is complete, calloused palms smoothing over your tummy to drag you into him. “‘m so lucky, huh?” their heat sinks into your skin, sends an electric current of lust zapping across the different sectors of your brain — nearly failing to help register his onslaught of compliments. “not only do i have the most gorgeous girlfriend in the world, but the most talented too.”
“katsuki, stooooop!” you giggle, flustered, showing off for him a little because you love to be praised, especially by him.
“nuh uh, not until you’re beggin’, and you will be. later.” his fingers slide down to your bum, squeezing over the material and you squeal into his chest — clinging onto the loose black material of his hero costume. slowly, yet suddenly, he sinks to his knees in front of you, hugging you from below — sloppily kissing the exposed slither of skin at your stomach. “fuck me, you look good. straight off’a the run way. perfect ass, perfect thighs, perfect tummy.”
blood rushes from your pumping heart right between your legs, dragging your heart beat to your centre. katsuki looks so desperate on his knees, hungry for a taste of you all because of your skimpy, homemade two piece. “oh my god, get up.” flustered, the warning slips out between breathless chuckles, your nails now taking through sun-kissed locks as you pull the hero’s head up and force him to look at you.
from below, his eyes sparkle with mischief and deep desire, his chin resting on your abdomen whilst his palms traverse up and down your bare back. rubbing warm circles into you, in an attempt to loosen you up. “nah, the view’s great from down here,” bakugou pats your bum. “‘m exactly where i wanna be, sweetheart.”
“you’re just saying that ‘cause you can see my underwear from up my skirt.”
it’s true. if he sat back on his haunches, he’d be able to see directly under your precious knitted garment and spot the very thin — silky black thong you’d pulled on underneath… because who wants a visible panty line? “well can you blame me? you know i feel about you in mini skirts, drivin’ me crazy. fuckin’ tease,” the blonde rasps slowly, gently nipping at your stomach, feeling you up. squeezing your flesh like a man starved. “and you made it, let a man get on his knees and appreciate your hard work.” he maps his way up to the ribbon on the back of your skirt, untying the sweet pink bow with ease, causing it to slacken around your sides, revealing more of your skimpy undies. “your panties are fuckin’ cute by the way. you make these too?”
the squeal you let out when he pings them against your skin is nearly high enough to shatter a window — and in retaliation, you yank hard on pale blonde hair, earning a sexy groan from your man on his knees.
“you bought ‘em for me, perv.” you scoff, but there’s no bite to your words — more so of a challenge. daring katsuki to take your flirting game another step further.
“then i guess this perv’s gonna take ‘em off too,” and just like that, katsuki lifts you like it’s nothing, muscular arms wrapping around your legs to haul you over his shoulder runaway bride style. whatever exhaustion from the day he had previously felt now buzzes into something more exciting, more delectable. familiar desire pooling in your lower belly, soaking through the seat of your panties as he slaps your pert ass from over your mini skirt ( which now rides up much to his pleasure your annoyance ) — making a b-line for your bedroom whilst your shared laughter echoes down the hall.
end ! likes are appreciated, but just liking doesn’t do much on tumblr! to support and motivate myself and other writers, reply, reblog and comment if you'd like to see more!! — asks are open to thirsts and thoughts! join my taglist ! love you!
૮ ͈>◡< ͈ა warnings — fluff, suggestive but no smut, minors dni, mentions of trying for a baby, love-sick!bakugou can’t resist your baby fever.
“if we had a baby, what would you name it?”
bakugou peers at you from over his phone, dark brows drawn together in the centre of his forehead while he frowns lightly. the pair of you are lounging about on a colder afternoon, him on his back on the couch— shirt riding up a little — and you between his legs and lying on his tummy.
“we’re not having a baby—“ he can tell by your sharp in-take of breath and the pout that ensues that he’s fucked up— quick to lock his phone with a click of the power button before grabbing the roundness of your face between his rough fingers, holding you with care. “yet. we’re not havin’ one yet.”
the smile that returns to your face is almost instantaneous— gleaming like a higher being has struck stars and galaxies into your eyes and magic into your grin. “why not?” you ask, cheekily licking katsuki’s hand now that you’ve got his attention.
“‘cause you’re my baby. don’t need’a ‘nother one to take care of while you’re around.” the blonde grimaces at the trail of saliva you leave against his palm— groaning in disgust as he wipes it on your shirt (the one that he lent you) as if he doesn’t enjoy watching you slobber all over his fingers during your nightly round in the sheets. “babies drool. you keep fuckin’ droolin’ on me. can’t deal with two people droolin’ on me—“
“would you want one? a baby?”
he’s still in the middle of complaining when you ask, your voice wistful like you’ve been daydreaming and you draw heart shapes on the patch of bakugou’s skin that’s been exposed by his tank top riding up.
“what’s gotten into you? talkin’ about babies ‘n shit…you sneakin’ off to see those todoroki triplets again?”
“it was the midoriyas this time…and i’m serious!” you swat at his chest, a little less gentle and a ripple of love shoots through katsuki at the sound of your angelic laughter. “don’t you think we’re ready, kats? i mean we’d both be great parents…”
he sits up a little, ruby red eyes narrowed into slits, head full of straw blonde hair tilted in curiosity. you can’t help but wonder what your kids would look like with a mix of your genetics. “you seriously want a kid?” bakugou says quietly, inquisitively, cautiously— scared to spook you as if you’re a deer in headlights.
you nod.
you’d want that…with him? “why?”
“‘cause i think…now would be a good time?” ringing your fingers, you toy with stray strings of your clothes and the fabric on katsuki’s, heat rushing to your face. “i mean…you’re set to take over best jeanist’s agency and my career with hawks is going great. we’re well off, married, your mom won’t stop bugging me about grand-babies—“
“don’t bring my ma into this, she don’t exactly inspire fuckin’ you so that we can make a baby—“
“— and i want to. start a family. with you…i want a family of baby katsuki’s and baby me’s running around and clambering onto you when you get home from patrol.” there’s that tone again, dreamy and excited— your face glowing with the possibilities of parenthood. “sometimes i imagine what our cosy Saturday’s would be like, little ones curled up on the couch with me while you make us breakfast. i can’t help but wonder how happy we’d be…i want a baby with you, katsuki.”
silence filters through the room, sunlight fluttering your skin and filling the room with love along with warmth as bakugou weighs up the choice. “if we’re having a baby, we’re naming it somethin’ with meaning.” he mumbled after sometime, looking away from you with a blush.
katsuki still can’t quite wrap his head around how much you love and want a future with him.
“like, katsuko? it means victorious child.” you suggest as if you’d been thinking of the name for your child the entire time.
it rolls off your tongue smoothly, like butter, similar to katsuki’s own first name— it too having a strong meaning. you’d really wanted this with him, dreamed up a whole life with your husband and future baby.
“katsuko. that’s a good one, i like that name.” the blonde grins, sitting up fully as he tugs you into his lap with a slow and steady smile. “close to mine, no doubt the kid’ll be a winner like you.”
“so you want one, a baby. with me?” you giggle, mirroring his expression while bakugou’s rough hands slip under your shirt to squeeze at your ass, pinch at your curves— hunger brewing hotly between you both.
