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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.
You’d been asking him for twenty minutes, shamelessly relentless, until Toji finally let out a heavy sigh and shifted over you. Even then, he refused to give you his full weight. He braced his knees on the mattress on either side of your head, his thick, scarred thighs framing your vision as he hovered just inches above your mouth.
"You're annoying, you know that?" he grumbled, his voice a low, gravelly vibration in the dark room.
You didn't answer, just tilted your chin up and caught him. The moment your tongue swiped firmly against his slick heat, the tension in Toji's heavy frame snapped. He didn't stay hovering for long. As you worked your tongue in broad, demanding strokes, his hips started to drop. He began grinding down against your mouth, a slow, desperate roll of his hips that forced you deeper against his center.
His breathing roughened, turning into sharp, jagged hitches. He gripped the headboard, his knuckles turning white as he chased the friction. You added two fingers, sliding them inside and hooking upward. Toji's breath hitched violently. He was practically riding your face now, his heavy muscles twitching with every frantic thrust of his hips as he ground down onto your tongue.
Then, without warning, his entire body stiffened up.
Toji let out a sharp, breathless gasp. His back arched, and a sudden, heavy rush of hot fluid sprayed directly across your mouth and cheeks. It wasn't just a leak; he was actively squirting, his internal muscles pulsing frantically around your fingers as the sheer volume of it coated your lower face.
The room went dead silent, save for the sound of his ragged breathing.
Toji froze completely. The strength gave out in his arms, and he dropped down, his knees taking his weight as he stared blindly at the wall. He looked down at you, his usually sharp green eyes blown wide in absolute, stunned disbelief. He was completely speechless, a dark flush rapidly climbing up his thick neck and spreading across his scarred chest. He just stared at the wet mess on your face, his mouth slightly parted, trying to process what his body had just done.
You pulled your fingers out slowly and swiped the back of your hand across your chin, catching the slick fluid. You looked up at his shocked, flushed face and smirked.
"Damn, Toji," you said, your voice low and cocky. "Didn't know I could work you out like that."
His jaw snapped shut. For a long, heavy second, he just stared at the wet mess covering your lower face. The deep red flush burned all the way to the tips of his ears.
"Shut up," he finally grated out, his voice a full octave lower than usual, completely raw. He dragged a heavy hand down his face, deliberately breaking eye contact. "Don't act like you did something special. I just... it's been a long week."
You didn't wipe the smirk off your face, letting your eyes drop meaningfully to where his thighs were still trembling against the mattress.
"Stop looking at me like that," he snapped, though the harshness of his tone was completely ruined by the way his breath caught at the end of the sentence. He shifted his weight, suddenly hyper-aware of his own body and the undeniable evidence he'd left all over you. He reached down, his large, calloused thumb aggressively wiping at your chin and cheek, trying to scrub away the proof. "Wipe your damn face. You look stupid grinning like that."
You chuckled, catching his wrist and leaning up to kiss the inside of his palm. He flinched, but he didn't pull his hand away.
"I'm serious," he warned, his chest still heaving as he finally forced himself to look back down at you. His green eyes were dark, defensive, but blown wide with lingering heat. "You utter a word of this to anyone, and I'm putting you through a wall. You just caught me off guard. Don't let it go to your head."
He let out a rough, shaky breath, trying to summon his usual intimidating aura, but he was still straddling you, completely laid bare and visibly shaken.
"Now are you gonna get up," he muttered, his voice dropping into a needy, impatient growl as his hips twitched involuntarily against you, "or are you just gonna lay there looking smug all night? Because I still have an ache you need to take care of."
You didn't argue. You just reached up, gripping the back of his thick neck, and pulled him down. He didn't resist, collapsing his heavy frame over yours. He caught your lips in a quick, rough kiss, tasting the salt and slick of himself on your mouth without a single complaint.
He broke the kiss just as fast, turning his head to bury his flushed face deep into the crook of your neck. He let out a long, heavy exhale, his massive chest expanding against yours as he snuggled closer, his solid weight pinning you to the mattress. He was still trembling slightly, his arms wrapping around your shoulders in a tight, grounding hold.
"Just shut up and touch me," he mumbled into your skin, the last of his fight completely drained out of him.
satoru .g
The sheets were a tangled wreck underneath you both. You were twisted up in a breathless 69, Satoru’s ridiculously long legs straddling your shoulders while his face hovered right over your hips. He had your cock in his hand, his lips parted to finally take you in, but the second your tongue swiped firmly against his slick heat, his jaw just slacked.
He was far too distracted by what you were doing to his pussy to actually focus on sucking your dick. He tried, ducking his head down, but as you dragged your tongue right over his most sensitive spot, he let out a sharp gasp and lost his grip entirely. He ended up just panting hot air against your thighs, his long fingers abandoning their task to twist deeply into your hair instead.
"Hold on, let me—ah!" Satoru gasped, a breathless, exhilarated laugh bubbling out of him as he failed to focus for the third time. "You’re doing that on purpose. You’re not even letting me start."
You didn't let up. You gripped his thighs, holding him steady as you worked your tongue in broad, demanding strokes. Satoru was incredibly vocal, his hips rolling eagerly and shamelessly against your mouth as he completely surrendered to the sensation. The room was filled with the wet, heavy sounds of the friction and his ragged breathing.
He arched his lower back, pushing himself deeper against your face. You took the invitation, sliding two fingers deep inside him and hooking upward to hit that internal sweet spot, keeping a relentless, punishing pace with your tongue.
Satoru’s breath hitched violently. He completely abandoned the idea of the 69, his head dropping back against the mattress as he practically rode your face. His long frame arched completely off the bed, his thighs trembling uncontrollably against your cheeks as the overstimulation built up higher and faster than he was ready for.
"Yeah, right there," he stuttered out, his voice pitching higher. "Don't stop, don't—fuck!"
A violent, full-body shudder ripped through his long frame as the last of his control completely broke.
