eater of men

ヽ(°ω°)ノ ♡ 22

[lagataprrr]

Welcome to The Carnal Grove

@lagataprrr Arlene 22, she/her, latina Welcome, darling. Beyond the gate lies a garden of exquisite temptations. Here, beauty and hunger intertwine, and every whisper promises a taste of something forbidden. Allow this guide to be your intimate companion.

The Harvest of the Grove(Awaiting Bloom...)⊱✿⊰ The Devourer's Gallery(Awaiting Bloom...)

⊱✿⊰ The soil accepts all seeds, please feel free to submit requests ⊱✿⊰

dividers are from @uzmacchiato pls check out their blog, they have so many cute stuff!

[cumironi]

— horny and in love. what a time to be alive.

feat. yuuta okkotsu

summary. what did he get after coming back from Africa? a fucking huge ego and the nerve to make you fall in love more. which, isss so fucking unfair not that you have to make him ask you to be his girlfriend.

triggers/warnings. fluff, emotionally constipated yuuta, dumbass to lover pipeline, soft virgin $ex (implied), first time, mutual pining explosion, goofy flirting to full-on intimacy, extremely affectionate makeout session, long slow kiss descriptions, teasing turned sincere, gentle undressing, consent check (verbal), heavy petting, reader-on-top position, soft dom yuuta, praise kink (gentle), internal ejaculation (mentioned), implied aftercare, lots of “i love you” mid-thrust energy, dumb relationship talk, boyfriend reveal post-orgasm, soft but emotionally unhinged dialogue, swearing / explicit language.

it was that kind of twilight where the sky went lilac, like it couldn’t decide whether to die down or scream one last color into the day, and the courtyard between dorms hummed with the lazy static of summer insects drunk off heat. your legs stuck a little with every step, your thighs brushing as your too-short cotton strawberry-print sleep shorts rode up—not because you’d rolled them, but because they were honest-to-god tragic at staying down where they were supposed to. the white t-shirt hung shapeless and limp, just long enough to look like you weren’t trying to be indecent, just short enough to flash a whisper of lower belly if the breeze kicked up. your hair was a half-washed mess. no bra. no socks. this was war.

plastic bag of snacks swinging off your wrist, crinkling loud enough to announce you two corners away, you clutched it like a peace offering, or a bribe, or a confession. everything in it had a story: the milk soda gummies he’d once nearly cried over. that dumb pink shrimp chip brand you always fought over because the flavor was “emotionally damaging” (his words). a tiny green tea cake with icing you’d pressed your thumb into by accident. the whole bag smelled like saccharine surrender. you hadn’t seen him in months.

yuuta had been sent to africa—yes, the continent, not the band—because gojo had gotten it into his hollow skull that yuuta needed “recalibration,” like he was a satellite that went a little too sharp after the shibuya aftermath. the accident—those cursed children, that nightmarish tangle of residuals, the stupid thing with the shrine and the way his voice cracked saying “i didn’t mean to—” right before gojo shoved him on a plane—had left him looped up in his own head. not dangerous, not even spiraling. just… too tuned in. too raw. so gojo, in his infinite “big brother but worse” wisdom, had sent him away. not to punish, not to exile. just to breathe somewhere far enough that even his regrets would echo slower.

you had hated him for it. not yuuta. gojo. because you missed him. and because you didn’t know how to say it.

he had texted, of course. photos of monkeys stealing his food. long meandering voice notes about heatstroke and rogue cursed spirits in old mining towns. one audio message that was just six minutes of wind and then “...it smells like burnt cinnamon here, isn’t that weird?” and then more wind. you’d replayed that one until the file started glitching.

now he was back.

you walked up the stairs with knees that didn’t work right, heartbeat like a stray drumroll in your chest. the hallway smelled like that vaguely bleachy institution-funk, overlaid with someone cooking too much garlic too late. but his door was the one with the taped-up polaroid of a lizard on the peephole—he’d named it jerry and claimed it once saved his life in botswana by pointing at a cursed talisman with its tail (you didn’t believe a word but loved him for trying)—and it stood exactly as you remembered. slightly misaligned. always looked like it wanted to be a secret.

you stood there too long. shifted the snack bag from left to right. considered fleeing. considered kicking the door down. did neither.

instead, you knocked. once. twice. then a little impatient third one that said “hey, i’m still me.”

the hallway was quiet.

your hand still hovered, a little curl of fingers like maybe you'd knock again but also maybe you'd just rest it there and feel how solid the door was between you. it didn’t matter. the moment had already bent in that soft surreal way, like a movie scene that couldn’t decide if it was a comedy or a tragic romance. behind that door was him. your friend. the dumbass with the soft hands and the eyes like old moonlight and a voice that didn’t realize it made you ache.

you licked your lips, wiped your palm on your thigh. you told yourself you were ready.

the plastic bag rustled. it sounded like a heartbeat.

the door opened with a click that sounded way too loud for the sleepy summer hallway and maybe also a little like the climax of a drama scene about to spiral into something stupid and irreversible, and there he was—yuuta okkotsu, fucking alive, standing barefoot in the doorway like he’d just walked off a fever dream you had eight weeks ago, except realer and worse, because reality had done something to him that memory never could: it made him taller.

not metaphorically taller, not emotionally expanded, not some symbolic “he grew while he was away” bullshit—no. he was literally, absolutely taller, which was rude as hell because you were already tragically average and now standing in front of him, your face came up to his stupid newly-broadened neck and you had to tilt your head back to look at his face and that made your neck hurt and now everything was his fault. again.

“whoa,” he said, voice a little low and scratchy like he hadn’t talked much today, maybe a little sleepstill lingering at the edges, but then he smirked, and it was the kind of slow curling thing that should’ve come with a health warning. “what the hell are you wearing?”

you didn’t answer. couldn’t, really. because your brain short-circuited the moment your eyes tracked the line of his collarbone visible through that worn white t-shirt—the one clinging just enough to expose the ghost of his abs underneath, because apparently he had those now, just a casual six-pack sculpted out of trauma and climate change and moral injury—and then lower, to where the hem of the shirt barely brushed the waistband of those indecently low athletic shorts. shorts that screamed “i don’t own dignity” but in a confident way. and legs. endless, lean, travel-worn legs like he’d gone on a side quest for new muscles.

his hair was parted to the side, a little messy but shaped like it meant to be, probably from running his fingers through it a hundred times, and his eyes were brighter than you remembered—not in that overworked, glassy way he used to have, but something steadier, like he’d seen some shit and come back joking about it. and his smile was sharp now. not mean. just sharper. more boyish menace than anxious darling.

“you okay?” he asked, still holding the door open, leaning one shoulder against the frame like he’d taken a class in posing over there. “you’ve been standing there like i’m a ghost. is this the part where you tell me i’ve been dead the whole time?”

“no,” you blurted, then immediately hated how your voice cracked like a teenage boy about to confess his love to the back of a girl’s head in a shoujo anime. “no, you’re just—i didn’t realize you’d... grow vertically.”

he raised an eyebrow, eyes flicking down, dramatically, then back up. “you’re just short.”

“liar. you’re taller than before.”

“am i?” he tilted his head. “i thought you just shrank. maybe that’s what all the strawberry-print shorts are doing to your brain. estrogen shrinkage. is that a thing?”

“you look like a backup dancer for a washed-up j-pop group,” you fired back, finally stepping past him into the dorm, brushing his shoulder on the way, pretending it didn’t buzz like an electric fence when you touched him. “no right looking like that at home. i almost dropped the snacks.”

“the what now?” he snatched the bag from your wrist with a dramatic flourish and held it up like it was the holy grail, peering inside. “is this—are these shrimp chips? you do love me.”

“i didn’t say that.”

“your shorts said it for you.”

“fuck you.”

he shut the door behind you with a little too much smugness in the click, dropped the snack bag onto his desk like it was a reward for something he didn’t work for, and turned to look at you fully. “okay, but seriously. hi. you look... like you lost a fight with a dryer, and then won the war of being adorable.”

“you’ve been back for five minutes and i already regret everything.”

“but you missed me.” his voice dropped just half a note, not sultry, not teasing—just confident, and you hated that it made your stomach go soft and fluttery like a tragic anime side character about to say something embarrassing and get hit by a car. “you missed me so bad, didn’t you?”

“i missed you like a hole in the head.”

“that’s still a kind of love,” he grinned, stepping closer, just a little, enough to tilt his head down so his forehead almost bumped yours. “cursed and irreversible.”

you tried to back up, hit his desk instead. fuck.

“you’re an idiot.”

“you look like you wanna cry.”

“i do. because of your face.”

“because you love my face.”

“yuuta.”

he laughed, that soft exhale kind of laugh, warm and real and too close. his fingers grazed the snack bag again. your heart forgot how to perform basic rhythm.

you hated him. you hated how he looked better than before. more whole. more like himself. and that he wasn’t scared anymore. and that now you didn’t know if you were allowed to want him without breaking something.

“so,” he said, turning to open the mini fridge, crouching slightly, letting his shirt ride up so you could see the shadow of his lower back and the waistband of his shorts pulling low, “what’s the plan, captain? movie night? tears? declaration of undying devotion? all of the above?”

you hated him. you hated that he knew. that he was waiting.

but you were here now. no takebacks. and your knees had already lost the ability to lock.

you said, “movie night.”

he grinned again, not looking back. “mmhm. coward.”

you stared at him for a second too long, a long dumb second where he was still bent over with the fridge door hanging open and the lamplight just so, highlighting the curve of his spine and the soft dip of muscle above his waistband, and he was rattling a soda can around like it owed him something, humming some godawful off-key jingle under his breath while absolutely oblivious to the fact that you were contemplating both murder and marriage at the same time. and that was dangerous. because the moment you started thinking thoughts like his back looks like a religious experience and i want to punch him in the throat, you were in too deep.

so you did the only thing your tragically flustered nervous system allowed: you walked up and kicked him square in the shin.

“ow—fuck, what the hell,” he yelped, straightening with the drama of a man shot in war, dropping the soda in the process which landed with a thud and rolled under the desk like it knew what was good for it. “was that necessary?”

“yes,” you said, stepping around him like he was debris, heading straight for the tiny kitchenette shoved into the corner of the dorm like an afterthought. the popcorn bag was already in your hand, pre-buttered and microwavable and honestly the only real symbol of stability in your life at the moment. you yanked open his one cabinet, found a bowl shaped like it had been purchased in a panic, and set it down with the finality of someone trying very hard not to scream. “i am asserting dominance.”

“by kicking me like a rabid toddler?” he called from behind you, and you heard the stupid amusement in his voice, the I’m-smiling-but-I’m-also-plotting kind of grin that made you want to wrap your legs around his head and drown him in it. “wow. you really did miss me.”

you ignored him, shoved the bag into the microwave and typed in numbers that weren’t the time but felt emotionally correct. then you heard it—that sound. the soft, quiet approach. sockless feet brushing linoleum. and then—

his fingers in your hair.

it started small. just a gentle flick, like he was testing the texture, maybe reminding himself what it felt like to touch you. and you told yourself you weren’t going to react. you were strong. you were composed. you had kicked him in the shin, for god’s sake.

then he twirled a strand, slow and deliberate, looping it once, twice around his index finger like he was braiding the concept of being insufferable. and he was close. not body-pressed-close, not oh-no-we’re-about-to-kiss close—worse. emotionally close. best-friend-who-knows-what-makes-you-crack close. and that was the real danger zone.

“i don’t remember giving you permission,” you mumbled, not looking back, hands busy pretending to rearrange popcorn bags that didn’t need rearranging.

“you didn’t,” he said, twirling harder, tugging it gently like he was testing how far he could go before you screamed. “but it’s not like you’re gonna stop me.”

“you’re violating the geneva convention right now.”

“it’s hair. not nuclear arms.”

“i will scalp you.”

“hot.”

you froze for a half-second, horrified by the small laugh that slipped out of your own throat, because how dare he be funny and disgusting and weirdly charming all at once. and the worst part? the actual worst part? his fingers were still in your hair. just resting there now, tangled lazy, like he belonged. like you were a thing he was allowed to touch. and your whole body was doing that thing again—heat in the gut, soft static under your skin, a flush crawling its way up your neck like shame dressed as desire.

“i hate you.”

“you keep saying that but you’re not convincing,” he said, voice close to your ear now, low and amused and awful and warm. “you didn’t even flinch.”

“i’m biding my time. waiting for the perfect moment to shiv you with a butter knife.”

“you are so bad at pretending you don’t love me,” he whispered, fingers giving your hair one last tug, then releasing like he hadn’t just incinerated every single one of your higher brain functions.

you whipped around, popcorn forgotten, bowl cradled in your hands like a weapon. “you’re the most annoying man i’ve ever met.”

“you’ve only met like four men.”

“and three of them were fictional.”

“and you still picked me.” he grinned, then leaned in so close you could count every unfair eyelash, all fluttery and boyish and violent. “tragic.”

you opened your mouth to say something—anything—but the microwave dinged, loud and shrill like an alarm you didn’t set, and both of you jumped. he stepped back, smirking like the devil in gym shorts.

you hated him.

you also loved him.

but that wasn’t the point.

you reached past him to yank open the microwave, your arm brushing his chest on the way, and you could feel the heat of him, the bare skin under that translucent white shirt, like he’d been designed in a lab to make you clinically insane.

he didn’t move.

you didn’t either.

not yet.

fast forward past the microwave war crimes and the traumatic realization that the strawberry-print shorts rode up every time you bent even slightly, past the part where he insisted on filling a second bowl “for tactical snack separation” and then immediately kept both within his reach like a possessive gremlin, past the flickering mental images of throttling him versus maybe gently kissing him just to shut him up—it was later now, and you were on his bed, which felt like a decision made under spiritual duress.

you were laying on your stomach like a lazy sea creature, arms folded under the ridiculous puff of one of his old pillows, probably the one he drooled on based on how aggressively it smelled like shampoo and existentialism. the tv on his desk across the room played soft flickers of color over your bare legs, the blue hue of a night scene washing over your skin like cinematic bathwater. the pillow squished your ribs uncomfortably but you refused to move because you were locked in a delicate standoff between comfort and pride. your shirt had ridden up, naturally. you ignored it. you were committed to the bit.

he was leaned back against the headboard beside you, long legs stretched out like a relaxed golden retriever who knew he owned the whole damn room, the popcorn bowl balanced delicately between the two of you, technically for sharing but realistically under his complete jurisdiction. every now and then, when you reached for some, he’d shift the bowl slightly like a petty little landlord, then smirk when you glared without heat.