“yeah, now roll over. if we wanna bring katsuko into the world we gotta start baby makin’ somehow…”
summary. what did he get after coming back from Africa? a fucking huge ego and the nerve to make you fall in love more. which, isss so fucking unfair not that you have to make him ask you to be his girlfriend.
triggers/warnings. fluff, emotionally constipated yuuta, dumbass to lover pipeline, soft virgin $ex (implied), first time, mutual pining explosion, goofy flirting to full-on intimacy, extremely affectionate makeout session, long slow kiss descriptions, teasing turned sincere, gentle undressing, consent check (verbal), heavy petting, reader-on-top position, soft dom yuuta, praise kink (gentle), internal ejaculation (mentioned), implied aftercare, lots of “i love you” mid-thrust energy, dumb relationship talk, boyfriend reveal post-orgasm, soft but emotionally unhinged dialogue, swearing / explicit language.
it was that kind of twilight where the sky went lilac, like it couldn’t decide whether to die down or scream one last color into the day, and the courtyard between dorms hummed with the lazy static of summer insects drunk off heat. your legs stuck a little with every step, your thighs brushing as your too-short cotton strawberry-print sleep shorts rode up—not because you’d rolled them, but because they were honest-to-god tragic at staying down where they were supposed to. the white t-shirt hung shapeless and limp, just long enough to look like you weren’t trying to be indecent, just short enough to flash a whisper of lower belly if the breeze kicked up. your hair was a half-washed mess. no bra. no socks. this was war.
plastic bag of snacks swinging off your wrist, crinkling loud enough to announce you two corners away, you clutched it like a peace offering, or a bribe, or a confession. everything in it had a story: the milk soda gummies he’d once nearly cried over. that dumb pink shrimp chip brand you always fought over because the flavor was “emotionally damaging” (his words). a tiny green tea cake with icing you’d pressed your thumb into by accident. the whole bag smelled like saccharine surrender. you hadn’t seen him in months.
yuuta had been sent to africa—yes, the continent, not the band—because gojo had gotten it into his hollow skull that yuuta needed “recalibration,” like he was a satellite that went a little too sharp after the shibuya aftermath. the accident—those cursed children, that nightmarish tangle of residuals, the stupid thing with the shrine and the way his voice cracked saying “i didn’t mean to—” right before gojo shoved him on a plane—had left him looped up in his own head. not dangerous, not even spiraling. just… too tuned in. too raw. so gojo, in his infinite “big brother but worse” wisdom, had sent him away. not to punish, not to exile. just to breathe somewhere far enough that even his regrets would echo slower.
you had hated him for it. not yuuta. gojo. because you missed him. and because you didn’t know how to say it.
he had texted, of course. photos of monkeys stealing his food. long meandering voice notes about heatstroke and rogue cursed spirits in old mining towns. one audio message that was just six minutes of wind and then “...it smells like burnt cinnamon here, isn’t that weird?” and then more wind. you’d replayed that one until the file started glitching.
now he was back.
you walked up the stairs with knees that didn’t work right, heartbeat like a stray drumroll in your chest. the hallway smelled like that vaguely bleachy institution-funk, overlaid with someone cooking too much garlic too late. but his door was the one with the taped-up polaroid of a lizard on the peephole—he’d named it jerry and claimed it once saved his life in botswana by pointing at a cursed talisman with its tail (you didn’t believe a word but loved him for trying)—and it stood exactly as you remembered. slightly misaligned. always looked like it wanted to be a secret.
you stood there too long. shifted the snack bag from left to right. considered fleeing. considered kicking the door down. did neither.
instead, you knocked. once. twice. then a little impatient third one that said “hey, i’m still me.”
the hallway was quiet.
your hand still hovered, a little curl of fingers like maybe you'd knock again but also maybe you'd just rest it there and feel how solid the door was between you. it didn’t matter. the moment had already bent in that soft surreal way, like a movie scene that couldn’t decide if it was a comedy or a tragic romance. behind that door was him. your friend. the dumbass with the soft hands and the eyes like old moonlight and a voice that didn’t realize it made you ache.
you licked your lips, wiped your palm on your thigh. you told yourself you were ready.
the plastic bag rustled. it sounded like a heartbeat.
the door opened with a click that sounded way too loud for the sleepy summer hallway and maybe also a little like the climax of a drama scene about to spiral into something stupid and irreversible, and there he was—yuuta okkotsu, fucking alive, standing barefoot in the doorway like he’d just walked off a fever dream you had eight weeks ago, except realer and worse, because reality had done something to him that memory never could: it made him taller.
not metaphorically taller, not emotionally expanded, not some symbolic “he grew while he was away” bullshit—no. he was literally, absolutely taller, which was rude as hell because you were already tragically average and now standing in front of him, your face came up to his stupid newly-broadened neck and you had to tilt your head back to look at his face and that made your neck hurt and now everything was his fault. again.
“whoa,” he said, voice a little low and scratchy like he hadn’t talked much today, maybe a little sleepstill lingering at the edges, but then he smirked, and it was the kind of slow curling thing that should’ve come with a health warning. “what the hell are you wearing?”
you didn’t answer. couldn’t, really. because your brain short-circuited the moment your eyes tracked the line of his collarbone visible through that worn white t-shirt—the one clinging just enough to expose the ghost of his abs underneath, because apparently he had those now, just a casual six-pack sculpted out of trauma and climate change and moral injury—and then lower, to where the hem of the shirt barely brushed the waistband of those indecently low athletic shorts. shorts that screamed “i don’t own dignity” but in a confident way. and legs. endless, lean, travel-worn legs like he’d gone on a side quest for new muscles.
his hair was parted to the side, a little messy but shaped like it meant to be, probably from running his fingers through it a hundred times, and his eyes were brighter than you remembered—not in that overworked, glassy way he used to have, but something steadier, like he’d seen some shit and come back joking about it. and his smile was sharp now. not mean. just sharper. more boyish menace than anxious darling.
“you okay?” he asked, still holding the door open, leaning one shoulder against the frame like he’d taken a class in posing over there. “you’ve been standing there like i’m a ghost. is this the part where you tell me i’ve been dead the whole time?”
“no,” you blurted, then immediately hated how your voice cracked like a teenage boy about to confess his love to the back of a girl’s head in a shoujo anime. “no, you’re just—i didn’t realize you’d... grow vertically.”
he raised an eyebrow, eyes flicking down, dramatically, then back up. “you’re just short.”
“liar. you’re taller than before.”
“am i?” he tilted his head. “i thought you just shrank. maybe that’s what all the strawberry-print shorts are doing to your brain. estrogen shrinkage. is that a thing?”
“you look like a backup dancer for a washed-up j-pop group,” you fired back, finally stepping past him into the dorm, brushing his shoulder on the way, pretending it didn’t buzz like an electric fence when you touched him. “no right looking like that at home. i almost dropped the snacks.”
“the what now?” he snatched the bag from your wrist with a dramatic flourish and held it up like it was the holy grail, peering inside. “is this—are these shrimp chips? you do love me.”
“i didn’t say that.”
“your shorts said it for you.”
“fuck you.”
he shut the door behind you with a little too much smugness in the click, dropped the snack bag onto his desk like it was a reward for something he didn’t work for, and turned to look at you fully. “okay, but seriously. hi. you look... like you lost a fight with a dryer, and then won the war of being adorable.”
“you’ve been back for five minutes and i already regret everything.”
“but you missed me.” his voice dropped just half a note, not sultry, not teasing—just confident, and you hated that it made your stomach go soft and fluttery like a tragic anime side character about to say something embarrassing and get hit by a car. “you missed me so bad, didn’t you?”
“i missed you like a hole in the head.”
“that’s still a kind of love,” he grinned, stepping closer, just a little, enough to tilt his head down so his forehead almost bumped yours. “cursed and irreversible.”
you tried to back up, hit his desk instead. fuck.
“you’re an idiot.”
“you look like you wanna cry.”
“i do. because of your face.”
“because you love my face.”
“yuuta.”
he laughed, that soft exhale kind of laugh, warm and real and too close. his fingers grazed the snack bag again. your heart forgot how to perform basic rhythm.
you hated him. you hated how he looked better than before. more whole. more like himself. and that he wasn’t scared anymore. and that now you didn’t know if you were allowed to want him without breaking something.
“so,” he said, turning to open the mini fridge, crouching slightly, letting his shirt ride up so you could see the shadow of his lower back and the waistband of his shorts pulling low, “what’s the plan, captain? movie night? tears? declaration of undying devotion? all of the above?”
you hated him. you hated that he knew. that he was waiting.
but you were here now. no takebacks. and your knees had already lost the ability to lock.
you said, “movie night.”
he grinned again, not looking back. “mmhm. coward.”
you stared at him for a second too long, a long dumb second where he was still bent over with the fridge door hanging open and the lamplight just so, highlighting the curve of his spine and the soft dip of muscle above his waistband, and he was rattling a soda can around like it owed him something, humming some godawful off-key jingle under his breath while absolutely oblivious to the fact that you were contemplating both murder and marriage at the same time. and that was dangerous. because the moment you started thinking thoughts like his back looks like a religious experience and i want to punch him in the throat, you were in too deep.
so you did the only thing your tragically flustered nervous system allowed: you walked up and kicked him square in the shin.
“ow—fuck, what the hell,” he yelped, straightening with the drama of a man shot in war, dropping the soda in the process which landed with a thud and rolled under the desk like it knew what was good for it. “was that necessary?”