Satoru let out a loud, sharp cry, his fingers pulling taut against your scalp. His hips buckled hard, and a sudden, heavy rush of hot fluid sprayed directly across your mouth, chin, and cheeks. He was shaking, his internal muscles clenching in frantic, wet waves around your fingers, completely coating your lower face.
He collapsed down onto your legs, his chest heaving as he gasped for air. For a split second, there was total silence in the room, except for the sound of the bed creaking.
Then, Satoru shot up. He pushed himself onto his hands, craning his neck to look down at your face. His bright blue eyes were blown incredibly wide, but there wasn't a single hint of embarrassment in them. Instead, a massive, thrilled grin broke out across his flushed face.
"Holy shit!" he laughed out loud, completely breathless and amazed. "Did I just do that?!"
You pulled your fingers out slowly, swiping the back of your hand across your slick chin. You looked up at his wide, excited eyes and smirked, your tone perfectly cocky and satisfied.
"Damn, Satoru," you teased, your voice low. "Didn't know I could make you flood like that. Look at the mess you made."
"Are you kidding?! That was incredible!" he beamed, completely unashamed of the sheer volume of slick covering your face.
He shifted his long frame immediately, abandoning the 69 entirely to slide his legs down and fully straddle your waist. He leaned down over you, practically vibrating with lingering adrenaline, and didn't even hesitate before pressing a wet, messy kiss right to your lips. He tasted himself on you without a second thought, his tongue swiping lazily at the corner of your mouth.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his flush deepening but his grin turning distinctly teasing. He reached out, tapping a finger right on your slick chin.
"You look really good wearing me, by the way," he hummed, his tone playfully arrogant. He let out a happy, exhausted sigh and dropped his weight, snuggling his face right into the crook of your neck. His heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your chest, and his arms wrapped tight around your shoulders.
"You're an absolute genius," he murmured happily against your collarbone, his hips still twitching involuntarily against you. "But now I have to clean up my mess. So lay back, because it's my turn to focus... and I'm going to take my sweet time draining you completely dry."
choso. k
You had him pulled right to the edge of the mattress, his back flat against the sheets while you knelt on the floor between his legs. It was an incredibly vulnerable position, and Choso was visibly hesitant. His hands were gripping tightly at the bedsheets, his knuckles turning stark white, and every time you leaned in even an inch, his thighs would reflexively try to snap shut against your sides.
"Wait," he breathed, his voice tight and nervous. A dark, heavy blush was already dusting his pale cheeks, spreading down his neck and over his collarbones. "It's... I'm already too sensitive right now. Maybe we should just—"
You didn't let him finish. You reached out, gently but firmly catching his wrists, prying his fingers away from the bunched-up fabric of the sheets and pinning his hands flat to the mattress by his sides. Then, you slid your arms under his knees, hooking his pale legs securely over your shoulders. It opened him up completely to your view, leaving him entirely exposed.
Choso let out a shaky, embarrassed whine, turning his head sharply to the side so he wouldn't have to look at you. He squeezed his eyes shut, his chest rising and falling in shallow, nervous hitches.
"Just relax for me," you murmured, leaning in close enough that your breath fanned over his slick skin.
The moment your tongue traced a long, slow, deliberate path right over his center, Choso let out a startled, high-pitched gasp. His entire body jolted like he’d been struck by lightning. He was so incredibly pent-up and sensitive that even the lightest, teasing pressure felt like a massive shock to his system. He tried to squirm backward, instinctively trying to pull away from the overwhelming sensation, but your grip on his hips kept him anchored right at the edge of the bed.
"It's too much," he whimpered, tears immediately welling in his dark eyes and spilling over the bridge of his nose. "Please, I can't... I can't take it, it's too much..."
He was pleading, shaking his head against the pillows, but his body was completely betraying him. Even as he cried out for you to stop, his hips were instinctively bucking upward, his breathing turning into wet, ragged gasps as he chased the very friction he claimed was too intense.
You answered his frantic movements by sliding two fingers deep inside his soaking heat, curling them upward to hit a steady, rhythmic pace while your tongue worked him over without a single ounce of mercy.
Choso became a complete wreck. He was sobbing openly now, sweet, musical sounds of pure sensory overload leaving his lips. His head thrashed against the pillows, his dark hair a tangled, sweat-dampened mess. His stomach muscles jumped and twitched with every stroke of your tongue, the overstimulation rapidly pushing him past the point of rational thought.
"Please!" he sobbed out, his voice cracking as his toes curled so tight they cramped. "Ah! I'm—I'm gonna—!"
A violent, full-body shudder ripped through him as he finally shattered.
Choso let out a loud, ruined wail, his back arching off the mattress so hard he practically lifted himself into the air. A sudden, heavy rush of hot fluid sprayed directly across your face.
The heavy, intense rush of it left him completely drained. His body went limp, collapsing back onto the mattress with a heavy thud. His chest rose and fell in sharp, desperate gasps as the last of the tremors worked their way through his thighs.
All Choso could do was lay there and pant.
Then, Choso slowly opened his tear-filled eyes, peering down at you through his damp lashes, his chest still heaving. When he finally focused on your face—when he saw the sheer volume of slick dripping from your chin and painting your cheeks—his breath hitched violently in his throat.
He froze completely. A look of pure, unadulterated shock washed over his pale features, his lips parting in silent horror. The red flush on his face that seemed to consume him entirely.
You pulled your fingers out with a soft, wet pop, slowly swiping the back of your hand across your slick chin. You looked up at his horrified, flustered face, letting a slow, incredibly self-satisfied smirk cross your lips.
"And here you were begging me to wait," you teased, your voice low and perfectly cocky in the quiet room. "Look at the absolute mess you just made of my face. You must have really been dying for this."
A pathetic, utterly mortified squeak left his throat.