“this is a hate crime,” you muttered, palm in the bowl fishing blindly for something that wasn’t just kernels and betrayal.

“this is a romantic crime,” yuuta corrected, chewing obnoxiously loud next to your ear. “we’re bonding. we’re creating memories. you’re gonna look back at this one day and cry.”

“i’m gonna look back and sue.”

“i’m gonna bring this up in my vows.”

“what vows—are you marrying my corpse?”

“god, you’re so dramatic,” he said, nudging the bowl toward your face just as you gave up. “here. have a sympathy handful, you absolute victim.”

you grumbled something incoherent but shoved your hand in before he changed his mind. your fingers touched his for a second and he didn’t flinch, just looked down at you with that dumb fondness in his eyes like he’d won a prize at the fair and couldn’t decide whether to eat it or keep it on his shelf forever.

on screen, ana steel was currently having her lip bitten by christian grey for the twelfth time in twenty minutes.

“i can’t believe you made me watch this,” you groaned, mouth full of popcorn, turning your face into the pillow like it might drown out the secondhand embarrassment.

“excuse me?” he gasped, mock horror fully engaged. “i am blessing you with culture.”

“you made me watch a billionaire man-child stalk a woman into a bdsm contract.”

“and he bought her a car,” yuuta pointed out, as if that somehow absolved the war crimes happening on screen.

“he sold her car without asking.”

“okay, that part was unhinged,” he admitted, stuffing another handful into his mouth. “but also kind of hot, like in a ‘don’t do this but also do this if you’re rich and emotionally damaged’ way.”

you turned your head to look up at him, chin digging into the pillow, eyebrows furrowed. “so you identify with him?”

he didn’t miss a beat. “i identify with ana.”

you snorted so hard you nearly inhaled a kernel.

“what, like you want someone to rescue you with their trauma and a playroom full of sex toys?” you asked, half choking on laughter.

“no,” he said, stretching his arms behind his head with criminal smugness, “i want someone to look at me like that and let me sign a contract that outlines exactly how often i’m allowed to be annoying.”

you rolled your eyes so hard you almost left your body.

“god, you’re insufferable.”

“but lovable,” he added, nudging your shoulder with his knee. “admit it. you like watching horny garbage with me.”

you didn’t answer right away, just flopped your face sideways into the pillow again, watching the screen, because the thing was—this was maybe the dumbest and coziest version of hell you’d ever experienced. the soft weight of his blanket tangled over both your legs. the occasional crunch as he kept eating your popcorn with the rhythm of a man chewing through existential dread. the quiet hum of the fan above you both. his presence looming, always just close enough to lean into. or over. or on.

“you’re the garbage,” you finally said, voice muffled. “the movie is fine.”

“awww,” he cooed, leaning down, voice dripping with weaponized smugness. “is that your love language? bullying me into intimacy?”

“don’t flatter yourself, grey.”

he reached over and tugged at your shirt gently, pulling the hem down over the small of your back, only to immediately pull it back up again like he was testing how much he could get away with. you smacked his hand blindly, but it made you laugh anyway, because this was him—yuuta fucking okkotsu, sweet and mean and flirty and dumb as a brick in love’s stupidest architecture. and you hated how soft it made you feel, how completely unguarded and ridiculous and… happy.

“we should recreate the elevator scene,” he whispered suddenly, like a war criminal.

“i will push you down the stairs.”

“you’re no fun. i could be your emotionally stunted dom.”

“you literally cry at those dog rescue videos.”

“emotional depth isn’t a crime.”

“you own one pair of handcuffs and they’re for cosplay.”

he gasped like you’d just ruined his career. “you promised never to bring that up.”

“you wore them to the school halloween party and said you were ‘sexy rehabilitation.’”

“and it worked! i won second place! gojo voted for me!”

you couldn’t breathe. your face was buried in the pillow again but this time from hysterics, your body shaking against the mattress while the movie’s dramatic music swelled in the background, completely ignored. he reached down and started playing with your hair again, soft and absentminded, fingers running over strands and occasionally tugging just to make you twitch.

“you’re the worst,” you muttered into the fabric.

“i’m your worst,” he said, and it was so quiet, so offhand, so horribly gentle that you had to close your eyes for a second and hold your breath just to survive it.

the tv glowed soft and blue. the popcorn was half gone. and yuuta’s fingers were still tangled in your hair like they’d never stopped.

you don’t remember when the popcorn bowl was exiled to the floor like a fallen soldier, when his knees bent to cage your hips in place, one on either side like he wasn’t subtly climbing you like a tree, like he didn’t just decide that personal space was a capitalist lie invented to keep you from enjoying the sheer horror of his presence, but suddenly there he was—perched over you like a smug gargoyle with perfect posture and absolutely no sense of shame, one hand tangled in your hair again, the other casually draped over the small of your back like he was claiming territory or maybe measuring how far he could push you before you screamed into his pillow.

you were still lying on your stomach, still pinned to his stupid bed with your stupid dignity melting through the mattress like slow death, still pretending you were unaffected by the fact that he was now fully lounging on top of you like a sunbathing menace, his weight gentle but inevitable, like gravity got a personality disorder and started flirting.

“you know,” he drawled, voice sliding right beside your ear like a heat rash in audio form, “if i didn’t know better, i’d say you planned this.”

you tried to lift your head but his palm gently but very firmly pressed it back into the pillow with the same exact energy as someone telling a golden retriever to “stay.” your voice came out muffled, somewhere between indignation and a breakdown. “planned what? the fucking suffocation?”

“you brought snacks,” he said with a completely unserious shrug you could feel vibrate through your entire spine. “you wore the shorts. you’re lying on my bed like a sacrificial offering. i’m just connecting the dots.”

“you’re connecting shit. you’re a conspiracy theorist with a god complex.”

“mmm,” he hummed, tracing a lazy circle between your shoulder blades with one finger. “god’s out of office. i’m your problem now.”

you flailed halfheartedly, kicked one heel back into his thigh. “i’m filing a complaint.”

“please do,” he said brightly. “i love getting fan mail.”

“you’re so—so annoying.”

“you’re blushing,” he said.

“i’m overheating under your weird emotionally co-dependent weight.”

he bent low enough that his breath tickled the back of your neck and you wanted to slap him and kiss him and throw yourself out the window in equal measure. “you like it. just admit it. you like when i’m all clingy and dramatic and a little mean. you missed me. so bad. like it hurt.”

you choked on a noise that wasn’t a denial. it might’ve been a dying bird. maybe a baby crying. the tv was still playing in the background, some intense jazz instrumental under a scene where christian grey was earnestly making eye contact while unzipping something. you hated this. you loved this. you wanted to throw the remote at his head and then press your mouth to his collarbone like you could bite the word finally into his skin.

“you’re getting cocky,” you whispered, tilting your chin just enough to glance up at him, your face twisted in dramatic pain. “something happened to you out there. in africa. the mosquitoes gave you a superiority complex.”

he laughed, short and loud and delighted, collapsing just slightly more against you, his chest brushing your back in a way that felt like someone turning a page too slowly. “nah. you just forgot i was a menace before i left. it’s all coming back now, isn’t it?”

“i blocked it out for my mental health.”

“you missed me so much you forgot your own coping strategies.”

“you’re projecting.”

“you cried when i posted that video of the meerkat hugging the baby goat.”

“because i have empathy.”

“you sent it to me with ‘this is us.’”

“because you’re the goat and i’m the burdened soul holding on for dear life.”

he snorted, finally rolling just enough to the side so his weight settled against your hip instead of directly on your back, one leg still draped over yours like he was trying to win a game of human jenga. “you love me.”

you groaned, pulling the pillow over your face. “stop saying that.”

“say it back, coward.”

“no.”

“say it.”

“absolutely not.”

“say you love me or i’ll quote the contract scene verbatim.”

“i dare you.”

he took a deep breath.

you shrieked, flung the pillow directly into his face, which he caught with both hands while wheezing with laughter. “you fucking menace. you—how do you still know the words? do you memorize garbage?”

“yes. and you. same folder. same cherished label.”

you glared at him. he was laughing so hard his cheeks were flushed, his hair a mess again from rolling over too much, one curl sticking to his temple with sweat and popcorn grease, and the sight of him—real and here and loud and breathing all over bed space—hit you so hard you went still for a second, like your body realized before your brain did that this was the moment, the moment, the breath before you said something you couldn’t walk back.

his eyes caught yours. quiet for once. sincere. amused, yes, always, but... waiting.

“you are so fucking annoying,” you whispered.

“you’re stalling,” he whispered back.

“you smell like corn butter and laundry detergent.”

“say it.”

“you’re ugly.”

“say it.”

“you’re literally the worst person—”

he grabbed your jaw. not hard, not rough—just enough to tilt your chin up and look you in the eye, eyes glinting with something unbearable and infuriating and stupidly, ridiculously beautiful. “say it, or i’m gonna say it first and you’ll be mad about it for the next thirty years.”

your chest hurt.

your legs tingled.

your mouth was dry and also stupid.

“i love you,” you said, like it was a dare.

he blinked.

paused.

then, grinning like a man who just pulled off the greatest heist of his life, he leaned down, brushed your nose with his, and whispered—

“took you fucking long enough.”

you wanted to hit him. not with your fist. with a book, probably, or maybe a bag of frozen peas, or something heavy and full of metaphor like the complete works of shakespeare annotated by someone with too much time and a vendetta. because he was smiling now, but it wasn’t even a normal person’s smile—it was a stupid, slow, predatory, cat-that-ate-the-whole-zoo grin, the kind of smile that said “i’ve already won and now i’m just here to gloat about it while reclining dramatically on your grave.”

he was leaning in, still half-laughing, half-devastating, his forehead brushing yours again like he couldn’t quite resist the gravitational pull of your face and the disaster inside it. your breath hitched and your brain short-circuited and all your blood decided to throw a rave in your ears. you couldn’t look at him. so, obviously, you did.

“say it again,” he whispered, and the worst part was that he wasn’t even trying to be hot. he was just obnoxious and needy and chronically underloved in the most annoying way possible, which made it ten thousand times worse, because now he’d tasted victory and he wanted seconds.

“you didn’t even say it back,” you said, mouth dry, fingers curling into the pillow like it owed you emotional support. “why should i go again if you’re gonna keep holding your words hostage?”

“oh,” he said, tilting his head dramatically like a villain who just heard a plot twist. “do you think this is transactional?”

“everything’s transactional when your heart is on fire,” you snapped, voice high and stupid and a little wobbly.

“jesus christ,” he breathed, grinning wider, “you are in love with me.”

“no, i’m just suffering.”

“same thing.”

you made a sound. an actual sound, like a dying kettle or a kettle that’s just learned about taxes, and buried your face in the pillow again, except this time he didn’t let you escape. he grabbed your shoulders and pulled you back, just enough to keep you looking at him, just enough to make you feel every inch of him, the soft weight of his thigh over yours, the heat of his hand wrapped around your arm, his breath a lazy ghost near your cheek.

“okay,” he said, voice lower now, still soft but stupidly smug, “you ready?”

“for what,” you mumbled.

he raised a single, unnecessary eyebrow. “i’m gonna say it back. you better not cry. or kiss me. or cry while kissing me.”

“i am deeply unattracted to you right now.”

“shut up.”

you did.

he took a breath. unnecessarily long. dramatic as hell. he looked like he was about to deliver a monologue on a stage with a spotlight, except instead it was just you and him and the flickering tv in the background showing a guy tying a tie around someone’s wrists, and the half-empty popcorn bowl on the floor like the saddest metaphor for your relationship.

“i love you,” he said, finally, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like it wasn’t news, like he hadn’t already been living it out loud every day since you met.

you blinked.

he blinked back.

then: “there. now we’re even. now it’s not weird anymore.”

“it’s still weird.”

“you’re weird.”

“you love someone who’s weird.”

“you’re right,” he said. “i’ve got horrible taste.”

you tried to shove him off the bed. he caught you by the waist and laughed so loud you swore someone in the next room probably heard, and you didn’t even care anymore because it was so easy now—laughing with him, being angry with him, being alive with him—it all made the same kind of impossible sense.

you fell back against the mattress, still tangled in him, still dumbfounded by how something so long-simmering could feel so sudden, so now. and he was staring at you again with that specific kind of expression that should be illegal—soft and knowing and just a little too satisfied with himself, like he’d cracked the code to life and it was just your name on repeat.

“you’re gonna marry me one day,” he said casually, like he was mentioning the weather.

“oh my god,” you groaned. “please shut the fuck up.”

“you are,” he insisted, lying flat beside you now, one arm under his head, the other tracing the hem of your shirt with a pinky like he wasn’t doing it on purpose. “we’re gonna fight over dishes and have a weird little dog named knife and every time we argue i’ll remind you that you confessed first.”

“you’re a walking restraining order.”

“and you fell in love with me. tragic.”

you turned your head to glare at him. he was so close his breath hit your cheek every time he exhaled. his eyes were stars and graveyards. his mouth was curled in that same stupid smile that made your stomach try to escape out your knees.

“yuuta.”

“yes, my beloved nemesis.”

“if you don’t shut up in the next five seconds i’m going to kiss you so hard it’ll reset your nervous system.”

“that’s the opposite of a threat.”

you lunged.

and he caught you.

and he kissed you like he’d already been kissing you for years. not perfect. not polished. just yours. messy, crooked, smiling into your mouth kind of kissing, hands in your hair, your fingers twisting in his shirt, legs tangled and breathless and stupid. kissing like a fight and a promise and an inside joke all at once.

when you pulled back, he was already laughing.