“yes,” you said, stepping around him like he was debris, heading straight for the tiny kitchenette shoved into the corner of the dorm like an afterthought. the popcorn bag was already in your hand, pre-buttered and microwavable and honestly the only real symbol of stability in your life at the moment. you yanked open his one cabinet, found a bowl shaped like it had been purchased in a panic, and set it down with the finality of someone trying very hard not to scream. “i am asserting dominance.”
“by kicking me like a rabid toddler?” he called from behind you, and you heard the stupid amusement in his voice, the I’m-smiling-but-I’m-also-plotting kind of grin that made you want to wrap your legs around his head and drown him in it. “wow. you really did miss me.”
you ignored him, shoved the bag into the microwave and typed in numbers that weren’t the time but felt emotionally correct. then you heard it—that sound. the soft, quiet approach. sockless feet brushing linoleum. and then—
his fingers in your hair.
it started small. just a gentle flick, like he was testing the texture, maybe reminding himself what it felt like to touch you. and you told yourself you weren’t going to react. you were strong. you were composed. you had kicked him in the shin, for god’s sake.
then he twirled a strand, slow and deliberate, looping it once, twice around his index finger like he was braiding the concept of being insufferable. and he was close. not body-pressed-close, not oh-no-we’re-about-to-kiss close—worse. emotionally close. best-friend-who-knows-what-makes-you-crack close. and that was the real danger zone.
“i don’t remember giving you permission,” you mumbled, not looking back, hands busy pretending to rearrange popcorn bags that didn’t need rearranging.
“you didn’t,” he said, twirling harder, tugging it gently like he was testing how far he could go before you screamed. “but it’s not like you’re gonna stop me.”
“you’re violating the geneva convention right now.”
“it’s hair. not nuclear arms.”
“i will scalp you.”
“hot.”
you froze for a half-second, horrified by the small laugh that slipped out of your own throat, because how dare he be funny and disgusting and weirdly charming all at once. and the worst part? the actual worst part? his fingers were still in your hair. just resting there now, tangled lazy, like he belonged. like you were a thing he was allowed to touch. and your whole body was doing that thing again—heat in the gut, soft static under your skin, a flush crawling its way up your neck like shame dressed as desire.
“i hate you.”
“you keep saying that but you’re not convincing,” he said, voice close to your ear now, low and amused and awful and warm. “you didn’t even flinch.”
“i’m biding my time. waiting for the perfect moment to shiv you with a butter knife.”
“you are so bad at pretending you don’t love me,” he whispered, fingers giving your hair one last tug, then releasing like he hadn’t just incinerated every single one of your higher brain functions.
you whipped around, popcorn forgotten, bowl cradled in your hands like a weapon. “you’re the most annoying man i’ve ever met.”
“you’ve only met like four men.”
“and three of them were fictional.”
“and you still picked me.” he grinned, then leaned in so close you could count every unfair eyelash, all fluttery and boyish and violent. “tragic.”
you opened your mouth to say something—anything—but the microwave dinged, loud and shrill like an alarm you didn’t set, and both of you jumped. he stepped back, smirking like the devil in gym shorts.
you hated him.
you also loved him.
but that wasn’t the point.
you reached past him to yank open the microwave, your arm brushing his chest on the way, and you could feel the heat of him, the bare skin under that translucent white shirt, like he’d been designed in a lab to make you clinically insane.
he didn’t move.
you didn’t either.
not yet.
fast forward past the microwave war crimes and the traumatic realization that the strawberry-print shorts rode up every time you bent even slightly, past the part where he insisted on filling a second bowl “for tactical snack separation” and then immediately kept both within his reach like a possessive gremlin, past the flickering mental images of throttling him versus maybe gently kissing him just to shut him up—it was later now, and you were on his bed, which felt like a decision made under spiritual duress.
you were laying on your stomach like a lazy sea creature, arms folded under the ridiculous puff of one of his old pillows, probably the one he drooled on based on how aggressively it smelled like shampoo and existentialism. the tv on his desk across the room played soft flickers of color over your bare legs, the blue hue of a night scene washing over your skin like cinematic bathwater. the pillow squished your ribs uncomfortably but you refused to move because you were locked in a delicate standoff between comfort and pride. your shirt had ridden up, naturally. you ignored it. you were committed to the bit.
he was leaned back against the headboard beside you, long legs stretched out like a relaxed golden retriever who knew he owned the whole damn room, the popcorn bowl balanced delicately between the two of you, technically for sharing but realistically under his complete jurisdiction. every now and then, when you reached for some, he’d shift the bowl slightly like a petty little landlord, then smirk when you glared without heat.
“this is a hate crime,” you muttered, palm in the bowl fishing blindly for something that wasn’t just kernels and betrayal.
“this is a romantic crime,” yuuta corrected, chewing obnoxiously loud next to your ear. “we’re bonding. we’re creating memories. you’re gonna look back at this one day and cry.”
“i’m gonna look back and sue.”
“i’m gonna bring this up in my vows.”
“what vows—are you marrying my corpse?”
“god, you’re so dramatic,” he said, nudging the bowl toward your face just as you gave up. “here. have a sympathy handful, you absolute victim.”
you grumbled something incoherent but shoved your hand in before he changed his mind. your fingers touched his for a second and he didn’t flinch, just looked down at you with that dumb fondness in his eyes like he’d won a prize at the fair and couldn’t decide whether to eat it or keep it on his shelf forever.
on screen, ana steel was currently having her lip bitten by christian grey for the twelfth time in twenty minutes.
“i can’t believe you made me watch this,” you groaned, mouth full of popcorn, turning your face into the pillow like it might drown out the secondhand embarrassment.
“excuse me?” he gasped, mock horror fully engaged. “i am blessing you with culture.”
“you made me watch a billionaire man-child stalk a woman into a bdsm contract.”
“and he bought her a car,” yuuta pointed out, as if that somehow absolved the war crimes happening on screen.
“he sold her car without asking.”
“okay, that part was unhinged,” he admitted, stuffing another handful into his mouth. “but also kind of hot, like in a ‘don’t do this but also do this if you’re rich and emotionally damaged’ way.”
you turned your head to look up at him, chin digging into the pillow, eyebrows furrowed. “so you identify with him?”
he didn’t miss a beat. “i identify with ana.”
you snorted so hard you nearly inhaled a kernel.
“what, like you want someone to rescue you with their trauma and a playroom full of sex toys?” you asked, half choking on laughter.
“no,” he said, stretching his arms behind his head with criminal smugness, “i want someone to look at me like that and let me sign a contract that outlines exactly how often i’m allowed to be annoying.”
you rolled your eyes so hard you almost left your body.
“god, you’re insufferable.”
“but lovable,” he added, nudging your shoulder with his knee. “admit it. you like watching horny garbage with me.”
you didn’t answer right away, just flopped your face sideways into the pillow again, watching the screen, because the thing was—this was maybe the dumbest and coziest version of hell you’d ever experienced. the soft weight of his blanket tangled over both your legs. the occasional crunch as he kept eating your popcorn with the rhythm of a man chewing through existential dread. the quiet hum of the fan above you both. his presence looming, always just close enough to lean into. or over. or on.
“you’re the garbage,” you finally said, voice muffled. “the movie is fine.”
“awww,” he cooed, leaning down, voice dripping with weaponized smugness. “is that your love language? bullying me into intimacy?”
“don’t flatter yourself, grey.”
he reached over and tugged at your shirt gently, pulling the hem down over the small of your back, only to immediately pull it back up again like he was testing how much he could get away with. you smacked his hand blindly, but it made you laugh anyway, because this was him—yuuta fucking okkotsu, sweet and mean and flirty and dumb as a brick in love’s stupidest architecture. and you hated how soft it made you feel, how completely unguarded and ridiculous and… happy.
“we should recreate the elevator scene,” he whispered suddenly, like a war criminal.
“i will push you down the stairs.”
“you’re no fun. i could be your emotionally stunted dom.”
“you literally cry at those dog rescue videos.”
“emotional depth isn’t a crime.”
“you own one pair of handcuffs and they’re for cosplay.”
he gasped like you’d just ruined his career. “you promised never to bring that up.”
“you wore them to the school halloween party and said you were ‘sexy rehabilitation.’”
“and it worked! i won second place! gojo voted for me!”
you couldn’t breathe. your face was buried in the pillow again but this time from hysterics, your body shaking against the mattress while the movie’s dramatic music swelled in the background, completely ignored. he reached down and started playing with your hair again, soft and absentminded, fingers running over strands and occasionally tugging just to make you twitch.