"I—I'm so sorry!" he stammered, his voice trembling with sheer panic, shame, and overwhelming embarrassment. He immediately scrambled upward, his shaking hands reaching out to frantically cup your jaw, his thumbs trying to wipe at your slick-covered cheeks. "I didn't mean to—I don't know what happened! I'm so sorry, you're covered in it, I ruined everything, I—"
You chuckled, catching his trembling wrists to stop his frantic, messy apologies. You leaned forward, tilting his chin up, and pressed a quick, wet kiss right to his trembling lips, tasting the salt and slick of him, shutting him up instantly.
Choso melted into the kiss the second your lips met his, a soft, needy whimper vibrating in the back of his throat. When you pulled back, his eyes were wide and beautifully dazed, his blind panic instantly replaced by a heavy, adoration-filled heat that he couldn't hide.
Before he could find his voice to start apologizing all over again, he just gave up. He slumped forward with a heavy sigh, sliding right off the pillows to wrap his arms tightly around your neck. He buried his burning, tear-stained face deep into the crook of your shoulder, absolutely desperate to hide from your cocky gaze.
"You're terrible," he mumbled into your skin, his voice muffled and shaky, though he was clinging to you like a lifeline, his bare thighs still trembling where they bracketed your waist. "Please don't look at me right now... just hold me for a second."
mahito
You had him hoisted up onto the edge of the heavy wooden desk, standing squarely between his legs. Mahito was leaning back on his hands, swinging his bare heels against the back of your thighs and giggling that manic, grating laugh of his. He was treating the whole thing like a game, his mismatched eyes bright with chaotic amusement as he looked down at you.
"Is this supposed to be intimidating?" he teased, a wide, stitched grin stretching across his face. He tilted his head, completely unbothered. "C'mon, you look so serious! Are you really going to just stare, or are you actually going to—ah!"
His mocking laughter was completely cut off the second you stepped in close and dragged your teeth lightly up the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. You didn't give him what he wanted right away. Instead, you took your time, deliberately teasing him. You mapped out the patchwork lines of his skin with slow, agonizingly light laps of your tongue, completely ignoring his slick center while hovering just inches away from it.
Mahito shifted on the hard wood of the desk, his grin faltering. "Hey. Stop messing around. That tickles."
You smirked against his skin and traced a slow circle just outside his heat, blowing a warm breath over him. Mahito’s breath hitched, a sudden, involuntary shiver running down his spine. His hands gripped the edge of the desk tighter.
"I said stop playing," he grumbled, his voice losing its playful edge, dipping into something much more impatient and needy. "Just do it already!"
"Impatient, aren't we?" you hummed.
Then, you finally gave it to him. You gripped his thighs, your fingers digging firmly into his pale skin to hold him in place, and buried your face against him. The second your tongue swiped firmly and relentlessly against his core, the change in him was instantaneous.
The playful arrogance melted entirely off his face, replaced by a look of wide-eyed, frantic overstimulation. He jerked backward, his spine snapping straight, but you didn't let him retreat. You worked your tongue in sharp, demanding strokes, refusing to let up the pressure. He wasn't used to being overwhelmed, usually twisting and reshaping himself out of any corner, but his body was completely betraying him.
"Wait, wait—stop!" he gasped out, his fingers tangling desperately into your hair. He tried to squirm away, letting out a series of high, breathless whines, but his hips were instinctively bucking forward against your mouth. "I can't—it feels too—!"
You answered his frantic movements by sliding two fingers deep inside his soaking heat, hooking upward to hit that deep, internal pulse.
Mahito’s entire body went completely rigid. His breath caught violently in his throat, his jaw dropping open in a silent scream as the sheer intensity of the overstimulation shattered his chaotic facade. His heels dug sharply into your lower back, his pale thighs trembling uncontrollably against your cheeks.
Then, the tension finally snapped.
A violent, full-body shudder ripped through him. Mahito let out a loud, high-pitched cry, his back arching off the desk as a sudden, splash of warm fluid sprayed onto you.
The heavy rush left him entirely drained. He collapsed forward, his chest heaving as he gasped for air, his forehead coming to rest heavily against the top of your head.
Mahito slowly pushed himself up, blinking rapidly as his dazed eyes finally focused on your face. When he saw the sheer volume of slick dripping from your chin and painting your shirt, his breath caught in his throat.
He froze completely. The manic, unhinged curse was rendered completely speechless. A look of pure, unadulterated shock washed over his patchwork features, his mouth falling open. A dark, violent flush erupted across his pale cheeks, burning right through the stitches on his face and spreading all the way down his neck.
You looked up at his horrified, flustered expression, letting a slow, incredibly cocky smirk cross your lips as you wiped his essence off you. You didn't wipe all of it away, letting him stare at exactly what he’d done.
"Well," you teased, your voice low and deeply satisfied in the quiet room. "That’s certainly one way to finally shut you up."
A pathetic, mortified squeak left his throat.
"You talk all that big game," you continued, stepping into the space between his thighs and crowding him against the edge of the desk. "But you completely flood the second I put a little effort in. Didn't know you had it in you to make such a massive mess of me. Look at you. You made a puddle."
"I—what?!" he stammered, his voice trembling with sheer panic and overwhelming embarrassment. He looked entirely stripped of his usual bravado, his shaking hands hovering in the air as if he didn't know what to do with them. "I didn't—I don't even know what just happened! You—you cheated! You did something weird to me, you must have used a cursed technique, I—!"
You chuckled, catching his trembling wrists to stop his frantic, messy excuses. You leaned forward, tilting his chin up, and pressed a quick, wet kiss right to his trembling lips, tasting the salt and slick of him, shutting his rambling up instantly.
Mahito melted into the kiss the second your lips met his, a soft, needy whimper vibrating in the back of his throat. All the fight left his body. When you pulled back, his eyes were wide and beautifully dazed, his panic instantly replaced by a heavy, pliant heat.