“told you you’d cry while kissing me,” he said, wiping under your eye with his thumb like the smug idiot he was.

you slapped his hand away.

and then you kissed him again.

it was deranged, truly, how fast the air changed—one second you were sprawled like a corpse of sarcasm and poor life choices on your stomach, cheeks warm, laughing against his mouth, his fingers still in your hair like they’d grown roots there, like they were meant to stay, the whole room vibrating with that ridiculous bubble of mutual idiocy and love and “did that really just happen?”—and the next thing you knew, he was shifting, moving with that new, awful confidence like he’d been holding back for years and the dam finally cracked. your brain barely registered the shift in weight before he sat up fully, legs folding beneath him, his hands sliding down your sides with terrifying purpose, and you were the one who ended up on his lap, straddling him like you’d been doing it since the dawn of time and the world just hadn’t caught on yet.

the tv was off. when had the tv turned off? it didn’t matter. the screen was black now, and you could see your own reflection in it behind his shoulder—wide eyes, wild hair, expression like someone who’d just been told the apocalypse was romantic—and the room was dim, barely lit by the single desk lamp glowing soft yellow, its bulb on its last legs, everything cloaked in that kind of warmth that made skin look flushed and intentions look softer than they really were.

you didn’t remember putting your hands on his shoulders. you didn’t remember him pulling you closer. but there you were, knees pressed against the outsides of his thighs, his palms anchored at your waist like you were something solid, something worth holding onto even now, especially now, and his thumbs were rubbing gentle circles through the hem of your stupid strawberry-print shorts and you could feel the electricity behind his breathing, tight and shallow and not teasing anymore.

no more games. no more sharp-edged banter. just this.

“you’re quiet,” he whispered, voice the softest it had been all night, reverent almost, like he was afraid if he said it too loud the moment would fold in on itself.

“i’m overwhelmed,” you answered, honestly, stupidly, because you couldn’t lie to him anymore, not now, not when his mouth was this close and his hands felt like home. “you’re being—serious.”

he blinked, slow and soft, then smiled—not the usual grin, not the toothy, boyish mischief. this one was small. sad in the corners. sweet in a way that hurt.

“i’m always serious with you,” he said, brushing his nose against yours like punctuation.

“no, you’re not,” you laughed, even as your voice trembled. “you’re a menace.”

“a menace who’s in love with you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the edge of your jaw, a soft thing that made your entire ribcage vibrate. “deeply. irrevocably. stupidly.”

“you forgot ‘violently’,” you whispered.

he kissed the corner of your mouth. “violently,” he echoed.

then he kissed you. properly. finally. again.

but this time it was different—no more smirking into the press of lips, no more tongue-in-cheek or cocky little nips meant to drive you crazy. this was slower. deeper. like something he’d been holding in his lungs for a decade and now he could finally let it out. he kissed you like he wanted to memorize every reaction, every shift in breath, every way your hands trembled slightly against the curve of his neck when he tilted his head just right and exhaled into you like a confession he couldn’t quite say out loud yet.

his mouth moved against yours with that awful sweetness that made your knees weak even though you weren’t standing, the kind of kiss that said stay. the kind of kiss that didn’t have to ask.

your hands slid into his hair before you even thought about it, fingers tangling in those soft strands, pulling him closer like it wasn’t enough, like it would never be enough. and he let you, of course he did, tilting into your grip, mouth parting just enough for your teeth to catch his bottom lip and make him sigh—a sound so soft and desperate it knocked every thought straight out of your head.

his arms wrapped around you tighter, one slipping under your shirt like he needed proof you were really there, fingertips ghosting up your spine, warm and shaking and tender. he kissed you again, and again, in between breaths like he was scared the distance might kill him.

“fuck,” he breathed against your mouth, his voice breaking around the edges now, none of that performative sass left, just raw affection and nerves and that unbearable sincerity that always lived under the mess. “i missed you so much it made me fucking sick.”

you closed your eyes. rested your forehead against his. let your nose bump his cheek. let your entire body lean into him like the safest place in the world.

“i thought about you every day,” you whispered. “like a freak. like some pathetic little lovesick idiot.”

he kissed your cheek. your temple. your chin. “yeah,” he said, “same. we’re freaks together.”

“soulmates in idiocy.”

“co-presidents of the tragic dumbass society.”

“yuuta.”

he looked up at you again, eyes wide and stupid and full of too much feeling.

“yeah?”

“don’t stop,” you whispered.

so he didn’t. he kissed you again. again. again. slower now. messier. the kind of kiss you fell into and never came back from. the kind that changed your blood type.

you didn’t know where this was going. you didn’t care. all you knew was this—his hands on you, his voice in your ear, his mouth against yours like he was trying to rewrite your entire existence one breath at a time.

and god, it worked.

he kissed you like he was running out of time and breath and restraint, like every press of his mouth against yours was both apology and reward, thank you and finally, and it didn’t feel like escalation, didn’t feel like foreplay or some slippery slope into the inevitable—it felt like something older than either of you, something pulled up from under your skin and cracked open between your teeth. you could barely think. you were breathing through him, your whole world tilted on its axis and centered now around the place where your hips were pressed against his, knees bracketing his thighs, your hands still tight in his hair because if you let go you might float straight out of your body and never come back.

his palms splayed across your back like he was trying to memorize the exact pressure needed to keep you tethered, moving in soft little circles that made you shiver even though the room was hot, and his tongue flicked against your lower lip again and again, coaxing little sighs out of your throat that made him groan like he was the one unraveling. and maybe he was. maybe you both were. maybe this was the only way either of you knew how to be real—half-laughing, half-crying, wrapped around each other like idiots in love and out of options.

you dragged your mouth away long enough to gasp, “we’re so dumb.”

and he, breathless and flushed and grinning like the devil had just offered him a promotion, replied, “yeah, but we’re hot.”

you snorted, chest heaving, and dipped your head into the crook of his neck, lips brushing against the column of his throat as you laughed directly against his pulse. “you’re ridiculous.”

“you’re hesitating,” he shot back, and it took you a second to realize what he meant, to follow the trail of thought through the haze of heat and affection and general hormonal disaster. your hands had shifted, were now fisted lightly in the hem of his shirt, that worn, thin white thing clinging to his chest in soft folds, semi-transparent under the lamplight. you’d tugged it up just a little—just high enough to expose the first dangerous inch of his stomach—but then stopped. froze. like a coward.

“i’m not hesitating,” you muttered, because lying was easier than having a panic attack mid-makeout.

he pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and amused and way too full of affection for someone being slandered. “you’re totally hesitating. you’re scared of my abs.”

“i’m not scared of your abs.”

“you’re scared of my hot, missionary-sent-me abs. you’re intimidated.”

“you’re literally the most annoying man alive.”

“you love my annoying abs.”

“yuuta,” you said, trying to be serious, trying to slow the momentum of the joke before it took over everything again. “i just—i don’t know.”

he went quiet. not in a bad way. not in a oh no now he’s overthinking way. just soft. aware. like he’d felt the shift in your hands, your posture, the way you were still touching him but also thinking too much.

he brought his hand up to your cheek, tilted your face back toward his with two fingers under your chin, and whispered, “hey. look at me.”

you did. of course you did.

his eyes were stupidly gentle, like a blanket you didn’t ask for but needed anyway.

“we don’t have to do anything. we don’t have to do anything,” he said, clear and calm and slow like he wanted to make sure every word landed in the right place. “i just wanna kiss you. i could kiss you for, like, seven years. we can pause for snacks. maybe a nap.”

you blinked, suddenly a little breathless again but for a different reason.

“you’re so dumb,” you whispered, but it cracked halfway out.

“and you’re still holding my shirt like it personally offended you.”

you looked down at your hands, still clenched in the hem like it owed you rent. the skin under your fingers was warm, soft, the faintest hint of tremble under his calm like he wasn’t nearly as unaffected as he pretended to be.

slowly, carefully, you moved your fingers again. just a bit. tugged the fabric higher.

yuuta didn’t move. didn’t help. just watched you. patient. still.

you pushed it up over his stomach, revealing more—soft skin, lean lines, that ridiculous little dip under his ribs that was definitely not helping your composure, and finally, the undeniable definition of his abs. stupid. taut. completely unnecessary. like someone designed him with the express purpose of making you go into cardiac arrest.

“jesus,” you mumbled. “i thought this was just the lighting earlier.”

he smirked, tilting his head. “you can say it. you’re turned on.”

“i’m not gonna feed your ego.”

“baby, you’re literally in my lap.”

“on accident.”

“sure.”

your hands slid higher, just a little more, and he leaned back slightly to help you, finally, tugging the shirt off the rest of the way and over his head, tossing it to the side with a casual flick that really shouldn’t have been so hot but unfortunately was. his chest was bare now, lit golden in the low light, the shadows making every line look sharper than necessary. he sat there, proud and obnoxious and gorgeous, arms resting loosely around your waist, eyes half-lidded and waiting.

“so?” he said. “what’s the verdict?”

you stared for a beat too long, then shook your head. “i hate you so much.”

he leaned forward, mouth brushing yours, and whispered, “you’re drooling.”

you kissed him before he could finish laughing, kissed him hard and hungry and full of frustration and gratitude and longing that had nowhere else to go. his hands slid back up your spine again, then down, slow and warm and steady, and you pressed your chest against his, skin to skin now, breath tangled and mouths moving in sync like it was muscle memory.

this was different now. not just soft. not just playful. it was still dumb, still full of laughter and half-whispers and too many feelings, but it was honest. real. the kind of closeness you only earned after months of pretending not to want it.

his mouth moved to your jaw, then your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the curve until you shivered, his hands holding you like you were fragile and indestructible at the same time.

“okay,” you breathed, fingers threading through his hair again. “okay. maybe i am turned on.”

he laughed against your skin, a low hum that made your whole body vibrate.

“yeah,” he said, voice low and satisfied. “me too.”

you felt it before you saw it—his fingers sliding under the hem of your shirt, slow and reverent, like he was approaching a religious artifact and not your tragically old white cotton tee that probably still had mystery stains from dorm laundry hell and smelled vaguely like microwaved snacks and anxiety. his hands were warm, thumbs dragging along your ribs, and your breath caught halfway out of your throat because he wasn’t being cocky now, wasn’t making jokes or weird noises or doing that thing where he said something infuriating just to watch your face implode—no, he was focused. soft. maddeningly gentle. like he was scared of spooking you. like he was trying to do this right.

he looked at you the entire time, didn’t glance down once, even as the shirt bunched under your arms, his fingers pushing it up your back and then over your head in one smooth motion that felt too intimate to be legal, too slow to be real, and the way his eyes locked on yours as the fabric peeled away? criminal. unhinged. deeply dangerous. you could feel your heart trying to claw its way out of your chest cavity and throw itself out the window.

and then, like an idiot, like a grinning stupid horrible soft idiot, he said:

“whoa.”

“if you make a single joke,” you warned, voice threatening but also fragile, the kind of tone that cracked around the edges like old ceramic.

“no jokes,” he said immediately, holding up both hands like he was surrendering to the law but still resting them dangerously close to your spine. “i swear on gojo’s dumb designer sunglasses. you’re—shit. you’re so pretty. it’s actually rude.”

you didn’t know what to do with that. so you stared at him, blinking like someone who just got told they won a sweepstakes they didn’t enter, and tried not to melt into a puddle of hormonal regret.

you were still in your bra, obviously. thin-strapped, slightly crooked from his earlier manhandling, one cup sitting a little askew like you’d been in a romantic fender-bender. you felt like a hot mess. he looked like he wanted to write poetry about it.

“yuuta,” you murmured, unsure of what you were even trying to say.

he leaned in, kissed your collarbone with a soft press of lips that made your head tilt back instinctively, then trailed down—slow, slow, like a river taking its time to flood. and then his hands moved again, sliding up your back, thumbs brushing your shoulder blades, one finger hooking under the band of your bra in that way that made your stomach absolutely plummet.

his mouth was still on your skin when he said, half-muffled and far too casual:

“can i?”

the bastard had already found the clasp. one hand resting over it like it was a button to a secret door. your entire body was stiff and molten at once.

you breathed. shallow. shaky. said, “you’re asking now?”

he had the decency to chuckle into your shoulder, the vibration making your skin break out in chills.

“consent is hot,” he whispered, “even if i’m already halfway there.”

“yuuta,” you said again, but softer this time, more like a prayer than a warning.

he pulled back to look at you, and fuck—his face. flushed. open. stupidly beautiful. eyes wide and waiting, not pushing. not assuming. just there.

you nodded. slow. a little dizzy.

“yeah,” you whispered. “you can.”

his fingers moved without hesitation now—not rough, not rushed—just sure. the clasp gave way with a quiet click, the tension in the band loosening, and he slid his hands under the straps as if to say, i got you, even though he didn’t say anything at all. the fabric slipped down your arms like surrender. you let it. let him.

his eyes dropped, finally, but the look wasn’t hungry. it wasn’t some cliché moment of ogling. it was worse. it was tender. reverent. like you were something to be memorized, not devoured. like he was seeing you for the first time and the only thing in his brain was thank you.

his voice cracked a little when he said, “holy shit.”

you wanted to laugh. or cry. or combust. maybe all three.

so you did the only thing you could: you grabbed his face, held it in both hands like you were trying to mold it into something you could survive, and kissed him again. desperate. grateful. a little shaky. and he kissed you back like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.

he didn’t touch your chest—not yet, not even a hint of suggestion. he just wrapped his arms around you, full body, buried his face in your neck and whispered, “you’re gonna ruin me.”

and you whispered back, “good.”

and meant every word.

the air in the room shifted like it had caught on fire, not the loud kind, not the dramatic blaze that engulfed buildings and screamed for attention—no, this was the slow, creeping kind, the burn that started in your chest and worked its way outward, cell by cell, inch by inch, until even the dim, flickering lamplight felt like it was watching you both a little too closely. and there you were, bare from the waist up now, still straddling his lap like a disaster waiting to happen, like a headline, like a statistic in a very affectionate cautionary tale, his arms around your ribs so gently it felt like gravity was being polite about it, and his face buried in the crook of your neck like he was hiding from his own goddamn feelings.

he hadn’t moved since you said it—good—hadn’t laughed or made some snarky little comeback, which was alarming in itself because that was his whole brand, wasn’t it? being a menace in the shape of a boy you stupidly trusted with your life and now your shirt. but instead, he just exhaled. slow. hot. reverent. like that single word did something to him he wasn’t ready to admit.

and then, of course, because he couldn’t help himself—because silence was a threat to his personality—he whispered, voice muffled into your throat, “you’re evil.”

“you’re clingy,” you muttered, even as your arms looped around his shoulders like anchors, like reflex.

“you just said you wanted to ruin me. do you hear yourself?”

“i said good, which was not a threat.”

“oh no, it was,” he said, finally pulling back to look at you, and he looked wrecked already, hair a mess, lips bitten pink, cheeks flushed, pupils blown out like he’d seen some divine truth in the curve of your collarbone. “you’re saying things like that while sitting on my lap and half-naked and then acting surprised when i combust.”

