Geto and Gojo softdomming and babying reader… nsfw 18+ mdni.
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laying with your back against Gojo’s chest, legs spread, Geto’s head nestled between your thighs. Geto’s blinking up at you with those dark eyes while he mouths lazily at your cunt - running his tongue flat up the length of your slit, pressing sloppy kisses to your clit. One big hand wrapped around your thigh and the other splayed over your lower belly, pinching gently at the soft skin there.
You pant and writhe against the firm unwavering expanse of Gojo’s chest behind you, all while he peers over the curve of your belly and coos a string of filthy words into your ear. “shh I know baby, I know, just feels so good doesn’t it?” purred between hot open-mouthed kisses, voice thick with faux sympathy as he nibbles at your throat and lets his hands roam - groping greedily and pinching at every bare inch of your body while you lose yourself in the practised swirl of Geto’s tongue…
i forgot to add but the idea of Gojo sliding his fingers over your eyes in a makeshift blindfold and holding them there so you can’t see what Geto’s doing no matter how much you buck and squirm… hnnnnghnnn…
⌗ 𝓼atoru gojo coos you over the edge ! (˶˃𐃷˂˶) based off this (not a p!link), unprotected p in v, whipped!gojo, praise, pet names (baby/babygirl, sweetheart, angel)
the sounds in the once quiet room are obscene— breathy moans, loud squelching with each precise thrust of gojo's hips, and the bed frame thunking against the wall.
he's so deep inside you, you feel him in your throat. all you can do is claw at his broad back desperately, leaving angry red marks in your wake. "toru– ohfuck--!" you're struggling to catch your breath, "s'too much!" his pace is unrelenting, so the least he can do is talk you through it.
"m'sorry, babygirl, i know" his breath fans over your skin as he coos at you so sweetly, a direct opposite to the way he's fucking into you. "s'big, huh?" he's practically cradling you, holding you so close to his chest that you feel his heart beating a frantic rhythm against yours.
he pulls your face from hiding in the crook of his neck all to press gentle, reverent kisses over your flushed skin. "my precious girl," he praises, "doin' so good for me, my perfect baby" he moans softly when he feels your pussy flutter around him at his sweet words.
"there you go, you like that?" his voice isn't teasing in the slightest, all genuine loving words, all reserved for you.
that familiar heat is growing low in your belly, his cock hitting your g-spot only intensifying the pressure. "m'close– g'na make me cum--" you manage to breathe out some resemblance of a sentence, through his overwhelming affection and each word coming out as a moan, talking proves to be a bit difficult.
"yeah?" his voice is low and smooth, "y'can't help it, i know sweetheart," he rubs your arm tenderly, "gonna help you, okay? can i do that baby?" you can tell just how enamored he is by you, speaking to you and loving on you like you're the only person in the world, gazing at you like you hung the stars just for him.
you nod dumbly, not caring to ask what he means with how fucked-out you are, brain a pile of mush. before you can compute, he snakes his hand down between the two of you and finds your puffy folds, spreading them. you gasp, hands squeezing at his biceps. "s'okay" he reassures you, thumb finding your sensitive clit and rubbing tight circles on the bud.
it's enough to make you cry out in pleasure, enough to make you gush around his cock. gojo groans at the feeling, watching your expression in pure awe. "i know, baby" his pace never falters, so close to the edge himself. "there you go, let it all out–" his balls tighten up as he hits his peak, still holding you close, wanting there to be no space between the two of you. he fucks into you a few last times while spilling his warm release deep inside of you, a heady feeling.
he nearly pants, not bothering to pull out when he flops down beside you and pulls you to lay on his chest. you're worn out, and thoroughly satisfied. "did so good, sweet girl" he's smiling, cooing at you and scratching your back soothingly. you simply hum in response, words failing you.
he lets out a chuckle, "my sleepy angel..." his cheesy words could make you laugh if you weren't so spent, so you settle on curling into the comfort of him further, letting him pamper you with his voice.
as you both doze off, you swear you can hear him whisper a little "love you", and you know he means it. because you're all his, and he's all yours.
i had an epiphany last night…toji would 99.99999% not be into manhandling or being overly rough with his partner. hear me out now guys. he probably never had a romantic connection until he met his wife. he is canonically a feminist. if he were into any kinks, i think it would be breeding. toji would look at sex as something so emotional and sacred with his partner. the type to kiss you and say “i love you” over and over while he’s inside you. the type to talk about starting a family with you after he cums inside. he would handle aftercare every time without fail. he occasionally does the mild spanking or fucking you hard and rough if the mood is right. his strength is very controlled so he knows how much you can take. he is not nonchalant at all which i think is a misconception. he would quite literally kill for his partner. they see the side to him none of the world sees. his lovey dovey, protective and sweet side.
he'll swim between your legs for hours. until his lower face is all glossy and eyes glazed the pussy-drunk daze while he needily laps on your cunt.
but the second you're even beginning to oggle his tent and lower yourself to your knees? he's yanking you up and splaying you over the nearest piece of furniture he can. can't suck his dick when you're dangling over his desk now can you?
at first you assumed maybe he's just not into that. maybe he doesn't feel comfortable with it. you can respect that —
until you found out the real reason.
"I wanna make you feel good instead, baby." you could barely take his pouting seriously as he hovered over you, bare. he'd lean down to nuzzle your neck with a few kisses to follow. "don't want you to worry 'bout me too much. feel good making you feel good."
which started the long and frankly, trifling operation: suck satoru gojo's dick.
the idea that he felt bad over the idea of you pleasuring him reminded you of the same reason you fell in love with him in the first place. no way in hell are you ending this year without getting your boyfriend's cock down your throat!
this strings a series of, honestly, comedic events. you went with the obvious, waking him up with it. you planned strategically, trained yourself to wake up just an hour before him and awaited for the perfect time to strike.
you only got to pulling the waistband of his boxers down before bright blue eyes stared you down, processed, and yanked you over his face instead.
damnit. maybe during a movie? he's so engrossed in his latest geek obsession that surely he wouldn't notice your head lowering, right? until you were nuzzling his crotch through the blanket and he jerked, squeaked, spilling the bowl of popcorn.
"no no no don't even —" buzz.
infinity!? he put infinity on?
"satoru. gojo." you warn through glaring eyes. it ended with you strung over the sofa arm with two, strong hands holding you down while he's ball's deep. fucking you dumb through the end credits with a mean thumb to your swollen clit.
"yeah baby? yeah? so impatient for me huh?" anything to get your mind off of the previous agenda.
don't even try the shower. his hand buried into your hair, yanked you off and then hoisted you. shoved you into the wet tiles to instead get bullied by his cock. legs helplessly strung around his waist while his ragged pants found your ear.
"pretty girl's just so needy huh? wants my cock so bad? you can have it baby, don' worry."
hell, even after a busy week where he's deflated across your bed and you're grinding on him to get you both there. your slick heat coating his pulsating dick. catching his tip on your clit and spilling your joined moans through the room.
the second you tried your luck he's shuffling for a pillow with a rushed; "he's shy! leave him be!"
it seemed that your little operation was failing miserably. satoru is just too fast for you. too infuriatingly good at making your mind go blank with his tongue, mouth or dick. you'd forget what you even started in the first place. but you're a stubborn woman.
He’d die before admitting it to anyone else, but with you? He doesn’t even try to hide it. The second you tie his wrists behind his back with his own blindfold, his pants are ready to burst. Right now he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, naked, breathing a little too fast. His cock is standing up thick and flushed, leaking all over his stomach. Well, no wonder, he’s been edged for hours.
You’re straddling his thigh, one hand slowly jerking him off while the other is tangled in his messy white hair. You kiss him deep, mixing your spit with his. And every time he moans into your mouth you squeeze his needy cock a little tighter.
“S-shit.. baby.” he gasps against your lips. Gojo tries to thrust up into your fist but the way his arms are tied behind him makes it hard. He just ends up twitching helplessly. You smirk and stroke him faster, thumb swirling over his leaking tip, spreading the mess around. The wet, filthy sound of your hand pumping his slick cock is loud in the quiet room.
“You’re so fucking hard,” you murmur, biting his bottom lip. “Look at you.. legs spread and leaking everywhere like a slut.”
Gojo lets out a shaky laugh that turns into a groan when you twist your wrist just right.
“Only for you,” he breathes, trying to sound in control of the situation but failing miserably. His hips jerk again. “Fuck… your hand feels too good.”
You keep making out with him messily, while you jerk him off nice and tight. Long strokes from base to tip, then quick, nasty ones focused on the head. Gojo’s thighs start trembling under you. His breathing is fucked up, little whimpers slipping out between kisses. You pull back just enough to watch his face. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes glassy and his lips swollen. God, he's beautiful.
“Gonna cum already?” you tease, speeding up your hand. Gojo bites his lip, trying to hold it together, but his cock is throbbing hard in your grip.
“Don’t stop- fuck.. please don’t stop,” he whines, forehead pressed to yours. The cocky bastard is actually begging now.
You kiss him again, swallowing every sound as you stroke him faster. Gojo’s whole body suddenly goes rigid. His abs flex hard and he lets out this desperate moan right into your mouth.
He squirts.
Hard.
Clear fluid shoots out of his cock in messy, pulsing jets, splashing all over your hand, his own chest and your thigh. It just keeps coming while you keep jerking him through it, milking every drop. Gojo is shaking, moaning like he’s losing his mind, hips jerking uncontrollably as he makes a complete mess.
You don’t stop until he’s twitching and oversensitive, whimpering softly against your lips.
When you finally slow down, he’s panting, face buried in your neck, body still trembling from the aftershocks.
“Fuck…” he rasps, voice hoarse. A weak, breathless laugh escapes him. “I made such a fucking mess.”
You kiss the side of his head, still slowly stroking his spent cock.
“Yeah, you did,” you whisper. “And we’re not even done yet.”
Gojo shivers, but there’s a lazy, satisfied grin on his face when he looks up at you.
your cocky boyfriend had been pleading with you all day to let him 'take care of you'. he even went as far to get on his knees and beg, with those beautiful blue eyes of his, for just fifteen minutes to get his dick wet.
an hour later, you were still riding the waves of satoru's endless stamina. you should have known - fifteen minutes with him was never just fifteen minutes. he's never let you leave the bed in less than thirty!
you were melting into the sheets. your face was wet with spit from his sloppy kisses, your muscles burning with each extra inch he folded you in on yourself: knees pushed up as he pounded into you like he didn't love you quite as much as he always proclaimed.
and you couldn't deny that he felt godly inside of you. just the stretch of his cock alone was enough to make you gasp. pairing it with the mean, jackhammered pace he set inside of you was pulling you to the edge of another orgasm.
but looking at that fucking smile on his face...
fuck. that arrogant, shit-eating grin he sported. he knew you were in the throes of pleasure; that every breath you took in was a chore because of his weight on top of you; that you were feeling him both inside and out.
"feel good, baby?" he pouted, leaning in a little to better see the look on your face. "hhh, this is just what my pretty girl needed. see? told you toru'd take care of—"
smack!
the sharp sting of your palm against his cheek shut him up. though the slap hardly moved his head, satoru's entire body froze on impact. his mouth closed, then opened as if he was trying to find his words, just to close again..
your hand smacked over your own mouth next, shock filtered through you. sure, you fantasised about slapping some sense into your boyfriend from time-to-time... who didn't? but to actually strike him...
your hand hurt. you actually slapped him.
satoru looked down at you with wide, shocked eyes. you didn't know whether to expect a grin or a grimace to pull at his lips, but what you didn't expect was for him to freeze. should you apologise? slap him again?
you parted your lips to try for anything, but stopped in your tracks when satoru's jaw slackened, and his eyelids grew heavy. he looked like he was...
"i'm cumming," he choked out, holding himself above you with trembling arms as he emptied himself inside. it was a slow release, trickling out of his sensitive cockhead with as much hesitation as enthusiasm - his orgasm surprised him as much as it did you, apparently.
