♡ Desperate to avoid an arranged marriage with Naoya, you seek refuge in Yuuta—unaware that he may be the most dangerous curse of all, especially when he’s been secretly and hopelessly in love with you all along.♡
ft. Yuuta x reader, Naoya x reader, Sexual Content. Dark Romance. Arranged marriage.
Naoya x Reader x Yuuta (Part 6)
Warning tag: Arranged Marriage AU!, Possessive! Naoya, Love-Drunk! Yuuta, Hurt/Comfort, Dark Romance, Explicit Sexual content, Lots of Smut, Love Triangles, Unrequited Lust, Sexual Tension, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Obsessive Behavior, Yuuta is a love-struck sweetheart, Jealousy, horny sorcerers, Possessive Behavior, Pining, Possessive sex, Breeding, Pregnancy Kink, Cock Warming, Enemies with Benefits, Porn with Feelings, Zenin Clan Drama, Manipulation, Naoya Zenin is his Own Warning, Uncontrollable thirst for Reader, Manipulation, Thigh Riding, Cock Riding, Fucking, cock-drunk, gaslighting, HEAVY plot.
Morning settled over the Jujutsu High, first-year students crossed the stone courtyards carrying practice weapons over their shoulders, assistants hurried between buildings with stacks of reports tucked beneath one arm, and somewhere in the distance, the unmistakable crack of splintering wood announced that someone's training had already gotten out of hand.
It should have been an ordinary day. Instead, conversations … more like gossip… refused to die down.
Maki had known about the fake boyfriend scheme since the beginning—she'd been in the room when they'd cooked it up, after all—but even she hadn't been prepared for how it had actually played out.
"So let me get this straight." She rested her chin on her palm, watching Nobara with open fascination. "We all knew it was supposed to be Yuta on paper. A name to get the Zenin off her back. But you're saying he showed up. In person. During the mission."
"We were right there," Nobara confirmed, practically glowing with the privilege of it. "Front row. Megumi almost had an aneurysm."
"That was a normal breathing sound."
Panda, seated cross-legged with a rice ball halfway to his mouth, looked between them with the solemn focus of a panda being handed classified intelligence.
"Wait, so the plan actually worked? He came all the way from Africa to save her?"
"That's the thing," Yuji cut in, arms flailing for emphasis. "It wasn't just saving her. Naoya was already there, gloating, basically had her cornered, and Yuta just—showed up. Cut through the curse like it was nothing. And then Naoya tried pulling rank, said she was his fiancée, and Yuta just—"
He paused for dramatic effect.
"—said she was his girlfriend."
"Out loud," Nobara added, savoring it. "To his face. It was so cold, dude. I've never seen Yuta like that. It was like watching a completely different person."
Toge, cross-legged nearby, offered his own contribution with characteristic economy.
Everyone paused to consider this.
"Dangerous," Yuji said, nodding sagely. "Yeah. Yeah, it makes sense."
"Okay, but here's what I don't get," Maki said, arms crossed. "The plan was just to say his name. Keep him abroad, keep it vague, buy time. Nobody told him to actually fly back and start a fight with Naoya, of all people, over her."
"Gojo went and got him," Megumi said flatly, his voice carrying an edge he didn't examine too closely. "Personally. Teleported there the second Naoya realized the long-distance boyfriend thing was fake and pushed the engagement forward anyway."
"So the girlfriend thing wasn't in the script," Maki said slowly, putting it together.
"No." Something twisted low in his stomach, something he had no intention of naming. "That part..." He paused, looking away, "...he came up with on his own."
Toge's glance found Maki's, and she pressed her lips together, saying nothing. She didn't have to. They'd both noticed.
Nobody was quite unkind enough to voice the other possibility out loud—that maybe it hadn't been improvisation at all, not really. Not judgment, exactly. More a kind of collective, curious hush, the sort reserved for watching a plot twist unfold in real time and not wanting to be the one who ruined it by guessing the ending too soon.
Sunlight had already crept halfway across the infirmary floor by the time you opened your eyes.
For a moment, you simply lay there, blinking at the ceiling, cataloguing the dull ache in your limbs and the too-familiar antiseptic smell that meant Shoko had, once again, kept you alive against considerable odds. The details of how you'd gotten here remained frustratingly out of reach — fragments, mostly, blurred at the edges, refusing to arrange themselves into anything coherent.