“you haven’t combusted yet,” you said, tilting your head, “do i need to try harder?”

his jaw dropped. his hands—those goddamn hands, all heat and reverence and menace—gripped your hips a little tighter, not rough but anchoring, like he needed to confirm you were real and also possibly prevent you from flying off the rails, which was ironic because you were the one currently holding yourself together with a thread and a half.

“okay,” he said, nodding slowly, eyes narrowing like he was processing a new kind of threat. “okay. so this is what we’re doing.”

“what are we doing?”

“you’re playing innocent while literally breaking me.”

“i’m not innocent,” you said, inching forward just slightly, just enough to make his breath hitch in a way that made you feel like you’d grown wings, like maybe you could ruin him if you tried. “i’m just not doing anything.”

“that’s the problem,” he said, and then, like he couldn’t help himself, he leaned in again, lips brushing against your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone, soft kisses dropped like punctuation marks in a letter he hadn’t finished writing. “you’re not doing anything and i’m still losing my fucking mind.”

you reached up, brushed his hair back from his forehead, your fingers sliding into the mess like they belonged there, like they’d always been there. he looked up at you from under his lashes, and it hit you all over again—how stupidly pretty he was, how unfair his face was in this lighting, how every expression on him looked like a confession.

“yuuta,” you whispered, and it wasn’t a warning this time. it wasn’t even a question. it was just his name, soft and unsteady and full of every terrible, wonderful thing you hadn’t had the guts to say before.

“yeah?” he breathed, hands still on your waist, fingers twitching like he was trying so hard not to move.

you kissed him again. because what else could you do? his mouth opened under yours like it had been waiting, like it knew how to respond to your rhythm, your breath, your hunger before you even gave it a name. this kiss was slower, but not gentler. it was deep, exploratory, a little unhinged, teeth catching his lip, your hips shifting against his thighs without permission, and he groaned into your mouth like it surprised him, like the noise escaped before he could trap it.

“fuck,” he gasped when you finally pulled back for air, forehead pressed to yours. “you kiss like you’re trying to make me pass out.”

“good,” you said again, and he made a sound, something between a growl and a laugh and a strangled plea.

“you keep saying that,” he muttered, hands sliding up your sides now, not pushing, not groping, just holding, like he needed the contact, needed the skin-on-skin like it was a lifeline. “and it keeps getting hotter.”

you shivered, not because of the cold—there was none, not here, not with him breathing like that, not with your skin pressed against his, not with your heart trying to climb out of your mouth and build a shrine to his name in the back of your throat—but because of the weight of it. all of it. everything you’d kept hidden between laughter and fake arguments and eye-rolls. it was all out now. and he was still looking at you like you were the best decision he’d ever made.

“what happens now?” you asked, not quite trusting your voice.

he smiled, slow and devastating, one thumb rubbing a line across your waist like he was signing something unspoken.

“whatever you want,” he said. “this—” he kissed the corner of your mouth, “—is yours.” he kissed your jaw, “you call the shots.” kissed the dip under your ear, “you tell me when to stop.”

you leaned into him, breathing fast, laughing a little even though it felt like you were about to cry.

“god, you’re such a dumbass romantic.”

“only for you,” he whispered, and meant it so hard you could feel it in your teeth.

and you believed him. like a fool. like someone ready to fall and call it flying.

you kissed him again. and this time, you didn’t hesitate.

the words slipped out like a crime, like you hadn’t meant to say them but also had meant to say them every second since you walked through his door with that bag of snacks swinging from your wrist like a peace offering and a loaded weapon—your lips grazed his, your mouth half-open from breathless kissing, brain so loud and full of him it almost cracked, and then there it was, out in the air between you, all soft and stupid and sharp at the edges:

“i want to do it.”

it wasn’t seductive. it wasn’t breathy or pornographic or dripping with confidence. it was shy and shaken and maybe even a little too high-pitched, like your body knew what it wanted before your voice had a chance to rehearse. but the second you said it, you felt it click. like the moment when you find a light switch in the dark and flip it without knowing what room you’re in.

he stilled. for once, yuuta didn’t grin. didn’t make a joke. didn’t even blink for a second. his hands were still on your waist, bare skin under his fingers, and his forehead was still against yours, but something in his eyes shifted—some soft, wide-eyed mix of holy-shit and are-you-sure and oh-god-oh-god-oh-fuck.

he swallowed. slow. shallow. said, barely above a whisper, “are you sure?”

you nodded. once. twice. then whispered it too, because it was true now, every part of you humming like a live wire, “yeah. i’m sure.”

and then he kissed you like it was his last chance to memorize the shape of your mouth, slow and deep and gentle in a way that was almost reverent, like you’d said something sacred instead of something horny. his hands moved with the kind of patience that should’ve been illegal, every touch featherlight but confident, and when he finally laid you back onto the bed, his fingers never left your skin—not once. it was less like he was trying to get you naked and more like he was trying to hold you steady while the world spun off its axis.

he made you laugh in the middle of it, too. of course he did. you’d accidentally kneed him in the thigh while trying to scoot back and he made a whole dramatic performance out of it—groaning, falling onto the bed beside you like you’d mortally wounded him, then catching you with one arm and dragging you down with him, both of you breathless and flushed and laughing like the dumbass soulmates you were. he kissed you through it, kissed your laughter, kissed the corners of your mouth like they were the most important coordinates he’d ever mapped.

and when the laughing stopped—when the air got heavy and quiet and full of warmth instead of nerves—it was slow. careful. so gentle you almost cried. hands and mouths and breath, the soft sounds of skin finding skin and hearts beating too fast. nothing about it was polished or poetic. it was awkward and intimate and full of stupid sweetness, little whispered “is this okay?” and “does that feel good?” and “i think i’m dying but in a good way,” and god, it was so real. when it finally happened—when he was inside you, when his breath hitched in your ear and his hand squeezed yours like a lifeline—you realized it wasn’t about perfect. it was about him. about you. about finally getting to say i love you in a language you didn’t know you spoke.

and then, silence.

warm, golden, soft-edged silence, the kind that only came when everything was said and nothing had to be explained.

the room was still. the sheets a little twisted. your legs tangled with his under the blanket he must’ve pulled over you at some point, and your head resting on his chest like it had always meant to live there. you were both still naked, but the air didn’t feel cold—it felt right. safe. like you were inside a bubble that nothing outside the dorm could touch.

his hand was on your back. slow circles. absentminded. your name humming under his breath like a song he didn’t want to forget. you could hear his heart, steady now. solid.

“you’re weirdly quiet,” he murmured eventually, voice low and raspy like he’d been yelling all day when really he’d only been falling in love out loud.

you nuzzled into his collarbone, lips brushing warm skin. “i’m trying to preserve brain cells.”

“did i ruin you that bad?”

“yuuta.”

“don’t lie. i felt your soul leave your body halfway through.”

“i tripped over the blanket and headbutted your chin.”

“exactly. transcendent.”

you laughed. he kissed your temple.

and in the quiet that followed, he whispered, softer this time, “i love you.”

you smiled, eyes closed, body sore in the best way possible.

“i know,” you whispered back. “i felt it.”

and you did.

everywhere. still do.

you laid there in that post-apocalyptic emotional soup of skin-on-skin warmth and sex-brain fog, limbs tangled like a pair of cats that fell asleep mid-fight, the blanket half slipping off one side of the bed like even gravity was too blissed out to care anymore. yuuta’s arm was still looped around your back like a seatbelt he refused to unbuckle, his hand absentmindedly tracing lazy, reverent little lines up and down your spine like he was trying to learn braille from your vertebrae. your face was tucked into the crook of his neck, because of course it was—because it was safe there, stupidly comfortable there, smelled like him there: warm skin and detergent and sweat and something sweet, like caramelized embarrassment. and for a while you just laid there, breathing slow, matching each other’s exhales, letting your pulse learn how to stop breakdancing.

and then your dumbass brain did what it always did in quiet moments.

it started thinking.

you didn’t mean to speak. not really. it started as a thought, then became a hypothetical, then suddenly it was a sound pushing its way out of your mouth without warning, wobbling on the edge of hesitation and a laugh and full-on dread.

“so, um,” you mumbled against his collarbone, lips barely moving, “does this mean you’re, like… my boyfriend?”

he stilled. dramatically. completely. like a lizard who sensed danger. you felt every muscle in his chest lock up under your cheek like you’d just asked him if he believed in god and monogamy in the same breath.

and then: “wait,” he said slowly, blinking up at the ceiling like he’d been personally betrayed by the sudden emergence of consequences. “we didn’t define the relationship before having sex? we’re heathens. we’re criminals. we’re going to moral jail.”

you groaned immediately. “never mind. cancel the question. take it off the table.”

“no, no, you brought the table out. now we’re gonna eat off it. we’re gonna have a whole discourse. with sides.”

“shut up—”

“you shut up,” he shot back, turning to face you properly now, rolling you a little so your leg slid higher over his hip, his hand gripping your thigh like punctuation. “you asked. so let’s unpack. do you want me to be your boyfriend? is this an exclusive, high-stakes, one-man show?”

“you literally said you loved me like five minutes ago.”

“people say crazy things during sex,” he said, eyes wide, clearly holding back a laugh. “i once said ‘let’s go’ in the middle of sex in my dream like i was about to ascend. anything’s possible.”

you slapped his chest. “yuuta. focus.”

he caught your hand before it retreated, laced his fingers through yours, and looked at you with that annoying mix of mockery and affection that made your heart feel like it was doing cartwheels in a minefield.

“you want me to be your boyfriend?” he asked again, quieter now, like maybe he wasn’t entirely joking anymore. “is that what this is?”

you swallowed, suddenly shy again, the post-sex high replaced with an equally stupid rush of panic and oh fuck this is real. “i mean… if you want to. if you don’t already have, like, a girl in every jujutsu region.”

“first of all,” he said, gently squeezing your hand, “you are the only dumbass i’ve ever stripped for. and second, of course i want to. i already am. i’ve been your boyfriend in spirit since the moment you called me a ‘walking restraining order’ and then gave me your last shrimp chip.”

you blinked. “you really consider that the turning point?”

“i fell in love right then,” he said seriously. “i knew you were the one.”

“you’re so full of shit.”

“your boyfriend is full of shit,” he corrected smugly. “say it. call me your boyfriend. do it. you started this, coward.”

you groaned again, burying your face in his neck, which was a mistake because now he was laughing and smug and warm and his stupid heartbeat was right under your ear, reminding you that yes, you loved this idiot. and yes, apparently, he was yours now.

“yuuta,” you muttered.

“say it.”

“you’re my boyfriend,” you grumbled, barely audible.

“louder, babe.”

“you’re my fucking boyfriend,” you said, half-snarling, half-laughing.

he grinned so hard you thought his face might crack. “fuck yeah i am. lock me in. relationship status: unhinged and fully committed.”

“i hate you.”

“you love me.”

“shut up.”

he rolled you both over until he was on top again, elbows on either side of your head, his hair flopping down into your face, and he kissed you quick and messy and happy, like he couldn’t help it, like he didn’t care about breath or rules or what happened next.

when he pulled back, his eyes were shining.

“girlfriend,” he said.

you rolled your eyes. “boyfriend.”

he smirked. “horny and in love. what a time to be alive.”

and then he kissed you again, just to seal the deal, because apparently, that’s what boyfriends do.

[syllysmot]

LEH MEH SUH DAH LAWYER DIH

[lagataprrr]

right neow

[leonsleatherjacket]

shy! leon's assistant! reader x re9! leon

Summary: A week after your intense argument with Leon, all those late nights overworking yourself, the pressure from your parents, the guilt from hurting Leon over your mistake, and the grief of your brother finally makes you crash. Unfortunately for you, it's when you get stuck in an elevator with your boss, Leon S. Kennedy.

Song: Someone Great - LCD Soundsystem

part 4 of this

Leon S. Kennedy’s office was silent the entire week. He dumped files on your desk, less than usual because he didn’t want to be too mean, but there was an overall lack of warmth in his demeanour towards you. You didn’t care anyway. What were you thinking, having a silly crush on your boss? It was probably the fact that you had to spend pretty much all day with him, just a small crush to keep you sane in this grey building.

It wasn’t the way his stubble messily dragged around his jaw and that leathery smell that followed him everywhere, the scent that made you instantly relax. It wasn’t his salt and pepper hair that floppily hung around his face. It wasn’t the way he made you feel so confident in yourself or the way he made sure you were comfortable in every sense possible.

You began to stutter through your sentences, running into the same obstacles you used to, all over again. For some reason, it felt like you were crumpling and twisting back into yourself, and all the blossoming and growth you made in your time with Kennedy had withered away. Just the same shy, awkward girl you were before. Did your growth become stagnant, or had you reached a peak and now you were rolling back down the hill again? Good things don’t last forever, and you learned that the hard way. You had felt weak and vulnerable for allowing yourself to develop an attachment to Leon and working for him. You hadn’t even notice that you allowed yourself to do such a thing.

“Don’t forget about dinner tonight,” your mother said through your phone that was sitting between your ear and your shoulder as you sorted through the files in the archive room.

“I won’t,” you mumbled, frowning at the labels on the files. Every other week, your parents demanded a Friday night dinner. Sometimes there were guests, sometimes they tried to get you with sons of old business bores, sometimes it was just you and them.

“It’s important you come this time, the girls from my charity are coming over and they’d love to see how much you’ve grown up. Your father’s co-workers are coming too, very important men from his firm,” she told you. You gave up searching for the warmth in her voice, because it had frozen over after the storm of your brother passing away.

“I’ll be there,” you said absentmindedly.

“Yeah. Maybe it’s best you don’t wear that white blouse you were wearing last time. Your father found it rather casual.”

You looked down at your white blouse, and cringed, “I won’t.”

“You can finally say you’re doing something serious with your degree now. Isn’t that great, sweetheart?” she asked, and you found it hard to tell if she was being sardonic.

“I’ve always been doing something serious with my degree, mom.”

“Well, I can’t say it did to me and your father. But this job sounds like real responsibility, something we can actually talk about over dinner,” you heard her ushering her cleaners around in the background.

“Yeah.”

“And don’t be shy. You always had a bad habit of that, ever since you were a young girl.”

“I won’t,” you replied, hoping that she could get the hint to leave you alone with your increasingly monotonous tone.