"wow," you found yourself laughing beneath him. "i didn't peg you as the kind of guy who likes being slapped."
satoru grimaced. "ngh. please don't talk about pegging right now. i'll cum again."
frustration is an understatement, but it's how satoru gojo felt when you had shyly pulled away from a kiss for the umpteenth time.
of course, satoru loved you to the moon and back! you were his beautiful girl, but damn it were you shy. it was almost like a routine between the two of you. you'd get comfortable, then would be too nervous to press your lips against his without him initiating it. and if he was being honest, it hurt.
you acted like his touch burned most of the time. satoru would offer his hand for you to hold when passing large crowds and the most you would do was hold his pinky with yours.
so, being the amazing boyfriend he was, he was going to help you.
"just keep yours eyes on me, sweets." he coo'ed, carefully slipping in his cock inch by inch. "c'mon, we agreed on working on eye contact today." he reminded.
"I know.." you whimpered, slowly opening you eyes back again, staring into his deep blue ones. satoru's eyes flickered down at your entrance, clearly struggling in welcoming in his length. "you're doing so good." he leaned down to kiss your forehead. "just keep your eyes on me."
after a few minutes, he bottomed out. his hands were holding onto your waist, bringing you closer to him. "feels big.." you gasped when he slipped all the way out before pounding back in.
"that's cuz it is big, baby." he relished in the way tears formed at the corners of your eyes, nails scraping at his biceps. "you can take it though."
"sato!" you screamed, fluttering your eyes close. and satoru? he was absolutely eating this up. for the first time, you weren't afraid to be loud with your moans. “hey you’re being louder than usual. good!” he chirped. the bastard had the audacity to smile so sweetly down at you all while he was fucking you like he hated you.
satoru moved your legs to rest on his shoulders, allowing him to hit deeper. that’s when he saw it, the bulge on your tummy. "look at that.. give me your hand." he reached it, putting it down on your stomach. "you feel me? taking me so well, fuck, you're a good girl."
you saw through your tears how proud he was. bright smile looking down at you as if you just hung the stars.
satoru has never felt more proud of himself, deciding that pda was the next big step. the pinky holding turned into holding hands wether it be at the mall or a friend hang out. but of course, he couldn't help himself when he pulled away to drag your hand onto his growing bulge.
“i don’t think this is pda..” your voice was barely a whisper as your hand made its way to wrap itself around the base of his cock which was twitching like crazy, having its own pulse.
“public display of affection.. jerking me off is in that category” he bit his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, being careful as to not let any sound out. the last thing he wanted was to get caught by his friends sitting across from the two of you in a restaurant. “yes fuck..” gojo grumbled under his breath feeling your hand pick up the pace.
your eyes were set on the menu in front of you, trying to force yourself to focus on anything other than the pretty sight underneath the table.
“close.. so close..” gojo gripped the edge of his seat, cock twitching violently before shooting out his orgasm. he discreetly handed a towel under the table for you, leaning in to kiss your temple. “you’ve gotten so brave, my love.”
a soft smile appeared on your lips. "thank you babe." you returned the kiss, placing it on his flushed cheek.
the intimate moment was ruined by a gagging suguru. “hey who the fuck nutted on my shoe?!”
taking satoru's dick for the first time in theory and in practice are two very different extremes. sure you'd felt him from grinding, from holding the weight of him in your palm under the sheets while you two were supposed to be 'watching a movie'. it felt doable for the most part—taking him.
you've heeded all his thinly veiled warnings long enough and tonight of all nights wasn't one where you two could exactly stop at just heavy petting. you'd even laughed at it beforehand, assured him that you could take him for the millionth time.
if you could slap your past self, you would. because now you're barely 2 minutes into him being inside of you. back spread on soft sheets, practically folded in half under satoru. legs slung over his shoulders, panting, practically vibrating from the effort of trying to get used to the sheer size of him.
"fuck—you gotta stop—" his fingers press harder into the undersides of your thighs where he has you held, hips rocking incrementally to get you adjusted to what he's given already. not even halfway in and you're already all noisy. "breathe for me, pretty? so I can give you the rest."
“t-the rest? ” you gasp, voice going embarrassingly high. it feels like he's been pushing in for ages now and now he's telling you that there's more? “that’s not all of it? are you sure?"
"i'm sure, trust me. just a little more." a bit more than a little, but you'd cross that bridge eventually. he presses a kiss to your knee—soft, lingering like he’s trying to ground both you and himself. "you said you could take it."
"i say a lot of things when I'm horny. you know—oh fuck—that!" you snap, voice breaking on the last word. "you're too big. this is all your fault, satoru."
"my fault?" he manages a huff despite the strain in his voice, brows knitted like he's the one struggling here. to be fair, he sort of is. "you said, and I quote—" his hips ease forward by an infinitesimal amount, just enough to have the bulb of him swabbing against your soft insides. it's enough for your jaw to go slack, toes curling near his ears. "—'please just fuck me already'. and to 'stop treating you like glass'." so here he is, not treating you like glass. not holding out on you. large hands press your thighs and knees closer to your chest, his body angled downward to drive into you with short, gentle thrusts.
"I don't even sound like that." you're clawing blindly at the bedding, airy sounds punching out of you like he's owed them.
"mhm. just breathe." he murmurs, voice rumbling low against your skin as he nudges deeper with the next roll of his hips—a slow, steady push, feeding you yet another inch. one hand leaves your thighs to slide up to your stomach, pressing in like he's trying to feel for himself there. "yeah...that's it, let me in.." the same hand settles just above where you're taking him to thumb at your arousal slick clit, your own darting to out the grab at his wrist. to no avail of course, since his thumb just keeps on moving in circle after circle.
“tell me if you need me to stop, yeah?” he whispers, hips tilting just a little deeper. new slick from his teasing helps, sliding deeper with ease. “that's right...all the way. you're doing so well."
it's soft, so sweet and encouraging that you're reaching a hand out to bring him closer to you by the back of his neck. "m'good, 'toru. you're fine."
you can't help but wonder how much more he has left to give, what kind of monstrous beast he's been hiding under his briefs. curiosity gets the better of you, eyes dropping to where you've yet to fully connect.
and boy, do you regret it almost instantly.
it's near obscene. inches of him glistening and buried, folds parted against his girth. even with how long he's been easing in (or how long it feels at least), there's still a gap. his gaze follows yours, nosing gently at your ankle, hand squeezing your thigh. "you okay?"
the glisten of his flesh, the taut flex of his abdomen like he's holding back...no, you're not okay in the slightest.
you can feel your core flutter involuntarily at the sight and god, he feels it too.
“oh fuck,” satoru's voice breaks, forehead tipping down to rest against your forehead. “baby, please don’t do that. i'll...this really won't last long.”
"oops, sorry. sorry."
the bits of soft pink that aren't inside inch in-in-in with every second that passing. it's barely anything left to give, yet, he's being so careful. too careful."
"holy fuck, just do—shit!"
you're arching clean off the bed with the way he suddenly, finally hilts himself inside. bare behind flush to his hips, groomed hairs at his base grazing against your skin.
he’s silent for a moment, breathing slow, forehead still dampened and pressed down against yours. "..okay, I have bad news."
you're a little drunk on him, just lucid enough to manage a small hm, nails scraping through the damp hair at his nape.
"there's...there's a high chance that I'll cum if I move."
even in your state, laughter breaks out of you, the heavy man above you flushing a soft pink from the highs of his cheeks up to his ears. murmuring something about it 'not being that funny' and him 'embarrassing himself here'.
"stay still then." you finally breathe when your laughter dies down just enough, smile all gentle up at him, lips brushing against the sharp point of his nose. "we'll just stay like this all night." the pain had properly eased into a dull, barely there ache at that point—more pleasure than any other feeling. with how he'd taken his time, it'd been almost inevitable.
"can't just not move," he replies through gritted teeth, hips shifting just a hair. enough for you both to feel the heavy drag, the way your walls clench instinctively. "god—I can't not move when you feel like that."
it's endearing in a way, very much flattering. your grin only widens, head lifting to angle your mouth against his with a firm kiss. "i'm close too if that makes you feel any better."
words meant to help only make him whine, throbbing inside you, hips beginning to rock slowly. "you are?"
"mhmm. very close." you let out a strangled sound when his hips angle just right and it's enough for him to give up on pacing himself. his weight crushes your thighs against your chest, pace building. "so just keep moving. please."
the sounds leaving you are a mix of 'ahh's' and calls of his name, all broken, all sending his hips into you a little faster. they stutter as he fucks into you with less and less finesse, 0 rhyme or rhythm just the need to see you cum for him like this. hips slapping against the back of your thighs, paced breaths dually filling the room. "you feel so good. taking me so well." and when his thumb finds your clit again with those same, easy circles? you're a goner. "gonna cum--gonna- oh my god, keep doing that—" he finds that spot from before over and over again like there's a target stuck to it, leaky tip wedging itself right where you need it, pleasure mounting far too quickly. you're crying out at this point, hips angling up into his thrusts. so full it hurts in that perfect, dizzying way.
“fuck, you're gonna make me—”
“shut up and cum,” you choke out. “do it inside. pleaseplease—”
his entire body jolts, pace faltering. you feel him twitch deep inside you before it hits, his hips driving in and out hard—once, twice, and then he’s moaning into your mouth as he spills. he drags you down with him, pressure in your abdomen bursting, unfurling outwards with your release—his name still falling from your lips. helpless sounds that only spur the continued movement of his hips to draw out the pleasure.
you're both shaking, sucking in breaths of air greedily for moments after that. you're still folded like a pretzel, still crushed against his weight. "...that one doesn't count."
"agreed."
-- repost from previous account ˙ᵕ˙
likes and reblogs appreciated, thanks for reading!
pervy best friend!choso who thinks you're his lucky charm and wants you to sit in his lap while he plays video games. while you're perched on his thighs with his arms on either side of you, he kisses your neck and nibbles on your ear as his fingers fiddle with his controller. when he wins a game he'll turn your face towards him and give you a peck on the lips, calling it a 'celebratory kiss'.
pervy bestfriend!choso who insists on coming with you whenever you want to buy lingerie - a second opinion is always useful right? he'll pick out a set in your favourite colour and wait for you outside the dressing room. once you're out, you give him a quick twirl bending down and shaking your ass a little. he'll come up behind you to help you 'adjust your bra strap', but really it's to feel your plush ass against his dick. you know exactly what he's doing and push back against him, grinding softly against his growing erection. when he coughs out a groan, you feign innocence, asking him sweetly if he's okay.
pervy bestfriend!choso who takes advantage of the fact that you become extremely affectionate when you're sleepy. whenever you go over to his place and end up sleeping over, you cuddle him tightly, wrapping your arms around his neck and throwing one of your legs over his own. choso feels his cock strain against the fabric of his boxers as you wiggle against him in an atempt to get comfortable, feeling your tits pressed against his arm and the warmth of your pussy against his thigh.
pervy bestfriend!choso who can't believe his luck when he looks over too see that the strap of your tank top has fallen all the way down and exposed your bare breasts. He stares as your tits rise and fall as you breathe, basically inviting him to suck on them. He leans down to watch your nipples harden and his mouth is on them in seconds. I mean, how could he possibly resist? Choso's eyes are half-lidded as he swirls his tongue around your bud, his spit coating every inch of your nipple.
pervy bestfriend!choso who is too focused on your chest to notice that you've been awake the whole time, watching him groan as he sucks your nipple passionately. Choso only realises you're awake when your hand travels to his hair and you start running your fingers through his thick strands.
pervy bestfriend!choso whose face is flushed in embarassment as he tries to explain why he was latched to your nipple just seconds ago but immediately shuts up when he feels your hand start to caress his bulge.
pervy bestfriend!choso who can't believe he might actually get to fuck you.
