i enjoyed writing this, i hope ya'll enjoy readin' this
The apartment was bathed in the warm glow of the late afternoon sun filtering through sheer curtains, casting golden patterns across the wooden floors. You sat on the couch, one hand resting protectively over the small, firm swell of your belly beneath your loose cotton tee. It had been nearly a year since you and Kento became official, quiet dates turning into shared mornings, then a proposal under the soft lights of your favorite bakery. Now, pregnant, the reality of it all still felt like a delicate dream.
Yuji, Megumi, and Nobara had descended upon your home like a cheerful whirlwind, arms laden with gifts.
“Whoa, it’s really popping out now!” Yuji exclaimed, his eyes wide and bright as he knelt in front of you, gently pressing both palms to the swell. “Can you feel kicks yet? Does it know I’m its cool big brother?”
You laughed softly, the sound warm. “Not strong ones yet, but there are flutters. Like butterfly wings.”
Nobara shoved Yuji’s shoulder lightly. “Move over, idiot. Let me feel properly.” She placed her hand with surprising gentleness, her usual sharp demeanor softening into something almost maternal. “It’s so warm… and firm. You’re glowing, you know that?”
Megumi hung back at first, arms crossed, but his dark eyes kept drifting to your stomach. When you beckoned him closer, he approached hesitantly, placing a single hand on the curve. His touch was feather light, almost reverent. For a long moment, he said nothing.
Kento stood a few feet away, leaning against the doorway in his crisp shirt and slacks, fresh from leaving the office early for this. He held his phone up, snapping quiet photos, though a suppressed cough rattled his chest. You noticed the slight strain in his posture but said nothing yet.
As the visit wound down, the emotions crested unexpectedly.
Yuji was the first to crack, eyes glistening as he hugged you carefully. “You’re gonna be the best mom. Nanamin’s lucky. We’ll protect this kid too, okay?”
Nobara followed, blinking rapidly as she pulled you into a tight but mindful embrace. “Don’t do anything stupid while pregnant. And text me if you need anything cute for the nursery.”
Megumi lingered longest. His hand stayed on your belly a second longer, and when he finally looked up, his eyes were suspiciously wet. The introverted boy who rarely showed vulnerability swallowed hard, voice thick. “...Congratulations. Both of you.” tears slipped free despite his best efforts. seeing one's mentor pregnant does kick some tears out. He turned away quickly, rubbing at his face.
That broke the dam. Yuji started sniffling openly, Nobara wiped at her eyes with an annoyed huff, and you felt your own hormones surge, tears spilling down your cheeks as you laughed through them. Kento captured it all on his phone, smiling to himself, though another cough escaped him, sharper this time.
The trio left with bags of fruit, bentos they made themselves, and promises to return soon, waving until the door clicked shut.
Silence settled, comfortable at first. Kento crossed the room and knelt before you, large hands replacing where the students’ had been. His palms were warm, too warm, you realized later. “They adore you already,” he murmured, voice low and steady like always. “As they should.”
You smiled, threading fingers through his neatly parted hair. “And you? How are you feeling after that chaos?”
“Fine,” he said simply, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.
But he wasn’t fine.
..
He’d insisted on making dinner. “Darling, sit. You’ve been on your feet organizing the nursery again.”
His voice was steady, that familiar low timbre that always made your shoulders relax. But you’d noticed the faint sheen of sweat at his temples, the way his hand trembled just slightly when he reached for the knife to chop vegetables.
He hid it well, Kento always did. He was the man who showed up, who provided, who built the quiet life you both clung to after nearly a year of dating that had deepened into an engagement neither of you had rushed to announce loudly. Stability was his religion. And now, with a child on the way, he treated every task like a sacred duty.
You watched from the couch as he moved through the kitchen, broad shoulders squared under his white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He cooked your favorites, miso soup with tofu, grilled salmon, rice seasoned just so.
He even set the table with the placemats you loved, the ones with the subtle blue patterns. But when he bent to pull plates from the cabinet, you saw the way his jaw clenched, a flicker of pain crossing his usually impassive face. He ignored the way the room tilted slightly when he bent down.
“Kento,” you started softly, hand resting on your small swell. “You look tired. Let me—”
“I’m fine, my love.”
..
He ate little himself. Pushed food around his plate while asking about your day, about the baby’s kicks, about whether the crib assembly instructions had made sense.
You let him, because arguing with Nanami Kento when he was in provider mode was like trying to redirect a river with your bare hands. He cleared the table, washed every dish by hand despite the dishwasher, wiped down the counters until they gleamed.
Then he drew you a bath, not too hot, with the lavender salts Shoko had recommended, and helped you in, his large hands gentle on your arms as if you were made of porcelain.
By the time night fell properly, the power flickered once, twice, then died completely. The air conditioner whirred to a stop. The city outside hummed on, but your apartment plunged into humid darkness, broken only by the faint orange glow of streetlights filtering through the curtains.
Kento gathered candles from the emergency drawer.
You were sweating, the loose tee sticking to your skin, the swell of your belly glistening. Kento helped you out of the damp shirt with trembling hands. In the candlelight, he wiped your skin with a cool cloth, gentle circles over your shoulders, down your back, then carefully across the curve of your stomach.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered against your temple. “Carrying life. Stronger than I’ve ever been.”
You dressed again in a fresh shirt. Then it hit him once more, the nausea. He bolted for the bathroom but didn’t make it far. Vomit splattered across the floorboards. His vision grayed. He collapsed against the wall, locking the door behind him on instinct so you wouldn’t see the worst of it.
“Kento?”
“Stay there, darling. I’ll handle it.”
But he didn’t. His footsteps faltered toward the bathroom. You rose from the couch, one hand supporting your lower back, the other cradling the swell. The hallway felt longer in the dark. You reached the bathroom door just as the sound of violent retching echoed out, nothing like the composed man you loved.
He was on his knees, one hand braced on the toilet rim, the other pressed to his stomach. Sweat poured down his face, blond hair sticking to his forehead.
“Kento! Are you okay? Open the door!”
He cleaned what he could with what little strength remained, then unlocked it. You were there immediately, despite his protests, cleaning the floor properly, helping him back to the master bed this time. He leaned heavily on you, hating every second of it.
Back in bed, you changed his sweat soaked clothes, pressed cold cloth to his forehead.
When consciousness returned, it was to the feel of cool fingers carding through his damp hair. Your touch. Soft, worried, trembling slightly. The room was still dark, but someone had lit candles. Their warm flicker danced across your face as you knelt beside the guest bed where you must have dragged him somehow, how, with your belly, he couldn’t fathom.
“Kento… you’re burning up.” Your voice cracked, tears already slipping down your cheeks. Hormones, he knew. You’d cried at a commercial yesterday. But this was different. “are you okay—”
He tried to sit up. The fever made the room spin, his body heavy as lead. “You shouldn’t be doing this.” His hand reached weakly for your wrist, but he stopped short, pulling back. “If this is viral… the baby.”
You shook your head, stubborn even through tears, still stroking his hair. “I’m making soup. Stay here.”
He locked the door after you left. The click echoed. For hours he sat on the edge of the guest bed in the stuffy darkness, head in hands, self loathing twisting like a curse in his chest. Pathetic. He was supposed to be the steady one. The man who had chosen the mundane grind over jujutsu sorcery because he wanted something real and safe for the woman he loved. For the child growing inside you. And here he was, reduced to this, a fevered wreck forcing his pregnant fiancee to play nurse.
He heard you outside the door eventually. Soft knocking.
“Kento? Please come out. you're worrying me. You need fluids.”
“Darling,” he called back, voice rough, “I just want you to be fine. Both of you. I’ll manage.”
You tried talking through the wood about nothing and everything, how the baby had kicked twice that hour, how you’d read another chapter of the parenting book he bought. Your voice was the only light in the suffocating heat.
Eventually, you called Shoko.
Shoko arrived like a calm shadow in the night, her usual lazy demeanor sharpened by concern. She’d brought a bag of supplies, and the power had flickered back on midway through her examination, though the ac struggled to catch up. She checked Kento thoroughly in the guest room, temperature, symptoms, blood pressure. He lay there, staring at the ceiling while she worked.
“Not viral in the dangerous sense” Shoko drawled, popping a cigarette between her lips out of habit but not lighting it out of respect for the pregnancy.
“Some nasty seasonal bug compounded by exhaustion. You salarymen really do try to kill yourselves with overtime, huh, Nanami? Should take a week to shake. Rest and hydrate.”
Kento’s eyes flicked to you, hovering in the doorway, hands on your belly.
“And her?”
Shoko turned to you with a small smile. “C’mere, mama.” She gently lifted the hem of your loose tee, exposing the soft, rounded swell of your stomach. Her fingers probed carefully, cool and professional, listening with a stethoscope. The baby gave a small flutter under her touch
“Strong heartbeat. Everything’s fine. Keep up with your prenatals, stay hydrated in this heat, and don’t lift heavy things. That includes your stubborn fiance if he tries to play tough again.”
Shoko leaned in and pressed a light, kiss to your cheek before leaving.
“Call if it gets worse. And you—” she pointed at Kento, “—let her fuss. She needs to feel useful too.”
The door closed behind Shoko. Silence settled, thick with the weight of everything unsaid.
You approached the bed with a bowl of warm soup, clear broth with soft vegetables, exactly what Shoko suggested. Kento watched you, the fever making his eyes glassy. When you sat beside him and lifted a spoonful, something in him finally fractured.
He turned his head away at first. “This isn’t what I envisioned for you,” he whispered. His voice cracked in a way it never did. “I wanted to give you everything. Stability, rest. Not… this. You’re carrying our child and I’m forcing you to do this like some invalid.”
She should be resting. Reading baby books. Not tending to me.
“I’ve never been good enough. Not for this life I chose. Not for you.”
You set the bowl aside and cupped his face with both hands, thumbs brushing away his tears.
“Kento. My love. You are the best man I know. You do everything for us, every single day. Let me do this for you.”
Kento watched it all through half-lidded eyes, inner turmoil raging.
But your touch was patient, loving. You hummed softly while adjusting his pillows. You kissed his knuckles when he apologized again.
“I hate it,” he admitted softly. “Hate making you worry. Hate that our year together, our engagement, our family… begins with me like this.”
You fed him slow spoonfuls of soup, your free hand never leaving his.
the fever pulled him toward sleep once more. “I love you,” he murmured, the words heavy with emotion. “Both of you. More than I can bear sometimes.”
You kissed his damp temple, just as he had done for you so many times. “And we love you. Rest now, Kento. I’ve got you.”
Kento’s mind drifted through the haze, pulling forth memories long buried. Back in high school, when the world felt heavier and his dreams were quieter, he had imagined this very future with you, stolen glances across the classroom, silent wishes during mundane moments. Even then, he had pictured standing before you, reciting vows that would bind your lives together. A quiet, steadfast dream of a life shared.
Now, that long ago vision was mere months away from becoming reality. The wedding would come after the baby’s birth, as you had both decided, peaceful, and perfect in its simplicity.
The words play in his head over and over now, as you look at him with tender eyes and caress his face softly.
I, Nanami Kento, take thee...
You leaned over him, your loose shirt hugging the soft swell of your belly as you carefully refilled the glass of water on the nightstand.
...to be my wedded wife...
Your fingers threaded gently through his damp hair, pushing it back from his forehead before replacing the cool cloth with fresh tenderness.
...to have and to hold from this day forward...
You adjusted the pillows once more, ensuring his broad frame was supported, your touch full of the same quiet strength that had drawn him to you all those years ago.
...for better, for worse...
A soft breath left your lips as you stirred the soup again, one hand instinctively cradling the small curve of your stomach where your child grew.
...for richer, for poorer...
You lifted the spoon to his mouth with patient care, blowing gently on each bite to cool it, never wavering even as exhaustion tugged at your eyes.
...in sickness and in health...
Tears traced hot paths down Kento’s flushed cheeks. You wipe them softly with your thumb, then pressed a lingering kiss to his burning temple.
...to love and to cherish...
You stayed beside him, slipping your smaller hand into his larger one, fingers intertwining as you hummed that familiar soothing melody under your breath. His hand tightens its grip.
The moment he stumbles into the apartment, you can tell he’s completely, utterly wasted. His shirt is wrinkled, one side untucked, and his hair is an absolute mess, strands sticking to his forehead. and there's a lazy, lascivious grin on his face as he sways toward you.
“Baaaaby,” he drags out the word as if it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever said, arms already reaching for you before he even makes it across the room. “You’re so pretty. So, so pretty.”
You barely have time to respond before he crashes into you, arms wrapping tight around your waist, his weight forcing you a step back. He noses at your neck, warm breath fanning over your skin before he presses a messy, lingering kiss just under your jaw.
“I missed you,” he mumbles, voice thick with intoxication. His lips trail sloppily along your jaw, missing his mark more than once. “I was thinking about you the whole time. Didn’t wanna drink, didn’t wanna talk—just wanted you.”
You exhale, half amused, half overwhelmed by how affectionate he gets when he’s like this. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m in love,” he corrects, pulling back just enough to cup your face in his hands. His eyes are dark, half-lidded, pupils blown out as he drinks you in. “So, so in love with you.”
“I thought about you the whole time. Even when they were talking about boring stuff, I was just thinking about you, and your pretty face, and your hair, and—and—” He hiccups, giggles, then kisses your cheek sloppily, missing his target entirely.
And then he kisses your lips, like he’s trying to make up for all the time he spent away. His lips are warm, a little sloppy, a little desperate, and when his tongue swipes against yours, you can taste the faint burn of whiskey.
“Mm, I love kissing you,” he mumbles against your skin. His hands slip down to your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. “Like, so much. I could do this forever.”
“You’ll regret it in the morning,” you tease, but he shakes his head wildly, pressing more kisses wherever he can reach.
“Nuh-uh,” he insists. “I’d regret not kissing you. That’s way worse.”
He groans into the kiss, fingers tangling into your hair as he backs you toward the bedroom. He’s trying so hard to be in control, to take the lead—pressing you up against the wall, hands gripping your waist as his mouth moves hungrily against yours. But he’s a mess. A beautiful, intoxicating mess. His lips miss their mark, his teeth graze too hard, and he keeps mumbling your name between kisses like he can’t bear to stop.
When you finally reach the bedroom, he tries to spin you around, guiding you onto the bed—but the second he pulls away to do so, he loses balance. His legs give out beneath him, and he stumbles backward onto the mattress with a dazed look on his face.
You can’t help but laugh. “Smooth.”
“Shh, c’mere,” he slurs, arms reaching for you like a needy child. And you do—crawling over him, straddling his hips as he lets out a breathy moan at the contact. His hands slide down your back, gripping your waistband, and with a drunken sort of determination, he tries to guide your hips against his. He rocks his hips up harshly once, making you fall onto him, kissing you.
“Feel that?” he murmurs against your lips, eyes dark and heavy. “S’all for you.”
You do feel it—the hard press of his arousal beneath you. He rocks your hips against him, slow and lazy, groaning softly at the friction. His fingers dig into your waist, gripping, guiding, needy. His kisses turn even sloppier, missing your lips entirely at times, trailing down your chin, your jaw, your neck.
But then, just as the heat between you starts to build, his movements slow. His grip loosens. His kisses falter. And before you even realize what’s happening, his head falls back against the pillows, breath steadying, lips slightly parted in sleep.
You blink down at him, still straddling his hips, your body burning from the half-finished tension he just left you with.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
A soft snore is his only response.
For a moment, you just stare. Then you sigh, running a hand through your hair before shaking your head with a quiet laugh. You should be frustrated. You should be annoyed. But looking at him like this—his lips still pink and swollen from kissing you, his brows slightly furrowed even in sleep, his arms still loosely resting around your waist—you can’t bring yourself to be mad.