Then you turned your head, and everything else stopped mattering.
Yuta was asleep in the chair beside your bed.
Not sprawled, not slumped in exhaustion's usual boneless way — he'd simply given in to it, one arm curled loosely around you, his hand resting near your waist like it had found its place without permission. His face had drifted close, close enough to count the shadows beneath his lashes, close enough to notice the soft, unguarded part of his lips.
For one reckless heartbeat, you wondered what it would be like to close that last inch yourself — to press your mouth to his before he ever woke up to stop you.
He didn't look like the boy who'd left for Africa — he was broader now, jaw firmer, thick where it counted. Your gaze drifted to his hands, gentle despite their strength, and you leaned in without deciding to, cataloguing his lashes, the furrow between his brows, the sinful curve of his mouth, until you were close enough to feel his breath—
Then you caught yourself, jerking back so hard your shoulder hit the headboard.
What are you doing. This was supposed to be a farce — nothing more — and it wasn't supposed to make your pulse stutter over the shape of someone's mouth. It's not real, you told yourself, unconvincing even inside your own head.
Yuta, mercifully, slept on.
You stole one last glance to his lips and then, shoved the thought down almost violently. Heat crawled up your neck before you could stop it, spreading into your cheeks. You pressed your lips into a line and exhaled slowly through your nose, staring at the ceiling instead, because looking at him a second longer felt dangerously close to admitting something you weren't ready to name.
And that was when it all came rushing back.
The curse. The blood loss. Naoya's voice, low and possessive, promising you heaven with nothing more than his thigh and infuriating patience. The white flash of a blade. Yuta, appearing exactly when you'd stopped believing anyone would. The almost-kiss in this very room, breath shared and unclaimed, interrupted by a door sliding open at the worst possible moment. And somewhere in the haze after, his voice, low and certain, promising he wouldn't leave your side.
He hadn't left. Not once. Not the entire night.
This was getting out of hand.
You eased yourself upright with as much stealth as your battered body allowed, wincing at the pull of stitches, and slipped out from under the blanket with the exaggerated care of someone defusing a bomb. Yuta didn't stir. You tiptoed past him, and out into the hallway, easing the door shut behind you with a softness that bordered on reverent.
You made it four steps before you saw him.
Gojo leant against the wall like he'd been waiting there for the express purpose of ambushing you, blindfold pushed up into his hair, grinning like a man who'd just watched his favorite show hit its season finale. He lifted one hand and gave you an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
You looked at him, utterly deadpan.
"That good, huh?" he said, undeterred by your expression in the slightest. "I'm telling you, this went better than I could've possibly scripted it. And I'm very good at scripting things."
"Better than you scripted it," you repeated flatly, "is doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence."
"He didn't leave your side all night." Gojo's grin widened, entirely too pleased with himself. "Not once. Shoko had to physically step over him to get to the supply cabinet. Twice."
"I'm aware. I woke up to it."
"And nothing." You crossed your arms flustered, ignoring the way your pulse hadn't quite settled since you'd opened your eyes to the sight of Yuta’s sleeping form. "He's committed to the part. That's all that is."
"Mm." Gojo tilted his head, entirely too delighted by wherever his thoughts had wandered. "Very committed. Impressively committed, honestly. I don't think I've ever seen a performance held together this well under this much pressure."
The word sit there, uncomfortable, refusing to dissolve the way you wanted it to.
"...So he's just playing the part," you said, mostly to yourself, testing how the sentence felt out loud. It didn't feel like anything close to true, and that was somehow worse than if it had.
Gojo's eyebrow arched, something sharpening behind his usual theatrics—like he'd caught the real question hiding underneath the one you'd actually asked, and was deciding whether answering it honestly would be more fun than not.
Shoko's voice cut in from behind him, brisk and entirely unbothered by whatever conversation she'd just interrupted. "I need you. Now."
Gojo shot you a look that promised this wasn't over, then let himself be steered away by the collar without further protest. You watched them go for exactly as long as it took to remember you had somewhere to be that wasn't standing in a hallway overthinking a sentence, and continued on your way.