Before he could find his voice to start arguing again, he just gave up. He slumped forward with a heavy sigh, sliding right off the edge of the desk to wrap his arms tightly around your neck. He buried his burning, flushed face deep into the crook of your shoulder, his chaotic energy entirely snuffed out.
"You're so mean to me," he mumbled into your skin, his voice muffled and shaky, though he was clinging to you like a lifeline, his bare thighs wrapping securely around your waist to hold himself up against you. "Shut up... don't look at me right now... just carry me to the bed."
suguru. g
You had been begging him for weeks. Every time you backed him against a wall, cornered him in the kitchen, or tried to pull him down onto the bed, Suguru would just offer that perfectly serene, frustratingly composed smile of his. He’d brush a hand through your hair, gently kiss your forehead, and murmur, "Soon. I just want it to be the right time and place. We shouldn't rush these things."
He was incredibly private, highly protective of his own vulnerability, and utterly obsessed with maintaining total control over himself and his environment. He hated the idea of feeling exposed or caught off guard.
But tonight, his elegant little excuses had finally run out.
He was seated deep in the plush, dark velvet armchair in the corner of his dimly lit bedroom, his long, dark hair tied back loosely. You were kneeling on the floor right between his parted thighs. Even now, with his legs spread for you, he was trying so hard to maintain that aura of untouchable grace. He rested one elbow on the armrest, his chin propped on his knuckles as he looked down at you through half-lidded, heavy brown eyes.
"Satisfied?" he hummed, his voice smooth and incredibly patronizing. "You’ve been relentlessly impatient, and now you finally have me exactly where you want me. Just do try to be gentle, won't you? I'd prefer not to make a mess tonight."
His arrogant, perfectly constructed little speech died instantly in his throat the second you bypassed his thighs and buried your face directly against his soaking heat. He tried to quickly muffle the sharp gasp that escaped him, biting down hard on his lower lip, but you weren't going to let him stay composed. Not after making you wait this long.
You gripped his thighs, your thumbs pressing firmly into the muscle as you dragged your tongue in long, deliberate, punishing strokes over his center. Suguru tensed violently, his hips involuntarily jerking upward against your mouth as his lower back arched completely off the cushion.
He tried to recover his composure, forcing a shaky exhale through his nose. He reached a trembling hand down, his palm finding the top of your head in a soft, patronizing pat—a desperate attempt to pace you. "Ah... you certainly don't hold back, do you?" his voice wavered, entirely losing its smooth edge. "That's... slow down a little, sweetheart, I can't—"
But the gentle head pat immediately turned into a white-knuckled, bruising grip in your hair the second you slid two fingers deep inside him, hooking upward to find the deep, internal ache he’d been so desperately hiding.
Suguru’s facade entirely crumbled. His hips buckled, lifting completely off the velvet cushion as he tried to chase the angle of your fingers.
"Wait, please, you're—ah! God, fuck!" he choked out, his voice cracking into a high, ruined pitch.
He was completely overstimulated, his long, muscular legs trembling violently against your ribs. He tried to pull you closer by your hair and push your shoulders away at the exact same time, his body entirely confused by the sheer volume of pleasure. A ruined, desperate whine tore past his lips, his head throwing back against the chair as his toes curled into the carpet.
Then, the final, stubborn thread of his control snapped.
Suguru let out a loud, melodic cry. His entire body locked up tight, and a sudden, rush of hot fluid met your awaiting mouth, completely coating your tongue in the sudden.
The intense rush of it left him completely hollowed out. He slumped forward in the armchair, his chest heaving with ragged, wet gasps. His hands slipped out of your hair, falling limply into his lap as the last of the intense tremors wracked his frame.
For a long, heavy moment, the only sound in the quiet bedroom was his open-mouthed breathing.
"So this is why you've been avoiding me for weeks," you teased, your voice low and deeply satisfied in the quiet room. "You were terrified I'd make you completely lose your mind. I've never seen anyone drench a chair this fast. Look at what you did to my face."
A pathetic, utterly mortified groan escaped his throat.
"Have a little mercy..." Suguru rasped out, his usually eloquent vocabulary completely deserting him. He looked utterly stripped of his pride, his shaking hands coming up to frantically drag down his burning face. "I had no idea I was even capable of that. God, you're wearing half of it. Please, don't gloat, I'm already entirely humiliated."
You chuckled, catching his trembling wrists and gently pulling his hands away from his face, refusing to let him hide. You leaned forward, crowding into his space between his thighs, and pressed a quick, wet kiss right to his trembling lips.
Suguru melted the second your lips met his, a soft, needy whimper vibrating deep in his chest. All the tension drained out of his rigid posture. When you pulled back just an inch, his brown eyes were wide and beautifully dazed, his intense embarrassment entirely replaced by a heavy, pliant heat.
Before he could try to find his composure again, he just completely surrendered. He slid right off the edge of the armchair, his knees hitting the floor right in front of you as he wrapped his long arms tightly around your neck. He buried his burning, flushed face deep into the crook of your shoulder, his perfectly kept facade completely destroyed and abandoned.
His trembling hand came up, instinctively finding the back of your head to offer a soft, shaky pat—his usual comforting gesture, though right now, he was entirely the one who needed it.
"You win," he mumbled into your skin, his voice muffled and shaky, though he was clinging to you like a lifeline, his bare thighs bracketing your waist on the floor. "I severely underestimated you. Now just... hold me, and let me pretend this didn't happen."
naoya. z
The bedroom was stifling, the air heavy with the frantic, wet sounds of his undoing. Naoya was pinned against the headboard, his pale legs hooked over your shoulders and his ankles locked behind your neck in an involuntary, white-knuckled grip. His hair was a sweat-slicked mess, and his dark eyeliner was completely ruined, dragged across his cheekbones in jagged streaks by the tears he couldn’t stop.
"Stop... I said stop!" he choked out, his voice cracking. He tried to shove at your shoulders, but his arms were shaking so violently his hands just slid off.