“you’re the worst,” you muttered into the fabric.
“i’m your worst,” he said, and it was so quiet, so offhand, so horribly gentle that you had to close your eyes for a second and hold your breath just to survive it.
the tv glowed soft and blue. the popcorn was half gone. and yuuta’s fingers were still tangled in your hair like they’d never stopped.
you don’t remember when the popcorn bowl was exiled to the floor like a fallen soldier, when his knees bent to cage your hips in place, one on either side like he wasn’t subtly climbing you like a tree, like he didn’t just decide that personal space was a capitalist lie invented to keep you from enjoying the sheer horror of his presence, but suddenly there he was—perched over you like a smug gargoyle with perfect posture and absolutely no sense of shame, one hand tangled in your hair again, the other casually draped over the small of your back like he was claiming territory or maybe measuring how far he could push you before you screamed into his pillow.
you were still lying on your stomach, still pinned to his stupid bed with your stupid dignity melting through the mattress like slow death, still pretending you were unaffected by the fact that he was now fully lounging on top of you like a sunbathing menace, his weight gentle but inevitable, like gravity got a personality disorder and started flirting.
“you know,” he drawled, voice sliding right beside your ear like a heat rash in audio form, “if i didn’t know better, i’d say you planned this.”
you tried to lift your head but his palm gently but very firmly pressed it back into the pillow with the same exact energy as someone telling a golden retriever to “stay.” your voice came out muffled, somewhere between indignation and a breakdown. “planned what? the fucking suffocation?”
“you brought snacks,” he said with a completely unserious shrug you could feel vibrate through your entire spine. “you wore the shorts. you’re lying on my bed like a sacrificial offering. i’m just connecting the dots.”
“you’re connecting shit. you’re a conspiracy theorist with a god complex.”
“mmm,” he hummed, tracing a lazy circle between your shoulder blades with one finger. “god’s out of office. i’m your problem now.”
you flailed halfheartedly, kicked one heel back into his thigh. “i’m filing a complaint.”
“please do,” he said brightly. “i love getting fan mail.”
“you’re so—so annoying.”
“you’re blushing,” he said.
“i’m overheating under your weird emotionally co-dependent weight.”
he bent low enough that his breath tickled the back of your neck and you wanted to slap him and kiss him and throw yourself out the window in equal measure. “you like it. just admit it. you like when i’m all clingy and dramatic and a little mean. you missed me. so bad. like it hurt.”
you choked on a noise that wasn’t a denial. it might’ve been a dying bird. maybe a baby crying. the tv was still playing in the background, some intense jazz instrumental under a scene where christian grey was earnestly making eye contact while unzipping something. you hated this. you loved this. you wanted to throw the remote at his head and then press your mouth to his collarbone like you could bite the word finally into his skin.
“you’re getting cocky,” you whispered, tilting your chin just enough to glance up at him, your face twisted in dramatic pain. “something happened to you out there. in africa. the mosquitoes gave you a superiority complex.”
he laughed, short and loud and delighted, collapsing just slightly more against you, his chest brushing your back in a way that felt like someone turning a page too slowly. “nah. you just forgot i was a menace before i left. it’s all coming back now, isn’t it?”
“i blocked it out for my mental health.”
“you missed me so much you forgot your own coping strategies.”
“you’re projecting.”
“you cried when i posted that video of the meerkat hugging the baby goat.”
“because i have empathy.”
“you sent it to me with ‘this is us.’”
“because you’re the goat and i’m the burdened soul holding on for dear life.”
he snorted, finally rolling just enough to the side so his weight settled against your hip instead of directly on your back, one leg still draped over yours like he was trying to win a game of human jenga. “you love me.”
you groaned, pulling the pillow over your face. “stop saying that.”
“say it back, coward.”
“no.”
“say it.”
“absolutely not.”
“say you love me or i’ll quote the contract scene verbatim.”
“i dare you.”
he took a deep breath.
you shrieked, flung the pillow directly into his face, which he caught with both hands while wheezing with laughter. “you fucking menace. you—how do you still know the words? do you memorize garbage?”
“yes. and you. same folder. same cherished label.”
you glared at him. he was laughing so hard his cheeks were flushed, his hair a mess again from rolling over too much, one curl sticking to his temple with sweat and popcorn grease, and the sight of him—real and here and loud and breathing all over bed space—hit you so hard you went still for a second, like your body realized before your brain did that this was the moment, the moment, the breath before you said something you couldn’t walk back.
his eyes caught yours. quiet for once. sincere. amused, yes, always, but... waiting.
“you are so fucking annoying,” you whispered.
“you’re stalling,” he whispered back.
“you smell like corn butter and laundry detergent.”
“say it.”
“you’re ugly.”
“say it.”
“you’re literally the worst person—”
he grabbed your jaw. not hard, not rough—just enough to tilt your chin up and look you in the eye, eyes glinting with something unbearable and infuriating and stupidly, ridiculously beautiful. “say it, or i’m gonna say it first and you’ll be mad about it for the next thirty years.”
your chest hurt.
your legs tingled.
your mouth was dry and also stupid.
“i love you,” you said, like it was a dare.
he blinked.
paused.
then, grinning like a man who just pulled off the greatest heist of his life, he leaned down, brushed your nose with his, and whispered—
“took you fucking long enough.”
you wanted to hit him. not with your fist. with a book, probably, or maybe a bag of frozen peas, or something heavy and full of metaphor like the complete works of shakespeare annotated by someone with too much time and a vendetta. because he was smiling now, but it wasn’t even a normal person’s smile—it was a stupid, slow, predatory, cat-that-ate-the-whole-zoo grin, the kind of smile that said “i’ve already won and now i’m just here to gloat about it while reclining dramatically on your grave.”
he was leaning in, still half-laughing, half-devastating, his forehead brushing yours again like he couldn’t quite resist the gravitational pull of your face and the disaster inside it. your breath hitched and your brain short-circuited and all your blood decided to throw a rave in your ears. you couldn’t look at him. so, obviously, you did.
“say it again,” he whispered, and the worst part was that he wasn’t even trying to be hot. he was just obnoxious and needy and chronically underloved in the most annoying way possible, which made it ten thousand times worse, because now he’d tasted victory and he wanted seconds.
“you didn’t even say it back,” you said, mouth dry, fingers curling into the pillow like it owed you emotional support. “why should i go again if you’re gonna keep holding your words hostage?”
“oh,” he said, tilting his head dramatically like a villain who just heard a plot twist. “do you think this is transactional?”
“everything’s transactional when your heart is on fire,” you snapped, voice high and stupid and a little wobbly.
“jesus christ,” he breathed, grinning wider, “you are in love with me.”
“no, i’m just suffering.”
“same thing.”
you made a sound. an actual sound, like a dying kettle or a kettle that’s just learned about taxes, and buried your face in the pillow again, except this time he didn’t let you escape. he grabbed your shoulders and pulled you back, just enough to keep you looking at him, just enough to make you feel every inch of him, the soft weight of his thigh over yours, the heat of his hand wrapped around your arm, his breath a lazy ghost near your cheek.
“okay,” he said, voice lower now, still soft but stupidly smug, “you ready?”
“for what,” you mumbled.
he raised a single, unnecessary eyebrow. “i’m gonna say it back. you better not cry. or kiss me. or cry while kissing me.”
“i am deeply unattracted to you right now.”
“shut up.”
you did.
he took a breath. unnecessarily long. dramatic as hell. he looked like he was about to deliver a monologue on a stage with a spotlight, except instead it was just you and him and the flickering tv in the background showing a guy tying a tie around someone’s wrists, and the half-empty popcorn bowl on the floor like the saddest metaphor for your relationship.
“i love you,” he said, finally, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like it wasn’t news, like he hadn’t already been living it out loud every day since you met.
you blinked.
he blinked back.
then: “there. now we’re even. now it’s not weird anymore.”
“it’s still weird.”
“you’re weird.”
“you love someone who’s weird.”
“you’re right,” he said. “i’ve got horrible taste.”
you tried to shove him off the bed. he caught you by the waist and laughed so loud you swore someone in the next room probably heard, and you didn’t even care anymore because it was so easy now—laughing with him, being angry with him, being alive with him—it all made the same kind of impossible sense.
you fell back against the mattress, still tangled in him, still dumbfounded by how something so long-simmering could feel so sudden, so now. and he was staring at you again with that specific kind of expression that should be illegal—soft and knowing and just a little too satisfied with himself, like he’d cracked the code to life and it was just your name on repeat.