The staff room smelled like burnt coffee and Nanami's quiet disapproval of it.
He sat with a plate of neatly arranged breakfast in front of him, glasses perched low on his nose, the picture of a man determined to enjoy fifteen uninterrupted minutes of peace before the day inevitably ruined them. Shoko dragged Gojo through the door before that hope had a chance to survive.
"Sit," she said, pointing at the nearest chair like she was disciplining a dog.
He sat, mostly because arguing with Shoko had never once ended in his favor.
"You're playing with fire," she said without preamble, arms crossed, already reaching for the pack of cigarettes she wasn't technically supposed to smoke indoors. "And not the fun kind. The kind where someone actually gets burned."
"Everything is under control." Gojo waved a hand, infuriatingly breezy. "I have this handled. Relax."
"You said that before the Zenin situation escalated into an actual engagement." She lit the cigarette anyway, exhaling toward the ceiling like she'd earned it. "A wedding is going to happen."
Gojo blinked at that, head tilting to one side, repeating the words with none of his usual conviction. "A wedding is going to happen... wait... what?!"
Shoko glanced toward Nanami, who was making a valiant, failing effort to enjoy his breakfast in peace. "Told you he didn't know."
"Know what?" Gojo demanded, and Shoko exhaled smoke with a long, heavy sigh.
"The Zenin Clan announced the engagement yesterday. (Y/N) and Naoya. It's official." She paced across the room, cigarette between two fingers, watching the information land on Gojo's face like a stroke. "Turns out your little stunt didn't sit well with him."
"You're telling me that in under eight hours, that Zenin bastard planned an entire wedding?"
"Not just planned." Shoko reached into the folder tucked under her arm and slid a thick, cream-colored envelope across the table toward him, the paper fine enough to catch the light, edged in gold leaf with the Zenin crest embossed dead center. Traditional. Expensive in the specific way that was meant to be noticed. "It arrived sometime last night. Addressed to you, specifically."
Gojo stared at it like it might detonate.
Nanami reached over without asking, plucked it from the table, and slid it open with a single clean motion of his thumb, entirely unbothered by whatever protest Gojo hadn't managed to voice yet. He scanned the elegant calligraphy inside, expression unreadable.
"How thoughtful," he said, deadpan. "You've been invited."
"I don't want to be invited."
"You've also," Nanami continued, turning the card slightly, tapping one line near the bottom with a a single finger, "not been given a plus one." A pause, dry as ash. "Rude."
Gojo made a strangled sound that wasn't quite a laugh.
Nanami put the invitation down and set to cut a precise piece of sausage, he studied it for a moment before setting his chopsticks down entirely, the news apparently having cost him what little appetite he'd started with.
"This is what happens," he said, voice even, a little deflated "when you treat clan politics like a game you can improvise your way through. The Zenin don't mess around. When they move this fast, it's because they've already decided the outcome doesn't require your consent — only your compliance." His gaze flicked up, sharp despite the calm. "You handed Naoya a public humiliation in front of his own clan. A man like that doesn't absorb that quietly. He retaliates. Immediately, and disproportionately, to make sure no one mistakes it for weakness."
"That's what happens when you play with fire, idiot," Shoko added, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"I got Yuta there in time. I neutralized the threat. I—"
"You made it worse," Nanami said flatly. "You didn't defuse anything. You escalated a private manipulation into a public one, and now an entire clan's reputation is tied to seeing this through. This was never going to be solved with a clever line delivered in front of an audience, Gojo. That's theater. Clans don't respond to theater. They respond to leverage, and you just handed him a reason to apply more of it."
Something shifted in Gojo's expression — the easy grin still technically present, but hollowed out, stretched thin over something considerably less playful underneath.
"I didn't ask for a lecture."
"You rarely do," Nanami said. "You ask for consequences instead, and then act surprised when they arrive."
Shoko took a slow drag, watching Gojo carefully now, some of her usual dry humor draining out of her posture. Because whatever had just crossed his face wasn't annoyance. It sat lower than that, darker, coiled tight behind eyes that had gone very still.
He didn't answer right away. His jaw had tightened, his fingers curling slowly at his sides, cursed energy humming faintly at the edges of the room in a way that made the hair on Shoko's arms rise.