ᡴꪫ. smut & cock warming, toru uses his gravity manipulation to his advantage 𖹭 bratty f. reader ˖ ࣪ꮽ˳
satoru gojo never used his jujutsu in the bedroom, unless . . .
it stemmed from a deep-sated fear of hurting you and the sentiment of never making you feel weaker. but like any statement, there are always exceptions to the rule. outliers. hell, satoru himself is an anomaly.
how could he pass up the opportunity to pop the top off limitless when you're being your little bratty self? if anything, you forced his hand.
so here you are. thighs trembling, heavy. t-shirt rolled-up over your tits that twitch with every muscle taut. slit stretched wide open and glistened on his cock yet so comfortable in his lap. oddly still. ball-deep usually meant getting your pretty pussy gushing cum and squelching for all to hear.
"have at it baby. just lemme finish my work, yeah?"
how sweet and considerate. he gave you the green-light to hump yourself on his dick 'till you've creamed his seat messy while he tackled paperwork. and oh — you should be bouncing on him with rings of cream bubbled at his base by now. but there's one, tiny problem.
satoru increased your gravity
from the waist down, that heavy feeling is the sheer basis of his jujutsu. weighing you down onto his thick, pulsating cock. so that your slit's stretched open, quivering, and so so desperate for him. forced to feel just how girthy he is. snug into each and every sweetspot.
"toru," your sweet pleas hardly worked on him. "please, 'm sorry baby - please I wanna -"
he reached for a file on the far-end of the desk. the abrupt shift temporarily knocks his cockhead against your cervix and you squeal out. "toru! please, please."
"why're you complain' sweet girl? told you to have at it."
from the angle you catch his tooth grin as he re-adjusts his position and so conveniently rubs against another bundle of nerves. you tense and attempt to shove your hips down. alas you're motionless. the pressure below renders you helpless. a fluttering, drooling mess. just his pretty little cocksleeve.
you huff and persist your endeavour. as if by some miracle, you'd be able to defy physics. your audacity might. your shoulders knock back into his chest and you wriggle your upper half in a measly attempt to steer your hips down.
"you're so fuckin' me - ah!"
"mean baby? but 'm giving you everything."
the weight amplifies. air leaves your lungs and your gummy walls clench tighter. milk every pulsing vein and weep all over his lap. crying for him. slobbering up his seat in a miserable attempt to show him what he's missing.
heat spins your head into mess. your eyes cross and you limp into him with a pitiful tremble of his name. his fingers are all-the-more mean as they pinch on your nipple with a spark that jolts you into a whine.
"awww, baby." his faux-sympathetic pout boasts cosmic audacity. "c'mon do I have to do everything for you?"
shlap! your pussy sobs and splutters at the abrupt hip jerk. he stutters into your cervix a few times and humps on a sweetspot that sends your eyes rolling back.
"fuck, bratty pussy can give me an attitude but can't fuck herself? so weak baby." the playful lilt melts to a deep sneer as he gropes your tit in his large hand. fucks that devastating spot 'til you're jaw-hung and drooling. the stimulation is right there - just enough —
then nothing. just your cunt's pitiful throb and the weight of his girth splitting you open. his ball's flushed to your soppy folds almost mock you. he's kissing every ridge, bump and crevice, but not once pounding you into seeing stars.
your sob's muffled by his hand's weight clamped under your under jaw. long fingers squish your cheeks and his thick thumb invades your mouth to capture your tongue.
"now you're gonna sit here 'till I'm done yeah? wanted cock so bad so you're gonna take it." back to that sweet croon and a taunting smooch to your cheek. gravity's weight reminds your poor pussy how helpless she is. stuffed, suffocated and at the strongest's mercy.
You’re bouncing on his cock, hips slamming down hard enough that the wet slap of skin on skin echoes through the bedroom, when Satoru lets out a muffled sound.
“Mmmfgh-!”
His head is thrown back against the pillow, snowy hair sticking to his damp forehead, eyes rolled halfway up in pure bliss. Your worn black panties are stuffed between his lips, the crotch pressed right against his tongue so your scent and taste flood his senses with every desperate inhale. He’s lost every ounce of composure, he's a whimpering, trembling mess beneath you.
It had started barely twenty minutes ago in the laundry room.
You’d walked in absentmindedly, only to freeze at the sight of Satoru hunched over the hamper, face buried in the same pair of your dirty panties he’s gagging on now. His blindfold was pushed up, cheeks tinted prettily, cock rock-hard and twitching visibly in his sweatpants as he inhaled you like he’d die without it. He’d startled when he saw you, pulling the fabric away with a quick, surprised blink of those striking eyes.
“Well… fuck,” he’d said, a low chuckle slipping out even as his cheeks stayed faintly warm.
“Didn’t expect you to be back so soon...”
You’d felt your own face burn, surprised and a little embarrassed by the scene before you. Instead of scolding him, you’d stepped closer, plucked the panties from his fingers and dragged him to your shared bedroom.
Now he’s paying for it in the best way. You brace both hands on his broad chest, nails digging into pale skin and ride him harder, lifting until just the fat head of his cock stretches your pussy, then slamming back down, again and again.
His muffled moans vibrate against the fabric in his mouth, drool slipping from the corner of his lips. His hands clutch the headboard above him exactly like you ordered, knuckles white, veins standing out on his forearms as he fights the urge to grab your hips and fuck up into you.
“Such a needy boy, sniffing my dirty panties like a pervert.”
He whines loudly around the gag, hips jerking helplessly beneath you. His cock throbs violently inside your clenching heat. You don’t let up, grinding in tight, nasty circles that rub your clit perfectly against his base while your walls squeeze him tightly.
His whole body suddenly goes rigid. A desperate cry tears from his throat, muffled by your panties, as he starts to squirt, hot clear fluid floods deep into your pussy. It’s filthy, warm and slippery, leaking out around his shaft with every frantic twitch of his hips. He shakes hard through every spurt, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes, moaning as he’s completely lost in the pleasure.
You keep grinding on his cock, hips rolling desperately as the warm, messy load he squirted inside you pushes you right over the edge. Your pussy clenches hard around him, thighs shaking as you cum with a soft moan, slick gushing out to mix with his own fluids and dripping down his balls on the sheets.
Panting, you slow down and gently pull the soaked panties from his mouth. He gasps for air, chest heaving, lips swollen and shiny. You brush his white hair from his forehead, still seated on his cock.
“You knew I was coming,” you murmur, watching his face. “You let me catch you on purpose.”
Satoru meets your gaze, still flushed and breathing hard. A little smirk tugs at the corner of his swollen lips.
“Yeah… I knew,” he admits, voice rough and smug.
“Wanted you to walk in on me like that. Wanted you to take over and fuck me stupid.” He lets out a breathless chuckle.
Smiling, you lean down and kiss him.
“You're so dirty...” you whisper. He shivers under you, that smirk still on his lips as his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer.
Haunted by old traumas and abandonment, it’s no surprise that Choso struggles with insomnia. Plagued with nightmares the moment he closes his eyes, Choso would easily spend the entire night awake—if not for you—his ultimate source of comfort.
Therefore, it makes sense why the only way Choso can successfully fall and remain asleep peacefully is when his cock is nestled in the comforting hug of your tight pussy. Your tender sweet cunt could always keep his fears at bay so it’s how he falls asleep most nights.
This is also Choso’s way of protecting you.
Nothing could happen to you, and you couldn't possibly leave him, when his hefty girth is plugged balls deep inside you. He'd sleep all night like that if you'd let him.
Most nights you did too, it was much easier than denying your cute puppy-like boyfriend when he'd start his adorable whimpering.
But tonight happens to be the first night of 'No Nut November'—or it will be in 20 minutes.
There’d been too many times you’d wake up to the syrupy feeling of an early morning creampie oozing out of your sore pussy. Choso often woke up in the middle of the night regardless and slow fucked you until he fell back asleep.
You needed a break.
So of course you refuse Choso when he cuddles up behind you in bed to be the big spoon and presses his stiff erection against the crease of your soft ass cheeks.
Choso in turn, whines like a kicked-puppy into your ear at the reminder of NNN, he hates this stupid bet so much. He doesn't understand why humans participate in this at all and loathes the fact that he let Yuji and Todo goad him into this at the Halloween party earlier that night.
To be honest he didn’t even know what it was about at first, he legit thought you just didn’t eat nuts all month.
But not being able to cum!?
It wasn't just about not fucking you, he wouldn't even be able to jerk it to your angelic face while you slept either!
And for what even—bragging rights?
This was pure madness to Choso as there are no better bragging rights for him than to be able to say his cock was the one that was sheathed in your guts every night. Knowing he couldn't sleep with his cockhead cozying up to your womb for an entire month was driving him mad already.
“Please princess, I need her—one last time!”
Choso’s voice is so pathetic as he whimpers kisses into the back of your neck. It’s a move that usually would have you caving but the effect is greatly dulled by the bags of sand weighing down your eyes. You had to get up for work in the morning and all the hot spiked ciders you had at the party were finally taking their toll.
“Choooo, *yawns*.... but it’s the first night... you can show a little control *yawns* ….can’t you baby?”
But Choso is desperate!
“It’s 11:43pm babe, it’s still Halloween—please!”
Choso’s voice breaks slightly as he gathers you up in his arms, pulling you deeper into a toasty cocoon surrounded by his bare chest and blankets. His embrace is so warm and so comforting it's rapid lulling your sleepy eyes closed, you don't have the will to fight him on it this time either.
“Fine C-Cho, *yawns*...but you better fall asleep in 17 minutes—and set an alarm….you hafta pull out before midnight.”
“Thank you baby! Thank you, thank you!”
Choso continues to groan his gratitude into your skin, pulling your tank top straps down to pepper kisses on your shoulder. The relief he felt on being allowed to slip his cock into you was the only thing he could focus on.
Actually considering if he would even be able to keep his promise was the furthest thing from his mind.
Spoiler alert: He wouldn’t.
Slipping down his pajama bottoms and pushing up your nightie, Choso doesn’t waste time slotting himself inside you. He doesn't even need to prepare you. His hard weepy cock meets little resistance to rest against your cervix as your gooey pussy eagerly accommodates him in your drunkenness.
You're fast asleep but your body is still responsive, constricting around his thick throbbing intrusion.
Credit to Choso, he does try to close his eyes and join you in sleep.
Yet your runny cunt is extra sloppy from all the alcohol and it's not long before she is fluttering around his thick girth. Oh god, your pretty pussy was practically begging Choso to fuck you into the mattress like she didn't give a single fuck about 'NNN'.
Bracing himself, Choso lightly presses his clammy palms into the flesh of your hips trying to keep still—but to no avail.
His sanity is slipping, stripped away by your sloppy wetness. Soon, there's no stopping Choso's the tiny micro thrusts from slowly spearing his length deeper into your core. Choso’s fat bulbous tip is planting soft smooches on your womb and the moist suction of your cunt to constricts around him in turn, pulling him in that much deeper.
A sheen of sweat is already over his body as he looks at the time:
11:48 pm.
Fuck!
Choso needed to cum so badly.
He had to get a nut out before midnight—just one.
You wouldn’t be upset with him if he did that, right?
As long as it was before midnight?
You never said he couldn't nut in you, just to pull out before midnight.
Checking to make sure you were still asleep, Choso lightly pushes up your knee. His blunted nails dig into your thigh as he steadily slides his pulsing cock in and out of you with more deliberate strokes.
It takes a strenuous amount of effort not to groan hotly into your ear and wake you and as a result Choso is chewing his lip near bloody. Any thoughts in his head quickly dissolve as it feels too fucking good to bottom out in your slick silken pussy over and over again.
“...m’sorrrrrry…m’so sorrry!”
Choso whispers apologies for his disobedient cock while he slobbers open mouth kisses down the column of your spine.
God, he wanted to keep his promise to you so bad but it was your tight lil’ cunts’ fault for being so slutty when you drank—even in your sleep.
How was he supposed to fall asleep with your core being so warm and twitchy around him?
“Ah—ooo shiiit…Choooo…b-baby…”
Your soft sleepy mewls are almost drowned out completely by your lewd pussy talking so loud the room fills with milky squelches. Choso hears them though, his chest pounding from knowledge that he was dicking you down good enough for your sleepy slutty ass to start dreaming about it too.
FuckFuckFuck!