“you’re gonna marry me one day,” he said casually, like he was mentioning the weather.
“oh my god,” you groaned. “please shut the fuck up.”
“you are,” he insisted, lying flat beside you now, one arm under his head, the other tracing the hem of your shirt with a pinky like he wasn’t doing it on purpose. “we’re gonna fight over dishes and have a weird little dog named knife and every time we argue i’ll remind you that you confessed first.”
“you’re a walking restraining order.”
“and you fell in love with me. tragic.”
you turned your head to glare at him. he was so close his breath hit your cheek every time he exhaled. his eyes were stars and graveyards. his mouth was curled in that same stupid smile that made your stomach try to escape out your knees.
“yuuta.”
“yes, my beloved nemesis.”
“if you don’t shut up in the next five seconds i’m going to kiss you so hard it’ll reset your nervous system.”
“that’s the opposite of a threat.”
you lunged.
and he caught you.
and he kissed you like he’d already been kissing you for years. not perfect. not polished. just yours. messy, crooked, smiling into your mouth kind of kissing, hands in your hair, your fingers twisting in his shirt, legs tangled and breathless and stupid. kissing like a fight and a promise and an inside joke all at once.
when you pulled back, he was already laughing.
“told you you’d cry while kissing me,” he said, wiping under your eye with his thumb like the smug idiot he was.
you slapped his hand away.
and then you kissed him again.
it was deranged, truly, how fast the air changed—one second you were sprawled like a corpse of sarcasm and poor life choices on your stomach, cheeks warm, laughing against his mouth, his fingers still in your hair like they’d grown roots there, like they were meant to stay, the whole room vibrating with that ridiculous bubble of mutual idiocy and love and “did that really just happen?”—and the next thing you knew, he was shifting, moving with that new, awful confidence like he’d been holding back for years and the dam finally cracked. your brain barely registered the shift in weight before he sat up fully, legs folding beneath him, his hands sliding down your sides with terrifying purpose, and you were the one who ended up on his lap, straddling him like you’d been doing it since the dawn of time and the world just hadn’t caught on yet.
the tv was off. when had the tv turned off? it didn’t matter. the screen was black now, and you could see your own reflection in it behind his shoulder—wide eyes, wild hair, expression like someone who’d just been told the apocalypse was romantic—and the room was dim, barely lit by the single desk lamp glowing soft yellow, its bulb on its last legs, everything cloaked in that kind of warmth that made skin look flushed and intentions look softer than they really were.
you didn’t remember putting your hands on his shoulders. you didn’t remember him pulling you closer. but there you were, knees pressed against the outsides of his thighs, his palms anchored at your waist like you were something solid, something worth holding onto even now, especially now, and his thumbs were rubbing gentle circles through the hem of your stupid strawberry-print shorts and you could feel the electricity behind his breathing, tight and shallow and not teasing anymore.
no more games. no more sharp-edged banter. just this.
“you’re quiet,” he whispered, voice the softest it had been all night, reverent almost, like he was afraid if he said it too loud the moment would fold in on itself.
“i’m overwhelmed,” you answered, honestly, stupidly, because you couldn’t lie to him anymore, not now, not when his mouth was this close and his hands felt like home. “you’re being—serious.”
he blinked, slow and soft, then smiled—not the usual grin, not the toothy, boyish mischief. this one was small. sad in the corners. sweet in a way that hurt.
“i’m always serious with you,” he said, brushing his nose against yours like punctuation.
“no, you’re not,” you laughed, even as your voice trembled. “you’re a menace.”
“a menace who’s in love with you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the edge of your jaw, a soft thing that made your entire ribcage vibrate. “deeply. irrevocably. stupidly.”
“you forgot ‘violently’,” you whispered.
he kissed the corner of your mouth. “violently,” he echoed.
then he kissed you. properly. finally. again.
but this time it was different—no more smirking into the press of lips, no more tongue-in-cheek or cocky little nips meant to drive you crazy. this was slower. deeper. like something he’d been holding in his lungs for a decade and now he could finally let it out. he kissed you like he wanted to memorize every reaction, every shift in breath, every way your hands trembled slightly against the curve of his neck when he tilted his head just right and exhaled into you like a confession he couldn’t quite say out loud yet.
his mouth moved against yours with that awful sweetness that made your knees weak even though you weren’t standing, the kind of kiss that said stay. the kind of kiss that didn’t have to ask.
your hands slid into his hair before you even thought about it, fingers tangling in those soft strands, pulling him closer like it wasn’t enough, like it would never be enough. and he let you, of course he did, tilting into your grip, mouth parting just enough for your teeth to catch his bottom lip and make him sigh—a sound so soft and desperate it knocked every thought straight out of your head.
his arms wrapped around you tighter, one slipping under your shirt like he needed proof you were really there, fingertips ghosting up your spine, warm and shaking and tender. he kissed you again, and again, in between breaths like he was scared the distance might kill him.
“fuck,” he breathed against your mouth, his voice breaking around the edges now, none of that performative sass left, just raw affection and nerves and that unbearable sincerity that always lived under the mess. “i missed you so much it made me fucking sick.”
you closed your eyes. rested your forehead against his. let your nose bump his cheek. let your entire body lean into him like the safest place in the world.
“i thought about you every day,” you whispered. “like a freak. like some pathetic little lovesick idiot.”
he kissed your cheek. your temple. your chin. “yeah,” he said, “same. we’re freaks together.”
“soulmates in idiocy.”
“co-presidents of the tragic dumbass society.”
“yuuta.”
he looked up at you again, eyes wide and stupid and full of too much feeling.
“yeah?”
“don’t stop,” you whispered.
so he didn’t. he kissed you again. again. again. slower now. messier. the kind of kiss you fell into and never came back from. the kind that changed your blood type.
you didn’t know where this was going. you didn’t care. all you knew was this—his hands on you, his voice in your ear, his mouth against yours like he was trying to rewrite your entire existence one breath at a time.
and god, it worked.
he kissed you like he was running out of time and breath and restraint, like every press of his mouth against yours was both apology and reward, thank you and finally, and it didn’t feel like escalation, didn’t feel like foreplay or some slippery slope into the inevitable—it felt like something older than either of you, something pulled up from under your skin and cracked open between your teeth. you could barely think. you were breathing through him, your whole world tilted on its axis and centered now around the place where your hips were pressed against his, knees bracketing his thighs, your hands still tight in his hair because if you let go you might float straight out of your body and never come back.
his palms splayed across your back like he was trying to memorize the exact pressure needed to keep you tethered, moving in soft little circles that made you shiver even though the room was hot, and his tongue flicked against your lower lip again and again, coaxing little sighs out of your throat that made him groan like he was the one unraveling. and maybe he was. maybe you both were. maybe this was the only way either of you knew how to be real—half-laughing, half-crying, wrapped around each other like idiots in love and out of options.
you dragged your mouth away long enough to gasp, “we’re so dumb.”
and he, breathless and flushed and grinning like the devil had just offered him a promotion, replied, “yeah, but we’re hot.”
you snorted, chest heaving, and dipped your head into the crook of his neck, lips brushing against the column of his throat as you laughed directly against his pulse. “you’re ridiculous.”
“you’re hesitating,” he shot back, and it took you a second to realize what he meant, to follow the trail of thought through the haze of heat and affection and general hormonal disaster. your hands had shifted, were now fisted lightly in the hem of his shirt, that worn, thin white thing clinging to his chest in soft folds, semi-transparent under the lamplight. you’d tugged it up just a little—just high enough to expose the first dangerous inch of his stomach—but then stopped. froze. like a coward.
“i’m not hesitating,” you muttered, because lying was easier than having a panic attack mid-makeout.
he pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and amused and way too full of affection for someone being slandered. “you’re totally hesitating. you’re scared of my abs.”
“i’m not scared of your abs.”
“you’re scared of my hot, missionary-sent-me abs. you’re intimidated.”
“you’re literally the most annoying man alive.”
“you love my annoying abs.”