“Alright then. Try to look presentable. See you tonight honey.”

“Bye mom.”

The call ended. Somehow, she always made you feel like you were sixteen again. Sixteen and stupid.

You stared at the phone for a split second before you shoved it back in your pocket. It was hard to tell whether this splitting headache came from your mother’s voice or the presentation that needed to be finished by tonight.

Bringing back files to the office swiftly, Sherry walked up to you, her eyes lighting up as soon as they landed on you.

“Hey, y/n, I need to talk to you about something,” she pulled you aside, her light blond hair looking white and halo-like under the harsh office lights.

“Yeah?”

“First of all, are you okay? You look… horrible,” she murmured, her eyes worriedly darting around your face.

“Thanks,” you said sarcastically. Understanding sarcasm was a lesson taught by Kennedy.

“I’m being serious.”

“I’m fine. What did you need to talk to me about?” you questioned, suspicious of her beaming grin.

“Well,” she led you out of the office area and into the quiet corridor that led down to the toilets. Her head turned from side to side before she leant her neck towards you, “I’m getting married. And I want you to come to my wedding.”

“Oh my god! Sherry! I- Oh my- I’m so happy for you!” you gasped, squealing quietly, bouncing on your heels.

“Shhh! I want to keep it quiet. It’ll be small. Just a few friends,” she smiled, the two of you giggling like schoolgirls. “Leon is coming too.”

The sound of his name was strange, not the familiar warmth that you used to feel when you heard it. Instead, it was cold and slimy.

“Oh… that’s nice,” you said, discovering your old interest in the floor.

“That’s nice? Did you two fight?” she asked and then paused, “honestly, that makes sense. Leon has been miserable all week.”

“We didn’t fight.”

“Look. I’m not gonna pry, but maybe fix it before the wedding?”

Be a grown up, was basically what she was asking the two of you.

“There’s no fixing needed. We’re fine,” you insisted.

“Alright. I really want, even need, the two of you there so, please,” she begged, holding your hands.

“Of course, Sherry. I would never miss your wedding,” you gave her a reassuring smile, straightening your posture.

You sat back at your desk, the lines of data slowly swirling and dancing around the screen. Head throbbing and uncontrollably shivering, a tense heat burrowed itself in your forehead pulling and twisting. When you wiped your forehead, sweat glided across your hand. It’s just the summer, that’s all. But does the summer make your eyes burn every time you blink, make your body feel unbelievably heavy and make you sway when you walk?

As you stood up, a pounding feeling circled your head, and you grabbed the edge of your desk. You wiped away the hairs that were slicked to your face and drifted your fingers across your desk as you walked over to Leon’s desk, placing your finished report on it.

His pen stopped moving across his paper and he paused before looking up at you. You looked hollow. Your forehead was glistening with sweat and your eyes struggled to focus on him, like you were trying to stay present in the room that was spiralling out of your control.

“You look awful,” He remarked, raising an eyebrow. You just wanted to slap the cocky look off his face, how dare that be the first three words he said to you all week. But you could feel a stone forming in your throat and you internally cursed yourself for being such a big crybaby.

“Full of compliments,” you mumbled, turning around to go back to your desk, stumbling clumsily in your heels.

“You’re sick,” he observed, immediately standing up from his chair. Oh, so he has decided he cares now.

“I’m not,” you denied, having the same tone of a toddler beginning to have a tantrum.

“You are,” he said firmly, a temper beginning to boil.

“It’s just the summer. I’m a bit hot,” you dismissed him with your hand.

“You’re pale and sweaty,” he insisted, “sit.”

“I’m not a dog,” you retorted, your eyebrows furrowing, your breathing becoming uneven and hard to control.

“You’re going home.”

“I am not. You know I have that report and presentation for your mission due in tomorrow,” you told him, stepping forward.

“You’re going home,” he repeated, walking over to you, but you stepped back, swaying. He grabbed your wrist to make sure you didn’t end up on the floor.

“No! Everything is unfinished, I’m going home after they’re finished,” your voice raised, jerking your wrist away from him.

“What is wrong with you? Just take the damn day off,” he shook his head, your stubbornness had him in disbelief.

“I’m not letting the team down!” your voice was raised, feeling the same anger you did in the car park.

“You’re letting me down by coming into my office barely conscious and pretending you’re fine!” he hissed, gesturing towards you.

“I just-“ you stammered, trying to remember everything you needed to complete, “I need five more minutes,”

“What you need is a bed.”

“What I need-,” you were becoming out of breath, “what I need is to finish my work!”

He pressed the back of his hand to your forehead. You weren’t warm, you were literally burning. Your flushed cheeks and glassy eyes stared at him, slightly out of place. For a split second, you could feel his breath on your skin.

“That’s it. You’re going home,” he said with a finality and unplugged your computer. He had never been forceful like this before.

You let out something between a whimper and a cry, “I can’t rest unless it’s finished.”

“Jesus, y/n, I’ll do it myself. I’ll do anything for you to be at home and resting right now,” he sighed, his eyes drifting back up at you, the limp wire in his hand, “You are not being very professional right now. Look at you.”

“Oh please, when has this ever been professional?” you scoffed, crossing your arms. Who does he think he is to start lecturing you?

He ignored you.

But he couldn’t ignore the grave of the office goldfish outside the building, he couldn’t ignore the fixed shower head, he couldn’t ignore the anger he felt when he heard your mother on the phone, he couldn’t ignore how hearing your laugh eased something in him, he couldn’t ignore the way he chased after you when he found your resignation letter.

“Elevator. Now,” He demanded, grabbing your bag and then holding your shoulder to keep you upright.

“I don’t need an escort.” You mumbled, bringing your shoulders up to your ears to inch away from his touch.

“You do when you come into my office like this.”

You didn’t respond.

The elevator doors shut.

The two of you stood next to each other, a very clear, clean space between you. He stood there in his navy suit, no tie due to the heat. You stood there in your white blouse and black pencil skirt. His eyes flickered to the necklace that shimmered alongside the beads of sweat that clung to your collarbone. Your eyes flickered to his hands that were tightly clenching onto your bag.

The elevator began to hum, and that weird tickly feeling in your stomach occurred whenever you got in the elevator.

Silence fell.

But of course, Leon Kennedy can never keep his mouth shut.

“I’ll finish your presentation,” he started, shoving his other hand in his pocket.

“No- you won’t understand where I left off,” somehow, you still had enough fumes to argue with him.

“It’s fine. I’ve got this,” he reassured you, softening his tone.

“I’ve got it! I had it but you’re sending me home!” you turned to him sharply, your head spinning in response.

“Because you’re-,” he was going to continue arguing back, but the elevator had enough of your bickering and shook and lights flickered. It wasn’t moving downwards or upwards. This threw you further into your disorientation and your body swayed backwards.

 “Woah,” he grabbed your arm, his other hand dropping your bag and instinctively held your waist to steady you.

“Leon-“ you said, your voice thinning as you tried to balance yourself.

“Hey, I’ve got you,” he held you firmly, "the elevator has really chosen the wrong time."

You were fighting a pointless battle. The last time you got home before the sunset was a month ago. You spent your weekends restlessly finishing off other department’s work. The fridge hadn’t seen real substantial food for a while. Your parents just kept demanding and demanding, and you felt as if you were being eaten alive by the two of them. A machine is what you were to them. When you thought you were growing away from the shy, perfection-hungry teen, one mistake detonated the bomb inside of you.

What would your brother think? The way he tore your family apart. Left you all alone. Suddenly you were the one experiencing everything first, without an older brother to guide you through it. He would probably call you an idiot for behaving this way, that you were being silly, that you looked terrible before laughing and giving you a hug which always made you burst out crying.

Your body couldn’t keep up with the rate at which you were abusing it.

Your knees buckled and Leon fell onto his knees, trying to catch you before you hit the floor.

“Told you I wasn’t good enough,” you murmured into his chest, shivering and trembling in his arms. His hand was holding your shoulder, his other hand firm around the backs of your knees.

“You just collapsed and I have to hold you in my damn hands to keep you upright and you’re telling me you’re not good enough?” he lets out a short, breathy laugh, freeing his hand of your leg and moving the hair out of your face.

“I messed it all up,” you said hoarsely, your trembling fingers holding onto his jacket, just to ground yourself.

“Yeah, you did,” he sighed, “you’re scaring the shit out of me.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, “just wanted to earn my place in your office.”

“You earned it the minute you got the job. Quit needing to prove yourself all the damn time,” he whispered back. “You’re killing yourself.”

“I just wanted to be good enough,” you mumbled, half delirious, staring up at him with glassy eyes.

He was there, his eyes darting all over your face as if you were going to shatter at any second.

“You already are. You’ve always been good enough for me, the minute you walked in with those color-coded folders,” he let out another small laugh, his thumb rubbing circles into your shoulder. You squirmed, trying to keep your head up right and your eyelids open.

“Leon,” you croaked, fingers tightening around his collar, “don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Couldn’t even if I wanted to,” he murmured, his gaze flickering to the closed doors of the elevators and then shooting back to you as if looking away from you for a second could make you disappear alone.

Your eyelids were heavy, succumbing to your utter exhaustion. Leon shook you gently,

“Hey-,”

“Tired,” you barely made out the word as your grip loosened.

“I know,” he said, “but I need you to stay awake until we get out of the elevator.”

“Demanding… so much,”

“Well, you collapsing in an elevator is kind of forcing my hand right now,”

“Are you still mad at me?” you asked, your eyebrows furrowing weakly and then relaxing again, like the small movement required all of your effort, “the car-park argument.”

“That is something for later. All I need you to do right now is to keep looking at me.”

“Still demanding.”

“You’re the one who chose the demanding boss,”

“…..didn’t.”

“Did.” A smirk was tugging on his lips until your eyes began to close again, and it vanished off his face. “Hey- keep arguing with me- just keep talking.”

“Trying…always trying so hard for you,” your words dragged and slurred.

His jaw tightened. He knew you had family problems, but he didn't want to believe that you were pushing yourself to your very limits because of him. You were meant to be safe in his office, in the DSO building and supported. That always eased something in him, knowing you don't have to deal with the physical horrors he faced.

But this wasn't safety. Had he pushed you too hard? Did he make you feel like you had to earn you place every day?

You walked into his office with those stupid folders and your stupid stuttering sentences and he immediately knew you were the best person for the job. You weren't meant to go almost unconscious over it.

“Hey. You’re not ruining yourself to keep up with me. Hell, you’re not even keeping up with me- you’re overqualified for half the bullshit I throw at you.”

“Never feels like it."

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true,” he grabbed your drifting chin softly, tilting it to face him, “Hey. Eyes up. You promised arguing.”

“Tired,” your voice died out, alongside the flame inside of you. You were left shivering, teeth clattering softly.

“Hey, hey- no, no, no,” he started to shake you again but with more desperation, panic creeping into his voice, “Stay with me y/n. I'm not leaving your side.”

Your eyes fluttered open, unfocused before smiling a little when you saw that familiar face.

“Here,” you slowly lifted your hand and gave him two little taps on the side of his cheek.

“Good, just, keep talking,” he said quickly, “I’m gonna take you to medical, and then drive you home, okay?”

You shifted and squirmed in his grip.

“No- don’t take me home- my parents,” you groaned, feeling like a teenager who was about to get scolded for being out late. You knew your parents were going to publicly execute you for bailing on them on their Friday night dinners.

He shook his head and hesitated for a second.

“Fine. Then I’m taking you back to mine.”

“Unprofessional...” you murmured, your weight sagging against him, your fingers lazily dragging themselves along his stubble, totally delirious. He could feel how hot you were through your clothes.

“So is dying in the elevator.”

“Not dying.”

“You’re doing a pretty good impression right now.”

The elevator jolted back to life, descending with a graceful hum.

note: the climax of the series is here. thank u for all the kind comments, it really encourages me. i'm surprised by how many people love my silly office fic. sorry if the ending was a little sudden for this chapter i realllyy didn't know how to end it. next chapter will be leon taking care of us yaaaayyy. the next chapter will be more fluff, and more leon focused. also im super super tired rn so if theres any grammar mistakes u didnt see them

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[amortoru-deactivated20260523]

.✦ ݁˖ best friend (and onlyfans cameraman?!)! higuruma finally fucking you for your twitter! (⸝⸝ᵕᴗᵕ⸝⸝) • wc: 1.2k

hiromi would do anything for you, and you didn’t mean for him to find out at first. you really didn’t mean for your best friend since elementary to find out about your…hobby.

it was probably a few months ago since your best friend hiromi found out about your little side hobby as a twitter girl (was that even the right term? you just masterbaited on camera?). you did it as a means to profit off your high libido and sexuality, while not showing your face as you attended law school with your best friend.

he accidentally received a link to your stuff that you meant to send toji, your mutual on twitter (who also posted his fair share of kinky shit), instead of the link of files hiromi hadn’t received for a class… and well…

“spread your legs a bit more at the camera, yeah— attagirl,” now he was your cameraman. you didn’t know how this even came about, but you didn’t necessarily complain. you’ve been needing better angles. you were shocked by his reaction making the offer (thinking back, he probably said it in the moment most likely said due to awkwardness or something else…).

“f-fuck…nghhh—yeahhhh…” you bit your lower lip, angling the pink dildo while inserting it in and out your cunt.

hiromi held the phone, his hands shaking yet focused on having the best angle for your little twitter video. “don’t bite your lip, keep letting those pretty sounds out, yeah?”

“lift your shirt up a bit,” “rotate your hips juuust like that.”

perhaps it was a bad idea to have this type of situation with your friend; someone who’ve you fantasized about while doing these types of videos. someone who’s also had feelings for you since high school.

hell, you even imagined the thought of him finding out before and got so aroused at that simple idea. it also doesn’t help how much his praise really affected you.

you took the toy out and groaned—in frustration rather than pleasure.

hiromi squinted at you. “what’s wrong?”

“i feel like playing with a toy is too overplayed. too saturated,” you glanced over at hiromi, whom still had your phone and avoiding your gaze. “lemme see what other ideas i could do.”

and the top suggestion from people in your only fans and in twitter comments was… fucking someone. hooking up. those casual fucking videos.

in particular, your audience loved hiromi’s voice—and asked for you to fuck “the guy with the really sexy voice behind the camera”.

you narrowed your eyes over at your best friend after reading them out loud; it was no surprise his reaction was his face beet red, eyes hooded and lips pressed together. yet hiromi being hiromi, feigned nonchalance. he pushed up his reading glasses and gripped on the wool fabric of his grey cardigan.