"That wedding," he said quietly, "happens over my dead body."
Neither of them had time to respond.
He was simply gone — no flash of light, no dramatic exit, just the particular displacement of air that meant Gojo Satoru had removed himself from a fifty-mile radius in significantly less time than it took to blink.
Shoko stared at the empty space where he'd been standing, cigarette forgotten between her fingers.
Nanami picked his chopsticks back up, though he didn't resume eating. He simply stared at his plate, jaw tight, something grim settling behind his usually composed features. The invitation was gone as well.
Yuta woke to an empty chair beside an empty bed, and the particular, quiet panic of a man who'd failed at the one thing he'd promised himself he wouldn't. He was already on his feet, already scanning the room for some sign of where you'd gone, when Gojo appeared in the doorway, entirely too relaxed for someone whose pocket burned with an unsolicited wedding invitation.
"She's fine," Gojo announced, before Yuta could ask. "Tiptoed right past me about ten minutes ago. Very sneaky. Not actually sneaky, but she thought she was, and I didn't have the heart to tell her otherwise."
Some of the tension eased from Yuta's shoulders, not all of it. Gojo crossed the room and clapped a hand down on his shoulder.
Yuta's gaze drifted toward the door, toward wherever you'd disappeared to, some quiet certainty already settling into his expression.
Gojo blinked, then laughed—short, genuine, thoroughly pleased with himself in the specific way of a man watching a plan click perfectly into place… or at least, part of the plan.
"Right answer." He squeezed Yuta's shoulder once, satisfaction writen plainly across his face, like he'd just had every last doubt about his own strategy confirmed in four words. "I picked well."
He was gone before Yuta could ask what he meant by that, leaving him alone with the quiet chirp of morning birdsong and the sudden, urgent need to go find you.
The sun was high when Yuta found yuo, sitting on a bench near the training grounds, watching your teammates with an expression that hovered somewhere between amusement and exhaustion.
You'd changed into the simple clothes Shoko had left for you — a loose t-shirt and loose pants that felt like a universe away from your usual uniform. Your ribs ached faintly when you shifted, a dull reminder of how close things had come if Yuta — or Naoya, for that matter — hadn't shown up when they did.
"You shouldn't be out here."
You jumped, not having heard him approach. Yuta stood there with two water bottles in one hand and what looked suspiciously like a convenience store onigiri in the other.
"I needed air," you said, which was only partly a lie. Mostly, you'd needed distance from the infirmary bed, and from the memory of how easily you'd considered becoming a thief, his lips the only thing worth stealing.
He sat down, not too close, but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. He set one of the water bottles and the rice ball beside you.
"You didn't eat this morning."
You blinked. The straightforwardness of it caught you off guard. Yuta had woken up, noticed you were gone, and immediately made sure you were being taken care of.
"Thank you," you said, your voice quieter than intended.
You picked at the plastic wrap on the onigiri, your appetite still a shy, uncertain thing. Yuta didn't press you to eat. He simply sat there, a quiet, solid presence, watching the distant sparring match. He pointed with his chin.
"Yuji's form is still sloppy. He puts too much power into his right hook."
"You can see that from here?" you asked, squinting. To you, it was just a flurry of motion and occasional shouts.
"His elbow drops," Yuta clarified. "Telegraphs the move. Megumi will counter it in… three, two…"
There was a distinct thud and a yelp from Yuji.
You couldn't help the small laugh that escaped. "You're scary good at this."
"It's easier to see when you're not the oone fighting," he said, a faint smile touching his lips. "Different perspective."
His gaze drifted from the training grounds to your face, and for a second, the world narrowed to the space between you. His expression was so open, so raw, it felt like a confession without words — he looked at you like you were the only thing in a five-mile radius that mattered, and heat bloomed in your chest again, unfamiliar and thrilling, nothing to do with the afternoon sun.
Then something shifted. His gaze, warm a moment ago, sharpened — not cold, just focused, heavy in a way that made the fine hairs on your arms rise. It traced your mouth like he was memorizing the shape of it, drifted to the line of your throat, lingered on the rise and fall of your chest beneath the loose fabric of your shirt — not lecherous, worse than that, proprietary, a slow visual claiming that had your breath catching before your mind caught up. You swallowed, and his eyes followed the motion, unhurried, like a man who had all the time in the world to look at you and intended to use every second of it.