“yuuta,” you said, trying to be serious, trying to slow the momentum of the joke before it took over everything again. “i just—i don’t know.”
he went quiet. not in a bad way. not in a oh no now he’s overthinking way. just soft. aware. like he’d felt the shift in your hands, your posture, the way you were still touching him but also thinking too much.
he brought his hand up to your cheek, tilted your face back toward his with two fingers under your chin, and whispered, “hey. look at me.”
you did. of course you did.
his eyes were stupidly gentle, like a blanket you didn’t ask for but needed anyway.
“we don’t have to do anything. we don’t have to do anything,” he said, clear and calm and slow like he wanted to make sure every word landed in the right place. “i just wanna kiss you. i could kiss you for, like, seven years. we can pause for snacks. maybe a nap.”
you blinked, suddenly a little breathless again but for a different reason.
“you’re so dumb,” you whispered, but it cracked halfway out.
“and you’re still holding my shirt like it personally offended you.”
you looked down at your hands, still clenched in the hem like it owed you rent. the skin under your fingers was warm, soft, the faintest hint of tremble under his calm like he wasn’t nearly as unaffected as he pretended to be.
slowly, carefully, you moved your fingers again. just a bit. tugged the fabric higher.
yuuta didn’t move. didn’t help. just watched you. patient. still.
you pushed it up over his stomach, revealing more—soft skin, lean lines, that ridiculous little dip under his ribs that was definitely not helping your composure, and finally, the undeniable definition of his abs. stupid. taut. completely unnecessary. like someone designed him with the express purpose of making you go into cardiac arrest.
“jesus,” you mumbled. “i thought this was just the lighting earlier.”
he smirked, tilting his head. “you can say it. you’re turned on.”
“i’m not gonna feed your ego.”
“baby, you’re literally in my lap.”
“on accident.”
“sure.”
your hands slid higher, just a little more, and he leaned back slightly to help you, finally, tugging the shirt off the rest of the way and over his head, tossing it to the side with a casual flick that really shouldn’t have been so hot but unfortunately was. his chest was bare now, lit golden in the low light, the shadows making every line look sharper than necessary. he sat there, proud and obnoxious and gorgeous, arms resting loosely around your waist, eyes half-lidded and waiting.
“so?” he said. “what’s the verdict?”
you stared for a beat too long, then shook your head. “i hate you so much.”
he leaned forward, mouth brushing yours, and whispered, “you’re drooling.”
you kissed him before he could finish laughing, kissed him hard and hungry and full of frustration and gratitude and longing that had nowhere else to go. his hands slid back up your spine again, then down, slow and warm and steady, and you pressed your chest against his, skin to skin now, breath tangled and mouths moving in sync like it was muscle memory.
this was different now. not just soft. not just playful. it was still dumb, still full of laughter and half-whispers and too many feelings, but it was honest. real. the kind of closeness you only earned after months of pretending not to want it.
his mouth moved to your jaw, then your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the curve until you shivered, his hands holding you like you were fragile and indestructible at the same time.
“okay,” you breathed, fingers threading through his hair again. “okay. maybe i am turned on.”
he laughed against your skin, a low hum that made your whole body vibrate.
“yeah,” he said, voice low and satisfied. “me too.”
you felt it before you saw it—his fingers sliding under the hem of your shirt, slow and reverent, like he was approaching a religious artifact and not your tragically old white cotton tee that probably still had mystery stains from dorm laundry hell and smelled vaguely like microwaved snacks and anxiety. his hands were warm, thumbs dragging along your ribs, and your breath caught halfway out of your throat because he wasn’t being cocky now, wasn’t making jokes or weird noises or doing that thing where he said something infuriating just to watch your face implode—no, he was focused. soft. maddeningly gentle. like he was scared of spooking you. like he was trying to do this right.
he looked at you the entire time, didn’t glance down once, even as the shirt bunched under your arms, his fingers pushing it up your back and then over your head in one smooth motion that felt too intimate to be legal, too slow to be real, and the way his eyes locked on yours as the fabric peeled away? criminal. unhinged. deeply dangerous. you could feel your heart trying to claw its way out of your chest cavity and throw itself out the window.
and then, like an idiot, like a grinning stupid horrible soft idiot, he said:
“whoa.”
“if you make a single joke,” you warned, voice threatening but also fragile, the kind of tone that cracked around the edges like old ceramic.
“no jokes,” he said immediately, holding up both hands like he was surrendering to the law but still resting them dangerously close to your spine. “i swear on gojo’s dumb designer sunglasses. you’re—shit. you’re so pretty. it’s actually rude.”
you didn’t know what to do with that. so you stared at him, blinking like someone who just got told they won a sweepstakes they didn’t enter, and tried not to melt into a puddle of hormonal regret.
you were still in your bra, obviously. thin-strapped, slightly crooked from his earlier manhandling, one cup sitting a little askew like you’d been in a romantic fender-bender. you felt like a hot mess. he looked like he wanted to write poetry about it.
“yuuta,” you murmured, unsure of what you were even trying to say.
he leaned in, kissed your collarbone with a soft press of lips that made your head tilt back instinctively, then trailed down—slow, slow, like a river taking its time to flood. and then his hands moved again, sliding up your back, thumbs brushing your shoulder blades, one finger hooking under the band of your bra in that way that made your stomach absolutely plummet.
his mouth was still on your skin when he said, half-muffled and far too casual:
“can i?”
the bastard had already found the clasp. one hand resting over it like it was a button to a secret door. your entire body was stiff and molten at once.
you breathed. shallow. shaky. said, “you’re asking now?”
he had the decency to chuckle into your shoulder, the vibration making your skin break out in chills.
“consent is hot,” he whispered, “even if i’m already halfway there.”
“yuuta,” you said again, but softer this time, more like a prayer than a warning.
he pulled back to look at you, and fuck—his face. flushed. open. stupidly beautiful. eyes wide and waiting, not pushing. not assuming. just there.
you nodded. slow. a little dizzy.
“yeah,” you whispered. “you can.”
his fingers moved without hesitation now—not rough, not rushed—just sure. the clasp gave way with a quiet click, the tension in the band loosening, and he slid his hands under the straps as if to say, i got you, even though he didn’t say anything at all. the fabric slipped down your arms like surrender. you let it. let him.
his eyes dropped, finally, but the look wasn’t hungry. it wasn’t some cliché moment of ogling. it was worse. it was tender. reverent. like you were something to be memorized, not devoured. like he was seeing you for the first time and the only thing in his brain was thank you.
his voice cracked a little when he said, “holy shit.”
you wanted to laugh. or cry. or combust. maybe all three.
so you did the only thing you could: you grabbed his face, held it in both hands like you were trying to mold it into something you could survive, and kissed him again. desperate. grateful. a little shaky. and he kissed you back like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.
he didn’t touch your chest—not yet, not even a hint of suggestion. he just wrapped his arms around you, full body, buried his face in your neck and whispered, “you’re gonna ruin me.”
and you whispered back, “good.”
and meant every word.
the air in the room shifted like it had caught on fire, not the loud kind, not the dramatic blaze that engulfed buildings and screamed for attention—no, this was the slow, creeping kind, the burn that started in your chest and worked its way outward, cell by cell, inch by inch, until even the dim, flickering lamplight felt like it was watching you both a little too closely. and there you were, bare from the waist up now, still straddling his lap like a disaster waiting to happen, like a headline, like a statistic in a very affectionate cautionary tale, his arms around your ribs so gently it felt like gravity was being polite about it, and his face buried in the crook of your neck like he was hiding from his own goddamn feelings.
he hadn’t moved since you said it—good—hadn’t laughed or made some snarky little comeback, which was alarming in itself because that was his whole brand, wasn’t it? being a menace in the shape of a boy you stupidly trusted with your life and now your shirt. but instead, he just exhaled. slow. hot. reverent. like that single word did something to him he wasn’t ready to admit.
and then, of course, because he couldn’t help himself—because silence was a threat to his personality—he whispered, voice muffled into your throat, “you’re evil.”
“you’re clingy,” you muttered, even as your arms looped around his shoulders like anchors, like reflex.
“you just said you wanted to ruin me. do you hear yourself?”
“i said good, which was not a threat.”
“oh no, it was,” he said, finally pulling back to look at you, and he looked wrecked already, hair a mess, lips bitten pink, cheeks flushed, pupils blown out like he’d seen some divine truth in the curve of your collarbone. “you’re saying things like that while sitting on my lap and half-naked and then acting surprised when i combust.”