This wasn’t just about his nut anymore. He couldn't allow you to have a bad ending to your dream if he were to just edge you without making you cum!
Choso couldn't possibly let you suffer, not even in your dreams.
Sliding a hand down your hip to fondle through the soaked folds of your cunt, his thrusts become much deeper, shaking the bed with increasing friction as he continues to spoon and fuck you. Choso pants sound like a dogs whimpers as he sucks the skin behind your ear and rubs circles more furiously on your puffy bud.
Disonnected from reality Choso is utterly pussydrunk. His madness is spurred on by the messy acoustics of your soggy clit clicking and joining in the with vulgar melodies from you being split open on his cock.
“C-Can’t d-do it! C-Can’t live…w-without ‘er—w-on’t do it! M's'sorry!”
Choso’s incoherent babbles and frantic thrusts weave their way into your dreams, his pathetic whimpering bleeding into your subconscious. His free hand slips down to press firmly against your belly, right where he knows your sweet spot lies in your core. The pressure sends a jolt through your body, your pussy spazzing around his length as a flood of wetness gushes down your thighs, soaking a large spot into the sheets beneath you.
Your legs twitch as your orgasm peaks, the overwhelming pleasure pulling a soft, sensual moan from your lips, even in your slumber.
Already on the edge, Choso's cock soaks in the tremors of your ecstasy, as you continue to cum from his relentless flicking on your clit.
Choso isn't thinking straight when cruelly pinches your swollen bud so hard you contract on him like a vice and he instantly is cumming buckets inside your cunt. The load inside your pretty pussy is so large you would have thought he actually had waited all of November to fuck you if you'd been awake.
Not being able to control his moans Choso turns his head into the pillow as he tries to calm himself, his hips never stop rocking into you until every drop of cum is out of him.
Body sweaty and shuddering against yours Choso eventually pulls out of you although reluctantly. Nerves still tingling from his orgasm, Choso bitterly muses that the real torture hadn’t even started yet.
Choso looks at the time, it wasn’t even November yet, it’s only—
12:03 am.
Damn…welp—fuck it then, right?
His thick cock twitching to life again, Choso guides you over now on your belly, sliding a cushy plush pillow under your hips as you sleepily moan from your dreamworld for him 'not to make your pussy lonely again.'
Well he would certainly remind you of this, in the morning. Sure, it was his fault he fucked up but he surely couldn't keep his pretty princess' pussy empty if that's what she requested of him.
Gripping the base of his cock, Choso buries himself to the hilt once more. He means to ease himself in but momentarily loses control, as strangled cry escapes him and he rams himself back into your guts. Chest heaving, Choso squeezes his eyes shut to hold off cumming so soon again.
The sound and force is enough to make you stir fitfully in your sleep, but Choso is quick to press soft pecks to your forehead to soothe you.
“Shhh, princess. I gotchu.”
The sleepy reassurances Choso murmurs lulls you back into slumber instantly. Choso takes a moment to admire your angelic face, brow slightly furrowed as you continue to softly hum in sleepy pleasure, before he resumes fucking you.
Yeah, fuck ‘No Nut Novemeber.’
Choso would rather stay inside your sweet pussy for the entire month straight then go a single night without you.
THOUGHT YOU WERE MAD AT THEM. YOUR PUSSY DISAGREED — various jjk men.
★ SUMMARY : leaving them for a few hours after you had a heated argument, just to see them waiting for you and fucking it into your brain that they want you.
★ NOTE : not proof read i was rushin for u guyss 🥹 THANK YOU FOR 1.5KKK
★ SATURO GOJO
“mmmfgh— baby, don’t do that shit again.” he mumbles it right into the crook of your neck, voice all gravel and wrecked, hot breath fanning over the bite mark he just sucked into your skin.
the bedroom smells like sex and the faint citrus of his shampoo you stole earlier. sheets are already twisted under your knees, headboard knocking the wall every time you drop down hard on his cock.
“you can’t just— fuck— leave after an argument like that,” gojo groans, long fingers digging bruises into your hips like he’s scared you’ll disappear again if he lets go. “had me losin my damn mind waitin’ for you.”
you moan out softly; just a roll your hips slower this time, deliberate, feeling every thick inch stretch you open again. his head tips back against the pillows, throat bobbing, pretty lashes fluttering like he’s about to cry or come or both.
“shit— yeah, just like that,” he hisses. one hand slides up your spine, tangles in your hair, yanks your mouth down to his so he can lick into you messy and desperate. “thought you were really gone this time… left me here achin’ f’ you.”
his other palm cracks against your ass— not hard enough to hurt but enough to make you clench around him. you gasp into his mouth and he drinks it down, tongue curling, whining low in his throat when your walls flutter.
“fuck, baby— tight— s’ like you’re tryna milk me dry,” he pants against your lips. hips jerk up to meet your next grind, sloppy wet sounds filling the dark room. “missed this pussy so bad… missed you ridin me stupid.”
you drag your nails down his chest, catch on the pale pink scratches you left earlier when you first shoved him onto the bed and climbed on top. he shudders under you, cock twitching deep inside.
“gonna— gonna fill you up,” he starts babbling now, filter gone, voice cracking on every other word. “gonna stuff this little cunt full till it’s drippin down your thighs— till you can’t walk tomorrow without feelin me. you hear me?”
you sink down harder just to shut him up. his eyes roll back, mouth falling open in a silent moan, fingers flexing on your waist like he’s forgotten how to breathe.
“m’ sorry— fuck— m’ sorry i yelled,” he chokes out suddenly, hips stuttering, losing rhythm. “shouldn’t have— shouldn’t have let you storm out— never again, promise— fuck— baby please…”
he flips you so fast your back hits the mattress, knees shoved up to your chest in one smooth motion. the new angle has him slamming in deeper, tip kissing your cervix on every brutal thrust. you cry out, nails raking his shoulders, legs shaking.
“look at me,” he growls, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping from his white hair onto your cheek. blue eyes blown wide, pupils swallowing the irises. “look at me while i fuck my apology into you.”
and that’s all you did. can’t look away even if you wanted to. he’s wrecked—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, that cocky smirk long gone. just raw need staring back at you.
“g’nna— g’nna cum inside,” he whimpers, pace turning erratic, hips slamming so hard the bed creaks. “g’nna breed this pussy— make sure you feel me for days— fuck— c-can’t stop— can’t— baby—”
his whole body locks up. a broken moan tears out of him as he buries himself, his cock making-out with your cervix, pulsing hot and thick inside you. you feel every spurt, every twitch, walls fluttering around him like they’re trying to pull him deeper.
he keeps grinding through it, overstimming himself, babbling nonsense against your throat. “love you— fuck— love you s’ much— don’t leave again— please— m’ gonna be good— swear—”
he collapses on top of you after, still twitching, still leaking, arms caging you in like he’ll never let go. nose buried in your hair, shaky breaths fanning your ear. “stay,” he whispers, voice small now. cracked. “just… stay.”
you card fingers through damp white strands. feel his heartbeat hammering against your chest. “of course, ‘toru.”
he exhales like the weight of the world just slid off his shoulders. then a quiet, almost shy, “round two when you’re ready?”
you laugh. he grins against your skin.
possessive fucker.
★ TOJI FUSHIGURO
we all know toji would absolutely haaate you coming home late and try to play it off. he’d be looming over the counter, his facial expression showing all kinds of pissed-the-fawk off but as soon as he sees you he can’t even stay away for more than 5 minutes.
He’d be balls deep making you have your third orgasm scolding you like the naughty girl you are.
“thought you could just stroll in whenever the fuck you want, huh?” his voice is low, right against the shell of your ear while he’s got you bent over the kitchen counter. dishes still in the sink. your coat half-shucked onto the floor. keys somewhere under the table. doesn’t matter. none of it does.
one thick forearm banded across your stomach, pinning you flush so your ass can’t escape the brutal snap of his hips. the other hand’s fisted in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to make your spine arch pretty for him.
“late again. no text. no call.” each word punched out with a mean thrust that makes your toes scrape the tile. “had me sittin’ here like some worried bitch waitin’ on his girl.”
“toji—“ you try to moan an apology but it comes out fumbled—muffled against the crook of your own arm.
he’s so deep the head of his cock’s bullying that gummy spot that turns your brain to static. your thighs are already trembling from the first two times he made you come—once on his fingers while he growled about how soaked you were just from hearing his voice on the phone earlier, once more when he shoved you face-down on the couch the second the door clicked shut.
now this. third round. no warmup. no mercy.
“look at you,” he mutters, breath hot on your neck. scarred lips brushing skin. “actin’ all innocent walkin’ in here smellin’ like that bitchy vanilla scent… but this pussy’s still grippin’ me like she missed daddy’s dick.”
he punctuates it with a slow grind—rolling his hips so the fat base drags over your swollen clit. your knees buckle. he catches you easily, hauling you higher onto your toes.
“stay up. you’re gonna take every inch while i remind you who the fuck you belong to.” his free hand cracks down on your ass—once, twice. sharp enough to sting, leaving blooming heat. you clench hard around him on instinct making him hiss through his teeth.
“fuck— there it is. greedy little thing. squeezin’ like you’re tryna apologize with your pussy.”
you’re dripping down your thighs. sticky trails cooling on your skin. the wet slap of his balls against your cunt making you cry out in the quiet kitchen. fridge humming. clock ticking. your pulse hammering in your ears louder than both.
“toji—‘m sorry—”
“sorry ain’t cuttin’ it, doll.” he yanks your head back farther, forces you to look at the dark window—reflection of you two like some filthy portrait. his broad frame swallowing yours. muscles flexing under scarred skin every time he bottoms out. your mouth slack, eyes glassy, mascara smudged from earlier tears of pleasure and pain. that same lewd expression he adores most.
“you see that?” he growls. “see how fuckin’ wrecked you look already? and you still got the nerve to come home late like i won’t do somethin’ about it.” he shifts—hooks one of your knees up onto the counter ledge, spreading you wider. new angle has him carving deeper, tip kissing your cervix on every punishing stroke. your nails scrape uselessly at the granite.
“gonna make this pussy remember,” he rasps. voice cracking just a little now—tell-tale sign he’s losing the cool he pretends to have. “gonna fuck you till you can’t walk straight tomorrow. till every step reminds you who waited up.”
his rhythm stutters when you flutter around him again—walls spasming, trying to pull him under. he curses low, filthy.
“shit— already? you’re comin’ again?” he chuckles.
you can’t answer. can only whimper high, broken—while the coil snaps for the third time. thighs shaking violently. gush of slick coating his cock, dripping onto the floor. he doesn’t slow down. fucks you through it meaner. harder.
“that’s it— give it to me— fuckin’ soak me— good girl— my nasty little slut.” his grip tightens. hips slamming erratic now. balls drawing up tight.
“gonna fill this cunt up,” he starts whining, filter now gone, voice wrecked. “gonna stuff you so full you’ll be leakin’ me all night— gonna make sure you smell like me tomorrow— fuck—”
you reach back, nails digging into his thigh. “inside— please— toji~”
that does it.
he slams home one last time deep inside, groaning long and low like it hurts. cock pulsing, swelling, flooding you with heat. thick ropes painting your walls. so much it spills out around his base, creamy white streaking down your thighs even while he’s still grinding through the aftershocks.
“fuck— take it— take every drop— mine— fuckin’ mine—”
he keeps rolling his hips—shallow, needy—milking himself empty while you tremble under him. overstimulated. his chest heaves against your back. scarred arms caging you in like he’ll never let go.
“don’t do that shit again,” he mutters. quieter now. almost soft. “hated waitin’. hated not knowin’ if you were okay.”
you reach back, thread fingers through dark strands. feel him shiver. “i really am sorry, toji.”
he huffs. kisses the nape of your neck—open-mouthed, lingering. “yeah. you will be.”
then—after another slow grind that makes you both hiss, “shower. now. ‘fore i decide round four happens right here.”
you laugh—breathless. he smirks against your skin. finally slips out with a wet sound that makes you clench around nothing. cum trickles down your thigh. he swipes two fingers through it, brings them to your lips.