Stop reading into it, you told yourself firmly. He was just playing the part — following orders, nothing more. ...Right?
Before the thought could fully convince you, something caught Yuta's eye.
A mark on your hand—dark, unfamiliar, blooming faintly against your skin. His brow furrowed instantly.
He reached for your palm before you could answer, turning it gently toward the light. You leaned in to look yourself. "It looks like a bruise."
Yuta's eyebrow lifted. "Strange place for one to show up."
You shrugged, unbothered. "It'll heal eventually."
His fingers wrapped carefully around your bruised hand, lingering a beat longer than the moment actually called for. You did your best to seem unaffected — you failed spectacularly, the heat in your cheeks giving you away entirely — and he bit down on a quiet, pleased grin.
You shook your head, and something in his expression turned playful.
"Good— cause I need to change your bandages," he explained. That, at least, accounted for why he'd been looking for you in the first place. It probably explained the staring too, you told yourself — he'd just been checking your injuries. That had to be it.
Reaching that conclusion should have brought relief. Instead, something in your chest tightened.
He offered you his hand, and you took it without thinking twice, letting him pull you gently to your feet before falling into step beside him on the walk back to the infirmary. Yuta held the door open, following you inside with a focus that felt both professional and deeply personal.
"Shoko said to change them today," he said, gesturing toward the examination table. "Since she's swamped with... well, everything." He cleared his throat. "I told her I'd handle it. If that's... okay with you."
You nodded, trying to ignore how your pulse quickened at the thought of him undressing you, even clinically. "Okay."
He gestured toward your shirt. "You'll need to take that off. The bandage wraps around your torso."
You reached for the hem of your shirt, hesitating mid-air. That was when realization hit—you hadn't put on a bra after Shoko's examination. Your frame tensed. "Wait. I... I don't have..."
Yuta's cheeks flushed immediately. "Oh. Right. We can ask Shoko—"
"She's busy," you cut in, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. "It's fine. I'll just—" You took a steadying breath, grabbed the hem, and pulled the shirt over your head in one swift motion, immediately crossing your arms over your bare chest.
Yuta's throat went dry. The clinical detachment he'd prepared himself for evaporated instantly. He focused fiercely on the medical tape, anywhere but at you.
"I'll be quick," he managed, his voice strained. He approached, scissors in hand, carefully snipping away the old bandage. Each movement was precise, careful, avoiding any unnecessary contact.
But his brain betrayed him.
He could see it so clearly: the soft, heavy swell of your breasts, trapped and pressed against your forearms. The way the flesh had molded, spilling slightly at the edges of your grip. His mind, a traitor, supplied what he hadn't seen—the way your nipples would tighten and pebble in the cool air of the infirmary if you were to lower your hands.
His thoughts weren't just tumbling into forbidden territory; they were sprinting headlong into it. He imagined stepping closer, his own hands covering yours. He pictured the simple act of gently prying your fingers away, one by one, exposing yourself completely to him. The thought was so potent it made his spent cock twitch against his thigh.
He imagined running the calloused pads of his thumbs over those hardened peaks, watching them pucker even more at his touch. He wanted to hear the sharp inhale, the soft gasp you would make. He wanted to know if you'd arch into his touch or shy away. He craved the feeling of your weight in his palms, the softness giving way to the firm muscle beneath. He wanted to lean down and close his mouth around one, to taste you, to feel your fingers thread through his hair as you held him to you.
Blood rushed south so fast it made him dizzy.
His knuckles brushed against your side accidentally and you flinched slightly, making your arms shift. For a heartbeat, one breast became visible—a perfect, soft curve that made him want to groan aloud.
"Sorry," he choked out, fumbling with the tape.
You noticed his trembling hands. "You okay?"
"Fine," he lied, fingers slick with sweat. Just a few more inches. That was all he had to wrap.
Sweat beaded on Yuta's forehead. He bit his lip so hard he tasted blood, the coppery tang barely registering over the roaring in his ears. He had never wanted to touch someone with this kind of desperate, all-consuming hunger, and the knowledge that he couldn't—shouldn't—made the desire almost painful. The sterile scent of the infirmary did nothing to mask the warmth radiating from your skin, the faint floral scent of your hair.