You didn't listen. You gripped his thighs tighter, your fingers digging into his skin, and buried your face back into his soaking heat. While your tongue swirled in heavy, demanding circles over his center, you slid two fingers deep inside him, stretching him wide and hitting that internal sweet spot with a punishing pace.
The double assault was too much for his nerves. Naoya’s entire body spasmed, a sharp, broken cry tearing from his throat. His hips buckled, his muscles clenching greedily around your fingers even as he tried to pull away from the friction.
"Just one more, Naoya," you murmured against his skin, your voice a low vibration that made him sob.
"It’s not... ah!... how you won't stop! You're... ngh!"
He was completely overstimulated, his nerves frayed, yet he arched further into the touch. His toes curled, and his breath came in hitched, needy whines. You increased the pressure, your tongue flickering faster as your fingers worked him into a frenzy.
"One more," you repeated, your teeth grazing him lightly.
"No! No more, please—Aaaah!"
He went rigid, his back arching off the bed as the next wave hit him. His thighs twitched uncontrollably against your ears as his body finally gave up, then came the gush of slick, coating almost the entirety of your lower face.
He let out a ruined, melodic cry, his hands flying up to cover his face in shame. He was sobbing openly now, his frame vibrating with the force of the climax. You finally pulled back, tasting the salt of him on your lips as you looked at the state of him—the smeared makeup, the trembling limbs, and the soaking mess on the bed.
"You're such a pretty mess, baby," you murmured, reaching up to wipe a stray tear from his cheek. "Look at you. All that big talk, and you’re just a leaky little girl for me, aren't you?"
Naoya visibly cringed at the endearment, his lip curling in a sneer that was half-furious and half-shattered. A deep, frantic blush climbed all the way to the tips of his ears. He squinted at you through his glassy, tear-filled eyes, his face a brilliant, humiliated crimson.
"What are you looking at, idiot?" he snapped, though his voice was entirely too shaky to carry any real weight. He squinted at you through his glassy, tear-filled eyes, his face a brilliant, humiliated crimson. "Don't call me that... it's pathetic. I'm not some dumb woman or a bitch for you to talk down to."
"Funny," you teased, your tone perfectly cocky as you deliberately let a drop of his slick run down your chin. "Because you're the one on your back, drenching the sheets because you couldn't handle a little tongue. For someone who hates women so much, you sure do scream like a girl for me."
Naoya visibly recoiled, his lip curling in a sneer that was half-furious and half-shattered. "I do NOT—!"
"You do," you interrupted, leaning in until your nose brushed his. "You’re pouting like a bratty little princess just because I made you lose your mind. It’s cute, Naoya. Really."
"I am NOT cute!" he hissed, his voice cracking with indignity. He reached out with a trembling hand, grabbing your collar and tugging you upward with a weak, desperate jerk. "Wipe your face. You look disgusting. You're filthy, and it’s your fault I’m like this anyway."
Despite the insult, he didn't let go of your shirt. His legs remained wide, his heels digging into the mattress as he pulled you closer. His eyes darted to your zipper with a desperate, impatient hunger that betrayed every word of his bratty protest.
"Well?" he whispered, his voice dropping into a needy, demanding rasp. "Are you just going to stare at me and say stupid things all night, or are you actually going to finish this? I'm not waiting any longer. Hurry up and give it to me."
"Say please, then," you hummed. "Tell me you want it, pretty girl."
"Shut up!" he barked, though he immediately arched his hips back up against you, practically begging for the contact. "Just... just do it! Please, damn you!"
Synopsis: You don’t go on dates with Mahito, it’s nothing so involved, no. You just pick a time and a literal date, and he shows up at your place so you can get what you need from each other
Tags/Warnings: Mahito/GN!Reader, AFAB!Reader, smut, top!reader, pegging, multiple orgasms (ment), face sitting, cunnilingus, hair pulling, dirty talk
Word Count: 1,226
A blind date for my dear @fanaticsnail for this event
Mahito wasn’t the sort of person you settle down with, but he was good with his fingers and that was enough for you. You didn’t need to be able to settle down with him, you just needed a couple of orgasms every now and then, and that was something he was capable of giving to you.
More than, even.
He was a dedicated lover, if a pain in your ass (in a generally non-literal sense, but sometimes far more literal, it depended on your mood that day). He wanted to make you cry and tremble, and sometimes he wanted to be the one absolutely wrung dry. The two of you made a good pair, all things considered. It was potentially a little unorthodox, but you didn’t need it to be anything else. You set a time, and a date, and that was all you needed to do. He’d be there, he always was no matter what was going on, he made it work.
Which was how, this week, you had him bent over the back of your sofa. He twitched and whimpered, just the way you like, three orgasms already wrung from his body but you were far from done. Your strap bullied against his prostate, driving each sound from him forcefully, fingers scrambling for some sort of purchase in the fabric below that he wouldn’t be able to find, or at least he wouldn’t be able to keep to it, far too overwhelmed, and squirmy.
“One more, you can take one more, right?” You prompted him, lifting his hips just a little higher as his feet slipped, allowing you to slam home even deeper all over again. You couldn’t feel the way he was twitching around you, but you were more than aware that he must be by now from past experience, and you could feel it when you ran your thumb over his rim, the muscle fluttering beneath your touch.
“I- I can be so good, I promise! I can- I can take-” but his words were cut off as you reached beneath him to tweak his nipples, just the right side of painful, making him arch and his cock twitch pitifully, hardly able to leak a drop of precum anymore.
“Go on then, give me one more.” You replied, voice husky against his ear, breath ghosting over his skin just to feel the way he shivered and pale skin broke out in goosebumps. He was such a brat until the first orgasm, or sometimes two, and then he became this moldable putty in your hands, perfect as long as you just kept going. You couldn’t give him time to recover, lest he get back that mouth you loved to hate.