Instead, you press a soft kiss to his temple before carefully shifting off of him, pulling the blankets up over both of you.
“Idiot” you murmur, but the fondness in your voice betrays you.
And despite the ache he left you with, you fall asleep smiling, tangled up in the warmth of him.
Warnings: use of mommy, toxic relationship, kidnapping, smut.
-
Megumi notices things.
That’s the problem.
The apartment smelled like laundry detergent and simmering broth.
That was the first thing Megumi noticed every morning now.
Clean cotton. Laundry detergent. Rice steaming in the kitchen. The faint medicinal scent of bandages because you still insisted on wrapping them around Megumi’s wrists even though they’d healed months ago.
He notices the way your hands shake when you hold a spoon too long. The way you check the locks three times before bed. The way you wake up gasping from nightmares you never explain.
He notices that you always sit beside him when he sleeps.
Like if you look away for even a second, he’ll disappear.
And maybe, a year ago, he would have. But now, now he wakes up reaching for you first
Your soap in the towels. Your shampoo lingering in the bathroom steam. Your oversized shirts hanging off his frame because none of his old clothes fit the life he'd settled into anymore.
Almost a year.
Ten months and three weeks, maybe. The exact number blurred after a while.
At first he'd counted obsessively. Scratches in the wall. Days between grocery deliveries. The changing weather through the sealed balcony windows. The rhythm of your classes. Your footsteps. Your insomnia.
Now he measured time by smaller things.
The way your hands trembled less on good days.
The nights you managed to sleep for an hour instead of sitting beside the bed staring at him like you were afraid he'd vanish if you blinked.
The way you started humming while cooking.
The way you smiled now when he ate.
—
The apartment smells like your soap.
Your laundry detergent. Your cooking. Your shampoo. Your skin.
Everything in this place belongs to you, and after ten months, somehow, everything belongs to him too.
Your oversized shirts hang off Megumi’s frame awkwardly, sleeves too short on his wrists now. Your toothbrush sits beside his because you bought him one after the third month.
He still uses your shampoo though.
Still sleeps in your bed.
Still eats whatever you put in front of him without complaint.
And every morning, when he wakes up and sees you in that chair beside the bed, half-asleep and staring at him like you’re making sure he’s still breathing, something ugly and soft twists in his chest.
Because nobody’s ever looked at him like that before.
Like he mattered enough to ruin yourself over.
—
Tonight, rain taps softly against the windows.
Megumi’s sprawled across the couch with your phone in his hand while waiting for you to come home from college.
The kitchen light was still on from when you'd rushed out earlier.
"Back by seven," you'd said, kissing his forehead absentmindedly while searching for your bag.
Like he had anywhere else to go.
He’d asked, once, months ago, if he could see the campus again.
You’d brought him printed photos the next day.
The library. The courtyard. The vending machines outside the math building.
You’d sat beside him eagerly while he flipped through them one by one, watching his reactions like they were life saving.
“I miss this bench,” he’d murmured quietly.
Two days later, you dragged the entire fucking bench cushion home because “it smelled like outside.”
You’d almost cried from happiness when he laughed.
So yeah. Maybe you’re insane.
But Megumi can’t remember the last time somebody listened when he spoke.
—
The front door opens, You stumble in exhausted, bag slipping off your shoulder. Megumi glances up immediately.
“You’re late.”
“You sound like a wife.”
“You sound tired.”
You stare at him for a second, then your shoulders relax.
That look again. That horrible soft look that makes his stomach ache.
“I’m gonna shower,” you mumble.
Megumi nods once. He takes your phone and scrolled lazily through it. You trusted him with it now.
At first you'd hovered nervously whenever he touched it, watching him like a cornered animal watching another one near its food. But eventually you'd started placing it directly in his hand after coming back from college.
No password, No restrictions. As if proving something.
See? I trust you. Please trust me too.
You disappear into the bathroom.
His thumb paused when a notification slid across the screen.
Unknown Number. He opens it.
hey sweetheart :)
john from mathematics
You looked good today.
Megumi stares.
Another text arrives immediately.
when am i coming over?
Something cold slides down his spine.
His jaw tightens. His fingers type before he can stop himself.
>She doesn’t want you.
Seen immediately.
tf? who is this
>Her boyfriend.
A pause.
boyfriend?? she literally asked for my notes leaning all over me bro
Megumi’s face goes blank.
Another message.
told me i should come over sometime too
>Stay away from her.
dude she approached ME
Megumi blocks the number instantly. His breathing turns uneven.
The phone nearly slipped from his hand as he breathed hard through his nose, vision swimming with something frantic and ugly.
Suggestive?
You?
His eyes moved around the apartment suddenly.
Your apartment, Your dishes, Your blankets, Your sofa.
The bed you let him sleep in while you stayed awake beside him night after night because your brain “wouldn’t turn off unless you could see him breathing.”
His throat tightened.
You told him he was enough. You told him you only needed him. You sat awake every night beside his bed because you loved him so much it was making you sick.
So why, why did someone else think they could have you?
Something hot and ugly tears through his chest.
she approached him.
she approached him.
The first thing he throws is the remote.
It cracks against the wall.
By the time you walk out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, hair damp against your neck,
the living room looks wrecked, and Megumi’s standing in the middle of it breathing hard.
You blink.
“…Megumi?”
He won’t look at you.
Your stomach drops instantly, you step closer carefully.
“What happened?”
“Who the fuck is John?”
Your eyebrows pull together.
“…What?”
“The math guy.”
His voice shakes.
“You flirt with him?”
what.
“He said you went up to him.”
Your brows furrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“He said you were suggestive with him.”
The apartment felt too hot.
You stepped closer slowly. “Megumi.”
“Don’t.” His voice cracked. “Don’t act like I’m crazy.”
Your expression tightened immediately at that word.
Crazy.
You stared at him for a long moment before speaking quietly.
“I never touched him.”
“But you liked it.”
“I didn’t.”
“He wanted to come over.”
“And?”
“And?!” Megumi laughed bitterly. “You just let people think they can have you?”
You scoffed suddenly, exhausted. “Oh my god.”
Ten months of your hands feeding him soup on sleepless nights.
Ten months of you sitting beside the bed watching him breathe.
Ten months of you bringing him pieces of the outside world because he said he missed them.
And now there was some random fucking guy texting you like that?
"You let me sit here every day thinking—" his voice rose suddenly, "thinking I was all you wanted—"
"You ARE."
"Then why is he texting you like that?!"
You stare at him for a long second before realization hits.
“My phone?”
“You said you loved me.”
The words come out raw.
Megumi finally looks at you and his eyes are furious and wet all at once.
“I believed you.”
Your face changes immediately. Not guilt. Offense.
"Why were you reading my messages?"
Megumi looked genuinely stunned.
"You gave me the phone."
"Not to snoop through my life."
His chest rose unevenly.
“How dare you go through my chats?”
“How dare you—”
His voice cracks.
“How dare you make me think I was enough for you?”
The room goes silent. Water still dripping from your hair.
Megumi’s chest rises sharply.
Megumi moved before thinking.
His tall frame crowded yours instantly, pushing you back against the hallway wall near the bedroom door.
“Megumi—”
“One year,” he says hoarsely. “One whole fucking year and I still don’t know what I am to you.”
You scoff bitterly and turn away.
“Oh my god.”
“Answer me.”
“No.”
You start walking toward the bedroom. Megumi follows instantly.
“No, answer me!”
“He was nobody!”
“Then why was he talking like that?!”
“Because men are fucking weird!”
“You approached him.”
“For notes!”
“You leaned on him.”
Your eye twitches.
“Oh my god, I can’t believe this.”
Megumi catches your wrist before you can leave again.
“Am I just furniture to you?”
what the hell.
"You keep me here. Dress me up in your clothes. Feed me your food."
His voice shook.
"And meanwhile you're flirting with random fucking guys at college?"
Your breathing sharpened immediately. The words hit something rotten inside you.
The switch flipped behind your eyes so fast it made his stomach drop.
Furniture. To put your things.
Your breathing sharpens. “You think that’s what this is?”
“I don’t know anymore.”
Something in you snapped.
You shoved him hard.
Megumi stumbled back in shock.
"I ruined myself for you."
Another shove.
“You think I ruined myself for you because you’re convenient?”
“I didn’t say—”
“You think I stay awake every fucking night because you’re furniture?”
Your voice rises, wild now.
“You think I dragged my entire life around you because I needed decoration?! I stopped sleeping because I thought you'd disappear."
Your voice cracked violently now.
"I bring you everything you ask for—"
"I didn't ask to be kidnapped!"
Wrong thing to say.
Wrong wrong wrong.
Megumi grips your towel while trying to stop you from walking away again.
The fabric slips slightly. You shove him hard.
“Don’t touch me!”
Your face emptied completely. Megumi felt dread flood him instantly.
"…Great, you ruined my mood.”
Your voice sounds dangerously thin.
“Probably for the entire fucking year.”
Megumi goes cold. Because what if you leave?
What if this is finally the moment you get tired of him?
What if you stop looking at him like he’s precious?
“No—”
You keep walking.
Megumi grabs you from behind instantly, arms crushing around your waist.
“Don’t.”
You elbow him hard in the ribs, he doesn't budge.
“Get OFF.”
“I didn’t mean it—”
“You did.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
He turns you toward him desperately. You shove his shoulders again.
Megumi drops to his knees.
Because for the first time in almost a year,
You looked tired of him. Not obsessed, or adoring. Just tired.
And suddenly the apartment didn't feel safe anymore.
Not without your attention. Not without your hands in his hair while he fell asleep. Not without your voice asking if he ate enough. Not without you sitting beside the bed every night watching him breathe.
The realization hit him all at once, horrifyingly clear.
He couldn't lose this.
his large hands wrap around your waist, forehead pressing against your stomach. entire body shaking.
His fingers clutch desperately at the towel around your waist like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go.
“I got jealous.”
You stare down at him silently.
His voice cracks again.
“I know it’s bad, I know, but I couldn’t breathe thinking about somebody touching you.”
His voice sounded wrecked now. You looked down at him silently.
His hands clenched in the towel at your hips.
"I don't want anyone else texting you like that."
His shoulders shook once.
"I don't want you to like anyone else."
The confession sounded pathetic. His face presses harder against you.
“You smell like home. Please don't leave me alone."
Your expression softens despite yourself. Megumi’s shoulders shake once.
“I’m sorry.”
You exhale slowly.
“…Get up.”
He shook his head.
“Megumi.”
Slowly, reluctantly, he stood.
Your anger faded almost immediately at the sight of his teary eyes.
You lifted both hands to his face carefully. He leaned into your palms instinctively.
Your thumbs wiped beneath his eyes.
“It’s okay,” you murmured quietly.
His breathing hitched.
“But don’t do that again.”
“Yes,” he answered immediately. “Yes, I won’t—”
You kissed him before he could finish.
A broken sound leaves him as he grabs your waist desperately, kissing you back like he’s starving.
His hands shake against your skin.
You kiss hard enough to silence every ugly thought in his head and Megumi chases after your mouth immediately, breathing you in like air after drowning.
You taste like warmth and home.
His fingers slid into your damp hair while his mouth moved against yours again and again and again, slower now, deeper.
“There,” he whispers shakily between kisses. “There you are.”
Your fingers slide into his hair.
He practically folds into you.
All of him bent toward your touch like something domesticated.
His lips move across your jaw slowly, tenderly now.
“I love you,” he whispers against your skin.
Like it hurts, like it heals him too.
You kiss him again before he can spiral back into apologies.
Megumi lifts you easily, hands under your thighs instinctively.
You wrap around him without thought.
His mouth stays on yours the entire walk to the bedroom.
Slow kisses, lingering ones.
The kind where he keeps pulling back only enough to look at you for a second before needing another.
-
The kiss deepens again, messy and needy. Megumi’s mouth trails from your lips to your jaw, then higher, licking a slow, wet stripe along your cheek like he can’t get enough of your taste.
He does it again on the other side, then presses open-mouthed kisses everywhere, your temple, the corner of your eye, the bridge of your nose, while his hands roam your bare back, holding you flush against him.
You laugh breathlessly, pushing lightly at his shoulders even as heat curls in your stomach. “Megumi… yes, yes, I just showered and now I’m sweating again. I need to go shower again.”
He shakes his head immediately, arms tightening around you, tall frame refusing to let even an inch of space form between your bodies.
“No. Don’t go. Please, baby. I don’t want to be away from you even for a minute right now.”
His voice is hoarse, still carrying that lingering sadness from the fight, eyes glassy as he nuzzles into your neck. “I was so stupid earlier. Let me stay close. I need you.”
You hum, fingers threading through his dark hair. The static in your head whispers darker thoughts.
maybe I should lock the windows tomorrow. Screw them shut. Maybe tie his wrists again at night, just for a while, to remind him.
He’s been so good for months, but that text rattled everything. You can’t risk him thinking about leaving. Not after almost a year of shaping him into this.
“Hmm. Let’s shower then,” you finally say.
He lights up, carrying you to the bathroom without setting you down.
The steam fills the bathroom quickly as you turn the shower on, warm water cascading down. It’s been nearly a month since you last washed him yourself, Megumi’s been handling his own showers lately, but after tonight’s fight and the raw need still humming between you, you want your hands on him again.
You step under the spray first, pulling him in after you by the wrist. His tall frame follows obediently, towel discarded, water immediately slickening his dark hair and running down the lean muscles you’ve kept nourished for almost a year.
You start with his hair. Your fingers slide into the wet strands, massaging shampoo through his scalp with slow, firm circles. Megumi’s eyes flutter half-closed, a soft sigh escaping him as he tilts his head into your touch.
You rinse it carefully, then let your hands roam lower, tracing soap over his neck, thumbs pressing gently along the sides, feeling the tension melt under your palms. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing.
Your hands drift further, spreading lather across his broad shoulders and down to his pecs. You knead them slowly, feeling the firm muscle give slightly under your touch, your thumbs brushing over his nipples until they pebble. Megumi bites his lower lip, dark eyes fixed on your face with that intense, sensual focus. he doesn’t speak, but his breathing has grown heavier.
You take your time on his abs, palms gliding over the defined ridges with deliberate slowness. You trace every line, feeling the way they flex under your touch, soap making your hands slip smoothly. One hand presses flat against his stomach, rubbing in wide circles, while the other follows the V-line lower before pulling back teasingly. His cock twitches visibly, half-hard already, but he stays still, letting you explore like he’s your personal canvas.
“You’re so tense here,” you murmur, rubbing deeper into his abs. “Been taking care of yourself too much lately.”
Megumi nods, voice low and rough. “Missed your hands, mama.”
You continue downward, soaping his thighs and legs, then back up to his face. Your fingers cup his jaw, thumbs stroking his cheeks and brushing over his bitten lips. He leans into it, eyes never leaving yours, that sensual glaze deepening as water streams between you.
He suddenly leans in and kisses you, slow, deep, and full of unspoken want. His tongue brushes yours gently, reverently, as his arms hover at his sides, not grabbing, just waiting for permission. You kiss him back, tasting the water on his lips, but pull away after a moment with a soft warning.
“You should ask first, baby,” you say quietly, voice laced with that familiar possessive edge. “Don’t get greedy just because I’m touching you.”
He nods quickly, forehead resting against yours for a second, eyes heavy with love and apology. “Sorry… I just want to take care of you too. Like you do for me.”
He doesn’t voice the full depth of it.
how badly he wants to run his soapy hands over your tummy fat, tracing the soft curve there with worshiping strokes. How he craves palming your breasts, feeling their weight as he lathers them, thumbs circling your nipples.