Just as he felt himself losing the battle with the other head, a violent tremor shook the entire building. The floor lurched violently, medical supplies rattled and crashed from nearby shelves, and without a single conscious thought, Yuta lunged forward to shield you.
His arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush against him in a protective embrace.
Your bare breasts pressed against his chest, soft and warm through the thin fabric of his shirt. His left arm circled your back, palm flat against your naked skin, fingers instinctively seeking purchase. They brushed against where your bra strap should be—and found nothing but smooth, uninterrupted skin.
The realization hit him like a physical blow. His hand, now possessively splayed across your bare back, was touching skin that had never been meant for him to feel.
As quickly as it had started, the tremor ceased.
Silence descended, broken only by the drip of a fallen IV bag onto the floor and the sound of two hearts beating in a panicked, unsteady rhythm. For Yuta, the world had narrowed to the specific, catastrophic disaster currently unfolding in his arms.
He could feel everything.
The soft weight of your breasts against his sternum, the delicate curve of your spine beneath his sweaty palm, your scent — damn, he could've inhaled it until he was drunk on it. And then, with a jolt of pure horror, he became aware of the third point of contact— The unmistakable, rigid, and utterly shameless length of his own desire, rock-hard and pressing insistently against the soft plane of your stomach. It wasn't just a touch; it was a declaration. A filthy, undeniable announcement of every depraved thought currently wrecking his brain.
A strangled sound escaped him. He recoiled as if electrocuted, stumbling back a full two steps. His hands flew up as if to ward off a ghost, his face a mask of mortification.
"I— I am so sorry." His voice was a choked whisper, cracked with shame.
You stood frozen for a beat, arms crossing quickly over your breast, before scrambling to pull your shirt back on. The rough cotton scraped against your skin, a welcome barrier. Your face felt like it was on fire, a blush so hot you were surprised it didn't dissipate into the cool air of the room.
You looked everywhere but at him. At the floor, at the spilled IV fluids, at the ceiling. Your mind was a blank wall of static, punctuated by the phantom feeling of his body against yours.
"I didn't... I wasn't thinking," he stammered, running a trembling hand through his hair, making it stick up at odd angles. "The earthquake— I just reacted. I shouldn't have—"
He couldn't finish the sentence. He couldn't bring himself to name the transgression, the way he had touched you, the way he had felt you. The way his body had betrayed him so spectacularly.
"It's... it's okay," you managed to say, though the words felt hollow and thin. "You were just trying to help."
Help. The word was a flimsy shield for the storm that had just passed between you.
Yuta just shook his head, looking utterly wrecked. His gaze was fixed on some point on the floor, as if he feared what he might see if he looked at you. "I should go. I'll... I'll get Shoko. She can finish." He backed toward the door, hands held up in surrender. "I am so, so sorry."
He turned and fled, not quite running but moving with a speed that screamed escape.
In his blind haste, he collided with someone just outside the infirmary door. A short woman with dark hair tied back in a severe bun, holding a stack of clean linens. She stumbled back with a small cry, the sheets tumbling to the floor.
"I am so sorry!" Yuta blurted out, not even looking at her face. He dropped to his knees, clumsily gathering the fabric into a pile. He shoved it into her arms. "Sorry. Excuse me."
And then he was gone, disappearing down the hall as if the floor were made of lava.
The woman watched him go, her expression unreadable. She smoothed her uniform, and carried the linens into the infirmary. Her movements were practiced — meant to be invisible. She didn't look at you, but you felt her gaze like a physical touch as she began methodically changing the sheets on the empty bed. Her ears, however, had missed nothing. The collision, Yuta's frantic apologies, his hasty retreat. Her task here was finished. Lord Naoya would be very pleased indeed.
The door to his dorm room slammed shut behind him. Yuta leaned against it, chest heaving, as if he'd run a marathon instead of just down a hallway. The image was burned into the back of his eyelids: the plush, almost decadent softness of your breasts flattening against the hard plane of his sternum, a perfect, devastating contrast that made him want to claw his own skin off.