It only took another few firm thrusts for him to tense up, scrambling desperately against the couch cushions as he spilled again with a whine of almost pain. There was far less cum now than there had been the first time, and then the second. It bordered on pitiful, but you knew that he’d let you keep going until he was cumming entirely dry if you wanted to. But, not today, that wasn’t what you were in the mood for.
“Lay down.” You told him as you pulled out, watching him choose to crawl forwards and haul himself over the back of the sofa rather than attempting to walk around it. He positioned himself onto his knees, ass up at first, and you had to chuckle. You unclipped the strap you’d been wearing, and tossed it onto the arm chair to clean up later.
“Not like that,” you told him, delivering a sharp smack to his ass, “on your back, mouth open.” Mahito groaned at the command, clearly figuring out exactly what you were planning to do to him. He reached out and made grabby hands at you, to which you just rolled your eyes, continuing your advance towards him. You wasted no time, kneeling down on the sofa then lifting yourself up and over his face, so your clit pressed to his top lip. He wasted no time either, Mahito never did. Everything he did was eager, greedy. His hands, his cock, and his tongue most of all. It felt longer inside you than it looked, his hands gripping your thighs like he thought you might change your mind and try to run, or like he was trying to bruise you somehow. Maybe he was. That quiet claim left on your body for nobody else to see, because as much as this was far from romance, you were both aware you weren’t seeing anyone else, and neither of you were trying to.
There had been a lot of things you’d needed to teach Mahito about his body in the time you’d spent sleeping together, but how to eat cunt wasn’t one of them. He was eager, and that had been enough when he was less sure about what to do, but now he was an expert. He’d always been able to make you feel good with that searching tongue, diving into every inch of you like a man starved, and you were his final meal. You were distantly aware, as your head tipped back with a breathy moan, that he was humping the air behind you, somehow already hard and leaking again, but god forbid he let go of your thighs while he devoured you. He needed to be touching you, a hand on his own length would just be a waste.
With a mouth like his, lapping over even the deepest parts of you, and fingers lifted reluctantly from your thigh to rub a thumb insistently at your clit, you were bound to come soon. The way you rocked against his face wasn’t even voluntarily, just your body searching for what it needed to bring you over the precipice. You reached down just enough to tangle your fingers into fair blue tresses, tugging him upwards and deeper into you, his responding moan resounding through you and sending a jolt of pleasure up your spine.
The moment you were close, you felt your orgasm closing in like an inevitable end. Your hips rolled, grinding down against Mahito’s tongue and thumb against you, but that was when he changed. His mouth attached to your clit to suckle at it eagerly, lapping at it with the flat of his tongue while three fingers pushed inside you at once, curling and spreading to work you open and pliant, brushing over your gspot with each movement. The sudden change and massive spike in pleasure was enough to do it, sending you hurtling over the edge far sooner than you’d been anticipating. Your fingers tangled harder in his hair, holding him firmly against you as the pleasure rippled through your body, harsh pants of breath escaping Mahito’s nose against your pelvis, but the way his eyes rolled back told you that he was quite content to suffocate right there.
Eventually, you released him and let him lick you clean before you crawled back off him. He seemed quite content to be left there, still recovering while you found your underwear somewhere on the floor, and grabbed the strap to go clean it.
“How about Thursday the 14th?” Mahito’s shaky voice rang out around the apartment. Another date, another couple orgasms.
“Sure, I think I’m free then.”
Synopsis: Mahito just can't eat in the way you need him to. So, with little to no convincing, you get him to grow his own so you can show him how it's done.
Word count: 3,000+
Warnings: Mahito x afab!gn!reader, mdni, 18+, NSFW, smut, crying, cumming, multiple orgasms, porn with barely any plot, established relationship, mahito grows a vagina, oral sex, finger fucking, grinding, cumming until unconsciousness.
Notes: I am unapologetically a Mahito simp. I cannot get over how much fun he is, and how well written of a villain he is. This is my first Mahito fic. I hope you enjoy!
Mahito was good at a lot of different things. He was a good listener who asked active questions, he was a keen fighter quick to action, he was good for a laugh and to do just about anything to make you smile, and he was amazing at following orders.
He was just not good at giving head.
Mahito was a kid in a candy shop with an unlimited budget when it came to eating you out. He was all over the place, trying so many things to see what he liked without once attempting to find rhyme or rhythm. He would lick and suck at your body in places that were uncomfortable, latching to your outer walls and swiping along your crotch, instead of giving your clit or slit attention. And when he finally did give it attention, you were already too worked up and frustrated to enjoy any action he gave you.
“Mahito,” you growled at him, prompting him to pop his head back up from between your legs and tilt his head expectantly to the side. You let out a disgruntled sigh while his hands gripped at your thighs and rubbed soothing circles into your skin. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?” he cooed sweetly at you, “I thought I was doing good! I had my tongue out, I didn’t make it into a snake like I did the first time!” You cringed at the memory and allowed the shudder to coast up your spine while you glared at him, “I didn’t do that quick rubbing back and forth thing over and over again! I’m doing my best, scouts’ honor!”
“You’ve never been a ‘scout’, honey,” you chuckled down at him. Moving to lean up on your elbows, you fully drag your core away from him and reach down to cup his face, “I didn’t want it to come to this, but I don’t think you’ve given me any other-.”
“-Don’t ask someone else to do it!” He was quick to raise his hands defensively and shake them in front of you, “I’m still learning. I can do it, I swear. I swear…” His hands made a grabby motion to move towards you, prompting you to sigh and swat them back. Despite your disgruntled expression, you couldn’t fight the crawling smile to find its way onto your lips at his mild panic.
“I wouldn’t do that to you,” you moved from your recline to fully sit up and cup his cheek in your hand, “What I was suggesting was you change from… that…” you nod your head towards his crotch, “...And into something like mine, purely so I can teach you what it feels like when you do what you’re doing, and what it feels like when you do it right.”
The cursed spirit pouted and leaned his head into your hand while avoiding your eyes. He remained silent until the spark of enthusiasm returned to him. He was quick to move up and straddle your waist, pressing his clothed crotch down on your bare belly.