He imagines sliding his hands along your shoulders and neck, spine, massaging gently, then down to your face and ears, cleaning every inch. He wants to wash your feet, letting you rub them against his own if you want.
Most of all, he aches to press his soapy body fully against yours, stomach to stomach, chest to chest, forehead to forehead, sliding and grinding slick and slow while you use him however you like, his hands on your back and waist.
But he keeps it locked inside, only conveying it through another soft kiss to your shoulder as you continue washing him. His hands stay respectful, lightly steadying your waist when you shift, but he doesn’t push.
You feel the tension in him, the way he trembles slightly under your hands, and a dark little thrill runs through you. Good boy. Stay mine. The thoughts of locking the windows tighter later flicker again, but for now you focus on the warmth of his skin, the way he melts under your control, completely, hopelessly in love after all these months.
_
After the shower, steam still curls lazily in the bathroom air. You step out first, wrapping a towel around yourself. Megumi follows, water droplets tracing down his tall, lean body. He looks heartbreakingly beautiful like this, hair damp, eyes soft and devoted, skin flushed from the heat and your earlier touches.
He goes straight to your closet, towel hanging low on his hips. He pulls out one of your shirts and tries tugging it over his broad shoulders. The fabric stretches tight across his chest and arms, the sleeves riding up awkwardly. He frowns, a sad little shadow crossing his face as he tugs at the hem.
“They’re all too tight for you now,” you say softly, watching him from the bed. “My baby’s grown so much on the food I cook for him. I’ll bring you new clothes tomorrow.”
Megumi turns to you with those dark, glassy eyes. He drops the shirt and steps closer, leaning down to kiss you, slow at first, then deeper, hungrier. His hands slide around your waist, pulling you against his still-damp body. He tries to push further, fingers slipping under your towel, mouth moving to your neck with clear intent.
You gently catch his wrists, pushing them back. “Not tonight, baby. Be good for me.”
He whimpers softly, still a little angsty from the earlier fight. “Please… I want to eat you out. I need to taste you. Let me apologize properly with my tongue.”
You shake your head, stroking his cheek. He’s so needy. So perfect. But I can’t let him think he can push me. “Later. Be patient.”
He obeys, pulling on a random pair of your soft black shorts that cling snugly to his hips and leaving his chest bare. You slip into similar shorts and a thin spaghetti strap top.
The moment you’re both dressed, Megumi slips behind you. He reaches over and deliberately turns the AC lower, making the room colder. Then his tall frame presses against your back, arms wrapping around your waist as he snuggles in close.
He starts slowly humping against your ass, gentle, needy rolls of his hips, his cock already hard inside the shorts.
“Hmm” you sigh, half-warning.
“Please,” he begs, voice trembling against your ear. “Pleaseeeeee, darling. I’ll be a good boy. I won’t move too much. Just let me stay inside you. I need to feel you so bad.”
You exhale, torn between control and the warm pull of his desperation. “Fiiiine.”
He doesn’t waste a second. One hand slips into the front of your shorts and under your panties. His fingers find your clit, rubbing slow circles until it swells under his touch, puffy and sensitive. You swat at his arm.
“Hnnm, be good,” you warn.
“Sorry, love,” he whispers, but pinches your swollen clit lightly, teasing. “Sorry… I just love how it feels when it gets like this.” He slips two fingers lower, pushing into your pussy, pumping slowly while his thumb keeps torturing your clit. He pulls them out and licks them clean with a filthy moan right by your ear. “Taste so good already.”
Then he tugs your shorts and panties aside just enough. You feel the blunt head of his cock nudging at your entrance. He pulls your hips back against him, one arm wrapped soothingly around your waist as he kisses the back of your neck, your shoulder, your ear. He pushes in slowly, inch by thick inch, bottoming out with a deep grunt.
You whine sharply when he hits your g-spot perfectly.
“Fuck—” he groans, voice wrecked. “So warm… so tight around me.”
In that tight, overwhelming fullness, he steadies your squirming with strong hands, kissing along your neck. “Can I move? Please? Just a little?”
You’re so stuffed full it’s dizzying. You nod frantically.
He starts moving, slow, lazy thrusts that grind right against your g-spot with every roll of his hips. You warn him breathlessly, “Don’t cum. You can do anything else, but don’t you dare cum inside me yet.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he breathes obediently, nuzzling into you. “Thank you, mommy.”
He keeps the rhythm gentle and loving at first, but his free hand finds your swollen clit again. He pinches it, slaps it lightly, making wet sounds every time his palm connects. The way it swells makes his mouth water. “God, I want it in my mouth so bad,” he mutters against your skin.
You’re moaning softly, body rocking with his slow thrusts. He angles his hips deliberately, nudging that spot over and over while kissing every inch of your neck and shoulders he can reach. The mutual edging builds until you snap and ask him to just do it properly.
His breath catches. “Thank you— thank you, princess. Thank you, mommy. I’ll make you feel so good.”
He suddenly turns you over onto your back in avery careful movement, pulling your legs over his shoulders. He spreads your pussy lips with his fingers and spits directly on your clit, watching it glisten before gliding back inside you in one smooth thrust.
You moan embarrassingly loud as he bottoms out again. He kisses you deeply, sucking on your tongue while he starts fucking you properly, hips snapping with controlled desperation. Every thrust makes you cry out louder, the angle devastating.
“Yes,” he groans, eyes wild with love and possession. “This way you won’t leave me. I’ll make sure you never leave me. You love me. I’m making you feel so good, aren’t I, baby?”
He rubs your clit while thrusting, and the it hits hard. You jerk, trying to shove him off. “Gumi— wait—”
But he doesn’t listen. One large hand pins both of yours above your head, the other still working your clit relentlessly. His thrusts never falter. “I’ve got you, baby. Let go for me.”
The pressure builds unbearably. You cum hard, clenching around him, and he follows right after with a broken moan.
“Where do I cum, mommy? Please tell me—”
“Inside,” you gasp, still riding the high. “Inside, baby.”
He buries himself deep and fills you with hot spurts, groaning your name like a prayer. The moment he finishes, he’s begging again, voice hoarse and needy.
“Please let me eat you out. Please, I need to clean you up. I need to taste us together.”
You’re dazed, overwhelmed. “Yesss—”
The moment the last shudder of your orgasm fades, Megumi is already begging, voice hoarse and desperate against your neck.
“Please, mommy… let me eat you out. I need to clean you up. I need to taste us together. Please, I’ll be so good for you.”
You’re still dazed, body buzzing, pussy throbbing from how full he made you. “Yesss…” you breathe, the word slipping out in a hazy moan.
With a low, possessive sound in his throat, Megumi grabs your thighs and throws your legs over his shoulders, folding you open for him.
His eyes are wild with obsession as he stares down at your swollen, cum-filled pussy.
“Fuck… look at you,” he whispers reverently. “So messy because of me. So pretty and swollen.”
He dives in without another second of hesitation.
His mouth is hot and greedy. He starts by dragging his tongue slowly up your slit, collecting the mix of your cum and his own in one long, filthy stroke. The wet, obscene sound of him slurping fills the cold room. He moans deeply into your pussy, the vibration making your hips jerk.
You try to push him away half-heartedly, hands pressing weakly against his shoulders, but he doesn’t budge. His tall frame is too strong, too consumed by need as he dives in again.
“Mmm— tastes so good, princess,” he mumbles against your folds, lips shiny. “My cum leaking out of you… I did that. I filled my mommy up.”
His tongue pushes inside you, thrusting shallowly as he sucks gently, drinking everything he can reach. He’s thorough, almost worshipful, but there’s a rough edge to it, the way his fingers dig into your thighs, keeping you spread wide even when you squirm. He sucks on your outer lips, then moves higher to your poor, abused clit.
It’s still swollen from all the pinching and slapping earlier. Megumi groans at the sight, mouth literally watering.
“God, it’s so puffy…” He flicks his tongue over it rapidly, then seals his lips around the sensitive bud and sucks hard, cheeks hollowing. The pressure is overwhelming. You cry out, back arching sharply.
“Gumi— fuck— too much—”
But he doesn’t stop. He alternates between sucking your clit and licking broad stripes through your folds, pushing his tongue back inside you to chase more of the creamy mess. His nose grinds against your clit while his tongue works deeper. One of his hands slides up, spreading your pussy lips wider with his fingers so he can bury his face even further.
You’re so damn loud, moaning and whimpering without control, the sounds echoing in the chilly bedroom. Every wet slurp and desperate moan from him only makes you wetter.
Suddenly the pressure spikes. Your thighs start shaking violently around his head.
“M-megumi— wait— I’m—”
You squirt hard.
A clear rush of fluid hits his tongue and chin. Megumi moans like he’s the one cumming, eyes rolling back slightly as he opens his mouth wider, slurping and drinking every drop like he’s dying of thirst. He presses his tongue flat against you, letting it splash across his face while he keeps sucking on your clit through the orgasm.
“Holy shit,,” he gasps between swallows, voice wrecked with awe and love. “… so fucking perfect. I love you.”
He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he gets more intense. His hands grip your ass, lifting your hips slightly so he can devour you at a better angle. He alternates between long, slow licks that soothe your oversensitive flesh and sharp, fast flicks on your clit that make you see stars.
You shove at his head weakly, still trembling. “Where… where the fuck did you learn that?”
Megumi lifts his glistening face just enough to look at you, lips swollen, chin dripping with you. His eyes are dark, glassy, and terrifyingly devoted.
“I learned it all from watching you. I’d do anything to make you feel this good… so you’ll never want anyone else. So you’ll never leave me.”
He dives back down immediately, sucking your clit into his mouth again while sliding two fingers inside you, curling them against your g spot. The overstimulation borders on painful, but the pleasure keeps crashing over you in waves.
You’re a mess, moaning his name brokenly, fingers tangled tight in his dark hair, hips grinding against his face despite yourself. He takes every bit of it, humming happily against your pussy like this is his purpose in life.
Between filthy, wet sounds, he keeps whispering praises,
“That’s it… use my face. Cum as much as you want. I’m yours. Your good boy. Your only boy.”
Megumi keeps eating you out long after you’ve fallen apart, slow and loving now, cleaning every inch with soft kitten licks until you’re oversensitive and twitching.
Only then does he crawl up your body, face shiny with your release, and kiss you deeply so you can taste yourself on his tongue.
“See?” he whispers against your lips, voice thick with toxic affection. “No one else will ever love you like I do. No one else will ever worship you like this. I’m never letting you go either.”
He stays curled around you after, still licking his lips occasionally, completely, pathetically addicted to you.
Because Megumi notices things. And lately, he’s noticed you love him back.
The key turned silently in your apartment lock just after sunset. You were in the kitchen, still in your work blouse and pencil skirt, chopping vegetables with more force than necessary while venting to the empty room. “—and then this absolute clown of a defendant thinks he can charm the jury with ‘it was just a misunderstanding.’ Misunderstanding my ass. The financial trails are blatant laundering, and if the judge doesn’t see it, I’m going to lose my mind—”
Arms slid around your waist from behind. You jerk, knife clattering against the cutting board as adrenaline spiked.
“Fuck! Tanaka!” You twisted, heart hammering, only to meet his low, velvet chuckle and the familiar scent of him, clean soap and something faintly metallic from whatever secretive work he did.
“Language, counselor,” he teased, voice right by your ear. His large hands splayed across your stomach, pulling you back against his tall frame as he nuzzled into your neck. “It’s only me. Breathe.” One hand stroked soothing circles over your ribs while the other caressed your hip, gentle and grounding. He knew exactly how much his surprise entrances startled you, and he loved it, yet the way he immediately softened the flinch with touch always melted your irritation.
You exhaled shakily, leaning into him. “I swear I’m getting you a cowbell. Or a tracking app. Seven years and you still do this.”
“Wouldn’t be any fun otherwise.” He pressed a slow kiss just below your ear, then another along your jaw. Without prompting, you reached up and carefully removed his 'special' spectacles, folding them and setting them on the counter. The change was immediate, his body relaxed heavier against yours, completely dependent now. His eyes, unfocused and strikingly beautiful in their milky distance, stared somewhere past your shoulder. He turned fully blind without them, yet in your apartment he moved like he owned every inch, guided by memory, sound, and the map he kept of your body under his hands.
You kissed him properly, slow and deep. He responded instantly, hands roaming, tracing your spine, slipping down to toy with the waistband of your skirt, fingertips dipping just beneath the fabric in lazy, suggestive strokes. Not rushing. Just needing contact. You were his eyes, his anchor.
“Bad day?” he murmured against your lips between kisses, noticing the way you're a little eager today.
He puts his specs on.
“The worst. Client’s guilty as sin but paying enough to keep us fighting. Opposing counsel’s a shark. I spent three hours today arguing chain of custody on evidence that should’ve been open-and-shut.” You kept talking as you guided him toward the living room, his cane hooked around your wrist in that playful, improper way he loved, tugging you closer like a leash. You laughed despite yourself.
He smirked, aloof and teasing even as he clung. “Keeps you close.”
On the couch he maneuvered you until he sat on the floor between your legs, your calves resting over his broad shoulders. His strong hands went to work immediately, thumbs pressing deep into the tight muscles of your calves, massaging away the ache of heels and courtrooms. You sighed in relief, fingers carding through his blonde-and-black hair.
“Tell me more,” he said quietly, focused entirely on you. “Every stupid detail. I like hearing you get fired up.”
So you rambled about crooked accountants, exhausted judges, and the criminal who’d tried to intimidate you in the hallway. Tanaka listened, humming occasionally, his hands never stopping their soothing work. Every so often his fingers would drift higher, tracing the backs of your knees or slipping back to your waistband.
Eventually you tugged him up. The kiss that followed was heated, your back against the couch cushions as he hovered over you. You discarded his glasses again when they bumped your cheek, then kissed his eyelids, the bridge of his nose, the faint scars near his temples. “I love your eyes like this,” you whispered. “No barriers. Just you.”
He shivered, hands everywhere under your blouse, mapping skin he knew better than his own. “You’re all I see anyway.”
Later, after dinner and more of your work stories, you suggested the game. Blind man’s bluff. He always insisted on being “it,” cane set aside as he prowled your living room with arms outstretched, guided by your soft laughter and footsteps. “You’re terrible at hiding,” he teased, cornering you near the window with eerie precision. His hands found your waist, pulling you in triumphantly.
You tried to slip away one more time. Tanaka stepped forward, only his foot caught the edge of the rug. You lunged, grabbing him, your hand cradling the back of his head as you both tumbled to the floor. You landed on top, breathless, immediately checking him. “Shit—are you hurt?”
His unfocused eyes were wide open, staring into nothing, but his expression was soft. Those long fingers came up to cup your face, tracing your features with aching reverence. He drew you down until your foreheads touched, then nuzzled into your cheek, your neck, breathing you in like oxygen. “Not even a scratch. Best fall I’ve ever taken.” His voice dropped, almost pained with how much he felt. God, I want to marry her. Right now. Wake up to this every day. Make it official so the whole damn world knows she’s the one who keeps me steady in the dark.
The thought had been gnawing at him for months, painfully sweet, lodged in his chest every time you removed his glasses and became his entire world. Seven years. You, the fiercely dedicated lawyer who came home drained yet still made space for his secretive life and sudden appearances. He wanted rings, vows, forever. But the words stuck. Not yet. Not until the perfect moment.
On the floor like that, legs tangled, he played with the waistband of your skirt once more, fingertips tracing lazy circles against your skin, suggestive but unhurried. You stayed there for a long time, trading slow kisses and quiet conversation.
He pulled you closer with the hook of his cane later when you tried to get up for water, tugging you back down with a playful smirk. “Stay. The water can wait. I can’t.”
In the quiet, his mind kept circling back to marriage.
how he’d ask, where, whether you’d want something quiet or big. The thought made his chest ache with how badly he wanted it.