“you haven’t combusted yet,” you said, tilting your head, “do i need to try harder?”
his jaw dropped. his hands—those goddamn hands, all heat and reverence and menace—gripped your hips a little tighter, not rough but anchoring, like he needed to confirm you were real and also possibly prevent you from flying off the rails, which was ironic because you were the one currently holding yourself together with a thread and a half.
“okay,” he said, nodding slowly, eyes narrowing like he was processing a new kind of threat. “okay. so this is what we’re doing.”
“what are we doing?”
“you’re playing innocent while literally breaking me.”
“i’m not innocent,” you said, inching forward just slightly, just enough to make his breath hitch in a way that made you feel like you’d grown wings, like maybe you could ruin him if you tried. “i’m just not doing anything.”
“that’s the problem,” he said, and then, like he couldn’t help himself, he leaned in again, lips brushing against your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone, soft kisses dropped like punctuation marks in a letter he hadn’t finished writing. “you’re not doing anything and i’m still losing my fucking mind.”
you reached up, brushed his hair back from his forehead, your fingers sliding into the mess like they belonged there, like they’d always been there. he looked up at you from under his lashes, and it hit you all over again—how stupidly pretty he was, how unfair his face was in this lighting, how every expression on him looked like a confession.
“yuuta,” you whispered, and it wasn’t a warning this time. it wasn’t even a question. it was just his name, soft and unsteady and full of every terrible, wonderful thing you hadn’t had the guts to say before.
“yeah?” he breathed, hands still on your waist, fingers twitching like he was trying so hard not to move.
you kissed him again. because what else could you do? his mouth opened under yours like it had been waiting, like it knew how to respond to your rhythm, your breath, your hunger before you even gave it a name. this kiss was slower, but not gentler. it was deep, exploratory, a little unhinged, teeth catching his lip, your hips shifting against his thighs without permission, and he groaned into your mouth like it surprised him, like the noise escaped before he could trap it.
“fuck,” he gasped when you finally pulled back for air, forehead pressed to yours. “you kiss like you’re trying to make me pass out.”
“good,” you said again, and he made a sound, something between a growl and a laugh and a strangled plea.
“you keep saying that,” he muttered, hands sliding up your sides now, not pushing, not groping, just holding, like he needed the contact, needed the skin-on-skin like it was a lifeline. “and it keeps getting hotter.”
you shivered, not because of the cold—there was none, not here, not with him breathing like that, not with your skin pressed against his, not with your heart trying to climb out of your mouth and build a shrine to his name in the back of your throat—but because of the weight of it. all of it. everything you’d kept hidden between laughter and fake arguments and eye-rolls. it was all out now. and he was still looking at you like you were the best decision he’d ever made.
“what happens now?” you asked, not quite trusting your voice.
he smiled, slow and devastating, one thumb rubbing a line across your waist like he was signing something unspoken.
“whatever you want,” he said. “this—” he kissed the corner of your mouth, “—is yours.” he kissed your jaw, “you call the shots.” kissed the dip under your ear, “you tell me when to stop.”
you leaned into him, breathing fast, laughing a little even though it felt like you were about to cry.
“god, you’re such a dumbass romantic.”
“only for you,” he whispered, and meant it so hard you could feel it in your teeth.
and you believed him. like a fool. like someone ready to fall and call it flying.
you kissed him again. and this time, you didn’t hesitate.
the words slipped out like a crime, like you hadn’t meant to say them but also had meant to say them every second since you walked through his door with that bag of snacks swinging from your wrist like a peace offering and a loaded weapon—your lips grazed his, your mouth half-open from breathless kissing, brain so loud and full of him it almost cracked, and then there it was, out in the air between you, all soft and stupid and sharp at the edges:
“i want to do it.”
it wasn’t seductive. it wasn’t breathy or pornographic or dripping with confidence. it was shy and shaken and maybe even a little too high-pitched, like your body knew what it wanted before your voice had a chance to rehearse. but the second you said it, you felt it click. like the moment when you find a light switch in the dark and flip it without knowing what room you’re in.
he stilled. for once, yuuta didn’t grin. didn’t make a joke. didn’t even blink for a second. his hands were still on your waist, bare skin under his fingers, and his forehead was still against yours, but something in his eyes shifted—some soft, wide-eyed mix of holy-shit and are-you-sure and oh-god-oh-god-oh-fuck.
he swallowed. slow. shallow. said, barely above a whisper, “are you sure?”
you nodded. once. twice. then whispered it too, because it was true now, every part of you humming like a live wire, “yeah. i’m sure.”
and then he kissed you like it was his last chance to memorize the shape of your mouth, slow and deep and gentle in a way that was almost reverent, like you’d said something sacred instead of something horny. his hands moved with the kind of patience that should’ve been illegal, every touch featherlight but confident, and when he finally laid you back onto the bed, his fingers never left your skin—not once. it was less like he was trying to get you naked and more like he was trying to hold you steady while the world spun off its axis.
he made you laugh in the middle of it, too. of course he did. you’d accidentally kneed him in the thigh while trying to scoot back and he made a whole dramatic performance out of it—groaning, falling onto the bed beside you like you’d mortally wounded him, then catching you with one arm and dragging you down with him, both of you breathless and flushed and laughing like the dumbass soulmates you were. he kissed you through it, kissed your laughter, kissed the corners of your mouth like they were the most important coordinates he’d ever mapped.
and when the laughing stopped—when the air got heavy and quiet and full of warmth instead of nerves—it was slow. careful. so gentle you almost cried. hands and mouths and breath, the soft sounds of skin finding skin and hearts beating too fast. nothing about it was polished or poetic. it was awkward and intimate and full of stupid sweetness, little whispered “is this okay?” and “does that feel good?” and “i think i’m dying but in a good way,” and god, it was so real. when it finally happened—when he was inside you, when his breath hitched in your ear and his hand squeezed yours like a lifeline—you realized it wasn’t about perfect. it was about him. about you. about finally getting to say i love you in a language you didn’t know you spoke.
and then, silence.
warm, golden, soft-edged silence, the kind that only came when everything was said and nothing had to be explained.
the room was still. the sheets a little twisted. your legs tangled with his under the blanket he must’ve pulled over you at some point, and your head resting on his chest like it had always meant to live there. you were both still naked, but the air didn’t feel cold—it felt right. safe. like you were inside a bubble that nothing outside the dorm could touch.
his hand was on your back. slow circles. absentminded. your name humming under his breath like a song he didn’t want to forget. you could hear his heart, steady now. solid.
“you’re weirdly quiet,” he murmured eventually, voice low and raspy like he’d been yelling all day when really he’d only been falling in love out loud.
you nuzzled into his collarbone, lips brushing warm skin. “i’m trying to preserve brain cells.”
“did i ruin you that bad?”
“yuuta.”
“don’t lie. i felt your soul leave your body halfway through.”
“i tripped over the blanket and headbutted your chin.”
“exactly. transcendent.”
you laughed. he kissed your temple.
and in the quiet that followed, he whispered, softer this time, “i love you.”
you smiled, eyes closed, body sore in the best way possible.
“i know,” you whispered back. “i felt it.”
and you did.
everywhere. still do.
you laid there in that post-apocalyptic emotional soup of skin-on-skin warmth and sex-brain fog, limbs tangled like a pair of cats that fell asleep mid-fight, the blanket half slipping off one side of the bed like even gravity was too blissed out to care anymore. yuuta’s arm was still looped around your back like a seatbelt he refused to unbuckle, his hand absentmindedly tracing lazy, reverent little lines up and down your spine like he was trying to learn braille from your vertebrae. your face was tucked into the crook of his neck, because of course it was—because it was safe there, stupidly comfortable there, smelled like him there: warm skin and detergent and sweat and something sweet, like caramelized embarrassment. and for a while you just laid there, breathing slow, matching each other’s exhales, letting your pulse learn how to stop breakdancing.
and then your dumbass brain did what it always did in quiet moments.
it started thinking.
you didn’t mean to speak. not really. it started as a thought, then became a hypothetical, then suddenly it was a sound pushing its way out of your mouth without warning, wobbling on the edge of hesitation and a laugh and full-on dread.