“clean up your mess, baby.” you suck obediently. taste salt and him. his eyes darken again.
“good girl.” he scoops you up—effortlessly, like you weigh nothing, carrying you toward the bathroom. your legs dangle. thighs sticky. heart still racing.
“next time you’re late,” he murmurs against your temple, “i’m tyin’ you to the bed before you even think about leavin’.”
you roll your eyes then nuzzle yourself on his chest.
★ KAMO CHOSO
choso would absolutely be the last person you'd expect to corner you against the front door the second you walked in.
we all know choso — sweet, a little awkward, the man who asks "is this okay?" before he even touches your hair, who goes pink behind the ears when you call him pretty, who avoids eye contact for ten full minutes after you catch him staring too long. that's your choso.
and then you stay out three hours past when you said you'd be back, phone halfway dead, still pissed from the argument you'd storm out of, and now you begrundgingly walk through the door to find him sitting very, very still on the couch.
he doesn't yell. that's the thing that gets you first. you were braced for it, shoulders up, already rehearsing your half of the fight, and instead there's just silence.
his hands are folded between his knees, dark hair loose and hanging around his face, and his looking at you with those heavy-lidded eyes drowned in violet like he's been doing nothing but looking at the door for three hours. which, you didn't think about that part.
you open your mouth; an apology, excuse, something, and he's already standing up, you forget what you were going to say because he's so much bigger than you. he's always been tall, but right now crossing the room toward you he fills up all the space in a way that makes your heartbeat do something stupid.
he stops close. too close, not touching, the air between you smelling like him and whatever he'd been drinking trying to wait you out, and he just — looks at you. searching your face, his jaw tight.
"why didn't you pick up?" he asks, and his voice is still quiet, still careful, but there's something unsteady threading through it. not anger, exactly. something worse than anger. "i called you four times, baby."
baby. he only does that when he's upset. your stomach does a full rotation.
"choso, i—" but he cuts you off by reaching up and touching your face. just cupping your jaw with one big hand, thumb tracing your cheekbone, and you can feel that his fingers aren't fully steady.
"you scared me," he says softly, like it costs him something. "you left mad and then you just— you didn't—" he stops. his adam apple bobs. "why would you do that."
it's not even a question, really. it comes out like something he's been turning over in his hands for hours, worn smooth, and the look on his face is so sincere and so quietly devastated that something in your chest caves a little.
you say his name again, softer this time, and you watch his jaw tighten. he only warning you get before he leans down and kisses you, sudden and slow, and it's not gentle exactly, it's— it has weight to it. the kind of kiss that means don't do that again.
he pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are darker now, something shifting behind them that sends heat straight down to your tummy. "i'm still mad at you," he says quietly, and his hand is still at your jaw, tilting you up. "y'know that."
"yeah," you manage, "i know—"
"good." and then his other hand finds your waist and he walks you backward toward the bedroom with this unbearable, focused patience, like he has a plan and he's going to follow it all the way through, and every time your back bumps something — doorframe, wall — he catches you with that big warm grip and keeps you moving, keeps you steady, keeps his eyes on your face the entire time like he's cataloguing every flicker of expression. does he know he's doing that. probably not. probably just choso, just how he looks when he's paying attention, which is somehow more devastating than anything else he could do.
"choso, wait—" you try, half a laugh, half something else entirely, and he pauses in the dark of the hallway, head ducking slightly.
"i'm not yelling at you," he says, like that's clarification. "i'm not— i don't want to yell. i just—" and here he swallows, something flickering across his face, almost embarrassed but not quite. "i need you to let me. okay? let me—" his hands tighten the smallest amount at your waist. "please."
the please ruins you. because it's still him, it's still choso who asks for things softly, who would never just take, and somehow that makes it worse — makes the heat travel from your tummy to you pussy, making it hard to remember why you were mad in the first place or what you'd been so stubborn about three hours ago.
"okay," you say, barely sound, and he exhales like he'd been holding that in, too.
he takes his time. that's the thing you weren't prepared for — this slow, deliberate patience layered over something that keeps slipping through, this tremble in his hands when he pulls your shirt over your head that he tries to steady and can't quite, his breath gone a little uneven despite himself.
"you're so—" he starts, voice hushed, and then stops himself, frowning faintly, this small frustrated furrow between his brows like he resents that you exist and are right in front of him and he doesn't have words for whatever's stuck in his chest. he settles for touching instead. spreads one big palm flat over your ribs, fingers spanning so wide it knocks the air out of you.
"choso," you breathe, and he makes this low sound, involuntary, and his jaw tightens.
"you s-scared me," he says again, quieter, like it keeps escaping him. "i kept thinking— i didn't know if you were—" he doesn't finish it. instead he puts his mouth on your throat and stays there, just breathing for a second, warm and still, and the gesture is so tender and so completely at odds with the size of him that your eyes sting a little. oh no. "i hate when you're gone," he murmurs into your skin. "hate it. even when i'm mad. still hate it."
getting him inside you takes time too... because he goes careful, this trembling careful that he's clearly fighting against, hissing low through his teeth as you stretch and your walls flutter helplessly around him and his whole body goes rigid.
"wait—" he grits out, and you're not sure if he's talking to you or himself, hips stilled, forehead pressed somewhere between your shoulder and the pillow. "wait." you can feel how much that costs him. can feel the tension humming through every muscle where he's pressed against you, thick and filling you so full your thoughts are already liquefying at the edges.
"'m okay," you manage, arching slightly, and he makes a noise like you've broken something.
"i know you are," he breathes. "i just— need a second. you feel—" and then he stops talking, which might be a first for this whole gentle careful thing, and starts moving instead.
slow. devastatingly slow. rolling his hips in this deep, grinding drag that hits something inside you that makes your toes curl and your back bow up off the mattress and a sound come out of your mouth you hadn't planned.
his breathing goes immediately ragged, plp plp plp of his hips meeting yours filling up the quiet of the room, and his hands find your thighs and hitch you up, adjusting the angle, and— fuck. your hands scramble for something to grip, sheet, his arm, anything, and he watches you, watches your face with this expression that's raw in a way that makes it hard to look at directly.
"there you are," he breathes, low and shaky. "that— yeah, that's—" and then he does it again, same drag, same deep roll, and your head drops back.
he gets meaner about it slowly. not aggressive, not cruel — just focused, this quiet intensity that keeps building, the pace still unhurried but heavier, deeper, and his grip on your thighs tightening until you know he's leaving prints and you don't care, can't care, not with how full you are and how the drag of him hits that sweet spot every time like he's learning you, memorizing you the same way he'd been reading your face in the hallway.
"you were gone so long," he says, almost conversational except for the slight crack in it, and his hips roll and you gasp. "why'd you stay out so long." it's not really a question. or it is, it's still a question, still that same wondering hurt from earlier, but now his voice has this low fraying quality like a wire pulled too tight. "why?"
"i don't— i wasn't—" you're already losing the thread of it, hips rolling up to chase him without your permission, and he notices, eyes dropping down to where you're joined and going briefly, almost comically blank.
"you're doing that," he says. faintly accusatory. faintly wrecked.
"why?" he asks again, later, when he's got you folded up and he's properly losing his mind about it, forehead pressed to yours, hair escaped from its tie and hanging around both of you, and the controlled thing has fully slipped now — hips snapping into something erratic that makes the wet slap of it embarrassingly loud and your voice keep breaking on his name. "why'd y-you—" and he stops because his voice cracks too, right down the middle, and he squeezes his eyes shut and makes this low broken sound and you feel him pulse inside you and
"choso—"
"m' sorry," he breathes, "m' sorry, i—" but he doesn't stop, can't, hips still working even as his whole body shakes and his breath comes in ragged little pulls. "baby." and god he sounds— he sounds completely undone, you've never heard him like this, this is new, this is the version of choso that three hours of sitting on the couch waiting for you made, and something about that makes you clench around him and he makes a sound that's almost pained.
"please," you hear yourself say, "please~"
"yeah," he gets out, barely, "yeah— i've got you— you're—" and then the words slip away entirely and he fucks you through it properly, stuttering and shaking and whispering things into your hair that might be your name or might be please or might be both.
overstimulation is a thing that happens to you after, when you're limp and wrung out and certain that you couldn't possibly, and choso is still moving — slowed to something deep and lazy, still filling you and refusing to pull out with this look on his face like he hasn't fully come back to himself yet.
"choso," you try, thighs twitching, "h-hey— i can't, i'm—"
"just," he says. stops. swallows. "just a little more. please. please, baby." and there's the question again, the soft asking even now, even like this, even with you already a destroyed mess underneath him. "you feel so good. can i— just a little more, okay? jus'—"
"mmgfh, choso~"
his face twists. "s-sorry," he starts, "i'm sorry, i'll stop, you just—" and then you clench, involuntary, body giving him the answer that your mouth hadn't gotten around to yet, and his eyes flutter and he exhales, "oh," very small. and keeps going.
★ HIROMI HIGURAMA
hiromi higuruma would absolutely find you still hunched over his desk at eleven-forty-seven at night, lamp cutting a yellow circle across a stack of files you've been reorganizing since he hung up on you four hours ago; you had nowhere else to go with how angry you were, and his office was right there, and spite has its own kind of logic.
we all know higuruma. composed. methodical. the man who won arguments with prosecutors using a single eyebrow raise and twenty seconds of silence. you didn't think he'd come back tonight. you should have thought about it more.
the door opens quiet. he doesn't announce himself, doesn't say your name — you just feel the shift in the room, the way the air changes when someone large and very still enters it, and your shoulders go up before your brain catches up with why. the click of the lock behind him is the loudest thing that's happened in hours.
you don't turn around. pride, mostly. also you're not done being mad, and you need at least another thirty seconds to build the wall back up before you look at him. you hear him set something down; keys, probably, the small ceramic bowl by the door making its little sound and then nothing. just the awareness of him behind you, standing there in that way he has, the way that makes rooms feel smaller without being threatening about it. his suit jacket is still on. he's been somewhere, then. or he sat with it on in the car for a while deciding whether to come in.
"you're still here," he says. low, even. not a question exactly.
"i work here," you say, turning a page you're not reading.
a beat of quiet that has weight to it, the kind higuruma deploys the way other people use words. then you hear him move, unhurried, the soft drag of dress shoes across the floor, and he rounds the desk and you still don't look up and his hand comes down over yours on the file folder — not gripping, just covering, warm and very deliberate. stopping you. "look at me," he pleads.
you do. because you can't not, when he uses that voice. he's close, closer than you'd registered, and his face is doing the thing where it's not giving much away but his eyes are — tired, a little, and something underneath the tired that's been sitting there all day working itself into a knot.
his expression is still unreadable. his tie is loosened exactly one button's worth. "you've been here this whole time," he questions, and it's not what you expect him to lead with, the what and the how of you sitting in his office reorganizing case files out of spite at eleven pm, and something about that catches in your chest.
"i wasn't going to go home while i was still—" you start.
"i know," he states. not dismissive. like he actually does know, like he turned it over the whole drive here and arrived at the same place you did. his thumb moves across the back of your hand, small slow arc. "i shouldn't have hung up."
oh. you blink. you'd been ready for the second half of the argument, had it half-loaded, and now it's just — sitting there unspent and awkward. "higuruma, i—"
"i know," he says again, softer, and then he takes the folder out of your hand and sets it aside and the edge of a brief that took someone three hours to assemble crumples under it and neither of you mentions it. his hands find your face, thumbs at your jaw, tilting you up the way he does when he wants your full attention, which you were already giving him, but that's not really the point of it. the point is the holding. "i'm sorry," he says, looking straight at you, and higuruma doesn't say that lightly, you know that, you've known that for a while now.
you open your mouth and he kisses you before you can finish the thought.
it's not rushed. that's his whole thing, always has been measured, intentional, like he's building a case for something with every action and the verdict is going to land whether you're ready or not. his hands stay at your face while his mouth works yours slow and thorough, and you're already melting by the time he pulls back, lips a little swollen, eyes darker than they were, and he looks at you for a second like he's checking something off an internal list. then he drops to his knees.
oh— "higuruma, wait—"
"sit on the desk," he says, already pushing your chair back.