...
i finlly wrote somethingggg on this guyy trust ive got more in my drafts...
request: Hi just want you to know i do really enjoy some fluff toji its so rare to find toji being so soft to reader.. anyway soft toji ftw!!
requested by: @pedrikhumaira
maybe this wasn't what you had in mind, but i this immediately came to my mind once i read your request! i hope you like it just as much
.
The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional distant rumble of Tokyo traffic far below. Moonlight sliced through the half closed curtains, casting pale stripes across the rumpled bedsheets. Toji lay on his side, one massive arm draped over the edge of the mattress, his broad shoulders hunched inward as another wave of nausea twisted through him like a knife.
He was burning. Sweat soaked the back of his neck and plastered dark strands of hair to his forehead. Every breath felt like sandpaper scraping his throat. He hadn’t felt this weak since… hell, he couldn’t even remember. The great Toji Fushiguro, reduced to this pathetic heap because of some damn stomach bug or bad takeout or whatever the hell it was.
And you were the one moving around the tiny kitchen like a ghost in one of his old shirts that hung loose on your smaller frame.
She shouldn’t be doing this, he thought, teeth clenched against another surge of bile. Not for me.
He heard the soft pad of your bare feet, then the clink of a spoon against ceramic. The smell of rice porridge, simple, warm, the kind you’d thrown together from whatever was left in the pantry, drifted in. His stomach rebelled at the thought of food, but the idea of you offering it made something tight and painful lodge in his chest.
You appeared in the doorway, bowl in one hand, a damp cloth in the other. Your face was etched with worry, eyes soft in the dim light. “Toji? Hey… I brought something light. You need to eat a little before the next dose of medicine, okay?”
He tried to sit up. The room spun. A low sound escaped him, half groan, half curse as he slumped back. You were there instantly, setting the bowl on the nightstand and pressing cool hands to his fevered shoulders, helping him lean against the headboard. Your strength was nothing compared to his on a normal day.
Too young for this shit.
The thought looped in his head again, vicious and familiar. You were what, ten, twelve years younger? Bright eyed, still carrying that spark he’d lost somewhere between the years of scraping by on blood money. He wasn’t rich. Never had been, not really. The jobs paid enough to keep the lights on and put food on the table, but there was no cushion. No safety net. What the hell did he have to offer you besides calloused hands and a body that was already starting to ache in the mornings?
He didn’t say any of it. Never did.
Instead he let you press the cloth to his forehead, wiping away sweat with gentle strokes. Your touch was feather light, almost reverent, like you were afraid he might shatter. The irony burned worse than the fever.
“Open up a little?” you murmured, lifting a spoonful of porridge. Steam curled up between you two.
Toji grunted, parting his lips. The food tasted like ash, but he swallowed. It immediately lodged halfway, threatening to come back up. His throat worked painfully.
You noticed right away. “Meds first, then more food. I know they get stuck. We’ll go slow.”
He watched you through half-lidded eyes as you fetched the pills and a glass of water. Your movements were efficient despite the exhaustion tugging at your shoulders, you’d been up with him for hours now. When he’d first bolted to the bathroom and started retching so violently his vision whited out, you hadn’t hesitated. No complaints. Just warm hands on his back, holding his hair, whispering that it was okay, that you had him.
What if it’s worse next time? The thought hit him like a curse. What if it’s not some shitty bug but something that needs real doctors? shit i can’t afford. His fingers twitched against the sheets. He imagined you, even more tired, trying to hold him together while bills piled up. Imagined himself old, gray threading through his hair, body finally giving out after too many fights and too many nights like this. You’d be in your prime and stuck wiping his ass, spoon-feeding him, sacrificing your own life because he’d been selfish enough to keep you.
you didn’t deserve this. You deserved someone your age. Someone with prospects. Someone who could give you stability instead of late-night vomiting and emotional baggage.
But when you tilted the glass to his lips, helping him swallow the pills, he drank. Because your eyes were so full of quiet determination it hurt.
“Good job” you whispered, smiling that small, tired smile that always twisted something in his gut, patting his head. “A little more porridge now. Just a few bites so your stomach isn’t completely empty.”
You fed him slowly, spoonful by spoonful. He hated how weak he felt how his hand shook when he tried to take the spoon himself and you gently pushed it away. “Let me, Toji. I’ve got you.”
She’s got me. The words echoed mockingly in his head. This tiny woman, doing all the heavy lifting while he lay here like a useless log. He could feel the heat radiating off his skin, the way his muscles, usually coiled steel, trembled with chills. Another wave of nausea hit, he turned his head sharply, breathing through it. You rubbed slow circles on his back, right between his shoulder blades where the tension lived.
“Shh. Breathe. It’ll pass.”
He wanted to tell you to go back to bed. To stop wasting your youth on an ass who couldn’t even keep his dinner down. Instead he leaned into your touch, just slightly. Greedy bastard that he was.
Time blurred. You changed the cool cloth on his forehead multiple times, helped him to the bathroom when the vomiting returned with a vengeance, holding him steady as he retched into the toilet, one arm wrapped around his waist like you could actually support his weight if he collapsed. Your voice never wavered, soft encouragements and little jokes to distract him.
By the time the worst of it seemed to ebb, the sky outside was beginning to lighten into early dawn. You coaxed him back to bed, fluffing the pillows behind his back so he could semi recline. Another small bowl of porridge appeared, thinner this time, easier on his raw throat.
He let you feed him again. Each bite felt heavier than the last, not from the food but from the weight in his chest. Forever? he thought as you wiped a stray grain from the corner of his mouth with your thumb. What if this becomes her life, taking care of me when I inevitably break down?
Yet here you were, stronger in ways he’d never mastered. Patient. Loving. Unshakable even when he was at his most disgusting and vulnerable.
Toji caught your wrist gently as you moved to take the empty bowl away. His grip was weak, but his thumb brushed over your pulse point, steady, warm, alive.
“…Thanks” he rasped. It was all he could manage. The rest, the fear of the future, the certainty that you should do better, stayed locked behind his teeth.
You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his damp temple. “Always, 'ji. Rest now. I’m right here.”
He closed his eyes, the fever pulling him under, but your presence anchored him.
for tonight, at least, he let your softness wrap around the sharp edges of his thoughts like a bandage.
You deserved the world.
And for some reason he couldn’t fathom, you kept choosing him instead.
The living room floor is cool against your back, but Megumi’s body above you is warm, almost feverish. His shirt has been discarded somewhere near the couch, and your own is shoved uselessly up under your arms, bunched just below your collarbones. He has you pinned so easily, one knee between your thighs, his weight carefully balanced so you’re held but never crushed.
His mouth is on your breast. Megumi doesn’t rush. He never does. He kisses the soft underside first, then drags his lips upward in a lazy trail before latching onto your nipple with gentle, rhythmic suction. The wet heat of his tongue circles, presses, tastes. He loves your tits, and right now it shows in the way his lashes flutter half shut, in the faint, contented sound that vibrates from his throat every time he pulls you deeper into his mouth.
He switches to the other breast, leaving the first one shiny and marked with several blooming hickeys. His free hand slides up your thigh, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shorts. Without warning he hooks behind your knee and folds your leg up toward your chest. The movement presses your thigh firmly against your breasts, squishing them together and forcing them to bulge softly outward.
Megumi exhales through his nose, watching the way your soft flesh yields and molds under the pressure. having your tits squished and pushed up like this is one of his favorite things. You’ve caught him doing it absentmindedly after rough missions before, pulling you into his lap, sliding a hand under your shirt, and just pressing your breasts together with both palms like it drains the tension out of his shoulders.
“Stress relief” he’d muttered once, almost embarrassed. Tonight he doesn’t say it, but the way he stares makes it obvious.
He pokes one of the puffed, flushed mounds with two fingers, watching the skin dimple then bounce back. Another gentle poke, then a slow caress with his thumb right along the edge where your thigh meets your breast. He leans down and kisses the inside of your raised knee, open mouthed and lingering, before trailing more kisses down the soft skin of your thigh.
You reach for him, fingers threading into his messy black hair, then sliding down to cup his face. Lipstick is already smudged across his cheekbones and lips from earlier kisses. There are faint hickeys on his neck and collarbones, and one just below his abs where you’d gotten carried away. Your hair tie is looped around his wrist like always, he steals it every time you’re together.
“gumi…” you whisper, thumb brushing over his pretty cheek.
He turns his head just enough to kiss your palm, then looks back at your squished chest with that quiet, hungry focus. His hand keeps your thigh pinned against you as he leans in again, pressing more slow, sucking kisses along the upper curves of your breasts, leaving fresh marks that will darken by morning. He’s so careful, no teeth, just lips and tongue and the faintest scrape of them when he gets lost in it.
You cradle his face with both hands now, thumbs stroking his cheeks. “You’ve got such pretty, pretty cheeks” you murmur, a little breathless.
he lets you trace his features, your fingertips brushing over his long lashes, grazing his eyelids so gently it makes him blink slowly. He’d let you poke his eyes if you really wanted, he trusts you that much. You smear the already smudged lipstick more across his lower lip with your thumb. He catches your finger between his teeth in a soft bite, to hold you there while his tongue brushes the pad.
You smile softly and he releases it, only to surge up and kiss your mouth properly, with a soft moan. It’s deep, yearning. His bare chest presses against your squished breasts, skin on skin, heartbeat to heartbeat. One of his hands slides under your back to pull you even closer, like he can’t stand even an inch of space between you.
When he finally breaks the kiss, a thin string of saliva connects your lips for a second, he comes back in to lick it away from your lips. He rests his forehead against yours, breathing a little heavier.
You smile and drag your nails lightly down his nape, feeling the way he shivers. Your hands roam his back, tracing the lean muscle and the sharp lines of his shoulder blades. He lets you, encourages it, even, arching slightly into your touch. His own hands are just as restless, one kneading your breast, thumb brushing over the nipple, the other sliding up and down your thigh, occasionally squeezing the soft flesh.
You accidentally bump his arm while reaching for his hair again. He huffs a tiny, fond breath against your skin and catches your wrist, kissing the inside of it before letting go.
He returns his mouth to your chest, nuzzling between your squished breasts, kissing and licking every inch he can reach. One hand gently squeezes your breast again, savoring the way it makes your tits pillow and overflow. His other hand caresses your side, your waist, the curve of your ass, touching everything like he’s memorizing you.
You brush his bangs back from his eyes and he looks up at you through them, gaze soft and completely unguarded. The love in his expression is almost embarrassing in its intensity.
looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.
He presses one last, lingering kiss to the swell of your breast, right over a fresh hickey, then rests his cheek against your chest, listening to your heartbeat while his fingers continue their lazy exploration of your body.
“sugartits” he says quietly, voice low and rough around the edges. like he’s testing how the new name feels on his tongue. He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then down your neck.
The apartment was quiet except for the soft patter of rain against the window and the steady rhythm of Yuji’s breathing behind you. He was eighty years old, yet his body remained powerfully youthful, broad chest, thick arms corded with muscle, abs carved like stone, and those massive hands that could destroy curses or hold you like you were the most precious thing in the world. You were only twenty-eight. You knew the age gap was ridiculous. He’d never expected to fall this hard for someone so much younger, but you were his favorite girl, and he was just as obsessed with you.
You’re his favorite girl. He tells you constantly, a little dorky even after all these decades. And you’re obsessed right back. The way he can lift you without effort, pin you down with just one arm, or wrap those thighs around you like steel cables. A delicious, dripping fear that makes your thighs clench and your heart race. He could break you so easily. He never would, but the knowledge sits hot and heavy in your belly.
He’s a monster to the world, Sukuna’s vessel turned something far more dangerous with age, but to you he’s the sweet man who kisses your forehead and teases you for being clingy.
You couldn’t sleep.
You lie curled against Yuji in the futon, the room still dark with the hush of early morning. His body radiates heat like a furnace, eighty years of honed power wrapped in that deceptively youthful, impossibly strong frame. One thick, muscular thigh is wedged firmly between your legs, pressing right against your bare pussy(your fault for not wearing em, really). His broad chest rises and falls steadily under your cheek. Hot breaths fan across the sensitive skin of your neck with every exhale, and one of his awfully big hands rests possessively over your waist, fingers spanning so wide they nearly wrap halfway around you.
How are you supposed to sleep peacefully like this?
You shift restlessly, trying to settle. The friction of his thigh against your already slick folds makes you bite your lip. Unconscious at first, your hips roll slowly, grinding down on the hard muscle. Soft, needy little movements that grow more desperate the longer you stay trapped in that half-dream state. Your breathing quickens. A tiny whimper escapes.
Yuji wakes instantly, instincts sharp even after all these years. His hand on your waist tightens, the other sliding up your back. He feels the wet heat soaking his thigh, your unconscious grinding, and a low, hungry groan rumbles in his chest.
“Ojisan—” you whisper, voice shaky with embarrassment and that familiar flicker of fear. He’s so much bigger suddenly, awake and focused entirely on you.
He shifts, and the movement presses his thigh harder against you. A low, sleepy chuckle rumbles in his chest, warm and affectionate. “Hey, hey… none of that, pretty.” His voice is still husky. One big hand slides up your back, soothing, while the other stays clamped on your waist, keeping you right where you are. “You need me? That’s okay. That’s more than okay. My favorite girl doesn’t have to apologize for wanting me.”
You try to hide your face in his chest again, mumbling another soft “I’m sorry—” but he gently catches your chin, tilting your face up. His eyes are soft, loving… but there’s a darker glint beneath it. He likes this. The way your pulse jumps when he looms over you.
“that scare you, baby?” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. His hand on your waist tightens, fingers digging in just enough to remind you how easily he could bruise if he weren’t so careful. “You were grinding so sweet on me. Dreamin’ about my cock already?”
His free hand slid down your body. Thick fingers traced your slick folds, circling your clit with practiced ease.
You nodded frantically, a broken “yes” spilling out as two of his fingers pushed inside you, stretching you open. He curled them just right, stroking that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes while his palm ground against your clit. His weight kept you pinned, breaths hot against your neck as he nipped at your skin.
“Say it properly,” he growled, scissoring his fingers deeper. “You’ve been calling me ojisan for months. I’ve been patient, sweetheart.”
You shook your head, half-delirious, even as pleasure coiled tight in your core.
“O-ojisan… please…”In a blur of motion that made your stomach drop with fear, he pulled his fingers out, flipped you onto your stomach, and hauled your hips up.
Your cheek pressed into the pillow as he shoved your knees apart.
You're breathing heavy now.
"ah!"
He spanks you. Another spank landed, harder this time. "Don't ya know how to count, baby?"
“O-one…!” you gasp out, fingers twisting in the sheets. Your face is burning, cheek mashed into the pillow, ass up high for him like an offering. The position makes you feel so small, completely exposed, vulnerable, and utterly at the mercy of a man who could snap you in half without trying. The fear coils deliciously in your gut, mixing with the aching need between your legs until you’re dripping down your thighs.
Yuji hums in approval, the sound vibrating through his chest.
“Two—ahh!” Your voice cracks. The burn spreads, turning into liquid heat that pulses straight to your clit.
He doesn’t stop. Another firm smack. “Keep going, sweetheart. Tell me who's making you feel this good?”
"Ojisan-"
"think again, baby"
“Three!” You’re shaking now, hips twitching back toward him instinctively even as your mind spins with that intoxicating fear. He’s so much stronger. So much older. Those decades of battle-hardened muscle flex behind you, one massive hand easily pinning your lower back down while the other delivers controlled, stinging punishment that has you sobbing softly into the pillow.
Four. Five. Six. You dont remember.
“say my name. Or I’m not fucking you the way you need tonight.”