“You think I can make a really pretty one?” he asked sweetly, “Are we gonna watch porn together to see what kind of pussy would look good on me? What if I make it really hairy? Like a big bush?! And maybe have the inner walls come out and have a massive clit, and maybe make it like a venus fly-trap that like chomps back, or maybe it’s got teeth on the outside and could-.”
“-Mahito!” you laughed at him and reached for his black shirt and slowly peeled it off his creamy torso, thumbing over his stitching until the cloth fled his head, “If you like it, we can try that later. For now, you’re going to grow one relatively easy for me to show you how to eat me out properly. Okay?”
Mahito hummed down at you and drew his hands up to cup yours on his shoulders. He gently thumbed over your knuckles before turning his head to kiss at your fingers, shuddering as you slowly dragged your blunt fingernails down his chest and pinched at his nipples. He bore his hips down against your body before he swung his leg over yours to dismount from your lap and reach for your laptop by your bed.
“I want to get a really pretty one, though,” he commented firmly, waving his finger at you, “Just to start off with. Okay?”
“Sounds good to me,” you shrugged in response.
After spending a little time online, Mahito decided to push the laptop to the side and study your own, tilting his head to the side while he willed his body to grow his own at the expense of his cock. It was not too long until he and you were sat on your sides with him thumbing apart your walls to then grow his own vagina. He shuddered as the air hit him, his legs butterflied out to the side while he experienced it in all its glory.
“Ew! Why is it so slippery already!?” he laughed nervously while his fingers slowly rubbed along his inner walls, “Hah! I think I could cum if I do this enough. Wait, what’s- ahh-!” His face flushed a violent red as soon as his fingers brushed against his clit, prompting you to immediately grip his wrists and push him back with all your weight until he was on his back and looking up at you with shock.
“Now stay just like that,” you commanded him while shouldering his legs open, “That’s my good boy-... Hang on, do you want me to call you that right now, or would you prefer ‘pretty girl’?” Mahito’s eyes went from mildly concerned and aroused to deep in thought. He pondered for a moment before his lips broadened in a grin.
“No, I’m still a boy,” he beamed at you, “And I’m still yours.” He batted his lengthy, blue eyelashes innocently down at you while he spread his thighs to enable you better access into his sweet centre. He led you by his hands into his body while smiling as sweetly and innocently as he could.
Narrowing your eyes and pursing your lips at him, you gave him a gentle kiss on his thigh and bullied your way back against his core by hooking his legs over your shoulders and pressing them back against his belly. Now revealed to you, you examined his cunt and hummed in approval while watching his arousal begin to seep from his slit out and down towards his puckered hole.
“Wow, you are actually really into this, aren’t you?” you commented while thumbing open his walls. Mahito whined and reached down to swat at you before you leaned down and latched immediately against his clit. You flattened your tongue and swirled over his pert nub, ensuring the hood was elevated by both of your thumbs at the top of his cunt to give him the maximum pressure he could experience.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck-!” he cried. His back bowed and hands immediately shifted to your head to hold you against him. His clit throbbed in your mouth while arousal hit your chin and left a glossy sheen of his ecstasy against your skin. He was close already, his body nearing that end by the pitch in his whine...
…Prompting you to immediately unlatch from his clit and attach your lips to his outer wall.
Mahito let out a sound somewhere between a roar in rage and a braying whine while he immediately moved to sit. He pushed your body away from him and peered down at you with venomous rage in his eyes. You could not bite back the fiendish giggle that bubbled in your throat the longer he stared at you with anger in his dual-colored lenses.
“Oh, so you think this is funny?” he growled while his pout continued to overtake his face, “I was going to cum! And you just-.... You just-... You…” his eyes moved from their scowl to then immediately widen at you with a deep understanding of empathy. There was a sheepishness to his expression, prompting you to find your own little victory on your face the longer he processed it.
“You get it now?”
“Yes, I get it now.”
“You want me to make you cum now, pretty boy?” you bat your eyes at him and reached up to cup his right cheek, thumbing over the meeting place between his horizontal and vertical scar. “Learned your lesson, honey?” You leaned up and gently placed a soft kiss against his lips before deepening it. Mahito moved his hands to wrap firmly around your middle and hold you against himself, moving his lips easily against your own to cast that perfect mold over them in a way only he could.
Pulling away from the kiss, Mahito’s eyes welled a little at the water line, his unhinged charm disappearing and replaced with a wonder and anticipation the longer he gazed at you. You took that as an affirmation, prompting you to go between his legs and truly take into account the cunt he grew for you to enjoy. You cooed gently at it, looking at the small patch of blue hair and how his pearly clit stood out from between his pretty, pink walls still gushing with arousal.
“Okay, baby,” you smile down at him, “We’re going to teach you some things, okay? Starting with this.” You moved your hand against his pussy, parting his folds to give you better access to his clit. With one hand keeping his body open, the other moved your index finger against his clit, focussing on small circles before switching to an up and down motion. Mahito’s breath came out in gentle pants, watching eagerly while you easily coached pleasure out of him with just a small motion.
Mahito tried to fight the small moans coming from his throat, attempting to remove the way his face began to contort in pleasure the longer you played with him - all which only served to have you focus on the same motions over and over again. His whines began to become more apparent to the point that he couldn’t give you a second of warning before his walls began to contract around nothing, clit stiffening while his legs shook in time with every wave of his orgasm.
The cursed spirit brayed and bleated with every small wave of a very gentle climax, his clit the only thing being stimulated by a single finger. Mahito reached down to grab your wrist to stop your motion from the oversensitivity, causing you to chuckle at him. He flopped back onto the mattress and covered his face in the remaining hand while the one against your wrist relaxed as soon as you withdrew your index finger from his clit.
“What have we learned?” you hummed up at him from between his legs. Mahito groaned at you and muffled his answer from behind his fingers, prompting you to nip harshly at his inner thigh. He gasped and shot you an accusatory look while you continued to beam up at him.