"the— the papers—"
"sit on the desk." same tone he uses to deliver a closing argument. you sit on the desk. several documents that probably mattered crinkle underneath you and you can't bring yourself to care because he's parting your knees with both hands, slow and very matter-of-fact about it, and looking up at you from the floor of his own office with his tie loose and his glasses catching the lamplight, and the sight of him like that does something genuinely unreasonable to your brain chemistry.
he takes his time working you open through the fabric first. thumb pressing, tracing, watching your face for every twitch while you try very hard to look like you're not immediately losing the thread of every thought you'd had tonight.
god. "higuruma—" his name comes out embarrassingly soft and something in his expression shifts, the composure still there but thinned, something hotter running underneath it. he pushes the fabric aside and puts his mouth on you without preamble and you grab the edge of the desk hard enough that the stapler rattles off onto the floor.
he eats you out the way he does everything — thorough, unhurried, with this awful focused precision that doesn't allow for shortcuts or mercy, his tongue working your folds open before settling flat and heavy over your clit and just staying there, slow pulsing pressure, and you're already slick and aching from nothing but the last twenty minutes of him and the sound that comes out of your mouth is not dignified.
a stack of briefs slides off the corner of the desk. neither of you looks at them. his hands grip your thighs and keep you spread and still while you squirm and he hums against you, low, disapproving, and the vibration of it makes your hips stutter up helplessly.
"higuruma," you breathe, thighs trembling, "please, i need—"
he pulls back just enough to look up at you, chin slick, and his eyes are very dark and very attentive behind the glasses. "come here," he says, rough at the edges now, and he maneuvers you. hands at your hips, repositioning, implacable until you're kneeling up on the desk above him, thighs on either side of his face, and you realize what he's doing half a second before he pulls you down onto his nose and mouth and —
the sound that comes out of you bounces off the walls. his nose presses against your clit and his mouth opens beneath you, tongue finding your entrance, and your whole body goes rigid with how good it is, too good, embarrassingly immediate, your hips rolling forward before you've even consciously decided to and he lets you, hands spread warm on your ass just guiding, keeping you steady, while you grind down onto his face in the lamplight of his own office with important legal documents crumpling under your knees.
oh my god. the wet sounds are filthy and specific and you can feel your face heating even as you can't stop chasing, hips rolling, riding the flat of his tongue and the pressure of his nose against that swollen knot of nerves until you're shaking and saying his name too many times and your thighs are clamping around his ears.
he doesn't stop when you cum. that's the thing. he slows, gentles, lets you ride it out — and then keeps going, tongue lapping patient and thorough while you twitch and gasp and try to pull back and his hands don't let you move far. "too much—" you manage, "higuru— i'm—"
"mm— i know," he groans into you, muffled, and then does something with his tongue that makes your vision go briefly static.
he gets you off twice on his face before he stands up. unhurried. glasses fogged at the edges, mouth and chin devastatingly wet, and he looks at you, completely fucked-out and wobbling on his desk amid the wreckage of the filing system with this expression that's almost quiet satisfaction except for how his chest is moving, how his hands go immediately to his belt with a precision that belies how controlled he's trying to look. there it is. "lie back," he says.
"the papers—"
"i'll reprint them." and he means it, the way he means everything, and something about the casual certainty of it makes you laugh, breathless, and you lie back in the papers.
the press of him in is slow, measured at first, and then your walls flutter around the thick stretch of him and his breath leaves him in a rush. "ah—" undignified, unplanned, and he stops for a second with his eyes shut and his jaw clenched, hands braced on the desk on either side of your hips, and you watch something in his face come loose. "you're—" he starts. stops. swallows. the glasses have slid down his nose and he doesn't fix them. "you feel—"
"hah," you moan, soft, and he opens his eyes and looks at you, and there it is; the thing under the composure, the thing that made him drive back here at midnight, the thing that'd been in his voice even when he was angry on the phone.
he starts moving and stops being careful about it within about thirty seconds.
the desk rocks. something else falls off it; a pen cup, the sound of pens scattering across the floor and you're scrambling to hold onto the edge while he fucks you into it, papers crumpling and tearing under your back, his thrusts rolling into something relentless and deep that punches the air out of you in little broken increments.
his glasses are properly crooked now and he doesn't spare a hand to fix them, both gripping your hips, and his voice when it comes out is low: "you stayed," he says, hips snapping, and it takes your brain a second to parse that he means tonight, means the office, means you sat in his space and reorganized his files instead of going somewhere he couldn't find you. "you stayed here—"
"w-what—" your voice breaks on it.
"don't do that again," he says, not a request, and his hips drive in and you keen, walls clenching, and he makes this rough sound in the back of his throat like it's punishing him too. "don't—" and then he's burying deep and staying there, trembling slightly, forehead dropping to your collarbone while his hips roll slow and grinding and he breathes through clenched teeth, "—god, you're so—" the sentence dies, unfinished, swallowed by the sound of his own breathing and the quiet ruin of every document on the desk.
you cum with your hand fisted in his rumpled shirt and his name said wrong, too many syllables, something that comes out closer to a sob than a word. he follows with his face in your neck, a low rough sound that he murmurs your name into, hips stuttering through it, and you feel the warm spill of him and his whole weight sinking into you and the desk groaning underneath and three case files sliding off onto the floor.
silence, for a bit. the lamp buzzes faintly. somewhere outside a car passes.
he lifts his head. looking at you. fixeing his glasses. "i'm reprinting all of this," he says, very quietly, surveying the destruction, and you start laughing and can't stop, and after a second his mouth curves too; not a smile exactly, but the shape of one, the thing that lives just next to composed, and he drops his head back onto your shoulder and stays there.
★ SUGURU GETO
we all know suguru geto doesn't chase. that's the thing about him — the thing you keep forgetting, keep testing the edges of anyway, like you enjoy finding out where the boundary sits.
he doesn't raise his voice. doesn't beg. and when you'd hung up on him three hours ago and stayed gone he'd sat with it, turned it over, and when you finally walked back through the door he was already standing in the hallway like he'd known exactly how long you'd need.
he didn't say anything. just looked at you.
that look. that specific one, dark eyes tracking your face, reading you in three seconds flat, mouth doing nothing. you'd opened yours to say i'm sorry or we need to talk or literally anything with words in it, and he'd crossed the distance and kissed you instead, one hand cupping your jaw and the other already finding your waist, and it wasn't gentle, wasn't rough either, it was decided. like the conversation was already over and this was just the next paragraph.
"sugu—" you tried, against his mouth.
"shhh," he hushes.
he takes his time undressing you, which is somehow worse than if he'd just ripped something. deliberate. like he's not in a hurry because he doesn't need to be, because you're not going anywhere and he's already decided how this ends. his earring catches the light when he ducks his head to mouth at your throat and your hands find his hair on instinct; loose tonight, the tie gone, black silk of it slipping between your fingers — and he hums against your pulse point, warm and approving, and your knees do something humiliating.
"you're so annoying," he murmurs, into your neck, without heat. just a fact. and then he bites down soft and you gasp and he soothes it with his tongue and keeps moving.
on the bed he gets his mouth between your thighs first, because that's suguru, because he'll take the thing apart slow before he's anywhere close to done. chin tilted up watching your face while his tongue works your folds open, flat and thorough, the wet sounds of it slp slp slp embarrassingly audible and he doesn't stop, not even when you're already shaking and grabbing at his hair and saying his name wrong, sugurusugurusugu— like it'll do something. his eyes stay on yours the whole time. that's the meanest part.
he edges you twice before he's even inside you, pulling back each time with this patient, infuriating composure, lips slick and dark eyes blown, watching you fall apart at the removal of his mouth like it's something he's particularly interested in studying.
"please," you manage, thighs trembling either side of his head.
"please what, pretty girl," he says, voice dropped to something that scrapes right down your spine.
when he finally pushes in the sound that leaves you is not attractive. not even a little. his cock stretches you open inch by slow inch and he watches your face the whole way, jaw tight, the composure held together by what looks like significant effort.
his breath heavier than he'd like, a muscle in his cheek pulling, and when he bottoms out he stops, hips flush against yours, and just. stays there. forehead dropped to yours. both of you breathing.
"you pissed me off," he mumbles, very quietly. "don't do that again."
your throat goes tight. "sugu—"
"i mean it." and then he pulls back and drives in and the words dissolve completely.
he fucks you with this horrible focused intensity — not punishing, not exactly, but not gentle either, hips rolling deep and grinding in a way that finds that spot every third stroke like he has it memorized, like he's been thinking about exactly this angle for three hours on the couch waiting for you.
plp plp plp of skin meeting skin fills up the room. his hair falls forward around both your faces and you reach up to grip it and he lets you, makes a low rough sound at the pull, hips stuttering into something harder before he catches himself and smooths back into that devastating rhythm.
"you gonna run off again?" he growls, above you, not quite a threat, not quite a question.
"no—" and your voice breaks on it because he angles up and hits something that makes your whole body jolt, "no, no, i'm sorry, i'm sorry—"
"i know you are," he says, low and raspy, like he was always going to get here, "i know, sweetheart, you always are—" and then his fingers find your nipple, pinching and caressing the sensitive bud.
he doesn't stop when you cum. the composure fully slips somewhere around the second time, hips losing the careful measured drag into something erratic and urgent, his breath coming apart in short rough increments against your temple.
"fuuuck—" quiet, almost surprised, like he resents how good you feel, voice cracking clean down the middle, "too tight, you're always so—" and he buries deep and grinds and his whole body shudders and the warmth of him spilling into you punches a moan out of you both. "fuckin' tight, my love."
he stays inside. grinds it slow. keeps going.
"sugu," you breathe, wrecked, "i can't—"
"you can," he says, into your hair, but it comes out rough-soft, the mean edge gone, and his arms pull you closer, hold you there, and it's not really an argument anymore.
★ NANAMI KENTO
nanami would be so fucking careful about it. that's the part that gets you. the part that's almost meaner than if he'd just been angry — because he is angry, you can feel it in the way his hands grip your hips with this controlled, deliberate pressure, can hear it in how measured his breathing is, how even, the specific even that means he's working very hard at it. he told you to be home by nine. it is past midnight.
and now he has you folded underneath him with his shirt half-untucked and his jaw set and his hips rolling into you in these long, thorough strokes that are technically gentle, paced, deep, no wasted movement, while your thighs shake on either side of him and you babble apologies into the dark of the bedroom that he doesn't acknowledge and doesn't stop.
"i-i'm sorry," you manage, wall flutter pulling a short exhale out of him that he smooths over immediately, "kento, m' sorry, i didn't mean to— i lost track of—"
he rolls his hips on the next thrust and the words collapse into a sound that isn't a word at all, just air, just the squelch of him working into you plp plp plp in the quiet room, unhurried, relentless in the way that only nanami can be relentless about something like it's a task, like the apology goes in one ear and out the other because you're saying it into his cock and not into his face and he knows the difference. "kento—"
"i heard you," he says. low. not unkind exactly. not kind either.
his thumb finds your clit and presses and you jolt, thighs snapping around his waist, and he looks down at you with this expression that is so carefully neutral that it circles back around to devastating, and keeps the pressure steady and keeps his hips moving and watches you come apart underneath him like he's noting every detail for the record.
fuck. you're already so wet it's embarrassing, has been since he'd pulled you in by the wrist the second you'd walked through the door — no yelling, no lecture, just his hand around your wrist and his eyes finding yours and something in his face going quiet in a way that was worse than any argument. you'd said his name. he'd said, very quietly, bedroom, and that had been the end of the conversation.
"you worried me," he says now, into the space between you, not quite looking at your face and not quite not looking at it either, gaze somewhere at your collarbone, and his voice does something strange on the last word; a slight roughness that he smooths out immediately after. the thumb at your clit circles once. you keen, high and broken, hips chasing without your permission.