You whimpered, torn between fear and desperate arousal. He spanked you again, three quick, stinging swats that left your ass burning. “Do ya want me to beg, baby? ‘Cause I will.”
“— Yuji! Yuji's makin me feel so good!” The name slips out broken and desperate after the heavy smack, your voice cracking as fresh tears spill down your cheeks. Your ass burns, glowing red under his wide palm, but the sting only pushes you deeper, melting your mind into that soft, floaty place where everything narrows down to him.
Yuji freezes for half a second, then a low, satisfied growl rumbles out of his chest. His big hand rubs slow circles over the heated flesh, almost tender, while his other hand keeps your hips tilted up.
“Oh? There it is,” he murmurs, voice dark and pleased. “Say it again, baby. Say Yuji.”
You’re already slipping, eyes glassy, body limp and pliant in his grip, pussy dripping shamelessly down your thighs. Subspace wraps around you like warm silk, leaving you soft and obedient and utterly focused on the overwhelming man behind you.
“Yuji…” you whisper, barely audible.
“Louder, sweetheart. One more time.”
“Yuji!”
Yuji chuckles lowly, the sound vibrating through you. He leans over your back, caging you completely with his powerful body, his thick cock sliding hot and heavy between your soaked folds without pushing in yet. His breath ghosts over your ear.
“Yeah baby, its Yuji” He nudges forward, just the tip stretching you open. “What do ya want Yuji to do? Want Yuji to fuck this needy little pussy?”
“Tell Yuji, baby. Use your words.”
You’re floating, deep in subspace, lips parted and trembling. Your brain is nothing but soft pink fog and the overwhelming presence of the man behind you. After several long seconds of desperate little whimpers, you finally manage to push the words out in a broken, needy sob.
“Want… Want Yuji to fuck me… please…”
“Fuck, you have no idea how pretty that sounds coming from you.”
The confession barely leaves your lips before Yuji growls low in satisfaction. He rewards you instantly, thick cock pushing forward, stretching your soaked walls in one long, relentless slide until he’s buried to the hilt. You moan loudly, the sound muffled by the pillow as your eyes flutter.
You cry out, back arching sharply. Tears stream down your temples as overwhelming pleasure floods you. He’s so thick, so perfectly shaped for you, hitting that spot over and over with relentless precision. His big hands pin over yours, intertwining,nas he fucks you deep and steady, lips brushing your ear.
“Want Yuji to fuck me—” you sob again, repeating your earlier plea like it’s the only thing keeping you sane.
“I’m right here, baby,” he whispers, voice rough with arousal. “Yuji’s got you.”
He keeps the pace gentle but devastatingly deep, rolling his hips in a way that makes your toes curl and your walls flutter constantly around him. Every thrust drags perfectly against your g-spot until you’re a crying, moaning mess beneath him. His name falls from your lips like a chant between broken sobs.
One arm slides under your body to wrap around your waist, holding you tight, while his other hand cups your jaw, turning your head so he can kiss you sloppily over your shoulder.
“Yuji… Yuji—!” you moan, crying softly into the kiss.
He moans your name back against your mouth, low and wrecked. “Fuck… keep saying it, sweetheart. Say my name while I’m inside you.”
The realization hits you like lightning, how devastatingly good it feels when he moans your name. The sound vibrates through his chest into your back, raw and loving and desperate. It makes your pussy clench hard around him.
You start grinding back against him, completely fucked out, moaning his name over and over like a broken record. “Yuji… Yuji, please—”
The wet, obscene slap of skin on skin grows louder, faster. He’s pounding into you with terrifying strength, one hand fisting the sheets beside your head while the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise.
You cry louder, overwhelmed tears soaking the pillow as pleasure borders on pain. It’s too much, too deep, too good.
“That’s it, baby. Cry for Yuji. Let me hear how much my favourite girl needs me.”
When you finally cum, it’s violent, walls clamping down around him, gushing slick as you scream his name. Yuji follows right after with a deep groan, burying himself as deep as possible and flooding you with thick, hot cum.
He collapses over you, careful not to crush you completely, arms wrapping tight as he stays buried inside. Soft kisses rain over your tear-streaked face, your neck, your shoulders.
“My good girl,” he whispers tenderly, voice back to that warm, gentle tone. “All mine. Rest now. Yuji’s got you.”
You’re still trembling in his arms, soft sobs and aftershocks rippling through your body as Yuji holds you close. His cock is still buried deep inside you, pulsing with the last weak spurts of his release. For a long minute he just stays there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in.
Then he presses a slow, tender kiss to your swollen lips.
“Such a good girl for me,” he murmurs, voice warm and low. Carefully, he eases out of you. A thick trickle of his cum immediately leaks from your puffy, abused pussy. You whimper at the loss, thighs twitching.
Yuji chuckles softly, that bright, boyish sound you love so much, and nuzzles his nose against yours. “Can’t leave my favourite girl all messy like this, can I?”
Before you can respond, he ducks down, disappearing beneath the heavy futon sheets. The fabric settles over his broad shoulders like a tent, cocooning him between your spread thighs. You feel the heat of his breath first, then the gentle press of his big hands sliding under your ass, tilting your hips up slightly.
“Yuji…” you breathe, already reaching down. Your fingers thread into his soft pink hair, gripping gently as his mouth descends on you.
He starts with reverence. A slow, broad lick from your entrance upward, collecting the mix of his cum and your slick. The wet, filthy sound is muffled under the sheets but still makes your cheeks burn. He hums happily, the vibration traveling straight to your swollen clit.
“Mmm… taste so good together, baby,” he says, voice slightly muffled. You feel him smile against your folds. “Yuji’s gonna clean you up nice and gentle, okay?”
You nod even though he can’t see it, fingers tightening in his hair as another soft whimper escapes you. Your clit is aching, swollen fat and sensitive from the earlier rough treatment, neglected compared to how deeply he fucked you. Yuji notices immediately.
“Poor little thing,” he coos, pressing the softest kiss right on the swollen nub. “All puffy and needy. Not fair, huh?”
Then his tongue circles it, slow, deliberate, warm and wet. He laps at it with the flat of his tongue before sealing his lips around the sensitive bundle of nerves and suckling gently. Not hard. Not overwhelming. Just perfect, loving pressure that makes your back arch and your toes curl under the sheets.
“Ah— Yuji—!” you moan, hips twitching. He holds you steady with those big, strong hands, thumbs stroking soothing circles on your inner thighs.
He chuckles again, the bubbly sound vibrating deliciously against you. “There it is. Keep saying my name like that and i might never come back up.” He sounds so genuinely happy, almost playful now that you’re finally calling him Yuji without slipping. The relief and joy in his voice is palpable.
He dives back in, licking and sucking at your clit with devoted attention while two thick fingers gently part your folds. He pushes them inside you slowly, curling them upward to scoop out more of his cum. Every time he withdraws them, he licks them clean with happy little sounds that make your heart flutter.
You’re a mess above the sheets, cheeks flushed, lips parted, one hand fisted in his hair while the other clutches the pillow. Tears of overwhelming love still cling to your lashes.
Yuji is thorough. He licks every inch of your pussy, long, dragging strokes that clean you completely, then focused, gentle flicks and sucks on your swollen clit. When your thighs start shaking around his head, he doesn’t push harder. He stays soft, coaxing another slow, deep orgasm out of you with nothing but patience and love.
“That’s it, sweetheart… cum on Yuji’s tongue,” he murmurs against your clit before sucking it between his lips again. The gentle suction combined with the warm, wet heat of his mouth sends you over the edge. Your orgasm washes over you like warm waves, not violent this time, but deep and lingering. You moan his name brokenly, hips rolling softly against his face as you ride it out.
He keeps licking you through it, gentler and gentler until you’re twitching with sensitivity. Only then does he press one last soft kiss to your clit and crawl back up, sheets sliding off his shoulders. His face is flushed, lips shiny with your combined fluids, and he’s wearing the brightest, most satisfied smile you’ve ever seen on him.
“Clean as a whistle,” he declares proudly, leaning down to kiss you deeply. You taste both of you on his tongue and moan softly into his mouth.
You cling to him immediately, arms wrapping around his neck, legs tangling with his.
You nuzzle into his neck, breathing in his scent, fingers still playing with the hair at his nape. His thigh slips back between your legs, pressing warmly against your now clean, sensitive pussy. His arms wrap around you completely, holding you safe and tight.
....................
Not THAT satisfied w this thoughhhh imma write a better one, 😔
Jake’s hand is almost always on your waist or lower back when you walk together. It’s not just protective. Every time you turn or shift direction, his large palm slides with you, fingers splaying wide enough to nearly wrap halfway around your body. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it half the time.
He’s obnoxiously protective. If you so much as stumble on a root or the ground is uneven, he’s instantly scooping you up against his chest with a low chuckle and a “Careful, baby.” He glares at anyone who gets too close, until you gently pat his arm and tell him to behave.
Jake loves when you play with his extra fingers. You’ll sit in his lap (which always makes him grin because you practically disappear against him) and trace the extra digit on each hand, comparing it to your own smaller ones. He’ll flex them slowly just to watch your eyes widen at the size difference.
He’ll lift you effortlessly onto high branches just to hear your surprised gasp, pull you onto his thigh like it’s nothing, or simply rest his chin on top of your head while standing. He constantly comments (in that husky voice) how tiny and perfect you feel against him.
He lets you do whatever you want to his body. If you want to kiss, lick, or trace his abs, he’ll lean back with his arms behind his head, tail flicking lazily, and watch you with half lidded golden eyes and a lazy smirk. “Go on, sweetheart. They’re all yours.”
You love adding your own beads to his braids. Jake sits patiently (though sometimes he teases you by nuzzling your stomach or blowing raspberries against your skin while you work) and lets you weave in little shells or feathers you collected. He wears them proudly, running his fingers over them later with a soft smile.
In return, he braids your hair with surprising gentleness for someone so large. His big hands are careful, thick fingers separating strands delicately. He’ll press soft kisses to the back of your neck while he works, murmuring how beautiful you look with his style mixed into yours.
Jake loves sleeping with his head on your thighs, ear pressed to your leg, purring lowly in his sleep. You can play with his hair or ears and he just sighs happily.
Randomly, in quiet moments, he’ll cup his huge hand over your groin area. Not to start anything, just because he likes the warmth, the possessiveness of it, the way you fit perfectly against his palm. He’ll do it while you’re both just sitting, talking, or watching the stars, thumb stroking lazily over your hip.
Jake will lean in and drag his rough tongue slowly along your shoulders, then gently bite the soft skin there just enough to leave a faint mark. He also loves nipping at your cheeks, playful little bites followed by soothing kisses.
Kissing your belly button is one of his favorite lazy activities. He’ll lay his head on your stomach and press open mouthed kisses right there, sometimes letting his teeth graze your lower belly or the tops of your thighs. The biting on your thighs is always gentle but firm, little love bites that make you squirm while he chuckles against your skin.
After any rougher play (or even just a long day of riding ikran or running through the forest), Jake massages your calves with those big, strong hands. He’s surprisingly good at it, thumbs pressing into sore muscles, working out knots while he kisses your knees and listens to you tell about your day.
You two can make out for hours. Jake will pin you gently against his chest or lay you down and just kiss you slow and deep, hands roaming but never pushing too far. His tail wraps around your ankle or thigh to keep you close. He loves the way you get breathless and clingy.
He often holds your neck, just cupping it possessively with his large hand, thumb stroking your pulse point while he kisses you or simply looks at you.
You love biting his biceps and squeezing them. Jake flexes them on purpose when you do, grinning wickedly as you try (and fail) to get your hands fully around the muscle. He’ll let you gnaw on his arm like a little kitten while he laughs softly.
nfsw:
Jake is huge everywhere, and he knows it. The first rounds, he always goes slow, one massive hand splayed across your lower belly so he can feel the bulge forming as he pushes deeper. “Fuck… look at that” he growls, voice wrecked. “So tight around me, baby. Taking me so well.”
He loves folding you in half, knees pressed to your chest, while he thrusts deep and slow. His body completely cages yours, you can barely move except to take what he gives you. He’ll groan every time he bottoms out and your stomach visibly distends with the shape of him.
Jake fucks like he hunts. patient, powerful, and relentless. He can go for hours, switching between deep, grinding rolls of his hips and hard, punishing thrusts that make your eyes roll back. Once he’s inside you, he rarely pulls out completely, he loves staying buried while he kisses you, bites your neck, or just holds you.
Thigh riding is a foreplay that almost always ends with him flipping you over and sinking into you from behind. He’ll make you soak his thigh first, then slide his cock through your folds teasingly before pushing in with one smooth thrust.
Breeding kink hits him hard after mating. He growls low in your ear while he fucks you deep. “Gonna fill you up… gonna put a baby in this tight little cunt. You’re mine now.” He cums in thick, heavy loads and loves pushing it back inside you with his fingers afterward, keeping you plugged.
fav positions: Missionary with your legs over his shoulders (he can watch your face and the bulge in your belly), You on top (he lets you ride him until your thighs burn, then takes over, holding your waist and fucking up into you).
He loves marking you. Bites on your inner thighs, collarbones, and the soft flesh where your neck meets your shoulder. He’ll suck dark hickeys onto your breasts and stomach, then trace them later with his tongue while he’s still inside you.
After rough sessions, Jake turns incredibly soft. He massages your sore thighs and calves with those big hands, kisses every mark he left, and lets you lay on his chest while he purrs.
Jake loves when you bite and scratch him. The harder you mark his biceps, chest, or back, the more it turns him on. He’ll flex under your teeth, “That’s my girl… mark me up. Show everyone who I belong to.”
Morning sex is slow and lazy. He’ll slide into you from behind while you’re both half-asleep, one arm wrapped around your waist, murmuring sleepy praises as he rocks into you until you both come undone.
He has insane stamina. One round is never enough.
when you're going down on him:
The first time you sink to your knees and take him in your mouth, Jake’s reaction is pure shock mixed with raw hunger. His golden eyes blow wide, pupils slit, and a low, guttural sound rips from his chest. “Fuck… baby,” he rasps, voice already wrecked. One of his big hands immediately comes to the back of your head, not pushing, just resting there heavy and warm.
You can only manage the head and a few inches, but Jake doesn’t care. The sight of your small mouth stretched wide around him, lips shiny and struggling, makes his thighs tense and his tail lash wildly behind him.
He tries so hard to stay still at first. His abs flex hard under your hands, hips twitching with the effort not to thrust. Every time you swirl your tongue around the sensitive head or suck harder, his breath hitches and he lets out these deep, broken moans that vibrate through his whole chest.
Jake is loud. He doesn’t hold back. You’ll hear rough human curses “Shit— just like that… god, your mouth feels too good…” His voice drops into that husky growl when you take him deeper or hollow your cheeks.
He loves watching. Jake will lean back slightly, one hand cupping your jaw, thumb stroking your stretched cheek so he can feel himself moving inside your mouth. His eyes stay locked on you the entire time, half lidded, dark, and completely feral. If you look up at him through your lashes, he groans loud and his cock twitches hard against your tongue.
When you start bobbing your head or sucking with more rhythm, Jake’s fingers tighten in your hair, braids tangling around his knuckles. He doesn’t yank, but he grips like you’re his lifeline. Sometimes he guides your pace gently, showing you exactly how he likes it.
His extra fingers come into play. While one hand is in your hair, the other will stroke your cheek, trace your stretched lips, or reach down to cup your throat so he can feel you swallowing around him.
“Yeah… suck just the head like that. Fuck, baby, I’m not gonna last if you keep— ahh—”
Sometimes he’ll guide your hand to wrap around the base while you suck the head, showing you how to work him together.