“i could help you, if you’d like.”

and of course, that was the best damn thing hiromi higuruma could do. all the fantasies he’s had of you multiplied tenfold since getting your twitter account.

he didn’t even have to see your face to know it was you; same apartment and couch he lounged with you to watch whatever trashy movie on weekends, same old t-shirts you’d wear to sleep (he swore he spotted one of his in your videos) to even your cute voice moaning so sweetly.

hiromi liked you—still does. since high school he has; and agreeing to be your of/twitter cameraman person was both the dumbest yet best shit he could have ever done. he liked helping you of course—it’s you (literally why he used to stay up multiple nights with you to help you with constitutional law the moment you said you needed help)—but he hated you being looked at for the world to see.

and why not take this time to really show you’re his.

“mmm oh my goddddd—hic—fuckkk!” you felt yourself begin to cry while he pulled your hair. your back arched and you clawed at the kitchen countertop.

the phone was angled so you couldn’t see your faces, but a small part of you wished it did, so that you’d gatekeep your little video forever. your little oversized shirt you wore before was hitched up to your chest, your plush tummy feeling the cold marble.

but how you wished to see hiromi; see him in his sexy little nerd law school get up; see him all flustered while his gelled hair became disheveled. then his glasses becoming all fogged up while they slid down that sexy rideable nose you dreamed about since god knows how long.

god, the thought was turning you on. you knew your viewers would eat this up—besides his fucking voice was so undeniably hot…

“move your hips like that for me, sweetheart; attagirl, beautiful…”

it was damn obscene—the slick, sticky sound of your bodies meeting echoed through the whole kitchen. but what was more obscene was the continuous torturous pace hiromi took, slowly dragging his large fucking cock in and out your slippery cunt.

the moment you laid eyes on that thing, you even wondered how it’d fit.

“b-but it ahh-really hurts—fuckkkk,” you bit your lower lip, cheek squished on the cold surface while you let out incomprehensible mumbles every time hiromi thrusted in you. you could feel his cock pulse and twitch with every move of his hips, and feel your slick driiiip down your thighs. “you’re t-too fucking—mmm big!”

as exaggerated as it did appear, you weren’t lying; your nerdy loser best friend had a big fucking cock and knew how to use it.

“c’mon beautiful. you can take it all for me, yeah? so pretty taking me cock, honey.”

his cock hit that delicious spot you could never read with a simple sex toy—a feeling washing over you that you’d never felt. you only wished that pesky condom wasn’t in the way of receiving his creamy load inside.

god this was such a good idea.

“ya-you know—nghh—you really n-need to help me more.”

fuck, you could practically hear his smug little smile the moment you said that.

“anything for you.”

“anything?”

so when you finished, edited the video, and posted, of course you had to tease in the caption:

‘fucking my boring const. law tutor/cameraman after studying :,( creampie next? :p’

and of course he texted you a screenshot with a thumbs up emoji like the geek that he is.

.

.

.

ahah so this was an idea sorry (is it obvious that stargirl interlude was on repeat while my eyes were burning from sleepiness?) um yea i wrote this while sleep deprived and its not edited :.) erm potential pt2?

pt two is out… ahah… also pt three because i have no self control nor can’t say no……..

[lagataprrr]

I need a Hiromi rn

[amortoru-deactivated20260523]

.✦ ݁˖ best friend (and onlyfans cameraman?!)! higuruma finally fucking you for your twitter! (⸝⸝ᵕᴗᵕ⸝⸝) • wc: 1.2k

hiromi would do anything for you, and you didn’t mean for him to find out at first. you really didn’t mean for your best friend since elementary to find out about your…hobby.

it was probably a few months ago since your best friend hiromi found out about your little side hobby as a twitter girl (was that even the right term? you just masterbaited on camera?). you did it as a means to profit off your high libido and sexuality, while not showing your face as you attended law school with your best friend.

he accidentally received a link to your stuff that you meant to send toji, your mutual on twitter (who also posted his fair share of kinky shit), instead of the link of files hiromi hadn’t received for a class… and well…

“spread your legs a bit more at the camera, yeah— attagirl,” now he was your cameraman. you didn’t know how this even came about, but you didn’t necessarily complain. you’ve been needing better angles. you were shocked by his reaction making the offer (thinking back, he probably said it in the moment most likely said due to awkwardness or something else…).

“f-fuck…nghhh—yeahhhh…” you bit your lower lip, angling the pink dildo while inserting it in and out your cunt.

hiromi held the phone, his hands shaking yet focused on having the best angle for your little twitter video. “don’t bite your lip, keep letting those pretty sounds out, yeah?”

“lift your shirt up a bit,” “rotate your hips juuust like that.”

perhaps it was a bad idea to have this type of situation with your friend; someone who’ve you fantasized about while doing these types of videos. someone who’s also had feelings for you since high school.

hell, you even imagined the thought of him finding out before and got so aroused at that simple idea. it also doesn’t help how much his praise really affected you.

you took the toy out and groaned—in frustration rather than pleasure.

hiromi squinted at you. “what’s wrong?”

“i feel like playing with a toy is too overplayed. too saturated,” you glanced over at hiromi, whom still had your phone and avoiding your gaze. “lemme see what other ideas i could do.”

and the top suggestion from people in your only fans and in twitter comments was… fucking someone. hooking up. those casual fucking videos.

in particular, your audience loved hiromi’s voice—and asked for you to fuck “the guy with the really sexy voice behind the camera”.

you narrowed your eyes over at your best friend after reading them out loud; it was no surprise his reaction was his face beet red, eyes hooded and lips pressed together. yet hiromi being hiromi, feigned nonchalance. he pushed up his reading glasses and gripped on the wool fabric of his grey cardigan.

“i could help you, if you’d like.”

and of course, that was the best damn thing hiromi higuruma could do. all the fantasies he’s had of you multiplied tenfold since getting your twitter account.

he didn’t even have to see your face to know it was you; same apartment and couch he lounged with you to watch whatever trashy movie on weekends, same old t-shirts you’d wear to sleep (he swore he spotted one of his in your videos) to even your cute voice moaning so sweetly.

hiromi liked you—still does. since high school he has; and agreeing to be your of/twitter cameraman person was both the dumbest yet best shit he could have ever done. he liked helping you of course—it’s you (literally why he used to stay up multiple nights with you to help you with constitutional law the moment you said you needed help)—but he hated you being looked at for the world to see.

and why not take this time to really show you’re his.

“mmm oh my goddddd—hic—fuckkk!” you felt yourself begin to cry while he pulled your hair. your back arched and you clawed at the kitchen countertop.

the phone was angled so you couldn’t see your faces, but a small part of you wished it did, so that you’d gatekeep your little video forever. your little oversized shirt you wore before was hitched up to your chest, your plush tummy feeling the cold marble.

but how you wished to see hiromi; see him in his sexy little nerd law school get up; see him all flustered while his gelled hair became disheveled. then his glasses becoming all fogged up while they slid down that sexy rideable nose you dreamed about since god knows how long.

god, the thought was turning you on. you knew your viewers would eat this up—besides his fucking voice was so undeniably hot…

“move your hips like that for me, sweetheart; attagirl, beautiful…”

it was damn obscene—the slick, sticky sound of your bodies meeting echoed through the whole kitchen. but what was more obscene was the continuous torturous pace hiromi took, slowly dragging his large fucking cock in and out your slippery cunt.

the moment you laid eyes on that thing, you even wondered how it’d fit.

“b-but it ahh-really hurts—fuckkkk,” you bit your lower lip, cheek squished on the cold surface while you let out incomprehensible mumbles every time hiromi thrusted in you. you could feel his cock pulse and twitch with every move of his hips, and feel your slick driiiip down your thighs. “you’re t-too fucking—mmm big!”

as exaggerated as it did appear, you weren’t lying; your nerdy loser best friend had a big fucking cock and knew how to use it.

“c’mon beautiful. you can take it all for me, yeah? so pretty taking me cock, honey.”

his cock hit that delicious spot you could never read with a simple sex toy—a feeling washing over you that you’d never felt. you only wished that pesky condom wasn’t in the way of receiving his creamy load inside.

god this was such a good idea.

“ya-you know—nghh—you really n-need to help me more.”

fuck, you could practically hear his smug little smile the moment you said that.

“anything for you.”

“anything?”

so when you finished, edited the video, and posted, of course you had to tease in the caption:

‘fucking my boring const. law tutor/cameraman after studying :,( creampie next? :p’

and of course he texted you a screenshot with a thumbs up emoji like the geek that he is.

.

.

.

ahah so this was an idea sorry (is it obvious that stargirl interlude was on repeat while my eyes were burning from sleepiness?) um yea i wrote this while sleep deprived and its not edited :.) erm potential pt2?

pt two is out… ahah… also pt three because i have no self control nor can’t say no……..

[lagataprrr]

I need Leon Kennedy like I need air to breathe.

[scrawnyasthtic]

Resident Evil Requiem - Leon Kennedy layout pt 1 / dark brown headers

like and reblog if you save/use

please don't repost!

[scrawnyasthtic]

Resident Evil Requiem - Leon Kennedy layout pt 1 / dark brown headers

like and reblog if you save/use

please don't repost!

[ciricearts]

it’s 6:14pm rn but whatever

[lagataprrr]

Yes bby you with a side of bacon thank ya

[ciricearts]

it’s 6:14pm rn but whatever

[the-real-y-n-sunny]

Takin' What's Not Yours

Synopsis: Jason doesn't do sharing. Not his plans, not his feelings, and definitely not you.

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Warnings: fem! Reader, JEAAAALOUS JASON, backshots (hell yeah), overstim, aftercare

Words: 982 (It's a real short one)

A/N: This is honestly not even long enough to be a full fic like I've made it, but I've been so busy and stressed with school starting up again I just really wanted to put SOMETHIN out for you lovelies. Enjoy <3

It was stupid. Really, really stupid. But the opportunity had presented itself, and you got curious. Family dinner at Wayne Manor, and you and Jason had just become official the night before. Everyone knew except Dick. Jason said he wanted to tell him in person, to, quote, "see the look on his stupid face." So when dinner rolled around and you entered the foyer ahead of Jason, Dick swooped in.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the prettiest girl in the room."

You glanced around, then raised an eyebrow. "I'm the only girl in the room, Dick."

"So? Just makes it extra true." He reached out, catching the necklace that hung on your collarbone with his index finger. "Fancy... Who's been spoiling you without my permission?"

There was a thud. Jason stood in the doorway, his motorcycle helmet rocking back and forth at his feet. "Last I checked, her boyfriend doesn't need permission to spoil her," he hissed, fists clenched as he crossed the room.

Dick's eyebrows shot up, genuine shock flashing across his expression for a moment. But before he could interject, Jason had your hand in his and was dragging you away. You shot Dick a sheepish, apologetic look, before stumbling after him.

"Jay, I-" you started.

"Nope. Don't care. Don't wanna hear it."

"But I just-"

He leaned against the now closed door of the fancy bathroom he'd pulled you into, arms crossed. "Would you rather explain, or let me kiss you until I'm satisfied you're not going anywhere?"

You stopped. Blinked. "The second one sounds good."

His eyes flickered with the faintest hint of satisfaction before he tugged you closer. One hand on your waist, the other on your cheek, his lashes lowered as his eyes landed on your lips. "Good choice."

Jason was almost never a gentle kisser. He always had a sort of roughness to him that couldn't be smoothed out. Not that you'd want to. But when he was jealous, it was completely different. He always started soft, just to catch you off guard, but you could tell every time he thought about the way Dick had looked at you by the way he nipped your lip.

"Fuckin… permission. Who does he think he is?" He growled against your mouth. "As if I'd need permission to treat my girlfriend right. My girlfriend. Mine."

You hummed, trying not to giggle at his almost childish behavior. "You already won, Jay. You've got nothing to worry about from him," you reminded him gently. But he didn't seem to care.

"Nah, gotta rub it in," he murmured, his lips trailing to your neck. "Gotta make sure he knows he lost."

You squeaked as he sucked a dark hickey into your neck, tugging at his hair in warning. "Jason! We're about to go to dinner with your family!" you scolded.

"So?"

"S- what do you mean so? I have no jacket! No makeup! They're gonna see-"

"Let 'em. Especially Dick. Hell, sit right across from him. Let him see what's not his."

You did finally manage to pry him off your neck before he could leave more marks, but the first one was definitely obvious. And even if it wasn't, the way you stumbled out of the bathroom certainly was. The updo you'd spent hours on was pinned up awkwardly, a hurried attempt to fix the mess he'd made.

And at dinner, Dick's eyes never left your neck, while Jason's hand never left your thigh. Fortunately, the usual chaos of having all the bats in one place did a nice job of covering any tension, but the annoyingly perceptive family of detectives did pick up on the cold war happening across the mahogany spread. And it would definitely be discussed in the group chat later.

--

"Thinks he can look at my girlfriend like that, huh?" Jason slammed his hips forward as if answering his own question.

The moment you'd gotten home from dinner, Jason had scooped you up and tossed you on the bed. After taking a moment to slide off your uncomfortable strappy heels, he had you bent over and drooling.

"Fuckin' oldest child syndrome, swear to god. Thinks he's the perfect one, he gets whatever he wants. But not-" A thrust. "fuckin-" Another. "you."

Your fingers curled into the sheets, eyes rolling backwards. "Nng- J- Jay, please, I already said 'm yours, I c- can't cum again!"

He groaned, leaning over you to press his chest against your back. "I know you can, babydoll. Just one more for me, then I'll carry you to the bath and spoil you all night."

You whimpered, feeling his fingers lace with yours.

"Come on, baby." He bucked into you, his voice ragged in your ear. "One more."

"F- fuck- Jay, I can't-" But before the lies can spew from your mouth any further, starbursts are forming behind your eyes. Your stomach tenses, your pussy fucked to oversensitive sparks as you tighten around him again. You lost count ages ago, all you knew was that this time, he finally let himself go too. You slumped against the bed, drool pooling under your cheek as he held himself in and came. In a haze, you faintly registered his hand smoothing your hair back off your forehead and his lips pressing gently to your temple. The world got less fuzzy as he carried you to the bathroom, and by the time he was setting you in the warm water, you were back to your senses.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" he asked, gently tilting your head up to meet his eyes. "I know I get… rough."