“so, um,” you mumbled against his collarbone, lips barely moving, “does this mean you’re, like… my boyfriend?”
he stilled. dramatically. completely. like a lizard who sensed danger. you felt every muscle in his chest lock up under your cheek like you’d just asked him if he believed in god and monogamy in the same breath.
and then: “wait,” he said slowly, blinking up at the ceiling like he’d been personally betrayed by the sudden emergence of consequences. “we didn’t define the relationship before having sex? we’re heathens. we’re criminals. we’re going to moral jail.”
you groaned immediately. “never mind. cancel the question. take it off the table.”
“no, no, you brought the table out. now we’re gonna eat off it. we’re gonna have a whole discourse. with sides.”
“shut up—”
“you shut up,” he shot back, turning to face you properly now, rolling you a little so your leg slid higher over his hip, his hand gripping your thigh like punctuation. “you asked. so let’s unpack. do you want me to be your boyfriend? is this an exclusive, high-stakes, one-man show?”
“you literally said you loved me like five minutes ago.”
“people say crazy things during sex,” he said, eyes wide, clearly holding back a laugh. “i once said ‘let’s go’ in the middle of sex in my dream like i was about to ascend. anything’s possible.”
you slapped his chest. “yuuta. focus.”
he caught your hand before it retreated, laced his fingers through yours, and looked at you with that annoying mix of mockery and affection that made your heart feel like it was doing cartwheels in a minefield.
“you want me to be your boyfriend?” he asked again, quieter now, like maybe he wasn’t entirely joking anymore. “is that what this is?”
you swallowed, suddenly shy again, the post-sex high replaced with an equally stupid rush of panic and oh fuck this is real. “i mean… if you want to. if you don’t already have, like, a girl in every jujutsu region.”
“first of all,” he said, gently squeezing your hand, “you are the only dumbass i’ve ever stripped for. and second, of course i want to. i already am. i’ve been your boyfriend in spirit since the moment you called me a ‘walking restraining order’ and then gave me your last shrimp chip.”
you blinked. “you really consider that the turning point?”
“i fell in love right then,” he said seriously. “i knew you were the one.”
“you’re so full of shit.”
“your boyfriend is full of shit,” he corrected smugly. “say it. call me your boyfriend. do it. you started this, coward.”
you groaned again, burying your face in his neck, which was a mistake because now he was laughing and smug and warm and his stupid heartbeat was right under your ear, reminding you that yes, you loved this idiot. and yes, apparently, he was yours now.
“yuuta,” you muttered.
“say it.”
“you’re my boyfriend,” you grumbled, barely audible.
“louder, babe.”
“you’re my fucking boyfriend,” you said, half-snarling, half-laughing.
he grinned so hard you thought his face might crack. “fuck yeah i am. lock me in. relationship status: unhinged and fully committed.”
“i hate you.”
“you love me.”
“shut up.”
he rolled you both over until he was on top again, elbows on either side of your head, his hair flopping down into your face, and he kissed you quick and messy and happy, like he couldn’t help it, like he didn’t care about breath or rules or what happened next.
when he pulled back, his eyes were shining.
“girlfriend,” he said.
you rolled your eyes. “boyfriend.”
he smirked. “horny and in love. what a time to be alive.”
and then he kissed you again, just to seal the deal, because apparently, that’s what boyfriends do.
kento is a very deep sleeper. he comes home from work, gives you a big kiss, helps you make dinner, washes dishes afterwards, cleans up, reads you a chapter of your book, and then fucks you to sleep. he's too exhausted by then to get up for anything but your voice or his alarm clock.
which means you can go down on him when he sleeps and he'll be none the wiser.
kento is always positioned comfortably when he sleeps beside you. curled up with his bulky arms wrapped around you tightly, or flat on his back with an arm thrown over his eyes when he gets too hot and can't cuddle. tonight, you've made sure to crank up the thermostat so he'd be laying splayed on his back.
you look down at your sleeping husband, admiring the way his chest rises and falls in that slow, heavy rhythm he only has when he's absolutely worn down. mouth parted. lashes brushing his high cheekbones. he's completely gone.
kento doesn't stir when you shift closer, or even when you push the blankets down past his hips. he just mumbles something that sounds like your name, and sinks deeper into the mattress.
because he sleeps so hard, he doesn't register the way you ease his pj bottoms down, or the way his cock settles heavy against his thigh, already half-hard from your touch on his body and your warm breath against his tip. he didn't sleep with boxers tonight.
you curl between kento's legs and the second you wrap your hand around him his body reacts even if he doesn't wake. his hips giving this little jump, cock twitching into your hand. he's so responsive.
you wrap two hands around him, one focusing at the tip and the other holding the base firmly. your hands move slow enough for you to feel him grow heavier and fuller in your hands. kento's cock swells up in your palms until you can't help yourself, and you lean in and kiss gently under his mushroom tip.
kento twitches. he's not awake, just reactive. it shows his deep, instinctive need to give himself to you even in sleep. still, you whisper his name just to make sure, and he doesn't move.
so you take him into your mouth, letting your lips slide down his length while your tongue curves around the warm underside. you savor the way his thighs tense and he lets out a little "mngh..." in his sleep, his hands twitching on the sheets.
you sink lower, mouth stretching around his fat cock, and his head tilts back into the pillow like he's offering himself up. he's getting harder by the second in your mouth, but he still doesn't wake. his breathing is deeper and his brows are pulled together like whatever he's dreaming is getting to him.
you take him deeper into your mouth as his hips twitch lazily up into your mouth, an attempt at a thrust. he really must be having a dream. your hands slide up his broad thighs as your mouth envelops more of his cock, and he sighs blissfully, legs relaxing and opening for you to have more of him, if you want.
he's so good for you, even unconscious.
you keep your mouth on him and bob your head slowly, letting drool warm your lips and coat his cock, mixing with the pearly sheen of precum that you've let slip down his tip. he's already close. he's more sensitive when he's asleep. you can tell by the way his stomach tightens up every time you swallow around him.
then you hear his voice, "oh sweetheart, that's good... d-don't stop," asking you so nicely to keep going. it's clear that his body is fighting sleep now. not enough to wake up, but enough that every reaction is raw and desperate.
his hips keep trying to lift into your mouth. his body is begging without his brain catching up, and every few seconds he lets out this low, helpless moan, the kind he'd blush over if he were awake enough to realize he made it.
and you're struggling to take him deeper because he's so big and he keeps moving, these little sleepy thrusts that push him further into your throat before you're ready. your eyes water and you choke a little when he hits the back of your throat, but it makes you more aroused because he needs you this badly and he doesn't even know it.
and god, he's so loud tonight too, making small choked noises, soft gasps every time your mouth slides lower or when your throat tightens around him. it's everything he tries not to let himself make when he's awake, when he's trying to be composed and take it slow for you. now he's just undone. dreaming of you and losing his mind over it. "ngh… baby… please…"
it's confirmed, your husband is having the wettest, filthiest dream of his life and it is absolutely about you. his body believes you're riding him or sucking him or touching him everywhere at once, and he's trying so hard to stay asleep but he's squirming under you, tossing his head back, hips lifting as he ruts his cock into his mouth while you suck on his cock.
you keep going, taking him as deep as your throat will let you. your lips, slightly swollen and soaked in drool and precum, stretch around every inch you can manage, but when you get down to the base, nose brushing his pelvis, he can't find it in himself to last any longer. a long tremor rolls through him like a shock, and his whole body jumps.
kento gasps in his sleep, and he reaches for you with both hands, frantically. his fingers find your hair, grabbing like he needs to anchor himself to you or he's going to fall apart completely."oh mmmfuck-"
the words come out slurred by his own moan. he pushes his pulsing cock as deep as you can take as thick ropes of cum start to flood your mouth. his body jerks again, hips lifting off the mattress as he spills into your mouth. you barely have time to breathe before the next pulse hits your tongue, then another, then another, each one accompanied by a helpless moan he'd never make awake.
it doesn't stop. you swallow once, twice, three times, trying not to choke as some excess drips down your chin. you have to breath through your nose and take him as deep as you can so you don't lose too much of it and make a mess.
his hands clutch at your hair, then slide down to your jaw to keep your mouth in place. "haa- so good for me, m'love," he babbles sleepily. by the time he starts to come down, he's panting like he ran miles. chest heaving, still petting your hair clumsily.
and he's still not awake.
kento's head lolls to the side, lips parted. he's completely unaware that you just swallowed him down until you couldn't breathe. his grip loosens slowly, but his hands reach down for you, pulling you upwards by your arms until you're straddling him.
guess your sleeping husband expects you to ride him, next.
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