If you tease him, licking slowly, pulling off to kiss just the tip, playing with his extra fingers while you blow him, he’ll say your name like a warning, ears flat, before eventually snapping and fucking your throat.
When he gets close, His tail wraps around your waist or thigh to keep you close. His breathing turns ragged, hips starting to shallowly thrust as he chases it. “Gonna cum— fuck, where do you want it, sweetheart?”
He usually warns you, but if you keep sucking and look up at him like you want it, he loses it. Jake cums hard, thick, hot spurts that fill your mouth faster than you can swallow. Some always leaks out the corners of your lips. He watches it drip down your chin with a wrecked groan, thumb wiping it up and pushing it back between your lips.
After he finishes, Jake is soft and gentle. He immediately pulls you up into his lap, kissing you deep even if you still taste like him. He’ll wipe your chin, stroke your hair, and murmur how perfect you are, how much he loves you, how no one else could ever make him feel like that.
cockwarming:
Jake loves cockwarming because it lets him stay buried deep inside you for as long as he wants without rushing into fucking. To him, it’s the ultimate form of closeness, being connected, feeling every little flutter and pulse of your walls around his thick cock while you’re both just… together.
the stretch is always intense. When he first pushes in and settles you on his lap, you feel impossibly full. The bulge in your lower belly is obvious, and Jake can’t stop staring at it. He’ll press one large hand over your stomach, feeling himself inside you, and groan low, “Fuck… look how deep I am, baby. You’re taking all of me so well.”
favorite positions for cockwarming: You sitting in his lap, facing him (his favorite). Your legs are spread wide over his thighs, chest to chest, his arms wrapped around your back. He can look into your eyes, kiss you lazily, and feel every tiny shift of your hips.
He won’t thrust hard, but he loves making small, lazy rolls of his hips, just enough to grind against that spot inside you and make you clench around him. Every time you twitch or whimper, he chuckles against your ear, “Easy, sweetheart… just feel me.
“Gonna stay right here until you’re dripping down my balls, yeah?”
if you clench around him on purpose, he’ll hiss through his teeth and give one slow, deep thrust as a warning.
He can last a long time like this. Sometimes you’ll both fall asleep with him still inside you, his cock softening only slightly, then hardening again when you shift in your sleep. Waking up still connected is one of his favorite things.
His ears will pin back, tail lashing slowly, and he’ll start murmuring filthy Na’vi words mixed with praise. When he finally starts moving properly, it’s because you’re both soaked and desperate.
After a long cockwarming session (especially if you’ve been teasing each other for hours), when he does start thrusting, it’s deep and intense. He fucks you like he’s making up for all the time he stayed still hard, claiming strokes that make the bulge in your belly more obvious with every thrust.
Sweet moments:
He’ll braid your hair or let you play with his beads while he’s buried inside you.
He rests his forehead against yours, saying “I see you”
Sometimes he’ll lick slow stripes along your collarbones or gently bite your shoulder while you’re both just breathing together.
If you get too needy and start grinding, Jake will pin your hips down with his big hands and whisper, “Not yet, baby. I want to feel you throb around me a little longer.” He loves edging both of you this way until you’re both shaking.
when he's going down on you:
Jake lives for eating you out. Once he’s between your thighs, he treats it like a sacred ritual and a filthy game at the same time. He’s big, so he has to spread your legs wide, knees pushed back toward your chest or hooked over his massive shoulders so you’re completely open for him.
He starts slow and teasing, just to watch you squirm. Long, broad licks from your entrance all the way up to your clit with that rough tongue. He’ll hum against you when you gasp, the vibration shooting straight through your core. “Taste so fucking good, baby… could stay here all night.”
Edging is one of his favorite tortures. Jake quickly learns exactly what makes you fall apart, the way you tug his braids, the little whimpers when he sucks your clit, how your thighs tremble when he fucks you with his tongue. He’ll bring you right to the edge with perfect rhythm… then pull back, licking lazily around your folds or kissing your inner thighs until you’re begging.
“Not yet, sweetheart,” he’ll say against your soaked pussy, golden eyes flicking up to watch your face. “I want you dripping and shaking before I let you come.” He’ll edge you three, four, five times in a row, each denial making your next peak more intense.
When he finally lets you tip over, he doesn’t stop. Jake locks his mouth over your clit and sucks hard while two thick fingers curl deep inside you, pressing against that spongy spot that makes your vision white out. He keeps going through your orgasm, licking and sucking until you’re crying, hips jerking, trying to twist away from the overwhelming pleasure.
The more you wriggle, hit his shoulders, or try to crawl backward, the rougher he gets.
The moment your hands push at his head or slap his shoulders, and your hips try to twist away, he tightens his grip and pulls you back down. One massive arm bands across your lower belly like a steel bar, the other hand yanks your thigh back open.
“Where you goin’, hmm?” he drawls against your soaked folds, voice low and teasing, lips brushing your swollen clit with every word. “You think you can just run from me, baby? After begging me to eat this pretty pussy?”
he forces the next orgasm out of you in minutes. He locks his mouth around your clit, sucks hard, and fucks you with two thick fingers without mercy. even while you’re sobbing “no, no, too much—” and hitting his back, you cum hard, gushing on his tongue while your legs shake violently.
After your second or third orgasm, when you’re oversensitive and sobbing, he’ll switch between soft, soothing licks and harsh sucks on your swollen clit. Sometimes he’ll pull back just enough to blow cool air on your heated flesh before diving back in, making you scream.
Jake is messy when he eats you out. His face gets shiny with your slick, dripping down his chin and onto his chest. He loves it, moans happily when you gush around his tongue, lapping up every drop like he’s starving. The wet, obscene sounds fill the hammock or the forest floor.
He loves when you lose control and start grinding against his face. Jake will moan loudly against you, encouraging it, “Yeah… use me. Come on my tongue again.” His tail lashes behind him, ears pinned back in pure pleasure at how wrecked he’s making you.
After you cum (especially the overstimming ones), he doesn’t pull away. He switches to slow, wet, open mouthed kisses all over your throbbing, oversensitive pussy, literally making out with it. Soft, lazy licks through your folds, gentle sucks on your clit, kissing your entrance like he’s kissing your lips. He groans happily the whole time, savoring every twitch and flutter.
“There we go… good girl. See? You needed that.”
“I got you, baby. Just let me kiss it better.”
aftercare:
Jake is hyper aware of how raw and fragile you become. The second he sees the your breathing turns shaky in a different way and your eyes get that distant, uncertain look, he immediately shifts from the feral, teasing Jake to the gentle, protective mate who would burn the world for you.
He never rushes out of the moment. he carefully pulls away, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and gathers you into his arms in one smooth motion. You’re tiny against his massive chest, and he cradles you like you’re made of glass.
Jake wraps you completely in his warmth. One thick arm bands around your back, the other hand cups the back of your head, pressing your face gently into the crook of his neck. His tail curls tightly around your thigh or waist, anchoring you to him. His body heat and steady purring rumble through you, grounding you instantly.
He starts with soft, repetitive reassurance in that low, soothing voice. “Hey… hey, I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’m right here.”
“You did so good for me, baby. So perfect. I’m so proud of you.”
“Nothing you do could ever make me leave. I’m yours. Always.”
He knows exactly what your vulnerable thoughts sound like. When you start whispering or crying about whether you’re “worthy” if this is too much, or if you’re sure about being with him, Jake listens without interrupting at first. He lets you get it out, stroking your hair and pressing gentle kisses to your temple, forehead, and tear streaked cheeks.
“We’re doing the right thing. Every single time. Because I chose you, and you chose me. That bond is real. It’s ours.”
“I’ll always be here. No matter how hard it gets, no matter how much you cry or doubt or push me away in the moment. I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me, sweetheart.”
Jake rocks you slowly in his lap, big hands rubbing soothing circles on your back and massaging your trembling thighs and calves.
If you need to talk it out more, he’ll stay up all night listening. He’ll braid your hair with those careful big fingers, let you trace his abs or play with his fingers, anything that helps you feel connected and safe again.
Jake’s favorite thing is when you finally relax against him and the doubt fades. He’ll smile softly and murmur caressing your back up and down, “There she is… my girl. See? We’re okay. We’re always gonna be okay.”
He knows the rough play leaves you emotionally exposed, so his aftercare is just as intense as the scene itself, but in the gentlest, most reassuring way possible. To Jake, taking care of your heart afterward is just as important as wrecking your body during.
He’ll hold you for hours if that’s what you need, whispering over and over that he’s never letting you go, that you’re enough, that you’re everything to him.
You were strict. Everyone knew it. The na’vi huntress with the sharp tongue and sharper aim. Grace had paired you with him for “cultural integration,” which mostly meant you spent half your time correcting his stance, his grip, his everything. He thought it was hilarious. You thought he was a walking disaster.
“Again,” you snapped, not even looking at him as you adjusted the string on your bow. Your voice cut through the air like a blade. “You step like a palulukan with three broken legs. Silent. Or you eat nothing tonight.”
Jake chuckled low, pushing off the root. “Come on, I’m getting better. Yesterday I only scared off one hexapede.”
“You scared off the entire herd,” you
corrected, finally turning those golden eyes on him. Strict. Unimpressed. “And nearly got yourself trampled. Delusional sky person.”
He raised his hands in mock surrender, tail flicking behind him. “Hey, I’m a slow learner. Give me a break, teach.”
You didn’t smile. You rarely did with him. Cute, maybe, that’s how he’d always filed you away in his head. Serious, yeah. Good with a bow. Kind of adorable when you got all bossy. But sexy? Nah. Not his type. Too uptight. Too… na’vi in that rigid, rules-are-rules way.
Until tonight.
The hunting party had split off earlier, leaving just the two of you tracking a lone Sturmbeest through the undergrowth. Jake was supposed to observe. Stay quiet. Learn. Instead, he’d stepped on a dry branch, and the prey bolted before you could loose your arrow.
You whirled on him so fast he barely registered it.
In one fluid motion, your hand shot out, fingers wrapping firmly around his kuru, You yanked hard, pulling him forward and off-balance until his face was leaning down, inches from yours.
The sudden tug sent a jolt straight through his spine, hot and electric, connecting straight to every nerve ending in his body. His eyes widened. his hand reached back to his hair over yours.
“You idiot,” you snarled, lips pulled back to show sharp canines, voice low and furious. “That was a clean shot. My shot. And you—” Your grip tightened, the sensitive braid shifting against his skin in a way that made his breath hitch. “—ruined it with your clumsy sky person feet.”
Jake’s mouth opened, but nothing clever came out for once. He could feel the heat of your body, the way your chest rose and fell with barely contained anger. Your face was so close he could see the faint bioluminescent freckles across your cheeks, smell your sweat, feel your breath, and witness the gold flecks in your eyes burning with irritation.
For the first time, he noticed how your ears were pinned flat, how your tail lashed behind you like a whip. How strong your grip was. How… commanding.
You released his kuru with a sound, shoving him back a step. Then you turned and stalked off into the ferns without another word, bow still in hand.
And Jake just stood there, stunned, heart hammering against his ribs like he’d run a marathon.
His gaze dropped to sway of your hips as you moved. The way the loincloth shifted against your skin, the subtle roll of muscle in your thighs with each stride. The long line of your back, the way your queue swayed gently between your shoulder blades.
Damn.
Ain’t she hot?
The thought slammed into him uninvited. His tail flicked hard once, twice. Heat crawled up his neck, pooling low in his gut. He’d never looked at you like that before. You were the strict one. The one who barked orders and rolled her eyes at his jokes. Cute, sure. Annoying, definitely.
He swallowed, suddenly way too aware of his own body, the way his skin felt too tight, the low thrum of arousal he hadn’t expected.
He adjusted his loincloth once.
Jake tilted his head, trying to laugh it off, but the sound came out rough. “Shit… okay. Noted.”
He followed after you at a distance, eyes glued to the way you moved through the jungle like you belonged to it. Every step you took made that new awareness worse. The curve of your waist. The strength in your shoulders. The absolute confidence in how you carried yourself.
By the time he caught up near a cluster of glowing fan plants, the tension was thick enough to choke on. You were crouched, checking tracks, ignoring him completely. Jake stopped a few feet away, shifting his weight, suddenly unsure where to put his hands.
“What? You gonna apologize?” you asked without looking up, voice still edged with that cold anger.
He rubbed the back of his neck, right where you’d grabbed him. The skin there still tingled. “Yeah, about that… I didn’t mean to—”
“Didn’t mean to,” you echoed, standing slowly. You turned to face him, arms crossed under your chest in a way that pulled his attention for half a second too long. “You never mean to. Yet here we are.”
Jake’s grin tried to make a comeback, but it felt crooked. “Hey, I’m trying. Cut me some slack. You’re just… really good at this. Distracting, even.”
Jake’s gaze flicked down to your mouth for a split second before he forced it back up.
His body was hyper-aware now, the way your breasts rose with each breath, the subtle shift of your hips, the way your ears had perked just slightly at his words.
Your ears twitched. You narrowed your eyes, studying him like he was a particularly stupid hexapede.
“Distracting.”
Jake watched you walk away again, that sway even more pronounced now that he was looking. His hands flexed at his sides. Heat coiled low in his belly, persistent and undeniable.
Yeah. She was hot.
The strict huntress had just ruined his ability to see her as anything less than devastating.
He ran a hand through his braids, exhaling sharply.
“Fuck me,” he muttered under his breath, grinning despite the ache. “This is gonna be interesting.”
summary: jake gets cuteness agression when you do human things.
...
The first time he does it, you genuinely think it’s some kind of signal.
You’re standing beside him at the edge of the training grounds, the wind warm against your skin, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant salt. He’s half-turned away, speaking to one of the younger warriors, but then his eyes flick to you. Bright. Soft. Focused in that way that always makes your chest feel… strange.
And then he lifts his hand.
Two fingers press to his lips.
He flicks them outward toward you.
You freeze.
Your ears twitch slightly, eyes narrowing as you track the motion. It’s small. Almost careless. But deliberate.
A message.
It has to be.
You step closer once he’s done talking, your tail flicking slowly behind you.
“What was that?” you ask, voice calm, but your gaze sharp. “Your hand movement.”
Jake blinks once, then twice.
“…What?”
“You touched your mouth and pushed the air,” you say, demonstrating it with exact precision, though yours looks more like a ritual than anything soft. “Was it a sign? A warning?”
There’s a pause. He laughs.
Not loudly. Not mockingly. Just this warm, helpless sound that curls around you like sunlight.
“No, no—” he rubs the back of his neck, grinning now, a little sheepish. “It’s not a warning.”
You tilt your head. “Then what purpose does it serve?”
He steps closer to you, lowering his voice like it’s something private now.
“It’s called a flying kiss.”
You repeat it slowly. “A… flying… kiss.”
“Yeah.” His eyes soften. “It’s—uh… humans do it. When you can’t… you know.” He gestures vaguely between you. “Be close. You send a kiss instead.”
You stare at him.
Unblinking.
Processing.
“So…” you say carefully, “you were pretending to kiss me. From a distance.”
His grin widens. “Pretty much.”
You consider that. The logic. The intention.
“…Why?”
That catches him off guard for a second..
“Because I wanted to,” he says simply.
Silence settles between you.
Your gaze drops briefly to his mouth, then back to his eyes.
...
The battle against the Sky People had been fierce.
Na’vi warriors falling and rising again with desperate courage. Jake Sully had led them well. He had flown like the wind on his ikran, coordinated strikes that turned the tide, and stood tall even when his human body felt the phantom ache of old wounds back in the link chamber.
Now, the afterparty pulsed with relief and victory. Torches of glowing fungi and woven lanterns cast soft teal and violet light across the clearing. Drums thrummed low and steady, mixing with the high, melodic songs of the People. Warriors painted in fresh victory streaks of white and ochre danced and laughed. Children darted between legs, chasing sparks from celebratory fires.