"don't do that," he says, flatter now, though the hand at your hip tightens the smallest fraction. whether he means don't do that, stop chasing or don't do that, don't worry me again, you cannot parse with his cock buried this deep in you. probably both. nanami is efficient.
"m' sorry," you slur, wet-eyed now, his next thrust knocking it out of you in a rush, "m' sorry, kento, i know, i know i should've—" and then he shifts the angle, just slightly, just a precise deliberate tilt of his hips that drags the head of him across something that makes your vision white at the edges, and you stop making words and start making sounds.
he keeps going. same pace. same depth. same controlled roll of his hips that is technically, technically, not punishing you — except that it absolutely is, except that he knows exactly what he's doing and how it lands, and the smallest thing is happening at the corners of his mouth that might be satisfaction and might be guilt about the satisfaction and is definitely both. "can't— kento— please—"
"please what," he says. quiet. curious, almost. like he genuinely wants to know.
your brain presents you with nothing. please more, please stop, please don't stop, please say you're not mad, please keep looking at me like that — all of it jamming up in your throat at once while your walls clench helplessly around him and he makes a low sound and his jaw tightens and his hips stutter, just once, the first crack in the composure, before he smooths it back out and keeps going.
"you don't know," he observes, and there's something in it; gentle, ruthless, both, the nanami special, and his thumb presses down on your clit and holds and you cry out and your whole body arches up into him.
"i hate when you go quiet on me," he says, above you, and it takes you a fuzzy second to realize he means the argument, means the part where you'd gone cold and hung up and disappeared for three hours — not the current situation where you are physically incapable of coherent speech because he's fucking you through the mattress with his shirt still half-buttoned and his glasses somewhere on the nightstand and his face doing a very poor job of being expressionless.
"i don't—" and here he stops. his hips keep moving, the pace finally slipping into something less controlled, a little harder, a little less technically gentle, and you feel it in your teeth. "i don't like not knowing where you are," he finishes, very quietly, and the admission costs him something you can see him paying. his forehead drops to your shoulder. the careful breathing is gone. "i don't like it."
"kento—" and your voice breaks clean in half on his name, hands scrambling to grip something, his arm, the sheets, landing on both.
"i know," he says, into your neck. "i know, just—" and his hips snap and you both make embarrassing sounds and he mouths something against your skin that might be your name or might be stay.
you can't tell, you're too far gone, thighs shaking and cunt clenching rhythmically around him while he loses the careful measured pace entirely and fucks you like he's been holding it back since you walked through the door, which he has, which you both know, slap slap slap of his hips meeting yours filling up the bedroom while you babble his name and sorry and please into the dark above his shoulder.
he cums with his face still pressed to your throat, a rough bitten-off sound that he muffles immediately, hips buried deep, grinding slow through it, big hand spread at your lower back holding you against him like you might drift away if he doesn't. you feel the warmth of it and your walls flutter and he makes another sound, smaller, helpless, and his grip tightens.
"don't," he says, strained, into your neck. "don't move. give me—" and he doesn't finish that either, just holds you there, both of you breathing too hard, your lashes wet and sticking, his dress shirt damp at the collar from where his neck has been sweating through the last forty minutes of technically gentle.
the silence stretches. his thumb moves, small idle arc at your hip. slowly the grip loosens into something that's just — holding. the kind that doesn't have an agenda.
"i'm sorry, my love" you say again, into his shoulder. meant more, this time.
a long beat. "i know," he says, finally, and you can feel some of the tension leave his back under your hands. "next time." just that. next time — and you know what he means, have learned enough nanami to translate: next time call. next time don't go quiet. next time let me know you're alright. you press your face into his shoulder and nod into the fabric and he exhales, long and slow, and his hand moves to the back of your head.
he stays inside you until you both stop shaking. doesn't pull out. just — stays; somewhere outside it starts to rain and nanami breathes, even, finally, actually even, and his fingers card through your hair once like he's not doing it on purpose.
★ SUKUNA RYOMEN
sukuna would find it genuinely hilarious. that's what gets you first, not the anger you'd braced for, not the cold shoulder you'd half-wanted so you could stay righteous about the whole thing.
no. you walk through the door still rehearsing the second half of the argument and he's sitting there with that look on his face, the one that means he's already decided something, already filed it under your fault, my problem, and the laugh that comes out of him is low and short and not actually funny at all.
"there she is," he mumbles, like you're late to something he arranged. like he wasn't the reason you left.
you open your mouth. wrong move. he's off the couch before you finish the first word, and sukuna in motion is something your body responds to before your brain weighs in — every nerve pulling toward him even when you're still pissed, even when you're already saying.
"don't—" and he's already got a fist in the back of your hair, not cruel, just absolute, tilting your head back so he can look at your face properly.
"you left," he says, like it's an observation about the weather.
"you were being—"
"you left." same tone. lower. and the hand in your hair tightens and you feel your pulse jump.
he walks you backward into the bedroom without ceremony, lips at your jaw, your throat, the hinge of it, not kissing exactly, just pressing, sampling, the way sukuna touches things he considers his. the black marks on his chest are warm against your palms when you grab at him and he hums, pleased, like you've done something correctly by accident.
"always gotta make it difficult," he mutters, into your neck, and there's something in it that's almost fond and almost annoyed and fully neither.
your back hits the mattress. his weight settles over you and blots out the ceiling and you. shit, you stop being mad about the argument for approximately one full second.
he's not gentle about getting you open. two fingers, then three, working you slick with this bored, efficient focus while he watches your face like he's looking for something specific. the exact moment your hips start chasing, the exact shape your mouth makes before the sound comes out. finds both. says nothing about it. just pulls his fingers free and wipes them on the sheets and lines himself up and — oh.
the stretch of him pulls a sound from your throat that you immediately hate yourself for.
"every time," he says, pushing in slow, watching your expression fall apart in real time, "act like you didn't miss it." another inch. your thighs are shaking already. "like you didn't come back for this."
"that's not— kuna~"
"finish a sentence," he suggests pleasantly, and drives the rest of the way home.
oh fuck. white at the edges. you grab at his forearms, thick, tattooed, not moving anywhere, and your walls clench helplessly around him and he makes this rough sound through his teeth, jaw set, eyes gone a little dark, which is the only tell he has and he'd be furious if you said it out loud.
he stays buried, lets you feel all of it, lets the stretch of him sit there in your nervous system like a fire alarm, and when your hips twitch up toward him his smirk sharpens.
"there it is," he says.
he fucks you mean and slow, which is worse than fast, the drag of him pulling out and pushing back in at this deliberate grinding pace that has you leaking slick down your thighs and babbling in under four minutes.
plp plp plp. the headboard knocks the wall. he doesn't care about the headboard. he's got a hand spread at your lower tummy, pressing down just enough to feel where he's hitting, and the filthy sound he makes when he feels it from both sides does something genuinely embarrassing to you.
"look at you," he murmurs, not unkind, "couldn't even wait to fight properly—" and he rolls his hips in and you arch up and he watches that happen with the expression of a man who feels very correct about something.
"wasn't— my fault—" you try, breathless, which is the wrong thing because—
"whose ring are you wearing," he says, flat, hips snapping once and your whole body jolts.
you stop arguing after that. he works you up to something that sits right behind your eyes, all squelch and wet heat and the low grunt of his breathing, and you're holding onto his shoulders with your nails probably leaving marks and he doesn't mention it or stop — if anything he fucks harder when you grip, because of course he does, because that's sukuna, because of course.
"gonna cum f' me?" he breathes, above you, and it's not quite a question, it's more like he's narrating what's about to happen because he already knows.
"yes—" and it comes out wrecked, barely a word, more just the shape of one.
"yeah," he says, very low, and his thumb finds your clit and presses and that's all it takes.
he cums with his face in your throat, biting down, not enough to break, enough to bruise, enough that you'll feel it tomorrow in the exact shape of his mouth, hips buried and grinding through the aftershocks of both of you, a rough sound that he muffles against your skin like he resents needing to make it.
you feel the heat of him spill and your walls clench again and he hisses, "don't—" and then does three more thrusts anyway, short and grinding and involuntary, because obviously.
silence. his weight settles. not off you, just — settled. which is sukuna's version of a blanket.
after a long moment: "you're not leaving again," he says. not a question. not really possessive even, just stated. the way he states everything that's already been decided.
your throat is dry. "that's not really how—"
"you're not," he says, into your hair, and the arm across your waist tightens by about ten percent.
you don't finish the sentence.
★ SHIU KONG
shui kong would let you walk through the door still hot with it. still jaw-set, still convinced you had the moral high ground, still replaying the argument in your head in the satisfying way where you win every time.
he'd be right there, jacket off, suspenders hanging loose at his hips, cigarette burning between two fingers like he's been sitting with it since you left, and he wouldn't say a word. just watches you come in. takes a drag. exhales slow.
that's it. that's the whole greeting.
the silence does something to you that you don't want to examine too closely, because it's infuriating and also your pulse has already picked up and you know he can tell, knows he always can, which is also infuriating. "don't start," you warn him, which is a stupid thing to say to someone who hasn't started anything.
the corner of his mouth moves. barely. "didn't say a word," he says, smoke still curling from the cigarette, voice doing that thing where it sounds perpetually bored and perpetually amused at the same time, pitched low and even, the kind of voice that gets under your skin precisely because it doesn't try to.
"you were thinking it," you say.
"yeah," he agrees, pleasantly. "i was."
he stubs the cigarette out. stands up. and there's a certain category of problem that shui kong moving toward you creates, because he's not fast about it, he's unhurried, which is different, which is worse and by the time he's close enough that you can smell the stale smoke and something sharper underneath it, the argument is already losing structural integrity in your head.
he looks down at you for a second. something in his half-lidded gaze tracking your face the way he tracks everything, cataloguing, unreadable.
"you done?" he asks.
you open your mouth. he tips your chin up with two fingers, not gripping, just placing, and kisses you, and the answer dies somewhere between your throat and the open air.
he gets your clothes off in a way that's efficient and sort of humiliating, like it's a task with obvious steps, like your indignation is a minor inconvenience he's accounting for. your skirt's gone before you've fully processed his hands at the zipper.
he backs you into the wall with one palm flat between your shoulders and mouths at your throat while his other hand slides between your thighs, and you're already embarrassingly wet and he finds it immediately and makes this low unimpressed sound directly against your pulse.
"how long you been like this," he murmurs. not a question.
"shut up—"
"since you left?" and there it is the meanness, the specific shui kong meanness that doesn't raise its voice, just turns the thing over in its hands and examines it while you want to dissolve through the floorboards.
his fingers move and you grab at his forearm and he keeps going, two fingers crooking inside you while his thumb finds your clit and applies exactly enough pressure to make your knees do something unreliable.
"shui—" and your voice comes out wrong, high and broken at the seam, and you feel him smile against your throat.
"there she is," he says, quiet, satisfied. "the version of you that's not full of shit."
you want to say something cutting. what comes out is a moan, squelch of his fingers working into you, plp plp plp embarrassing in the quiet of the room, and he brings you to the edge and keeps you there with this infuriating focused patience — just enough, never quite enough — until you're grabbing his shirt and making small desperate noises into his shoulder and your pride has fully evacuated the premises.
"please," you get out.
"please what," he says, mild.
"please just—"
"use your words," he says, "you were so good at them twenty minutes ago."
he fucks you up against the wall first, which you suspect is partially because he enjoys watching you scrabble for purchase, fingers dragging against the paint, heels slipping, entirely dependent on the arm hooked under your thigh to keep you from sliding.
the angle is something that rearranges your opinions on several subjects, his cock thick and pressing in deep where he holds you open and your mouth falls open on nothing, just air, just the squelch and slap of it slap slap slap and his breath rough at your temple, finally a little rough, finally something, the composed thing going uneven at the edges in a way that you'd feel smug about if you had any working brain cells left.
"still mad?" he asks, against your ear, hips driving up.