“Same movement. Long period of time. No alteration to the motion,” he snarled at you with his nose scrunched. You felt your belly coil at his sweet expression, prompting you to smirk at him in response and return to your place between his legs. Panic moved in his eyes while your hands slowly returned to his pussy. “N-No, wait! What are you doing?” He moved his body back, causing you to wrap your forearms around his thighs to drag him back into yourself.
“Teaching you the next thing about having a pussy, Mahito,” you nodded up at him, “Multiple orgasms.”
“Oh, no, no, no, no, no,” Mahito panicked, which only promoted your mocking: “Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,” in response to him. He tried to move his hands to shove you away, only stopping when your index finger moved down to his slit and slowly pressed into his core. He bleated out at the foreign sensation while you continued to work him open. It was only when you pressed down until the third knuckle, your finger completely sheathed in him that he began to relax into you and examined the sensation.
“Is this what it’s like for you when I put my cock in?” he pondered while peering down at you between his legs, “Like, this weird tickly thing that- oh, what’s that?!” You pressed against the spongy underside of his clit and focussed your grinding pressure on the pad of your index finger against it.
“That, baby,” you retracted your finger completely down to the tip of your finger before pressing your middle finger beside it, “Is your g-spot. It’s where some people can have a different type of orgasm. Lots of people can’t, but I thought there wasn’t any harm in trying with you. Can I add another finger?”
“Please,” Mahito asked sweetly, “But be gentle, it’s my first time with one of these.” He gestured down at his pussy, where you’ve settled in comfortably, “I don’t want it to hurt. I saw… I saw that it hurts when you get- Oh, fuuuuck-!” You added the second finger down to the hilt, watching as he completely flopped back into the mattress and fluttered his eyes close shut in bliss.
“It only hurts if you’re not wet enough, and you’re not completely relaxed,” you nod down at his body while slipping your fingers in and out of him, “And baby, between you and me, you’re completely coating my palm right now. We’re in no short supply of any arousal. Also,” you moved your thumb up to pinch at the thin barrier between his clit and his g-spot, moving in tandem with your single hand to bring him pleasure, “You’re so close to cumming again.”
“I am,” he gasped softly. His eyebrows triangulated up in the center as his lips parted in a perfect circle, “I-It’s like-! I-I-I can’t help it!”
“Cum for me, pretty boy,” you cooed up at him, “Let go for me. I want you to cum for me so you know how good it feels. Come on, Mahito. Don’t you want to make me proud?” Mahito cried. His body sobbing with him while he gushed out more of his sweet, syruppy arousal into your hand. His cunt sucked greedily on your fingers with every thrumming contraction while he cast aside his inhibitions to reduce his sweet moans. Your own cunt clenched while yelling for attention, forcing you to lose yourself in helping him lose himself.
Retracting your fingers completely, you moved your thumb up to his clitoral hood and immediately lunged for his clit while he was too distracted to pull you away. He yelped and sobbed, moving his hands to your head and attempted to weakly swat you away while you were relentless in sprinting him from one climax to the next.
“W-W-W-WAIT-!” Mahito screamed while his back bowed away from the bed, “No, I-I’m gonna-! Mmnnmnhghh-! I’m gonna cum again! Wait-!” Mahito grabbed the back of your head and grappled you against his cunt, all while howling your name as if he was summoning you with a chant to a faith starring you as his deity. “Cumming,” he whimpered pathetically, “M’cumming-!”
You muffled your own pleasure at the sight while staring up at him through sex-drunk eyes and watching as his chest heaved in time with the thrum of his cunt. He began to sob as thick, wet tears that then coasted down his cheeks and dampen the pillow beneath his head. Sweat beaded at his temples while his lengthy hair stuck to his skin. He resigned himself to his fate as you continued to suck and roll your tongue against his cunt to shepherd one climax into the next.
Both of you had forgotten why he did this to begin with somewhere between the fifth and sixth time you’d drawn out of him on your hands, lips, and tongue. Mahito was completely lost to the sensation and beyond wrung out by the time he had his legs interwoven with your own. Chest to chest, cunt to cunt, Mahito lazily rolled his hips against yours to grind against you. Both your arousals stuck together in a messy kiss while you met that friction to bring together your joint highs.
“S-S-So like this,” Mahito uttered with his breath catching in his throat, “J-Just with a rh-rhythm like-! I’m gonna cum again. I’m gonna cum again. I-I th-think I’m gonna die with this o-one!” his whimpering sob had your hands immediately gripping his ass to drag him to and fro as your own impending orgasm knit itself in your belly and began to tighten. Your clits caught against one another, just as your lips met in a messy, passionate oscillation of tongues and teeth. Your pussies caught against one another while you both met your highs.
Light split in your vision while Mahito screamed against your lips, his body going rigid in your arms before completely going limp and allowing you to drag him against your body to drag out your high. The weight of his body crushing your torso had you feeling trapped, bringing out a lengthier rise in you until your breath returned back to its regular rapidity. You reached up and stroked Mahito’s hair while you felt his pelvis shift into his regular cock, lying limply between your legs and as asleep as he was.
“You did so good, baby,” you praised him while his gentle snores huffed against your cheek and jaw. You pressed your lips against his temple and slowly moved him over to his side. His lashes were completely fluttered shut, out like a candle blown by the wind. He looked at peace and sleeping soundly beside you. Reaching down for the blankets, you moved them over your bodies and gave him a final kiss while settling in beside him.
You couldn’t remember falling asleep, but you never forgot the rest you found in his arms while ignoring the world continuing to busy itself around you. Just you and your Mahito, syncing in breaths and climaxes until you finally found the peace you both deserved.
Thank you for reading! If you enjoy this, please check out my masterlist for other JJK fics, my monsterlist pinned at @sultrysnail for original content, or my one piece masterlist pinned at @fanaticsnail.