You stood a little apart from the thickest crowd, arms crossed loosely over your chest. our skin, a deep teal-blue marked with elegant, swirling stripes that caught the light like liquid moonlight, shimmered faintly. Your queue swayed gently behind you as you shifted weight from one bare foot to the other.
Jake spotted you immediately.
He looks at you from a distance, a grin already tugging at his lips, the adrenaline of battle still singing in his veins.
You turned your head at him. Your golden eyes met his, bright, intelligent, and currently set in a serious, almost stern line. Your face was blank, mouth neutral, ears tilted forward in focused attention. No smile. No softening. Just that piercing, unreadable stare.
Jake’s thoughts faltered for half a second.
Shit. Is she mad? The thought hit him hard. Had he done something during the fight? Put someone at risk? Spoken too harshly in the heat of it? You had fought beside him, fierce and graceful with your bow, but maybe something had crossed a line he didn’t see.
you held his gaze a moment longer, then slowly, deliberately, raised your right hand. Your fingers curled gracefully, index and middle extended in the gesture he had shown you once before.
This was serious.
Your wrist flicked with control. The motion was sharp, almost commanding, as if you were launching not just affection but a vow, a seal of pride and claim all at once. Your eyes never left his. No smile broke your expression. Your ears remained forward, focused. The “kiss” sailed through the air between you with solemn intent.
Jake stared.
A surprised laugh burst out of him, deep and genuine, rumbling from his chest. His shoulders shook. His grin split wide.
“Oh my God” he managed between chuckles.
Your expression didn’t change.
Jake felt it then. the sudden, overwhelming rush of cuteness aggression. It hit him square in the chest, warm and ridiculous and so human it almost hurt in the best way. You, this fierce na’vi warrior who had just helped win a battle against impossible odds, standing there with that strict, blank face, delivering the most dead serious flying kiss in the history of Pandora like it was a sacred ritual.
Without thinking, he lifted his right hand and sent a flying kiss, quick and playful, fingers flicking toward you like he was launching a spark into the air. Then another, and another, each one more exaggerated than the last. with 'mwah' sounds.
He blew four in quick succession, his grin wide and boyish.
You blinked, ears twitching forward in surprise as the invisible kisses sailed toward you one after another. Your strict expression faltered for half a second, golden eyes widening just a fraction.
A laugh bursts out of him again, sudden and bright and completely unrestrained. He drops his head for a second, shaking it like he can’t believe you, like something about you just hit him too hard all at once.
“Jesus…” he mutters under his breath, grinning like an idiot now.
There’s something softer underneath it, though. Something almost dangerous in how much he feels it.
He looks back up at you, eyes a little wild, a little too warm.
“C’mere,” he says, not loud, but certain. Like you will.
Like you always do.
And when you don’t move right away, when you just keep standing there, watching him with that same steady, unreadable gaze, he exhales a quiet laugh, softer this time.
“Don’t do that to me,” he adds, half under his breath. “Not from all the way over there…”
You catch him the way the moon catches the river, unwillingly, always. He's there at the edge of the clearing when you come back from hunting, shoulders a little too broad for the lean silhouette of the trees, braid messy because he fussed with it all afternoon trying to make it look "right."
You scowl before you walk the last few steps.
scolding is your language, habit, armor. He deserves it. Or so you tell yourself.
"Did you—" you begin, folding your arms across your chest. Your voice is all pointed edges. "—another one of your clumsy offers? You know I can hunt. I don't need—"
His ears perk up. It's the smallest thing, a twitch at the base, like a question. You know better than anyone that that little motion means a dozen things at once for him.
hope, worry, waiting.
The tail that you once thought as stubborn as a young ikran's suddenly becomes a compass, it wags, a slow, shy swish that betrays him better than any words could. You stop mid-sentence because his whole face is honest and ridiculous and entirely, ludicrously yours.
He steps closer and the scent of him, oil from his braid, the sweat of practice, wraps around you like a blanket.
For anyone else, his earnestness looks like training wheels, Jake with everyone, earnest and open, the way he laughs too loud and explains too much.
For you, it's different. His gaze finds your shoulders, your jaw, the line of your neck, and he becomes careful. The way he lowers his chin when you scold is not shame.
"You worry too much" he says, voice quiet enough so only you hear, and there it is, the confession echoes in his tone, not in words. You pretend not to.
You keep scolding because habit is safer than answering. Because if you stopped pushing him away, you might have to let in the shape of everything he wants to give you.
A week ago he says in a clearing full of stars and crickets.
with a laugh that cracked halfway through and a hand that hovered over yours for a heartbeat before he dropped it.
"I think…" he'd said, then turned red underneath the blue. "I think I'm beyond repair." You told him he was dramatic and then smacked his arm.
He had smiled like it was the best thing anyone had ever said, and you have been pretending not to know his heart ever since.
At night he watches you sleep sometimes. You pretend not to know that either. When he thinks you are deep in dream, your lashes resting soft across your cheeks, you mime the world as aloof, untouched, but in truth you are listening.
You know when his breathing changes. You know when his tail brushes in a nervous loop. When you wake with the faintest smile and roll your eyes as if to yourself, you do it to keep from admitting that the warmth by your side is exactly what you want.
He is ridiculous in the most perfect way. trying to teach you the silly motions of a human game, showing up at your training sessions with a grin as if to say "watch me do it for you."
You scold, he looks as if you just offered him the sun. You're sharp because that's your way of saying safe. he is soft because that's his way of saying home.
He'll stand a little straighter when you stride into the village, scanning your face for that flash of approval. His smile is different when he thinks you are looking, uncontrolled, luminous, as if the bioluminescence in the trees had chosen to pour itself into his chest.
He jokes with kids, practical with hunters, clumsy and earnest with the ones who are strangers. But with you, he shrinks and grows at once, earnestness turned tender, nerves braided into devotion.
When you scold him in the morning, about leaving your spear near the stream, about humming off-key, about how he tried to braid your hair without asking, his ears twitch and his tail gives a little anxious wag. Then he answers you with something small and brave.
"I'm trying to be better for you" he says once, the words tumbling out like a breath he can no longer hold. "You make me want to be better."
You scoff.
Later, when the glow-worms come out and the world lowers its voice, you find him under the same tree where he taught himself to watch the stars. He looks so open there, like a child and a warrior folded into one. You sit because he is there, not because you have to. He offers you a slice of roasted fruit, clumsily cut but offered with a devotion that leaves you dizzy.
"Are you asleep?" you ask him, teasing, because you can be sharp and tender in the same breath.
He watches you with everything he has ever been brave enough to show. His ears tilt forward. His tail brushes yours, not by accident. For a moment, there is no scolding. There is only the warm gravity between you.
"Not when you're around" he says.
You pretend not to hear. He hums, the low sound that is uniquely his, and somewhere in it is a promise clumsy, earnest, utterly true.
...
You move like water through the tall ferns, feet barely making a sound, and there he is again.
waiting where the trail narrows, shoulders turned toward the river as if the flow itself might teach him patience.
You puff out a small, sharp sound.
"Stop gawking and help me pull the net"
you scold. There are a hundred ways you could say it that would send him scrambling to please you, you choose the blunt ones because bluntness is honest and because watching him try is quietly excellent entertainment.
He grins that grin he thinks hides everything. It doesn't.
When you look at him, his whole face rearranges. ears tip, tail gives a tiny, traitorous wag, and the freckles around his nose get brighter like they're lit from the inside.
You pretend not to notice. You fold the net with efficient fingers and leave him to find the right knot.
He watches you the way some hunters watch a prey they adore. not hungry, not cruel, only… riveted. And it's obvious.
So obvious that sometimes even the birds seem embarrassed for him. But you scowl anyway, because scowling is your forte and because if you're not scolding, he'll melt into an lovely puddle of earnestness right in front of everyone.
"You're wasting light" you tell him later, when he lingers and wipes his hands on his trousers instead of helping carry the traps. Your voice is flat, your tail flicks a reprimand into his direction.
His step toward you is slow, careful, like approaching a sleeping animal that trusts you.
"I'm not—" he starts, then stops because the right words are slippery.
He tries other small things, a joke that makes his ears perk, a clumsy attempt at mimicking your knot-tying that has him concentrating so hard his lower lip trembles.
You pretend to be unimpressed, but you check his hands for cuts. You smooth a strand of your hair over a leaf stuck to his cheek because someone's got to be practical, and also because your fingers brush warmth that isn't the forest's.
At night, the grove becomes a ceiling of stars pinned to velvet leaves. You sit with your back against a great root and watch him move a little closer than necessary when he thinks you're not looking.
He hums softly, a human sound softened into the rhythm of this place, and the hum fills the gaps between the things you don't say.
your shoulders relax.
You catch yourself listening to the way his chest rises and falls and realize the cadence is steadying you more than any breath you were taught. He hums on, pleased as a child who has succeeded without having to ask permission.
You tell yourself he is earnest with everyone. You tell yourself you know him, that his softness is a gift he packs out for the world like a clean cloth.
Maybe, in a way, it's true, he offers kindness in broad strokes, but you feel, in small unmistakable ways, that his earnestness is reserved. He is easier, brighter, more attentive when your shadow crosses his path.
When you glance at him, his pupils widen as if you've entered the only room he ever wanted to light.
There are tiny betrayals of his feelings that you refuse to catalog.
the way his ears flatten against his head if someone else compliments you, the way his tail tucks a little when you laugh too loudly at something not meant for him.
He watches for your approval like a hunter watches for wind direction, and he gives it such weight you could build a shelter from it.
One afternoon you push him into the shallow part of the river, a nudge disguised as discipline for fumbling the net. He splashes at you, laughter like a flint striking, and for a thin, suspended second, your scowl melts entirely.
The water beads off his hair, trickles along the line of his jaw, and you catch yourself wanting to wipe it away, as if your touch could set something right for him. You don't. Instead you jab him with a finger and tell him to fetch the other end of the net.
He comes back with both ends and a grin that threatens to break open into something too honest for everyday. "You okay?" he asks, and it's the gentlest thing he could have said. Not heroic speech, not a vow, just a small, steady question that expects you to answer honestly because he's ready to listen.
"Fine" you say. But your fingers, when they lift, find his hand and press, just for a heartbeat. Your thumb traces a pattern on the inside of his wrist, a quick, indifferent motion that means everything nothing. He freezes like the world has been rearranged into something better. The sound he makes is nothing like a laugh, it's softer, like someone discovering a new word.
He thinks you don't see. He thinks you don't care. He is wrong.
Later, when the campfire is low and the stars have deepened into a chorus of white, he edges closer once again. This time, he does not try to hide the way his ears lean toward you.
"You were—" he begins, then gives up on words and leans his head against your shoulder with a bravery that takes more courage than any battle story.
You stiffen, then let your back settle against his. It's an arrangement that should be awkward, and somehow it isn't.
"Stop looking for reasons to impress me" you mutter, because old habits are safe and blunt words cost you less. You don't move away when he squeezes your hand in quiet victory.
"I'm not trying to impress anyone else" he says, voice a low warmth against the skin of your neck. "Only you."
You feel the confession more than hear it, a small thing dropped like seed into the soft earth of your chest. You want to scowl, to turn away and note his earnestness as a harmless quirk.
He exhales like a string finally loosed. His ears unfurl. You pretend not to notice how his whole body seems to reorient to you like a compass finding true north.
"You're infuriating" you whisper.
"And you're impossible" he answers, happily. The grin is back, crooked, stubborn, wholly his. You let yourself smile. it's small , the shape of something new and steady. Under the glow of the trees, with the night breathing around you, it's enough to make him look like the whole world is smiling too.
You still scold him the next morning. You still make him knot the nets and fetch the water. But there's a new light in the way he moves when you glance his way, a pressure in his chest that translates to a dozen tiny, constant kindnesses. You call it earnestness, he calls it devotion. Either way, it's soft, and it's for you, and that fact makes all the scowls taste a little sweeter.
...
You tell yourself you’re not eavesdropping. You’re not. You’re only moving through the compound on purpose, doing a hundred tiny tasks that require exacting attention, carving, checking traps, folding the wash, and somehow Jake’s voice finds the corners of your world anyway.
He’s near the cooking fire, speaking with a younger male, one of the new hunters who still has the raw, impatient curiosity of youth. You keep your back to them, pretending to tend the coals, but the words carry. Na'vi voices are made to travel; they find the places you don’t want them to.
“Heat?” the younger one asks, genuine and a little embarrassed, like a child asking how colors change in the rain. “How would you even—how would you know that?”
Jake smiles, but it’s softer than his usual grin. There’s no cheap bravado in it, only the kind of humility that forms when someone has learned to listen to things that aren’t spoken outright.
“You watch” he replies. “You learn. You notice the small tells.” He speaks simply, like explaining a tracking sign. “Tail, scent, eyes. The way she moves when she thinks no one is looking. How her breath catches when the wind changes. How she makes space for herself and then takes it back.”
You feel the heat in your face at his words, though it isn’t only the sun. He doesn’t name you. He doesn’t need to. You are the map he’s been learning to read.
The younger male frowns. “Who taught you? I mean—who teaches a male to notice that?”
“I pay attention.”
Your ears flick. Pay attention to whom?
He doesn’t say. He doesn’t need to.
Jake shrugs, almost sheepish. “No one taught me with words.” He glances in your direction, not a stare, but a study. “You learn from being close. From paying attention. From being trusted with the small things. From being honest when you’re wrong.” His jaw sets. “Sometimes you just…watch. You keep your body steady. You don’t mistake need for permission.”
“Sounds like hard work” the boy mutters, half in admiration, half in awe.
Jake’s mouth quirks. “It is. But it’s worth it.” Then, quieter, almost to himself, “If you want to be there when she needs you, you better learn how to read her.”
the words warm you in a way you did not expect. You set the basket down with a noise that’s louder than intended, and in the pause, you feel him turn his head.
He looks at you the way hunters look at a prize they’ve cherished for seasons, careful, reverent, like he’s noting each line and saving them for later. The younger male looks between you two, a blush blooming when he catches what everyone already knows.
Jake stands, slowly, as if rising to meet a weather shift, and crosses the small space toward you.
You keep busy with the coals because movement is armor. Still, you feel him come so close that the air around your shoulder warms. There’s an accidental brush when he steps past.
His palm grazes the small of your back, a feathered touch that leaves the impression of a firebrand. The contact is brief, professional seeming, but the heat of his hand lingers in your skin like afterglow.
You don’t look up.
You feel his tell lines, ears tilt forward, tail gives a barely perceptible sweep, the little pull at his mouth when he’s choosing words. He’s watching you, yes, observing, as he said and it is obvious.
You catch, out of the corner of your eye, that his shoulder flex a fraction, shifting a stance without meaning to show off, a hunter’s posture that translates differently when someone is looking at you the way he does. You notice his chest rise a beat quicker when your eyes flick toward him, you notice how his pupils narrow into that soft, hopeful black when you meet his gaze. Your skin prickles.
“Are you…all right?” he asks.
You snort, trying to make the sound sharp. “I’m always all right.”
He doesn’t push. He never pushes. There’s an unspoken line after that 'I’ll be careful, I’ll be here, I’ll hold this for you' that he doesn’t say, but you understand because he’s started paying attention to you in the way that matters.
You want to be annoyed at the attention. You want to scold him for watching like that. Instead you find your tail giving an answering flick, the tiniest admission of response.
He takes it as a gift and shifts closer, not to take, but to belong. The brush of his palm returns. this time, not accidental, resting low on your hip for one slow heartbeat. It is warmth, pressure, comfort. It is a promise disguised as a touch.