"—yes," you moan, which is technically a lie but also the only piece of self-respect you have left.
he makes a low amused sound and angles his hips and hits something that has you crying out, thighs locking around him, walls clenching so hard you feel him shudder, the first real crack — his jaw tensing, a rough "fuck—" that he doesn't quite swallow, muffled in your hair, hips stuttering before he pulls himself back into the rhythm.
"sure," he says, slightly strained.
he moves you to the bed at some point, not gentle about it; drops you onto the mattress, hooks your ankles up over his shoulders, and the new depth makes you sob a little which he watches with this expression like he's deeply privately satisfied by that.
the composure is mostly back. mostly. his hair's messed up and there's a flush along his neck he's definitely not acknowledging and his thrusts have that particular roughness that means he's closer than he wants to admit — slap slap slap and your whole body rocking up the mattress with each one, headboard kissing the wall, the sound of you soaked around him absolutely filthy in the quiet room.
"shui— shui, i'm—" and you're already shaking, thighs trembling either side of his head, clenching and fluttering and making his breath stutter again, "gonna cum, please—"
"i know," he says, and the certainty of it is so irritating and so hot that it tips you right over the edge.
he follows close behind, hips grinding in deep and staying, hand gripping your hip hard enough you'll see it tomorrow, a low rough sound that he breathes out through his teeth. the warmth of him fills you and your walls flutter uselessly and he hisses, grinds once more, twice, working it through with his eyes closed and jaw set like he's annoyed at himself for it.
silence. the ceiling. both of you breathing.
after a while he reaches over to the nightstand and picks up a new cigarette. doesn't light it. just holds it between his fingers and looks at the ceiling, chest still moving too fast for someone who'd like you to believe he's completely unbothered.
"we're not doing that again," he says finally, meaning the leaving part. the whole leaving part.
you turn your head to look at him. he's still staring at the ceiling. the unlit cigarette taps once against his knuckles. "which part," you say.
"all of it," he says, which means the leaving and nothing else, and doesn't elaborate, because that's all he was ever going to give you and somehow it's enough.
★ NAOYA ZENIN
naoya zenin would be insufferable about it. that's the whole thing — he'd be insufferable, leaned against the doorframe when you finally walked in, arms crossed, that particular smirk sitting on his face like it'd been waiting there specifically for you. hours. you'd been gone hours, long enough to cool down and heat back up again for entirely different reasons, and you walk through the door and the first thing out of his mouth is "took you long enough."
not i was worried. not where were you. not even a proper argument continuation. just that, delivered like a verdict, like you'd failed a test he'd designed.
you should not find it as hot as you do. you genuinely hate that about yourself.
"don't," you start, already bristling, dropping your bag.
"don't what," he says, tilting his head slightly, light eyes doing that thing where they track you with this lazy attention that isn't lazy at all, not really. "finish a thought, at least."
"don't be a dick about it—"
"i'm always dick," he smirks, like it's a point of pride, and it is, that's the problem, "that's not new information." he pushes off the doorframe. "you done sulking or d' you need another hour?"
"i wasn't sulking—" but he's already moved, already closed enough distance that you have to tilt your chin up to hold eye contact, and naoya at close range is a specific kind of problem because he's taller than you clock him for and meaner than you're ever fully braced for; his hand finds your jaw before you finish the sentence, not hard, just — there, thumb pressing the corner of your mouth, tilting your face exactly where he wants it.
"yeah you were," he says, eyes dropping to your mouth, "you always do that little thing where you go quiet and disappear and wait for someone to come find you." the smirk shifts into something with a sharper edge. "m' not doing that. you know where i am."
it's the closest naoya zenin gets to i was waiting for you to come back and you both know it and neither of you are going to say it.
he kisses you before you can respond, which is basically naoya's solution to any conversational situation where he's running out of winning moves — not that he'd frame it that way, not that he'd ever admit the conversation had gotten close to him at all.
his hands move fast. not frantic, nothing naoya does is frantic, but efficient in a way that has your shirt gone and your bra following it before your brain's fully caught up, and when you grab at his collar he makes this low approving sound like you've done something correctly.
"there she is," he murmurs, against the side of your face, "been waiting all night for the version of you that shuts up."
"naoya—"
"shhh," he says, which is incredibly rude, and his hand slides down your stomach.
he doesn't bother with the bed immediately. backs you into the wall, slap of your shoulders hitting it, and gets his fingers into you while you're still standing, two of them, crooking like he already knows exactly where to press which he does, he always does, which is its own humiliation.
you're already wet and he finds it and laughs, short and low, right next to your ear. "you went all the way out there," he says, fingers working a slow drag, "this pissed at me—" and you clench around him and his breath hitches, covered fast, "—and came back this worked up. what were you even doing out there, thinking about it?"
"i hate you—" and it comes out wrecked because his thumb grazes your clit.
"no you don't," he says, certain, almost bored about it, and crooks his fingers again and you bite down on his shoulder to muffle the sound.
when he finally gets inside you it's with your legs around his waist and the wall doing half the structural work and his face buried somewhere between your jaw and your shoulder, the composed thing shredding at the seams almost immediately because you're tight and you clench the second he bottoms out and his whole body stutters.
"fuck—" not covered, and you feel his hips jerk forward on instinct like he can't help it. like he's been thinking about this since you walked out. he probably has. he'd rather die than say so.
"oh," you breathe, walls fluttering, and he makes a sound that is not remotely as composed as he'd like. "f-fuck"
"don't," he grits, jaw tight.
"don't what," you mumble, deliberately copying him, and feel him twitch inside you.
he fucks you mean after that, which was inevitable. slap slap slap of his hips against yours, rough and deep, one hand fisted in your hair yanking your head back so he can watch your face, which naoya always does — he wants to see it, wants to watch you come apart specifically for him, and he gets meaner about it the closer you get, running his mouth in this low relentless way that's half degradation and half the closest he gets to losing it.
"look at you," he breathes, eyes dark and fixed, "couldn't even stay mad properly— pussy' this desperate the whole time and you thought leaving was gonna—" and you clench hard around him on accident and his sentence dies, "shit—" hips snapping brutal once, twice, rhythm breaking into something rougher, less controlled.
"mmmgh— naoya~" your voice wet and high.
"yeah," he says, strained, "yeah, that's right—" and his free hand moves between you, thumb finding your clit without breaking pace, and your vision goes sideways.
you cum loud and messy and undignified, thighs locking around his waist, and the clench of it drags a genuine broken sound out of naoya zenin; not a grunt, not a controlled exhale, a sound, cracked right through the middle, his hips driving in and grinding, stuttering through it.
"f-fuck—" and then again, quieter, helpless, face pressing into your neck while he pulses inside you warm and deep and his whole body shakes with how hard he's trying not to make it obvious how gone he is.
he stays inside. breathing hard. the smirk is gone — just his face, flushed and wrecked and younger-looking somehow, eyes shut.
a long beat.
"you're not doing that again," he says, finally, into your shoulder. hoarse.
"what, leaving, or making you—"
"either," he says, fast, and the tips of his ears go pink and he absolutely does not acknowledge that you noticed.
★ MAHITO
mahito would think it was funny.
that's the first thing. you walk back through the door still pissed, still running the argument on a loop, still convinced you were right and he's right there, cross-legged on the floor like he'd been sitting exactly like that since you left, head tilted, those mismatched eyes tracking you from across the room with this expression like you're the most interesting thing he's seen all week. wide smile. the kind that doesn't mean what smiles usually mean.
"you came back," he says, and he sounds delighted.
not relieved. not apologetic. delighted, like you'd passed some test he'd set without telling you, like the whole three hours was a game with a conclusion he'd already predicted. you want to say something cutting and instead you say "don't make it weird—"
"i'm not making it weird," he murmurs, already unfolding from the floor, already moving, the way mahito moves was always so fluid and too-casual, like joints work slightly differently for him, like he's interested in the trajectory of a thing before it knows it's moving. "you left mad and you came back. that's just what happened." he's close now, head dipping slightly to look at your face, smile gone smaller and more specific. "you missed me."
"i didn't—"
"you did," he says, and the certainty of it is disgusting, and correct, and you hate everything.
he kisses you the way he does everything — like it's a new thing he's curious about, too much attention on it, one hand coming up to hold your face in place with his palms flat against your jaw so he can look at you while he does it, which shouldn't be as intense as it is.
his hands are always slightly cooler than they should be. you notice it every time. his thumbs press your cheeks and he pulls back just enough to study your expression at close range, eyes moving across your face like he's cataloguing something.
"still mad?" he asks, conversational.
"yes—"
"good," he says, and means it, and walks you backward toward the bed.
mahito likes you angry. that's the honest truth of it, the part you've stopped being surprised by — he likes the fight still in you, the flush of it, the way your eyes go bright when you're pissed off at him.
he says it makes you more interesting, which is terrifying on a fundamental level and also the most sincere compliment he has the architecture to give.
he pins your wrists above your head with one hand and uses the other to get your clothes off with this absorbed, intent focus, like unwrapping something he's genuinely curious about, and when he spreads you open with his fingers and finds you already wet his whole face does something that cracks the grin into something softer and much worse.
"heh," he breathes, delighted again, "you were thinking about it the whole time."
"mahito i swear—"
"you were," he says, fingers curling in, and your back arches off the mattress.
plp plp plp of his fingers working into you in the quiet room, the wet sounds of it embarrassingly loud, and he watches your face with this open fascination that would be uncomfortable in any other context and is uncomfortable in this one too.
his thumb finds your clit and circles and you stop caring about comfortable. "there," he says softly, more to himself than you, tracking the specific shape your face makes, the way your thighs want to close and his hand keeps them open. "there you are."
he edges you once. just to see what happens. pulls back when your hips are chasing and your voice has gone high and broken and watches you come down from it with his head tilted and his eyes bright. "mahito~" his name comes out lewd, "please—"
"please what," he says, genuinely curious, like he's collecting data.
getting him inside you makes him go briefly, wonderfully, undone — the composed curious thing cracking open at the stretch of you around him, a rough sound against your throat that he doesn't bother covering, just feels them and reports back.
"fuuuck—" drawn out, honest, his hips grinding the last inch in while his fingers dig into your thigh. you feel every ridge of him, the slight upward curve, and your walls clench helplessly and he makes another sound, this one shorter and more surprised, forehead dropping to your shoulder.
"you always—" he starts, and stops. tries again. "every time you—" and stops again, which for mahito, who always has something to say, is saying something.
he starts moving before he finishes the sentence.
slap slap slap, his hips meeting yours, the pace building into something relentless and deep that knocks the air out of you in short punched increments.
his hair falls around both of you, long and bluish-grey and falling out of whatever loose hold it'd been in, and when you grab a fistful of it he groans loud, hips stuttering hard. his hand finds yours and keeps it there, keeps the grip, like he wants you pulling.
"yeah," he breathes, "yeah, mmm— harder—" and you're almost laughing except he snaps his hips and hits something deep that dissolves the laugh into a keen that bounces off the walls.
"mahito—" wrecked, too many syllables, your voice doing something it's not supposed to do.
"i know," he says, "i know i know, you're—" and he bites your shoulder, sharp, and you clench and he shudders and the rhythm breaks into something desperate and stuttering and completely out of the neat curiosity it'd started with.
he gets you off twice, which you were not prepared for, the second one rolling directly into the first before you've caught your breath, and he watches both of them happen up close with this half-lidded focus while his own breathing comes completely apart.
the second time your walls lock around him and your voice cracks on his name he tips over too — a low grunt sound, hips buried, grinding through it with his face in your neck and his hands gripping your hips hard enough you'll feel it tomorrow in the shape of his fingers.
warm spill of him, deep, and he keeps rolling his hips through the aftershocks because he can't quite stop, little involuntary rocks that drag sounds out of both of you.
silence. both of you breathing.
he lifts his head. looks at your face. the smile that comes back is smaller than usual, something genuine underneath it that mahito doesn't always let sit on the surface. "you're not doing that again," he says, meaning the leaving.
"that's not really your decision—"
"you're not doing that again," he repeats, patient, and his nose touches yours, and it's the closest he's getting to please don't leave and you both know it and he'd never say it with different words.
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