He was losing, drowning in it. He could feel it still, the ghost of you against him, a phantom sensation that was more real than the floor beneath his feet. He slammed a fist against the door, a dull thud that did nothing to silence the roaring in his ears.
"Fuck," he breathed, the word a raw, ragged sound.
He shoved himself off the door and practically tore into the adjoining bathroom, turning the shower knob to its coldest setting. He didn't even wait to undress, just stepped under the icy spray in his uniform, the fabric immediately clinging to him like a second skin. The shock of it was a brutal, temporary reprieve.
But the cold was a lie. It did nothing to extinguish the fire raging in his blood. He closed his eyes, and the image returned, sharper this time. Your gasp as he pulled you close. The feel of you against him.
His hand, almost of its own accord, moved down, sliding beneath the waistband of his soaked pants, wrapping around the heavy, aching heat of his erection. The cold water was immediately forgotten, replaced by the searing friction of his own touch.
A choked gasp escaped him, the sound swallowed by the hiss of the shower. He leaned his forehead against the cool tiles of the wall, his only anchor in the sea of sensation threatening to drown him. His mind was no longer his own; it was a theater, and the only film playing starred you.
He imagine pulling your hands away from your chest, not roughly, but gently, revealing yourself to him completely. He pictured himself lowering his head, his lips closing over one peaked nipple, tongue swirling as you arched against him. The fantasy was so vivid, so potent, that he could almost taste the salt of your skin, hear the soft moan that would surely fall from your lips.
"God," he groaned, the word torn from him. His fist tightened, moving faster, the slick sound of his strokes mingling with the cascading water. "You're so... perfect."
He wasn't just touching himself anymore; he was touching you in his mind. His free hand splayed against the shower wall, imagining it was the soft curve of your hip. He pictured you laid out beneath him, legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper.
"Is this what you want?" he panted, the question meant for the the ghost of you in his mind.
His movements grew erratic, desperate. The cold water did nothing to cool the inferno blazing in his veins; it only served to heighten the sensitivity of every nerve ending. He was chasing a release he knew wouldn't be enough, a temporary fix for a permanent ache.
"Let me hear you," he rasped, his voice hoarse. He imagined your response—a breathy sigh, a whimper of his name. The thought sent a fresh jolt of pleasure straight to his groin, making his hips buck involuntarily, harder, faster.
He pictured rolling you over, your back arching beautifully as he entered you from behind. One hand on your hip, pulling you back to meet each thrust, the other tangled in your hair, tilting your head so he could kiss the sensitive skin of your neck.
"So tight," he bit out, the praise for a fantasy that felt more real than the tile beneath his feet. "Taking me so well."
The coil in his stomach tightened, a familiar pressure building at the base of his spine. He was close. So close. The water washed over him, plastering his dark hair to his forehead, but he barely registered it. His entire world had narrowed to the rhythm of his frantic hand and the images flickering behind his closed eyelids—images of you, flushed and conquered beneath him.
The pleasure built to an almost unbearable crescendo, a white-hot pressure behind his eyes. He could feel it in the trembling of his thighs, the clenching of his jaw. His hips stuttered, fucking into his own fist with a desperate rhythm that matched the frantic beat of his heart.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice cracking. "Wanna see your face when you come for me."
That was it. The thought of watching you fall apart, of being the one to unravel you, sent him over the edge. With a strangled cry that was half your name, half a raw, wounded sound, he spilled himself, thick ribbons of creamy cum, all over his own hand. The release was violent, shuddering, leaving him breathless and weak-kneed against the shower wall.
"(Y/N)," he gasped, your name a prayer, a curse, a confession all at once. He leaned his forehead against the cool tile, panting, the water washing away the physical evidence of his transgression but doing nothing to cleanse the guilt now warring with the lingering satisfaction.
He stayed there for a long moment, the cold water finally starting to seep into his bones, a stark contrast to the heat that still simmered in his blood.
And that's when he heard it.
A soft click, distinct from the cacophony of the shower. The sound of his door latch, sliding home.
His blood ran cold, the aftermath of pleasure instantly replaced by a jolt of pure, icy adrenaline. He froze, every muscle tensing, water streaming over his suddenly rigid body. He hadn´t been alone. Someone had been in his room.
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🔞-> Spicy artwork for this chapter 👅
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