You shook your head, smirking weakly. "Nah, why do you think I let Dick flirt with me so much earlier?" He froze, his mouth falling open slightly. Then he scoffed, shaking his head. "You freak."

You scoffed in offense, splashing him with water. "Didn't see you complaining."

[jamqyu]

rough night? 🩸

[lagataprrr]

The autopsy scars????? Please let me kiss him all over

[pinkladybug111]

Blue are the eyes of the man i love

[emrldfox]

I have nothing normal to say

[lagataprrr]

My pussy is fluttering ya heard

[tonycries]

The Heir - G.S.

Synopsis. No, your clan leader husband won’t stop until he gives you an heir. No, you don’t think you’ll make it out alive.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, clan leader! Gojo, established relationship, he’s cray-cray (for you), bréeding - like a LOT, oral (fem receiving), unprotected, creampíe, marathon, séx, running from it, use of “my wife”, overstim, FÉRAL Satoru, absolutely heinous, mentions of kníves and bIood, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 5.3k

A/N. Guess what ya girlie is back with clan leader Gojo hehe.

An heir to the Gojo clan - no matter how small, how weak - could eradicate all three of the big clans before even being born. Much like their father. 

You knew that. Satoru knew that. And, unfortunately for him, so did the stuck-up old toad currently sputtering across from him. 

“I am not asking for permission.” Satoru smiles, deathly calm. “Simply that everyone vacates the Estate. After all, what the madam wants, the madam shall get.”

“But- but young master! It’s madness- An heir can tip the scales of power like never before!” The elder lunges frantically over the meeting room table. “I cannot allow- a-and considering the madam’s lowly lineage-”

Schwing!

They say that the infamous young head of the Gojo clan has a katana as hauntingly beautiful as he is - a blade of pure white, with a sapphire hilt. Though, there wasn’t anyone left to tell the tale - and Satoru wasn’t about to let that change anytime soon. 

The long, deceptively delicate sword glints sharply against Satoru’s humorless grin, and those cold, cold eyes. Unblinking - crazed, as he hums, “What did you say about my wife?”

The man in front of him can do nothing but yelp in fear, “I- it could- the scale of ah-”

“No.” The freezing cold blade presses deeper against skin. And Satoru’s tutting, “Try again.”

“Th-the madam!” Pathetic tears stain those expensive tatami mats below, every shred of previous ego wiped away as the elder’s forced to echo his words. “It is no lie that her b-background is…unsuitable-”

Oh this was why Satoru hated these meetings - and for once in his life he’d been the one to summon it instead of being forced to attend. What a joke. If only this elder had agreed to vacate everyone in the Estate like he’d wanted, then none of this would’ve happened. Seriously, how hard was it to get some alone time with you? 

Satoru sighs, blue yukata rustling as he grips the hilt tighter. “Do you know why you’re here, advisor? Why any of you little council of elders are still here?” And he doesn’t wait for an answer - couldn’t care less about it anyway. Plowing on in that same sweet, dangerous tone - as if scolding a stubborn child, “My lovely wife is kind, you see. Too kind. Doesn’t like for me to get my hands dirty.”

He lets his arm retract slightly, as if giving up on the conversation topic at hand. And oh for all his wisdom, the elder should’ve known better than to let the silence lull into one of safety. Should’ve known better than to let out a breath of relief. Relaxing - ever-so-slightly, to be stupid enough to mutter, “S-see young master. I told- you-”

Because this was Gojo Satoru, and he’s chuckling - and that was never a good sign for anyone but you. “She’d make such a perfect mother, don’t you think?”

---

SLAM!

You startle - there was only ever one person that dared to kick open the doors of the Gojo Estate that way, like he was out for blood.

Eyes tearing from your window towards the now-splintered doorway and-

Oh. Oh shit. 

Your voice dies in your throat as the metallic tang of blood hits your nose - followed very shortly by the realization that this was your husband. Towering figure leaning against the frame, gaze frantic - bouncing off everywhere but you, fingers twitching on the stained handle of his katana, looking for all the world like he’d seen a ghost. 

What the fuck happened?

“Satoru?” you breathe. And the sound of your voice his eyes finally snap to you - widening, like he’d finally noticed your figure standing there. Like he was seeing you after a thousand years. Stepping forward in concern, “Are you o-”

You’ve barely made it two steps before Satoru’s closing the distance in a split-second, dropping to his knees before you with a harsh thump!

You wince at the sound, but if it hurt then he doesn’t show it. Anything but - in fact, looking more blissed out than you’ve ever seen him as he lets his prized katana clatter to the floor, looping two powerful arms around your waist.

And it’s times like this - when he nuzzles his cheek against your stomach, sighing in contentment - that you forget about those blossoming stains of red on his yukata. None of his, you bet. 

Threading your fingers through his soft hair, you repeat, “Are you okay, Toru?”

And oh. 

Oh, it only takes those words - and your sweet sweet voice - before Satoru’s entire body jolts. Taking a sharp inhale, fingers trembling as they clutch onto the fabric of your yukata. “An heir.” Words strained, ragged. Some deep, visceral part of himself peaking up at you through those hazy, half-lidded eyes, “Would you give me an heir, my wife?”

You weren’t making it out alive. 

You’re gasping - partially because of his words, partially because that’s all it takes for him to yank you down. Sprawling you out like such a slut on the floor. “Wha- an heir?”

It’s not something you expected him to even consider - that sleepy, quiet little pillowtalk from earlier today where you’d mindlessly wondered out loud whether your husband was ready for kids. Hell, Satoru was never a morning person, so you didn’t expect him to even have heard the question let alone this. 

Nosing at your racing pulse, whispering, “An heir. You think I’d ever deny you, pretty?” Like he couldn’t believe it himself - sharp canines nipping at your neck, “My heir.”

It’s like it was the only thing he could say - could even think about right now as his lips burned a path down your jaw, into the valley of your breasts. Muffled, “N’ now we have the Estate all to ourselves, so I can ruin you as much as I hah- want.”

And for the second time today, you’re actually registering that this wasn’t the same yukata your husband had kissed senseless in before the meeting. Or, at least, those patches of red were new.

“Satoru…” You pull his face back.

“No- no no please- Come back-” you squeal when he just drags you across the floor by the hips, pressing you up against that massive bulge, back to sloppily kissing the underside of your jaw. “Was jus’ one I swear- m’sorry about gettin’ the fabric dirty.”

“Satoru.”

“Wasn’t gonna break you where everyone could hear right?” 

And fuck he doesn’t wait to hear a response, no - it’s been far too long, and every little scold from you has all the blood in Satoru’s body rushing to his aching cock. His lips are crashing onto yours, so desperate and needy. 

“Sa-toru!” you manage to squeal through the way he sips at your candied lips. Letting out pained, breathless little grunts like each swipe of his tongue against your mouth was driving him insane. 

“Shhh shhh, m’here m’here.” he pants into your open mouth, hands wandering everywhere. Cupping your ass, your breasts, nudging open your jaw to let him suck so filthily on your tongue. “Fuck- m’here.” He’s licking up the drool pooling at the corner of your mouth already, “N’ m’gonna ruin-” One hand makes its way to palm your clothed cunt, “-her.”

But, alas, no matter how many times Satoru’s done this before - it never gets any easier, or as less heavenly of a sight for him. 

With you all disheveled and splayed out for him, your tits almost spilling out of your yukata with the way his hands have been so greedy. So thoughtless. 

Satoru groans, dipping his head forward to peck messily at your lips. “Mmm- ” Pulling back just enough to mutter, “Gonna let me breed this pretty cunt, hm?” 

It’s all you can do to give him a half-delirious little nod of agreement, lower lip wobbling at just how hungrily he was looking at you. Eyes wide, lips curling into a crazed smile, fingers trembling with anticipation as he deftly works on untying your robe. 

“Is my wife gonna give me a pretty baby?” He gasps out, strangled. “An heir?” He presses a sloppy peck to your glossy lips, strings of spit snapping when he breaks apart to whisper. “One to take out all these dumb fucks?” Again, so dizzyingly. And again. “Oh how I’d love to see their fuckin’ faces.” And again and again and again. Kisses punctuated by that little mantra - “An heir. My heir. I need you to give me a baby, pretty.”

And then your yukata’s being pulled down your shoulders, the expensive fabric ripping down the side with the way he was so ravenous. Goosebumps prickling down your skin as fast as Satoru can get his hands on every inch of you.

“Oh, look at you.” his jaw falls slack, palms kneading at your soft breasts. “Fuck- the mother of my kids.” He rolls his thumb over your hardened nipples, rubbing lazy little circles, “I need to- fuck!” 

Before you know it he’s pinning your arching body down onto the floor. One hand easily pinning down both of yours, the other angling your lips back onto his, a knee wedged between your damp thighs. 

You whine at the feeling of Satoru’s thigh rubbing up against your drenched panties.

But he could barely hear - fuck, you didn’t even know if Satoru was breathing with the way he wraps his pretty pink lips around one of your pert nipples. Eyes rolling to the back of his head, cheeks hollowing as he sucks - harsh.

“Need to fill these up- s’gonna be so sweet. So full.” he’s blabbering into your tits, tongue rolling around your sensitive nipples. Incessant, like he was somehow trying to draw out milk. “I can only hope they hah- share, right?”

You buck your hips up, mewling as your throbbing clit catches on the dips and curves of the muscles on Satoru’s leg. “P-please, Toru. Don’t tease.”

And oh, when has he ever denied you? Hell, Satoru would burn down this entire world and himself if it meant giving his wife anything and everything. Especially the future mother of his kids. 

With a final, playful bite, you watch with glassy eyes at the way he dances his lips down. Slow. Teasing. Eyes locked with you all the while like some sort of predator cornering his prey. 

“And this-” Satoru stops halfway down, pressing a deep, sultry kiss onto your bare stomach, “Oh this. Gonna be so round n’ pretty. Absolutely glowing f’me, right? Fuck!” 

Snapping his head down at the feeling of your grinding your hips so sluttily onto his legs, slick seeping through your panties and onto his skin. 

“Oh.” he sighs, awe-struck. More to himself than you at this point, “You can kill me if you’re not with my heir by the time we’re done, pretty.”

A promise.

And with it went whatever was left of Satoru’s poor sanity - and whatever pathetic chance there was of you making it out of this alive. 

Immediately, Satoru fists your flimsy panties in his grasp. So see-through they were practically useless anyway. Reveling in your panicked little gaze as he pulls - rips them clean off your dripping cunt. 

“Oh god- There we go.” he moans, hooking two arms underneath your legs and pushing up, up, up - all the way until your knees were pressing up against your tits. Your lips wobble when Satoru takes the time to admire your pussy, breaths coming out in feverish little puffs to watch the way you glisten and clench at nothing. Licking his lips - salivating even - at the sight of your slick beading through your puffy folds. He runs a thumb along your sopping wet slit, “Better wish her good luck tonight.”

And, usually, your husband was refined - he teased and toyed with your poor cunt until you were begging to have an ounce of friction. But right now, it’s a wonder he doesn’t get whiplash with how fast he’s pushing his face into your pussy.

“Mm-” Satoru’s eyes roll to the back of his head as his tongue laps at your dripping wet cunt. Tipping his head back, back, back to let your sweet sweet juices slide down his throat. “Fuck that. Even luck won’t save you from me- hah-”

“Toru!” you arch off the cool floor as he cards the tip of his tongue between your puffy folds. From the base of your sloppy entrance, all the way up to your throbbing clit. “Hngh- s’too-”

He was going too fast too soon. 

You whine at the palm pushing your unstable hips flat onto the ground, holding you still while Satoru licks all over as he pleases. “Now now, how are ya gonna ngh- fuck so sweet- handle later if ya can’t even handle this, pretty?”

Sucking on your clit in such a messy, open-mouthed kiss. “Fuck. Shouldn’t have told me about an heir.” he’s murmuring into your cunt. Harsh - rolling his tongue against the sensitive nub in a way he knows will have you crying out so prettily. “Fuuuck you shouldn’t h- oh- Ohhh, look at you, my wife.”, breathing in deep, ragged gasps of air only to go deeper. “Fuck- just look at you. You’re so wet I could fuck you just like this.”

As if to prove his point, he’s urgently bullying the tip of his tongue between your plushy walls. And it was true - so pathetically true. You take him in so easily. 

Somehow, you manage to crack an eye open to spy downwards - only to be met with Satoru’s eyes already on yours. Hazy, curtained by his messy hair, swollen lips curving up to flash you such a devilish grin as he squeezes his tongue past that feeble, first ring of resistance. In and out in and out in and-

“Ohh. Squeezing me so fuckin’ tight.” His jaw grinds deeper, nose flush against your clit. “Ya like that idea? Like the thought of me p-painting ah- slutty pussy white already?”

Your embarrassed little whine isn’t enough of an answer for your husband. No, he’s pressing his fingers - all glossy and covered with a sheen of your slick - onto your pulsing clit. Just barely grazing in a way that has you crying out. 

Making out with your cunt so sloppily, “Tha’s more like it.” Heavy eyes boring into yours - goading, even, for you to give more of a reaction. “Fuck- use those words, pretty. Scream.” Satoru’s fucking into your sloppy hole the way he’s been dreaming to do with his rock-hard cock. “After all, we h-have the Estate all to ourselves, right?”

Faster. Sloppier. 

Pushing and pulling his tongue in a way that has you sobbing, “Yes! Please- wan’- ngh” Thighs squeezing around Satoru’s fervent head, “W-wan you to jus’ breed me, Toru-”

Oh.

Fuck, you might’ve just signed your will away at this point. 

Because in a split-second, you’re cumming. 

Shit, were you glad that there was no one in the house. Sobbing out a broken whine of his name, fingers white-knuckled on Satoru’s hair while you gush all over his pretty face. Just dragging your sloppy cunt all over his mouth - using him through your high. 

And he’s more than happy to be dragged and angled all you please. Greedily lapping up your syrupy sweet juices, just dipping his tongue into your hole to feel the way you clench around him. 

But it’s not long before Satoru’s pulling away. Swallowing a disappointed whine, you gape up at the absolutely feral man looming above you. 

Lips plump and glossy, your juices dripping all the way down his chin, his jaw. Teeth bared, a pretty pink blush dusting over those cheeks - and you have half the mind to wonder how high the kill count actually is. Whether you’d be on it, too. 