You pretend to look away. You pretend not to feel your breath hitch. You turn your face to the fire and let the embers paint light across your cheek, because words are careless things and you are not ready to let the quiet between you be named.
Jake watches you, and now you watch him watching you. He learns every small betray of your body and tucks them away like treasures. He will observe, as he said. He will wait. And the timing, the terrible, perfect timing of your heat right now, will make him more observant than he’s ever been.
You put the thought aside, tell yourself you will not care, but that night, as you move through the camp and his eyes track you, the knowledge that he is learning you, that he notices the way your gaze lingers on his arms, his stupid, five fingered arms, makes the space between you hum with a life you are yet willing to name.
...
The fire has burned down to a nest of low embers by the time the camp quiets enough for honest things to happen.
You slip away first, silent feet, tail low and still, moving toward the thinner fringe of forest where the river bends and the moss grows thick enough to swallow sound. The heat has been coiling inside you since midday, slow at first, then insistent, a deep rhythmic pulse that makes every brush of air against your thighs feel like a tongue. You hate how predictable it is. Hate how your body announces itself whether you give permission or not.
You don’t hear him follow.
You feel him.
The shift in the air, the sudden weight of someone who knows exactly how not to snap a twig. He stops several paces back, giving you the courtesy of distance, but close enough that his scent, warm skin, crushed fern, the faint mineral bite of river water still clinging to him, reaches you before his voice does.
“You didn’t have to come alone,” he says, quiet. No demand in it. Just fact.
You don’t turn. Your tail gives one slow, deliberate lash. “I don’t need an escort.”
“I know.” A pause. The soft sound of him shifting weight from one foot to the other. “But I’m here anyway.”
The words land low in your belly, right where the ache has settled and started to throb in time with your heartbeat. You press your thighs together without meaning to. The friction makes you bite the inside of your cheek.
He takes one careful step closer.
“You’re burning up,” he murmurs, and it isn’t mockery. It’s recognition. Almost worship. “I can smell it from here. Sweet. Sharp. Like fruit left too long in the sun.”
Your ears flatten. Shame and want twist together until you can’t tell which is which.
“Stop talking like that.”
“Like what?” His voice drops softer. “Like I’ve been paying attention?”
You finally turn. The moonlight catches the freckles across his collarbones, the long line of his throat when he swallows. He’s sweaty, has been since he helped haul the last of the nets in, and the sight of him like this hits you like a spear to the gut.
Your eyes betray you immediately, tracing the impossible lines of him, the broad swell of his pecs, dusted with faint scars from battles he never boasts about, the way his biceps flex just from the act of standing there, cords of muscle shifting under blue skin like rivers under earth.
Your gaze drops lower, to the narrow taper of his waist, the hard ridges of his abs that clench when he breathes, each one a proof to the human stubbornness that made him this, strong, unyielding, yours in ways you’ve pretended not to notice.
And eywa help you, those arms, thick, veined, ending in hands with five damn fingers that you’ve caught yourself staring at during hunts, imagining how they’d feel splayed across your skin, how those extra digits might curl just right inside you.
Your body responds before your mind can catch up, a fresh rush of slick heat between your thighs, so much it trickles down, warm and insistent.
He doesn’t move closer. Not yet.
But his tail lifts, slow and questioning, the very tip curling in the universal Na’vi signal for may I?
Your own tail answers before your mouth can lie. It rises, brushes once against his in a fleeting, electric slide.
That’s all the permission he needs.
Jake closes the distance in two strides. Not rushing. Not lunging. Just inevitable. When he reaches you his hands hover at your waist, close enough to feel heat radiating off your skin, not close enough to take.
“Tell me to leave” he says, voice rougher now. “Say it and I’m gone. No questions.”
You stare at the pulse beating fast under his jaw. The way his pupils have swallowed almost all the colour. The faint tremor in his fingers.
You could send him away.
You don’t.
Instead you reach up, curl your fingers into the base of his braid, and tug.
His breath punches out of him.
Then he’s on you.
Hands finally land, one splayed wide across your lower back, the other sliding up to cup the nape of your neck. He kisses like a human would, probably. tentative, asking.
He kisses like he’s been starving for it. Mouth open, tongue seeking yours in long, deliberate strokes that taste like river water and want. You bite down on his lower lip just hard enough to make him growl low in his chest.
The sound vibrates through you, settles right between your legs.
He walks you backward until your shoulders meet smooth bark. The tree is cool against fevered skin; the contrast makes you arch. Jake takes the invitation, drops to his knees in front of you like a man swearing an oath.
His hands slide down your sides, thumbs brushing the sensitive line where hip meets thigh. He looks up at you through dark lashes, eyes glassy.
“Been thinking about this” he confesses, voice wrecked. “Every time you scold me. Every time your tail flicks like I’ve done something right and wrong at the same time. Been thinking about getting my mouth on you until you can’t form words to yell at me anymore.”
Heat floods your face. You should snap something cutting. Instead your fingers tighten in his hair.
“Then stop talking,” you rasp “and do it.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
Jake hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, careful, and presses his face to the seam of your thigh. Inhales deep, like he’s memorizing you.
He chuckles, the sound low and rough, rumbling against your skin like distant thunder.
A sound rips out of you, needy and whined high in your throat.
“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up to yours, sparkling with pure, unfiltered awe. “Dripping for me already. Listen to that, god, it’s the best sound I’ve ever heard.”
You want to scold him, to snap that it’s his fault, but the words dissolve into another whimper when he dives back in. His mouth is relentless now, tongue lapping at you in firm, greedy strokes, sucking your clit between his lips with just enough pressure to make stars burst behind your eyelids.
Those five fingered hands, fuck them, grip your thighs, spreading you wider, one thumb circling lazy patterns on the inside of your knee while the other hand slides up, two fingers plunging deep into your heat. You’re so wet they sink in without resistance, the slick sounds obscene in the quiet night, and he curls them immediately, stroking that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.
Your body is a traitor, hyperaware of every inch of him, the flex of his biceps as he holds you open, the way his pecs shift with each breath he takes against your core, the heat of his abs brushing your calf where it dangles over his shoulder.
You can feel the ridges of his abs through the thin barrier of air, imagine tracing them with your tongue later, and the thought makes you clench around his fingers.
He groans into you, the vibration shooting straight to your spine.
“That’s it” he breathes, pulling back for a heartbeat to watch his fingers disappear inside you, coated in your arousal.
His eyes. eywa, those eyes, are mesmerized, sparkling like the river under moonlight, utterly captivated by the sight of you spread for him, glistening and flushed and beautiful.
He looks at you like you’re the sacred site he’s been seeking his whole life, like every curve of your body, every stripe across your hips and thighs, is a revelation he’s so unworthy of.
“So fucking gorgeous” he whispers, voice thick with reverence. “Every part of you. Could stare at this forever.”
The praise undoes you. He obliges, adding a third finger, stretching you slow and thorough, his tongue flicking faster now, relentless, until the coil in your belly snaps.
You come with a shattered cry, thighs trembling around his head, waves of pleasure crashing through you so hard your vision spins, dots of light dancing like fireflies in the dark.
He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, just works you through it with soft, insistent licks until you’re gasping, oversensitive, tugging at his hair to drag him up.
He rises slowly, lips shiny with you, chest heaving. You grab his face, messy, desperate, and kiss him, tasting your own sharp sweetness on his tongue. He presses against you, the hard length of him hot and insistent against your stomach, and you whine again into his mouth, the sound muffled but needy.
Your eyes are spinning still, the world tilting as hyperawareness floods back in sharper focus, the salt of his skin under your palms as you trace his pecs, feeling them jump under your touch, the way his waist narrows into hips you want to bruise with your teeth, the stupid, perfect flex of his abs as he shifts to lift you higher against the tree.
Every detail etches itself into you, the faint scars on his biceps from human wars he left behind, the extra finger on each hand that curls against your hip now, promising things no touch could match.
Your body hums with it, slick and aching for more, every nerve lit up like the glowing vines overhead.
“Need you” you breathe against his lips, the admission raw, stripped of scolds or armor. “Now, Jake. Please.”
He doesn’t make you beg twice. With a low, reverent groan, he strips away the barrier of his loincloth, freeing himself, heavy, thick, the flushed length of him curving up toward his navel, tip already leaking.
He lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist, and notches himself at your entrance. The first press is slow, deliberate, the broad head parting you inch by agonizing inch. You’re so wet, so ready, that he slides in deep with barely any resistance, but the stretch burns so good, filling you utterly, pressing against every hidden place inside until you’re gasping, nails digging into the meat of his shoulders.
“Fuck—tight,” he rasps, forehead pressed to yours, hips rolling in shallow thrusts to let you adjust. “You feel like heaven. Like you were made for this—for me.”
He starts to move then. Long, languid strokes that drag him almost all the way out before sinking back in, grinding deep on every return until his pelvis nudges your clit.
His hands roam, one braced against the tree for leverage, the other splayed across your lower back, fingers splaying wide, five of them, all of them to hold you steady. You can feel the power in his arms, the way his biceps bulge with each thrust, veins standing out like rivers on a map you want to follow with your tongue.
His abs contract against your belly, hard and unyielding, a rhythm you match with your own hips, rolling up to meet him.
It’s intimate, consuming, the wet slide of him inside you, the way he fills you so completely you can feel every ridge, every pulse of his cock against your walls. He kisses you through it, slow and deep, swallowing your moans as his pace builds, hips snapping a little harder, a little faster. Sweat beads on his chest, trickles down the valley between his pecs, and you lean in to lick it away, tasting salt and him, your teeth grazing the swell of muscle there until he shudders.
“Ma’Jake” you whisper, the words slipping out involuntarily. It hangs between you like a vow.
His eyes snap to yours, with something fierce and tender. “Say it again,” he growls, thrusting deeper, the angle shifting to hit that spot inside you that makes your toes curl.
“Ma’Jake,” you gasp, louder this time, your voice breaking on the edge of a moan.
That’s when he moves, reaching back with one hand to gather your queue, the pink tendrils alive and seeking, brushing against his own in a spark of electric want. Yours twines with his without hesitation, the bond snapping into place like roots finding soil.
The bond forms, and the world explodes into sensation.
You feel everything.
His love crashes into you first, vast, unyielding, a tidal wave of certainty that drowns out every doubt you’ve ever harbored.
It’s in the steady thrum of his heart against yours, the way he’s always seen you, not as the fierce hunter or the scowling, but as the center of his universe. You feel the panic that had gripped him seconds ago, sharp and cold as a viper’s strike, convinced, bone deep, that you were about to choose someone else, some pure blooded warrior who wouldn’t falter in the ways he still does.
The fear had clawed at him, a terror that you’d slip away like smoke through his fingers, leaving him hollowed out, adrift in a world that had only just started to feel like home because of you.
And then the relief now, flooding in warm and bright and overwhelming, a sunrise after endless night, pure, joyous yes, the kind that makes his chest ache with gratitude, his thrusts faltering for a heartbeat as he presses deeper, as if to seal you to him forever.
You feel how badly he’s wanted you, every stolen glance across the fire, his eyes tracing the curve of your neck when you laughed with the others, committing it to memory like a sacred carving, every time his tail betrayed him with that eager wag when you strode past, brushing close enough for your scents to mingle, leaving him hard and aching in the shadows, every night he lay awake under the stars, replaying the sound of your voice scolding him, “You’re wasting light, skxawng” like it was the sweetest melody, a balm to the loneliness he’d carried from his human life.
He’d touch himself to the phantom echo of it, imagining your eyes raking over him the way they do now, dark and hungry, stripping him bare. It’s all there, raw and unfiltered, the devotion that bloomed slow, from clumsy offers to quiet vigils by your side, the certainty that you are his horizon, his north, the one thing worth every scar and stumble.
And he feels you, oh, he feels you, and it nearly undoes him. Your restraint, the iron walls you’ve built around your heart, forged from too many losses, too many skies that promised and then stormed. He tastes the doubt that’s shadowed you, a bitter undercurrent, the fear that a dreamwalker like him could never truly stay, that his sky people blood would pull him back to the cold metal stars, leaving you with nothing but echoes and empty nests.
He feels the ache every time you pushed him away, not cruelty, but self preservation, a shield against the terror of loving something fragile, something that might shatter under eywa’s gaze.
And deeper still, the secret fire that’s burned for him longer than you’ll ever voice, the way your body has betrayed you in hunts, thighs clenching at the sight of his arms flexing to draw a bow, your core throbbing when his five fingered hand brushed yours by accident, nights you’d wake slick and empty, fingers circling your clit to visions of him pinning you down, filling you until you forgot how to scold.
It’s all laid bare in the bond, your want, fierce and unyielding, a mirror to his own, the restraint cracking now like dry earth under rain.
The sharing amplifies everything, his thrusts feel like they echo in your soul, each deep plunge sending ripples of shared pleasure through you both. You’re loud now, Eywa, so loud, moans tearing from your throat unbidden, raw cries of “Ma’Jake!” and broken pleas that blend with the wet slap of skin, the rustle of leaves overhead.
The bond turns it filthy, you feel his cock twitch inside you as your walls flutter, taste his building release like it’s your own, the coil tightening in tandem.
He gets rougher, spurred by the flood of your shared truths, the certainty in him fueling an edge.
His hips snap forward harder, faster, the tree bark scraping your back in a delicious burn that you arch into. One hand grips your thigh, hiking it higher around his waist to open you wider, letting him drive deeper, the head of his cock kissing your cervix with every brutal thrust. His other hand, slides between you, thumb circling your clit in firm, insistent strokes that make you sob, oversensitive and soaring.
You rake your nails down his back, scoring deep welts over his spine, urging him on, and he moans, a sound that vibrates through like thunder in your bones.
“Mine” he rasps, teeth sinking into the curve of your neck, not breaking skin but marking with the promise of it. “Feel that? You’re mine—fuck, so tight, clenching like you never wanna let go.” His pace turns punishing, hips pistoning with a force that jolts you up, your breasts bouncing with each impact, nipples hard peaks dragging against his chest. The bond makes you feel the slap of your ass against his thighs, the obscene squelch of your slick coating him, dripping down to where his balls tighten, heavy and full, slapping against you.
You’re incoherent now, loud cries echoing into the night “Jake—ma’Jake—harder, please—don’t stop—" of whines and gasps. The bond feeds it back, he feels your climax building like a storm on the edge, the way it makes your walls ripple around him, milking him greedily. It pushes him over, his thrusts erratic, rough, one hand fisting in your hair to tilt your head back, exposing your throat for his mouth to claim again, sucking bruises into the blue skin there.
“Come with me,” he demands, voice gravel and command, thumb pressing hard on your clit as he grinds deep, rolling his hips to drag against that spot inside. “Let me feel you--Oh.”
The bond ignites. Your release hits hard, blinding, all consuming, walls convulsing around him in rhythmic pulses that pull him under. You moan his name, the sound raw and wild, body seizing as pleasure rips through you, you feel his own peak crashing in, hot and endless, his cock swelling as he buries himself to the hilt and spills. Thick ropes of come flood you, pulsing deep, the warmth of it triggering aftershocks that make you whimper, clench, take every drop like it’s sustenance.
He doesn’t pull out, can’t, won’t, staying seated inside you as you both tremble, the bond humming with the afterglow, his love wrapping around your doubts like vines claiming stone, your restraint melting into quiet surrender. He kisses you slow, soft, murmuring nonsense against your lips, leaving you sated, marked, irrevocably changed.
“You still gonna scold me?” he murmurs, lips brushing yours.
You huff. Drag your nails lightly down his spine.
“Every day.”
His grin is blinding. Happy. Utterly yours.
“Good” he says, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I like earning it.”
And under the glowing trees, with him still inside you and the night breathing quiet around you both, you finally let yourself smile.