“Heh, kill count?” Satoru grins, teeth grazing so dangerously over your racing pulse. Shit, did you say that out loud? “Funny, real funny.” And with that, he’s thumbing apart your swollen folds, biting his lips at the sight of your quivering hole. “Wonder if our- hah- kid’s gonna have your-” Without warning, he spits. Once. Twice. Gliding the pads of his fingers along the thick globs of spit on your cunt, “-humor?”

And oh how ironic it was for Satoru to be groaning out sweet little spiels of what your kids might look like, when his fingers were anything but. 

Stretching out your gummy entrance, having the audacity to laugh - laugh - at how desperately your pussy was trying to milk his fingers. 

“Y-you’re so mean-”

“And yer killin’ me- ohhh you’re gonna be the death of me.” he mutters - strained. Depraved. Hastily pushing apart his yukata. He hisses, “Fuck-”

You can’t help but gasp at the sinful sight before you - Satoru’s blush reaches down his sculpted chest, down, down, down all the way to his painfully hard cock. Curved against his abs, already so angry and soaked with precum. Giving you a pretty little peak of those veins glistening against the dim lighting. 

Before you even know what’s happening, he’s circling his fat, weepy head around your sloppy hole. Slow, lazy patterns to tease your cunt. “Can only pray m’not dead before I see ngh- fuck- my heir.”

It’s like something breaks. And Satoru’s remembering that no, this isn’t just any child - it’s the next Gojo. That grip on the base of his swollen cock tightening when he slips past your pussy lips. 

“Oh! Toru- f-fuck wait s’too big-” you keen, nails digging into where his yukata was sliding off his milky, sculpted shoulders. Hard enough to break skin. “It’s ah-”

“No.” he spits into your sagging mouth. “No no no no- wait fuck- ngh squeezing so fucking- tight.” Hips pushing in quick, shallow little thrusts to squeeze more of his achy head inside. “Fuck- fuck fuck fuck hold on. Need this. Need this so bad- please!”

And you can’t do anything but arch into his touch, scrambling up onto your elbows to- shit, that was a bad idea. 

Because one look at the sight of your poor cunt, all bulging and stretched out on Satoru’s massive cock was enough to have you running away. 

You’d barely made a movement to escape, feet flattening on the floor to buck your hips because shit it was too much. And it was a useless effort, anyway, because Satoru’s dragging you back so easily, pulling your limp body deeper down his swollen cock. 

“Need this. Need this need this so bad, pretty.” he groans, barely even halfway in yet. Still pushing, still relentless. “Need to breed this cunt so bad.”

Some tiny, useless part of Satoru’s rationality knows that he should slow down - maybe give you a second to relax. To maybe even breathe. But he was out of control now, hips stuttering and wrenching forwards like he couldn’t stop. 

So he’s simply gripping onto your shaky thighs harder, sure to leave neat little indents of his nails to admire tomorrow - or, whenever he gets back his sanity, that is. 

Satoru hisses at the way you’re so pliant below him. Limp, letting him rest your legs on his muscled shoulders. “Think I needa manhandle ya more often, pretty.” Pressing down, down - all the way until you were folded in half beneath him in such a mean mating press. “Can’t- can’t stop-”

The change in angle makes you scream out Satoru’s name - and it makes him bottom out. Finally. 

Fuck, you weren’t making it out alive.

“Oh.” he grunts at the feeling of his heavy balls smacking against your ass, his fat, leaky tip kissing against your cervix. God, if Satoru was any less of a man he thinks he could’ve cum just from the feeling of you trying to suck him up already. 

“Oh- oh my god-” you gasp when he presses down about halfway down your stomach, Pressing down for that bulge, hard. “You’re in s-so deep ngh- S’like you’re pushing into my ngh- lungs.”

Fuck, if you talked any more with that pretty mouth then Satoru was bound to pass out. Blindly, he’s feeling for your pouty mouth, kissing and nibbling at your wobbling lips like a subconscious apology. For what was to come, that is.

Because Satoru Gojo spares no apologies when he starts moving - finally. Finally fucking you the way he’s been dreaming of all throughout that droning meeting. 

And he says so - a little over fifteen times, in fact, while he splits you apart on his cock. 

“-n’ when I was negotiating those ngh- c-clan deals. N’ when I was at that meeting-” he gasps, shoving your legs so far apart it burned. “S’all I could hah- think of. Everything - don’t give a fuck if I got a contract wrong.”

Each word was punctuated by a rough, harsh ram of his cock, stretching out your gummy walls so far apart like he wanted to make his mark there. Pushing - even when he could feel his aching tip nudging at your cervix.

So merciless - violent even - with the way he’s slamming back into you. Molding your plushy walls to every ridge and curve of his massive cock. It was impossible to even form coherent sentences with his harsh pace. 

A large hand flattens beside your head as Satoru’s thrusts get deeper. More purposeful. You almost sob at the sheer pressure when he dances his fingers down to rub quick, methodical little circles on your clit. “Toru-” you moan, like a prayer. “M-more.”

But it wasn’t enough.

“More.” Satoru breathes, more to himself than anything. And shit at that very moment you almost understood why even the most hardened of clan leaders feared to even look at Gojo Satoru wrong. Because he was giving you a sopping, fucked-out smile, eyes widened, voice trembling, “You want more?”

And of course this was the strongest. Of course, he was ruthless. 

Of course, it takes him exactly two seconds to pull out of your heavenly cunt and flip you onto your stomach. One hand coming under you to angle your hips up until you were on all fours - like some ragdoll. The other feverish, distracting on your clit while he bullies his achingly hard cock past your sopping entrance once more. 

“Fuck!” your voice is hoarse when you scream. Teeth gritting because fuck the stretch was too sinful and Satoru’s hips were too harsh. Too hellbent on fucking into you like he’d lost control. “O-oh please, Toru-”

He doesn’t waste time easing you into it this time, picking up where he left off with that maddening cadence. And you were glad he had an arm on your hips because your knees were weakening with each thrust, slowly sliding down the floor before-

“Aw, my poor girl.” you hear Satoru coo from above you. Muscled chest rubbing up against your back, “S’alright. M’gonna take care of it. You jus’ hafta take it- jus’ take it like the good lil’ wife you are.” his body bows into yours, strands of white sticking to his forehead. “N’ I’ll take fuck fuck fuck- care of everything.” So sloppy with his rhythm, pushing you further and further up the floor with each movement - only to reel you right back so easily. “I’ll wash ‘em and hah- clothe ‘em n’ t-teach ‘em to take over this godforsaken society. To protect their momma.”

“T-Toru-” you squeal as he only gets more erratic. “I’m…”

“Hm?”

He didn’t even have to ask - he could feel the way you were squeezing so hard around him, like you were trying to suck the fucking soul out of him. The way the only thing you could get out was his name. 

His perfect wife. 

Sobbing out, “Close! So close. Wan’ cum- Ah! Please-”

He was losing his fucking mind. 

Biting down so hard at the crook of your neck to keep himself from cumming before you, he moans deliciously, “Then cum. Fucking cum. Please- wan’ you to cum on my cock.” Wrists aching with how desperate he was moving, “Cum- yeah yeah yeah fucking- cum- Cum for your husband.”

Oh, if heaven was real then whatever was left of that part of Satoru that could still form coherent thoughts knew that this was it. 

Watching you fall apart like such a slut all over his cock. Not even realizing it at first - just that your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, swollen lips falling slack, letting out such a pretty cry of his name that he can’t help but cum, too. 

You don’t know who’s more far gone - you, with your head spinning, a lewd little ah! ah! ah! leaving your mouth each time Satoru fucks you through your high. 

Or him, gushing out in thick, hot ropes of cum that overspill from your snug cunt. 

“So muchhh.” you whine, heavy head being held up by your husband. “S’too much.”

And he knew what you were talking about - because Satoru was cumming and cumming and cumming so hard it was like he couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to stop. Because he was mesmerized by that creamy trail of white drooling down your folds, forming an obscene ring at those tufts of white at his base. 

“Too much?” Satoru hisses. “Too much?”

You can only give a barely-lucid nod, whimpering when he doesn’t ease up. Not one bit, in fact, Satoru was only abandoning the hand playing with your ravaged clit to press down on your abdomen. Hard. 

“There we hah- go. Better now?” The hand supporting your head forced you to look down below, at the sticky mess of white covering your cunt. Slobbering all over Satoru’s cock - even down to his thighs. “Now we got fuck- more space.”

You don’t even realize you’re scrambling away until Satoru gasps, panicked, “No no no- we’re not done, pretty. Fuckkk we’re far from done.” Fingers tightening around your neck to pull you deeper down his cock, holding you in place. Just dragging you along his length. “Gotta make sure it takes. Why else d’you think no one in the Estate will be back until tomorrow?”

He doesn’t wait for a response - not that you could give one, anyway, with how you were being fucked dumb on his cock again. 

A strong, powerful leg hooks around yours, pushing you down with his body weight. “So that we ngh- h-have enough time to prepare for my heir.” Weeping head grazing all those sensitive spots so expertly. “T-to plan and and- ruin you and- fuck you feel so good. They’ll be the most powerful- hah- jus’ watch. Those fuckers better w-wait and see.”

So debauched and fucked-out that you don’t even know what he’s running his mouth about now, just heavy, urgent words slurred into your neck while he fucks you just as sloppily. 

“Don’t know?”

Fuck. You said it out loud again. 

And the embarrassing realization has your eyes screwing open, gazing tearily back at an amused Satoru. Well, as amused as he could be when he was just as wrecked as you. 

Kissing your sweaty forehead, hips reeling back all the way until your cunt was missing the stretch - bucking traitorously against the fat mushroom tip grazing your entrance. Making a mess of precum down below.

“S’alright, pretty.” he groans, sandwiching his cock between your puffy folds. “Because you just have to sit there n’ ngh- take- it.”

If you thought that Satoru was broken before then he was absolutely ruined now. 

Because there was no reason or rhythm to his actions now - just mindless, feral movements to milk his cock as much as he physically could on your pussy. Running only on pure need and the thought of you round and so full with his kid. 

“Ah!” you’re startled out of your reverie by something wet. Whirling sluggishly to catch the tears of overstimulation brimming at Satoru’s heavy eyes - shit, you wondered if he even knew what he was doing at this point. “T-Toru…you- ngh- o-okay?”

The only response you get is an unsteady nod. 

“-the best.” he whispers, twitching balls squeezing so painfully with each slap against your ass. Faster. Absolutely soaked with the sinful concoction of your juices and his cum. “We’ll be the best parents- ngh-” And fuck it was so much - too much. Too good. Painful pleasure.

Enough that all it takes is another, sloppy thrust before he’s seeing stars behind his eyes again. Cock twitching wildly inside your cunt as Satoru shoots load after load of cum to paint your pussy white. 

So warm with his cum - him - that Satoru’s body moves before his mind. Pooling the mess down below to nudge back into your cunt. “C’mon, pretty, c-can’t get ngh pregnant if ya don’t oh- cum.”

And it’s so embarrassing how that’’s all it takes for you to reach your high with a strained, barely audible moan. Voice shot, your own orgasm nothing but a few tingles that have your thighs fucking back into Satoru’s. 

“Satoru- Satoru Satoru Satoru.” you mewl, big fat tears streaming down your cheeks. Birds of a feather, they say. 

Hypnotized. Drunk off the feeling.

And, evidently, Satoru was, too. 

“Pretty…” his voice rings in your ear. Tinged with a tone you know didn’t bode well for you - or your poor, overfilled cunt. Bloated and dribbling already. “Are- sure- ngh-” 

And with a jolt, you realize he’s still moving. Still pushing and pulling in languid, slow strokes. Thighs shaking as the fatigue wears on him. 

If anyone saw Satoru like this, they’d have a heart attack. Flushed your favorite shade of pink, the lower half of his body well covered with a sheen of your obscenities. Eyes teary with sensitivity, cock still twitching and so angry as he clears his throat and tries again, “Are we- hah- sure it took?”

“Wh-what-” you gasp, breathing in big, deep inhales. “Yes- yes yes- oh my god it’won’t-”

“It will.” Satoru’s interruption almost comes out as a whine. And he’s more sluggish, dazed when he flips you over onto your back again - not too difficult, with the way you were practically splayed out already. “Th-this pussy is made to take it, right? T-to be bred by me?”

It’s almost like Satoru was begging for confirmation, plugging back in the excess of what was leaking out of your abused pussy. It was spreading in a lewd little pool now, seeping into the non-existent space between you two.

But oh how Satoru loved it. Couldn’t tear his eyes off of it, in fact as he noses at your neck. Barely even thrusting anymore, just raw grinds, “Right? Gotta make sure- ngh- heir. Oh-”

He’s darting his tongue out to lick at the beads of tears streaming down your cheek. The salty taste on his tongue having Satoru’s hips stuttering forwards. Again. And again - alternating, not on purpose - between hitting your cervix and that bruised g-spot. “Gonna give me an heir? Ohhh fuck fuck fuck- lemme breed this cunt?”

You’re using up every bit of energy left in your body to give that slow, shallow nod. Which is all the time it takes for the pool to spread even wider. For Satoru’s fingers to stumble their way back to play with your clit. 

Rolling his thumb over in a harsh, uncalculated pattern - if you could even call it that, just jerky, obscene movements to get you off. 

And it works. Hell, the two of you are barely in the state of mind to even feel it. But he’s finally cumming again, and so are you. 

“Ngh- Fuck-”

With a loud, pained cry Satoru tightens his grip on your body like a vice. Raw, sensitive, overusing his cock until it felt so empty. Until you felt so bloated it was like you could explode - or maybe that was your own orgasm. “Toru- c-cumming.”

You’re not sure, anymore. And you don’t know if either of you could bring yourselves to care at this moment, not when your eyelids grow heavy. Vision tinging with black in the corners, and the only thing you could see was your husbands face - sweaty, eyes almost closed, kiss-bitten lips moving in a soundless whisper.  “-the best- momma.”

A/N. CLAN LEADER GOJO SAVE MEE. Oh yeah the “can’t get pregnant without the momma cumming” bit was based on this old tale I’d heard where people used to gen believe that. 

Plagiarism not authorized.

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"i don't wanna burden you" i would literally bathe you if you were too tired to bathe yourself what are you talking about